Cyma's new Bot stood amid the ruins, its frame motionless, optics dim but watching. Always watching. The ground beneath its metal feet was cracked and splintered, an old world remnant that had long since given up on holding anything sacred. Rubble littered the streets. Nature and decay fought for dominance.
The rest of the Squad, meanwhile, sat in the mud, leaning against busted concrete, eating tasteless rations while more troops rolled in from Libertalia by the hour. Trucks, gunships, and marching squads moved like a steady stream of metal and boots, dragging with them the stink of oil, sweat, and gunpowder. This town, whatever its name had been, was gone. Now it was just a dot on the map. A staging ground.
Reed had ordered downtime. Rest, he said, while they still could. But rest was relative when the air reeked of ash and mold and every third minute was interrupted by some fresh-faced recruit accidentally discharging a weapon or vomiting from nerves.
Kilgore, on the other hand, had other plans. He figured the new blood needed seasoning fast. So, he suggested the most Libertalia solution possible, send them out to butcher some Gobbers. Small tribes had been spotted skulking in the outer ruins. Perfect targets for practice.
"Low risk, high body count," Kilgore had said with a grin. "Let 'em learn what steel and fire really smell like."
The brass agreed. Of course they did. The quickest way to train a soldier wasn't with drills or manuals it was through murder. If you could survive slaughtering a nest of feral Goblins, you might be worth keeping around.
Because of Rus's rank, he got pulled into officer briefings. Endless, painful meetings full of bloated egos and pointless debates. Everyone had an opinion. No one listened. Rus mostly sat there, arms crossed, staring through people while they argued about resource allocation and how many battalions to commit to the next push. Rus's input wasn't required just hIs presence.
Berta handled the other work.
She was his second, but in practice, she ran the squad when he's not around. She had no patience for bureaucracy. While Rus sat through meetings, she always whipped the squad into shape. Dan, Gino, and Foster. Berta also oversaw her own people, Stacy, Kate, and Amiel. All three of them had enough attitude to scare most officers into silence, and enough skill to back it up. They were out somewhere now, running supply checks or patrolling the edge of the settlement. Their presence, like Cyma's, was silent but anchoring. You felt safer knowing they were nearby.
The rain started again, because of course it did. One minute it was bright and dry, the next it was like the sky was vomiting cold sludge straight down their necks. The weather out here didn't believe in consistency.
The mud never dried. The air never stopped stinking like mildew and rot. It was the kind of place that grew moss on everything from metal, stone, even people if they stood still long enough.
Bertha hated it.
She stomped past Rus as he exited the latest argument masquerading as a briefing, her LMG slung over one shoulder, a heavy axe bouncing against her back. The rest of her armor hung from her frame in pieces, sloppily buckled like she'd halfway suited up before deciding it wasn't worth the effort.
"This place smells like a goddamn terrarium," she grumbled.
"I'll get you a candle," Rus muttered.
She snorted and kept walking, muttering to herself. "Should've brought bleach. Whole fucking town smells like it's growing moss inside my sinuses."
Rus didn't disagree. The place had been abandoned for years, probably. Maybe decades. It was impossible to tell. Whatever buildings were still standing were covered in vines and grime, and every door creaked like it was begging to fall off its hinges. Some of the walls had crumbled to nothing. Others stood stubbornly, waiting to collapse on the next poor bastard who leaned on them.
And yet, this was their forward base.
A half-dead ruin now retrofitted with barbed wire, sandbags, and automated turrets. A few prefabs had been dropped in for command and medical. The rest was jury-rigged with local material and whatever could be scavenged. Even the power grid was pieced together from old-world solar panels and a half-working generator that sounded like it was dying a slow, agonizing death.
The United Humanity brass called it Sector 13.
They called it "The Pit."
More troops were arriving. More supplies. More firepower. The outpost was growing into something real. Which meant they were about to see action. Word was spreading fast—recon teams further east had engaged with larger groups of non-humans. Not just Gobbers. Bigger ones. Stronger ones. Dangerous ones.
But that didn't change their job.
Reed wanted them rested. Kilgore wanted blood. And Berta just wanted a clean patch of ground that didn't smell like rot and lizard piss.
Back at the barrack or what passed for them Rus found Gino haggling with one of the Quartermasters over a better rifle. Foster was cleaning mud out of his boots like it mattered, and Dan was chewing on something that looked suspiciously like tree bark.
"You boys ready to go gob-stomping?" Rus asked.
