The storm rolled in like a pissed-off god with a grudge.
Thunder growled across the sky, low and deep, like the world itself was clearing its throat before throwing up lightning. Wind howled through the skeletal trees around the bog, bending them sideways like terrified civilians dodging a riot squad.
And there Rus, proud recipient of four years of government-mandated misery watching the sky tear itself apart from the edge of a muddy, fungal-infested swamp, trying not to gag from the scent of wet Gobber droppings and decayed vegetation.
The bog water rose, sluggish and foul, like it couldn't decide whether to flood the world or go back to sleep. Ripples danced across its surface, carrying clumps of green muck that looked like they'd once tried to eat a soldier and only got halfway through before choking on the taste.
Rus pulled his cloak tighter and muttered under his breath. "Lovely. Absolutely delightful. Nothing quite like watching Mother Nature projectile vomit on a marshland while your boots slowly fuse with the ground."
He said to no one but himself. He was just bitching now.
The wind slammed into him sideways, like an angry ex with unresolved issues. He stumbled, caught himself, then glared at the sky.
"Oh yes, by all means, wind—hit me again. Not like I needed dignity or posture. Take the spine too while you're at it."
The bog burbled ominously.
"Isn't this just the scenic tour of hell," Rus grumbled, gesturing at the water with disdain. "Look at it. The elegant sway of pond scum, the gentle perfume of rotting frog carcasses, and the charming ambiance of airborne mold spores trying to make a new home in my lungs."
Lightning cracked above, the purple-white flash illuminating the entire bog in a seizure of brightness. For one glorious moment, Rus could see the entire festering cesspool in high-definition misery.
"If I die here," Rus muttered, "I want my corpse shipped back home in a velvet-lined coffin, surrounded by roses, just so no one suspects I spent my final days knee-deep in an amphibian graveyard."
He doubts they'd send him. Not just bury him in some grave out here.
Behind Rus, the trees groaned as the wind picked up again, and the bog responded with a sucking slurp, as if trying to lure him in for a slow, damp death.
Rus stared it down. "Not today, you sentient bowl of fungal diarrhea. Not today."
The rain began falling then, sharp and sudden, pelting the water's surface in violent little splashes. Rus sighed, tilted his head back, and let the droplets slap his face.
"Well," Rus muttered, "at least it's not acid rain this time."
The bog hissed in reply. Or maybe that was just his boots sinking deeper.
Either way, he wasn't moving. The storm was here, and he was stuck babysitting a swamp that smelled like nature's unwashed armpit.
The rain came even harder, each drop a wet slap of mockery from the heavens. The bog belched again, as if agreeing. Water sloshed in slow, sluggish waves, the surface bloating like a fat tick every time the wind made another pass. Somewhere off in the distance, a tree cracked and fell with a crunching thud, probably landing on some poor bastard who'd volunteered to be clever and take shelter under "something sturdy."
Who knows if there were other people in the swamp other than their Unit?
Rus adjusted his helmet, staring down into the mire with the bitter stare of a man who'd lost the last thread of faith in the universe.
"I swear," Rus muttered, "if this swamp gets any wetter, I'll need a naval license just to take a piss."
Behind him, boots squelched against the mud. A familiar presence. The air shifted with that particular combination of gun oil and whatever sin Berta wore as perfume.
"Thought I'd find you here," she said, voice too chipper for a storm-sodden battlefield. "Did the bog finally eat your soul, or are you just brooding again?"
Rus didn't look at her. "Oh, I'm just reflecting on the elegance of nature. Watching this swamp inflate like a bloated corpse while the wind tries to rip the skin off my face. It's a meditative experience."
Berta snorted, stepping up beside him, arms crossed. "You love complaining more than anyone I've ever met."
"And yet I keep getting promoted. Funny, that." Rus pointed at the rising water. "Take this masterpiece, for instance. It's not a swamp, it's a liquid obituary. The only thing missing is a choir of frogs singing dirges in Gobber."
She chuckled. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate," Rus corrected. "This is a place where hope comes to drown. The air smells like boiled goblin feet and my socks are wetter than a brothel on payday. If the enemy doesn't kill me, trench foot will file the paperwork."
