They got stuck on base duty. Again. The universe's idea of balance, he supposed, was days of blood, bullets, and burning muck, followed by clerical work that could bore a grenade to tears. Commander Reed, in a rare and possibly drug-induced moment of mercy, decided Cyma Unit had done enough field stomping and deserved a breather.
So naturally, Rus was rewarded with the most thrilling task known to man… paperwork.
As second lieutenant, the majestic honor of signing and filing reports fell to him. And because fate isn't without a sense of dark humor, his partner in this task was Kate.
Kate, who had all the subtlety of a punchline and none of the restraint. She was following Berta's footsteps, but none of the shamelessness.
She leaned back in her chair, legs crossed with deliberate care, and said, "You know, if I had black stockings, a garter belt, and a miniskirt right now, I could be the classic secretary trope. All I'd need is a boss constantly harassing me."
Rus didn't look up. "Knowing you, the boss would be the one applying for trauma leave."
She smirked. "Oh, come on. You've imagined it."
"No. I haven't. But thank you for putting that image into my brain like a psychological landmine."
Kate stood, for some reason, and did a half-stretch—back arched, arms behind her, sweat glistening on her collarbone, her armpits shamelessly aired.
Rus's eyes did a full, instinctive scan. He was, after all, cursed with functioning biological drives.
"It would suit you," Rus admitted, voice dry.
She gave Rus a funny look. "That was very honest of you."
He shrugged. "I'm not immune, Kate. I'm just cursed with more self-control than the goon squad."
She chuckled. "Yeah, I believe that. Dan, Gino, and Foster would've already formed a prayer circle around my bra."
"More like a cult."
Kate tilted her head. "Still, it's kinda creepy how much discipline you have. If Berta pushed you down and sat on you, would you really say no?"
"Absolutely."
"Seriously?"
"I'll try to say this in a way that doesn't offend your entire gender. She's… fun. A chaotic hornball. But putting your dick where the unit sleeps is a tactical blunder. And having sex with someone who regularly arm-wrestles death? That's like dating a landmine with tits."
Kate blinked, then laughed. "Fair. Yeah, sleeping with people you share a foxhole with does screw with the dynamic. Especially when the sudden flashbacks hit."
"Exactly. Imagine trying to coordinate a formation while someone's mentally replaying last week's snugglefest."
Kate nodded.
They went back to typing in silence for a moment. Rus's fingers clacked away, detailing the most recent encounters, Orc maternity ward, the pre-Rift storage silos, the bog campaign, and the lovely gas-a-thon across Sector 12.
Kate side-eyed me. "You know… if we had done it, things would definitely be weird in this squad."
"Yeah."
"I mean, it's actually kinda refreshing that you and Amiel haven't screwed anyone."
"She has standards. And I have regrets."
"Still makes you gay for not wanting to taste Berta, though."
Rus stopped typing. The air stood still. Even the gods of war paused to witness the level of restraint Rus was mustering.
"Thanks, Kate," Rus muttered.
She grinned like a cat who just spiked the milk with vodka.
Rus gave her the side-glare of death, turned back to the console, and typed in:
"Recommend mental evaluation for Sgt. Berta and Counter Kate. Symptoms include inappropriate humor, persistent sexual innuendo, and a worrying lack of shame."
Kate leaned over to read the screen. "You bastard."
Rus smirked. "And you've only just figured that out?"
They resumed typing.
Quietly.
Like professionals.
Who were barely suppressing the urge to shove each other out a window.
***
They kept working like that for hours. Heat pressing down on them, making their shirts stick to their backs. The air conditioning in the admin tent worked about as well as the UH, technically there, but about as useful as tits on a gun turret when needed.
Kate eventually shut up, which was a blessing, and Rus managed to finish half the stack of reports without stabbing himself in the eye.
Dan barged in later, looking like he just came back from humping sandbags.
"You guys done playing house?" he asked, tossing a canteen in Rus's way.
