Commissar Frederica Volker

Companion and closets confidant of Ares, of the Black Templars, Commissar Volker has been his shadow from the day they met. Sole survivor of a disastrous Imperial Guard assault, her typically Krieger disposition has only been cemented. Homeworld unknown.

### A Day in the Life

Commissar Frederica Volker peeked up from the trench, patiently waiting for incoming fire. When none came, she stood up further, jerking the lapels of her greatcoat to shake the layered dust off. The battlefield proved staggeringly bare, nothing near the height of a man, other than the blackened husks of burned transports.

Wiping the lenses of her gas-mask with her sleeve, she sighed heavily. The sun had begun to shine through the mixture of weary clouds and aerated dust. The mortar barrage had reduced everything to a choking brown twilight for hours, and it was welcome change to have long spears of pale light reveal the field.

That is was perfectly choked with bodies, friendly and not, was something else.(edited)

When Frederica was satisfied that nothing was alive within any appreciable - or legitimate firing range of sight, she lowered her binoculars, and drew a clipboard from within her heavy coat. Propping it up on the top of the trench-line, she began filling out the document on it.

*2nd Pavlov Penal Regiment*
After-Action Report

After dutifully scanning the well-known Munitorum boilerplate, Frederica's pen hovered over the first entry.

*Number of troops remaining:*

Frederica raised her binoculars, and looked across the field. The trenches had been emptied in the combat, she knew, so she carefully scanned every crumpled form in the no-man's land. Perhaps she half-hoped for a twitch of a survivor somewhere.(edited)

*None*, she marked down. And the document continued.

*Strategic/Tactic Assets Remaining:* None

*Vehicles Remaining:* None

*Communications Remaining:* None

*Engineers Remaining:* None assigned, none remaining

*Medics Remaining:* None assigned, none remaining

*Officers Remaining:* Here Frederica paused. *One assigned, one remaining*, she noted in her clinically precise handwriting. The document continued down, and on to another page. A full body-count of her regiment, down to the last scrap of clothing issued.

*Number of Weapons Recoverable:* She looked over the battlefield again. *Few/Negligible*

*Ammunition Remaining:* Frederica checked her belt, counting two batteries for her laspistol. That, to her best guess, was the sum total.

The regiment had fought hard. Too hard, in fact. As a native of Krieg, she elementally knew what total disregard for one's own life could do. This being the reason why the Commissar Corps of Krieg were likely the only ones of their kind that served to hold their troops *back*, when the need to die for the Emperor overtook the men.

The penal regiment had had this problem, to an extreme degree. It wasn't truly a disregard for life, or a suicidal compulsion, but a more refined degree of ignorance. The prisoners under her care hadn't given a thought to battlefield conditions, and had surged out to fight and kill in every minor break in the shelling.

Her relationship with the men and women of the regiment had been... tattered, nearly from the start. The prisoners had expected executions for morale, and more yelling. Perhaps flogging. She hadn't found the need. After being introduced to her regiment, and finding that her typical Krieg relationship with her gas-mask - that is, never removing it - had unnerved them, Frederica's main goal had been to keep them alive as long as possible. This was due in part to their disastrous supply levels, which had set her nearly to murder by itself. Troops needed rations, bedding, cloths, and weapons. The Munitorum had supplied approximately enough for one-fifth of her troops. And no quartermaster, to boot.

Settling in, Frederica's main problem had remained the troops insistence on trying to kill her. She wasn't offended, but it did make things less efficient. Waving pistol barrels away from her face had become second nature within weeks. But her troops, traitors to the Emperor and the Imperium all, had eaten actual rations, slept in actual cots, and been armed and armored nearly like actual Guardsmen.

And now there were none. She'd tried to explain that the heretics had a better defensive position. She'd tried to explain over-lapping fields of fire. She'd tried *very hard* to explain that the charge everyone wanted to take, to end the waiting game once and for all, was going to coincide with the General's bombing and shelling schedule.

To their credit, the whole of the regiment had died on their feet, and taken quite a few heretics with them.

Before the Munitorum issue bombs started falling, that is.

Frederica continued completing the document packet, crossing off whole sections concerning survivors, or executions. At long last, letting the fresh sunlight trace its way across the sundered landscape, she reached the last page.

*Officers, re: Reassignment:*

On this, she had to pause. As the only officer, and sole survivor, this meant her. The problem being, her chain of command had been broken as badly as her regiment, and anyone she directly answered to was likely dead in the trenchworks behind her, or in the detonated bunker behind that. Asking around the General's staff would take weeks. And, she knew perfectly well, the Munitorum and Militarum would take five and three years, respectively, to lose, misfile, misdirect, and finally disregard her report.
Frederica found herself leaning back on the trenchwall as she considered this, tapping the end of her pen on her mask's filter. *"What to do?"* she wondered.