Berta gave a smug smile. "Still, you're out here. Watching. In the storm. Why?"
Rus finally glanced at her. "Because if I leave this spot, someone's going to say something stupid, or do something stupid, or ask me to do something stupid. And I'm not mentally prepared to survive another swamp gobber ambush led by Foster in a makeshift loincloth."
"That only happened once."
"Once is how many times it should never have happened."
The bog gurgled. A distant shape rippled the water—just enough to make his hand drift to his rifle. Probably a mutant frog. Or a swamp gobber with a death wish.
"You think this storm's gonna flush them out?" Berta asked, following his gaze.
"Oh, I certainly hope so," Rus said. "If I have to spend another night swatting mosquitoes the size of small drones, I might start shelling the entire ecosystem on principle."
Berta glanced sideways. "You know… you're cute when you're pissed off at the weather."
"And you're tolerable when you're not humping the nearest breathing object," Rus replied sweetly. "Shall we keep up the compliments or should we start burning the local wildlife again?"
A beat of silence. The bog burped again.
"You've been spending too much time with Amiel," Berta said, smirking. "You're almost human now."
Rus arched an eyebrow. "Says the woman who gets flustered when someone uses the word 'cuddle' without pelvic thrusting."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Point taken."
They stood there a little longer, letting the rain soak their gear, watching the distant trees bend and the lightning spiderweb across the sky again.
Berta eventually spoke, voice quieter. "I hate swamps too, you know. Always did. Feels like the land's trying to chew you up."
"I'd rather be chewed by the land than fondled by another muddy gobber in a loincloth."
She laughed. Loud and genuine.
Even with the wind howling, the rain slashing sideways, and the bog stinking like fermented despair. Rus didn't mind the company.
Better than talking alone like a schizoid, Rus thought.
* * *
The next morning broke like a hammer to the skull, too bright, too loud, and utterly inconsiderate of the swamp's late-night war crimes.
Rus stepped out from under the tarp they'd strung up between two skeletal trees, blinking against the glare like a mole dragged into the spotlight of divine judgment. His boots squelched in a puddle of something that he prayed was water and not whatever mysterious fluid leaks from gobber corpses after midnight.
Still, he raised his arms toward the blazing orb in the sky with mock reverence and announced in the most annoying voice he could muster.
"Ahhh, behold! The Sun! That flaming bastard in the sky, finally deciding to grace us with its divine piss-colored light!"
Dan, bleary-eyed and wrapped in his damp poncho like a sad taco, grunted from beneath the Humvee. "You're too happy, Wilson. What did you kill?"
"Nothing yet," Rus said, tilting his head skyward. "But give me time. This mood is powered entirely by sarcasm and the residual spite left in my liver."
Amiel passed by, drone in hand, completely ignoring Rus.
Berta emerged next, hair tied up, half-armored, already chewing on an energy bar with the violent focus of someone trying not to stab a teammate before coffee. She narrowed her eyes at Rus.
"You're awfully chipper. I hate it."
"I'm basking in the illusion of hope," Rus replied cheerfully. "And the glorious warmth of ultraviolet radiation! It's currently roasting the swamp filth off my ass cheeks, and for once, I feel something close to... not-murderous."
"That's called heatstroke, bro," Gino muttered, face buried in his rations.
"Wrong," Rus said. "It's called spiritual awakening, Gino. Enlightenment. The moment you realize you haven't drowned, frozen, or been groped by a fungal gobber in the last five hours. That's what we call luxury here in Sector 12's swamp!"
Berta bit into her bar with a crunch. "You're seriously losing it."
"I lost it three gas canisters ago," Rus said, arms still raised like a deranged prophet. "This is just the acceptance phase. Stage five of military enlightenment, delusional optimism with a side of trench foot."
Amiel finally paused beside him, looked up at the sun, then looked at him. "You talk too much. Too early."
"And yet, I persist," Rus said proudly. "A beacon of sanity in a swamp made entirely of wet disappointment and burning goblin farts."
