The year ended in a way that could only be described as anti-climactic.
Months of sloshing through bogs, gassing nests, nearly getting his ass blown off, and listening to Berta's daily quotes from the Book of Sexual Frustration, and now it was nothing. Just a lazy, drawn-out ending to the first year of service in the ever-glorious banner of United Humanity.
It was almost insulting.
Rus's promotion to Second Lieutenant, which was an act of bureaucratic generosity, no doubt, meant he had to undergo additional officer training. The sort of thing you'd expect to require drills, yelling, and memorizing some poor general's tactical genius from hundreds of years ago. Instead, he got an interactive AI instructor. A floating avatar of synthetic smugness, walking him through chain-of-command etiquette, logistics, and how not to accidentally authorize a war crime on a mission report. Not bad, honestly.
The silver lining? He didn't have to talk to people. No goon squad banter, no Berta throwing herself on every semi-breathing target, no chaos. Just Rus, the AI, and the long, slow grind of administrative enlightenment.
Well, that was until Berta showed up.
She got her own sergeant-level officer refresher training, which, mercifully, only lasted two weeks. Just long enough for her to complain about being "tied down by the man" and attempt to flirt with a hologram.
After that, she returned to her normal job of terrorizing the base population with thigh locks and unsolicited shoulder rubs.
Being a Second Lieutenant came with its perks. He got his own bunk. A personal space not shared with other sweaty psychopaths. No mud, no chainmail underwear stench, and no random midnight moaning because Gino dreams too vividly. It wasn't much, more like a shoebox with a mattress, but it was his.
Still, his shiny little rank didn't mean jack on the field. The command liked to puff tem up with titles and ribbons, but when it came down to it, they were all the same: expendable grunts with slightly different uniforms. And once the service was done, it'd be a miracle if anyone remembered his name.
Damasa, meanwhile, was growing like a fungus with ambition.
Set to become a full Bastion Node, the place was crawling with new arrivals. With Libertalia as the nearest Ark City, Damasa would eventually function as one of its fortified sub-cities—safe zones connected to the wider network. That was the plan, anyway. On paper, it looked nice. Build nodes, clear sectors, push the front. Reality was, they were still buried in orc shit and gobber nests.
Sector 12 was slowly being strangled into submission, but there were still plenty of gaps. Nearly half a million square kilometers of land, most of it untouched wilderness and ruin. Drones did most of the scanning and bombing these days, but when things didn't add up when the scanners picked up something odd or some drone vanished mid-patrol, that's when they called the grunts.
The boots on the ground.
Counters.
And if they think packing that many enhanced, testosterone-filled war machines into one base would go smoothly, they clearly haven't been deployed. With most of them either genetically boosted or functionally superhuman, tensions ran high. People argued, fought, and occasionally ripped off vehicle doors just because someone looked at them funny.
To prevent the base from collapsing into a full-on wrestling circus, the higher-ups did what all good militaries do, pretend the problem doesn't exist and put it in the "recreational" category.
Thus, the unofficially official Fight Club.
Open brawling, minimal rules, injuries at one's own risk. No armor, no weapons, just a pit, some medkits, and enough aggression to power the city grid. And of course, Berta was somehow one of the key organizers. Not the ring girl, thankfully. That would've caused a full-on riot.
Foster was the one who brought it to his attention.
"You haven't seen it?" he asked, halfway between awe and amusement.
"I've seen enough people bleed this year," Rus replied.
"Yeah, but this is for fun."
Fun.
Foster dragged Rus over to the ring, an open clearing reinforced with sandbags and a bunch of folding chairs where half the base seemed to have gathered. Rus arrived just in time to watch two meatheads beat the last coherent thought out of each other while Macron, the base's self-appointed referee and occasional philosopher, stood between them yelling things like "Spine's not supposed to bend like that, but it'll do!"
Rus stood there, deadpan, eyes twitching.
"This," Rus muttered, "is the future of our species. Behold. Evolution's climax, consensual brain trauma in a sandbag arena."
"Lighten up," Foster grinned. "Even Berta's fighting later."
"Oh good," Rus said. "I was starting to worry her thighs weren't getting enough airtime this week."
