The morning after sparring left half his squad groaning in bunks, Rus found himself sitting in a prefab command tent that smelled like coffee gone bitter, sweat soaked into canvas, and wet paper. The officers' briefing.
Kilgore stood at the head of the table, hands braced on the steel surface where a topographic map of the Bay of Gorda glowed in pale blue projection. His face was as stern as ever, voice low and deliberate, carrying through the tent with the weight of someone who had chewed too many cigars and too many wars.
Around him, junior officers shuffled reports, muttered into slates, and tried not to look too tired. Rus sat toward the far end, listening, saying nothing.
"Perimeter integrity," Kilgore began. His gaze swept across the room. "Sector reports?"
One of the engineers, still in half-buttoned fatigues, spoke up. "Western trenches complete. Reinforced with prefabs and razor wire. Watchtowers are fully manned, three shifts. Mines seeded at the choke points."
Another officer, a Knight liaison, added, "Northern sector cleared as of yesterday. The mechs cut a path through the last tree line. No monster sightings for forty-eight hours."
Kilgore nodded. "And the south?"
A logistics officer shifted in her chair. "Slow progress. Swampy ground. Still draining the marsh near sector nine. A couple of rookies got stuck chest-deep in mud last night. No fatalities."
"That perimeter doesn't exist until it holds under attack," Kilgore said flatly. "Fix it."
The room went quiet. No one argued.
Kilgore tapped the map, zooming out. The Bay of Gorda pulsed as a blue marker. The edges of Damasa lit up to the south, a jagged outline of reclaimed swamp and half-built roads. Libertalia gleamed further beyond, a steady anchor in the digital sea.
"The Bay's secure," Kilgore continued. "We've cleared the nests. Defensive emplacements are set. The carrier will remain offshore as reinforcement, but the next mission isn't about holding this spot. It's about connecting it."
He drew a line with his finger from Gorda to Damasa. "Here. A corridor. A supply chain." Another line extended further, from Damasa back to Libertalia. "Here. A lifeline. Until this connection is complete, Gorda is just an isolated forward operating base. If the monsters overrun us, we lose everything. The Bay is meaningless unless it ties back into the mainland."
Rus listened, quiet, his eyes on the shifting hologram. The words made sense. Always did. But hearing them put like that, it was more than lines and arrows. It was the reality of war reduced to corridors of survival.
Kilgore straightened, adjusting his gloves. "Some of you don't understand the weight of this. Damasa was hell to secure. Cost us more men and more steel than Libertalia wants to admit. But if we lose the corridor, we lose Damasa. And if we lose Damasa, Libertalia is next."
He let that hang in the air, heavy and blunt.
An officer across the table cleared his throat. "So our orders are to push eastward, clear the roads, and secure a highway?"
"Yes," Kilgore said. "Every field, every bridge, every swamp crossing. We'll cut a scar into this land so wide nothing can sneak through. The corridor must be kept open, no excuses. The Bay becomes a dock, Damasa becomes a fortress, and Libertalia remains the capital. That's the plan."
Another officer, young, maybe too young, raised a hand. "Sir, with respect, what if the Rift activity increases in the southern quadrant? Drone feeds show anomalies near sector thirteen."
Kilgore's eyes narrowed. "Then we kill whatever crawls out before it touches the road."
The young officer shut up quick.
Rus leaned back in his chair, listening as more details filled the air. Logistics routes. Airship deployments. Fighter patrol schedules. Requests for more mech support, denied for now. Every word was practical, procedural, but the bigger picture was there, humming underneath.
This wasn't just about the Bay. This was about Damasa. About holding the swamp long enough to make it mean something. About Libertalia keeping its grip as the jewel of UH's power.
Kilgore cut off another officer mid-sentence and looked around the tent, his gaze hard.
"You all need to understand, this isn't cleanup anymore. This is consolidation. We've proven we can take ground. Now we have to prove we can hold it. If the Bay falls, if Damasa falls, this entire reclamation effort will collapse. And humanity will lose face it cannot afford to lose."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Thick with the understanding that failure here wasn't measured in casualties, it was measured in collapse.
