The weapons depot in Libertalia's southern arm was tucked behind a fabrication yard that reeked of steel dust and ozone. Rus arrived alone, passed through two biometric gates, and was met by a trio of bored-looking engineers in polished field coats.
"Counter Operative, Lt. Rus Wilson," the head tech greeted me without blinking. "Your HEWS is finished."
They brought it out like it was a sacred artifact. A long black case, gleaming with reinforced latches and thick foam casing. When they unlocked it, Rus felt something tug in the back of his mind.
It wasn't awe.
It was recognition.
The blade inside was gunmetal-gray, with sleek black accents and soft amber lights along the spine. A sheathed edge with a heavy stock and a chamber designed for a short rifle loadout. Not bulky. Not elegant.
Practical.
Efficient.
It was his.
"Salvo," Rus said aloud. And the moment he did, something clicked behind his eyes.
A glow pulsed across the HUD in my vision. It wasn't from the weapon. It was from him. Rus knew he could wield it now.
The techs were talking, but he barely heard them. His fingers wrapped around the grip. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Like it belonged there. The sheathe hissed softly as he drew the blade. It vibrated, a low hum, like it was eager.
Then, some smug bastard in a white lab jacket decided to test his reflexes.
He pulled a sidearm.
A real gun. Not rubber bullets. Not blanks. Rus's combat indicators saw the danger of the live round.
He fired.
And Rus moved.
No thought. No hesitation. Salvo came up in an arc, flat of the blade catching the bullet mid-air. The vibration surged up his arm, dissipated into his bones, and all he felt was the thrill of clean reaction.
He staggered back, wide-eyed. He didn't wait for an apology.
"Start the damn test," Rus said.
They obeyed.
Six androids entered the arena. More advanced than the first batch. A tighter AI loop. Multiple loadouts. Two had batons. Two had rifles. Two had vibroblades and no sense of personal space.
Didn't matter.
The lights dimmed. Combat indicators flared up as red arcs, threat zones, enemy vectors. Salvo shifted slightly in his hand, blade heating up, the charge spike running down the hilt.
The first android sprinted in.
He moved.
Twenty-five miles per hour on foot. Rus felt his boots slide on the synthetic padding, not from clumsiness, but from speed. He reached the bot before it even registered Rus as a threat, planted his foot, and stabbed Salvo directly into its neck. The blade carved through alloy and sensors like it was slicing wet paper.
Another indicator behind him.
He twisted, dragging Salvo free in a hard slash. The arc caught a second bot mid-torso. It didn't just sever. It cleaved, splitting it open with a sizzling pop of ruptured capacitors.
Then the guns opened up.
Three androids unloading full-auto at close range.
He was between them before the first casing hit the floor.
Rus dipped under the burst-fire, pivoted around a blade swipe, fired a round from Salvo's chamber mid-turn, watched it punch through a rifle bot's core, then twisted the blade flat to absorb another blow. The electric feedback surged up his arm, but he redirected it. Amplified it.
One android raised a fist to block. He slashed low, cutting its leg off at the knee. The body buckled. He followed with a brutal overhead slash that snapped the torso in two.
.2 seconds.
Another step. Thirty miles per hour.
Bot three tried to turn—too late. He stabbed clean through the arm holding the rifle, ripped it free, and turned that into a makeshift club.
Then he bashed the fourth bot's head off with its friend's own limb.
The last android managed to raise a blade. Salvo met it mid-swing, ground along the edge, and then melted through it in a shower of sparks. He shifted his grip, fired again—point blank into the android's chest and watched it crumple like a puppet with its strings cut.
It had taken him three seconds.
Exactly.
The arena went silent except for the low hum of Salvo's core cooling.
A second passed. Two.
Then the glass above the range lit up with blinking screens and rushing figures. The techs were yelling. Some were applauding. One guy looked like he'd seen something fun and didn't like what he saw.
He stood in the center of six broken machines, bloodless but grotesque, and I holstered the gunblade.
"Done?"
A voice crackled over the intercom. "Yes. Test complete. Well done, Sir."
Rus rolled my shoulder, trying to get the stiffness out. His vision still buzzed from the combat indicator's fading feedback. Everything had happened too fast to remember cleanly. But his body remembered.
Muscle memory?
No. It was deeper. Like instinct carved into bone.
Salvo cooled in its sheath. The blade's soft amber light dimmed.
It was over.
Outside the arena, Rus met Garn again. He looked like someone had just discovered fire in front of him and then asked him to clean it.
