The conversation with Harris left Frederick feeling complicated. He held the now-cold synthetic coffee cup as he stepped down from the command vehicle, his mind still replaying the helplessness in Harris's ice-blue eyes.
As soon as his feet hit the ground, before he was even stable, his peripheral vision caught three figures lurking stealthily in the shadow of the armored plate of the command vehicle. Their heads were huddled together, whispering about something.
The battlefield environment of the Plantidium system kept Frederick's nerves constantly taut. This sudden discovery made the hairs on his arms stand up, and his hand instinctively moved toward the bolt pistol on his hip.
"Who's there?!"
He barked the question, almost drawing his weapon. But when he focused, the three familiar silhouettes caused the killing intent he had just summoned to instantly drain away.
Frederick withdrew his hand irritably and addressed the three dark figures, "What are you three doing here? Playing mushrooms?"
Caught red-handed, the three had no choice but to step out of the shadows, their faces flushed with embarrassment. Freeman, the leader, his eyes darting around, immediately tried to muddle the waters.
He straightened his back and loudly adopted a tone of surprised coincidence: "Oh, what a surprise, Commissar! The three of us were just discussing where to take a dump!"
"Take a dump..." Frederick's mouth twitched violently.
Even though he knew with his gut that Freeman was spouting nonsense, the sheer, unpretentious impact of the word "dump" left him momentarily speechless.
"Yes, yes," Yujiro quickly chimed in. He seemed to suddenly remember something and issued an eager invitation, "That's right, Commissar, it's a rare opportunity, how about you join us? The more the merrier!"
Frederick felt his temples throbbing, an inexpressible look of pain on his face. "That won't be necessary, I don't feel the urge..."
As for Sanji, he was unmoved, still clutching the military can, digging out a large chunk of ant-beef with his entrenching tool. God knows how he managed to so calmly put food into his mouth amidst such a vulgar discussion.
"It's fine! Just squat down in the field; even if you don't feel it now, you might feel something once you squat," Freeman was still earnestly advising him, as if this were an important team-building activity.
Frederick couldn't take it anymore. He waved his hand, cutting off the absurd conversation. "Enough! If this isn't important, I'm leaving if you continue talking about this nonsense."
"Hey, wait, Commissar!" Seeing him move, Freeman quickly stepped forward and blocked Frederick, finally revealing his true intentions. He rubbed his hands together and asked with a gossipy smile, "So, Commissar, you were in the vehicle with your old classmate for so long, what did you two do? Did you discuss... special topics?"
Looking at their three pairs of eyes shining with curiosity, Frederick felt a profound sense of helplessness.
What Imperial elite was this? What Helldivers regiment? This was clearly a bunch of small-town gossips stationed at the village entrance, morbidly curious about their neighbors' business!
He now felt deeply ashamed of the ambitious plans he had made when he first arrived at this regiment, intending to bring the unit completely under his control.
He wanted to control them? That was pure fantasy. In a sense, he and Harris faced the exact same predicament.
Meanwhile, Harris returned to the Hellkites Regiment's camp.
Everything here was in stark contrast to the chaos of the 143rd Tempests. There was no litter on the ground; the temporary tents and fortifications were perfectly straight and aligned, as if drawn with a ruler.
The patrolling sentries moved along fixed frequencies and routes with steady steps. The soldiers maintaining their weapons were focused and silent, with only the faint sounds of metal being cleaned.
Every soldier, regardless of rank, who passed her would immediately stop and execute an impeccable military salute, their eyes firm, their movements textbook-standard.
"Madam Commissar."
This was how they addressed her, their voices neither too loud nor too soft, clear and respectful.
However, this textbook respect felt like an invisible wall, firmly isolating Harris. What she received was not a sense of belonging, but a persistent feeling of alienation—a constant reminder that she was an outsider.
After a moment of hesitation, Harris eventually abandoned the idea of walking around the camp. She knew that wherever she went, she would receive the same polite but distant treatment. Thus, she turned toward her assigned quarters—a modified Chimera command vehicle.
