You enjoy my work enough to throw me a tip! Thank you very much. I will use it to buy chicken for my dog.
You will also get one vote for the poll to decide which of the stories that's not one of the main ones will get an update at the end of the month.
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Buy Me A Taco
You enjoy my work enough to buy me one whole taco. Or most of one, more likely, it'll go to most of a can of food for my dog. Either way. Thank you so very much.
As a bonus, you get not one but TWO whole votes for the poll to decide which of the stories that's not one of the main ones will get an update at the end of the month.
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Buy Me Two Tacos!
Some people would buy booze. I buy tacos and canned goods for canine consumption. You join here? I'll be buying at least one of either a month!
As a super thank you. Have the next chapter of whatever I'm working on.
And lastly, not one, not two, but FIVE votes for the poll to decide which of the stories that's not one of the main ones will get an update at the end of the month.
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Oh Wow...Okay, You Get Early Access
I try not to work on a week to week basis. I normally try (and sometimes fail) to keep a buffer and give myself some wriggle room for posting the next chapter.
For this? Not anymore. You have access to everything that's ready to be posted. At least four chapters ahead of anything that's publicly available.
And lastly, ten whole votes for the poll to decide which of the stories that's not one of the main ones will get an update at the end of the month.
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Thank you for giving me your beer money.
For your decision to give me your beer money...erm...You have everything that's available previously.
And fifteen votes for the poll to decide which of the stories that's not one of the main ones will get an update at the end of the month.
Frankly, don't do this one unless you wanna throw more money at me for some reason.
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Why would you give me this much?
Literally the same thing as before. Except for the poll at the end of the month, you get to put in the most votes out of any tier. In the truest spirit of Capitalism, you get twenty votes if you choose this one.
Frankly, don't do this tier, I'll feel guilty. Seriously, only if you don't have something better to do with your cash. I put this one here purely to satisfy my OCD because I had this mental image of like, 'what's beer money anyways?' and the thing that came to mind was a twenty dollar bill. So yeah.
Stick to an earlier tier. Unless you REALLY want them twenty votes.
Not gonna lie, was entirely too nervous to attempt this. But necessity and medical bills breed desperation as the saying unfortunately goes.
If you've found your way here on accident. Hello! I write fiction, fan and original, I will also take pictures of my miniatures and post them here, hopefully, my brand of insanity will resonate with you enough for you to want to stick around.
If not, thank you for the time of day. Go in peace, there are no hard feelings. We must all choose how to spend our hard earned money.
If you choose to stick around however. Well, buckle up for the ride. I hope to make it memorable.
Good evening y'all. Sorry to bother you all so late with my silliness.
So, as a bit of an opening. I'm part of a Helldivers Clan. This clan pretends to be an in-setting newsletter, and reports on the goings on of the Galactic War and whatever the other Clans get up to.
And over the last few days, I've been helping to do something truly special. A good ol' charity drive. Not saying you have to donate, but if you could spread the word, I'd greatly appreciate it. It's been truly astounding to be a part of the planning for this. And we're going to be covering the goings on of this charity drive for the duration.
It's not even been a day, and it's already past 80k dollars for charity. The Helldivers community is truly astounding.
Incidentally, here is the socials for that Helldiver Clan I'm in. Check it out! I write every weekend or other weekend there. Short stuff, like, two to three hundred words max usually. I use it as a palate cleanser and to write my own stuff for y'all better.
Now, incidentally. A while ago, my clan and I commissioned an art piece from the same artist I commission my story covers from. And she made us some art.
And then I went and wrote a short story using said art as a prompt, telling the in-universe story of how the clan came to be.
Hope you lot enjoy that short story as an offering for bothering y'all by shoving this charity thing in front of ya. XD
Enjoy the short story "Freedom Of The Press." And lemme know in a comment what you thought.
=][=
Flynn Fillibuster grit his teeth as the MG-43 machine gun rattled his frame, every short, controlled burst making his teeth ache with the weapon’s percussive force. Were it not for the bipod, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to keep the weapon on target.
He squeezed the trigger, the weapon rattled his whole body, a nightmare creature that used to be a citizen of Super Earth went down in a spray of blue alien ichor. The weapon over-penetrated, striking down the monster behind that one, and wounding the one behind that.
He shifted his aim, squeeze, rattle, another few monsters fell.
He did his best to concentrate on their mottled blue skin, their glowing eyes, their disgusting xeno features.
He tried not to see their thankful expressions moments before the light in their eyes dimmed and they were trampled by the sea of bodies that walked over them.
These monsters who used to be his neighbors. Taken from their homes by the unprovoked invasion of the Illuminate. Who then took away that which every citizen of Super Earth holds most sacred above all things. Something that went beyond the desecration of their bodies.
The Illuminate took away their right to Vote. Making them something far more terrible than a mere corpse.
They were made into Voteless.
Fynn’s mind balked at such unconscionable horror, taking comfort in the rote action of working the weapon he was entrusted with.
Shift, squeeze, rattle. Shift, squeeze, rattle. With every repetition, one or two, or if he was lucky three votelesss fell. When they got too close, he leaned into his MG-43 and held the trigger down for long bursts, scything down the slavering horde, pushing them back into the crowd of their tainted fellows.
