After leaving the Department of Military Affairs, Ryan Carter followed the map straight to the 7th Mobile Infantry Battalion. On his way, he passed by the camps of other units within the 106th Mechanized Infantry Division and quickly noticed that nearly all of them were green recruits.
Looking at those young, inexperienced faces, Ryan sighed. Even for someone like him—a veteran who had survived the brutal frontlines for nearly a year—every day was a fight for survival. Now these rookies were being thrown directly onto such a cruel battlefield. Who knew how many of them would make it out alive?
Soon, Ryan arrived at the camp of the 7th Mobile Infantry Battalion.
"Reporting!" Ryan shouted outside the company commander's office.
"Come in!" a deep voice responded from inside.
Ryan pushed open the door and entered. Inside were two men: one was a towering figure, at least 1.9 meters tall, with a frame as broad as a bear and a body covered in thick hair. If you saw him in a forest, you might mistake him for an actual bear. The other man, by contrast, was less than 1.7 meters tall, thin and sickly-looking. The contrast between the two was striking.
"Private 1573, reporting for duty!" Ryan announced loudly.
"You're the veteran, huh?" The shorter man, a lieutenant, spoke with a gentle tone.
"Yes, sir!" Ryan answered, standing tall and composed—a habit he had picked up over his year in service.
"Seriously, the military is still holding onto the disabled? Are they trying to drag down the whole unit?" muttered the bear-like man under his breath when he noticed Ryan's mechanical arm.
"Damn it, you think I want to stay?" Ryan cursed internally, though his face remained expressionless as he stared straight ahead.
"Alright, Ralph, he's yours now." The skinny lieutenant, who was the battalion commander, clearly meant to assign Ryan to the other man—Ralph, who was clearly the towering beast.
"Commander, why are you giving me a cripple? This is Second Company, our spearhead unit—we don't need dead weight!" Ralph grumbled, though the familiarity in his tone suggested a close personal relationship with the commander.
"Stop whining and follow orders!" the commander snapped, glaring at him.
"Yes, sir!" Ralph responded reluctantly. Once given as an order, he had no choice but to accept it.
"Alright, follow me, kid." Ralph gave Ryan a side glance and then walked out of the office.
Ryan followed Ralph toward Second Company's quarters. Along the way, Ralph muttered complaints non-stop. It was jarring to see such a massive man behave like a nagging housewife, and Ryan found it difficult to adapt to the contrast.
"Hey, listen up," Ralph said once they reached the company barracks. "The commander forced you into my unit, but with your condition, I'm not going to let you drag down my men. I'll find you an easier job."
"I follow orders, sir," Ryan replied, fully aware that in the military, an order from a superior was absolute.
"Fine. The mess hall needs a squad leader. You're a veteran—perfect fit," Ralph said. Given Ryan's disability, Ralph had no intention of letting him onto the frontlines.
"Yes, sir!" Ryan nodded. Honestly, being assigned to the mess hall wasn't the worst outcome—at least it guaranteed full meals. Recently, Ryan had experienced something strange: beyond the constant itching from his severed arm, his appetite had skyrocketed. He could now consume a day's worth of rations in one sitting and still feel hungry.
On a starship, that wasn't a problem—resources were abundant. But on a ground battlefield, supplies were much more limited. In harsh conditions, individual rations were minimal, and with his current appetite, he might have to resort to eating bug legs if supply lines broke down.
Being stationed in the mess hall did have its advantages—after all, that's where a company's food supply was stored. Ryan figured he'd have better access to meals and wouldn't have to worry about going hungry.
But the mess hall also had its downsides. Since the kitchen unit carried heavy cooking equipment and large amounts of rations, their exoskeleton suits were designed for heavy lifting, not combat. They were armed only with small handguns for self-defense and carried two energy grenades—no electromagnetic rifles or high-power weapons.
As a veteran, Ryan felt uneasy not having a rifle in hand.
Still, orders were orders. His battlefield recorder had already been updated—he was officially the squad leader of Second Company's mess unit.
"Alright, go meet your team," Ralph waved him off.
"Yes, sir!" Ryan saluted and turned to head toward the kitchen.
...
"Save me a drumstick!"
"Damn, this supply shipment sucks. Only this little bit of fresh meat and veggies?"
"Just save some for the captain. The rest is ours—let's divvy it up!"
As Ryan approached the kitchen entrance, he saw a few plump soldiers divvying up a chicken. In the era of space travel, food supplies in the military were no longer an issue. But rations aboard ships and on the battlefield were typically high-concentration nutrient paste or compressed food. Fresh produce and meat were hard to preserve and made up only a tiny portion of the overall diet.
"Damn it! No wonder I spent the whole year eating nothing but nutrient slop and dry rations. You bastards were hoarding the good stuff!" Ryan cursed inwardly. Still, as the saying goes—"No cook ever went hungry." It was an open secret that mess hall staff helped themselves to extra portions. Officers knew it happened but turned a blind eye, as long as their own plates stayed full. The only ones who suffered were the rank-and-file grunts like Ryan.
"Fall in!" Ryan barked with enough fury to nearly scare the cooks into choking.
"Alright, alright, fall in, let's go!" The pudgy cooks wiped their mouths and quickly lined up. They had already received word through their battlefield recorders that a new squad leader was arriving.
"You all—" Ryan initially wanted to deliver a stern speech, but after seeing their greasy, smug faces, he lost the will to waste his breath.
"Forget it. Dismissed," Ryan waved his hand.
"Alright, someone get that beef stew going! Let's celebrate the new squad leader's arrival!" The cooks, all seasoned at reading the room, could tell Ryan was a combat grunt from his mechanical arm and the anger on his face. They knew exactly why he was mad—he'd just realized the good food never made it to the frontlines.