Foster patted Rus on the back like he'd just told a joke.
Rus watched as one fighter collapsed with a wet thud, blood spurting from his nose, cheered on by a squad of medics with more duct tape than gauze.
It was then that Berta entered the ring like a walking war crime dressed in sports tape and ego.
Cheers erupted. Not polite claps, no, this was the sound of bloodlust wrapped in admiration. The crowd knew what was coming. And if they didn't, they were about to get educated.
She was barefoot, wrapped hands taped up, hair tied into a messy bun that somehow still made her look like she was ready to grind someone's face into gravel and then make out with them. Her tank top clung to her like it had survived a hurricane, and her smugness could be seen from orbit.
"ALRIGHT, YOU HAIRY SACKS OF PROTEIN!" she bellowed, raising her arms. "WHO WANTS TO GET WRESTLED INTO SUBMISSION?!"
A roar of laughter.
Someone whistled.
Another brave (stupid) soul stepped into the ring, a guy twice her size with arms like tree trunks and the tactical intelligence of wet toast.
Rus leaned on the nearby crate and muttered, "And here begins the dismemberment. Cue the sound of ligaments weeping."
Berta didn't wait. She lunged at him like a starved predator, took him down with a thigh sweep that could register on the Richter scale, and locked him in a hold that could only be described as "medically inadvisable."
He tapped out in ten seconds.
She moaned loudly. "God, why is being so good at this so HOT?!"
Another challenger stepped up. This one at least had the brain cells to keep his distance. Berta gave him a wink, strutted forward, and said, "Don't worry, sweetheart. My tits may belong to Wilson, but I'll let you borrow the sensation."
And with that, she flipped him over her shoulder, slammed him into the mat, and choked him out with her thighs while laughing like a maniac.
"Oh for the love of God," Rus muttered. "Someone please turn a hose on her."
Then she turned to the crowd, sweat gleaming off her body like she was posing for a depraved version of an Olympic cereal box.
"And don't forget!" she hollered, pointing directly at me. "These tits, this ass, and all this goodness? They're ALL Wilson's!"
Half the base turned to look at Rus.
Rus gave a long, slow blink and waved dryly. "Please. Do not interpret this as consent."
Dan, leaning nearby with a drink pouch, grinned like an idiot. "Dude, she's really trying to get someone to kick your ass."
"Great," Rus replied. "Maybe if I lie still long enough, a meteor will strike me out of mercy."
Berta put another poor soul in a full nelson, dragged them around like a prize animal, then blew him a kiss.
Rus blew her one back, with a grenade pin. Just to make sure the symbolism landed.
This continued for what felt like an eternity. Berta submitting man after man, occasionally throwing in a woman just to spice things up, while constantly yelling things like.
"This ring's hotter than my bunk on a lonely night!"
and
"I should get paid for this. I am the morale boost!"
It was less a fight club and more an erotic psychological warfare demonstration.
Someone behind Rus muttered, "Lucky bastard."
Rus didn't turn around. He just said, "If being hunted by a superhuman nymphomaniac is lucky, then I'm one leprechaun short of a tragedy."
Eventually, Macron called a break. Berta strutted out of the ring, towel slung over one shoulder, breathing like she'd run a marathon and had three more lined up.
She walked straight up to Rus, full of sweat, triumph, and inappropriate intentions.
"What do you think, lover boy?" she grinned. "Are you brave enough to fight for my honor?"
"I think," Rus said dryly, "that if this camp had a shred of moral fiber left, you'd be arrested for public indecency and assault with a deadly ego."
She laughed. "You're just jealous."
"Yes," Rus said. "Jealous that I don't have the mental fortitude to make sexual harassment look like a group therapy session."
She leaned in, towel brushing my arm. "Admit it, though. You love it."
Rus looked her straight in the eye. "Berta, if loving you meant I had to survive a full-body suplex during foreplay, I'd rather go steady with a claymore mine."
She blew him another kiss.
Rus sighed and turned to Foster, who was already holding up a piece of paper with his name on it.
"You signed me up, didn't you?"
"Yup."
