Just outside Port Farrall

Present Day

Mr. Prescott, high-falutin',
Opposition executin',
Fuel reroutin', world pollutin'
Crazy C.O.G. recruitin',
Crooked, lyin', fact refutin',
Harsh injustice institutin',
Mr. Prescott: Question Shootin' –
What's with all the persecutin'?

- Graffiti scratched on the side of Jacinto's walls shortly after the fall of Ephyra.

Dom was going to lose his mind.

Finding Maria in the hollow - and then losing her by his own hand...it felt like a dark tide overcoming him. Every light in his life had gone out. He followed Marcus on autopilot because he honestly had no idea what else to do. He kept fighting, not because he cared if he died, but because he could not bear the thought of losing Marcus too.

And then Bri turned out to be...

If Maria's death had been a tsunami, Sylvia being alive felt like a lead brick tied to his ankle. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that finding Maria dead was always a possibility but finding his kids alive had been a circumstance that he had no frame of reference for. He never even dared daydream about it, because it just hurt so damn much.

Sylvia and Bennie had stayed the same age in his mind since E-day. When he thought of them, he pictured the small, 4-year-old girl with freckles and skinned knees who called him "Daddy". She was beautifully innocent, untouched by this world of horrors.

The truth hit him like a slap to the face.

Bri was a fully-grown woman, capable of surviving on her own outside the wire. Dom himself probably couldn't do that; he depended too much on the camaraderie of Gears, of civilians pulling their weight to make sure he was fed, had ammo, and medical care if he needed it. Bri had none of that; she had to rely on herself and only herself.

So, what use did a woman like that have for family? Dom had been hard pressed to find a way to relate to her. He wanted to make up for lost time, but he didn't even know what he would be making up for. He knew nothing about this woman who shared his blood. For someone who had been raised to think that family meant everything, that was unacceptable.

But he couldn't sit down and force her to reveal all the facts of her life. She wouldn't have the patience for that, nor would she think he deserved to know that much about her. She lived in a world where personal information was dangerous. The slightest perceived weakness - such as knowledge of a family member, or a secret fear - would be used to blackmail or threaten with. Bri played life with her cards so close to her chest it would take a crowbar to even get a peek at them.

She didn't need him. That was the cold hard truth of the matter. He wanted to cling to the return of his daughter like a life preserver on a rough sea, but if he did that, they would both drown. She didn't know how to save him anymore than he knew how to help her.

He had to be able to swim on his own; then she could be free to continue surviving the only way she knew how. So, he kept trying, terrified of overstepping and sinking them both. He didn't smother her when she came home drunk, nor when she needed time apart from Delta. As much as he wanted to pin her to his side and never let her out of his sight, he knew that doing so would only push her impossibly farther away. So, he stepped back and let her deal with things the way she always had. Alone.

But someone had hurt his little girl. Some asshole had hurt her enough that she woke up screaming in the middle of the night. That was something that he couldn't walk away from.

He had given civilization its chance at justice. When Marcus had gone to prison, Dom had hired the best lawyer that ration stamps could buy, had appealed every court decision, and exhausted every avenue the justice system had available to him. And when all of that failed, he broke orders and went to rescue Marcus himself. Because that's what you do for family.

The sun was almost entirely behind the horizon now. After the half-assed trial Prescott had presided over, Dom had left Bri in Marcus' capable hands and watched from a distance as Cole and Baird escorted that piece of shit to the north, past the border.

He knew the patrols that traversed the northern border, so he timed his getaway so he wouldn't be seen leaving the port. The night was cold, with only the barest sliver of a moon hanging in the sky. Once the sun was completely set, Dom would be impossible to spot in the darkness. That was fine; he didn't want any witnesses to what he had planned.

Once upon a time, this was what he had been trained for: deniable covert operations done in the dead of night. But no one needed a commando nowadays; no one cared if you broke rules of engagement to kill a grub.

Tracking in the dark was difficult, but not impossible. Especially since Darvish had a pronounced limp, making one half of his tracks deeper and more obvious. There was one portion of road where the concrete was still mostly intact. Dom lost the trail for a bit but guessed that Darvish would have taken the easiest route available. Once the concrete crumbled into earthen ground, the tracks picked up again.

