Gears of War: Faces of Atrocity



15 A.E., before Operation Hollow...

After detonating the Lightmass Bomb, in what seems to be a desperate attempt, the Locusts begin a series of insurgencies across the nation of Tyrus. Theta Six is one of eight squads dispatched to search and eradicate or dismantle any COG intel that may have been left behind.

The squad of six Gears, including a conscript, a chaplain, and an former incarcerated felon, the six man band of misfits that make up Theta Six come across something they did not expect when they’re given orders to find survivors at the Santa Fe Imulsion Research Facility.

This is their mission.

Please Note: This fanfic is rated M for swearing, adult situations, violence, sexual innuendos, and scenes of a graphic nature.



Stay, when you think you want me, pray, when you need advice. Hey, keep your sickness off me, trying to get through.

Blame, all your weakness on me, shame, that I'm so contrite. Hey, keep your fingers off me, why can't I get through...

You think you have the best of intentions, I cannot shake the taste of blood in my mouth.


 * *Seether

Chapter 1: The Routine
''“Demitri, hurry the fuck up man! I swear you better not be reading in there…”''

…a voice could be heard, following another series of banging against the thin pine, outhouse door, rattling against the rickety doorframe. The sudden obnoxious knocking broke Demitri’s focus from his magazine, consequently causing him to drop it on his bare lap.

“Gah, shit! ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT…fuck, can’t I shit in peace?” Demitri moaned to himself before he picked the magazine back up. Normally he didn’t take quite as long, often finishing whatever business nature compelled him to accomplish, which normally took less than ten minutes, but today for whatever reason, he couldn’t do it.

“He’s hogging the only working toilet, sir…” the voice could be heard again through the outhouse door. Apparently their commanding officer was getting on his squad mate’s case about his blatant impatience with Demitri using the outhouse longer than he originally anticipated.

He starts to roll up the five-year-old Penthouse magazine and stuffs it back into his leg pack that was hanging on a nail next to the makeshift toilet paper dispenser, which was nothing more than another crooked nail, hammered in at an angle with the roll of TP over it.

The magazine was one of several souvenirs he found during their squad’s five-month trek in a string of towns along the Ephyrean border. It was the only piece of literature he was able to use in keeping his sanity, salvaging all that which made him male. Although normally any means or vices that can wash the callous days away with just a long, stagnant glance at some centerfold broad, straddling in an suggestive position, it kept some of his more primitive drives in check, even if it was just him spending time alone with his magazine, and a rosy palm…but not today.

Shit…what’s wrong with me today, he mumbled to himself as he stood up onto his feet to pull up his fatigues that have been wrapped around his knees for over fifteen minutes.

“Ah, fuck…” he griped, feeling both legs cramp while trying to get his bare ass back into his pants before another loud knocking on the door startled him once again.

“DAMNIT, CAN YOU GIVE ME A MINUTE TO PULL UP MY FUCKING PANTS?” Demitri yelled through the door over the noise of the insistent knocking.

“Other people need to take a shit too, asshole! It’s not like we got a lot of other Johns around here…”

“Yea, yea, I’m almost done,” he yelled back before mumbling to himself while buttoning his fly, “…fucking jerk.”

Private Demitri Samson's squad, Theta Six, had taken refuge in a town called Barnabas, a once small but flourishing community that was known mostly for it’s vineyards and wine presses. It was long abandoned now, the streets littered with emergence holes that looked a few years of age, judging by the weeds that were sprouting from the cracks around the splintered crust of the Serean surface. Whatever damage the Locusts intended to do to it, apparently they lost interest in it and moved on from one town, to the next.

It was a number of towns they have surveyed along the Tyran border, looking for anything or anyone that may have encountered a fallen craft that has crash-landed in the area nearby. Trying to keep intel from the Locust proved to be a delicate matter, knowing that any King Raven, fallen or otherwise could still pose a threat to that very intel if not properly disposed. So far, they have only found two, out of six that have been reported missing in the area.

Squeezing back into his utility belt in the tight, cramped quarters between the infinitesimal, wooden walls of the outhouse, Demitri managed to get most of his attire on before finally lifting the hook lock and carefully opening the creaking door, only to find a crabby Private Rodney Brussels standing in front of the entrance with his arms folded.

“Well it’s about fucking time!” Rodney sneered, watching Demitri rub his eyes. His pupils were still adjusting to the sudden bright light in contrast to the dimly lit quarters of the old outhouse.

