Cyma Unit were finally heading back.
Their Humvee led the convoy, bouncing along the crater-pitted path like it had a vendetta against their spines. Dan was at the wheel, trying to pretend he wasn't white-knuckling the steering column every time a wheel dipped into a crater the size of a tub. Gino sat shotgun, feet on the dash like the world owed him a footrest. Rus was in the back, wedged between Foster and a crate of extra mags, wondering if suicide by boredom counted as a line-of-duty death.
Behind them, in the second Humvee, Berta's squad was apparently reenacting a singing show.
"WE AIN'T GONNA DIE, WE'LL FUCK 'TIL WE FRY—"
Berta's voice rang out like a drunk bard in a death metal band.
"GOBBERS TO THE LEFT, ORCS TO THE RIGHT, WE'LL ORGASM IN THE FIIIIIGHT!"
Rus pressed the side of his helmet. "Command, requesting an airstrike on the second vehicle. Not for strategic value. Just mercy."
Dan snorted. "No can do, boss. Berta's got diplomatic immunity. Via tits."
"She's got something, alright," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "Mostly syphilitic energy and a choir of sex addicts."
Foster was trying not to laugh. "You think they actually rehearse that?"
"I think they workshop the lyrics between raiding med supply closets and group therapy orgies," Rus replied.
"Would explain the stamina," Gino added. "You hear that harmony? Stacy's got some pipes."
"And by pipes," Rus said, "you mean the vocal kind, or the ones she wraps around Berta nightly like a goddamn facehugger?"
Foster gagged theatrically. "Thanks for that mental image, boss."
"You're welcome. If I suffer, you all suffer."
Amiel, of course, wasn't singing. Not even humming. Probably just sitting quietly, tuning her drone, plotting all their deaths. The only sane one in the Humvee behind them and that included the suspension system.
A pothole took them airborne for a second. Rus's helmet clunked against the ceiling.
"FUCKING HELL, DAN!"
"Not my fault," he grunted. "The road's less 'road' and more 'suggestion.'"
"Wonderful," Rus groaned. "A scenic tour through what used to be civilization, now generously converted into ass-busting terrain and portable trauma to the head."
"You say that like it's new," Gino quipped.
Behind them, the second Humvee continued its musical journey.
"BERTA'S GOT THE GUN, STACY'S GOT THE KNIFE, AMIEL'S GOT A DRONE AND SHE HATES HER LIIIIIFE—"
Dan blinked. "Okay, that one's accurate."
"I'll give them points for self-awareness," Rus admitted. "Negative points for making me hear it."
"Could be worse," Foster said. "They could be doing karaoke."
"They are doing karaoke. It's just karaoke sung by people who probably did body shots off each other last night."
Another pothole. Another jolt.
Gino smacked the dash. "Are we there yet?"
"No," Dan said.
"Can we be?"
"No."
"I want to die."
"Same."
Rus looked out the window. Damasa wasn't far now. They could see the faint haze of concrete and smoke on the horizon, like the afterimage of civilization. Their glorious home base, now upgraded with fortified bunkhouses and reinforced fences. In other words, a slightly less shitty place to rot.
Over comms, Berta's voice buzzed in.
"Hey, Wilson. Miss us yet?"
"Only in the same way one misses syphilis," Rus replied. "Painful, unpleasant, and likely to come with a rash."
"You're so sweet. You know, if you just smiled more—"
"I'd break my own jaw."
She laughed. Stacy added something he couldn't quite catch, probably a moan or a euphemism. Kate chimed in with what might have been a burp or a threat. Standard procedure.
Amiel's voice came through next, calm as a corpse.
"You're getting glare again, Rus."
"Thank you, Amiel. Truly, the perfect woman—monotone, murderous, and capable of pointing out when Berta's trying to mind-melt me with her gaze."
Dan sighed. "You two gonna start hate-flirting again when we get back?"
"We never stopped," Rus said. "As far as I know. She flirts. I loathe. That's the system."
"And yet," Gino said with a smirk, "we all know somehow, one way or another, this ends in a battlefield wedding."
"Only if it's the shotgun variety," Rus muttered. "As in, someone points a shotgun at me and I get to say 'I don't.'"
The Humvee rumbled over a broken piece of highway. We were almost at the gates.
Berta's squad started up another verse.
"SWAMP GOBBERS IN THE BOG, BURN 'EM WITH A LOG, LIGHT 'EM UP UNTIL THEY CROAK, NOW WHO'S READY FOR A—"
"I swear to every false god above," Rus said, "if that next word rhymes with 'poke,' I will drive this vehicle into a ravine myself."
The gate loomed ahead.
"Convoy incoming," the guard said through the speaker. "Open the doors."
The big metal slabs groaned apart, welcoming us back to our lovely little slice of wartime purgatory.
Dan grinned. "Home sweet hellhole."
Foster leaned forward. "Dibs on a shower."
"You showered yesterday," Gino said.
"In the fucking rain."
"Try bleach," Rus muttered. "Inside and out."
As they rolled in, Rus looked over his shoulder and watched the second Humvee roll past. Berta leaned out the side window like a dog catching wind, hair in a mess, grinning like a sex cult leader on holiday.
