The ridge smelled cleaner than the ravine had, but only in comparison. Burned brush, hot metal, and the sour tang of propellant drifted in slow layers, pushed around by the wind like a bad memory that refused to leave. Rus stood with one boot on a flat rock, tablet braced against his knee, stylus tapping coordinates into a grid that felt more abstract the longer he stared at it.
The world had shrunk again into angles, distances, and timing.
Below them, the valley was alive with motion. Not charging. Not rallying. Just movement of small clusters breaking off, stragglers limping through cover, shapes trying to decide whether to run or hide. The warband was no longer a warband. It was debris with legs.
Rus raised a hand. "Battery Three. Shift fire twenty meters north. Light spread. I want denial, not craters."
The voice in his earpiece crackled back, calm and precise. "Copy. Battery Three adjusting. Stand by."
Berta leaned against a busted tree trunk beside him, axe resting across her shoulders. She squinted at the valley, then glanced sideways at Rus.
"You ever think it's funny," she said, "that all this killing comes down to you drawing lines on a screen?"
Rus didn't look up. "No."
She snorted. "You should. Makes it less depressing."
A low thunder rolled through the hills as the adjusted shells landed. Not the earth-shaking blasts from earlier, but these were controlled impacts, deliberate placements that turned escape routes into impassable chaos. Dust rose, then settled.
"Impact confirmed," the artillery officer said. "Movement disrupted."
Rus nodded to no one in particular. "Good. Hold pattern. Don't chase."
Berta shifted her weight. "You're really into the whole 'herding them into place' thing."
"It's cheaper," Rus said. "And it keeps them predictable."
She grinned. "Predictable prey is boring prey."
He finally glanced at her. "Then you picked the wrong war."
She opened her mouth to reply, then shrugged. "Fair."
Behind them, TRU personnel moved like ants around a carcass with methodical, intent, and unsettling in a way Rus had never quite been able to put into words. They wore clean suits despite the environment, sealed masks with opaque visors, and carried cases marked with symbols no one else bothered to ask about anymore.
One of them, tall, thin, voice pitched too calm crouched near a wounded orc that had been dragged out of cover. The creature was restrained, breathing ragged, eyes unfocused. Tubes, scanners, and clamps appeared from the TRU kit with unsettling efficiency.
Rus frowned. "They're doing it again."
Berta followed his gaze. "Yep. That thing where they poke it like it's a frog in biology class."
"I don't like it," Rus said.
"You don't like a lot of things," she replied. "Including fun."
"That's not fun," Rus said. "That's someone taking notes."
The TRU operative spoke into a recorder, voice flat. "Subject exhibits continued autonomic response post-trauma. Musculature density exceeds baseline by forty percent. Recommend containment."
Another TRU member nodded, already prepping a stretcher with restraints that looked excessive even for something that could bench-press a truck.
Berta tilted her head. "You think they're going to keep it?"
Rus watched as the orc was sedated, its movements slowing under the careful administration of something clear and viscous. "They always do."
"Why?"
"Because they can," Rus said. "And because someone up the chain wants to know what happens if you don't kill everything."
She chewed on that. "Still weird."
"Yes."
The tablet chimed softly. A new set of coordinates pulsed on the screen, highlighted in amber. Rus adjusted the stylus and flicked the update to the battery commander.
"Battery Five," he said. "Grid Delta-Seven. Delay fire by ten seconds. Let them bunch."
"Copy," came the reply.
Berta watched the valley through binoculars. "They're learning," she said after a moment. "See that group? They're avoiding open ground now."
"That's fine," Rus replied. "They can learn somewhere else."
The delayed shells fell exactly where he'd expected. The group scattered, then stalled, then retreated into terrain that funneled them straight into another battery's arc. It wasn't clever. It was math.
Amiel appeared at Rus's other side without sound, her presence registered only when she spoke. "TRU requested overwatch," she said. "They're moving a specimen."
Rus grimaced. "Of course they are."
Berta perked up. "Specimen? Like… special?"
Amiel nodded once. "Mutated further than baseline. Bone density irregular. Neural readings anomalous."