There. Just over the ridge he could see the dim light of a campfire burning in the open. Darvish obviously didn't spend much time outside the wire. The campfire was a beacon alerting everyone – or everything – in the area to his position. Dom crouched down and melted into the brush where he simply watched.

Darvish was lying on his side next to the small fire. He had a stick in his hand. Every now and again he'd snap off a small twig and toss it in. He almost looked normal – ten years ago he could have been a man out camping.

The lancer rested heavily in Dom's hands. He took a deep breath as he raised the sights even with Darvish's skull.


If looks could have killed, Marcus would have been worm food.

Apparently, he took Prescott's orders to watch over me for the next twenty-four hours to heart. He followed me around like a dutiful hound. Even when I went to the latrine, Marcus waited outside in the cold for me to finish.

In the meal tent I glowered at Marcus over my serving of rice and beans. He, apparently oblivious, ignored my glaring and finished off his plate. He ate mechanically: forkful, chew, chew, chew, swallow. Repeat ad infinitum. When he was done, he drained his canteen, then lined his fork down the center of his plate.

"Are you going to eat, or do you want to glare at me some more?"

It was the opening I had been waiting for. "How dare you- "

"I don't want to hear it."

"You just let him go! You didn't even try to convince Prescott he was guilty!"

Marcus blinked slowly, then stared me down with an expression that bordered on 'Are you Fucking Kidding me?'

"What would you have me do? Throw him in the Slab?"

"I thought you would at least stand up for me!"

"That's the way the system works sometimes."

"And you believe in the system?"

"Beats the shit outta anarchy."

For a moment I was so angry I lost my voice. He took advantage of my silence and motioned again at my plate. "Eat up," he ordered.

I thought about dumping the plate in his lap, but my stomach rumbled audibly. I picked up my fork like I was picking up a gun and set into my meal like it was my last.

It was hard to scowl and eat at the same time. As I ate my fury settled into comfortable annoyance. So, Marcus was just another person I couldn't trust. That had been my mistake, not his.

I finished half my plate, then passed the rest down to Sam. The metal plate rattled audibly with every bite she wolfed down. I placed my boot on the edge to hold it still as she lapped up the last few pieces of rice, stained red from the beans.

When she finished, she sat and licked her chops while staring at me, silently begging for more. I leant over the bench to pick up the plate and as I straightened, I spotted Baird and Cole entering the mess. My stomach felt like it dropped to my feet and I shrank down into my seat. Marcus evidently noticed my change in stature and turned to follow my gaze. By the time he turned back around, I was already on my feet.

"Can we go?" I asked, my voice instinctively hushed. "I don't…"

"Let's go."

Baird and Cole – as well as Anya, Hoffman, and Prescott – now knew that Dom was my father. I wasn't ready for that conversation, nor for the questions I knew they would have. Marcus grabbed both of our trays and we deposited them near the two women washing dishes in large plastic tubs and snuck out the back flap of the tent.

Once outside I paused, momentarily unsure of where to go. This camp didn't feel like home. I didn't have a place where I felt settled. There was nowhere I felt drawn to, so I had to pause and think about where I wanted to go. Marcus didn't have that problem. He brushed past me and took off towards the northeastern part of the camp. Evidently, he simply expected me to follow, since he didn't turn to see if I was coming. I thought about heading in the opposite direction, but I sighed and trudged off after him.

He didn't stop walking until we were almost to the edge of camp. I almost expected him to stop at the barracks, or maybe the med bay, but he blew past both without pausing. Just when I was about to ask where we were heading, he turned and headed into a small brick building that I hadn't been to before.

Inside I expected it to be vacant, and maybe only marginally warmer than the weather outside. Instead I was blasted by a wave of air so warm that it made my eyes water. I was greeted by a burst of laughter and yellow toned light that hadn't made it through the boarded-up windows to the outside. I paused in the doorway and looked around in awe: Inside was probably close to two dozen COG soldiers, chatting and sipping out of mismatched cups. I spotted Anya and Bernie sitting on a pair of uneven barstools near the fireplace that crackled and spit merrily.

"What is this place?" I asked Marcus, a small bit of wonder in my voice.

"Sergeant's hall," he answered. "Come here."