Even so, his fire alone would not have been enough to push back the horde, were it not for the efforts of what remained of Whiskey Squad, their position would have been overrun long ago.
A position that used to be defended by three whole SEAF platoons.
Flynn shook his head, then chastised himself as that made him have to find the red dot on the optic again.
“They are massing for another rush!” Their acting platoon and squad leader, Gerry Mandering, screamed into his radio. “Command, where are those reinforcements!?”
Gerry was a Corporal, but if it weren’t for him, Whiskey would have been wiped out with the rest of their platoon.
Fynn didn’t hear whatever Command said to Gerry, he was too preoccupied when the head of Yukiko Wahlhelfer was struck by a bright blue bolt and detonated, he felt what had to be shards of her skull pepper his face as something hot and sickeningly sweet with a hint of salt splashed into his mouth.
His knees gave out from under him and he spat convulsively, a pink and red mass splattering onto the ground in front of him. He could only blink at it in stupefied fascination.
That looked like grey matter. He’d seen pictures of it in school.
Why had it tasted like Böffs & Nörfs?
“It’s one of those things!” Screamed Sara. “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”
“FYNN!” Thundered Gerry. “GET BACK ON THE MACHINE GUN!”
Fynn convulsively swallowed, immediately threw up a little in his mouth, then pushed himself to his feet, peeking his head over the parapet built in front of the building they were defending, just in time to see the huge, white-armored form of an Illuminate Overseer sweeping its disgustingly organic looking staff at him.
A titanic impact sent him sprawling, his chest feeling like a creature of myth had stepped on it, he’d seen pictures of it in school, he thought it was named an elephant.
Strange what the mind concentrates on when one is about to die.
Fynn could only choke as the Overseer held Sara up by the neck with one hand as she slapped feebly at its forearm, Rüdiger Landkreiswahl screamed and charged at the vile xeno, only for it to swing the massive staff down onto his head, his neck making a surprisingly loud crunching sound. Rüdiger fell like a sack of potatoes.
Sara Representative’s struggles weakened. Fynn could only wonder why the others weren’t helping her, but on the corners of his darkening vision he could see Gerry, Steve and Sven fighting hand to hand against Voteless, their position finally overrun.
A pair of grey barrels poked into the side of the Overseer’s head an instant before an Earth shattering ‘kaboom!’ reduced its disgusting alien head into shards of armor and blood.
Sara fell to the ground as the twitching corpse released her, a towering figure in green and black armor stepped over the parapet, drawing a long pistol with a bright yellow barrel, it fired in the direction of Gerry, Steve and Sven, yet hit only the voteless.
As this armored form walked forward, Fynn’s eyes settled on its flowing black cape.
A Helldiver.
A Helldiver had heard their calls for reinforcements.
Everything would be alright.
The Helldiver paused, then leaned down to stab something into Fynn’s chest, the darkness at the edge of his vision fled, he gasped, for the first time realizing he hadn’t been breathing, his heart hammered in his chest so fast he feared it might explode.
As he stood back up, the Helldiver picked up Fynn’s machine gun, shouldered the weapon Fynn could barely use with a bipod, switched it to its maximum firing rate, then calmly walked forward while firing, using it like a lesser man might use a Liberator. Scything down the horde, pushing them back enough for him to use the screen on his left vambrace, before throwing a ball over the parapet.
“Rejoice! Relief! Reinforcement! Initiating Illuminate Intervention! The Greatly Gesticulating Gerrymandering of the Gatling Gunnery Shall Scythe Through These Terrible Thoughtless Thrashing Things Thoroughly!” The Helldiver roared in a rough baritone, the sound of heavy shells impacting the far away pavement starting an instant later.
…
What.
He input another code into his vambrace and threw what Fynn saw was a Stratagem Ball, he’d only ever seen them in movies and video games.
The Helldiver unleashed another impossibly long burst from the MG-43 until it ran empty, he then jumped off the parapet and knelt down, putting his hands over where his ears would be. Only he was wearing a state-of-the-art helmet.
“Daring Do Demands Delivery of Danger close ordinance!” He shouted, he looked up to see Whiskey staring at him in confusion. “In short, GET DOWN!”
He then hunched down further. The survivors of Whiskery squad threw themselves to the floor.
Except for Fynn, he hadn’t gotten up yet.
When the only thing that happened was the sound of the horde coming closer, the Helldiver peeked over the parapet.
Fynn saw a flash in the sky.
The Helldiver was flung off his feet as an airburst shell impacted so close that it peppered the building they were guarding with shrapnel.
Fynn stared at the unmoving body, a fist of ice taking hold of his heart.
The Helldiver jumped to his feet, shook himself like a dog, ran back to the parapet and threw a grenade. “WHOO! That was bracing!”
He withdrew another stim from his combat webbing and stabbed it into his neck. He then reloaded his break action shotgun and snatched an ammo box for the machine gun and reloaded it too, seemingly uncaring of the rest of the barrage he had called in as the cluster shot and shrapnel reduced much of the street that Whiskey had been defending to rubble.