Berta's grin faded. "That doesn't sound fun."
"It isn't," Rus said. He tapped his earpiece. "Battery One, cease fire on the western treeline. TRU convoy moving through."
"Copy. Cease fire confirmed."
They watched as a reinforced carrier rolled into view, heavy armor, sealed ports, no markings except a small TRU sigil near the hatch. The recovered orc was loaded inside, restraints clicking into place like punctuation marks.
Berta shook her head slowly. "You know what bothers me?"
Rus glanced at her. "Only one thing?"
She ignored that. "They don't look scared. Ever."
"Why would they be?" Rus said. "They're not the ones being shot."
"Yeah, but…" She gestured vaguely. "They're around things that could tear them apart."
"They trust procedures," Rus said. "That's how people stop being afraid."
Berta snorted. "I prefer fear. Keeps you sharp."
Rus checked the tablet again. The valley was quieting. Not peaceful , just exhausted. The surviving orcs were either hiding or fleeing, their cohesion gone.
"Battery commanders," he said into the mic, "maintain overwatch. No pursuit. If they try to regroup, you break it."
Acknowledgements rolled in one by one.
For a moment, there was nothing to do but wait.
Berta broke the silence first. "So," she said casually, "after this, you think they'll finally let us rest?"
Rus didn't answer immediately. He watched a TRU technician carefully label a sample container, handwriting neat despite the chaos around them.
"No," he said finally. "They'll find another reason."
She sighed theatrically. "You're terrible at optimism lately, Boss."
"I'm realistic."
"Same thing," she said.
Down the ridge, a junior artillery officer jogged up, helmet tucked under his arm. "Lieutenant, confirmation from Battery Two. No significant movement detected in their sector."
Rus nodded. "Good. Rotate crews. Let them breathe."
The officer hesitated, then glanced toward the TRU activity. "Sir… is that standard?"
Rus followed his gaze. "No," he said. "But it's authorized."
That didn't help the officer look any more comfortable.
As the sun dipped lower, the light shifted, casting long shadows across the valley. The smoke thinned, revealing the aftermath in muted colors. The warband was gone. Not defeated in a heroic sense. Just… erased.
Berta watched the horizon, axe still untouched. "You know," she said, quieter now, "I thought I'd be disappointed."
"And?" Rus asked.
She shrugged. "I guess there's something satisfying about not having to swing."
Rus allowed himself a small nod. "There is."
Behind them, TRU loaded their final containers and sealed the carrier. One of the operatives looked up, visor reflecting the dying light, and gave Rus a brief nod of acknowledgment, not gratitude.
The carrier rolled away, engines humming softly.
Berta watched it go. "Weird people."
"Yes," Rus said.
She smirked. "But useful."
"That's usually how it goes."
Rus checked his tablet one last time. No new alerts. No flashing icons. The QTE overlay stayed dormant, content for now.
"Alright," he said, turning to the squad. "Pack it up. We're done here."
Berta slung her axe properly this time. "Until the next mess."
"Until the next mess," Rus agreed.
They moved off the ridge together, leaving behind the lines on the map, the empty valley, and the unsettling efficiency of people who cataloged monsters instead of fearing them.
* * *
Rus reported to Colonel Vance Halberg just before dusk, when the light turned everything the color of old brass and the air cooled enough to make the stink of cordite settle instead of drift. The prefab command unit hummed with generators and quiet voices. Maps glowed on the walls. Red markers still littered the terrain like a rash that refused to heal.
Halberg stood with his back to the main display, arms crossed, jacket unzipped, helmet tossed onto a chair like it had personally offended him. He didn't turn right away when Rus stepped in.
"Lieutenant," Halberg said at last. "Close the door."
Rus did. The prefab sealed with a dull thud, cutting out most of the outside noise. Inside, it felt smaller. Tighter. Like a place where patience went to die.
Rus came to attention out of habit. Halberg waved it off.
"Spare me," the colonel said. "Just talk."
Rus nodded once. "Operation was successful. Command nodes disrupted. Identified leadership elements neutralized. Remaining forces fragmented. Artillery coordination held. TRU recovered live and dead specimens as requested."
