Three More Years

The briefing room smelled like stale coffee, burnout, and the last remnants of dignity clinging to the overhead fans. It was the kind of scent that made Rus wonder if despair had a cologne line. Rus took his seat at the long metal table among a dozen other officers, most of them sporting the dead-eyed stare of men and women whose souls had been replaced by admin reports.

They were gathered in what could generously be called a "command meeting," but in truth, it was just another round of tactical masturbation where someone with too many bars on their collar told them things they already knew while acting like they'd discovered fire.

Captain Harris stood at the front of the room, posture so stiff he could've been a scarecrow with a superiority complex. His hands were clasped behind his back in that way that always made it look like he was about to tell everyone how disappointed he was in all of them.

"Good morning, team," he said, with all the warmth of a malfunctioning coffee machine. "Today, we'll be reviewing the updated safety protocols for perimeter checks."

And just like that, Rus's will to live threatened to leave his body.

Safety protocols. Because nothing gets the blood pumping like being told not to trip over one's own boots. Rus clicked his pen. Time to engage in the ancient officer tradition of pretending to take notes while mentally filing a request for euthanasia.

"As you're aware," Harris continued, "we've experienced several unauthorized breaches at the outer perimeter."

Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. They noticed the literal tank-sized hole in the fencing. Probably the same one an Orc danced through last week.

"To address this, a new patrol schedule will be implemented, ensuring full coverage at all times."

Splendid. Because clearly, what the base needs isn't better defenses—it's more zombies in uniform walking in circles at three in the morning, praying not to be eaten by anything with more teeth than IQ points.

Lieutenant Simmons stepped up next. She was the kind of woman who gave off the energy of someone who organized her sock drawer by color and tactical purpose.

The projector flickered to life. Slide one: Perimeter Patrol Routes, a map so blurry he could barely tell if it was showing Damasa or someone's colonoscopy results.

"We'll be dividing the perimeter into four quadrants," she began, "with each patrol unit responsible for one section."

Quadrants. Because saying "sections" is clearly beneath the majesty of modern military terminology.

"Patrol shifts will rotate every six hours to maintain coverage and avoid fatigue."

That's military for "You'll be sleep-deprived, miserable, and seeing ghosts, but technically not dying."

"Communication will be maintained through half-hour radio check-ins."

Because nothing screams high morale like being reminded every thirty minutes that they're still breathing and still not important enough to let die in peace.

Then, like the devil had queued the event himself, Major Thompson took the floor. The man brought with him a stack of papers and an expression that said "I could have retired last year but didn't, and now I'm going to make you all suffer with me."

"Next item," he said, flipping the top page, "is the base's sewer system."

The collective groan was almost spiritual.

"Our current infrastructure utilizes the remnants of the old Damasa sewer grid. We've identified multiple blockages and pressure issues."

Translation: the shit isn't flowing, and now you get to deal with it.

"We'll be initiating a full cleaning operation over the next two weeks, beginning with Area 3."

Area 3. Of course. The place where dreams go to die and boots go to become biohazards.

Sergeant Miller, logistics officer and resident equipment nerd, started detailing the loadout.

"Each team will be issued full chemical suits, filtered breathing masks, high-pressure hoses, and submersible pipe cameras."

Because if you're going to wade through sewage, you might as well do it in style.

"There will be a short training module to familiarize volunteers with the equipment."

Volunteers. The most dangerous word in military command.

Captain Harris returned to the front with a smile so forced it could've cracked a mirror.

"We will need participants for the initial inspection teams. Please sign up after the meeting."

The silence that followed could've been cut with a bayonet. No one moved. No one blinked. Even the flies looked uncomfortable.

"Remember," Harris added, "this is a vital initiative for the safety and hygiene of the base."

And for once, Rus found himself envying the dead.

"Dismissed."

The room emptied faster than a brothel during a surprise inspection. Rus lingered for a moment, watching the poor soul in the back who'd nodded off drooling onto his notepad. Probably having dreams of a life without sewer assignments and PowerPoint torture.

Outside the tent, the air felt fresher by comparison, though that wasn't saying much. The sun was its usual bastard self, beating down on them like it had a grudge. Rus lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, watching the rest of the squad reassemble like survivors of a shared trauma.

Foster passed by, already whining. "You think they'll actually make us do the sewer detail?"

"If I get handed a pipe camera, I'm putting it somewhere dark and unpleasant," Rus muttered.

Dan shrugged. "Could be worse. Could be another briefing."

He had a point. Barely.

Then Berta strolled by, arms crossed, eyes gleaming. "You boys volunteering?"

Rus raised a brow. "Unless the sewer leads to a bottle of whiskey and a tub, no."

She grinned. "Pity. Thought you'd enjoy some quality time elbow-deep in excrement. Feels like home, doesn't it?"

"Only if you're down there first," Rus shot back. "You could probably scare the blockages loose."