He stood up, surveyed the street, and threw another grenade before turning back to them, shouting. “Alright! I heard y’all needed some assistance!?”
They all stared, a distant ‘Pop! Hiss!’ prompted Gerry to stand back up, trying to shake the awe from his expression. “Y-Yes sir! Thank you, sir!”
“Sir was my father!” The Helldiver laughed affably. “Name’s Alexander Liberator! Callsign Santo! Happy to assist!”
“Yes, uhh…” Gerry faltered.
The Helldiver, Santo, looked down at Fynn, then with a laugh, reached down and grabbed his hand before easily pulling him up to his feet. “On your feet soldier! There are enemies of Lady Liberty to kill!”
He slapped Fynn on the shoulder so hard he stumbled.
He was never going to wash his hand or shoulder ever again.
“So, what’s the sitrep!?” Santo asked, still shouting. “What we doin’ here!?”
Gerry blinked. “Uh, yes, si—I-I mean. We are here t—”
“Hold that thought.” Santo said, rushing to the parapet. Fynn followed his gaze, and his heart fell.
A half dozen of the Illuminate walkers, the Harvesters, were making their way toward them, their shields shining a bright cerulean blue, overlapping with one another.
Without a word, Santo opened fire with the machine gun in an impossibly long, impossibly precise burst, panning the weapon left and right, tearing through the shields of three Harvesters before concentrating fire on one of them. On a feat of impossible accuracy, the stream of high caliber bullets tore through the upper joint of one of the alien machine’s legs, dropping it to the ground just as the MG-43 clicked empty.
Five blue lasers lanced back in retaliation. The Helldiver ducked down with a muttered oath a split second before that laser would have decapitated him and began calmly reloading the machine gun.
He turned to look at them, his hands not pausing in their ministrations. “Well? They won’t shoot themselves.”
He stood back up and unleashed a stream of rounds.
Gerry, Steve, Sven and Sara joined him at the parapet, all of them shouting as one. “FOR SUPER EARTH!”
Fynn blinked, grabbed Rüdiger’s fallen Liberator, and let out his own cry, too late to join one of the heroes of Super Earth but determined not to make more of a fool of himself. Their combined fire cracked through the walkers’ shields, but their Liberators didn’t have the firepower to do more than scratch their armor, the best they could do was support the Helldiver, draw the walkers’ ire and buy him the time to take them down with the machine gun as they walked ever closer.
An Eagle Aerospace Assault Craft roared overhead.
“DOWN!” Santo yelled, tackling Fynn, Sara and Sven to the floor. An enormous explosion seemed to punch Fynn on his entire side. It knocked the breath out of him despite being protected by the parapet and having an honest-to-Liberty Helldiver on top of him.
A Helldiver chose to protect Fynn.
This was officially the best day of his entire life.
The reassuring weight of the Helldiver vanished from on top of him, letting him see Sara and Sven, both of whom had the same ecstatic look on their faces that he suspected was on his.
“How the hell is one still alive!?” Santo shouted, before unleashing another long burst from Fynn’s machine gun.
When he retired, that machine gun would be a family heirloom passed down his family for generations.
“And that’s the end of that.” Santo said, checking the ammo box in the MG-43. “For now.”
They were all bathed in purple light, a Watcher’s fins crackling with electricity as power built within it.
Santo scrambled to draw a bead with his shotgun.
A streak of light buzzed by with a muted roar, twisted mid-air and buried itself into the center of the Watcher’s ‘eye.’ Causing it to explode and spiral down off the parapet.
“You missed one.” Drily stated a smooth tenor.
Fynn turned, and saw another huge warrior, he wore armor styled after the Statue of Mournful Liberty, but instead of the weeping face of the statue, his domed helmet had a crudely stenciled scowling skull painted onto it. On his left hand he held a huge pistol that looked small in his hands, held loosely on his right was a wickedly sharp hatchet.
“I had that wholly under control.” Santo said, standing up.
“I’m sure.” The other Helldiver said drily. He turned around, and Fynn saw that he had a Hellbomb Backpack. “I ran past a lot of them on the way here, our reprieve won’t be long.”
“Yup.” Santo said, standing up. “Can you call in any supplies? I’m low on grenades. Santo, by the way.”
“Sorry, still on cool down. Gemini, call sign Malikai.”
“I got here by sneaking through the back streets. What’re enemy numbers looking like?”
“To make it here I had to sneak past a horde harassing a group of Helldivers waiting for extraction. They were large enough to require a few dozen Overseers to keep the mindless mob under some semblance of order. The moment they’re overrun or extracted I expect the horde will turn its many eyes this way.”
“Nnnnnnneat.” Santo said.
Neat was not the word that Fynn would use to describe the situation.
“I don’t think ‘neat’ is an appropriate word to use here! Sir!” Snapped Gerry. “There’s no way we can hold such a horde!”
“Your seditious talk is noted.” Said a young, muffled voice.
Everyone turned to look at the newcomer, a Helldiver wearing the brilliant white uniform of a Truth Enforcer, but a helmet styled after Jen Shriver the Science Diver. On his left shoulder rested a huge camera, on his right hand was clutched a huge revolver.