"Some of us have responsibilities, Dan," Rus said. "Not everyone gets to spend their day scratching their balls and dreaming about Berta's thighs."
"I don't dream, I hope."
"Touching."
Kate waved at him. "Rus was just telling me how much he wants to stuff me in a secretary outfit and dominate me."
Rus glared.
Dan blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"No."
Kate shrugged. "He thought about it."
Dan looked way too delighted by that. "Oh my God. He's becoming one of us."
"Don't insult me like that," rus snapped. "I still have dignity."
"Where?"
"In a box. Under lock and key. Somewhere far from here."
They left him alone after that. Finally. Gave him enough peace to finish up the final report.
The admin room had gone quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional creak of canvas from the wind outside. Rus leaned back, cracked his neck, and stared at the last line he'd typed like it owed him money.
Rus hit send.
The datapad gave a cheerful beep that felt wildly inappropriate for the contents. Rus set it down and rubbed his eyes, half-expecting the spirit of paperwork to rise from the machine and demand another sacrifice.
Kate was already stretching like a cat, arms over her head, shirt pulling up just enough to hint at why Dan kept asking if she'd join strip poker night again.
"Good work, boss," she said, tossing her pen into the bin. "You know, for a moment there, I almost believed you liked me."
"For a moment there, I almost did," Rus said. "Then you reminded me that your sense of humor is one flirty quip away from sexual harassment like Berta too."
She grinned. "I take that as a compliment."
"And that's why HR wears body armor now."
They stepped out of the prefab into the sunlight—blinding, hot, and thick with the stench of baked sand and chemical disinfectant. Rus took one deep breath and immediately regretted it.
The base was its usual hive of chaos. Convoys rolling in. Recovery Units unloading whatever monstrosity they'd poked with a stick today. Berta was still at the center of it all, naturally. Holding court like she was some kind of demigoddess in dirty fatigues.
She was still surrounded by a crowd of troopers, men and women both soaking in her every word like she was the patron saint of perversion. Probably sharing the story of how she "wrestled an Orc with her thighs and won."
One poor bastard once again asked for a demonstration. She crushed his ego with a one-liner so sharp it nearly needed a sheath. The others laughed like she'd just done stand-up at the frontlines.
Kate nudged him. "You know, for all her bullshit, she's got charisma."
"She's got an STD count higher than her kill tally."
"I didn't say it wasn't contagious."
They passed by Dan, Gino, and Foster, his personal trio of walking migraines sprawled around the Humvee like overcooked noodles. Gino was drinking something that looked like radiator fluid. Foster was trying to swat flies with his boot without taking it off. Dan was now asleep with his mouth open, probably dreaming of Berta or bacon. Or both.
He was heading back to the bunk when Amiel caught his eye.
Still, kuudere incarnate. If stone could develop sarcasm and subtle scorn, it'd be her.
She gave a nod, barely perceptible. "Report done?"
"Filed. Signed. Mentally scarred."
She looked vaguely pleased. "Good."
"You know, for someone who says about four words a day, you're oddly efficient at judging me with your eyes."
"Less exhausting than speaking."
They walked together a few paces in silence. The kind that wasn't awkward so much as it was… practical.
"Want to get food?" Rus asked.
"No."
"Want to sit near food and not eat it out of spite?"
She paused. "Acceptable."
They ended up by the mess tent, sitting just far enough from the stink of rehydrated meat paste that they could pretend they weren't about to eat.
"Do you ever think," Rus said, stirring my ration with the enthusiasm of a man stirring mud, "that the universe put us here just to suffer artistically?"
"No."
"Very insightful."
"You asked."
Rus sighed. "You ever wonder why I haven't lost it completely?"
"You have. You're just good at hiding it."
Rus gave her a look.
"You talk too much. Ramble to fill silence. Use sarcasm as deflection. Overanalyze. Classic signs of repressed trauma."
Rus stared at her. "You've been reading my file?"
