We were back in Damasa, hell's own resting stop, and after days in the field with ash in my mouth and no clear sense of time, it looked like paradise. Or at least, a place where you didn't wake up wondering if an Orc or a Gobber was going to bite your face off.
I was half-asleep on the hood of the Humvee when reality rudely tapped me on the shoulder in the form of a long shadow and a voice far too cheerful for my liking.
"Hi, Wilson. Got a good sleep?" came the syrupy drawl of Sergeant Berta.
I cracked one eye open and found her grinning at me 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," I groaned, dragging my 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?" I 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.
I turned back to Berta, whose face was now uncomfortably close to mine.
"Kindly get off me," I said in my 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 bugs before they can even make us sneeze."
"Delightful," I said. "Does that include the ability to regrow dignity, or is that permanently gone?"
"Actually," she said proudly, "I can regrow my hymen."
"Splendid, so I heard. A miracle of science, truly. What next? Reversible herpes? Adjustable breast size? Self-cleaning womb?"
Berta's smirk didn't waver. She leaned closer. "You say that like you don't want to try motorboating these babies."
Before I could object, she shoved my face between her chest like I 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.
I 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," I 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."
I groaned. "Excellent. 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."
I glared. "Fuck. Off."
She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her coat like she hadn't just made me 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," I snapped. "I just can't get off in the middle of a charred battlefield 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 me. 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," I 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."
I hugged my rifle like a security blanket. It was cold, hard, reliable, and didn't try to smother me in tits without consent.
Dan called out from the side. "That's your new girlfriend, 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," I snapped, turning my back and pulling my cap low over my face.
I was going back to dreamland. Or at least the thin layer of unconsciousness we clung to before the next round of explosions dragged us up again.
My rifle stayed in my 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 us, was a damn miracle.
We 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… luxuries. No more sleeping under vehicles like stray dogs guarding a convoy.
Unfortunately for me, but very fortunate for my merry band of degenerates — Berta and her personal brothel squad were bunked right next to us. That meant Dan, Gino, and Foster were practically blessed with the most welcoming pair of legs in the region. And I mean "welcoming" like a revolving door at some Vegas casino.
Her friends, Stacy, Kate, and Amiel 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.
I mean, I know 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 who;e thirsting for more.
She fights like a damn beast, too. If she told me she was a barbarian, I wouldn't even flinch. Hell, I'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, they 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.
We 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 your 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 you can do to a creature once it's been properly dehumanized. Napalm, artillery, chemical agents. The works.
If I were a bleeding heart, which I am not, thank God, I'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, I just cleaned my rifle, drank my instant coffee, and shared nods with other guys who agreed: we're going to have to kill every last one of them.
And frankly, the only thing I'm bleeding for is more ammo.
* * *
Days later.
Then came the bombshell Captain Muriel and Commander Reed decided to consolidate. Two fireteams, one unit.
Cyma Unit.
That meant me, 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 my 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.
Me?
I had reservations. Specifically, about whether my 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 my neck like we were high school sweethearts, yanked me in, and planted a smooch on my cheek. It was wet. Warm. Horrifying.
"I'm so looking forward to our partnership," she purred, eyes glinting like a predator who just got assigned a new cage mate.
I stared at her, deadpan.
"Just try not to fuck the whole crew to death."
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 our bunks like they were speed dating through a warzone.
It was official. We were now part of one big, sexually charged kill-team. The Cyma Unit where the only thing higher than our body count was the potential for awkward bunk arrangements.
And if I had to babysit one more afterglow-hungover grunt during a mission brief, I might just frag myself for the peace and quiet.
* * *
To my 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 my second. Apparently, Commander Reed read my psych and tactical evals, saw I could actually spell "tactics" without a crayon, and decided I should lead the squad alongside Berta.
So now we 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 I don't mean "simmering down." I 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 I knew why.
Captain Muriel. God bless her unflinching, steely soul. Two days ago, she'd 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, I 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 I had to wager, I'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 me the most.
Berta wasn't a chaotic mess.
She was a controlled mess.
Which made her infinitely more dangerous.
Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if she were a schizoid in power armor. Half of her seemed laser-focused on the mission. The other half was sketching dicks on her kill tally.
I'll 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 I can say for most.
So yeah, things were quiet. Calm. Too calm.
And if there's one thing war taught me—it's that calm usually comes right before the clusterfuck.