The twin suns of Erata Prime beat down like a judgmental spotlight, baking the endless dunes into a shimmering haze of misery. The extraction shuttle was gone—shot down by a stray Automaton rocket that had absolutely no business being that accurate. Now, four Helldivers trudged through the sand, their boots sinking deep, capes hanging limp and dusty.

"You know," Makoto 'Ida' Ishida said, his voice crackling over comms, breathless but annoyingly cheerful. He adjusted his Jump Pack straps. "If you squint, really squint, this place looks like the beaches of New Tokyo. Just… drier. And with more murder-robots. But the lighting? Phenomenal for my complexion. Seriously, look at the way the sun hits my visor. I bet I look like a god right now."

"Shut the fuck up, Ida," Eiji 'Dawn' Shibata grunted. He walked point, the massive Autocannon resting on his shoulder like styrofoam. "We are five kicks from the outpost. My water recycler tastes like recycled piss. I do not care about your complexion."

"It’s about morale, Dawn," Makoto retorted, skipping to dislodge sand. "And frankly, my ass looks incredible in this scout armor. High-cut design. Very aerodynamic. You should try it, let those thighs breathe."

"I will break you in half," Eiji rumbled, though there was no real heat in it. Just the weary resignation of a man who had heard this monologue for three hours.

Behind them, Shinji 'Doc' Morimasa sighed, checking his wrist monitor. "Heart rates elevating. Takumi, your cortisol is spiking, try the breathing exercise. In, two, three… out, two, three."

Takumi 'Viper' Kawaguchi, the silent specter in the rear, didn't say a word. He simply raised a single, gloved middle finger into the air, perfectly framed against the harsh sunlight, and kept walking.

"See? He’s communicating!" Makoto laughed. "That’s the finger of love. Or heatstroke. Doc, do you have any of those good stims? The ones that make colors taste like victory?"

"Those are for emergencies, Makoto," Shinji scolded. "Not for boredom."

"This is an emergency! I’m sweating so much my suit feels like a swamp. A sexy swamp, but a swamp." Makoto stopped, striking a pose on a dune crest. "God, imagine the propaganda poster. 'Helldiver Ishida: Too Hot to Handle.' Recruitment would triple. Super Earth owes me royalties."

"Movement," Masafumi 'Chief' Hogari’s voice cut through like a rusted saw blade.

The squad froze. Masafumi pointed a scarred finger toward a jagged rock formation. "Scout striders. Three. Flanking right."

"Only three?" Makoto scoffed, unlimbering his Sickle. "I can take three. Watch this. Razzle-dazzle initiated!"

He engaged his Jump Pack, launching into the air. "Witness me, you metallic fuck-buckets!"

"He is an idiot," Eiji stated flatly.

"He is our idiot," Shinji sighed.

Makoto landed on the high ground, sliding on his knees, firing a burst of red laser fire that melted the lead Strider's faceplate. "Ha! Textbook! I’m amazing! I’m literally the main character!"

The Strider collapsed, but as the other two turned toward the preening scout, a sudden CRACK echoed. The second Strider’s head exploded.

Takumi lowered his Anti-Materiel Rifle, barrel smoking. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the shot. He just adjusted his scope and started walking again.

"Show off," Makoto muttered, scrambling for cover as lasers chewed the sand. "Okay, maybe a little help? My fans are getting aggressive!"

Eiji roared, stepping out. The Autocannon thudded—THUMP-THUMP-THUMP—sending high-explosive rounds tearing into the final Strider. It detonated in a fireball.

"Clear," Eiji spat. "Move your ass, Ida. Before I use you for target practice."