Author's Note: This is best seen not quite as a fanfic, but as an adaptation, and specifically an adaptation in the way the

M*A*S*H TV show is an adaptation of the movie. Not an adaptation of the plot or lore, but in retaining the core concepts - a man named Marcus Fenix leading Delta Squad in fighting the war against the Locust and their Queen - and in the purpose - a post-apocalyptic military scifi action/horror.
I'm writing this because I deeply love the original trilogy of games and have never been satisfied with anything in the same way - neither the expanded universe nor any of the prequels or sequels. There is an essence to the original Gears Of War trilogy I want to tap into and share with you. I think it will be fun.
We were in a church. Bullets flew over my head as I crouched behind a stone pew. Adrenaline pumped through my body as I heard the bullets THWIP THWIP THWIP against the stone. Do not get up. Do not get up.
A gap in the bullets. I heard them reloading. I got up and fired. As I did, Dom stood up and ran around the sides, flanking them. He opened fire, and the reloading Locust was torn to shreds.
Relief. We could push them back and get around them. We were going to be okay.
BOOM!
The doors of the church exploded. I heard a familiar, impossibly low chuckle. Out of the smoke and debris emerged a Boomer, reloading his rocket launcher.
Okay. Fine.
I lobbed a grenade, more to draw the Boomer's attention than anything. It worked. It fired a rocket that narrowly moved over my head as I ducked. Fuck! That was too close. Way too fucking close. I held my gun over the cover and sprayed into it, erring on the left. Stay on me, Boomer. Do not notice Dom sneaking up on your right.
Thunk! That was the sound of Dom attaching a sticky grenade to the Boomer's ass. I heard him dive out of the way. I chanced a peek. I heard the grenade beep. It exploded. The Boomer was ripped to shreds. Blood sprayed all over the walls of the church.
"Run!" I bellowed. We ran. We pushed through the remains of the doors. There was the chopper, waiting for us in the courtyard. Run. Run! Run run run run run.
We flew back into Jacinto by chopper. I felt a sense of relief seeing its ruined buildings. There were a lot that were ugly Brutalist slabs when they were built, and they filled me with the sense that I was home.
We landed outside HQ. It was a tremendous stone building from before even the Pendulum Wars. Classically constructed with simple, clean lines and shapes. Perfectly symmetrical. A popular style, though I always found it boring in its simplicity - no more interesting than Brutalism but significantly less honest about that.
Colonel Hoffman was waiting for us outside. Seeing him irritated me.
"Welcome back, Delta!" he barked when we got out of the chopper. "Follow me to the Debriefing Room." He turned around, knowing we would follow him.
"The mission was a complete bust, sir," I said, walking at his fast pace. God, what a useless thing to do. "Intel was all wrong. We walked into a shitstorm, and the data was heavily corrupted."
"Don't beat yourself up about it, son," said Hoffman. "You couldn't have known about that."
No shit. These paternal attempts to console me about feelings I do not have always grated on me. But I didn't want to hear any more than I had to. "Section 32 is totally overrun."
It was after the debriefing. I turned on the shower and held my hand just enough away from it to measure the heat. I adjusted back and forth until it hit the perfect temperature and stepped in.
I felt a wave of relief as the water washed off the dirt and grime of the day.
"Four feet. Quarter line. All's I'm saying."
I sighed internally. We're having this conversation again.
"Right, yeah!" said Cole. "Francis just had to break it up. Dumbass couldn't do it if his life depended on it."
We were all in adjacent stalls blocked off from each other, so their voices were a little muffled. I grabbed the liquid soap and rubbed it along my arm. The feeling of actually being clean was, you know, cleansing.
"Francis always was a fucking prick," said Baird. "A glory hound."
"A stain on the ass of thrashball. Guys like that always get what's coming to them," said Dom. I loved him like a brother, but he'd had a bug up his ass about this for twelve years and I wish he'd get over it.
I walked through the farmer's market after work. It's amazing what people can get out of apartment balconies and rainwater. I bought a half-chicken, a mix of rocket and lettuce, and a bag of croutons. I felt pleased; I'd mix them with the cheese and cesar dressing and make some chicken cesar salad for the week.
Then I heard it.
Someone was singing and playing an acoustic guitar. Her voice was rough but very melodic. I looked through the crowd; most people were looking rough and worn down as they moved through the market - understandably so, given there's a war on.
There was a busker. She was a scruffy looking woman strumming a guitar almost as beat up as she was. Her technique was simple, even crude. But that only merged with the melody to create something bizarre and wonderful.
It was a melancholic sound that perfectly underlined this place we're in. Like the market - like the city of Jacinto - it was rough and edgy, but underlined with a deep sadness and connection to one another, and a hope for the future.
Okay. Fine. Maybe I shouldn't complain so much.