Foster groaned. "I thought we were resting."
He raised an eyebrow. "You've been resting for days. Time to get some dirt back under your nails."
Dan spat something dark onto the ground. "Fucking Gobbers. Hate those little shitweasels. Smells worse than this dump."
"You smell worse than this dump," Gino shot back.
"Bite me."
"Maybe later."
"Focus," Rus snapped. "We'll be getting movement orders by sundown. Kilgore's warming up the new guys with a live hunt. We're riding point. We sweep the ruins. Take out anything that moves on two legs and grunts in guttural vowels."
Foster went pale. "So... what if we find something worse?"
"Then we shoot it more."
Berta returned just as the rain started up again. Her gear still wasn't fully secured, and she looked like she'd spent the last ten minutes punching bricks out of frustration.
"They better not assign us to the west flank again," she said. "I'm not dragging your asses through another marsh. I will leave someone behind next time, I swear to God."
"You say that every time," Gino said, grinning.
"One of these days, I'll mean it."
The squad prepped in silence after that. Rain drummed against metal. Boots stomped through mud. Ammo was checked. Guns loaded. Even Foster kept his mouth shut long enough to properly clean his rifle.
As night fell, the ruins took on a new look. Not quiet. Not still. Just… tense. Like the whole town was holding its breath.
The lights from their trucks cut harsh paths through the darkness, beams bouncing off slick stone and shattered glass. The fog rolled in low, clinging to the ground, turning every shadow into a potential threat.
The comms crackled with static before settling into Amiel's voice, which as usual, was flat, cold, and dry as gunpowder.
"Tracks. Gobber. Southeast quadrant."
That was Amiel. Sounded like she hadn't had a pulse in years. If a war goddess got diagnosed with terminal depression and decided to cope by turning into a sniper and drone operator, you'd end up with her.
"Visual?" Rus asked, already checking his HUD.
"Faint. Scattered. Fresh."
No elaboration. No drama. That was it.
Rus looked back at the convoy behind them, watching the armored trucks crawl through the muck like arthritic beetles. Mud clung to the wheels like glue, and every pothole jolted the chassis hard enough to make the fresh recruits clutch their rifles like religious icons. The sky overhead was a churning slab of gray—bloated, heavy, ready to shit lightning at the first excuse.
Thunder rolled somewhere distant. They were overdue for more rain again.
"Keep that scope live," Rus said. "If anything twitches wrong, I want a hole in its skull before it finishes blinking."
"Copy," Amiel replied, already repositioning.
One moment she was on the ground, the next she'd vanished into a broken building like fog through a grate. Ghost-walked her way up some half-collapsed scaffolding, rain cloak blending with the ivy and rust. You'd lose her if you blinked and the only sign she was still with them was the faint glint of her rifle barrel catching stray light through a busted window.
Rus keyed the comms again. "Bot, take point."
No words. Just motion.
The automaton stepped ahead, the ground trembling beneath each metal footfall. Its plating adjusted with a mechanical hiss, and dual weapon arms unfolded from hidden compartments—sleek, silent, surgical. The bot didn't think. It executed. Efficiently. Coldly. Perfectly.
That's why it led.
The lead transport rolled forward, followed by the second. Theirs was third. Rus rode shotgun with Bertha behind the wheel, jaw clenched like she was chewing nails. Foster sat in the back, trying not to piss himself. Rus could hear his boots tapping nervously against the floor. Dan and Gino were in the second truck, probably arguing about snacks or kill counts.
The boundary wall of the ruins came into view what was left of it. Burnt-out concrete with old-world graffiti, half of it blasted to shit. Beyond that was rot and silence.
They crossed the threshold.
Immediately, the air changed.
The smell hit first, from gobber piss, rot, old smoke, wet stone, and death. The kind of stench that burrowed up their nose and made a permanent home in their memories.
Buildings leaned over the road like broken teeth, windows shattered, doors open like they were screaming. Craters pockmarked the terrain—leftovers from artillery that didn't finish the job.
And then the Gobbers screamed.
Gino opened fire before the rest of us even saw them, his signature move. Full-auto burst tore into a shadow darting between pillars, plastering green viscera across the wall.
Dan followed up, more precise. Two quick taps. Pop. Pop. Something short and fast caught rounds in the throat and dropped twitching to the dirt, bile hissing out its mouth.
"CONTACT!" someone screamed into comms, helpfully restating the obvious.
Nobody waited for orders.
They hit the ground running.