"Well?" Rus asked, still catching his breath.
"You just executed six advanced AI bots in less time than it takes to scratch your ass."
"I'm a man of efficiency."
Garn rubbed his temple. "You don't get it. Salvo wasn't designed for that kind of synchronicity. The weapon is still in learning mode. It should be lagging behind your input."
He looked at him. "It's not."
He stared. "You didn't think about the movements, did you?"
"Nope."
"And the blade's response time?"
"Instant."
He took a step back and muttered, "Shit."
"What?"
"You're not Tier Three. You're on the line for something else."
He frowned. "Don't start that bullshit."
"I'm not. But this isn't just talent. This is integration. The Rift did something to you or is that mutation?"
He didn't answer. Mostly because he didn't disagree.
By the time Rus got back to the barracks, the sun had started to set over Libertalia. Neon signs were flicking on. The city below buzzed like a hive made of glass and fumes.
Cyma was still scattered around the city. Dan sent a message about trying exotic liquor and finding the worst karaoke bar in the sector. Berta sent a picture of a drunk Foster being held hostage by some overly friendly civilians. Amiel said nothing. She never did.
He sat by the window of his temporary bunk, Salvo resting against the wall.
His hand still buzzed from the tests.
He looked at my palm. Closed it into a fist. Tightened.
Something had changed.
Not in the world.
In him.
And whether that was a blessing, a curse, or just another tool in the kit didn't matter.
***
Back to work.
No more drunken city lights, no more humming sword tests or surreal Rift hallucinations. Just logistics, reports, rosters, and the same familiar sense that if he didn't micromanage the day-to-day, half the unit would forget how to tie their boots and walk into a minefield for fun.
Delegation, they call it. Sounds noble on paper. Hand out tasks, let your people handle the execution, and focus on the bigger picture. That's the fantasy version.
Reality? Delegation means hovering like a hawk over every detail to make sure things don't spiral into chaos. When someone forgets a line on the manifest, Rus was the one who has to fix it. If one of the squads misunderstands the patrol rotation, Rus was the one catching flak.
It's not just giving orders, it's being the net that catches everyone before they fall flat on their face and cost them time, resources, or lives.
Rus have to plan every damn thing from top to bottom. Missions, drills, supply chains. He have to keep track of who's on what task, when it's due, and whether or not we've got enough rations to cover the week. And if something gets fucked and it always does he have to trace it back, slap duct tape on the wound, and pretend it never happened while quietly making sure it doesn't happen again.
Being the bridge between teams doesn't mean much when both ends are on fire. He sit in rooms with TRU heads trying to push their test agenda, then walk out and brief Dan and Gino like he was translating alien languages. Someone always misses the point. Someone always hears what they want, not what he said. It's like being stuck in a never-ending game of telephone where the last word is always "fuckup."
Leadership, they say. No one tells you that half of it is babysitting.
Still, the job's not all misery. The good ones, Berta, Amiel, even Stacy and Kate when they're not glaring, pick things up fast. When he delegate right, when he give them the room to own their roles, they rise to it. That's the one part he don't hate. Watching your team sharpen, handle things without needing to be handheld. Makes it all a little more tolerable.
But growth only happens when he push them and pull them back before they fall off a cliff.
Problems? Always. Logistics screwups, lazy grunts, unit clashes. Sometimes it's technical, sometimes personal, and often both. He don't get to pass the buck. He point at the problem, then lead the damn charge to fix it. Whether it's dragging someone to the infirmary after they "accidentally" overclocked their exo-suit or rewriting a fucked patrol schedule at two in the morning, it lands on his desk.
Communication's the oil in this rusted war machine. When it stops flowing, everything grinds to a halt. That means making sure the orders are clear, the updates are constant, and the gaps between squads and support don't become fault lines. Rus was the guy who walks between everyone with the map, the plan, and the reminder that no, they cannot just "wing it" and hope for the best.
Because when they do? That's how people end up dead.
And frankly, he have had enough close calls for a career.
Cyma's on rear duty for now, thank God. They were not crawling through another swam. The word is that the next op's deep in the bogs again, and he got no desire to lose another pair of boots or another bit of sanity to that wet, stinking hellhole. If he never hear the words "bog deployment" again, it'll be too soon.
So he was here thankfully. Desk-bound. Command-adjacent. Babysitting adults who have no business being this competent in the field and this dysfunctional in downtime. Field rank means he have to keep the machine running while making sure no one breaks the damn coffee pot.