Rus knew better than to argue with the United Humanity about the whole citizenship thing. That fight was dead before it started. Sure, he had some sort of ability, call it superhuman, call it "mutated potential," call it whatever scientific mumbo-jumbo TRU liked to scribble into their little data tablets, but it didn't mean jack shit when it came to policy. Sure, he had an internal compass. Combat indicators. The ability to pick up a weapon heI'd never touched and use it like he'd been born holding it. It felt like a system, a stripped-down one, minimal HUD burned into his perception. It didn't make him invincible, just efficient. Sharper than most. Lucky, maybe.
But Rus never let it make him ambitious.
Why?
Because common sense told him that trying to fuck with the UH was about as wise as sticking his tongue in a live socket. And during his two and a half years of service, He'd seen exactly what happened to Counters who got too big for their boots. Being useful didn't mean they'd protect you. It just meant they'd squeeze every drop of use out of you before the system spat your bones into the next meat grinder.
So Rus kept his head down. Mostly.
After Elger Ridge and the Rift operation, they finally signed Cyma Unit out of frontline duties. No more Rift breaches. No more swamp-born nightmares. No more dragging the wounded through radioactive mud and pretending they'd be home by dinner. They were on standby now. Relegated to training, base defense, and the odd staff assignment.
Honestly? It was a relief for Rus. A boring, gray, bureaucratic relief. But peace was peace, and he wasn't about to bitch about being alive and un-shot at.
Most days, he was holed up in the admin block with Kate. She'd fully leaned into her role as secretary gone slightly-feral. They handled logistics, training schedules, maintenance requisitions, disciplinary reports, basically, everything that would make a soldier jump off a cliff if you told them this was their new full-time job.
While they wrestled with paperwork and printer malfunctions that seemed more sentient than half the grunts in the base, Berta took over Cyma's day-to-day operations.
And God help them.
Dan, Gino, and Foster started calling it "The Reign of Mama B." Stacy said it was like getting punched in the soul every morning. Amiel didn't say anything. Just stared into the void like she was reliving trauma.
Apparently, Berta, when she wasn't being a walking HR violation, was a terrifyingly competent drill sergeant. Brutal routines. Precision live-fire drills. Tactical simulations so intense Dan actually asked if he could go back to the front lines.
It was hilarious.
Even funnier? Berta had… toned down.
Not entirely. She still made her usual off-color jokes, still flirted with anything that moved and had a pulse. But the edge was gone. The manic, full-throttle sex-goblin energy was muted. Polished. Professional.
Hell, she even filed reports which were typed, punctuated, and spell-checked.
He nearly had a heart attack when he opened one and didn't see the phrase "baby girl" anywhere near the combat notes.
Rus was starting to suspect she'd been swapped out during a Rift pulse. Maybe this was a clone. Or a decoy. Maybe the real Berta was still out there somewhere, trying to hump a Gobber out of loneliness.
But no, same scar, same smirk. Just… different.
Something had shifted in her after the Rift. Something in all of them had, to be honest. They saw something they weren't supposed to. A glimpse of what the world was turning into if they had been a second too late.
And that kind of clarity either broke you or straightened your spine.
Berta, for all her chaos, chose the latter.
Now she led Cyma with an iron grin and a combat axe.
As for him?
Rus signed requisitions for rations, watched the rain hammer the concrete walls of Damasa.
* * *
It was one of their rare, prized days off when he finally had time to talk to her again. Command signed off on a short leave, and with Reed's reluctant blessing and a transport authorization in hand, Rus took most of Cyma Unit into Libertalia.
No one wanted to take a break in Damasa after all.
Damasa was a military city. Functional. Efficient. Depressing as all hell. It had a handful of civvie zones, a few decent canteens, and an officer club that smelled like old sweat and regret. You could stretch your legs, maybe find a drink that didn't taste like battery acid, but that was it.
Libertalia?
Libertalia was another world entirely.