“Seriously.” Santo said in a tone that, on anyone other than a Helldiver, Fynn would have called whining. “We have a commanding view of the main street and every approach, how do people and things keep sneaking up on us!?”
“Your lack of situational awareness is likewise noted.” Said the Truth Enforcer. “Whenever I return to the Academy, I shall send it up the chain for review. Expect corrective measures in ten to fifteen business days after the current crisis is past.”
“Look, I can’t keep calling you ‘Youth Enforcer’ in my head. What’s your name, kid?” Santo demanded, turning his head to gaze down the street.
“My name is Russell Tainan, Cadet 55-25-595.” Russell said without intonation.
“Got it, Rusty.” Santo said.
“Do not call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Rusty.” Malikai said, setting down his hatchet and popping out the magazine from his pistol to check how many rounds it had left.
“Alright, so assets. By the time the enemies arrive I should be able to call down a significant amount of anti-infantry from my Super Destroyer. But the only anti-armor I’ve got is the precision strike. You?”
“The Eagle fighter had to go back to roost to rearm.” Malikai said, picking his hatchet back up. “I’ve got one use of the Orbital Laser left. The hellbomb on my back, and in a few minutes I can call down a Gatling sentry.”
“Rusty doesn’t have a Super Destroyer yet.” Santo said, pinching the chin of his helmet in thought.
“Do not call me Rusty.” Rusty demanded.
“But he can at least grab a Liberator.” Santo continued without acknowledging Rusty’s protest.
“I cannot.” Rusty denied. “I need this camera to work on my final assignment to earn my graduation.”
Santo and Malikai stared at the younger cadet Helldiver in silence.
“Th-There is a war on.” Santo said. “Your final assignment can be put on hold until the attack on Super Earth is over.”
“Only the instructors at the Academy have the authority to make such a call.” Rusty said, popping out the cylinder on his revolver, inspecting it, and flicking it closed.
“By Lady Liberty’s Libertarian Leggings.” Santo muttered.
“Is…Is that how normal people see us?” Malikai asked, sounding horrified.
“I dunno man.” Santo said. “But sometimes that question keeps me up at night.”
“Your defiance of protocol by sleeping outside of a cryopod has been noted.” Rusty said. “Expect—”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Santo said. “I’ll probably be too dead to have to worry about that before too long.”
“Hear hear.” Malikai agreed.
“B-But. But Helldivers never die.” Sven Freiheit said in a small voice, then jumped, his face turning a bright red when all three Helldivers turned to look at him.
The three of them turned back to the street. Santo patted the machine gun. “Wish I had some more anti-tank. This works but is suboptimal for the job. And we only have the one Hellbomb.”
“For now.” Malikai said.
“Whiskey squad.” Rusty said. “Standard equipment for SEAF units includes EAT-17s. We will need to requisition these weapon systems from you.”
“Uhh…” Fynn said unsure. “We…we used them all, sir. Back when there were more of us, we even sent a few guys out to gather the unfired ones from the…from the dead.”
“I see.” Rusty said. “Excessive use of SEAF ordinance has been noted.”
“Oh blow off Youth Enforcer.” Santo said.
“Standard procedures dictate th—” Rusty began.
“Standard schmandard.” Santo huffed.
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now!”
“Incoming.”
At Malikai’s quietly uttered word, the Helldiver and the cadet’s demeanor changed, the two rushed to the parapet, Whiskey squad close on their heels as another horde of voteless had amassed, the towering white forms of Overseers peppered throughout, occasionally striking the mindless creatures with their staffs as they pointed at the building Whiskey defended.
“I’ll focus down the Overseers.” Santo said. “If any walkers show up, those’ll be my priority. Use that Hellbomb at your discretion, but keep in mind we only have the one.”
“Affirmative.” Malikai muttered.
“Rusty, try and go for headshots on the Overseers.”
“Don’t call me Rusty.” Rusty answered.
“Sir?” Steve said, his voice trembling.
“I told you trooper, Sir was my father.” Santo said.
“You’ll make sure we make it through this, right sir?” Steve begged. “With Helldivers here, York Supreme cannot fall…right?”
“I—” Before he could go any further, there was a loud gurgling scream from one of the Overseers. “Open fire!”
Putting action to word, he unleashed a by now familiar long stream of fire from the machine gun. Fynn joined in, firing in short, controlled bursts alongside the other four members of his squad. Malikai and Rusty each took much longer between firing their own weapons, taking single, measured shots. Every couple of shots they took, a white-armored form in the mob fell.
Santo threw three Stratagem balls deep into the horde as more and more voteless poured into the main street, a gas shell landed deep in the horde, sending dozens of them into paroxysms of rage and agony, another Gatling barrage scythed through others, airburst strikes turned dozens of voteless and groups of Overseers to blue stains on the shattered asphalt and shards of armor. But for each member of the horde that fell, ten voteless flooded in from the side streets and alleyways to take their place.
Santo fired the MG-43 until Fynn’s eyes hurt at the glow of its barrel, once the last box of ammo ran empty he discarded the machine gun like so much trash. He fired his seemingly archaic double barrel shotgun over and over, each shot knocking down or outright killing several voteless or shattering the armor of an Overseer so the five members of whiskey could put it down.
