The swamp burned behind Cyma Unit, thick, acrid smoke climbing into the sky like some ancient beast had just been sacrificed to a forgotten god. The last four hours had been nothing but shelling, napalm, and watching green things scream as they cooked alive. The swamp, once a hive of Gobber filth, now looked like a barbecued sewer.
They were pulled out about two hours into the massacre. Command decided they'd earned a break after turning half the bog into a Gobber graveyard using nothing but bullets, shields, and our batons when the ammo ran dry. Foster even tried to kill one with a shovel. Not because it was the best option, but because it was there, and he was pissed. They were all pissed.
They stood on a small, semi-dry ridge. Most of their gear was scattered around them, either drying from the humidity or dumped in exhaustion. Rus's hands still hurt. His body ached in all the ways a man could ache without technically being broken. But at least he wasn't dead.
Berta stood off to the side, one boot up on a burnt log like she was posing for a magazine cover nobody asked for. Her combat axe rested lazily on her shoulder, glistening faintly with swamp blood and soot. Her body armor and chainmail hung from her belt like trophies, and all she had left on her top was a sweat-stained sports bra. Her abs shone in the fading light, showing her ridiculous display of athletic arrogance.
She caught Rus looking. Of course she did. Always.
"What?" she asked.
Rus didn't answer immediately. Just blinked and gestured toward her with the grace of a man losing his will to live. "Could you do that… over there?"
Berta raised an eyebrow, not moving a damn inch. "You've already seen my tits, Wilson. Half the base has. Besides," she added with a shrug, "I'm not naked."
"No, you're just halfway to a striptease in a warzone. Very motivational. I'm sure the gobbers are rising from the dead just to offer tips."
She didn't even flinch. Then thought of something. "Dan told me you were pretty meek during training," she said, switching topics without warning. "Now look at you. Swinging batons like a lunatic. Shouting orders. Getting weirdly quiet when killing things."
"That's called character development," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "Or psychosis. Either way, military life is a wonderful thing."
Truth was, Rus had changed. You didn't go through all this, months of death, swamp rot, endless gobber raids, and the eternal ballet of napalm and murder without it chewing on your soul a little. And with his enhancements, internal compass, instant weapons handling, the weird combat indicators it made him feel like he was playing a game with cheat codes. The kind where you still get hurt, but you hurt them more.
He had confidence because of it. It made him better. But it didn't make him firmly sane. There were many times he felt he was losing his mind, but all he could do was endure.
Berta leaned against him, forearm resting on Rus's shoulder. "You know, for someone who punches like a psycho, you still act like you've got a stick up your ass."
Rus didn't push her off. He was too tired. "Didn't you say you respect me now? Or are we throwing that out with the charred gobber corpses?"
"I do," she said simply. "I said I'd tone it down. Didn't mean I'd stop entirely. I mean, you're a good friend. And if you ever decide you want Mama B's cuddling, I'd still oblige."
Rus rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted to feel like I was being molested by a hurricane, I'd try hugging a wind turbine."
She smirked. "Still got it eh? And here I thought ya lost your wits in the swamp."
"Do you at least plan to stop telling people your tits and ass belong to me?"
Berta had the decency to look mildly guilty. "...I'd rather keep saying that, actually."
"Really?" Rus turned to face her. "Don't give me some bullshit about it being for my safety."
"No bullshit," she admitted. "It's for mine. Keeps creeps off me."
Rus narrowed his eyes. "You don't strike me as someone who needs protection."
"I don't," she said. "But it helps keep the other girls calm. Makes them think I'm… committed."
Rus stared.
"Not like that," she added quickly. "Just—attached enough to not randomly pounce on anyone breathing."
"How noble," Rus said dryly. "Saint Berta of the Immaculate Deception."
"I'm still a whore," she said with a shrug. "They call me Double-Bladed, remember?"
"Because you hit on both sides."
"Exactly."
Rus stared back at the burning swamp, watching the trees collapse like guilty secrets.
"And yet, somehow, I'm the one in the crosshairs."
She grinned. "You'll be fine. You bitch a lot, but you don't really care. If you did, we'd be sharing a bunk all the time."
"True."
She wasn't wrong.
The rotor blades of the extraction chopper began to hum in the distance. The rumble echoed across the charred landscape like a god clearing its throat.
"Get moving," Rus told her, waving her off. "I'll take a minute."
"Suit yourself," she said with a lazy salute. "Don't fall asleep, or I'll draw a dick on your forehead."
"I'll wake up just to punch you."
"I'd like that."
She walked away, whistling, then slapped Amiel on the ass as she passed. Amiel didn't even blink, just muttered something under her breath like she was mentally listing every crime Berta had ever committed to her.
Rus stood there, quiet. Breathing in the ash. Letting the heat settle.
His hands were still stained with gobber blood. His boots were soaked in things he didn't want to think about. And his brain was qutoo quiet. That kind of silence that feels like it's holding its breath.
Dan came limping over, followed by Gino and Foster.
"We're alive," Foster said, like he was trying to convince himself.
"Barely," Gino muttered. "I smell like a burnt mushroom."
Dan eyed the still-burning swamp. "You know, for all your bitching, Wilson... you went full beast mode back there."
Rus looked at them. "We ran out of bullets and had to beat goblins with sticks."
"Still," Dan said, "you were like, freakishly good. Fast. Efficient. Kind of terrifying. You improved a lot man"
"Yeah," Foster added. "You were like a blender with anger issues."
"I hate swamps," Rus said simply. "They are nature's armpit."
"You really hate swamps and its people," Gino agreed.
Rus turned to him. "And you don't?"
