TL : I'm giving names to helldiver regiments, actually it was a reader idea.
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After three hours, and under Freeman's various arbitrary orders, their camp finally looked... less like a bandit's den.
At Freeman's repeated insistence, the soldiers finally crawled out of their respective tents and fortifications, lining up haphazardly in several ranks on the open ground in front of the camp.
They tried hard to straighten their backs, slinging their laser rifles diagonally across their chests, attempting to mimic the standard military salute they remembered.
However, the habitual slackness in their eyes and the occasional whispers exchanged still betrayed the true nature of this unit.
Frederick stood at the very front of the line, followed by Freeman, Yujiro, and Sanji. He looked expressionlessly at this group of "elite soldiers" under his command, feeling his blood pressure surge along with Plantim's toxic fumes.
"I say," Sanji whispered, the taste of ant-beef still lingering in his mouth, "do we really need to be this formal? We're just stopping to rest, saying hello, and then everyone goes their own way, right?"
"This is courtesy, understand? Courtesy!" Freeman squeezed the words through clenched teeth. "Don't forget, their Commissar is a friend of our Commissar. If we lose face, our Commissar loses face!"
Frederick didn't turn around, but he dearly wanted to say: My face stopped mattering the moment I met you people.
Just then, a plume of rolling dust rose from the distant horizon, and the rumble of engines, like muffled thunder, grew louder as it approached.
They had arrived.
Everyone subconsciously held their breath.
The first vehicles to come into view were a motorcade of Chimeras and Leman Russ armored vehicles. But unlike the mismatched, battle-scarred transports of the Tempests, this convoy featured fresh, immaculate paint, with the number "266" and "Hellkites" stenciled neatly on every vehicle.
However, what truly changed the expressions of everyone present was their marching posture.
The armored column advanced at precise intervals, and between their flanks and in the gaps, the Cadian Shock Troops marched like gray waves, coordinating perfectly with the steel behemoths.
When the tanks advanced, the infantry followed at the same speed; when the tanks slowed, the infantry's pace slackened in sync.
It was as if an invisible thread connected them, coordinating yet never interfering, moving in perfect order like gears meshing within a precise war machine.
The column stretched out, seemingly endless, yet not a single soldier lagged behind. Not only were they all keeping up, but nearly every soldier's stride was identical, and the distance between them appeared to be measured with a ruler.
Apart from the thunder of the treads grinding the earth and the unified rhythm of their footsteps, there was no other sound.
This unit felt less like a group of flesh-and-blood soldiers and more like a massive, silent organism with a unified will.
And over here... the formation, which had been relatively "neat" moments ago, unconsciously became even more scattered under the pressure of this invisible aura.
Some soldiers even forgot their posture, craning their necks, their faces filled with disbelief.
"Holy... heck," Yujiro muttered to himself, finding his vocabulary painfully limited for the first time.
"I knew there was a reason for the serious name," Freeman was the first to react, stroking his chin in sudden realization. "Turns out they're not just some civilian outfit, after all."
The convoy stopped simultaneously about a hundred meters from the camp. The rear ramps of the transports opened almost at the same instant, and more soldiers filed out, quickly assembling next to the vehicles into standard battle formations.
A command vehicle pulled forward and stopped directly in front of Frederick. The hatch opened, and two figures descended. Leading the way was a tall, imposing officer. Following him was the female Commissar, Serri Harris.
Frederick stepped forward and removed his gas mask. The opposing Colonel likewise removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face.
Frederick extended his hand: "Commissar Frederick, Helldivers Tempest Regiment."
"Raiden," the man gripped Frederick's hand firmly, "Colonel, this is Commissar Serri Harris."
The two engaged in a brief, efficient exchange. They covered the division of vehicle parking areas, the arrangement of temporary barracks for the troops, the standards for fuel and ammunition resupply, and the specific time for intelligence exchange.
The entire process took less than five minutes; all matters were settled without a single unnecessary word.
Colonel Raiden nodded and turned to organize his troops. Harris merely gave Frederick a slight nod before following.
They never once made direct eye contact with Freeman and the others, treating them as if they were nothing more than insignificant background figures beside Frederick—which, in reality, was exactly what they were.
After the conversation, Frederick turned back, wearing a perfectly miserable expression.
He could have tolerated it if he hadn't known regiments like the Hellkites existed. He was already getting used to his own bunch of lazy but competent soldiers. Despite all their flaws, they carried out orders and completed missions, so it was bearable.
But now...