Halberg snorted softly. "Of course they did."
Rus continued, voice even. "Estimated enemy casualties exceed projections. Conservative count puts it at tens of thousands across the basin and surrounding ridges. Survivors are scattered, uncoordinated. No immediate threat of a counter-push."
Halberg finally turned. He looked tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix. His eyes flicked to the casualty estimates on the screen, numbers updating as delayed reports trickled in.
"Tens of thousands," he repeated. "That's the part that keeps fucking with me."
Rus said nothing. He knew better.
Halberg stepped closer to the display and zoomed out. The red markers didn't disappear. They just spread.
"You see this?" Halberg said, jabbing a finger at the map. "This is after today. After bombardment. After jet runs. After naval guns turned half the ridgeline into a goddamn quarry."
He looked back at Rus. "And they don't stop."
Rus kept his hands behind his back. "They haven't yet."
"They won't," Halberg said flatly. "That's what Command doesn't like to say out loud. You kill one warband, another one fills the gap. You wipe a valley, they crawl out of the next one like you didn't do a damn thing."
He turned away again, rubbing his face. "We're not fighting an army. We're fighting momentum."
Rus considered that. "Momentum can be redirected."
Halberg barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah? With what? More shells? More bombs? More numbers?" He gestured at the display. "We've been grinding this place down for weeks. You'd think eventually you'd run out of things to kill."
"But they don't," Rus said.
"No," Halberg agreed. "They fucking don't."
Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. The generator hummed. Somewhere outside, someone shouted for a wrench.
Halberg exhaled slowly. "You know what the analysts said this morning?"
Rus shook his head.
"They said if we keep this up, if we keep meeting every push with steel and fire, we're going to turn Galves into a wasteland. No infrastructure. No terrain worth holding. Just scorched dirt and bones."
Rus glanced at the map again. "We're already halfway there."
Halberg nodded grimly. "Exactly. So at that point, what's the difference?" He spread his hands. "If we're going to make this place unlivable anyway, why the hell are we being careful?"
Rus raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
Halberg's jaw tightened. "If we're already burning the house down, we might as well drop the roof while we're at it. Use the flyers. Carpet bomb the valleys. Saturate everything east of the ridge. Turn it into something even the orcs won't crawl through."
"That would—" Rus started.
"—be ugly?" Halberg cut in. "Yeah. It would. It would also be effective."
Rus chose his words carefully. "Command won't like that."
Halberg snorted. "Command doesn't like anything that makes the reports messy. They'll scream about long-term viability, post-war recovery, political optics."
He leaned closer, voice lower. "You know what I like, Lieutenant?"
Rus didn't answer.
"I like not watching my men dig mass graves every week," Halberg said. "I like not pretending that this is some clean, controlled operation when it's a meat grinder that just happens to run on logistics."
Rus held his gaze. "Then why haven't you requested it?"
Halberg looked at him for a long moment. Something tired and sharp flickered behind his eyes.
"Because," he said quietly, "once you make that call, there's no pretending anymore. No 'holding territory.' No 'stabilization.' Just annihilation."
Rus nodded slowly. "And once that line's crossed, it doesn't uncross."
"Exactly," Halberg said. He straightened, shoulders squaring as if pulling himself back into the role he was paid to play. "So for now, we keep doing this the hard way. Cutting heads. Breaking formations. Buying time."
He waved a hand dismissively. "You did good work out there. You and your people. Cyma Squad performs exactly as advertised."
"Thank you, sir."
Halberg's mouth twitched. "Don't thank me. It just means I'll keep sending you into worse places."
He turned back to the map, already losing interest in the conversation. "That's all, Lieutenant."
Rus hesitated, then nodded. He turned toward the door.
"Oh," Halberg added without looking back. "Tell your people to get some rest while they can."
Rus paused. "Understood."
"And Lieutenant?" Halberg finally glanced over his shoulder, a crooked, exhausted smile on his face. "Fuck off."
Rus allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Yes, sir."
He stepped out of the prefab and into the evening air, the smell of smoke and cordite greeting him like an old, unwelcome friend.