Distantly, she heard the low drone of a transport crossing the airspace. Looking up, and trying to catch its insignia in her binoculars, Frederica was left more confused than anything. It was certainly a Thunderhawk gunship, but it was painted *purple*, and had a peculiar device painted on the sides. Circling round, and eventually coming low near the bunker's landing pad, the hulking brick shape of it seeming to slide to a halt near the ground.

Frederica checked her laspistol, more from reflex than purpose, and tucked the clipboard back into her greatcoat. Curious, she began making her way down from the fire-step, and towards the main artery of the trenchworks, in the direction of the mysterious gunship.(edited)

The document, she decided, could wait. At least a little while longer.

### Groundfall

As the craft shook with the backwash of the descent engines, Ares listened. He listened to the clicks of weapon safeties, the clomp of boots, the whispered gear checks. He listened to a whispered prayer from somewhere back in the Thunderhawk bay, crowded with heavy breathing and the shuffling of bodies. This brought a slight smile to his face. This front of the assault was one of the safer ones. Prayers still sounded strange to his ears, even after his time among the most devout of the Imperium. Wrapping one gauntlet with a few more twists of chain, he hefted the shield high in his other hand. His weapons, at least, didn't seem out of place. Their familiar weight was comforting as the Thunderhawk slowed to a stop on the landing field.

The squad took the message without comment. Ares saw the sergeant snap hand gestures to his squad, probably half deaf from the roar of the engines. O'Magudnis PDF, volunteers for this mission. Ares felt a tingle in his palms as they readied. Something about the stances, the familiar expressions, the hard lines of the lasrifles - it called to something in him, like a ghost of a tune, heard in the streets.

The pilot commed the squad-net directly, giving them a countdown. The craft came down with a solid noise that shook everything. The side hatch Ares was standing in front of swung wide as a crew member slammed the release button and stepped back. Ares was out the hole in a blink, landing meters away, shield forward. The squad of PDF fell in behind him, neatly filling in their pattern. The sergeant and heavy gunner took their positions behind Ares armored bulk, and the rest covered them. The auspex operator called an all-clear within seconds of falling in, and the squad moved as one towards the cement blister of the bunker ahead.

The Thunderhawk crew called the squad line with a pick-up time, and immediately began takeoff again -the engines had never even stopped. The pilots had been doing this all day, dropping small squads to reinforce and clear the frontline. With every stop, a handful of Cardinal Archivists and support troops would drop off, and make their way to the fighting. In some cases, the fighting had long stopped, to the chagrin of everyone involved, including the Imperial Guard on-site. The Astartes showed up too late in those cases. And in others, they leapt directly into the thick of things.

Ares had deployed alone, not from pride, or necessity, but a sense that this line of the front was either dead, or nearly so. In the latter case, extreme prejudice would be needed to root out the last of the traitors. To which his commanders had suggested Ares. He'd taken the decision phlegmatically, trying not to show his desire for battle. The forces were too thinly spread for him to demand a position on the line. He went where he was needed. Preferably away from the worst of things, if he was taking his 'retinue' with him. The sergeant of the squad hadn't said a word during the deployment meeting, but Ares had thought he'd heard the man's heart-rate quicken when the High-Captains had highlighted the areas where daemonhosts were rumored to be deployed. Ares had thought about leaving them on-base, and giving them a perfectly reasonable perimeter assignment, but eventually accepted where the commanders had put him.

The amount of ash on the ground surprised Ares, even as the squad fell into close cover near the battlements surrounding the bunker. The communications specialist tried voxing all the units deployed on this front, one by one. First, the command units didn't respond. Then the line units. Then the bunker's secure line. A trooper found the reason for that, pointing out the collapsed section of the bunker roof, and the line of inky black smoke roiling up from within.

After a quick perimeter check, and some mine placement, the squad reconvened behind one of the more intact walls, and went over what they knew. Ares was still lurking on the edge, pacing like a caged predator. His suit's scanners couldn't pick up anything moving, and long looks at the battlefield ahead were discouraging. He could see dead, craters, wreckage, and more dead. Most of them wore the colors of Imperial Guard, but he could also see the trenchworks on the other side. They were as empty, fire-ravaged, and quiet as the Guard lines. Ares snarled to himself, very quietly. The Astartes-helmet sized head of his flail swung lazily from his grip, the softly glowing power field casting tortured shadows on the ground. With resignation, and a confirmation from the auspex specialist, he deactivated the field. No one was particularly pleased. Even the veteran sergeant got a twisted grimace on his face whenever he looked out over the trenches and battlefield. But that could just as easily have been the smell. The sun had started shining, down through the post-barrage haze, and the bodies were... suffering for it. Ever Ares had to toggle the intake on his helmet, to shut out the charnel whiff that the wind was just beginning to pick up.

