Rus sat in his prefab with the HF blade laid across the table like a surgical instrument. The hum of the air conditioner filled the room while the rest of the Bay outside throbbed with the noise of engines, drills, and chatter. The blade, Salvo, vibrated faintly, its black metal catching thin slivers of light from the window.
He ran a thumb along the edge. Even powered down, it had a presence. Not sharp in the traditional sense, but alive. When active, the molecules along its edge would oscillate fast enough to shear through steel. Maintenance wasn't optional. You neglected a weapon like this, and it could cook itself or worse…rupture.
Rus connected the diagnostic cable to the port near the hilt. A small holographic panel bloomed to life above it, displaying the weapon's internal readouts. Power coils stable. Vibration regulators were 90%. Blade resonance was slightly desynced.
He adjusted the regulator screws with careful pressure, turning them until the faint buzz evened out. When the hum balanced into that familiar steady pitch, he gave a short nod. Perfect.
Then it happened the flicker.
The overlay.
It appeared like a reflection against glass. Semi-transparent shapes, faint lines, ghosted arcs hovering just above the blade. To anyone else, nothing. But to him, it was instruction.
Rus followed the cue, twisting the handle until the text blinked green and faded.
It was like following a manual only he could see. A QTE, as he called it. Quick Time Event. Something in his brain treated every task like a sequence of inputs. Press here. Turn this. Move there.
It wasn't constant. It came and went, triggered by combat, sometimes by instinct. Lately, it has been growing sharper, more responsive.
Rus wasn't sure what his mutation really was. Some said perception enhancement, others thought precognition. But what it felt like was control, his reality reduced into prompts and markers, all in front of him.
He could see danger before it happened. Predict the path of bullets. Anticipate where an enemy would strike. Arrows, arcs, flashes, each a line of motion waiting to be acted upon.
Sometimes it was subtle. Sometimes the world slowed down so hard that sound lagged behind motion.
Bullet-time, he thought. Except it wasn't cinematic. It was clinical. Cold.
He could act freely if he wanted, but pressing the "button" inside his head, activating it was easier. Cleaner. Like switching from instinct to precision mode. It made him feel mechanical, detached. But it worked.
He finished the calibration and powered the blade up. The edge shimmered, vibrating with that faint, invisible energy field that made the air around it hum. The QTE flickered one last time before dissolving.
He powered it down, setting it back on the table.
Weapons like this weren't just tools, they were identifiers. Every Counter had one, a signature of sorts. HF blades, plasma spears, or whatever custom piece of murder the Union handed out. They were symbols as much as weapons.
Berta once told him that each one had a tracker embedded in the hilt. "Just in case one of us loses our mind or goes rogue," she'd said.
Rus didn't blame them. When you had a population of genetically altered humans capable of turning cities into ruins, you installed fail-safes.
He looked at Salvo again, resting silent now, its hum gone. It looked ordinary, the kind of thing someone might mistake for decoration until it tore through armor.
Rus preferred range. Always had. Give him a rifle, a scope, a few magazines, and distance. Berta, on the other hand, lived for close-quarters. She liked the noise, the blood, the screaming. But Rus liked quiet.
He picked up his plate carrier and chainmail vest, sliding them on over his uniform. The gear fit snug, the weight familiar.
Outside, someone whistled.
"Damn, Boss," Berta's voice carried across the yard. "You know how to make regulation gear look sinful. Tight ass in tight armor. As always"
Rus ignored her.
He stepped out into the sunlight, the heat bouncing off the steel walkways. The rest of the squad was already gathered near the transport tarmac. Engines idled somewhere nearby, their hum mixing with the gulls and the smell of jet fuel.
He walked up, Salvo sheathed across his back, and set his coffee on a crate.
"Alright, listen up," he said.
The chatter died down.
"I know everyone's gotten comfy here at the Bay. Air conditioning, showers, real food. But Command wants us to fuck off. We're pulling out soon."
Dan groaned. "Where to this time?"
"Galves Region," Rus said. "New orders. Change of plan."
"Wait, I thought the push was toward the northeast corridor?" Gino asked.
"It was," Rus replied, flipping open his slate and showing the updated map. "Now it's Galves. We're moving with the Tenth Damasa Battalion."
Gino frowned. "Since when do we have a Tenth Damasa?"
Foster snorted. "Since like a week ago. They scraped it together from the Fifth and Seventh leftovers."
"Shut up," Rus said, eyes on his notes. "Here's the rundown."