But no matter how much lead and shot they poured out, closer the horde crept, until Malikai and Santo rushed forward, pistols emptying into the horde. Malikai swung to and fro with his hatchet, each stroke cleaving a head, severing an arm, or decapitating a voteless. Santo, of all things, pulled out a skillet.
Fynn would have laughed were it not for the fact that he used that skillet to cave in voteless skulls with the same ease of a man hammering in a nail. Rusty remained at the parapet, taking slow, careful, measured shots. Each booming report of his revolver the death knell of an Overseer that was then trampled to paste by the endless boots and clawed feet of the voteless.
“Falling back for a moment!” Malikai yelled. “Cover me!”
Whiskey fired with more wild abandon. Fynn’s Liberator clicking empty, as he fumbled for a fresh magazine, he saw Malikai input a code in his vambrace and carefully set down the Stratagem ball to the side in an elevated position, before grimly diving into the front line again.
A Hellpod landed several seconds later with an impact that threw Sara to the floor. Out of it unfolded a Gatling gun, the sentry immediately spooled up and unleashed a torrent of deafening fire that cut through five ranks of voteless before sweeping further back, granting the two frontline Helldivers enough of a reprieve to fall back, their chests and shoulders heaving, covered head to toe in blue gore. The Gatling sentry, no longer detecting enemies within its range, rolled to a stop. The voteless horde gaining density, as if waiting to reach a critical mass before committing to another attack.
“That won’t. Be enough. We need to. Think of something. To deal with. The horde.” Santo said, speaking between great heaving breaths.
“I have. A Hellbomb. In case. You forgot.” Malikai said, burdened by the same fatigue. “Don’t make sense. To let ourselves. Be overrun. Trying to save it. For later.”
“With all the. Damn voteless.” Santo gasped gravely. “That’s a. One-way trip.”
Malikai took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tilted his head side to side, his neck emitting several loud pops. “I’m okay with that.”
Santo stared, drew his shotgun and worked the action, two huge spent shells popped out. He slid two fresh ones in and closed the gun. “I’ll cover you, ensure we reach maximum penetration into the mass for optimal detonation. Boys and girl, it’s been an honor.”
Fynn’s heart both soared and fell at the selflessness of Super Earth’s finest.
An earth shattering ‘KABOOOOOOM!’ flung them all to the floor.
Malikai was the first to recover.
“Ow.”
By a certain definition of the word.
“The hell was that?” Santo asked, pulling himself up to the parapet with a shaking arm.
“That appears to have been a Hellbomb detonation.” Rusty said from his spot on the floor, he was holding the camera up with one trembling hand, still pointed at the street. “The radiation detector seems to agree with my assessment.”
Fynn pushed himself up to his feet just in time to see a building that looked like a giant had taken a messy bite out of it collapse in on itself, releasing a great cloud of dust.
“Hey Malikai.” Santo said.
“Yeah?” Malikai asked.
“You wouldn’t happen to have suddenly developed unbelievable psychic might and thus created a miniature in-atmosphere wormhole to deliver a quantum twin of the Hellbomb into the middle of the voteless horde, would you?” Santo asked.
“No. I don’t think I did.” Malikai answered.
“You sure?” Santo pressed. “Because I won’t be mad if you did.”
“If you did, you are required to inform me with all due haste and honesty so I may relay the advent of these abilities to the Ministry of Truth and the Ministry of Science.” Rusty butted in.
“No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.” Malikai insisted.
“Okay. But if you do. You can let me know.” Santo said.
“It was me.” Said a gravely voice, making Malikai and Rusty twitch and Santo jumped a foot in the air with a surprisingly high-pitched squeal.
“Seriously! How do people keep sneaking up on this location!?” Santo demanded.
“You were too busy speculating about this one’s psychic awakening.” The new Helldiver said.
Fynn couldn’t believe his luck. He got to see four Helldivers! Steve, Sven and Sara definitely felt the same. Gerry was trying to rub his temples through his helmet for some reason.
The new Helldiver’s armor was made of dark grey plates, his helmet had a gas mask with targeting arrays and a beret. A huge bolt action rifle was hooked at his waist, on his arms he held a weapon that Fynn hadn’t seen before. It looked a little like a PLAS-1 Scorcher, but writ large.
“I heard a call for reinforcements over the radio.” The new Helldiver said. “It took me a while to get here.”
Santo nodded, then made introductions, reciting the names of the other Helldivers pointing at each when he said their names. “Santo. Malikai. Rusty.”
“Do not-Never mind.” Rusty interrupted.
Santo continued without acknowledging the attempted interruption. “And what’s left of Whiskey squad. We’re guarding this building cause Command said to. Now what’s with that fancy gun there?”
“Ghost 25876. Call sign Hunter Killer.” Hunter said. “I found two of these weird guns on a few corpses in a research lab I was sent to scorch. It seemed a shame to let them be destroyed with everything else.”
“Your refusal to fully carry out your orders has been noted.” Rusty said to which Hunter shrugged.