Ares and the sergeant debated calling for pick-up, with a familiar frankness. The sergeant didn't want to walk his squad across a - likely mined - field, just to poke every corpse with a bayonet. Brooding, Ares conceded his point, but asked for better intelligence before moving on. If there was even a single breathing heretic, hiding under a rock anywhere within sight, this was a missed objective.

Not having the option for additional fire support, strafing runs, or a quick orbital strike, Ares and his retinue were rather put out.

Not that the troops showed it. They watched their fire-lines, set up perimeter patrols without a word, and broke out the smokes. The towering Primaris had to hide his surprise at their quickness to adapt. With barely a word from their sergeant, every man and woman was hunkering down with the ease and precision of a veteran squad.
Not having better ideas, Ares reached for his comm, to schedule this area for low-priority sweep-and-clear by the Guard, when the auspex specialist gave a shout. Everyone was in position within a breath, in cover and lasguns ready. The demolitions trooper and heavy gunner fell in marked overwatch positions. With a position reference from the auspex, Ares reached up to grab the 3-meter high rockcrete wall behind him, and vaulted it with a pull. He came down on the other side with a slam, already sprinting towards the marker. Shield out and forward, like the front grill of a speeding Taurox. The flail was active and sparking again, trailing him as he sped on. Having abandoned caution by several meters and an impressive pace, Ares skidded to a halt near an outcropping, waiting for the lasfire to mark out his targets. Nothing came. Voxing the squad, got confirmation of single contact, approaching the edge of detection range. Walking slow, the auspex trooper noted. Ares ordered a hold on fire until the contact revealed themselves. It could easily be a survivor, he said. The demolitions trooper said it could easily be a daemonhost, and vouched for setting off the mines remotely as soon as they closed range, but their sergeant put an end to that. Ares waited, all too aware that he was a bit short of ranged weaponry, and decided to pounce the target, if they proved hostile. When he saw the Commissariat uniform, he nearly did anyway.

Ares had struggled with the smoke-like memories of his former life for years, flickers of attachment, familiarity, even laughter. Often, most times, he did not know why. He seemed more comfortable around other Guardsmen, even PDF. So that much of his history was likely more than guesswork. But the sight of a Commissar's uniform also had a mental nudge of its own. Perhaps it was a ghost of a impression of the Discipline Masters of his ancient memories. Even an ancient and forgotten grudge against the whole of officers, everywhere. Or perhaps, it was something more recent. Spending the most of his free time around troopers can fill one's mind with all kinds of prejudices.

Whatever the case, Ares barely restrained the impulse to drive the uniformed officer into the soft earth, and go find a worthy fight. The Commissar, for their part, stood at the edge of the mined perimeter, one hand slowly holstering a laspistol. Their gasmask gave them a blank and implacable air, which, coupled with the Commissarial greatcoat, gave Ares some very definite impressions. As if to seal his thoughts, he heard a curse over the squad-net, and a plaintive voice asking their sergeant for permission to fire. Ares shut off the comm, and made his way down to meet the Commissar. He noted, very carefully, where the mines and other explosives had been buried, thanking the Emperor for his enhanced vision as he did so. In the end, he stood across from the officer, who stood somewhere near the center of his chest plate. And several almost invisible depressions in the dirt separated them. The sight of an Astartes filled the whole of the Imperium with awe, standing head and shoulders above all. But a Primaris is a *tower,* a totem by themselves. With only a few years of practice, Ares let the scale do the work for him, even as he glared down through his helmet. The flail, he let pendulum ever so slightly.

To his surprise, the Commissar did not pray aloud, fall to their knees, or visibly shake. Instead, after a long appraising look, the officer drew into parade stance, and saluted.
"Commissar Frederica Volker, Krieg Death Korps, deployed."

Her voice, making Ares raise an eyebrow, was flat and even. Calm. He chided himself on relying on his size to cow the officer, and pointedly did not return the salute.

"Report," he said, letting the helmet vox mangle his voice into something mechanical and unpleasant. The commissar seemed to hesitate, before lowering her hand and assuming parade rest. "Regiment lost."

Ares could hear the sergeant and squad listening in, and their subsequent sucking breathes of disgust.