The Bot of ours surged forward, clearing the path like a divine executioner. Every strike from its weapons was brutal, mechanical, final. Gobbers were torn in half, pulped into meat puddles, or gunned down before they knew they were targets.
Amiel's rifle cracked like a steady drumbeat from above, sharp, rhythmic. Every shot landed where it needed to. One to the throat. One to the eye. One to the temple. Every trigger pull was an obituary.
Goblins panicked.
Some ran.
Most didn't get far.
Their small legs were no match for bullets. They'd dart into alleys or under collapsed beams, trying to regroup, trying to fight back. It didn't matter. Someone was always waiting at the exit with steel or flame.
Rus moved on the left flank, Bertha at his side, Foster hanging back like a scared dog. His rifle coughed fire. A Gobber lunged at them with a jagged blade and Rus put three into its chest before it could squeal. It fell without ceremony.
Foster let out a yell and emptied his entire mag into a burning shack.
"Reload," Rus barked, pushing past him.
Berta didn't speak that much when the blood started flowing. She moved like a machine, all muscle and instinct, cleaving a Goblin clean down the middle with one swing of her axe, then stepping over the corpse like it was just more trash in the road.
No hesitation. No flourish. Just murder.
There was no resistance.
There was no negotiation.
This wasn't war.
This was pest control.
And they were the exterminators.
Another Gobber popped up from a sewer grate, screeching like a kicked animal. Before it could raise its weapon, Foster blasted it point-blank, the round taking half its face off. The Bot tore through a group trying to regroup near an old diner, one sweep of its arm converted two of them into mangled red arcs on the pavement. It grabbed the third, crushed its skull in one hydraulic fist, and threw the body into a collapsing wall.
They advanced and purged.
Behind them, the greenhorns tried to keep up, staggering through the mud and gore, eyes wide, fingers twitchy on the trigger. Some puked. Others froze. A few got the job done barely.
Amiel's voice buzzed through the channel again. "Multiple heat signatures. Rooftop cluster. Engaging."
Shots rang out, surgical and methodical.
Three targets, three kills.
She didn't miss.
Not once.
Dan's voice came next, slightly breathless. "We've got runners east alley. Five of them. Fast."
"Let them run," Rus said. "We'll sweep and burn what's left."
They moved through the ruins like a slow, deliberate storm. Every building was cleared. Every tunnel flushed. Every pile of rubble kicked apart in case something tried hiding under it.
By the time they reached the last block, the Gobber presence had thinned to near extinction.
Smoke curled from windows.
Flames licked through broken beams.
Blood soaked the roads in wide, congealing pools.
Gino jogged up to the rest, grinning like an idiot. "Fifty-seven confirmed. I'm just saying. That's gotta be a record."
"Pretty sure you shot half a wall trying to kill one," Dan replied.
"Collateral."
Berta ignored them, pacing the edge of a courtyard, axe dragging a trail in the dirt. She was still in that headspace. Still wired. Still hunting.
"Clear," Amiel reported. "No further contact."
Rus exhaled.
Then came the smell again worse than before. Burning Gobber. Like scorched meat mixed with sewage and mold. It clung to your skin, your teeth, your brain. You couldn't un-smell it.
Foster leaned against a wall, wiping blood from his face. "God. That was…"
"Standard," Rus said.
He didn't reply. Just nodded and looked away.
The Bot stomped past the squad, blood still dripping from its armor. It didn't speak. Didn't pause. Just moved toward the next designated waypoint, ready to kill whatever got in its path.
As they regrouped near the convoy, Rus glanced back at the ruin behind them.
Gobber corpses piled like garbage.
Smoke curling from the windows.
Still air, save for the occasional crackle of fire.
The greenhorns looked shaken. Most of them weren't ready for the reality of extermination. They'd been trained for control, not butchery. But this was the real job. No protests. No restraint. No moral high ground.
They didn't kill monsters.
They're here erased infestations.
That was the difference between city patrol and the front line.
One handled crime.
The other handled extinction.
Most of Cyma wanted the cushy city job, but here they were.
Bertha slung her axe back over her shoulder, cracked her neck, and muttered, "Next nest better fight harder."
Gino looked at her. "You good?"
She shrugged. "I'm bored."
Amiel's voice cut through the comms again. "We've got new coordinates. HQ wants us pushing east. Another scout team went silent."
Of course they did.
Rus looked at the squad—blood-spattered, reeking of death, some still shaking, others grinning.
"Mount up," Rus ordered. "We're not done yet."