The moment they stepped in, the air changed. Less mud, more ozone and money. Towering steel and concrete spires stretched into the sky, decked out in neon signage and shameless advertisements. Every inch of it screamed civilization trying too hard to prove it still mattered. It looked like the apocalypse hadn't hit. Or maybe it had, and they decided to slap a fresh coat of paint on it and pretend otherwise.
Libertalia was a coastal megacity covering 695,000 square kilometers of engineered arrogance. The kind of place where people wore suits that cost more than the bullets he fired in a month. He'd passed through once when he first got here in this world. Back then, he was broke, shell-shocked, and too busy trying not to piss himself in the alleys. Now, he had a decent check, half a spine, and a full team of misfits behind him.
They kept it central. No need to get lost in the labyrinth of underground corridors, skywalks, and tower districts. They found a place called Sixth Array, a massive tower, all bars and lounges stacked on top of each other like someone decided luxury drinking should be a vertical sport. Next to it was a hotel. Clean. Overpriced. Full of people pretending not to notice the armed soldiers walking in with casual authority.
They spent their hard-earned credits like drunk aristocrats on a deadline.
Amiel and Stacy vanished almost immediately. Some shopping thing, he assume. Last he heard, they were arguing over boots and ceramic knives like they weren't both trained killers. Dan, Gino, and Foster caught up with Peter and Prokop, two other Counters they'd crossed paths with back in boot camp. They went off to a pub that probably had beer and bad decisions on tap.
He, on the other hand, chose food. A novel concept.
Berta, of course, followed. She didn't eat, just browsed the floors like a jungle cat bored with the savannah. She made a few jokes about them being on a date, maybe ending up sharing a hotel room if the mood struck her. He ignored her, naturally. That was the standard Berta greeting, flirtation mixed with underlying menace.
Honestly, he wasn't in the mood for her antics. Libertalia pulled his attention more than she did.
There was too much to see. Too much to process. A web of districts, elevated train lines, layered streets with pop-up markets and corporate showcases. Every tower had an identity, every alley a secret. It was a city trying to forget the world outside was still a fucking mess.
What struck Rus, though, was how the Counters, real Counters, not the enhanced grunts like them were treated.
Out here, they were celebrities. Icons. Walking idols in combat suits. They moved in cliques, wore custom gear, and reeked of corporate backing. UH still held the leash, of course. But some of the private factions were building strength, buying talent, creating little Counter dynasties with logos and sponsorships.
Rus saw one billboard showing a Counter in full armor, holding a plasma halberd like a messiah. "Strength Through Precision," the tagline said. Sponsored by Ascension Dynamics.
Another one. "Project Mythos" advertised gear endorsed by a Counter squad with five Riftborn confirmed kills. Flashy, deadly, and dressed like a synthpop band from hell.
UH didn't move against them. But you could tell there were eyes everywhere. Quiet watchers on rooftops, in mirrored offices. Libertalia might have looked like freedom, but it was still stitched together with UH's barbed wire. Every warlord who tried to challenge that was rushed. Not just militarily. Erased. Like they never existed.
That kind of power didn't just mean control. It meant certainty. It meant fear.
And yet the city kept humming. Civilians walked the streets like nothing mattered. Music thumped through the subways. Drones zipped overhead delivering overpriced coffees. You wouldn't think the world had cracked in half.
Rus let it all wash over him for a while. Ignored the politics. Ignored the pressure. Just walked the street, head up, letting the noise scrape the inside of his skull like steel wool.
It wasn't home. Nothing was.
But for a brief moment, Libertalia reminded him that they weren't just animals in the mud. That maybe, somewhere past the layers of war and silence, there was still something close to normal.
Or at least a good drink. That'd do.
After roaming around, he headed back to Sixth Array after walking the city alone. His boots were sore, his new coat smelled like rain and smog, and he was starting to feel the kind of edge that only a stiff drink could dull.
The elevator to the sixth floor of the tower-bar was glass with a full view of Libertalia's lights stretching in every direction. Neon signs blinked. Cabs zipped past on silent engines. From up here, it looked like civilization still had a heartbeat. A lie, maybe. But a beautiful one.
