Standard Operating Procedure was to wait for the gas to settle before moving in. So for four long days, we sat in that decaying skeleton of a city while mustard gas did what bullets couldn't. It choked out whatever monsters were too dumb to move or too stubborn to die.
Finally, the call came down for masks off.
A cheer went up not because we were excited to breathe post-apocalyptic city air, but because no one liked sweating their asses off in rubber suits while humping gear through urban hell. We ditched the gear in waves, peeling ourselves out of the thick layers like shedding dead skin.
Berta and her squad, naturally, turned it into a peep show.
They were already down to their sports bras and fatigues, tits glistening with sweat and attitude. The sun glared down like it had a personal vendetta, and the girls used it as an excuse to ventilate as much as regs would let slide.
Stacy caught me staring. Gave me a wink like she was letting me in on a private joke. Berta, never one to miss a beat, gave me that insufferable grin of hers, the one that said she knew exactly what I was thinking and had five ways to turn it against me.
"If you want to touch and feel," she said, "just ask, darling."
I turned, deadpan, trying to be dumb poet about it to piss her off. "I would, Berta, but I fear the virulent sweat-borne plagues that might leap from thy bosom. One drop might reduce me to a crumbling husk of regret and herpes."
"Always have a way of words, Rus," she gave me the finger without breaking eye contact. Graceful, as always.
Then she stood next to me, leaning her elbow on my arm like we were old pals at a bar instead of sweating through our uniforms in this gassed skeletal corpse of a city.
"This SOP is shit," she muttered.
"It might be," I said, "but it's safe."
"It's boring," she countered.
"Better than getting a spear up the arse."
She tilted her head, thoughtful. "True. But I still want to shoot something."
"We just did shoot something," I reminded her.
"Not enough," she smirked. "Can't make a trophy wall with just three heads. And yours wouldn't count, seeing it's too full of air."
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could come up with something appropriately scathing, a couple of morons from 3rd Squad sauntered past, eyes glued to Berta's chest like they were about to pay rent on it.
One of them whistled. "Hey, Berta! Show us the goods!"
Without missing a beat, Berta threw her head back and laughed, loud enough to bounce off the broken walls.
"Sorry, boys," she shouted. "Wilson here already told me these tits are all his."
And just like that, every bastard nearby turned their heads to me like I'd just confessed to war crimes. Their eyes held the kind of hate reserved for people who kick dogs or spoil a surprise birthday party.
"You're going to get me fucking murdered," I muttered to her.
She grinned, wide and wicked. "Maybe if you apologized and said yes, I'd tell them to be nice."
"Bugger off."
She patted me on the shoulder. "I've seen you fight. You'll be fine."
Kate came strolling over then, rifle slung across her shoulder, sweat making her bra cling to her like plastic wrap on a sandwich. "You're just making her cunt wet," she said like she was commenting on the weather. "She likes it when guys don't fall over themselves."
"Oh, is that how it works?" I said. "So what, I should just shag her and get it over with?"
Kate shrugged. "Might work. But then again, she'll know you only did it so she'd leave you alone."
"And wouldn't that just guarantee she keeps bothering me?" I asked.
"Probably," Kate said, leaning on a cracked column. "But it's not your fault she's a horny goat."
"Oi!" Berta shouted from the other side of the street. "Quit flirting with my future dildo!"
Kate rolled her eyes and gave me a mock salute before turning to rejoin Berta. As she passed, Berta smacked her on the ass and tossed her a pair of binoculars. Kate took up an overwatch position on top of a collapsed second floor, eyes scanning the horizon for movement.
Dan wandered over, fiddling with a half-eaten protein bar. "You and Berta are getting close, huh?"
"Fuck no."
Dan shrugged. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep."
I looked around. Dusty streets. The smell of dead Orcs just under the scorched concrete. A sun that refused to quit. Berta laughing with Stacy up high. Kate scans the distance. Gino bitching about crotch rash. Foster writes something in a little notebook like a poet in a warzone.
It was a mess. An absurd, filthy, chaotic mess.
