The sun dips below the horizon, casting a faint orange glow through the Outpost’s dusty windows. The Counters Squad trudges back from a grueling surface patrol, boots scuffing the cracked concrete floor. Rapi leads, rifle slung over her shoulder, her posture rigid despite the day’s toll.

“Finally,” Anis groans, kicking off her boots near the door. “My feet are screaming, and I’m out of soda.”

Rapi glances back, eyes narrowing slightly. She sets her weapon against the wall, methodical as ever, checking its barrel for wear.

“You’d have soda if you didn’t chug it all mid-mission,” Rapi says, voice flat but edged with a hint of reproach. Anis flops onto a worn couch, dust puffing up around her. She stretches, arms dangling over the backrest, and smirks.

“Keeps me going. Unlike Neon, who’d blow us up for fun.”

Neon, still by the entrance, cradles her shotgun like a teddy bear. She spins on her heel, glasses slipping down her nose.

“Firepower keeps us alive! That Rapture today? Boom! One shot!”

she chirps, mimicking an explosion with her hands. The Commander steps in last, rubbing his neck. He drops his pack by the table, exhaustion etching his face, but he manages a tired smile.

“Good work today,”

he says.

“Even if we almost lost the east perimeter.”

Rapi nods, moving to a small stove. She fills a kettle, her movements precise, a ritual to unwind. Anis snorts, kicking her legs up.

“Yeah, thanks to Neon’s ‘strategic retreat’ into a ditch.” “It was tactical!”

Neon protests, puffing her cheeks. She hops to the table, tinkering with a spare magazine. The kettle whistles. Rapi pours tea, handing a mug to the Commander. Anis waves it off, rummaging in a crate until she triumphantly pulls out a dented soda can.

“Score!”

she cheers, cracking it open. Foam spills, and she curses under her breath. Neon giggles, then yawns, slumping into a chair. Rapi sips her tea, watching them both, a rare softness in her gaze.