Marcus led me around the edge of the room to a small table in the corner. As we walked, we passed by Anya and Bernie, who Marcus greeted with a curt nod. Bernie, who was talking to a grey-haired man in a navy uniform, ignored us.

"It serves two purposes," the man said. He had his foot up on a chair and had lifted the leg of his pants up to his knee. On his calf was a tattoo of a rooster and a pig. "First, you'll always have your bacon and eggs, so you'll never starve."

"Wouldn't it be better to get a tattoo of a chicken, then?" Bernie asked.

"Second," he continued as if he hadn't heard her, "Neither of these animals can swim so your ship will never go down. It's an old Navy tradition."

"Uh-huh," Bernie nodded thoughtfully. "Exactly how much do you navy guys drink?"

"A lot."

Marcus and I drew more than a few glances as we skirted around the fireplace and headed towards the corner. "I'm not supposed to be in here!" I whispered to Marcus as we walked past.

"I won't tell if you won't. Sit." He pointed at an overturned shipping crate in the corner. I placed my pack down behind me and settled Sam closer to the fire before I obeyed.

By the time I was settled atop the crate, Marcus was busy setting small carved figures on to the top of the table, which I noticed was painted with a boxy black-and-tan pattern. It took me a minute, but finally I recognized it.

"Chess?" I asked, balancing a finger atop one of the smaller pieces. Each piece had been painstakingly carved from different types of wood: the black pieces from a walnut tree and the white from some sort of oak. The features of the pieces were rudimentary, but easily recognizable. Castle and knights, the queen and king. All lovingly polished until smooth, until all splinters were worn down and they felt like sea glass in my hands.

"Know how to play?"

"Not really," I answered. "How do you even have a full set?"

"Baird made them," he answered. I pulled my finger back in shock. I would have never expected that Baird could make something so delicate and…beautiful. Marcus set the board and explained the rules. "You start first."

I picked up one of the smallest pieces – a pawn, I think he called it – and pressed it forward two squares. He responded in kind, and on we continued with me randomly pushing my pieces blindly around. Occasionally he'd correct my move, or offer advice on which bishop to move where. Even with his help our first game lasted less than five minutes.

"Marcus, are you torturing the poor girl?" Anya saddled up to our tiny corner table with a soft chastisement. "Don't worry, we've played countless games over the years and I've only managed to beat him once."

"You didn't beat me," Marcus said in a slightly put-out voice. "It was a stalemate. A draw."

"See?" Anya slid gracefully onto a nearby barstool and set her drink down on the table in front of her. "Can't even give me a half win. But here – you think you want to start with this pawn, but you really want to start with this one." She tapped each piece as she spoke. Shrugging, I took her advice. This game became Anya and I against Marcus as she suggested different moves. This time I collected a larger collection of Marcus' black pieces before he cornered me and said, "Check mate."

"Damn," Anya cursed good-naturedly as she reset the board. "I was hoping you'd be good luck, Bri."

"I've never been what you call 'lucky'," I answered. "So how many years have you two known each other?"

It was simply conversation, but it brought a smile to Anya's face. "Man, decades. Marcus and your dad go back even further."

Her referring to Dom as my father was so casual, I almost didn't catch it. I instinctively froze, but no one stopped and stared. No one even glanced my way as the drinking, talking, and quiet laughter continued around us. Marcus didn't even flinch as he took his next turn. "I grew up with Carlos and Dom as kids. They called me an honorary Santiago."

"Yeah…" I mused in a soft voice. "I could see that. Uncle Marcus, right?"

His eyebrow tweaked just the slightest, but even that was a big deal for him. "If you start calling me that, Baird's going to pick that up, and then I'll have to kill him."

It was such an un-Marcus like thing to say that I had to laugh, just a short, surprised, huff of amusement.

I looked at Anya. She knew my family from way back when, and probably had more memories of them than I did. Come to think of it, she was only a few years younger than Maria…

Stop that right now, I warned myself. You've tried to fill that hole too many times with too many people. Knock it off.

Even so, it seemed than Anya was going to be tossed into my life as long as I was with Dom and Marcus. Hell, there was Uncle Marcus, why not Aunt Anya? I stifled a laugh; just one big, happy, lancer-toting family. Who said we couldn't pull off well-adjusted?