"Missed you already, lover boy."
"I'll write to you from the afterlife," Rus said.
She blew a kiss. Stacy whooped. Kate held up a peace sign. Amiel stared ahead, silently recalculating all the life choices that brought her here.
They parked.
Dan turned the engine off.
And for the first time in hours, there was silence.
Blessed, beautiful silence. If one ignores the construction and the shouts all over the place, of course.
"I'm gonna lie down and not move for three years," Foster said, rolling out of the Humvee.
"Good," Rus said. "Maybe you'll finally be useful as a trip hazard."
And just like that, Cyma was home.
Tired. Smelly. Irritated.
But home.
At least until command threw them at the next fresh hell.
Which would probably be tomorrow.
Or in five minutes.
Rus was betting on it.
* * *
The next day
The sun was inching past the horizon, casting a grim orange over Damasa's cratered skyline. Rus sat under the shade of the motorpool canopy, back against a stacked crate of spare parts, helmet beside him, boots crossed, arms folded. His rifle leaned casually on his lap. For once, he was still, quiet, soaking in a rare moment where no one was bleeding, exploding, or singing obscene lyrics about battlefield orgasms.
Peace, he thought. A concept so foreign here it might as well be a goddamn myth.
But the moment never lasted long.
Over by the barracks courtyard, the unmistakable voice of Sergeant Berta shattered the calm like a brick through a glass window.
"—and I told him, 'You're not man enough to handle me, sweetheart, now bend over or get out of the way!'"
Laughter erupted.
Rus cracked one eye open. There she was. Berta, surrounded by what had to be half the damn camp. Female troopers, mostly. A few looked like they were ready to throw medals at her feet. Some were clearly hanging on her every word like she was a holy prophet of sexual liberation. One chick looked like she was two seconds away from proposing.
Then there were the men, equal parts intrigued, intimidated, and, in one poor bastard's case, trying way too hard.
Rus watched the guy swagger up to her, some standard-issue fuckwit with a buzzcut and delusions of charisma.
"So," Buzzcut said, grinning, "you really made two squads scream your name?"
Berta turned, slow and deliberate, smiling like a lioness sniffing an undercooked gazelle.
"Three," she said. "But only because the fourth passed out."
There was a brief pause before laughter erupted again.
Buzzcut, undeterred, gave a shrug. "Well maybe you should try me next. I don't pass out easily."
Berta tilted her head. "Honey, I've had tea kettles with more stamina. You'd pass out before I even unzipped."
"Oof," someone in the crowd winced.
Buzzcut blushed, trying to salvage what pride he had left. "Come on, you're not scared of a real man, are you?"
"Sweetheart," Berta purred, stepping forward until she was nose-to-nose with him. "If I wanted a 'real man,' I'd go find someone who doesn't think post-nut clarity counts as tactical insight."
He opened his mouth to reply.
She flicked her finger at his chest. "Now go find a hole to dig. And maybe bury that ego in it."
More laughter. Buzzcut backed off, muttering something unintelligible and entirely irrelevant.
Rus smirked from where he sat, shaking his head. "God's gift to morale, that one."
He closed his eyes again, letting the voices drift. Berta was now retelling her infamous "one time, three Mutates, one LMG" story with unnecessary pelvic thrusts and increasingly creative sound effects. Her audience was eating it up like it was gospel.
"She's like a plague," Rus muttered. "Except plagues don't tell you about their body count over brunch."
Still, he couldn't deny it.
Damasa was humming. Living.
For all the fire and filth they'd waded through, this was one of those rare moments when the camp didn't feel like a waiting room for the next meat grinder.
And Berta?
She might've been loud, lewd, and utterly unhinged, but she brought something rare to the unit.
Energy.
A fire.
And whether people wanted to admit it or not, she made them feel alive.
Even if it was by threatening to screw them to death.
Rus let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the crate.
"Still not sleeping with her though," he mumbled to himself.
Someone near the motorpool barked a laugh.
Amiel, sitting nearby, drone in her lap.
"I believe you," she said.
"Thank you."
"She'd break you."
"…I regret thanking you."
She didn't reply.
Amiel sat cross-legged on an ammo crate, now cleaning her rifle with the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who either found the process meditative or was trying to ignore the hormonal zoo parade happening fifty meters away.
Rus watched her from where he sat, boots up on a rusted fuel drum, arms crossed, helmet tilted just enough to shield his eyes from the glare.
"Tell me," he said, gesturing with a lazy wave toward the sound of Berta laughing like a drunk hyena, "does the phrase 'quiet professionalism' mean anything to anyone anymore? Or has the UH fully embraced the brothel campfire storytelling hour?"
Amiel didn't look up. "Yes."
"Yes to which?"
"Yes to all."
"Excellent. I was hoping we'd crossed that particular moral event horizon." He exhaled. "I expect next week we'll be issuing STD pamphlets alongside ammo."
Amiel paused to tap out a fleck of carbon from her barrel. "Already in medkits."
Rus blinked. "You're joking."
"No."
He sighed, dramatically. "Of course not. I've long suspected Command was less interested in winning wars and more interested in producing the world's most virile death cult."
