The Humvee bounced over the cracked earth, wheels slapping against the uneven ground with the grace of a drunk rhino. Rus let the rattling frame lull him into a state of semi-consciousness, the kind you drift into when you've had just enough violence for the day but not enough rest to be remotely sane.
Dan was still at the wheel, one hand on the stick, the other gesturing wildly as he told Gino a story that was probably 80% bullshit and 20% trauma. Gino kept laughing like a guy who'd found religion in the last bottle of whiskey.
Foster leaned back, humming some god-awful pop tune, boots up, eyes half-lidded. Rus resisted the urge to throw something at him.
The comm crackled.
"Rus," Berta's voice came through, cheery as ever, "tell your boys to stop screeching like hyenas. You're making Amiel angry."
Rus leaned over, pressed the button. "Berta, you could play a ukulele with your tits and she still wouldn't flinch."
"I could," she said proudly. "But I'd need a volunteer to pluck."
"Try Foster. His brain's already turned to soup."
Foster gave Rus a thumbs up without opening his eyes. "I'd be happy to obliged boss!."
Behind them, Rus could hear Berta's squad still belting out some obscene war chant. Kate's voice stood out—sharp and confident, while Stacy harmonized like someone who actually had talent. Amiel, bless her emotionally unavailable heart, likely sat there tuning it all out like she was meditating inside a riot.
"Almost back," Dan said, eyes squinting against the horizon. "Bet the base is still a dump."
"If it isn't," Rus said, "someone's been possessed."
They rolled into Damasa like a half-drunk, overarmed parade. The gates opened with a lazy creak, and the guards barely looked up. Familiarity had turned into apathy. Everyone knew Cyma Unit by now, the ragtag pack of misfits, counters, and troublemakers with just enough discipline to survive and too much personality to be safe around others.
The Humvee groaned to a stop in the motor pool. Rus stepped out, stretching until he heard something pop that probably shouldn't have.
Berta jumped out of her vehicle, landing with the grace of someone who could body slam a bear and ask it to cuddle afterward.
She jogged up beside Rus. "Good fight today, lover boy. Clean, brutal, fast. Like you in bed, I bet."
"I've had better conversations with toilets."
She clutched her chest in mock agony. "Oh, my poor heart."
"Don't worry," Rus said. "It's in the same place as your shame, nonexistent."
That got a loud laugh from Kate, who walked by with a shoulder bump and a wink.
"Report's due in thirty," she said, smirking.
"Of course it is," Rus muttered. "Because rest is a myth invented by propaganda."
"I'll bring coffee," Amiel added dryly, passing me with her rifle slung over one shoulder.
"Just what I need," Rus called. "Caffeine and existential dread."
She gave Rus a slight nod. "You're welcome."
They split up. Berta and her squad headed toward their bunkhouse, still laughing, still being an HR nightmare. Rus lot wandered toward theirs. He trailed a bit behind, enjoying the brief quiet before the paperwork storm hit.
Rus stopped by the mess tent, grabbed a ration bar that tasted like cardboard and regret, then made his way to the admin zone. Inside, it was already hot—like someone had insulted the air conditioning and it took it personally.
Kate was there already, surprisingly, tapping away on her console.
"Glad you made it," she said.
"Don't be. I'm just as miserable as ever."
Rus dropped into the chair across from her, powered up the console, and started drafting the report.
They worked in near silence for a while. Occasionally, a loud cheer would erupt from the training yard—probably another idiot trying to impress Berta by getting knocked out.
After an hour, the report was finished. Rus leaned back, cracked his knuckles, and glanced at Kate.
"You ever think we'll get out of this with our minds intact?"
Kate tapped her pen against the table. "No. But I figure if we're gonna lose them, might as well have fun on the way."
Rus smirked. "That's the most optimistic thing I've heard you say."
"Don't get used to it. Now, go. Shoo. Find a new way to be miserable."
Rus stood, grabbing his gear. "As long as it's scenic."
Outside, the sky had turned a warm gold, the end of the day bleeding into another restless night. Rus made his way to the barracks, passing Berta who was now draped across a bench like a queen on her throne, her loyal subjects around her, listening to another story of violence and vulgarity.
She spotted Rus and winked. "Hey, Rus! You look like a man who's done something useful. Must be mistaken."