“Yea, do us a favor and go drop your load so you can shut the hell up…damn light,” Demitri grumbled, still squinting under the bright haze mixed with the airborne dust coming from the wind blowing along the gravel road nearby.

Before Rodney could even get around to the outhouse entrance, he quickly noticed Demitri’s rolled up magazine stuffed in a different leg pack than from the one it was in before he went inside the outhouse.

“Damnit, Samson, you’ve been masturbating on the John, haven’t you,” Rodney growled at the squinting private, still trying to adjust to the sudden illumination.

“What fucking difference does it make…shit,” Demitri griped back, lifting is hand to shield his eyes from the midday, scorching sun.

“Fuck, if you need to jerk-off, go do it in the fucking frat house shower! Keep the only running bathroom we’ve got, open for those of us who have to shit!”

“Alright, damn,” Demitri staggered out of the way, allowing Rodney space to enter the bathroom.

“I mean it, Sams…” Rodney blurted out while unhinging the belt around his pants and stepping into the outhouse doorway, “…if I even so much as find a drop of your jizzle juice on the floor or on the seat, I’m kicking your ass!”

Conveniently ignoring Rodney’s excessive nagging was a feat Demitri has since learned to harness over the past few rotations. Like most squads he was assigned to, there was always a member he would butt heads with, despite always being under what would seem, constant fire from the Locust horde.

It was the same shit, day after day; always moving from one location to the next, in search of fallen aircraft that fell victim to the Nymacists that ravaged the skies. In daylight, they often kept a watch, monitoring their radar for Seeders, while sparsely keeping contact with command to avoid giving away their position. Their squad commander, Sergeant Towslend would make arrangements daily to report to command, keeping everything coded in the event a group of Stranded may be nearby, eavesdropping on their communications, not to mention the Locusts.

Walking along a vacant parking lot, littered with cracks caused from the seismic tremors of an old, giant emergence hole nearby, Private Demitri Samson peered over to the rest of his squad, sitting idle next to a tattered automotive garage, drinking water they’ve managed to fill their bottles from the town’s waste/water treatment plant.

“Dang, Sams, did you have the runs or somthin?” one of them asked as Demitri makes his way to the rest of the squad, sitting in the shade coming from the cargo truck.

Not intending to answer the ludicrous question, he soon noticed their commando scout, Corporal Josephine Marrow, sitting in the squatting position on top of the roof of the big rig they managed to salvage from the winery storage warehouse, keeping watch while their Stranded conscript, Leonard Maverick was under the open hood, replacing the battery with another one they managed to rip off another truck that was badly damaged due to razor hail.

Amongst the motley crew that made up Theta Six was the squad cleric, which in this case, was literally. Although in rank, they called him Corporal Hiraku Gaiman, but on the field, he is known as no other than Father Gaiman.

South Island in dress but with a clear Tyran accent, it was said that he kept some of his mothers' island roots while honoring the ethos of his father, a former, Tyran missionary. Needless to say, Gaiman was a man of exceptional tracking skills that has saved the squad a time or two, but his ethics were uncanny. The man didn’t drink, smoke, nor cursed, and as far as anyone could recall, the man didn’t fornicate.

“Father…” Demitri greeted Gaiman first, especially since he knew Gaiman was seldom the one to scold him over something nonsensical such as the likes of him taking matters into his own hands, or shalacking off, as Josephine would rhetorically put it.

Of all squad members Demitri has ever had to work with, their Commando, Corporal Josephine Marrow was probably, by far the most eccentric. Before being drafted as a Gear, Josephine was a hard-lined felon, institutionalized in the Tyran penal system back at Ephyria Penitentiary. Although originally charged for first-degree manslaughter, additional sentences have been added due to other conflicts while institutionalized, including shanking several of his fellow inmates until they bled to death, in which he claimed he acted in self-defense. Needless to say, Josephine wasn’t a stranger to violence anymore than a cat was a stranger to hairballs, but the Gear life fit him like a glove, and oddly enough, Demitri could swear that Josephine found solace in it.

Carefully walking under the shade coming off the truck, Demitri made an effort to step over Gaiman’s Lancer that was lying out on the floor with the chain belt disassembled, while Gaiman was greasing the drum to the chainsaw bayonet.

“Greetings Samson…I take it you got your daily grievance report from Private Brussel’s usual list of complaints?” Father Gaiman asked while still keeping his working gaze on the Lancer’s chainsaw mechanism.