Rus exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the map. He remembered Damasa. The swamp rot that stuck in the lungs. The way every night was a gamble against fever or claws. The dead stacked up until graves became trenches.
Now they wanted to keep it. To connect it. To turn hell into a supply chain.
And they would. Because there was no other choice.
Kilgore's gaze swept the room one last time. "Questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped against metal flooring. Officers filed out, murmuring about supply requests and patrol rotations. Rus lingered a moment longer, staring at the map.
Kilgore caught his eye. For a second, neither spoke. Then the older man gave the faintest nod, respect, warning, both.
Rus nodded back, then stood and left the tent.
Outside, the Bay was alive with motion. Mechs stomped across dirt fields, clearing rubble. VTOLs roared overhead, carrying crates slung like toys. Rookies drilled near the perimeter wall, rifles raised, sweat pouring. The air smelled of salt and steel and the faint bite of ozone.
The Bay of Gorda was secure. For now.
But the corridor?
That was the real war.
* * *
Rus gathered the squad in front of Cyma, the war machine standing silent and statuesque beside the prefabs. Its sensors hummed faintly, lenses whirring as it processed everything without comment. The squad, however, had plenty of comments.
When Rus laid out Kilgore's words, corridor, Damasa, swamp. the groaning began immediately.
"Not the swamp again," Gino muttered, running a hand down his face. "I still smell like mud every time it rains."
"Swamp rot isn't a smell," Dan added. "It's a curse man."
Foster spat to the side, grimacing. "The swamp eats boots, souls, and dignity. Can we just nuke the whole thing and call it a day?"
Even Stacy and Kate looked sour, their usual steady demeanor bent under the weight of memory. Berta leaned on her axe with a theatrical sigh, like the announcement was a personal insult.
Rus kept his voice even, professional. "Yeah, I know. Nobody's happy. But Command's orders are orders. The Bay connects to Damasa, and Damasa connects to Libertalia. That corridor holds, or everything collapses. We'll do our part."
The grumbling died down a little, though no one looked happy about it.
Rus added, "We've got enough Counter units rotating through now to test them in the field. Odds are, they'll get thrown into the swamp first. We'll remain on standby, sharpened and ready if Command needs us to follow up."
That seemed to cool some of the heat. The rookies still needed grinding. Everyone knew it. Nobody wanted to admit that Cyma Unit was, at least for now, backup muscle while the new blood got bloodied.
Berta broke the silence first, her smirk returning like a bad habit. She slung her MG across her shoulders and leaned forward.
"Fine. But if we're on standby, I want to spar. Boss, you and me, round two."
Rus shook his head. "I've got desk work. Reports don't write themselves."
"Boo," Berta said, sticking her tongue out. "Paperwork's not exercise." Then her eyes slid sideways, landing on Amiel. "Guess that leaves you, dollface. I'll train you in close combat."
Amiel's head snapped toward her, eyes flat, face unreadable. "That's bullying."
Berta's grin widened. "That's training."
"No," Amiel said, voice cool as ever. "That's bullying."
"Same thing if it makes you tougher." Berta didn't wait for agreement. She cracked her knuckles, rolling her shoulders like she was already warming up. "Come on, baby doll. You've got claws, but you don't know how to use your body. I'll fix that."
Amiel frowned, not a deep one, just the faint tightening of her mouth, the barest signal that she was actually annoyed.
Rus watched the two of them, shaking his head. "Don't break her, Berta. We need her to be functional."
"Relax, Boss," Berta said, flashing teeth. "I'll only bruise her a little. I'll make sure your fav ain't damaged."
Amiel's kuudere stare stayed locked on Berta, steady as stone, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes. Resentment. Reluctance. Maybe even the faintest hint of curiosity.
The rest of the squad smirked, some already settling in to watch what was bound to be a one-sided show.
Rus turned away, already thinking about the pile of paperwork waiting for him. Let Berta and Amiel sort themselves out. He had reports to finish and logistics to correct.
Behind him, Berta's laughter rang out across the bay.