8. My Own Enemy
Baird hadn't exactly imagined the turn his night would take. Not that he was complaining, it just wasn't often that he was caught off-guard. Usually these things took planning, preparation and alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol. He hadn't expected to get jumped in his private (and it was private, despite what Gavriel insisted) garage, chewed up and spat out by the week's demands. But then Sam was there, and then they were kissing and then they were naked and then… well.
"Well" indeed, he thought, smirking.
As he pulled his pants on, he snuck a peak over his shoulder at Sam. She was fully dressed again—regrettably—but he was more interested in the way she was holding her injured shoulder. Oh yeah… That little detail had slipped his mind. The moment she noticed him watching, she whipped her hand away like she'd been burned.
"Y'know," he said, "if Hayman catches you without a sling on, she'll toss your ass back in a hospital bed. Probably keep you there longer, just 'cause you pissed her off."
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "And since when do you care about how much time I spend in the infirmary?"
Okay, ouch. Yeah, he probably deserved that one, but he could also tell she wasn't seriously mad at him. He'd spent enough time pushing her buttons on Vectes to know which tone was the don't-fuck-with-me tone. Still, he humoured her by looking slightly—slightly—sheepish for half a second.
"I might have an invested interest in where you spend your time now."
Sam reached into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a folded white cloth. "Then help me out, if you're so worried about me."
Baird made the appropriate show of huffing as he took the makeshift sling from her, unrolled it and looped it around her neck. As he moved her hair out of the way to tie the knot, the situation became suddenly and uncomfortably intimate. He balked, and Sam tensed up. But rectifying the situation was simple: once the knot was tied, his hand dropped swiftly and pinched her ass. Just like that, everything was back to normal. Sam went to elbow him in the gut, which he anticipated and easily dodged. She rolled her eyes at him, and he snorted, before catching a glimpse at the clock on his workbench.
"Ah, shit." The evening's entertainment (and his nap) had cost him more time than he thought.
"What?"
"I've gotta run a patrol in three hours, and I still have all this crap to fix." He waved his arms around for dramatic effect.
"You just gestured to everything."
"Your perception amazes and astounds."
Sam glared at him. As Baird made to step around her and sit back down at his bench, she grabbed the back of his shirt. "Uh, no. I don't think so. You're going to bed."
He frowned. "If I wanted your opinion, I'd give it to you."
Her grip on his shirt tightened. "I know Hoffman wants all this stuff fixed, but you're no use to anyone on patrol if you're stumbling around sleep-deprived. And if Hayman finds out, she'll throw your ass in a hospital bed and sedate you."
Baird bristled at being told what to do—especially by Sam—but she had that look. He was tempted to argue with her, but she'd probably just conk him on the head with a wrench and drag him to his bunk, injured arm and all. Or worse, she'd go and tattle to Marcus.
"Fine, you win. Happy?"
"Not until I see you walk into your room myself."
It was his turn to roll his eyes now. Sam wasn't entirely wrong, and that was what bothered him. He didn't like being reasoned with, and it was even worse when he was wrong. Not that he'd ever admit that; Damon Baird was never wrong. It was a universally indisputable fact, no matter what Nat Barber said.
Still, he allowed Sam to lead him out of the garage, with a firm grip on his shirt like she was afraid he might bolt. The air was chilly, and the early morning dew was going to get the bottom of his pants wet. However, it was going to take a lot more than that to rain on Baird's parade. The sun was just starting to rise, so the night patrol would be back soon.
They were about halfway across the compound before Sam finally broke the silence. "So… now what?"
And there was the rain. Baird wasn't one for planning, and he certainly hadn't been thinking much past getting into bed. A suddenly very appealing thought, particularly if Sam was up for another round.
"I'm willing if you are," he said, flashing her a wry smile.
She smacked his arm. "That's not what I meant. Do we tell people?"
Baird's knee-jerk response was no, but he bit that back. It wasn't because he was embarrassed. Hell no. If anything, he'd love to flaunt his super hot girlfriend all over the fort. But it wouldn't be as simple as that. No, he'd have people butting into the relationship, asking uncomfortable questions that he didn't want to answer. Cole, Bernie, Marcus. Could he even call her his girlfriend yet? Baird knew they had to figure this shit out before they paraded their new rapport for everyone to see. So how to say all of that without actually saying any of it, and make sure he didn't offend Sam?
"How about we keep it confidential," he said carefully. "For now. Think of all the fun, sneaking around behind their backs."
Sam grinned. "While that does sound appealing, but it won't last. Cole will have it figured out in a week."
Maybe, but that gives me time to figure this out. "Nah, more like three days." He made a face. "And then everyone will know. First one to make a smart comment gets my boot up his ass."
"So should I just kick you now, then?"
"You're frigging hilarious."
"Don't you forget it."