“…and then some,” Demitri mumbled before lifting his hands onto his forehead to slick his sweat-saturated hair off his brow.

A laugh could be heard coming from above as Demitri looked up to see Josephine making a moving gesture that resembled someone pulling root as he flashes a wide, condescending grin; fucking psycho.

“No Marrow…nobody wants to hear about your prag love sessions back in the slam…" Demitri sneered as Josephine let out a mocking laugh.

“Come now mon amie…how long do ya tink dos pictures of yer fake-tit bitches are gonna get your rocks off, before dey lose dere luster, and den you’re left to yer own dwindling imagination?”

Demitri didn’t reply as he simply lifted his arm to flash Josephine the middle finger, keeping his potty mouth to a minimum for the sake of Father Gaiman’s company.

“What seems to be the problem now, Josephine?” the voice of their commanding officer could be heard as Sergeant Towslend walks around the corner of the trailer.

“It’s just been awhile since da Private’s here frosted any pastries, Sarge…” Josephine mused in his broken Tyran, heavily sloshed in his immigrant accent.

Josephine didn’t resemble a typical convict thug by being grossly top heavy from lifting weights eight hours of the day, using his body as a canvas by littering it in ink. In contrast, he was long and lanky, his musculature lithe and rigid, which probably complimented his ability to haul ass, being the fastest one among them.

The only tattoo that he did have was not by choice. It was a bar code that was inked on his back, a system the penitentiary used to keep track of their inmates for identification purposes in the event they were to be mutilated beyond recognition. Otherwise, Corporal Marrow was composed and disturbingly amiable for a man who literally fought to stay alive in one of the most violent penitentiary’s in Tyrus.

Sergeant Towsland impatiently looks down at his wrist-watch before looking to see Private Rodney Brussels join the group after taking care of the usual paperwork, which he still had strapped to his supply pack.

Although Demitri would more often than not, stereotype Brussels as the official squad asshole, he would still have to admit that he’s dealt with worse. Rodney’s biggest character flaw was that he was a stickler for cleanliness, hence the reason he insisted on keeping a roll of toilet paper on his persons in the event when nature called. The man was so anal retentive about it, Demitri swore that the man probably carries a bar of soap in his pack and secretly scrubs his ass in the lavoratory whenever he got the chance.

As Brussels finally makes it to the rest of the group, he could instantly hear Josephine let out a snicker.

“The fuck you laughin at, Marrow?” Brussels sneered in return.

“The both of you, shut up and listen…” Towslend ordered, “…and this goes for the rest of you gentlemen…”

“We’re anytin’ but gentle, Sarge…” Josephine conveniently reminded the Sergeant, as always.

“Shut up Marrow and pay attention…I’ll need you to get the map out a little later to start looking for a route between here and Gail…”

“Damn Sarge, all the way to Gail?” Demitri blurted out at the news of their relocation.

“That’s right Private! I’ve just been given orders to pack up and head out to Gail…”

“The fuck for?” Brussels started to gripe before he even got word of their new objective.

“Apparently, there is an Imulsion research laboratory that was sacked last night, and we need to go back to check for survivors.”

"So why us? Why don't they drop off a squad by Raven?" Demitri had to ask, despite he knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

"It's too hot for KR transport, and we're the nearest squad in route, so guess what..."

"Sigh, fuck me," Demitri quietly grumbled to himself.

“Dere’s only one road ta Gail, Sergeant…” Josephine is quick to point out.

“I know that Josie…which is why I need you look up every possible farm road, detour, substation, or feeder that can give us indirect access into town.”

“How about a sewer conduit?” Gaiman suggested.

“Oh hell no! I’m not walking in shit again…” Brussels protested instantly.

“I don’t give a flying fuck if we have to swim in raw sewage, Brussels! Our orders are to go to Gail and eradicate any Locust outpost and extract any survivors from that facility.”

“Why the sudden interest in rescuing civilians from a research facility?” Gaiman asked, knowing that it wasn’t usual COG protocol to go out of their way, or expend additional resources for just a handful of civilians.

“Sigh, I asked them the same thing, Father…and the best I can gather is that this is on a need to know basis.”

“So it’s another shit assignment?” Brussels scoffed at another objective they knew they were not going to like.

“Yea, Private…it’s another shit assignment."

*I keep on thinking that it's all done and all over now. You keep on thinking you can save me…save me… My ship is sinking, but it's all good and I can't go down. You got me thinking that the party's all over.