Garn wouldn't shut up on the comms.
"The Six Regional Zones aren't just labels," he said, crackling in Rus's earpiece while he tried not to slip down a muddy embankment. "They're historical tags from the anomalous season, when weather data went mad and Riftbites first got classified. Not arbitrary. There's meaning."
"Yes, Garn," Rus replied, slipping for the third time. "You're very smart. I'll nominate you for a medal when I get back."
"You're not listening—"
"Oh, I'm listening. I'm just not caring."
He huffed through the line. "The Great Basin was named not because someone got poetic, but because during the Second Surge, this entire stretch filled like an actual basin. Lakes formed. Roads disappeared. The local climate developed a micro-atmosphere. Humidity nearly collapsed all drone functions. You're in one of the first active rift-sink climates."
"Fantastic," Rus muttered. "Glad to be in a historical toilet."
In a way, the Basin lived up to its name.
Miles of gentle, bowled terrain, ringed by crumbling ridges that were probably mountains once before the Rift took a bite. Now it was a deep depression with thick water pooled into slow, scummy rivers and stagnant lakes that oozed more than flowed.
The rain didn't fall so much as soak. Everything. All the time.
Rus's boots squelched with every step. The sound of it was a constant reminder that no matter how advanced their suits were, there was no full protection from the universe's most persistent bastard… mud.
Berta trudged beside him, visor flicked up, face set. "I've checked the readings," she said, voice crisp. Professional. A rare mode for her.
"And?"
"They're stable. No Rift pulses. But the Riftbite zone…" She paused. "It's like the Ridge."
"Silent," Rus finished.
She nodded. "Not as bad. Not reality-eating. But it's got the same air. You feel it, right?"
He did.
That tension in the skull. That itch behind the molars. Like the world itself was holding its breath just long enough to screw with their sense of safety.
"It's not doing anything now," He said. "But it wants to."
The rest of Cyma kept their spacing tight, weapons down, scanners up. The grunt squads, new meat, mostly were still patrolling the western edge of the basin where Gobber dens had been mapped. They'd cleared two nests that morning. Loudly. Sloppily.
Dan and Foster were up ahead, heads on a swivel. Gino was back with the R.A.T.S. units, checking for soil fluctuation and temperature shifts. Every so often he'd hear a beep and his muttered cursing.
Stacy and Kate weren't with them on this run. Still recovering from Rift exposure. Their eyes were healing, according to the medics, but not fast. Berta didn't say anything about them, just kept watching, calculating, holding her tongue like it was a grenade she didn't want to throw yet.
Amiel walked silently to Rus's right, drone hovering in lazy circles above them. She'd affixed a narrow rain shield to its frame. He assumed she'd customized it during one of her daily "do not disturb" workshop hours.
"Amiel," Rus asked. "Readings?"
"Still. Off." she replied. She didn't like wasting syllables. "Like... compression."
"Like gravity?"
"No. Like something's pressing on the land. From above."
He didn't like that.
"Keep scanning. Let me know if the drone buzzes funny."
"Always does."
"Great."
They made camp at the southern edge of the Basin, just off a ridge formed by a collapsed road. It was one of those old-world highways you only recognized from the rusted guardrails and embedded concrete slabs cracked by invasive roots. Perfect elevation, perfect line of sight.
Perfect place to feel completely exposed.
The wind shifted directions constantly here. Hot one minute, cold the next. Rain came sideways. Then up. Then down again. Gino tried setting up a tarp and got wrapped in it like a burrito. They let him struggle for ten seconds before Berta cut him out.
Dan helped Foster dig a trench, though he called it a "lazy foxhole" because it was more puddle than pit. Still, they rigged up motion sensors and passive EM readers, just in case something slithered through the water.
Berta stayed on perimeter duty. Amiel kept tuning the drone.
Rus handled the logs.
The logs, the forms, the voice dictation records, it never ended. Not for an officer. Not when you're "one of the few qualified to interpret Rift compression symptoms in field conditions," as Garn so helpfully said.
He wanted to record. The Basin sucks and I hate everyone responsible for my presence in it.
But he settled for. "Silence persists. Weather remains erratic. No hostile movement, but compression readings continue to spike without consistency. Recommend limited exposure and rotating squad deployment to prevent fatigue."
Which was fancy code for: Get us the hell out before something goes wrong.
They made it through the night.
Barely.
No monsters. No gunfire. Just the steady weight of wet and silence, like the air itself, wanted to drown them without making a sound.
When morning came, Berta handed Rus a protein bar, unwrapped. He took it without asking.
She leaned against the broken guardrail and looked out at the Basin. "Used to think I liked rain," she said.
"You like showers, not weather."
"Same difference."
"Not here, it isn't."
She gave a tired smile. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were sharp. But her body was stiff in a way that said her dreams had been bad and sleep hadn't helped.
"I don't like how it smells," she added. "You smell that? It's like the land's bleeding."
"It's the Riftbite," Rus said. "Probably some kind of chemical aftereffect."
"No. It smells like rot. Like old meat under your fingernails."
"Thanks," Rus muttered. "Now I can't eat this."
"You're welcome."
Around midday, Garn came back over the comms.
"Drone data confirms your position is straddling two anomaly fault lines. Congratulations. You've found the boundary of Sector Theta-Nine."
