They were back in Damasa, hell's own resting stop, and after days in the field with ash in his mouth and no clear sense of time, it looked like paradise. Or at least, a place where they didn't wake up wondering if an Orc or a Gobber was going to bite their face off.
Rus was half-asleep on the hood of the Humvee when reality rudely tapped him on the shoulder in the form of a long shadow and a voice far too cheerful for his liking.
"Hi, Wilson. Got a good sleep?" came the syrupy drawl of Sergeant Berta.
Rus cracked one eye open and found her grinning at him like a cat catching its favorite rat. Her coat was swaying in the breeze, hair tied back, face plastered with the kind of smirk that meant she was either about to flirt or pick a fight. Possibly both.
"I have," Rus groaned, dragging his words like lead weights. "So how are you doing, Sarge?"
"Oh, I'm fine, fine. Just got bored and thought I'd check in on you boys. We've been close lately, haven't we?" She leaned in, voice dropping a sultry octave. "Mama B likes active guys."
"That so?" Rus muttered, glancing sideways.
Dan, Gino, and Foster, collectively known as the DGF were gathered near one of the crates playing cards with Stacy, the only person here with worse luck than their combined brain cells.
Rus turned back to Berta, whose face was now uncomfortably close to his.
"Kindly get off me," Rus said in his best impression of a man being smothered by both tit and tragedy.
She didn't budge. "Oh, don't be so squirmy. You're acting like I'm some kind of disease."
"I'm acting like someone who doesn't fancy becoming a new entry in your collection of STDs."
Berta laughed, a deep, almost warm laugh. "STDs don't work on us, remember? We're too enhanced. Our bodies filter out normal human diseases before they can even make us sneeze."
"Delightful," Rus said. "Does that include the ability to regrow dignity, or is that permanently gone?"
"Actually," she said proudly, "I can regrow my hymen. It's a fact"
"Splendid, so I heard. A miracle of science, truly. What next? Reversible herpes? Adjustable breast size? Self-cleaning womb?"
"Oh, you really are feisty, Mama B likes that," Berta's smirk didn't waver. She leaned closer. "You say that like you don't want to try motorboating these babies."
Before Rus could object, she shoved his face between her chest like he was some unfortunate soul trapped in a tactical body pillow. She moaned theatrically, the kind of noise that'd make a porno director ask her to dial it down.
Rus flailed like a man drowning in marshmallows. "Get. Off. Me."
"You know," she said, barely containing laughter, "if you wanted titty-fuck material, you only had to ask."
"I'd rather run naked through an Orc encampment with a 'free meat' sign painted on my ass."
"Suit yourself. I just wanted to get to know you better."
"Really? Or are you just completing your fuck bingo for this base?"
Her smile turned smug. She didn't even try to lie. "A girl's got hobbies."
"Here's mine," Rus said. "Not sleeping with people who collect dick like Pokémon."
"What's a Pokémon? Alright, alright," she said, pulling back at last. "We can just be friends."
Rus groaned. "Excellent. I'd like to be friends who don't hump each other like feral dogs in a pit."
She raised a finger. "But I'd be okay with sex-friends too. Honestly, a pretty clever move on your part. Build the bond and get the goods without trading supplies."
Rus glared. "Fuck. Off."
She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her coat like she hadn't just made him rethink life.
"It's always the stubborn ones," she sighed. "Surprising how you're the only one not down for a little post-doomsday relief. Or maybe you just like taking it in the—"
"I'm normal," Rus snapped. "I just can't get off in the middle of a monster-infested wasteland surrounded by twitchy psychos and the smell of burnt Orc taint."
She blinked at that. The smirk faded, replaced by something almost thoughtful. For a second, she looked like she was studying him. Not in the creepy way—more like she was trying to figure out a new type of species.
"I gotta say," she said, after a pause, "I do admire a guy who knows how to say no. That takes balls. Big ones. Still gonna call you a bitch, though."
"Yay," Rus said, with the enthusiasm of a dead cactus.
Berta strutted off like a soldier on a catwalk, blowing a kiss as she went.
"Anytime you change your mind, Wilson. Mama B will be waiting."
Rus hugged his rifle like a security blanket. It was cold, hard, reliable, and didn't try to smother him in tits without consent.