I had expected to be rebuffed at every turn, but with a few exceptions I had been accepted into the COG as easily as breathing. It almost felt natural to be sitting in a room full of Gears – most still in uniform, some not – as quiet conversation resonated around us. So natural, in fact, that it was only now that I realized I hadn't seen Dom since that morning.

"Where is Dom, anyway?" I asked.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible glance that flashed between Marcus and Anya. She leaned forward and maneuvered a knight while saying, "He's on duty tonight, right?" Her voice was just a thread too tight to be telling the truth. A tense feeling passed between the three of us that put me on edge. Marcus took his next turn in silence.

Anya suggested my next turn, but I wasn't listening. I stared at Marcus, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. "Marcus," I said tersely. "Where is Dom?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Fuck you," I cursed. "Where is he?"

I stood up so suddenly that the barstool I was sitting on teetered dangerously close to tipping over before righting itself. Just as quickly, Anya's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. "Believe me, Bri. You don't need to know."

I twisted and pulled my hand away like her very touch burned me. Anger snapped up inside me like a spark to kindling. Sam woke suddenly and shifted to a sitting position, whining softly. "Where is he?" I asked again in a voice barely above a hiss.

"Think about it," Marcus said calmly.

I thought. "No." I answered. "No, he's not that stupid. Tell me he's not stupid enough to go after Darvish."


Dom, thinking twice, lowered his rifle. Then he pulled his commando knife from its sheath. Killing a man was personal. He wanted to watch the light fade from his eyes – confirm the kill, like they taught him in training.

Darvish was sleeping now. He slept far too comfortably for a man who had committed those heinous acts. He didn't even hear Dom creep into his piss-poor excuse for a camp; didn't wake until Dom grabbed him by the collar of his coat and pressed the edge of his knife against his throat.

"What the-"

"Did you think you'd get away with it?" Dom snarled. "Think that I'd just let you walk away?"

For the first time that day, Dom saw genuine fear cross over Darvish's face. His expression twisted with confusion, then recognition. "You-"

Dom drew back his fist and slammed it into Darvish's face. Then he did it again. And again. He felt the soft cartilage in his nose snap against his fist. His teeth broke against his knuckles, tearing the skin and causing blood to bead up – black in the dark of the night.

Dom was running on pure rage. Rage at losing everything, his frustration at not knowing how to deal with Bri, his agony over shooting Maria…all of it was being directed at Darvish who had unwittingly provided Dom with a target. He didn't say a word as he continued beating Darvish's face in. The only sounds were Dom's labored grunts of effort and the wet slap of bone against flesh.

Then Dom turned his hand. Instead of aiming at Darvish's face with his fist, he pointed the blade of his knife down towards Darvish's chest. Then he raised it high in the air.

And he paused.

In the dying light of the small campfire, Dom could see the mangled mess Darvish's face had become. Blood poured freely from his broken nose, his lips were torn and his eyes were puffy and bruised. He had seen worse on the faces of his comrades – but those injuries had been caused by grubs.

It had been a long time since Dom had killed another human. He didn't think he'd hesitate – not over some rapist piece of shit – but evidently killing wasn't like riding a bike. Could he still do it? Did he still have it in him?

Dom's brief pause was enough for Darvish to break Dom's hold on his jacket. He kicked desperately at Dom and managed to land a blow just below the knee. Before Dom could shout with pain, Darvish was up and running, sprinting through the darkness.

It was instinct for Dom to give chase. But Dom was more familiar with this area than Darvish. If Darvish had turned west, he could have made it to the highway. But Darvish was running north, and the only thing north was…

"Wait!" Dom shouted, his legs churning underneath him. "Stop! You're heading-"

Darvish kept running blindly, ducking around trees and branches. He turned to look at Dom – and then he disappeared. There was a short scream as Darvish's feet left ground and then he was falling, tumbling down the rocky cliffside.

Dom dove, skidding down to his knees and reaching out to grab him. His fingers managed to brush the barest grip on Darvish's jacket but it was ripped from him as Darvish was carried forward by inertia, then gravity. Dom watched as he slammed into a boulder, then limply fell into the churning waves below.