"Remind me to gas you in your sleep."
"Love you too, boss."
It happened faster than Rus could protest.
The crowd parted like some ancient bloodthirsty sea, and suddenly he was standing in the ring. No shirt. Just his combat pants, taped fists, and the growing realization that someone, Foster, was about to lose his teeth when this was over.
Macron, the bastard referee, clapped him on the shoulder. "Look alive, Lieutenant. Time to show if all that sarcasm comes with a bite."
Rus sighed. "I didn't train for this. I was bred for paperwork and passive-aggressive commentary."
Too late.
First guy stepped up. Big, blocky. Arms like furniture. Thought he'd be clever and swing heavy. Rus ducked. Jabbed. Hooked him once in the ribs, then followed with a sharp punch to the liver. He wheezed like a broken accordion and folded like wet cardboard.
One down.
Second one was faster. Younger. Tried to circle him.
But Rus didn't like circles.
He stepped in, feinted a left, then gave him a straight jab to the chin that clicked his teeth like castanets. He staggered. Another jab to the gut, then a quick hook across the temple.
Down he went.
Two down.
Third was cocky. Grinned at Rus. Even winked at Berta, who was practically vibrating with excitement outside the ring like a mom watching her kid at a spelling bee—if the bee was full-contact and hosted in hell.
He stepped up, threw a flurry of blows. Flashy. Wasteful. Rus blocked one, ate the second just to see what kind of power he had. Not much.
Rus retaliated with a stiff jab right to the solar plexus. His breath left him like someone had stolen his lungs mid-sentence. He stepped around him and clipped him with a right cross to the side of the head.
He dropped like a sack of depressed potatoes.
Three down.
The crowd lost it. He just stood there, mildly annoyed that his knuckles were sore and he was now part of this circus.
Foster whooped from the sidelines. "I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, BOSS!"
Rus pointed at him. "You're next."
Berta was grinning like a feral beast. "You've got moves, Wilson. Starting to think maybe I should chain you to my bunk."
Rus leaned on the ring, breathing steady, then deadpanned, "Only if the chain's silver and comes with a muzzle. For you."
She cackled.
He stepped out of the ring, peeled the tape off his hands, and looked around at the wide-eyed onlookers and gave another sigh.
Berta practically pounced the moment he stepped out of the ring.
Her grin was all teeth and trouble, and the gleam in her eyes could've powered a small city. She clapped a hand on his shoulder like she'd just won a bet or maybe a new vibrator.
"Holy shit, Wilson," she purred loud enough for half the camp to hear, "the way you moved in that ring? All sharp jabs and dead-eyed murder? My crotch turned into a goddamn waterfall."
"Charming," Rus muttered, wiping sweat from his neck.
"No, seriously," she leaned in closer, voice dripping with every ounce of lewd glee she could muster. "You get this raw, animal thing going when you're in motion. Like, I get now why people fantasize about quiet men with repressed rage. If you ever decide to take it out on me in bed, I promise to leave you a review."
Rus didn't even blink. "Berta, if I ever touched you in bed, it'd be because I mistook you for a body bag that wouldn't stop talking."
"Oof," she laughed, unfazed. "That was cold. I think my nipples just hardened from the sheer cruelty."
"Then congratulations," Rus said, stepping past her, "you finally found a purpose for them."
She let out a delighted bark of laughter and slapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his spine.
Foster, the fool, was already halfway through a victory dance like he was the one who knocked out three people. Rus stormed toward him.
"You," Rus said, pointing a taped finger at his smug little face, "will drink through a straw for a month if you ever sign me up for another match again."
Foster froze. "It was Gino's idea."
Gino, ten feet away, immediately pointed back. "Lies! I just suggested he'd look cool doing it."
"Which you agreed with!" Foster hissed.
"I'm surrounded by imbeciles," Rus muttered. "I should've transferred to logistics. At least there, the only thing that gets punched is a clock."
"Aw, come on, boss," Foster chuckled nervously. "You were amazing! Berta practically creamed—"
"Finish that sentence," Rus warned, "and I will personally test if your kneecaps can be unscrewed."
He wisely shut up.