Dan called out from the side. "That's Sgt Berta, Wilson? Looks like your rifle's getting jealous."
"Fuck off, Dan."
He laughed. "Just saying. You look cute when you're flustered."
"Maybe you should motorboat her, then."
"Too late," Gino said without looking up from his cards. "He already did. Didn't finish."
The two of them were pushing it.
"Fuck all of you," Rus snapped, turning his back and pulling his cap low over his face.
Rus was going back to dreamland. Or at least the thin layer of unconsciousness they clung to before the next round of explosions dragged them up again.
His rifle stayed in his arms. It didn't judge. Didn't tease. It just sat there, cold and quiet.
And that made it the best damn company in Damasa.
***
Nothing happened for days in Damasa.
Which, for them, was a damn miracle.
They got showers that didn't smell like battery acid, some real food that didn't crunch like sandpaper, and a bunkhouse that had actual walls and a roof. You know… the luxuries. No more sleeping under vehicles like stray dogs guarding a convoy.
Unfortunately for him, but very fortunate for his merry band of degenerates. Berta and her personal brothel squad were bunked right next to them now. That meant Dan, Gino, and Foster were practically blessed with the most welcoming pair of legs in the region. And he mean "welcoming" like a revolving door at some Vegas casino.
Her friends, Stacy, Kate, weren't much better. They didn't care whose side they were on, as long as the side had something to put in them. Sure, some of the other female infantry looked at them like they were walking STIs, but most just shrugged and let it be. After all, letting them soak up the collective horniness of the barracks was almost a public service. Aggro-management, basically.
Still, it was nasty.
Rus mean, he knows normal women can rack up body counts in peacetime like it's a sport but Berta? She did it mid-war, between combat patrols, like she was trying to qualify for a Guinness record. And somehow she wasn't even tired. Not a limp, not a yawn, just back to slinging her axe and shooting her LMG while thirsting for more.
She fights like a damn beast, too. If she told him she was a barbarian, he wouldn't even flinch. Hell, he'd ask if she wanted her loincloth dry-cleaned.
Thankfully, Captain Muriel, bless that cold-blooded tyrant, got tired of the ongoing base orgy and gave Berta a nice, crisp punch to the jaw. The kind that made teeth reconsider their lease agreement. Strangely, that just made Berta like her more. Nothing says "soulmate" like blunt force trauma, apparently.
Damasa itself was turning into something real. A city, eventually. Right now it was a weird UH-managed Frankenstein of ruins, barricades, and prefab buildings. The goal was to reclaim the area fully, but that was going to take two years, minimum. Probably more, considering the locals kept trying to eat our engineers.
It's wild, really, this whole world. In this alternate reality, humanity lost the battle because of the Rift. The "Rift" being capitalized like it's some cosmic asshole that forgot to close the door after itself. It's the reason the Ark and Bastion Cities like Libertalia exist. Heavily fortified, self-contained concrete wombs where civilization survived while the rest of the world got torn up by otherworldly critters.
They hadn't encountered any Rift Zones yet, which was both a relief and a bit suspicious. Rift Zones are where the real freakshows crawl out from. If this area didn't have one, that explained why the brass were so eager to claim it. Real estate's a lot easier to value when there aren't teleporting monstrosities using their soldiers like chew toys.
The Orcs, Goblins, and everything else out there? They were just… obstacles. Vicious ones, sure. Ugly, loud, smelled like fermented diapers. But there are still obstacles. Not humans. Not like us.
And that made things easier.
No politics. No protests. No lectures from moralists about the sanctity of life. They weren't people. Just targets with faces. It's amazing what they can do to a creature once it's been properly dehumanized. Napalm, artillery, chemical agents. The works.
If he were a bleeding heart, which he was not, thank God, he'd have been waving a protest sign, crying about Orc rights and war crimes. Maybe even trying to find a twelve-step program for post-battle guilt.
Instead, he just cleaned his rifle, drank his instant coffee, and shared nods with other guys who agree that they're going to have to kill every last one of them.
And frankly, the only thing he was bleeding for is more ammo.
***
Days later.
Then came the bombshell Captain Muriel and Commander Reed decided to consolidate. Two fireteams, into one unit.
Cyma Unit.