Rus flipped her off lazily. "Save it for someone with the energy to pretend you're charming."
She laughed, loud and crass, the way she always did. And somehow, Rus didn't mind.
Russtepped inside the bunk, dropped his gear, sat on the edge of his bed, and rested
***
The lights in the bunkhouse flickered once, then settled into a sickly yellow glow. Rus stared at the ceiling like it had insulted hus mother. The hum of the base outside was constant—distant gunfire from the range, the whirring of drones overhead, someone shouting something obscene followed by laughter. Classic Damasa ambiance.
He went outside to the squad's area.
Dan was already half-asleep, sprawled across his bunk like a corpse with better posture. Gino cleaned his rifle with the care of a man touching his lover, humming off-key. Foster sat by the window, flicking peanuts at a fly with more intensity than most people put into their careers.
"Long day," Gino said without looking up.
"Every day is long," Rus muttered, rolling onto his side.
Foster grunted. "At least nobody got mauled by a swamp gobber today."
"Yet," Rus added.
There was a quiet beat. Then Dan snored. Gino sighed like a man accepting his fate.
"Hey," Foster said after a minute. "You think Reed's going to send us back into Sector 12 again?"
Rus didn't answer at first. He stared at the wall and thought about the caves, the maternity chambers, the rising bog water, the smell of rot and poison. The way they worked like gears in a machine too big to see the purpose of.
"Yeah," Rus said eventually. "He will. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But we're going back."
"Cool," Foster said, in a tone that said it was absolutely not cool.
Gino closed the bolt on his rifle with a satisfying click. "We always go back."
That was the truth of it. No matter how many nests they burned, how many orcs we gassed, how many missions they completed, there was always more. New coordinates. New orders. New horrors to catalog, kill, and pretend never bothered them in the first place.
They were the cleanup crew of a world that died and never stopped dying.
"If I die out there," Rus said, "make sure they don't turn me into fertilizer."
"Noted," Gino said.
"I mean it. I don't want my ashes turning someone's cabbage patch radioactive."
"I'll dump you in the swamp," Foster offered.
"How touching."
Rus left and went back to his room.
***
Morning came with the subtlety of a shotgun blast. Someone was yelling outside. Something exploded somewhere far off. Standard wake-up routine.
Rus rolled out of bed, groaned, and found coffee. Not real coffee, of course, just brown sludge with caffeine and a side of regret.
Dan was already dressed, strapping on his gear like he was born wearing it. "Reed wants us geared up," he said. "New op."
"Fantastic," Rus muttered. "Can't wait to risk my life for the twentieth time this month."
Berta's voice came from outside. "Wake up, you sexy sacks of misery! We're back in the saddle!"
"Kill me," Rus whispered into hiscup.
"No time for that boss," Gino said, pulling his boots on. "We've got a war to continue."
The team gathered near the armory. Berta looked as radiant and bloodthirsty as ever, leaning against a crate, smoking a cigarette like she'd been born doing it.
She gave Rus a look. "Sleep well, lover boy?"
"Like a baby being air-dropped into a minefield."
"Cute." She flicked the cigarette away. "Hope you're ready. We're doing recon near the Eastern edge. Reed wants eyes on some weird activity near the old ridge lines."
"Let me guess, goblins tap dancing in formation?"
"If only," Kate said, checking her drone controller. "Intel's vague. Could be a nest. Could be another rift. Could be someone's pet project finally backfiring."
"Orcs learning agriculture?" Rus said. "Truly the apocalypse."
Stacy chuckled. "That would actually scare me."
Amiel arrived last, silent as always. She looked at Rus, handed him a fresh magazine of ammo, then nodded. "Try not to get shot."
"I'll think about it," Rus said.
They loaded up. Gear secured. Comms synced. Weapons checked.
As the engines of the Humvees rumbled to life, Rus glanced at the rising sun. Orange and gold spilled across the sky like someone had set fire to heaven.
Another day.
Another mission.
Another chance to die pointlessly for the greater good.
And somehow?
It still beats working a desk job, he thought.
Rus climbed into the Humvee, locked his rifle in place, and leaned back with a long, bitter breath.
"Let's go see what fresh hell today has planned," Rus said.
