Rudy had known hardship. Long missions with no sleep. Paperwork stacks that multiplied like rabbits. Soap singing in the shower at 0530.
But this— This was suffering on a spiritual level.
He stared at the open cabinet in the barracks kitchenette, jaw tightening. His coffee tin… empty. Bone dry. Not even a stray bean rolling around like a sad maraca.
“¿En serio…?” he whispered, horrified.
He checked again. No coffee. No instant packets. No grounds. Not even the cheap stuff Soap swore tasted like “liquid optimism.”
Just an empty shelf and the mocking echo of his own caffeine dependency. He blinked, first one eye then the other, hoping against everything that something would happen. But the sight was not changing. "Mierda..."
He had two options:
Die.
See what was left in the communal fridge.
With the haunted resignation of a man marching to his execution, Rudy opened the fridge.
Half a jar of pickles. A forgotten Tupperware labeled “DO NOT OPEN – GHOST” (absolutely cursed). And one — singular — energy drink.
The can glared at him with neon, violent branding that could probably be seen from orbit.
“ThunderSlap MAXXX — ELECTRIC BOOMBERRY.”
Rudy squinted. “…¿Qué carajos es un boomberry?”
He needed caffeine. He needed to finish the after-action reports before Price hunted him down. He needed… hope.
He took the can.
Ripped it open.
Took a swig.
And immediately slammed the can on the counter, eyes watering.
“¡¿QUÉ CHINGADOS—?!” His voice cracked into a cough. “¡Esto sabe como si un payaso explotó en mi boca! ¡Madre de Dios!”
He paced a circle, one hand on his chest, the other holding the neon can like a cursed artifact.
Another sip.
Rudy gagged on command.
“¡AH, PUTA MADRE! ¡¿QUIÉN HIZO ESTO, UNA BRUJA DEL AZÚCAR?!”
He slapped the counter again.
A third sip.
He whimpered.
“Dios mío… esto no es una bebida. Es un pecado.”
But the caffeine… the caffeine was hitting. He could feel it lighting his neurons like illegal fireworks.
Gaz walked into the kitchenette mid-rant, freezing at the sight of Rudy half-growling at a beverage.
“…You alright there, hermano?”
Rudy pointed dramatically at the can.
“This—” he hissed, “—is evil.”
Gaz picked it up, sniffed, recoiled instantly. “Nope. Not even touching that. That’s a biohazard.”
“I need coffee,” Rudy muttered, defeated. “Real coffee. Human coffee. Not… demon juice.”
“You could ask Price,” Gaz offered. “He’s got a stash.”
Rudy shook his head violently. “No. He’ll look at me like I failed as a man.”
Another sip. Another violent string of Spanish curses that would make a priest faint.
Gaz leaned against the doorframe, smirking.
“How bad can it be?”
Rudy shoved the can toward him.
“Try it.”
Gaz took the smallest sip imaginable.
Instant regret.
He gagged and handed it back like it was radioactive. One of his eyelids twitched so fast it looked like one slow blink.
“What the— this tastes like someone drowned a blueberry in battery acid.”
“¡GRACIAS! ¡Exactamente!” Rudy threw his hands up. “Pero necesito terminar los informes…”
“And that,” Gaz sighed, “is where poor decisions are made.”
Rudy stared down at the can. He stared down at his paperwork folder on the counter. Back to the can.
Then — resigned — he took another swig.
He slammed the can down. Gave a full-body shiver.
And muttered, brokenly:
“Odio mi vida.”
But the typing? The typing afterward was feral. Thirty minutes later, Rudy was blasting through reports like a caffeinated deity — muttering Spanish insults at the drink every time he rehydrated with it, but undeniably powered by its unholy energy.
When Alejandro passed by and asked how he was working so fast, Rudy just pointed at the can with haunted eyes.
Alejandro picked it up, read the label, and whispered:
“Dios nos proteja.”
Rudy nodded solemnly.
“Amén.”