Inside, the floor was alive.
Sixth Array wasn't just a bar it was like a vertical carnival. Glass-paneled walls revealed wide open lounges, bars tucked between corners, neon-lit booths where people lounged with synth drinks and fake laughter. Each level had its own theme. There was "Tactical Luxury." Don't ask him what that means. All Rus knew was, there were military-style couches covered in velvet, drinks served in bullet casings, and a floor lit up like a target grid. Some interior designer probably got paid a fortune for that nonsense.
Cyma was already there. Half the squad was lounging on the long couch near the booth closest to the outer balcony. A curved bar lined one side of the floor, behind it stood a barkeep in a suit with a suit and a haircut that probably cost half his paycheck.
Dan and Gino were deep into their second round, drinks sweating on the table in front of them. Foster was already red-faced and loudly trying to convince a nearby server that "UN field grunts deserve a medal and a blowjob."
Stacy and Kate had joined them, not in the drinking contest, but in the laughter. Stacy sat back, watching the chaos unfold with a smirk. Kate, on the other hand, was mid-toast, shouting, "To surviving literal hell, and only half of us needing therapy!"
"Speak for yourself," Gino said. "I'm self-medicating right now."
Rus dropped into the seat next to them, unbuckled his jacket, and sighed loud enough to turn heads.
Berta glanced over from the bar. She was leaning against it like she owned the damn place, drink in hand, tight shirt tucked into her cargo pants like she was trying to blend warlord and nightlife. When she saw Rus, she raised her glass, smirked, then went back to whatever poor soul she was terrifying with her flirtations.
Amiel sat one stool away, quietly nursing a pale drink. Same unreadable expression, same cool disinterest, same "I'll stab anyone who tries to start small talk" aura. Rus gave her a nod. She nodded back. That was their whole conversation.
Rus ordered something simple like bourbon. When it came, he didn't savor it. He swallowed half in one go and let it burn its way down like disinfectant for the soul.
The laughter picked up. Foster started arguing with Dan over who had the better kill count, and Gino chimed in with a ridiculous story about "the time I punched a gobber so hard it exploded." Stacy snorted. Kate leaned in, adding new exaggerations until the story involved two grenades, three knives, and a goat.
Rus let it happen. Let them enjoy the space. No Rifts, no orders, no armor. Just drinks and lies and the safety of not having to scan tree lines for shadows.
Eventually Berta wandered over, claiming the seat next to him like it had her name on it. She dropped her elbow on the table, leaned toward him, and said, "You look like you're brooding. You know brooding's only sexy when you're shirtless, right?"
"Then I'll keep the jacket on," Rus said, sipping again.
"Suit yourself." She raised her glass. "To surviving Elger Ridge. To you not going crazy. And to me, for keeping this circus together."
"To you, Mama B," Dan echoed, clinking glasses. "And your terrifying thighs."
"Damn right," she said, flexing for no reason. The table cheered.
Somewhere between the third and fourth round, someone found a jukebox. It wasn't even a proper one, just a projection on the wall with pre-Rift songs and a few bootleg synth remixes. They picked something loud, rhythmic, vaguely nostalgic. Something that didn't care who you were or what you'd done, just that you were still standing.
That's when it shifted.
The jokes got louder, the laughs a little sharper, but underneath it all was something else. Relief. They weren't just drinking. They were remembering how to be people again.
Foster started dancing badly. Stacy filmed it. Dan joined in, making it worse. Kate leaned over and whispered something to Amiel, who rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
Berta leaned into him again, this time quieter. "You know… I missed this. Not the bar. The peace."
Rus glanced at her. "Is that what this is?"
"As close as we're gonna get," she said. Then she raised her glass again, not to toast, but just to look at it. "You think it lasts?"
"No," Rus said. "But we'll pretend it does. For tonight."
She clinked her glass to his without looking.
The lights glinted. The music thumped. And for a little while, Cyma wasn't the tired and exhausted unit assigned to every horrible job on the map. They were just soldiers on leave, drinking away the ghosts, soaking in the brief illusion of safety.