Foster gagged. "Why are we like this?"

"Because," Rus sighed, flicking ash off my cigarette, "this is the United Humanity, and we're the best civilization has to offer. Now excuse me while I consider jumping into the nearest septic tank and letting nature sort it out."

And with that, the day marched on, another tick on the calendar, another dive into the absurdity of military life. Welcome to paradise. Now get your boots on. The shit isn't going to clean itself.

* * *

Of course, paradise wasn't done kicking them yet. After the debrief and the "please touch literal sewage" volunteer drive, the rest of the day was business as usual, boredom wrapped in a flak jacket, marinated in sweat and sarcasm.

Rus returned to the Cyma corner of the camp to find Dan, Gino, and Foster sprawled out like the casualties of a beer truck explosion. They were lying under the shade of their Humvee, shirts off, sunburnt and unbothered.

"Enjoy the briefing?" Dan asked, not even opening his eyes.

"It was like watching a play written by Kafka and performed by corpses," Rus replied.

"Who's Kafka?" Gino snorted. "Sewer duty's a real thing, huh?"

"Unfortunately," Rus said. "They want volunteers."

"Guess we're getting drafted," Foster said, pulling his hat over his face. "Again."

"I told them if I'm wading through shit, I'm bringing a snorkel and a suicide pill."

Berta appeared from nowhere, as usual. She had that look in her eye—the one that said she'd just come from either a brawl, a bed, or both.

"Speak of the devil," she said, grinning at me. "You know, Rus, you and sewer work kinda go together. You both stink of misanthropy and crushed dreams."

"Touching," Rus muttered. "Did you come to flirt or to volunteer for feces diving?"

"I'm built for deeper holes, honey," she purred.

"I'm sure the sewer would still be cleaner than your browser history."

Foster let out a low whistle.

Berta just laughed and flicked Rus on the forehead. "Keep that tongue sharp. One day it's gonna get you laid or killed. I'm not sure which one I want more."

"You could always leave me alone and let fate decide."

"No fun in that."

Kate walked over, arms full of papers, looking like someone had just reminded her that bureaucracy exists. "Command wants the squad's weekly behavior report."

"What behavior?" Gino asked, baffled.

"Exactly," Kate replied.

Amiel followed close behind, carrying a datapad and her usual thousand-yard stare. She handed Rus the squad checklist without saying a word, then sat beside the Humvee with the air of someone who wanted to be buried in it.

Rus glanced down at the sheet. "I see they've categorized 'inappropriate remarks,' 'unauthorized sparring,' and 'creative uses of mess hall utensils' under 'mild infractions.'"

Dan yawned. "Did we beat our record?"

"Oh, we shattered it."

Amiel nodded approvingly. "Progress."

"Amiel," Rus said, "how do you keep a straight face when surrounded by degenerates?"

"Practice," she replied.

Berta winked at her. "She just likes watching me harass you."

"No," Amiel said flatly. "I just enjoy watching him suffer."

"Well," Rus muttered, "at least someone's honest."

The camp around them hummed with activity. Gunships flew low on the horizon. Reclamation teams hauled in more salvage from pre-rift zone sites. A fresh convoy of recruits arrived—wide-eyed, nervous, unaware of the smell of wet boots and crushed hope that would soon be their perfume.

It was the calm between storms, and they all knew it. Damasa wasn't a place you lived in. It was a place you survived until someone with bars or stars told you to march elsewhere.

Berta sat beside Rus on the Humvee's hood, legs swinging idly. Stretched, arching her back in that way that made several nearby privates trip over themselves.

"You've got a soft spot for this squad," she said.

"No," Rus said. "I have a deeply buried, well-guarded tolerance that I mistake for affection."

Amiel piped in, deadpan. "You're emotionally constipated."

"Blame the rations," Rus said.

Kate chuckled. "Honestly, you're like the glue that holds our madness together. The bitter, sarcastic, deeply resentful glue."

"Thanks," Rus said. "That's all I've ever aspired to be."

Then the alert siren started wailing.

Everyone froze. Then, almost in unison, the squad reached for their weapons, helmets, gear—muscle memory kicking in like caffeine in the bloodstream.

Berta grinned. "There goes our rest day."

Rus checked the terminal in the Humvee.

Red alert. Orc movement detected east of Damasa. Large group. Possibly migrating or regrouping. The Order was Intercept and verify.

"Looks like we're riding out again," Rus said. "Gear up. Eyes sharp."

Amiel was already halfway into her harness. Dan shoved another mag into his rifle. Kate checked her drone feeds.

Foster muttered, "I was just about to nap…"

Berta cracked her knuckles. "We'll nap on the corpses."

Rus sighed. "Another day in paradise."

They all looked at Rus.

"What?" Rus said. "Don't want to miss the scenic route through Gobber territory. Maybe this time we can do a sewer crawl on the way."

