Berta had changed. Not drastically, but enough to make Rus wonder if he'd accidentally knocked a few screws loose when he punched her in the jaw.
The flirting didn't completely vanish. But it got... filtered. Distilled into something almost human. They remained, but the over-the-top sexual innuendos? Gone. When we were alone, she talked plainly. Quietly. Sometimes even meekly.
It scared the shit out of Rus.
One evening, sitting near the Humvee while everyone else was arguing over who cheated at cards, she finally broke the silence.
"You earned my respect," she said.
Rus side-eyed her. "Wonderful. I'll add that to my pile of useless trophies."
"No, really." She leaned back, her hands resting loosely behind her head. "You passed."
"Passed what?" Rus asked. "The world's worst exam?"
She grinned. "My trial. Whether someone's worth befriending."
"Oh good," Rus said. "A friendship based entirely on me surviving repeated sexual harassment and one solid punch to the skull. Truly, a modern fairy tale."
Berta snickered. "You didn't try to prove anything. That's why you passed."
Rus raised a brow. "So if I had tried to impress you, you would've written me off as another desperate sexpest moron?"
"Pretty much."
Rus leaned forward slightly. "Tell me the truth. This isn't just because I clobbered you in the noggin, is it?"
Berta gave a theatrical sigh. "Partly, sure. But mostly because you're the only guy in camp who talks to me like I'm not a walking fleshlight with an LMG."
"Well,"Rus said dryly, "if you ever crave more respect, I can arrange a few more brain-rattling punches. First one's free."
She laughed, a short, genuine sound. Then, of course, she couldn't help herself.
"If you still want Mama B's cuddling—and other things—just say the word."
Rus recoiled like she'd offered him a live grenade. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm still recovering from the emotional trauma."
She smirked. "Suit yourself."
"Does this mean," Rus said, dead serious, "you'll finally stop telling everyone your tits and ass are 'Wilson's only'?"
Berta tilted her head, almost sheepish. "I'd… rather keep saying it."
Rus stared at her. Hard.
"Don't you dare tell me it's to 'protect others' or some other load of noble horseshit," Ru warned.
To her credit, she didn't.
"Make no mistake," she said, a glint of honesty in her eyes, "I do enjoy it. But even I have standards. And believe it or not—" she leaned closer, lowering her voice, "it puts the other ladies at ease."
Rus snorted. "How noble. Truly, you're the Joan of Arc of base sluts."
"Who's that? Some saint?" She laughed outright. "It's not noble. I'm the base whore and proud. They call me 'double-bladed' for a reason."
"Because you hit on both sides?" Rus asked, deadpan.
"Exactly."
For a moment, she wasn't posturing. Wasn't grinning like a wolf sizing up prey. Just a tired woman admitting something obvious.
"Still doesn't excuse dragging me into your mess," Rus said.
She shrugged, unabashed. "You'll live. You bitch a lot, Wilson, but you don't actually give a fuck."
Rus opened his mouth to argue.
Then he closed it.
Because, damn it, she was kind of right.
Rus then leaned back against the Humvee, watching the sky darken into a bruised purple. Somewhere in the background, Foster was trying—and failing—to juggle knives again, while Dan egged him on and Gino filmed it for blackmail purposes.
Typical.
Berta stayed beside Rus, arms crossed, comfortable in the silence in that way only very dangerous people and very dumb people can be.
"Don't worry," she said after a while. "I won't announce you as my property unless you piss me off."
"How reassuring," Rus muttered. "Nothing like having my dignity held hostage by a woman whose libido could outpace a freight train."
She chuckled, then nudged Rus's boot with hers. "Cheer up, Wilson. You're safer with me marking you than without."
"Right. Because what I really needed in life was a human chastity belt shaped like a pervert."
Before she could come up with another retort, the peanut gallery showed up.
Dan sauntered over, looking way too smug for someone who'd once gotten outwitted by a supply crate door. Gino and Foster trailed behind, carrying the unmistakable energy of kids who found out there was free cake but it was laced with laxatives.
"Well, well, well," Dan said, grinning like an idiot. "If it ain't Loverboy himself."
"Piss off," Rus said automatically.
Gino clapped Rus on the shoulder. "Word's spreading. Mama B's got herself a favorite."
"Yeah," Foster chimed in, slinging an arm around my neck like he was crowning me king of bad decisions. "Real Romeo and Juliet story, except Juliet could snap Romeo's spine during foreplay."
"She already tried," Rus said dryly. "The wedding's scheduled right after my funeral."
Berta smirked and leaned into it. "Are you boys jealous?"
"Absolutely," Dan said without hesitation. "I wanna be choked into unconsciousness by the base's most decorated nymphomaniac too."