“What happened to the other weird gun?” Malikai asked.
“It exploded.” Hunter said simply. “Vaporized my partner.”
“Yeah, that tracks.” Malikai murmured. “Anyways, thanks for the save.”
“Affirmative.” Hunter answered.
“The pertinent question is. How much longer do we need to guard this location?” Santo grumbled.
“However long Command deems necessary.” Rusty said.
Santo’s vambrace dinged, he began fiddling with the screen there. “Oh hey! I can call in some supplies! Any requests?”
“I could use some stims.” Malikai immediately piped up.
“I would appreciate some ammo for my Eruptor.” Hunter quietly asked for.
“13x40mm Full Metal Jacket rounds.” Rusty stated.
“You could just say ‘ammo for my Senator please.’” Santo said while typing on his vambrace with surprising speed.
“Specificity is a virtue.” Rusty said.
“Aaaaaand more MG-43 ammo, along with a new barrel cause that one is bent slightly.” Santo muttered, then carelessly tossed the Stratagem Ball to his side, it rolled, smacked off the parapet, and rolled down the stairs.
Everyone watched as the Stratagem Ball rolled slowly, falling down a step with a surprisingly loud ‘plop!’ before rolling down the next step, followed by another ‘plop!’, this pattern repeated itself for each and every step before it finished rolling off the stairs and rolled on until it bumped against the corpse of an Overseer, where it finally deployed and flashed blue.
Hunter, Malikai, Rusty and all of Whiskey stared at Santo.
“Come on!” He whined. “That was not my fault! It didn’t stick where I tossed it!”
The Hellpod arriving and turning the Overseer’s corpse into blue jelly prefaced three of the Helldivers falling on the supplies like ravenous animals while Hunter provided overwatch on their exposed position.
Then the three provided overwatch for Hunter while he took his own supplies. There were a few quiet minutes while Santo swapped out the barrel on the MG-43 and reloaded it. He stood up and racked the charging lever on the weapon. “We’re back in business!”
“You should consider short controlled bursts.” Rusty said.
“No.” Santo snapped.
“This doctrine will ensure that the ammunition we have available will last longer.” Rusty insisted.
“Death, first!” Santo snarled.
There was a howl like a banshee, and a Helldiver in white armor descended from the sky in a screaming backwash, their feet striking the edge of the parapet, resulting in an uncontrolled tumble that bowled over Steve and Sven, sending them to the floor.
“Oi oi! Watch the Blueberries!” Santo shouted.
“Blueberries?” Fynn asked.
The new Helldiver jumped to their feet, they were wearing bone-white armor with decorative medals of service spot welded onto the plastron. Their helmet had a T-shaped golden visor set into a white faceplate with red highlights.
“Where the fight at!?” This new Helldiver snarled.
Malikai tilted his head. “What?”
The newcomer gesticulated with a pump action shotgun painted bright red. “I heard on the radio there was a fight here! Where the fight at!?”
“Uhh, we sorta beat ‘em back, but if you head…thataways over yonder a few hundred meters you’ll probably run into their reinforcements. They’ll be this whole horde and shit, can’t miss ‘em.” Santo said, waving vaguely.
The Helldiver sprinted toward the parapet, slamming Sara aside without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’ and took off with a maniacal laugh and a scream of the jets of their jetpack.
“Oi! I said watch the Blueberries!” Santo shouted after them, waving his fist. Then reached down and pulled Sara up to her feet. “The nerve of some people.”
Down in the direction Santo had indicated, there came the sound of shells falling, as well as a glow that could only be a very large area being set on fire.
“Huh.” Gerry hummed, confusion clear on his tone.
“Well, the training sergeant did say that a good offense makes for a great defense.” Steve murmured.
The sound of burning Voteless and faraway laughter continued.
“Should…Should we go help?” Fynn asked.
“I’m good.” Santo said, checking the machine gun.
“It would be tactically disadvantageous to leave a defensive position without access to more firepower.” Rusty said.
“That’s a lot of words to say ‘I don’t wanna.’” Santo said.
“Specificity is a virtue.” Rusty refuted.
There was a deep rumble, loud enough to shake what few windows remained, whatever it was, it made the Helldivers tense up.
“Oi, Hunter, that thing any good at anti-tank?” Santo demanded, ducking low behind the parapet.
“Don’t know. I’ve only been using it to blow big holes on flesh mobs.” Hunter Killer answered.
Fynn blinked. What was a flesh mob?
“Shit, okay, okay…I…I’ve been hearing rumors that they don’t do too well against a Gatling barrage from a Super Destroyer.” Santo said.
Malikai shook his head. “Without taking its turrets out first? You’ll be vaporized before you can get close enough to toss it.”
“What’s happening? What’s coming?” Fynn asked, his voice shaking.
A shadow blotted out the sky as another bass rumble shook the ground. A massive, vaguely fish-like vehicle swam through the air, surprisingly gracefully gliding between skyscrapers, its bottom side festooned with alien turrets that tracked back and forth before zeroing in on their location.