Dom stayed knelt on that cliffside, watching, for what felt like an eternity. Darvish's body never emerged out of the depths. He was breathing hard, but not from exertion. He didn't feel guilty, not quite, but he certainly wasn't proud.

He remembered the man he used to be – the man from before the war. He used to kill men without a problem. But those men had been soldiers, who had the unfortunate luck to be his enemy. Darvish had been a piece of shit, but he was still human. Maybe by the barest of standards, but still. Maybe that still counted for something, but then again maybe it didn't.

He got to his feet and headed back towards the city, leaving a part of himself on that cliffside.


No one answered me. The fire in the room suddenly burned too hotly, making my cheeks flush deeply. To make matters worse, Marcus was doing his I'm-going-to-stare-at-you-until-I-can-read-your-mind thing.

"I didn't ask him to do that."

"You didn't have to," Anya answered softly. She reached out again for my hand – gently this time – and I didn't immediately pull away.

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. "Why…why would you let him do that?"

"What do you think Dom did to the grubs who imprisoned Maria?" Marcus asked in a quiet voice. "What do you think he did to get me out of prison?"

I didn't get his meaning at first. Any member of Delta could tear down into any Locust – they could go toe to toe with a Berserker and it'd be even money that they'd walk away. But out of the four of them, Dom was the only one who had been trained to hunt down and kill a man. He was a commando, and that mentality didn't go away. He was pure predator with bared teeth. The form of a dripping knife.

He was a killer.

"You shouldn't have let him go," I said in a hushed voice.

Marcus met my glare with a level gaze. "Maybe not. But I couldn't stop him."

Without another word I turned from the table and headed towards the door with an even stride. Sam followed instinctively, but thankfully Anya and Marcus stayed behind.

The contrast between the warm, cozy atmosphere in the mess hall and the frigid gloom outside was like night and day. The door closed behind me, cutting off a burst of laughter from inside. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light, so for a moment it felt like I had stepped off the edge of the world. Alone, quiet, cold…I started walking to the edge of the port.

There was a crumbled, barely-there road that led north out of town. I perched upon a concrete barricade and waited, one leg pulled up to my chest and arms wrapped around my knee. I didn't have to wait long; maybe half an hour before a shadowy figure emerged out of the darkness and headed my way.

Dom's skin looked ashen in the barely-there moonlight. I saw him pause when he saw me, then adjust course to meet me. The steel plates he wore manipulated his silhouette until he almost didn't look human – too boxy, too well guarded. Like the weight upon his shoulders was slowly grinding him down into somebody else.

He didn't say anything, just stopped a few feet away from me. Sam stood and greeted him, sniffing interestedly at his hands before lying back down. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Did you do it?" I spoke in a hushed, barely-there voice. There was no other sound to drown out my voice anyway, nor any need to explain what 'it' was.

He sighed heavily. "It's done."

I swallowed down the next few questions I wanted to ask – Why? How? Who asked you? – and decided it was best not to know. It was done now, for better or worse, and too late to change it. I wasn't sure I would have if I could. At least Darvish wouldn't be able to prey upon anyone else. The thought was a small comfort.

I stood and examined Dom from head to toe. I was looking for any wounds, any sign that Darvish had given as good as he got. I saw Dom flex his fist slowly, and I gently took his hand in mine. I could feel the tackiness of dried blood covering his skin. It looked black in the darkness. I pulled his hand closer to my eyes to I could check for open wounds.

"It's not mine."

I let his hand fall back to his side. We stood in silence for a moment longer. I felt like I had come to understand Dom in a new way. He would vehemently protect everything he considered his; it was strange to think that I fell into that category.

"It's okay," I whispered, not quite sure if I meant it or not. "We're okay." I recited the words he had said to me countless times when I was young, when I'd fallen and scraped my knee or had a fight with my older brother. In that moment I realized how empty they were. How pointless it was to say them. I couldn't make my father promises any more that he could make them to me.

But in that moment I realized why parents lied to their children. Because my words erased the look of anguish in Dom's expression. He wrapped one arm around my shoulder and tucked me into his side. I could feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. And wordlessly we headed back into town.


Author's note: I'm alive! Surprise!