By now, they had arrived at the barracks. A comfortable silence descended on them as they made their way down the dark halls. No one was up this early, except maybe Hoffman and Bernie. Baird had gone past their quarters a few days ago, on his way to raid the mess before breakfast. The squeaking of mattress springs practically had him running down the hall.
It wasn't long before Baird's door came into view. Sam was bunking down at the end, with Anya and the other few female Gears, in some semblance of privacy. Baird half-expected her to keep on walking, but she stopped with him.
"How long are you running patrol?" she asked.
"Until lunch. About six hours." Oh. "Same time, same place?"
That earned him a small, slightly amused smile. "As much fun as being shagged up against an Armadillo was, I think I'd prefer the comforts of my own bed."
"Your bed?" For some reason, Baird felt that this was an important issue.
"Okay…" She cocked an eyebrow. "Any bed will do."
"Mataki's bed. It's about time I traumatized her for once."
Sam pursed her lips and ended that line of conversation. He had half a mind to keep going, to see if he could get a rise out of her, but she kissed him. Whether it was actually out of affection, or just the desire to shut him up, Baird couldn't tell. Not that it mattered. Before he could really start to enjoy himself, she was backing away down the hall.
"Hey." He stopped himself from reaching towards her. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish."
Sam merely smirked, and turned her back to him. "It's called incentive," she tossed over her shoulder. "Get some rest."
"Yeah, 'cause I'm really in the mood to sleep now," he grumbled as he stepped inside his quarters.
But that wasn't true. The second he collapsed onto his bed, he completely lost the will to move. He tugged at his sheets until they somewhat covered him. Then he remembered he was still in his jeans, but changing was way too much effort at that point. His eyes closed, and what felt like seconds later his wake-up call (namely Clayton Carmine pounding on his door) jolted Baird out of sleep.
Rubbing at his tired eyes, Baird forced himself to his feet. If he didn't move now, he'd never get up again. He pulled on his armour as fast as his sleep-slowed fingers could manage, but Carmine was still standing impatiently outside his door when Baird finally stumbled out. Looked like he was skipping breakfast again.
The rest of the patrol met them at the APC outside the main gate. They were two Gears that Baird barely knew, Steve Martell and Hugh Bradley. Evidently they recognized him, exchanging a meaningful, annoyed look before climbing into the vehicle. No one seemed to be in the mood for making conversation, which was fine with Baird. He settled into his seat, Lancer cradled on his legs, and gazed out the window.
Staring at trees for hours on end, looking for anything out of the ordinary was not the best way to keep Baird's mind alert. He probably looked like a complete idiot, forcing his eyes to stay open as wide as possible in an attempt to ward off sleep. It was tempting to just let his head loll forward and rest against the window, but he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he fell asleep on patrol.
Besides, his thoughts kept drifting back to Sam. A small part of him was still surprised whenever he remembered what had happened mere hours ago. It was bound to happen eventually, he knew. If Sam hadn't manned up, he would have eventually—or so he told himself. What exactly had stopped him? A ghost.
It wasn't betraying Dom. There was nothing to betray, except for any residual feelings that Sam might have. That was what stopped Baird. Granted, he had probably started the whole thing just before Delta had stormed the hotel at Azura, but at that point he had figured he was pretty much a dead man walking. Baird hadn't wanted to be one of those sad, cliché dying bastards, their last moments alive consumed with regret.
Even if the war that had spanned almost half of his life was over, the mentality he had lived in for sixteen years still persisted. Man was still mortal, and often unexpectedly so.
Martell snapped Baird out of his reverie. "Hey, what's that?" the Gear asked, pointing ahead to the right.
Carmine slowed the APC. Both Baird and Bradley leaned forward, looking in the direction of Martell's finger. Sure enough, there was something out of the ordinary up ahead. Hidden just off to the side of the dirt road, it was small and easy to miss, but it definitely didn't belong there. It almost looked like a person, but it was too small. It would have to be a…
Oh, shit. Baird's chest clenched.
Carmine was the one to voice what they were all thinking. "Is that… a kid?"
Baird didn't like kids, but he liked dead ones even less.
Sure enough, as the vehicle crawled cautiously forward, the bundle on the ground looked more and more like a child. The analytical part of Baird's brain took over instinctively, saving him from other obstructive, superfluous feelings. "Must be recent, if Rossi's patrol missed it," he said evenly.
Bradley shot him a look, apparently appalled by his lack of dismay. Surprise, surprise. Baird didn't put much stock in the opinions of others. Ignoring Bradley's scathing look, he started running scenarios in his head. No one back at the fort had reported a missing kid, so it couldn't be anyone from Anvegad. That news would have spread like wildfire. So that left only one other possibility: it was a Stranded kid. Baird didn't know a hell of a lot about the area, but he wasn't aware of any warring Stranded tribes. Besides, they tended to set their differences aside when the COG moved in. Meaning, the kid wasn't a casualty of infighting. Meaning, something else was responsible—something they didn't know about.