That meant Rus, Dan, Gino, Foster and them. Berta's crew. The Thirst Battalion.
Officially, it was about efficiency. Tighter coordination, better communication, field coverage optimization—military-speak for "we like how you murder things, so now you murder things together."
For his squad, it was like Christmas came early and brought free beer. Dan nearly high-fived the announcement. Gino whistled. Foster flexed like he was about to be drafted into a porno.
Rus had reservations. Specifically, about whether his fireteam would still be able to walk once the real fighting started. Limp-dicked soldiers were bad for morale. Worse for marksmanship.
And of course, Berta made it worse.
She wasted no time. Slung her toned and tanned arm around Rus's neck like they were high school sweethearts, yanked him in, and planted a smooch on his cheek. It was wet. Warm. Horrifying.
"I'm so looking forward to our partnership, Cyma One-One" she purred, eyes glinting like a predator who just got assigned a new cage mate.
Rus stared at her, deadpan.
"Just try not to fuck the whole crew to death in the field, please."
She grinned back, all teeth and unholy enthusiasm. "No promises."
Then she sauntered off hips swaying with the grace of a wrecking ball, straight to her squad, who were already eyeing their bunks like they were speed dating through a warzone.
It was official. They were now part of one big, sexually charged kill-team. The Cyma Unit where the only thing higher than their body count was the potential for awkward bunk arrangements.
And if he had to babysit one more afterglow-hungover grunt during a mission brief, he might just frag himself for the peace and quiet of a hospital ward.
***
To Rus's relief and the relief of the local supply of antibiotics, two days passed without an orgy breaking out.
Sure, Stacy still slept in the same bunk as Berta, but they mostly just spooned like war-torn teddy bears. Kate and Amiel kept to themselves, mostly horizontal and mumbling about catching up on sleep like proper soldiers, not sex cultists.
In short there was no bunk-bed brothel.
A small victory.
Dan, on the other hand, was still sore. Not from Berta, thankfully, but from being assigned as Rus's second. Apparently, Commander Reed read Rus's psych and tactical evals, saw he could actually spell "tactics" without a crayon, and decided he should lead the squad alongside Berta.
So now they were co-leads of the newly merged Cyma Unit.
Dan didn't like it. He sulked the way only a man who once headbutted an Orc unconscious could by sitting just a little too far away, grunting instead of answering, and chewing on rations like they owed him money.
He eventually got over it. Mostly because the alternative was listening to Gino and Foster argue over who would win in a fight between a dragon and a gunship.
But the real surprise was Berta.
Despite her long-standing reputation as the barracks' most mobile STD vector, she was behaving.
And he doesn't mean "simmering down." He mean full-on, unnervingly well-behaved. Saluting on time. Keeping her gear polished. No unsolicited gropes. No "who wants to wrestle in the mud" invitations at breakfast.
Professional.
Too professional.
Like a wolf putting on a tie and saying "I'm ready for the board meeting now."
And he knew why.
Captain Muriel. God bless her unflinching, steely soul. Two days ago, had caught Berta halfway through a flirt with some poor comms officer and punched her again. Square. In. The. Jaw.
According to Stacy, she dropped her like a sack of potatoes that had tried to seduce the blender.
Apparently, that was exactly what Berta needed. Since then, she's been acting like a soldier. An actual one.
Still, Rus wasn't buying it.
Because beneath all that armor, discipline, and heavy weaponry, there still lurked a mind that measured every man she saw with an internal ruler labeled dick potential.
If Rus had to wager, he'd say she wasn't just horny, she was hunting. Patient. Calculating. Like some kind of freakish succubus under military discipline. A being of contradiction. Part berserker, part professional. Like a Swiss Army knife that also flirted with you.
And maybe that's what unsettled him the most.
Berta wasn't a chaotic mess.
She was a controlled mess.
Which made her infinitely more dangerous.
Frankly, Rus wouldn't be surprised if she were a schizoid in armor. Half of her seemed laser-focused on the mission. The other half was sketching dicks on her kill tally.
Rus will give her this, though. She fought like a goddamn beast, and her squad respected her. That kind of discipline in the field, even with the sexual predator vibe off-duty, meant that when shit hit the fan, she wouldn't be the one screaming or running.
She'd be the one charging.
And so far, that's more than Rus can say for most.