He watched the Hellkites in the distance, setting up their temporary camp with the silent efficiency of worker bees under the officers' wordless directives—the whole process terrifyingly quiet.
Then he looked back at his own ranks, which were already dissolving into whispers and slouching postures, and the three-person crew whose faces were full of indifference.
A feeling called "The comparison of people is infuriating" began to fester in Frederick's heart.
He couldn't help but let out a silent, heartbroken cry:
By the Emperor, this isn't fair! Why are other people's regiments elite, while mine looks like it was just recruited from some bandit hideout? Did your venerable self perhaps mix up the transfer orders?!
With the welcoming complete, Freeman waved a hand, dismissing his regiment's crooked "honor guard."
The soldiers, as if granted a great pardon, scattered immediately. The camp instantly returned to its usual commotion, forming a stark and awkward contrast with the silent, orderly temporary zone nearby.
'Damn these guys take their roleplay seriously, it's basically next level' thought Freeman.
"Commissar Frederick," Freeman sidled over, a slight smirk of mischief on his face.
"Should I send some of our specialty rations over to our comrades-in-arms? A little fresh taste, and you can catch up with your female classmate."
Frederick's eyelid twitched. He remembered the "thing" he'd seen earlier. He took a deep breath, suppressing the feeling of helplessness.
"No need, Colonel Gordon. They have their own logistics standards. I am going to exchange intelligence with Commissar Harris. As for you all... don't cause trouble."
"Don't worry, Commissar!" Freeman slapped his chest in assurance. "Are we those kinds of people?"
Frederick answered with silence, turning and walking toward his temporary command vehicle. He felt his commissarial career on Plantidium was just a difficult shuffle through one farce after another.
Half an hour later, inside the command vehicle, Frederick poured Harris a cup of synthetic coffee; the pungent scent of artificial flavoring filled the small space.
They sat facing each other, two data-slates holding the exchanged combat zone intelligence resting on the tactical table between them.
The intelligence exchange was complete, and a moment of silence fell.
Frederick lifted his cup, his gaze drifting through the glass window toward the neighboring camp, which operated with the precision of a fine instrument.
He watched the Hellkites silently maintaining their weapons and polishing their armor, every action meticulous, as if pulled straight from a textbook.
He couldn't suppress a deep sigh, a sound filled with unconcealed envy.
"Harris," he began, his voice hoarse, "look at them, your 'Hellkites.' They look like they marched right out of a Commissar Academy training manual.
Every action is precise, every order is executed without fail. I bet their commander doesn't even need to speak to give an order; a look is enough."
He turned back, a wry smile on his face, and gestured toward his own camp outside. "Now look at mine... my 143rd Tempests Regiment. I have to use direct orders just to get them to stand in a line that is marginally not a circle.
Freeman, that colonel, you saw him just now—he can throw himself flat on the ground on a level surface and then brazenly use a 'dirty gas mask' as an excuse.
Seriously, Harris, I envy you. You drew the winning lot, a true Astra Militarum regiment."
Frederick expected a little boasting or perhaps a polite consolation from his colleague. Instead, Harris responded to his words with a short, cold chuckle.
"Heh..." She shook her head. There was no triumph in her ice-blue eyes, only a look of helplessness that contrasted with her stern appearance. "The way you put it, Frederick, I actually envy you."
Frederick was stunned. "You envy me?"
"Yes," Harris picked up her coffee cup but didn't drink, just gazing into the black liquid. "At least you can command them.
No matter how sloppy or unreliable they are, your orders are eventually carried out. They respond to you, they joke with you, they even make you angry. They, at the very least... treat you like a living, breathing person."
Her voice was low, laced with self-mockery. "As for me, I'm a ghost in this regiment."
"What do you mean?" Frederick frowned.
"I mean," Harris lifted her eyes and looked directly at Frederick, "the perfect machine you see runs so well that it doesn't need any extra parts.
Colonel Raiden and his officers form a complete system; they even have their own de facto political officer. Their tacit understanding goes beyond language.
Their reception of me was flawless in terms of procedure and politeness, but that's all it was. Wielding authority? Don't even think about it. I've been completely excluded from their system.
I can't command a single soldier, and I even have to use a tone of negotiation just to ask the cook about tonight's menu."
Harris paused, a hint of scorn twisting her lips.
"And when they reach the front line, the situation will be even worse. Our next mission is joint operations with the Astartes...
Heh, I suppose my status will be lower than the cook's by then. At least the cook can make food. What good is a superfluous Commissar next to the Gods of War?"