"That's Sgt. Nymphomaniac to you, Private Dumbass," she quipped.
They all laughed. Rus sighed and stared at the ground, wondering which past life sin had brought them here.
Probably all of them.
Amiel wandered past, her drone buzzing quietly above her shoulder like a bored wasp. She barely glanced at the spectacle but offered a single, soul-crushing sentence as she passed:
"I see standards have lowered again."
Bless her.
Dan elbowed Rus. "C'mon, man. Look at the bright side. You're halfway to domestic bliss."
"Domestic?" Rus repeated, incredulous. "The only thing domestic about this relationship is how quickly one of us would be buried under the patio."
Foster grinned. "Kinky."
Rus gave serious thought to smashing his nose into the Humvee grill.
Instead, he stood up, dusted his pants off, and pointed a finger at them all. "Listen carefully, you gaggle of misfiring neurons: if any of you, and I mean any of you, sign me up for anything involving romance, couples' activities, or, God forbid, 'team-building exercises' involving oil and slip mats—"
Rus paused, making sure they were listening.
"—I will personally ensure you spend the next six months sipping your rations through a straw. Are we clear?"
They nodded, grinning like idiots.
Which meant he was absolutely not clear.
Berta just laughed and ruffled Rus's hair like he was some pissed-off alley cat.
"Relax, Wilson," she said, stepping back toward the campfire where Stacy and Kate were howling with laughter at something. "You'll get used to being loved."
Rus watched her go, shoulders slouched but somehow still radiating more menace than most mortars.
Dan clapped him on the back again. "Honestly, man. We're proud. She used to threaten to skullfuck anyone who annoyed her. Now she just flirts. It's progress."
"Next time, she can flirt with a claymore mine," Rus muttered.
Gino snorted. "Yeah. Good luck, buddy. You're stuck with her now."
Rus sighed deeply, staring up at the stars beginning to bleed through the night sky.
"Truly," Rus said, "this is the happiest moment of my life. Right up there with being kicked in the groin by a mule."
***
The next morning, as fate would have it—and by fate, Rus means the kind of malicious bastard who probably laughs at car crashes Captain Reed summoned Cyma unit to the briefing room.
Because clearly, someone up top looked at the fragile scraps of his sanity and thought, "Let's piss directly on this."
They filed into the tent, yawning, scratching, grumbling. Foster still had pillow lines creased into his face. Dan looked like he was mentally murdering everyone in the room. Amiel was, as always, a picture of silent judgment. Gino had a ration bar half-hanging out of his mouth like a cigar.
Berta? was whistling.
Rus hated her whistling.
Captain Reed stood at the front, arms behind his back, the very image of "I have bad news and I'm weirdly excited about it."
He tapped the screen behind him.
The map flickered on. A sprawling mess of wetlands, bogs, murky rivers, and patches of miserable green.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Reed said, voice far too cheerful. "Congratulations. You're being deployed to Sector 12-Delta."
Rus stared at the map.
Rus stared at the words Wetlands Operational Zone.
Rus stared at the swamp icon that looked suspiciously like a middle finger.
Dan leaned close. "Hey, Wilson. You're breathing funny."
"That's because I'm deciding whether to scream or puke. I hate the swamps so fucking much."
"You could do both. Really impress the Captain."
Reed continued. "Recent drone scans show an increase in Mutate activity. Specifically Swamp Gobbers and possible feral Orc strains. We need recon. Fast, clean, and efficient."
Clean. In a swamp. That was like asking someone to dive headfirst into a septic tank and come out smelling like daisies.
"Questions?" Reed asked.
Rus raised a hand.
He sighed. "Yes, Wilson?"
"Sir, would it be quicker if we just set ourselves on fire now?"
A ripple of laughter from the other squads nearby.
Reed didn't smile. Reed never smiled. Rus sometimes wondered if the man's soul was surgically replaced with an operations manual.
"You'll gear up, move at 0700, and set up a forward observation point by nightfall. Dismissed."
They filed out.
Rus didn't say a word.
Not until they were halfway across camp, their boots kicking up dust.
Berta sidled up next to Rus, that feral grin back on her lips. "You look constipated, Wilson."
"I'm preparing," Rus said.
"For what?"
"To throw myself into the nearest woodchipper. It'll be faster and less humiliating than being in a swamp."
She laughed, tossing her rifle over her shoulder. "Aw, don't be so dramatic. Maybe you'll find love among the Gobbers."
"If I find anything with webbed feet and a mating call, I'm shooting it."
Kate, walking a few paces ahead, glanced back. "Always so negative, Boss. "
"No," I said. "This is my optimistic side. My pessimistic side has already given up and is digging its own grave."