They hit the road like always—wheels crunching over gravel, dust kicking up into the morning haze. The Humvee groaned under the weight of their gear. Dan was driving again, mostly because he had the patience of a brick and didn't mind running over things that got in his way. Gino manned the turret, chewing on some dried meat like it owed him money. Foster kept fiddling with the drone console, pretending he wasn't hoping to crash it for fun.
Rus sat in the passenger seat, watching the world blur by. The land was half-wild, half-burned—scorched trees, broken fences, the remains of towns swallowed up by green. Nature had taken back most of Sector 12, and what it hadn't reclaimed, they had bombed into something unrecognizable.
Behind them, Berta's Humvee followed, her squad packed inside. Rus could hear them on the open comms.
"If anyone wants to hear about my latest conquest," Berta's voice crackled through, "now's the time."
"Pass," Rus said immediately.
"Too late," she said. "So there I was, covered in sweat and oil—"
"This story ends with a court-martial, doesn't it?"
"Only if I get caught."
Kate chuckled. "She's in a good mood."
"God help us all," Rus muttered.
Amiel was quiet as ever, probably tuned into the drone feed with that deadpan expression that could make rocks feel self-conscious.
They rolled through another abandoned settlement—just bones of buildings now. One still had a rusted swing set in the yard. It creaked gently in the wind, the only movement for miles.
"Kind of peaceful," Foster muttered.
"Peaceful," Rus echoed, "in the way that sleeping next to a bear is peaceful."
Dan snorted. "It's not like anything's left out here."
"Famous last words," Rus replied.
About ten klicks out, they hit the ridge line. The terrain dropped away into rolling hills and ravines. Their objective was dead ahead, a cluster of outcroppings where, apparently, something had spooked one of the surveillance drones enough to warrant a boots-on-the-ground op.
"Dismount and fan out," Rus ordered over comms.
They stepped into the sun-soaked dust, rifles up, eyes scanning. Berta and her crew joined them, stretching like they were on a morning jog and not potentially about to get murdered.
The silence here was different. Not empty. Watching.
"Feels wrong," Amiel said quietly.
"When doesn't it?" Rus replied.
They moved slowly, checking the perimeter. Gino perched on a high ledge with his scope. Dan covered the rear. Foster and Kate checked drone visuals. Rus and Berta took point.
"You think it's another nest?" she asked.
"Or a rift. Or a lost Counter who started a cult out of boredom."
"Mm. Bet it's another breeding pit."
"Great. Just what I needed. The scent of Gobber placenta to really round out the day."
"Don't worry," she smirked. "You can lean on me if you faint."
"Thanks. And if you die, I'll be sure to use your body as a flotation device."
She laughed. "Aw, Rus. Always so caring."
Rus ignored her and tapped into his internal compass then HUD, scanning for movement. Still no red markers. Just a whole lot of "nothing," which in their line of work usually meant "incoming."
Amiel's voice buzzed in.
"Movement. Northeast quadrant. One blip."
"Visual?" Rus asked.
"Not yet. It's low. Could be burrowing."
Rus felt that familiar crawl up his spine. Not fear exactly—more like the sensation of standing at the edge of a cliff in the dark and not knowing what's below.
"Get into position. Light discipline."
Everyone moved.
Then they waited.
The wind kicked up. The sun burned down.
And out of the ravine?
A single creature climbed.
Gobber.
But different. Lanky. Stretched. Covered in swamp muck and pulsing green warts. Rus raised his rifle, didn't hesitate. One shot, clean through the head.
It dropped. But not before it let out a keening shriek—high-pitched and wet, like boiling blood.
"Contact confirmed," Rus said flatly. "And now everything nearby knows we're here."
Dan cursed under his breath.
Foster muttered, "This is why we don't talk about peace and quiet."
They formed up, checking the body.
Berta whistled. "Looks fresh."
"Too fresh," Rus said.
The moment he said it, the radio crackled.
"Cyma Unit, incoming swarm from northeast. Estimate thirty-plus."
"Figures," Rus muttered.
Berta grinned, all bloodthirsty glee. "Finally. More to shoot."
Rus sighed and clicked his rifle's safety off.
"Let's get to work."