"Oh no," he said. "I just don't have the eloquence to describe it like you."
Dan snorted. "Rus gets poetic when he's pissed."
Rus did. And he was.
The chopper landed. Its wind blew ash in their faces. Rus watched it for a moment before they gathered their gear and headed toward it to tow their Humvees.
* * *
Damasa looked the same as always. Dusty. Loud. Smelled like a cross between motor oil and old boots. But after his time in a swamp fighting crocodile-riding Gobbers and turning entire nests into charred mulch, it was practically a spa retreat.
They rolled in looking like war refugees. Berta's sports bra was stained with sweat and Gobber guts. Dan had a limp from slipping on a swamp eel. Foster was still bandaging what was either a burn or a bite, he didn't know, and he didn't ask. Gino didn't make a single joke, which worried Rus more than anything else.
As for Rus, he didn't even make it to the barracks. Command wanted a full debrief, with forms. Lots of forms. The kind of paperwork that makes you question your career choices, your sanity, and your ability not to eat a sidearm just for a change of pace.
So he ended up in the admin tent after a long cleansing from the base and a shower. Alone. Lit by buzzing overhead lights and the flickering glow of a terminal older than his sense of humor. The forms were stacked like a bureaucratic ziggurat, and he had to fill out everything from terrain reports to confirmed kills to "psychological observations of troop behavior."
If he could've written "tired, horny, violent" and called it a day, he would have. But no, the United Humanity wanted specifics.
Rus was mid-form during "Describe engagement outcome with minimal jargon" when Kate walked in, a clipboard in one hand and a look that said she was trying really hard not to smirk.
"Figured you'd be here," she said, sliding into the seat beside me. "You've got the look."
"What look?" Rus muttered, not even looking up.
"The 'I've survived hell, and all I got was this stack of paperwork' look."
"Accurate."
She set her clipboard down and booted up the second terminal. "I'll help."
Rus narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
"Because if you try to finish this alone, you'll end up writing your resignation letter on page 72 by accident. Don't want that."
"Tempting," Rus muttered. "Very tempting. But I still need citizenship, thank you very much."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, the click-clack of keys the only sound. Occasionally she'd mutter something about "stupid field codes" or "who the hell designed this form layout," but otherwise, she kept the banter to a minimum. Which was… unsettling.
"You're unusually professional today," Rus said, side-eyeing her.
"Someone has to be. Besides, I already saw your notes on the last op. You called our swamp engagement 'a cooperative group therapy session with batons and righteous fury.'"
"Wasn't wrong."
She laughed quietly. "No, you weren't. I know you're trying to be funny, but that just fucks us over. Or are you doing that to mess with me?"
"Kinda?"
"Eat dick, Wilson."
Still, as Rus filled in the logistics section and updated the kill counts, his mind drifted. The UH was moving fast. Sector by sector. Region by region. Like a massive steamroller with a bloodlust. And unlike most governments, they weren't scrambling. They were prepared.
Even now, factories were rising around Damasa. Steel skeletons of mass production, churning out bullets, armor, and god knows what else. The ammo flowed like water, and judging by the stockpile, the brass weren't planning for a short war.
Sure, UH Retreated from the Riftzones. But they didn't retreat like cowards. They dug in. Hardened. Waited. Stored tech, missiles, guns, data, vaults full of death just waiting for the chance to kick reality in the teeth.
Humanity had learned its lesson. The Rift broke the world. But instead of curling into a fetal position and praying to the old gods, the UH sharpened its fangs instead.
And now that the Rift retreated?
They were biting back.
"Thinking too hard again?" Kate asked.
"Just trying to understand why we're burning ammo like it's going out of style."
She didn't even look up. "Because we can. They're mass-producing it faster than we can shoot it."
"Feels excessive."
"Welcome to the current war economy," she said. "Sustain the supply, sustain the violence."
Rus grunted.
Another form. More lines to fill. He listed their injuries, their ammo spent, the estimated gobber casualties, the crocodile mounts, the acid wounds, the mudslides, the fungal infections, and the brief but memorable moment where he choked a Gobber to death while Amiel provided sniper overwatch with the emotional range of a brick.
And then there was the bodycam footage. He attached it, flagged the highlights, and included a note:
"Cyma unit performed admirably under extreme duress. Request minimum two-week stand-down for recovery. Recommend recreational leave and mental rest. We've done our part. Let us not burn out our most effective assets."
Kate read the note over my shoulder.
"Are you going soft on us, boss?"
Rus Looked at her. "I don't want to bury anyone. That's all. You're all my teammates."
She nodded, quiet for once.
Another hour passed. The forms were finally done. Rus sat back, his fingers aching, and stared at the terminal like it owed him money.
Kate exhaled, pushed her chair back, and stood up. "Let's hope they read it."
"They'll read it," Rus muttered. "Whether they give a damn? That's another story."
She stretched, arms over her head, shirt riding up enough for me to realize he'd been in this tent far too long. He looked away. She noticed. Of course she did. These women were superhuman. How could they not?
"Don't make it weird," she said, grinning.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
They stepped outside into the late afternoon light. The camp was noisy again. Troopers drilling. Engines revving. Someone shouting about a misplaced crate of flamethrower fuel.
Normal chaos.
But in his head, Rus kept thinking about the swamp.
The screams. The smell. The unholy joy he'd taken in ripping those creatures apart when the bullets ran out. How his hands had moved without hesitation. Not as a man defending himself, but like a machine fulfilling a function.
Was it the enhancements?
Or was that just him now?
Didn't matter.
Because tomorrow, or next week, they'd send them back out. Into some other hellhole. With some other thing that needed burning.
And Cyma would go. Because they had become good at it.