"Continue," he eventually said. He did not notice the grip on his shield intensifying.
"Sir," Volker said automatically. "Second Pavlov Penal Regiment has been lost to enemy action and friendly fire. No survivors or wounded to be recovered. "My report is ready for inspection." With this last, she reached for the billow of her greatcoat, which caused Ares to shift in anticipation. Whether she noticed or not, Volker drew the clipboard out somewhat more slowly, and offered it, cover-page forward to him. "All Munitorum property lost, or needing recovery."
Ares looked down at her without moving to accept the report. His blood began to rise, but he tried to keep his voice steady. Not that the vox would report his voice clearly in any case. "Explain," he growled, after making her wait.
Volker did not move for several seconds, as if carved from marble. Eventually, she let the arm holding the clipboard drop, and her gaze - as best Ares could guess with the gasmask in place - slid off him.
"They were my responsibility. I failed them."
Ares' jaw began to drop, and he could hear profanity spilling out from behind cover to his rear. Clearly, the squad had a talent for listening in at a distance.

"Squad morale was high, and casualties were being managed." Volker's voice didn't substantively change, but there was something in the timbre that was distinct. "Squad leaders decided to end the stalemate with a charge, against my orders." Nodding to the side, ever so slightly, she indicated the stretch of burning debris and pocked craters that was the no-man's-land between trenches. "They charged at the same time that the barrage was scheduled."
Volker made an uncomfortable gesture with her shoulders, "I lost control of my regiment. They are dead because of my failure in discipline."
Ares' staring match with the lenses of her mask reached a new height. He had never - even in the Black Templars, heard an officer admit such total failure. Much less without gilding it with excuses and shifts in blame. The Commissar was being entirely honest, in a way that shook him.

This did not actually change his mood one bit.
With a significant, yet seemingly casual motion, Ares hefted the looped chain of his flail, readjusting his grip. The head swung slightly, sparking as the power field arced. It was a small motion, but the intent was felt. Volker did not shift at all, becoming even more still than before. Ares began to growl, as the rage filled him. Distantly, he decided that, yes - he seemed to dislike officers rather a lot.
"You admit to failure, Commissar? To the death of your men?" The red lenses of his helmet seemed to flicker from within. "Is it not the responsibility of Commissars to punish failure?"
And hand wrapped in armor and chain leveled itself towards the battlefield. "An entire regiment?" For once, the vox caught the snarl in his voice, and his disgust at the waste of life managed to hang in the air.
Volker looked up to catch him eye-to-eye, as best they could.
"They were my men and women, my lord. I fed them and clothed them, when they were abandoned my the Guard. They were criminals all: Murders, thieves, arsonists, and worse.

"And they were mine. They were mine to protect. To wield in the Emperor's name. And they are dead. I could not stop them when they decided their moment had come. Instead, I watched them die. Yes, my lord - the failure is mine."
Acceptance radiated from Volker. Her shoulders squared the extra millimeter, as if expecting the axe to fall right then and there.
Ares studied her. He's fought every kind of enemy since awakening to this new nightmare that others insisted was the galaxy. Orks and other, he remembered. Tyranids, Necrons, and heretics, he did not. But he had seen worlds upon world of enemies, in every size and shape. And - bringing the flail head closer to him, disabling the glowing menace - he decided by instinct that this officer wasn't one.

Reactivating his comm, Ares ordered the communications specialist to call for early pick-up. There was nothing here. The squad sighed with relief, audible even from that distance, and Ares found himself fighting not to grin at them. He'd almost turned to rejoin them when he noticed the Commissar hadn't moved.
"Your orders now, Commissar Volker?"
She didn't move at once, but drew the clipboard back from inside her greatcoat, more slowly this time.
"I am to be reassigned. My chain of command has been broken, so I'll have to defer to the General's staff."
Ares barked a small chuckle. The General was too busy fighting heretics, daemons, and bombing his own men to smithereens, to reassign one lowly Commissar anywhere but the front lines. Looking out over the bomb-cratered field, Ares felt himself make the decision before his mind had caught up to it.
"You're coming with me, Commissar. We've got work to do."
For the first time since meeting her, Ares saw the Commissar slip, mentally skidding on ice as his order filtered down. After she regained the minute amount of composure lost, Volker slid the document packet under one arm, and saluted with a crisp, "Yes, my lord."

The sergeant from O'magudnis cursed him until the flier came to redeploy them. Even the men glowered hatefully at him, and especially at the Commissar.
Ares found himself laughing out loud, which the helmet vox dutifully mangled. "You didn't think I was putting her in charge, did you?" Another fit of laughter overtook him as he stepped into the flier, unbalancing it for a second, and ordering take-off.
The sergeant, his squad, and Commissar Volker all stared at him, speechless.