Outside the hatch, two armed guards stood rigidly like statues. Seeing her approach, both raised their hands in a simultaneous, perfectly aligned salute.
The Helldivers' guards, besides providing protection, also served a function of surveillance, and they were all assigned directly by the regiment itself, rather than being chosen by her.
This fact only deepened Harris's sense of estrangement. Yet, she knew all the officers in the regiment, including Colonel Raiden himself, were treated the same way.
Even the most basic act of eating had become a ritual that deepened the divide.
Harris had wanted to simply eat the same rations as everyone else. Instead, the Hellkites held a short meeting specifically to discuss it and ultimately decided to assign a dedicated cook solely responsible for her daily meals.
This "special treatment" might have flattered some noble-born officers, but for Harris, it only made her feel more uncomfortable.
It was like a host enthusiastically entertaining a guest from afar; no matter how warm the host was, the guest remained, first and foremost, a guest.
But all she wanted was to become a member of this family!
Inside the command vehicle, the assigned cook was wiping down a portable cooking station. He stopped his work immediately when he saw Harris enter.
"Madam Harris, what would you like for dinner? Logistics delivered a batch of fresh synthetic protein blocks and nutrient fluid today," his tone was respectful, yet equally distant.
"The usual is fine," Harris replied absently, sitting down on a nearby chair.
She placed her bolt pistol on the table, crossed her hands, rested her chin on them, and sank into contemplation.
How could she take a substantial step toward integrating into this army? Did she truly have to wait until they reached the front line, through a brutal bloodbath, using the shared blood of battle to break this layer of ice?
Just then, a faint, almost imperceptible metallic scratching sound came from above.
The sound was extremely slight, as if it were just wind blowing over the vehicle roof. But Harris's battlefield-honed alertness caused her nerves to instantly tighten.
Tearrrr—!
The noise suddenly intensified! Amidst the jarring sound of ripping metal, the command vehicle's roof was violently torn open like paper by a pair of razor-sharp claws!
Two winged, bone-armored creatures, Tyranid Gargoyles, dropped from the breach—one lunging directly at Harris, the other charging the cook, who was opening a ration can!
The beasts were incredibly fast, their putrid saliva drawing threads through the air.
In a flash, Harris showed no panic. She threw her body backward, the chair overturning as her right hand flashed out to seize the bolt pistol from the table.
"Bang!"
The deafening shot exploded in the cramped cabin. The large-caliber bolter round accurately hit the Gargoyle's gaping maw, detonating violently from within!
The monster's head instantly dissolved into a spray of bloody paste.
The headless corpse, driven by massive inertia, continued its charge, smashing heavily into the spot where Harris had been sitting, twitching a few times before going still.
Almost simultaneously with the gunshot, sharp alarms and the continuous sound of gunfire erupted from outside the camp! War had arrived in the most unexpected manner.
Harris scrambled to her feet and spun around, ready to aid the cook, not forgetting the second Gargoyle. But she saw a sight that left her momentarily stunned.
The second Gargoyle was already dead at the cook's feet, its neck cleanly split open by a thick meat cleaver. The cook calmly pulled out the cleaver, turned his head, and asked, "Madam Harris, are you alright?"
"Uh, I'm fine," The cook's surprising combat efficiency caused Harris a momentary lapse. She quickly snapped out of it, however, and rapidly issued an order, "You go to where you're needed! I'm heading to the Command Post immediately!"
"Yes," the cook nodded. He glanced at the hole in the roof, listened to the gunfire outside, and analyzed coolly, "Theoretically, we are in a rear area. The fact that we are encountering Tyranid units means they are attempting a full counter-offensive."
Harris was not surprised that a cook could make a competent strategic assessment so quickly. The omnipresent "Military Committee" within the Helldivers regularly held meetings to discuss the war situation and disseminate intelligence.
Consequently, these rank-and-file soldiers probably knew more about the overall state of the war than many company-grade officers in other Astra Militarum regiments.