And we still had a war to fight.
"Fuck," I said aloud.
Dan just nodded. "Yeah. That about sums it up."
* * *
We made it to one of the upper floors of a half-collapsed high-rise, its frame still intact despite the war, the gas, and whatever else time had thrown at it before we got here. It was one of those rare moments where the universe decided not to be a complete bastard. No cave-ins. No mines. No monsters nesting inside the stairwells waiting to turn us into mulch. Just silence, wind, and the faint hum of life creeping back into the ruins.
We cleared the floor in standard formation. Berta's squad moved left, ours swept right. Nothing but empty halls, cracked tiles, and the occasional vine snaking out from old ventilation shafts. The place was overgrown but solid. Whatever didn't rot had rooted instead. Moss, mutated ferns, even a few flowers that looked like they had teeth. Pretty, in the "this-will-eat-your-dog" kind of way.
Down below, the rest of the unit was settling in. Generators buzzed. Lights flicked on. A few forward ops teams had already started building up checkpoints and hauling in supplies. Through the broken windows, I could see the glow of reclaiming this city, from temporary lights on rooftops, flags fluttering, a Knight or two dragging debris out of the roads. For all its rot and death, the city was breathing again. Gasping, maybe. But still.
Berta came up beside me. Didn't say anything at first—just lit a cigarette and leaned her forearm on my shoulder like she was lounging at a bar and I was the stool. Her smoke curled up into the ruined ceiling like a ghost trying to find its way out.
"This is gonna be a long four years," she said finally.
"Longer if you keep leaning on me like I'm furniture."
She ignored that. Or maybe that was her way of acknowledging it.
We talked, not like soldiers trading shit banter between missions, but like people. Like two tired assholes who'd been shot at one too many times and finally got a second to breathe.
She told me she was gunning for citizenship like most of the people here. Like it was just another quest marker on the HUD.
"Get through the contract, do my time, make it through this monster-fucked wasteland, and then I'm out," she said. "I wanna find some place quiet. Maybe a kitchen. Maybe a garden. Get a bar."
"Gonna name a cocktail after every guy you've banged here?"
She snorted. "Sure. I have plans for this one cocktail. Going to call it 'The Wilson' — a shot of whiskey and a pinch of salt. Goes down bitterly. Leaves a bad aftertaste."
"Very funny. Not that we'd ever be in a bed. Ever."
"Who knows what the future entails, Rus."
But even as she joked, there was something off about her smile. It wasn't one of her usual, cocky grins. It was the tired kind — the kind you give when you're too worn out to be angry anymore.
We went quiet after that. Just stood there, watching the city come back to life, while the wind whistled through the broken bones of the building like a lullaby no one wanted to hear.
"Okay, let's be real for a moment," I said.
"Sure," she nodded. "Maybe it's my gut instinct, but I think you're seeing something your goon squad ain't seeing."
Berta took another drag from her cigarette, flicked the ash near my boot like it was a ritual, then glanced sideways at me.
"You ever think about what you'd do after this? I mean, assuming you don't get impaled, exploded, or eaten alive?"
"Yeah. I was thinking of starting a monastery," I said, deadpan. "Vow of silence. Celibacy. Complete isolation. Away from horny psychos and their sidekicks."
She laughed, coughed on the inhale, then jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. "So, basically, hiding from me."
"Exactly. I'll build a chapel and preach purity and virtue."
"I'll come find you. Preach with my tits out."
I looked at her, unamused. "It's truly comforting to know that even in hypothetical futures, you're still trying to flash me."
She smiled around the cigarette. "Well, someone's gotta remind you what fun looks like."
"Fun? Is that what you call seduction-by-blunt-force-trauma?"
"It worked on most of your squad."
I raised my hand. "Don't remind me. I still hear Gino making orgasm noises in his sleep. It's like sharing a bunk with a ghost who moans his own name."
Berta laughed again, this time with real amusement. "To be fair, Gino was the one begging."
I rolled my eyes. "This is what I signed up for. Glory, honor, and being emotionally waterboarded by my squadmates' sexcapades."
