The logistics operation had grown into its own beast. What started as a trickle from Libertalia became a thundering artery of trucks, drones, Knights, and enough crates to make a bureaucrat weep with joy or terror. You couldn't walk twenty meters in the Damasa base without hearing hydraulics hiss, some poor bastard swearing at a mislabeled crate, or the grinding, too-loud groan of another prefabricated tower slotting into the soil.
And there Rus was, once again doing paperwork. The noble duty of a second lieutenant.
His hands ached. His eyes felt like sandpaper. And his patience was dancing a tightrope above a pit of sharpened spikes. Kate was beside Rus, muttering to herself as she cross-checked logistics manifests and barked corrections into a comm like a dominatrix with a barcode scanner.
"The crate marked 42-B is labeled as munitions," she said, tapping the tablet. "But it contains water purifiers."
"Which explains why one of the privates almost boiled a grenade for lunch," Rus muttered.
Kate didn't even look up. "You know, this is what makes us elite. Counter-soldiers with clipboard training."
"I can feel myself evolving," Rus said. "My final form will be a desk with legs."
Truthfully, Rus was trying to focus. He was trying to keep his head in the now. But with the sheer volume of supplies flooding into Damasa, he couldn't help the nagging thought scratching behind his eyes.
Why?
They'd cleared most of the region. The monsters were thinning out. The Great Plains were practically a doormat at this point. And yet, Libertalia kept sending more. More fuel. More gear. More ammo. It was like they were stockpiling for the end of the world again, only this time they were the ones making the world end.
"Notice anything odd about the loadout ratios?" Rus asked.
Kate paused. "Besides the fact that the mess hall is receiving more cleaning supplies than actual food?"
"Yeah. Like… Why are we getting bunker busters? Anti-air platforms? This sector's been as quiet as Dan after his fourth ration bar. Not that these Gobbers have their flyers"
Kate frowned. "They're just clearing space. Securing routes. It's just part of the operation."
"No, no," Rus said, tapping the manifest. "This isn't just securing. This is preparation. Reinforcement. As if they expect something worse."
She sighed. "There it is. The classic Wilson spiral. Doomsaying with extra seasoning."
"I'm just saying," Rus said, watching yet another convoy roll in like clockwork. "This isn't just rebuilding. This is gearing up for something big. Something they're not telling us."
Kate didn't argue. Which, coming from her, was confirmation.
After an hour, they took a break. Stepped outside the admin tent into the smog-heavy sunlight of Damasa's shifting skyline. What had once been tents and temporary fences was now concrete, armored walls, and weaponized towers.
And still more arriving.
Dan jogged by, a crate in his arms, yelling at Gino who was riding a forklift like it was a carnival attraction. Foster waved at them while juggling smoke grenades for the entertainment of the lower-ranked troops. A Knight clanked past in the distance, its mounted railgun tracking imaginary targets.
Business as usual.
"You think they'll ever let us rest?" Kate asked.
Rus snorted. "Not until we're mulch."
Back at the officer's tent, Rus was summoned to a logistics meeting. Always a pleasure. He walked in to find half a dozen officers around a holotable, Captain Muriel at the head, Commander Reed flanking her like a very tired piece of granite.
"Wilson," Reed greeted, voice like gravel. "Take a seat."
"Can I take a nap instead, Sir?"
"No."
Fair.
Muriel pointed to the table, where a holographic map flickered to life, displaying the entire corridor between Libertalia and Damasa.
"This is the route. And these," she said, highlighting a cluster of red zones, "are the current priority targets. Former industrial zones. Mostly derelict. High radiation in some parts. We're still scanning for Rift activity."
Rus raised a brow. "Rift?"
Reed nodded. "Nothing confirmed. But signs are showing."
There it was. That gut-feeling inked into truth.
"What about the logistics corridor?" Rus asked. "We're running non-stop convoys. You sure it's not overkill?"
"We're not just building a supply chain," Muriel said. "We're constructing a permanent line of communication and reinforcement. Libertalia is expanding its reach. Damasa is becoming the anchor. The rest of the nodes will follow."
So that's what it was.
They weren't just rebuilding civilization. They were expanding territory. Militarized, reinforced, and ready to face whatever the Rift belched out next.
A staging ground.
A forward base.
A front line.
After the meeting, Rus returned to the admin tent, back to the reports, the manifests, the endless paper-pushing pretending to be command. Kate was still there, reading through requisitions for anti-Rift ammo, stuff they didn't even use in normal patrols.
"You see it now?" Rus asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. They're not telling us everything. But they're definitely preparing."
Rus filed another report, logged the latest supply shipment, and stared at the flickering screen.
"This place is going to change," Rus said. "Soon."
Kate glanced at him. "Are you saying we're going to be in the next Rift war?"
"I'm saying," Rus said, leaning back in the chair, "we're already in it. We just haven't seen the worst of it yet."
Outside, the base was alive. Knights stomping by. Drones overhead. Convoys unloading. Soldiers yelling. Generators humming.
It wasn't just a base anymore.
It was a war engine.
And they were the fuel.
The next few days passed in a haze of form-filling, equipment checks, and overheard whispers about "anomalous readings" and "high-priority clearances." The kind of chatter you only hear when someone above your pay grade starts shitting bricks quietly.
Still, Cyma unit made themselves useful.
They rotated on patrols. Trained rookies. Filed reports. Berta somehow managed to wrestle half the logistics team into helping her organize an "orientation brawl," which ended with three broken noses and one concussion, courtesy of her thighs. Dan nearly got thrown into a supply crate marked "Fragile – Medical."