Frigging perfect.
The APC slowed to a stop just short of the body. Baird and Martell jumped out first, Lancers at the ready, in case whatever the hell had attacked the kid was still out for blood. Carmine and Bradley—the sentimental types—did a brief scan of the immediate area before making for the kid. There were no tracks on the ground, or at least no tracks that could belong to some hideous, man-eating mutant monster.
"Is it…?" Bradley began, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Carmine dropped to his knees, and placed a hand on the small bundle. It was only as he rolled the body onto its side that Baird noticed the wire. Clay saw it too, half a second later. He jumped to his feet just as Baird opened his mouth to say, "Fuck."
There was a deafening explosion and a bright blast of white light. Vision completely deserted Baird. It was a flash grenade, he realized, probably more than one. All the light sensitive cells in his eyes had been activated, effectively blinding him. His eyes should adjust in about five seconds, but then Baird realized that under the ringing in his ears, he could hear scuffling close by.
Something enveloped his head. His Lancer was knocked from his hands, and then someone—no, two people—forced his arms behind his back. Then he was being dragged away, away from his patrol and the sounds of gunfire.
A trap, Baird thought angrily, a frigging trap, and we fell for it like morons. But this moron isn't going quietly.
He waited for about half a minute, until the guy on his right stumbled over something. Then, Baird made his move. He lurched forward, taking his herders by surprise. As soon as his arms were free, he ripped the sack off his head and ran. The world was white and excruciating for a few seconds. His Lancer was gone, but the attackers had neglected to take his Snub. He fired two shots behind him for good measure, and then ducked into some trees.
A brief glance over his shoulder, and Baird confirmed his suspicion: two of the local Stranded were hauling ass after him, both sporting retro Lancers. He cursed himself for being so blind; of course it was a trap, not some rare forest creature. If anything out of the ordinary had been prowling in the woods, Mataki would have found it and served it up for dinner ages ago.
I need to get back to Carmine. I'm not going to last on my own with just a frigging pistol.
But he couldn't turn back. If he so much as tried to double back, the two assholes on his tail would jump on him in a minute. Or shoot him. They had tried to abduct him, but he wasn't going to bet his extremely important life on the slim chance his pursuers still thought he was worth the trouble.
As he ran further into the forest, it got harder and harder to move swiftly. Roots and logs and rocks all lurked beneath the thick underbrush, just waiting to catch his ankle and twist. The cumbersome COG combat boots were designed to stop bullets, not for manoeuvring through trees.
Maybe if I can make a big loop…
He was being herded further away from the other Gears, singled out for some reason. Since when did Stranded take prisoners? Not that he should be surprised. If the goddamn Locust had taken captives, it wasn't that shocking that a member of his own species would. He couldn't hear gunfire any longer. Did that mean he was too far away, or that it had stopped?
Focus!
It was no use worrying about Carmine and the others now. They were Gears; they could handle themselves. Carmine had survived the Tempest, surely he could handle a couple of assholes shooting at him. Besides, he had Martell and Bradley with him, even if the latter was completely ineffective. Baird needed to concentrate on Baird at the moment (it wasn't often he needed to remind himself about that).
If I can break the line of sight for just a second, then maybe—
Whatever brilliant plan he had been devising, it vanished as his foot found a particularly uneven spot on the ground. His ankle buckled, something twisted around his boot, and then he was falling. Really falling, as this happened at the crest of a hill. Of course it did. He tumbled forward, rolling, gathering momentum, arms flailing as he tried to stop his chaotic movement. The Snub went flying off into the bushes. The world spun around him, and he panicked that he'd end up hitting his head on a rock.
Not so. Baird did stop rolling, abruptly. He had a large, jagged boulder to thank for that. His chest slammed into it, and red and white lightning crackled across his vision. Then there was a sudden stabbing pain along his ribs. It grew and spread rapidly, and Baird found himself gasping for air.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He looked down, and saw that the stone had dented his armour. The chest piece had caved inwards, pressing down on his ribs, and fuck did that hurt. Logic deserted him as he clawed at his armour, desperate to make the pain stop. A few agonizing seconds later, and the plating fell away. He sucked in a deep breath, but his chest still burned. His rubs were definitely bruised, if not broken.
Before Baird had a chance to examine further, his Stranded buddies arrived. They grinned smugly at each other, as if they had somehow masterminded the hole-root fiasco. Baird reached for his Snub before remembering he'd lost it in the fall. His stomach tightened. To quote Bernie, he was definitely buggered now.
Baird flashed a winning smile. "I don't suppose you guys prescribe to the catch and release program, do you?"
"'Fraid not, pig," one man answered.
The other asshole simply grinned, and slammed the butt of his rifle into Baird's face. He fell forward onto the grass as pain laced across his cheek. His last thought was of Sam; she was going to be so pissed…
A/N: And the plot returns!