"You love us."
"Like herpes."
She leaned heavier on my shoulder, exhaled slowly, and for a second her voice dropped into something quieter. "You know, Wilson… sometimes I wish I didn't end up like this. Not the soldier part. Just… all the other shit."
I glanced at her. "You mean the walking hormone part?"
"Yeah." She gave a humorless grin. "That part."
She looked away, and for a second there was silence again, except for the wind and the occasional radio chatter crackling from my vest.
"You're not as much of a lost cause as you pretend to be," I muttered.
Berta turned her head. "The fuck's that supposed to mean? Are you getting sentimental on me?"
"Just saying. You act like you're some braindead nympho warlord, but you keep your team alive, you haven't abandoned anyone, and you somehow haven't gotten us all killed despite your talent for bad decisions."
She was quiet for a moment, then smiled. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me this year."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. I'll go back to being an extra sarcastic prick in five minutes."
"I'd be worried if you didn't. It's kinda nice actually. Not talking to some horny grunt who just wants a quick fuck. Still don't know if you're a pussy or simply limpdicked, I think that you're both."
"That so?"
We stood there a while longer. Me, scanning the horizon for movement. Her, quietly burning through the rest of her cigarette.
Then she said, "You know… if we do make it out of this shit, I'll keep a bar stool open for you."
"Thanks. I'll make sure to sit on it and complain about everything."
"That's the Wilson I know."
"Damn right."
* * *
Nothing happened for the next two weeks. Then during the end of the week, the morning with a bad taste in my mouth, stiff joints, and Berta trying to hog the best view on the roof like she owned the city.
Commander Reed showed up with that grimace he wore when someone somewhere did something stupid — and this time it wasn't us or anyone.
"Another warband's moving into Sector 12," he said flatly, holding a datapad like it personally offended him. "Intel says they're heading straight this way. Might be a habitat nearby."
"Great," I muttered, already feeling my breakfast turn traitor in my gut. "So we're the welcome committee."
Berta seated on an ammo crate and halfway into a protein bar she claimed was chocolate but looked like compressed asphalt, perked up.
"Another warband, Sir? Didn't we just kill the last bunch of days ago?"
"They must really like dying," Gino added, sharpening his bayonet like he had plans for it tonight.
Reed just sighed. "Brass wants all of you to recon. Track their path. Confirm if they're nesting somewhere. You're not engaging unless necessary."
"Define 'necessary,' Sir," I asked, arms crossed.
"If they attack first, or you see something worth bombing the shit out."
Foster raised a hand. "Sir, do we get a drone this time or are we supposed to throw rocks and hope?"
Reed ignored him. "You're moving out in one hour. Kit up. We need to know what's drawing them here."
Then he turned and left, like some NPC in a game who dropped the quest and vanished into the fog.
"Habitat, huh?" Dan said, slinging his rifle and glancing my way. "So that means there's more than just a warband. Maybe a whole damn colony."
"Or breeding ground," Kate added helpfully, checking her mags. "You know, if you're into that sort of thing."
Berta made a sound somewhere between a snort and a growl. "I swear to god, if I see an orc nursery, I'm gonna light that shit up like it owes me money."
"That's the most motherly thing you've ever said," I muttered. "And here I thought you'd fuck an Orc too."
She gave me a wink. "Thanks, dad. But I'm not exactly into fucking another species. But I hear you're used to handling Orc cocks. Is that your thing?"
I resisted the urge to walk off the side of the building.
We then got geared up like usual. Ammo, rations, masks — though we were hoping this wouldn't turn into another gas party. The rest of the squad looked like they were itching for a fight. Not because they were bloodthirsty or brave, mind you. More like bored to death and wanting something to shoot at that didn't involve canned rats or arguing over how to boil rations faster.
I stared out toward the edge of the city, where the smoke of yesterday's skirmishes still floated above the horizon like a bruise that hasn't healed yet.
A habitat meant roots. It meant permanence. Which meant this wasn't just raiders passing through.
This was their home.
And we were about to kick the door in.