He zoomed the projection out, pointing with his pen. "We'll depart from the Bay, move by air across Christmas Bay, then northeast toward Trinity-Chambers Lake. We'll establish a temporary defense line there. Prefabs will drop after us, barracks, supply nodes, anti-air batteries. Once they're up, we hunker down and hold Galves."
Berta tilted her head. "Hold? As in defend? Not kill?"
"That's right," Rus said. "Defend. We're the top dogs, which means we're covering the most important piece of the operation, the rear. Make no mistake—" he paused, letting that hang for a while. "this isn't peacekeeping. We're expecting an organized Orc warband coming out of Orange County. Command wants them blocked before they cross into the corridor."
That quieted the group.
Dan scratched the back of his neck. "Orcs. Again."
"Not your friendly swamp types," Rus said. "These are military-grade. Formations. Discipline. They're using captured tech. Think ex-human leadership, possibly Rift-adapted. You see them, don't wait for me to say fire."
Stacy nodded. "Understood."
Kate echoed her quietly.
Amiel said nothing, but her eyes stayed sharp.
Berta cracked her neck. "So no glory run. Just sit tight and swat green bastards from a bunker. Boring."
"Good," Rus said. "Boring keeps you alive."
He closed the slate with a snap. "Gather your gear, check your ammo, and report to the tarmac by 0900. We lift off as soon as the VTOLs are ready."
Gino raised his hand. "Sir, hypothetically, if the Orcs breach—"
Rus cut him off. "Then we un-hypothetically kill every last one of them. Any more questions?"
The squad exchanged looks. None spoke.
"Then move," Rus said. "Now."
The group scattered. Gear clattered. Voices rose and faded as soldiers jogged off toward their quarters.
Berta lingered a moment longer, walking backward with that usual grin. "You sure you don't want to spar before we leave, Boss? Just a quick round. You can work out all that desk stress on me."
Rus gave her a look. "No."
"Suit yourself," she said, turning away with a laugh. "You'll miss me when I'm bored enough to start fights with the rookies again."
He didn't answer.
The wind carried the sound of VTOL turbines spinning up in the distance. The Bay shimmered under the morning sun, its water bright and deceptively peaceful.
Rus looked at it once more before turning toward the hangars.
* * *
The VTOL's engines thundered above the bay. Inside, Cyma Squad sat strapped into the narrow benches along the hull. The hum of the turbines was steady and comforting in a way. White noise before the noise.
Rus sat near the rear, helmet in his lap, eyes half-closed. Berta was talking too loud as usual, trying to fill the static with something resembling morale.
"…I'm just saying," Berta said, waving a gloved hand, "if they expect us to 'defend,' they'd better give us more toys. I didn't sign up to babysit a trench while rookies play hero."
Gino laughed. "You say that now, but if they told you to stay in the rear, you'd still find someone to punch."
"True."
Dan smirked. "Or flirt with."
"Also true," Berta said, grinning.
Kate groaned. "You're impossible."
"Thank you."
The banter rolled around the cabin, bouncing off the walls like loose brass. Even Foster, normally quiet, cracked a grin. The noise was constant, overlapping voices and laughter trying to pretend this was just another ride.
Amiel sat across from Rus, silent, staring at nothing. Her rifle rested between her knees, both hands resting lightly on it, claws tapping metal in rhythm with the turbines.
Rus opened one eye and looked at her.
"You got a mental disability?" he asked, voice flat.
Amiel blinked once, slowly, as if processing whether that was a joke or an insult. Then, in that cold monotone only she could pull off, she said, "Do you?"
Rus shrugged. "Fair."
That was the end of that conversation.
The pilot's voice cut through the intercom a few minutes later, sharp over the noise. "Approaching Galves airspace. Strap in. Expect turbulence. Ground looks hot."
Hot. That word always meant something bad.
The smell hit them before the sight did, scorched dirt, ash, and burned metal leaking through the air vents. The laughter in the cabin died out fast.
Rus leaned forward, looking through the side viewport as the VTOL banked low. The world below was black and orange of fires burning in the distance, fields of char and ruin. The outskirts of Galves looked like they'd been through hell twice.
The bombardment was still ongoing. Flashes of artillery fire lit the horizon, rhythmic like lightning, each one thudding through the hull.
"Gods," Dan muttered.
"Guess someone beat us to the fun," Gino added, voice quieter now.