Amiel finished reassembling her rifle with a final click. "Working so far."
"God help us."
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Still alive."
"For now. Probably because the universe finds my suffering entertaining."
Amiel adjusted her scope without a word.
Rus leaned forward. "You know, you've got the personality of a grenade pin."
"Efficient?"
"I'd say more like emotionally distant and vaguely threatening, but sure, let's go with efficient."
She finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "And you?"
"I'm charmingly bitter and full of suppressed trauma. Keeps things spicy."
Amiel nodded slowly. "Explains your sense of humor."
"And your fondness for silence explains why you haven't shot me yet."
"Tempting."
Rus smiled. "See? Now we're bonding."
She returned to her rifle. "Is that what this is?"
"I like to think of it as Stockholm Syndrome, but slower."
Amiel didn't respond.
They sat there in silence for a beat. Somewhere in the distance, Foster was yelling something about Berta's "sacred thighs" and Gino was probably preparing another unsolicited monologue about the viability of co-ed trench love.
Rus groaned softly. "You know, sometimes I think being gassed in a Mutate hive might be more relaxing than listening to them for ten straight minutes."
Amiel shrugged. "Depends. Wasps or leeches?"
"Do I get a choice?"
"No."
"Story of my life."
Amiel gave the faintest twitch of a smile. "Same."
Rus smirked. "So what I'm hearing is—we're both jaded war-worn husks, surviving on spite, caffeine, and mutual tolerance."
Amiel nodded. "Correct."
He stood up, stretching. "You're like a really polite shadow."
"You're like a talking wound."
Rus gave a theatrical bow. "I do try."
She leaned her rifle against the crate, locking eyes with him briefly. "Still not sleeping with you. If that's your goal here."
He snorted. "Please. If I wanted to die smiling, I'd stick my dick in a gun barrel."
"Safer," she agreed.
They both turned as another shout echoed across the camp.
Berta was somewhere out there holding court, surrounded by half the female contingent of Damasa, swapping stories, flirting with anything warm-blooded, and probably recruiting more disciples for her supposedly thigh-based religion.
Rus now sat on a rusted fuel drum, boots up, arms crossed, watching the light bounce off Amiel's visor as she quietly disassembled her rifle a few meters away. She sat on an ammo crate, legs crossed, not a single wasted movement as she cleaned the weapon like it was some ritual.
"Tell me," Rus said, gesturing vaguely toward the sounds of Berta's crowd, "have we completely abandoned the idea of military decorum? Or are we just embracing 'campfire cult orgy' as the new standard operating procedure?"
Amiel didn't even glance up. "Yes."
"Yes to what exactly?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Excellent. At least you're consistent."
She wiped her barrel with a rag and tapped the side, dislodging carbon. "Morale is high."
"High? We're about three bad decisions away from turning this place into a combat-rated dating sim."
She paused. "Still functional."
"Is that your standard for success? Still functional? You should try working for a marriage counselor. That phrase would make you a fortune."
Amiel reassembled the bolt carrier group. Her hands were steady. Precise. Like she was handling surgical equipment instead of a glorified murder stick.
Rus leaned forward. "You know, you've got the emotional range of a landmine."
She tilted her head. "And you've got the emotional maturity of a wet sock."
"Charming," Rus muttered. "Was that you flirting?"
"No."
"Shame. I was going to say it was the most heartfelt thing anyone's told me all week."
Amiel locked the bolt back into place and glanced his way. One eyebrow lifted. Just slightly. "Why do you talk so much?"
"Because if I don't, I'll have to start listening to my thoughts, and quite frankly, I've heard them all before and they're awful company."
She stared at him.
"What?"
"That explains a lot."
"I aim to enlighten."
"No," she said. "You aim to deflect. Poorly."
That actually made Rus pause. For once, Rus didn't have a retort cocked and loaded. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking off toward the perimeter where Dan was trying to win an argument with a vending machine. Again.
"…You know, I really think we should be friends," Rus said.
Amiel blinked once. "Are you hitting on me again?"
"What? No. I just need someone sane to talk to."
She leaned back a little, brow raised like I'd just asked if she wanted to adopt a sentient grenade. "You talk to Berta. That's not sane."
"And every conversation with her ends with a threat, a proposition, or unsolicited anatomy trivia. But she can be fun."
Amiel considered that. "Fair point."
"So?"
"You won't stop asking. This is twice."
"Nope."
She sighed. "Fine."
There was a brief silence. It was comfortable.
Then she ruined it. "You're not sane either."
"Compared to who? Gino? Foster? Berta?"
She smirked. "Low bar."
"Exactly," Rus said. "And I vault over it daily with all the grace of a brick through a church window."
Another small smirk. That was practically a laugh from Amiel.
Rus nodded, satisfied. "Progress."
She went back to her rifle. Rus leaned back on the drum, letting the conversation settle into that easy quiet. Somewhere behind them, Berta shouted something about "legendary pelvic stamina" and at least three people cheered.
"God help us," Rus muttered.
Amiel didn't look up. "We're on our own."
Rus wondered if that was true. Because sure as hell, God didn't help Rus when throwing him to this place.