Amiel, deadpan as ever, added. "We'll be needing several graves. It's a large swamp."
Rus sighed. Loudly. Long enough that it probably shaved a year off his lifespan.
As they prepped their gear, strapping on waterproofed everything, Berta took the opportunity, because of course she did, to make one final jab.
She threw an arm around his shoulder and whispered: "If we start sinking, Wilson, don't worry. I'll just use your thick skull as a floatation device."
Rus peeled her arm off like it was toxic sludge. "Touching. Truly. I'll be sure to drown first just to spite you."
"You're so romantic," she cooed.
Dan passed by, laughing his ass off. "Man, you two bicker like an old married couple."
"I'd rather marry a hand grenade," Rus muttered.
"And yet," Gino said, patting me sympathetically, "you're still the sane one here."
He wasn't wrong.
Not even a little.
As they loaded into the Humvees, Rus cast one last, longing glance at Damasa. At the dry, mostly-non-murderous base where the worst threat was Berta sexually harassing the mess hall staff.
And then the convoy rumbled out, tires kicking up mud and hope alike.
***
The swamp greeted them like a drunk uncle at a funeral, loud, messy, and reeking of bad decisions.
They parked the Humvees on what passed for solid ground, though the tires immediately began sinking with all the dignity of a sinking ship.
Rus stood on the hood of the lead vehicle, hands on his hips, feeling like the world's most reluctant general surveying a battlefield made entirely of sewage.
The team gathered around, boots squelching in the mud, faces already varying shades of regret.
"Alright," Rus began, voice loud enough to cut through the buzzing of mutant mosquitoes the size of sparrows. "Listen up, you gobshites."
Dan was busy swatting his face like he was fighting invisible demons. Foster already had mud up to his knees and looked two seconds from declaring war on the ecosystem. Gino stared into the distance like he was contemplating walking into the swamp and never coming back.
Berta and her little harem, Stacy, Kate, and Amielstood nearby, weapons slung, faces varying from 'mildly amused' to Amiel's default setting of 'emotionless death incarnate.'
Rus cleared his throat dramatically. "Here's the mission. In short: We're screwed."
Dan raised a hand. "Already knew that."
"Good," Rus said. "Means I don't have to insult your intelligence before we start."
Rus pointed out across the bog, where mist curled up like bad breath from the earth.
"Sector 12-Delta's last drone feed showed possible Mutate activity: Swamp Gobbers, feral Orcs, and maybe something worse. We're here to observe, catalog, and if necessary, shoot things until they stop existing."
"Rules of engagement?" Foster asked.
Rus grinned. "Same as always. If it moves and it's not sexy, set it on fire."
Berta chuckled. "What if it's sexy and tries to bite?"
"Still fire. I'm not getting my dick bit off by some swamp-skank mutant because you're horny on patrol."
Berta gave him an exaggerated wink. "You're no fun."
"I'm the only fun you'll have, and I'm charging double rates today."
Gino groaned. "Why do you sound like a tour guide to hell?"
"Because I am," Rus said. "And you lot are the screaming tourists."
Ris pulled up the map on his PDA, flicked through the rough drone scans.
"We'll split into two fireteams as usual. Berta, you're taking your team. You're sweeping the eastern flank. I'm taking Dan, Gino, Foste with me and we'll take the west."
Berta gave a lazy salute. "Roger, boss."
Kate twirled her rifle once in mock salute. Amiel nodded, already checking her drone's feed on a side device clipped to her belt.
Rus looked at Foster. "If you fall into a sinkhole, leave a nice last message. Preferably in a haiku."
Foster gave him the finger.
Dan cracked his knuckles. "So what happens if we actually find something?"
"Then we report back, retreat carefully," Rus said. "If it's too big to handle, we call in artillery and watch the swamp turn into a shallow soup."
"And if they don't respond?"
Rus smiled grimly. "Then we die fabulously and dramatically, preferably while flipping them off."
Gino muttered, "Can't wait."
Stacy, ever the cheerful sort, grinned. "Sounds like a party."
Rus stepped off the Humvee, boots sinking with a gloriously wet shlurp into the muck.
"Lock and load, Cyma. Keep comms tight, eyes sharp, and if anyone sees anything that looks remotely like a giant tentacle—"
Berta cut in. "Let you handle it?"
"No," Rus said, leveling a finger at her. "Shoot it. Then shoot it again. Then set it on fire. Then shoot the fire."
Dan nodded sagely. "The Good ol' Wilson Doctrine."
"Copyright pending," Rus said.
The team broke off into their fireteams, checking gear, adjusting packs, slapping repellant on like it was holy water.
Rus gave his rifle a once-over, feeling that cold familiarity sink into his bones and moved in.