“Leviathan! Get down!” The Helldivers roared in stereo, suiting action to word. Santo and Rusty dragging members of Whiskey down with them when they took cover. A barrage of blue plasma exploded around them, chips of concrete rained down on top of their position, the air stinking of burning concrete and ozone. Fynn felt the skin of his face burning with each flash.
“They’re massing under cover of the bombardment!” Santo shouted.
“Anyone got anything that can knock the turrets off!?” Santo demanded.
“Only thing I have that will do the job is the Eruptor!” Hunter Killer yelled to be heard over the rain of plasma. “But it takes too many shots!”
“Dammit all!” Santo yelled, then flinched at a particularly close hit and stabbed himself with a stim. “That’s it! I’m going in!”
“I’ll draw its fire!” Rusty said.
“We’ll draw its fire!” Malikai shouted.
“Alright, on three!” Santo shouted. Then jumped over the parapet alongside Malikai. “THREE!”
“That was not an adequate count!” Rusty shouted as he himself jumped over, a beat later than the other two.
Against his better judgement, Fynn dragged himself to the edge of the parapet and peeked over, concrete shrapnel pinged off his helmet, but he would never forgive himself if he didn’t witness what came next.
The first to fall was Rusty, a car exploded as he ran past it, throwing the Truth Enforcer Cadet off his feet, the continuous explosions not allowing him to stand.
Next to fall was Malikai as a round exploded by his feet, throwing him into the air and causing him to crash onto the roof of a car.
Santo juked and jibed, zig sagging like a madman, moving in arrhythmic surges that caused the Leviathan’s guns to overcorrect and miss him, each second bringing him that much closer to their reckless goal.
Until, just like Rusty, a nearby car exploded and its shrapnel spun him around, a spray of vivid arterial red staining the ground as he fell to the bombarded asphalt.
Fynn’s heart froze at he terrible sight of Super Earth’s finest brought low.
The Leviathan’s barrage paused, but Fynn could see that its guns were reorienting, each of the Helldivers getting at least three turrets aimed at them.
Fynn was running, he didn’t recall leaving his cover, he didn’t know what he would or even could do if he reached them. He only knew that he had to do something, anything!
A hellpod descended from the sky in a fireball and tore through the Leviathan’s bulbous ‘head’. Slapping the enormous machine out of the sky as if Lady Liberty herself had swatted it down like the fly it was.
The Leviathan’s massive form fell seemingly slowly, tearing a trench into the side of a building before crashing into the ground in a geyser of dirt, broken concrete, alien metal, fire, and blue blood, sliding through the ground and coming to a final rest almost at the foot of the building they’d been defending.
The three fallen Helldivers all sat up, shaking themselves not unlike dogs shedding water. Spent stims falling from their necks.
Out of the Hellpod that had slain the Leviathan rose the flag of Super Earth, silhouetted beatifically by one final explosion from the fallen Leviathan.
“Okay.” Malikai groaned. “Who threw that and didn’t tell me?”
“Not me.” Hunter Killer said, appearing as if from thin air.
“Oh hey.” Malikai said with a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. “What kept you?”
“I was using your distraction to secure an advantageous position from which to attack the Leviathan. It was dispatched before I could do so.” Hunter Killer said, Fynn belatedly realized that was the most he’d heard the Helldiver say at once.
Santo released a long, piteous groan. “Why do I do things?” He asked, pushing himself up to his hands and knees. “Just to suffer?”
“Your reluctance to dive back into the line of duty has been noted.” Rusty said, standing next to the kneeling Helldiver, aiming the camera right at him.
“Sod off Youth Enforcer.” He said, not getting up. “I’m old.”
“Noted.” Rusty said.
“That’s the wrong attitude to have, my new friend!” Said a bombastic voice. Fynn turned, and saw that it came from a Parade Commander, the emblem on the cap built into his helmet marking him out as a Helldiver who surpassed the outmost competence.
“Where the hell are all these Helldivers coming from!?” Santo asked, stubbornly refusing to stand up. “So, who’re you supposed to be?”
“My friends call me Chucho!” Chucho said affably, reaching down, taking Santo’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “And since we’re friends, go ahead and call me that!”
“Well, name’s Alexander Liberator, call sign Santo.” Santo said before repeating the introductions as he’d done before.
Chucho nodded and turned to Fynn. “My SEAF friend! I heard your calls for aid on the radio! My apologies for arriving late, I had my own mission to finish before I could make my way here. I brought help, but I see it was largely unneeded.
“Help?” Santo asked.
Chucho turned to the largely destroyed alleyway. “Hey! You two! Get out here!”
Fynn blinked and looked in the direction the Helldiver had turned, two helmets popped out from behind a pile of rubble. A blue one and a bright yellow one.
Fynn gasped and squealed like a child. “The TR-7 SUMY Corp Froyo Ambassador!”
Fynn still remembered the time a TR-7 clad Helldiver had gone to his high school to talk about the importance of reporting seditious dissident talk. It was one of his most cherished memories.
The two brightly clad Helldivers trotted up.
“Good shot sir!” The blue one said obsequiously.
“It was right inspiring sir!” The yellow one said with an accent Fynn didn’t recognize.
“Yeah well.” Santo said, rolling his shoulders. “Thanks for saving our bacon there. It was looking a might hairy.”