The pilot brought them down hard, landing between prefab walls and half-buried supply crates. The rear ramp hissed open, and the noise of the battlefield came flooding in, distant explosions, shouted orders, the thump of Knight mechs moving somewhere far off.
"Welcome to Galves," Berta muttered, stepping off the ramp.
They were greeted immediately by a line of officers, some in standard combat gear, others in mud-stained coats. At the front stood a man with short gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a posture that screamed authority without effort. His insignia marked him as a Colonel.
"Colonel Vance Halberg," he introduced himself, shaking Rus's hand with a grip that could bend steel. "You're Cyma Squad, right? Glad you could finally join us. You're a day late."
Rus met his gaze evenly. "Barely knew we were assigned here until the briefing. We moved as fast as we could."
Halberg grunted, releasing his hand. "Typical Libertalia coordination. No offense, Lieutenant, but your HQ's timing is shit."
"None taken," Rus said. "We're here now."
"Good enough. Come on."
The Colonel turned and motioned for them to follow. They passed through the outer camp, a sprawl of fortifications and burnt-out trucks. Medics worked in makeshift tents, hauling wounded from carriers. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning the tree line to the north.
Halberg pointed toward a fenced-off section near the center. "Recovery Unit's already on-site. They've been poking at the remains since dawn."
"TRU's here?" Gino muttered. "Sounds… fancy."
Berta smirked. "More like dick cutters. They show up after the fight and take all the credit after getting some sample from the monsters.."
Rus shot her a look sharp enough to cut through armor. "Berta."
"What?"
"Shut up."
She shut up.
They reached the fenced section, guarded by two sentries in black armor marked with the Recovery Unit insignia. Beyond the fence, the ground was littered with the remains of a half-burnt corpses, twisted equipment, chunks of green flesh that steamed faintly in the air.
A figure in a white coat stood beside one of the bodies, gesturing animatedly to a group of officers. The man looked too clean for the environment, hair slicked back, glasses glinting in the smoke.
"Doctor Hendrik Veras," Halberg said. "True scientist, as he calls himself. Been studying the local Orc strain. Says it's fascinating."
The scientist turned toward them as they approached, eyes lighting up behind his lenses. "Ah! The famous Cyma Squad. Perfect timing. Come, come, you must see this."
Rus stepped closer, keeping his expression neutral. The thing on the ground wasn't quite like the Orcs he'd seen before. It was taller, easily seven feet and leaner, the muscle structure more defined, the bones thicker at the joints. Its skin, even burned, had a dull gray-green sheen.
"Lanky," Veras said with a smile, tapping his datapad. "Tall, muscular, optimized for both agility and brute strength. See the bone ridges here along the arms? They're hard as ceramic. Yet, " he picked up a piece of metal from the ground, tapping it against the corpse. "still susceptible to bullets. Isn't that wonderful?"
Berta muttered under her breath, "Wonderful, he says. Guy's talking about murder machines like they're puppies."
Rus ignored her and looked at Halberg. "You mentioned bombardment. How bad's the damage?"
"Could've been worse," Halberg said. "The first wave hit the northern ridge, mostly Orc formations. They broke after the third airstrike, but there's movement in the eastern ravines. We've set up artillery and mech patrols, but until the corridor's fully reinforced, they'll keep probing."
Rus nodded. "So we're holding the line."
"Exactly. You'll be stationed along the eastern perimeter with the Tenth Damasa. They're green, but they've got heart." Halberg gave a half-smile. "Try not to break them too fast."
Berta chuckled. "No promises."
Halberg gave her a long look before turning back to Rus. "Welcome to Galves, Lieutenant. You've got free rein within operational limits. I'll send you the defense grid layout by the hour. For now, settle in and get your squad ready. Night operations start at twenty-hundred."
Rus saluted. "Understood, sir."
Halberg returned it and walked off, already barking new orders at a comms officer.
Cyma Squad stood there for a moment, watching the fires burn beyond the ridge. The smoke from the bombardment drifted lazily across the horizon, painting the sky in gray streaks.
Berta stretched, cracking her neck. "So. Another hole in the world for us to plug."
Dan spat to the side. "Feels different here. The air."
"It's the burn," Foster said quietly. "You smell the oil. And blood."
Amiel finally spoke, voice soft, eyes still on the black horizon. "They're not done here."
Rus adjusted his vest, looking toward the eastern line. "Neither are we."
He turned back to his squad, his voice flat but steady. "Get your gear checked. We start setting up by sunset. Welcome to Galves everyone. Fuck."