Berta finally laughed, shaking her head. "You need help."
"I need a goddamn vacation," Rus said, dropping his arms and stepping into the morning muck. "And maybe a priest. Or an exorcist. Depends on whether the next gobber I shoot talks back."
And with that, the day began, swamp, sun, and sarcasm all included in the fine print of survival.
They slogged back into movement like a hungover convoy of doom. The bog squelched beneath their boots with that nauseating suction noise, the kind that makes them feel like their soul was trying to escape through their toes. Rus could hear Dan muttering curses under his breath while Foster kept tapping the side of his helmet like he was trying to get the voices to shut up.
Berta, to no one's surprise, was already bitching.
"My bra's soaked through. Again."
Rus didn't even glance back. "Perhaps if you wore armor like a professional and not like you're starring in a pin-up calendar for degenerates, you wouldn't be lamenting your tactical tit sweat."
She scoffed. "You're just jealous you ain't got tits."
"I'm jealous of the man who one day inherits the ability to never hear your swamp-soaked complaints again," Rus replied. "Now that's evolution."
Dan let out a snort-laugh. "Don't encourage her, man."
"I never do. I merely survived her."
Amiel walked beside Rus again, quiet as always, drone flitting overhead like a faithful hawk. She tapped her screen and nodded to the southeast. "Movement. Gobbers. Seven. Slow."
Rus loaded a fresh mag with a click. "Slow? So we shoot them now or let them drown in their own stupidity?"
"Either," Amiel replied, deadpan as ever.
They crouched behind a ridge of mud and moss. The Gobbers were trudging through the swamp like they were on a school trip to Hell, dragging crude spears and what looked like a severed pig carcass between them.
"Lovely," Rus muttered, raising his rifle. "Carrying their lunch like good little cannibal cub scouts."
Amiel marked two of them. "Left one first. Then the big one."
"Such romance in your words," Rus whispered theatrically, lining up his shot. "Tell me more, O Muse of Murder."
"Shoot."
Bang. First gobber dropped.
Bang. Second one flopped into the muck, face-first.
The others panicked, running in all directions like a disturbed colony of bald raccoons.
"Clean-up?" Rus asked.
Amiel was already shooting.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
When it was over, they approached the mess. Rus kicked one over with his boot, nose wrinkling.
"Disgusting creatures. They smell like someone deep-fried a gym sock in failure."
"You said that last time," Amiel said.
"I say it every time. Because it's always true." Rus knelt down beside one of the Gobbers and poked at it with his bayonet. "I swear they're getting dumber."
"They're swamp Gobbers," Amiel said. "Inbreeding. Probable."
"Ah. The royal family of fungus. That explains the extra toes."
They started heading back toward the squad. The rain had finally stopped. The sun pushed through the clouds like a drunk uncle trying to break into a wedding uninvited and far too loud.
When they returned to the camp, Berta raised an eyebrow.
"You two were gone a while," she said, smirking. "Don't tell me you finally wore her down, Rus."
Rus didn't miss a beat. "Only thing I wore down was the local gobber population, thank you very much."
"Shame," she said with a grin. "Would've been cute. Little emotionless gobber-hunting babies."
Amiel didn't even blink. "He's not my type."
Berta turned to Rus. "And what exactly is your type, oh Prince of Pessimism?"
"Quiet. Unarmed. Preferably imaginary," Rus said. "And doesn't mistake every co-op mission for a speed date."
She laughed again, loud and obnoxious. "Still got it. Was worried ya lost your wits in the bog. All that smell?"
"Still trying to get rid of it," Rus muttered.
They flopped down by the Humvee again. Another moment of peace. Another few minutes of still air before whatever horror decided to crawl out of the swamp and demand to be ventilated next.
"Same bog, different day," Rus said, leaning back and watching the last of the clouds scatter.
"Worse than the same shit, different day," Dan muttered. "At least shit dries."
"No it doesn't," Foster added, poking his soaked sock through his boot.
And so, under the glorious tyranny of the sun and the never-ending stench of the swamp,
Team Cyma waited, miserable, sarcastic, and still very, very armed.