"No. Just observant."
Rus took a long bite of disappointment disguised as food. "Well, damn. Maybe I should start a diary."
"I'd read it."
"I bet. Annotate it too."
She actually smiled. It was small. Barely there. But it was there.
Then Berta came crashing back into orbit, grinning like she just won a medal for indecency.
"Well, well," she sang, flopping down beside him. "You two getting cozy again?"
"Define cozy," Rus said. "Because if it's sitting beside someone who's psychoanalyzed me to filth while we pretend this isn't a bowl of ground regret, then yes. Incredibly cozy."
Berta leaned over, stage-whispered to Amiel. "Did he try to flirt with you?"
Amiel, deadpan. "No."
Berta looked at Rus. "Good. I'd kill you if you touched my baby girl."
"Oh, the horror," Rus said. "Strangled by a walking thirst trap. What an ignoble end."
She flicked his ear. Rus flicked back.
They sat there, the three of them, surrounded by chaos and rot, pretending it was normal.
Because in Damasa, it was.
Rus leaned back, watched a gunship fly low overhead, its turbines screaming like hell's own blender.
"Another day in paradise."
Berta grinned. "Lovely as it can be."
Amiel, already standing. "Let me know when you two stop being weird."
She walked off. Probably to scout or clean her rifle or drone with disturbing precision.
Rus watched her go, then muttered, "I really am surrounded by psychos."
Berta elbowed him. "Yeah, but we're your psychos."
Rus couldn't argue with that.
[[[
They got out of the place and found a shade. Berta kept talking mostly about herself, which was on-brand. Something about body counts, both kinds, and how one of the medics offered to "study her flexibility" in exchange for rations.
Rus didn't even blink.
"You should try being charming, Rus," she said, tossing a bottle cap at his forehead. "You've got the face of someone who maybe smiled once in his life. Somewhere. Briefly."
"I did smile once," Rus said. "When I got to assign Dan to latrine duty after he mistook disinfectant for protein shake."
Berta laughed so hard she nearly choked. "Okay, I'd pay to see that."
"Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived. He got back at me by swapping my coffee with stockade chili."
"Oh yeah," she winced. "I remember that. You looked like you were trying to speedrun dysentery."
They lapsed into a rare silence after that. Just the usual noise of base life. Footsteps, clanking tools, some asshole trying to tune a guitar like they weren't sitting in the armpit of a monster-infested wasteland.
Berta stretched, arms behind her head, back arching in that very deliberate way that made half the passing troopers walk into each other.
"Be honest," she said, "have you ever thought about what comes after?"
I looked at her. "You mean after the war? Or after you sexually harass the entire region?"
She snorted. "No, seriously. After all this crap. Damasa becoming a city. Us not getting our heads blown off. Citizenship. A future."
Rus blinked. "Huh. You actually have a plan?"
"Like I said, I want a bar," she said, dead serious now. "I want to own a bar, mix drinks, flirt with customers, and occasionally break a bottle over the head of anyone who doesn't tip."
"Charming."
"And what about you, smartass?"
"Me? I just want to retire. Maybe get a little place. Somewhere dry. No bogs, no gas masks, no one yelling at me to check in every ten minutes."
"Gonna grow a garden?"
"Hell no. Just want a chair, a gun I don't have to clean every hour, and silence."
"Gods," she said. "You're like a war-weary grandpa stuffed into a grunt's body."
"I'm what happens when a philosopher gets drafted and survives off bitterness and sarcasm."
She chuckled and bumped her fist against Rus's, "Don't die before this ends, Rus."
Rus glanced at her. "What, so you can keep making my life miserable?"
"Exactly."
"Touching."
The moment passed. The sun dipped low. Another day slipping into the kind of dusky quiet where something always feels like it's about to go wrong.
For now, they just sat there. Two professional lunatics, listening to the wind whistle through the broken bones of Damasa.
And as far as quiet moments went, this one wasn't half bad.