They pulled back into a defensive wedge, just like the drills with rifles ready, eyes peeled, every sound under scrutiny. Rus took point behind a crumbled stone wall that looked like it belonged to some forgotten farmhouse. The kind of place you'd expect to find nostalgia in, if nostalgia smelled like burnt ozone and dead Gobber.
Berta crouched beside him, cracking her knuckles.
"You want me to count kills again?" she asked, like we were about to play bingo.
"No," Rus said. "I want you to count how many times you can shut up before I die of cringe."
She smirked. "Aw, Rus. You say the sweetest things."
"I say accurate things. Now focus before you get gutted by a swamp-mutated disappointment."
From the ridge, Gino called out.
"Contact, northeast—visual confirmed. Gobber swarm. Looks like they're high on something."
"How can you tell?" Dan asked.
"They're sprinting on all fours and biting each other."
"Great," Rus muttered. "Meth-head Gobbers. Just what we needed."
The swarm emerged like a wave of green filth, screeching, limbs flailing, teeth gnashing. The drone overhead picked up thirty-seven targets. The HUD lit up like a Christmas tree. Rus felt the adrenaline hit—not panic, but that familiar hum behind the eyes. The clarity. The focus. The part of him that switched on when things got ugly.
"Fire on my mark," Rus said, raising his rifle. "Three… two… one—light 'em up."
The field exploded.
Rounds punched through Gobbers like wet tissue. Gino swept the turret in a wide arc, mowing them down in bursts. Foster lobbed a frag, the explosion turning five of them into gobbets of green. Kate covered the flank, her rifle crackling with semi-auto precision.
Berta roared like a lunatic, leapt the wall, and charged straight into the mess with her axe.
"She's gonna get herself killed," Amiel deadpanned from behind me, firing calmly.
"Then maybe we'll get some peace and quiet."
"I doubt it."
Berta was carving through them like a chainsaw through rotten pumpkins. One Gobber leapt at her, she caught it midair, crushed its head between her thighs like a demonic crab, and used its body to bludgeon another.
"Rus!" she called, blood splattered across her face. "Still think I'm annoying?"
"Yes," Rus shouted. "But now you're annoying with extra protein. Now get the fuck back in the fucking line, Sergeant."
She laughed like a maniac and took down another three.
They thinned the swarm fast, but they kept coming. Rus dumped his mag, reloaded, and took aim at a pair trying to flank them through the brush. One shot clipped the first in the neck, the second round turned its skull into soup.
"Thirty-seven confirmed," Amiel reported. "Down to six."
Dan grunted. "Make it three."
Rus spotted the last two sprinting for cover. He didn't even hesitate, two shots, both dropped.
Silence followed. The kind that didn't linger, it just paused, like something else was watching.
"Clear," Rus said.
"Clear," echoed through comms.
Berta climbed back over the wall, panting, soaked in blood and sweat, her axe dripping like a medieval horror story.
"Well," she said, wiping her brow, "that was fun."
"You're insane."
"You're into it."
"No. I'm into surviving. You're just the loud side effect."
She winked, tossed her axe into its sling, and strutted back toward the Humvee like she hadn't just body-slammed a swarm of genetically defective monsters.
Rus sighed, sat down on a busted crate, and looked over at Amiel, who was quietly checking her ammo.
"You good?" Rus asked.
She nodded. "Yes."
"Was that sarcasm?"
"No."
Pause.
"...Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Rus looked out at the carnage, the smoke drifting lazily over the field. Another skirmish done. Another win on the books.
But it didn't feel like a win. It felt like another marker on a road they weren't sure they were ever going to reach the end of.
Rus reached into his pouch, pulled out an energy bar, and bit down like it owed him rent.
"Back to Damasa?" Dan asked.
"Yeah," Rus said, chewing. "Let's go home before Berta starts flirting with the corpses."
Too late. He heard her in the distance.
"Look at this one, girls! Shame he's dead, he had abs!"
Foster snorted. "She's gonna be the reason we all need therapy."
"We already do," Rus muttered.
Amiel stood beside Rus, scanning the area one last time.
"Still no red dots," she said.
"For now," Rus replied. "But Sector 12 doesn't sleep."
They mounted up, the Humvee's engine growling to life. Behind them, the battlefield smoldered in the heat.