They laughed. They worked. They waited.
"Troublesome," Rus sat back in his chair. Stared at the updated map of Damasa's expanding network of nodes and outposts. Lines stretching like veins. Roads. Power grids. Drone relays. Automated turrets.
The ruined town was turning into a forward city.
***
Three days later, the tension broke, not with an attack, not with an alert, but with an order.
Official orders. Stamped, sealed, and delivered straight to his terminal like a summons from the gods of bureaucratic madness. When Rus opened the file, it didn't even try to sugarcoat it:
"Cyma Unit will report to Outpost Elger Ridge for forward surveillance and terrain clearing. Coordination with Sector Control mandatory. Duration: indefinite until further orders."
Rus stared at it for a full ten seconds, then sighed. "Of course. Why rest when we can relocate and suffer in a fresh new patch of dirt."
Kate leaned over my shoulder, chewing on a pen cap. "Elger Ridge? That's in the northwest uplands, yeah?"
"Yup. Just past the crater fields and conveniently located near 'possible Rift readings.' We're moving up in the world."
"By world, you mean straight into an irradiated pit of monster hell."
"Exactly."
She clapped Rus on the shoulder. "Pack sunscreen."
Assembling at the motor pool, Cyma Unit looked half-awake, half-furious. Dan had one boot on, Foster was trying to zip his body armor while drinking from a can of stim-juice, and Gino was loudly complaining about leaving behind the coffee machine they stole from supply.
Berta showed up last, dragging her gear behind her like it owed her money. "Good morning, degenerates," she said brightly. "Ready to go die somewhere new?"
Amiel, deadpan as always, replied: "No."
Rus gathered them around the map displayed on the holo-board. "Alright, listen up. Elger Ridge. We're moving out in six hours. Recon, sweep, and forward terrain clearing. Might be Rift-activity, might be another gobber hole. Either way, HQ wants us to play exterminator again."
Gino raised his hand. "Do we get hazard pay this time?"
"Do you want the polite answer or the truth?"
He lowered his hand.
"Good. We'll be taking two transport trucks, full armor, full loadout. Drones will accompany us halfway, but we're expected to set up comms once we arrive. Apparently, we're the first unit being sent in. Which makes us…"
Dan groaned. "...the canaries in the Rift mine."
"Exactly."
Berta cracked her knuckles. "Good. I was starting to get bored in this base."
"You're always bored," Rus muttered. "Your idea of excitement is seeing if your thighs can crack a Kevlar plate."
"They can," she said, smug. "You really need to get your info updated, Boss."
Amiel simply tapped the side of her drone controller. "Weather reports: storm inbound by day three. Recommend hard shelter setup."
"Wonderful," Rus muttered. "Swamp rot and lightning. Just what I needed."
The road to Elger Ridge was long, winding, and felt like a setup for a roadside ambush that never came. Just hills, the occasional crater, and long stretches of cracked, forgotten roads overrun with foliage.
Rus rode shotgun. Dan drove. Berta's squad followed in the second truck, singing some lewd marching song that only she and Foster found funny.
"You ever think," Dan said, glancing at the side mirror, "that maybe we're too good at this?"
"Too good at what?"
"Surviving. Fighting. Making jokes about it."
"Would you prefer crying in the shower?"
Dan shrugged. "Might be more honest."
Rus leaned against the window, staring out at the endless grey-green blur. "We're not soldiers anymore, Dan. We're the scalpel. The one they use when things get infected."
"That supposed to be poetic?"
"It's supposed to be true. I hope it is"
The sun dipped low by the time they reached Elger Ridge. Or what passed for it. An old mining facility buried into the hillside, now retrofitted into a defensive hub. Barracks half-built, automated turrets cold and silent, the entire place smelled like rust and moldy concrete.
As they dismounted, a figure greeted them near the entrance, one of the local logistics officers. Young. Tired. Looked like he'd rather be shot than give another briefing.
"Welcome to Elger Ridge," he said, voice dead inside. "Try not to die. We haven't finished building the morgue yet."
It was their kind of welcome.
The following day, they were in full operation mode. Drones launched. Sensors placed. Defensive perimeter mapped.
And yet…
Something felt off.
Too quiet. No tracks. No sounds. No signs of life. It was as if the entire area had been emptied.
By midday, Berta met Rus on the ridge overlooking the southern woods. Her usual bravado dimmed slightly.
"Tell me you feel it too."
Rus nodded. "Like something's watching but nothing's there."
She unslung her rifle. "Exactly. Like the land's holding its breath."
For a moment, they just stood there. Wind brushing against their armor. The ridge stretched far, shadows gathering in the dips and valleys.
"Weird place for a base," she muttered.
"No. Perfect place. Strategic. High ground. Clear visibility. Natural barriers. It's ideal… if you want to keep something from getting out."
She looked at me sideways. "You think we're guarding something, not scouting?"
"I think," Rus said slowly, "the reason they sent us is because they don't know what the hell's out here. And they're hoping we figure it out before it figures us out."
A pause.
Then Berta, smiling faintly, added. "Well, shit. Now I'm excited again."
"Glad I could help."
Back at the compound, Rus updated the logs, cross-checked comms with HQ, and filed their patrol plans. It was all too quiet. All too still.
But he knew better.
This wasn't peace.
It was the edge of something much bigger.
And they were standing right on it.
Because Command never sends them to places unless there was a need for them to kill something.