And just like that, Cyma was on the move again.

Sarcasm, steel, and the promise of blood. A family in the worst way possible.

God help the poor bastards on the other side.

* * *

They rolled out twenty minutes later, two Humvees full of war-weary psychos pretending to be professionals. Rus was in the lead vehicle, naturally because leadership apparently means sitting where the bullets hit first.

Dan drove like he was trying to impress a demolition derby judge. Every pothole in the cracked highway was another chance to test the Humvee's suspension and Rus's patience.

Gino manned the turret, already chewing a piece of gum like it owed him money. "I got a good feeling about this one," he said.

"That's exactly what you said before we got ambushed by mutant dogs with swords for arms."

"Yeah, but this time I'm lucky."

"Your luck has the half-life of a mayfly."

Foster sat behind Rus, loading mags like he was prepping for a family reunion with Gobbers. "I'm telling you, the last squad that got deployed to this region found an Orc nest the size of a shopping mall."

"Good," Rus said. "Maybe this time you'll finally get to die doing what you love—screaming."

Amiel's voice crackled in over the comms from the second Humvee. "Drone has visuals. Movement ahead. Coordinates uploaded."

"Copy that," Rus said, tapping his visor and switching to thermal overlay. "Berta, you better be ready."

Berta's voice came through with the cheerful energy of someone who thinks chaos is foreplay. "I'm always ready, lover boy."

"She calls you that a lot these days," Dan muttered.

"She calls everyone that," Rus said. "It's her way of marking territory. Like a cat. A violent, oversexed cat with a machine gun."

They approached the coordinates Amiel had marked. The terrain shifted with less ruin, more swampy overgrowth. The air got thicker. The kind of place where shoes go to die.

"Swamp again," Foster groaned. "Why is it always swamp?"

"Because the gods hate us and want us to smell like decomposing salad," Rus muttered.

They stopped at a ridge overlooking a boggy clearing. Through the brush and haze, they spotted them: Orcs. Big ones. A dozen, maybe more. Moving with purpose.

They weren't just migrating.

"Those bastards are setting up a watch point," Gino muttered from the turret. "Look at that—fucking stakes, perimeter markers, even a campfire."

"New tribe," Rus said. "Or a splinter group trying to reclaim ground."

Berta's voice came in, sharp now. "Orders?"

Rus scanned the layout. "We take position. Wait for the gunships. If they don't arrive in ten, we hit hard and fast."

"Copy," Amiel said.

The team dismounted with the kind of quiet they'd only learned after a year of crawling through hell together. They spread out, rifles drawn, eyes watching the Orcs settle into a place they didn't realize was about to become a crater.

Gino whispered, "You think they know?"

"They never do," Rus said. "That's why they're still Orcs."

Dan set up the tripod for the LMG. Kate sent the drone higher for a wide sweep. Amiel crouched beside him, silent as ever.

"Still no gunship," she said.

"Then we keep watching."

A minute passed. Then another. Then five.

Amiel nudged Rus. "They're starting to move. Patrol forming."

"Guess we don't wait."

Rus tapped his comm. "Cyma, on me. Light it up."

And then the world exploded into fire.

Berta's LMG roared to life, her laughter echoing like thunder. Gino's .50 cal shredded the front line of Orcs. Foster tossed a grenade, and it landed perfectly—scattering limbs and confusion like party favors.

Rus took down three before they even saw Cyma. Dan held the flank, rifle barking, moving with cold efficiency. Amiel pointed and Rus shot—one after another, targets dropping before they even knew where to run.

Berta leapt over a ditch, slammed her axe into the biggest Orc's face, and drop-kicked another into the mud like a Spartan cheerleader.

Foster screamed, "I GOT BLOOD IN MY EYES—AGAIN!"

"Stop opening your mouth when you shoot!" Rus barked back, reloading.

The whole fight lasted less than four minutes.

Afterward, they moved through the clearing, checking bodies, marking the area. Burnt-out tents, shattered crates, and half-eaten rations filled the makeshift camp.

Dan stood over one Orc that was still twitching. "This one's breathing."

"Not for long," Berta said, jamming her boot down on its throat with a grunt. "There. Problem solved."

"Subtle," Rus muttered.

"Efficient," she replied.

Rus turned to the rest. "Tag the corpses. Mark the gear. Let the TRU do the cleanup."

"You know," Gino said as he leaned against a tree, "I thought this would be worse."

"It will be," Rus said. "Give it time."

They piled back into the Humvees just as the rain started again—thick, heavy drops slamming against metal and skin alike.

On the way back to Damasa, the usual dynamic resumed with his squad bickering like drunk siblings, Berta's squad singing dirty songs, and Amiel blissfully silent behind her rifle.

Rus rested his head against the window, watching the muddy world go by.

Three more years to go.