"Fantastic," Rus said. "Do we win a prize?"
"Yes. Extended recon. HQ wants you to log pattern changes for the next forty-eight hours."
"You know we'll be eating rain by then, right?"
"Think of it as hydration."
Rus didn't answer. He muted the channel and swore for a full minute before turning back to the squad.
"Orders are to stay. Two days. Pattern study."
"Awesome," Foster said from the puddle he called a foxhole. "I love pruny fingers."
Gino groaned. "I'm going to rust."
Dan just pulled his hood lower. "Two days of wet socks. Kill me now."
Even Berta winced. "If I get trench ass, I'm blaming you."
"Everyone blames me these days," Rus replied. "It's tradition."
By nightfall, they started seeing the lights.
Just flickers. Out across the Basin.
Too far to shoot. Too erratic to call contact.
Foster swore he saw eyes once. Berta claimed it was probably swamp gas. Rus was less sure.
Amiel simply muttered, "Wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"They blink back."
He didn't sleep.
Not because he was on watch.
Because something out there felt… near.
The rain stopped for five minutes around 0300.
And at that time, he could hear the Basin breathing.
No other way to describe it. The water shifted. The trees leaned in. And for one horrible second, Rus thought the whole damn land was about to stand up.
Then the rain returned.
Louder.
They held the position. Logged the data. They survived the shifts.
Two days passed.
No monsters. No conflict. Just pressure and decay.
Garn told them they did well.
Rus told him to write them in for base rotation.
He agreed.
They left the Basin without a single casualty.
* * *
Back in Damasa. After the usual 'purification' rituals by spraying a lot of chemicals at them, they found themselves back in the barracks.
Stacy and Kate were cleared for field work again. Medical had signed off, stamped, and nodded like gods descending from Olympus to bless the mortals. Kate didn't look pleased. She'd started getting used to the quiet sanctuary of the admin work of pushing papers, making coffee, insulting Rus from across a desk. You know, civilized warfare.
Back to mud, bullets, and being potentially eaten alive by Rift-spawn or the creatures that appeared. Poor girl.
Rus submitted his report on the Riftbites in the Basin. Compiled, reviewed, and mercilessly trimmed of any unnecessary optimism. When he dropped it on Reed's desk, he didn't even look up at first. Just took it, filed it, and sighed like the paper alone weighed ten kilos.
"You ever wonder," Rus said, leaning on the edge of his desk, "why it's always us in the middle of the shitshow? I mean, out of all the squads you could throw into the meat grinder, you keep sending the same bunch of mentally unstable superhumans and our emotionally damaged mascot."
Reed looked up. "Because you're good."
"Oh, well, there it is," Rus said, folding my arms. "We're good, therefore we must suffer. A fine doctrine. I assume it's framed somewhere in UH Command, right next to 'Screw Ethics, Get Results.'"
Reed's face didn't twitch. "It's not just the squad. It's you."
"Well, flattery will get you nowhere," Rus said. "But continue."
"You've got a functioning squad. That's rare. You've kept them alive through ambushes, Rift exposure, psychological strain, and half a dozen operations that should've gotten you all killed."
"Is this your roundabout way of asking me to stay longer than four years? Because if so, I must regretfully inform you that I have plans. Very important plans. They involve retirement, getting fat, and never seeing another swamp again."
"You're an effective field leader, Rus. One of the few who can actually think beyond the next trigger pull. You've survived situations that slaughtered stronger, better-equipped teams. And yeah, I know you've got something more than just muscle and reflex."
Rus's spine stiffened. Just a touch. "I eat a lot of protein. Drink water. Say my prayers. Do my stretches."
Reed didn't blink. "Call it instinct. Or superhuman intuition. But I've seen you thread ambushes like you had a map the enemy didn't know they were drawing. The way you read terrain, anticipate attacks, it's not normal."
In a way, that was thanks to the compass he could see on top of his vision, the combat indicators, and the ability to use anything. Even his vision as of late, could allow him to sense if it's an important clue or not and if they were friendly or foe.
"That's a lovely theory," Rus said after a thought, voice flat. "Maybe I'm just paranoid. Or psychic. Or I've played too many turn-based tactics games in my PDA lately, Sir."
"Whatever it is, it's made you reliable. And reliability is a luxury we don't throw away. The other Counters? They're either busy with Rift incursions or barely holding on. Cyma fills the gap."
"Oh joy," Rus muttered. "The UH's human duct tape."
"You hold the front when the real monsters aren't around. That makes you invaluable."
"Which is another word for disposable but inconvenient to replace."
"You've still got two years," he said, leaning back. "But you should know, your contract states that exceptional operatives may be retained or recalled. The UH can grant citizenship. It can also revoke it."
"Of course it can," Rus said, standing up. "What's the point of giving someone a prize if you can't threaten to take it away later?"
Reed didn't argue. He didn't have to. Orders were orders. Even bastards like him just followed the chain. That was the game. Same uniform, different leash.
Rus gave him the kind of smile that had no humor left in it. "Well, Commander, if I ever get the itch to become an indentured monster slayer for life, I'll be sure to come running."
"You'll serve," he said, voice low. "Because you're good. And good people don't get to walk away clean in this world of ours, Wilson. "
Rus turned and left.
And he didn't slam the door.
But only because they'd probably bill him for the repairs.