Fynn couldn’t look away from the large red stain on the Helldiver’s plastron, where arterial spurts had tinted it into a deep red. Yet he walked around without a care in the world.
Helldivers were something else.
“Just doing my part for Super Earth!” Chucho said, saluting.
Fynn saluted back.
“Yeah well. This bloody thing has just plugged our only good sightline to deal with Illuminate forces.” Santo said, waving at the leaking corpse of the Leviathan. “Unless you can call in a whole bunch of turrets, they’ll be able to waltz almost up to our doorstep, then just run around and over the damn thing. Though we can probably carve an okay funnel if we can get our hands on some explosives.”
There was a by now familiar gurgling warcry followed by the hissing of countless voteless.
“No time!” Chucho said, sprinting to pick up the Super Earth flag then rushing at the Leviathan. “We make our stand at the Leviathan!”
“There’s no way that’ll work!” Santo shouted, running after him.
Soon, Fynn found himself left behind as the Helldivers all rushed at the fallen Illuminate monstrosity. He ran to catch up to them. Behind him, there was an enormous explosion, and a white armored form flew by, impacting with bone shattering force against the Leviathan.
It stabbed itself in the neck with a stim before throwing itself to its feet and shouting with a maniacal laugh. “Democracy protects her most loyal servants!”
“Well done friend!” Chucho shouted. “You’ve bought us time!”
“Time for what!?” The Helldiver in white shouted.
Chucho planted the flag at the top of the Leviathan. “Time to set up! Santo, hold the right flank!”
“I still believe this is a poor idea!” Santo shouted back, crouching atop the Leviathan.
“Malikai be ready to deliver that Hellbomb, but you don’t have permission to die, so be ready to come back!” Chucho ordered.
“No promises.” Malikai said.
“Hunter Killer! Take the high ground! Keep us covered.”
“Affirmative.” Hunter Killer said quietly before vanishing.
“Rusty!”
“Do not call me Rusty.” Rusty objected.
“Cover Malikai as best you can!” Chucho ordered before turning to the blue and yellow Helldivers. “You two, I know fresh recruits don’t have much in the way of Stratagems, just take cover and assist as best you’re able!”
“Uh, yes sir.” They said, saluting.
“My SEAF friend!”
Fynn twitched.
“Retreat to the parapet!” Chucho said, pointing. “You will act as the final line of defense.
“R-Right!” Fynn said, and trotted to the building, rejoining Whiskey.
Gerry sighed when he arrived. “I’m supposed to yell at you for breaking ranks, but I understand. Just…grab some more ammo and be ready.”
“Y-Yeah.” Fynn said.
“It was pretty inspiring though.” Gerry said as Fynn stepped past him. “Running out to help the Helldivers? That was really brave of you.”
Fynn chuckled bitterly. “Not like I did anything to help. I’d just have gotten in the way.”
“All the same.” Gerry insisted. But anything else he might have said was drowned out as eight Helldivers all shouted their war cries and opened fire at once. Due to the corpse of the Leviathan, Fynn’s view was heavily restricted. All he could see was Santo firing the same impossibly long bursts with Fynn’s machine gun and throwing at least a half-dozen grenades, covering the large street in green smoke. Hunter Killer calmly firing his enormous bolt action rifle. Chucho holding the Super Earth flag high, while firing a submachinegun with his off hand.
They at times threw Stratagem Balls, and when they did, their Super Destroyers would rain down destruction on an awe inspiring scale. A huge laser scythed through a building, turning the ground it focused on molten.
And on the Illuminate came.
One of the smaller Illuminate air assets came in, its bombing run getting perilously close before Hunter Killer swatted it out of the air with that experimental gun he carried, before drawing a saber and beheading a voteless. The yellow armored Helldiver was shot off the Leviathan, he did not stand up from where he fell.
Fynn’s heart fell as the Helldivers, now reduced to only four retreated further back up the Leviathan, harried all the way by voteless, an Overseer with a jetpack raining fire down upon them, until the white armored Helldiver who never gave their name jumped up on a plume of flame of their own, laughing maniacally and firing their bright red shotgun point blank at it.
A huge amalgamation of voteless bodies lumbered onto the Leviathan, as Santo was nearly pulled off his feet, an Overseer all but hanging off his arm. He’d lost the MG-43 at some point, he wrestled with the large alien, trying to draw a bead with his pistol, then suddenly drew his blood-stained skillet and began wailing on the alien’s head with wild abandon.
Chucho held a red glowing Stratagem Ball high and shouted. “FOR SUPER EARTH!”
Before throwing the Stratagem Ball at his feet.
Fynn stared at the pile of burning Illuminate corpses, sizzling on top of said carefully stacked pile was a cast iron skillet. Hissing and sputtering on that cast iron skillet were blue colored powdered eggs that Santo was absently stirring with a stainless-steel spatula.
“And I’ve gotta say, I’ve never heard of someone using alien corpses instead of firewood.” Hunter Killer said excitedly. “That’s just smart use of resources.”
“Honestly it’d be better with Terminid corpses.” Santo said, stirring away at the eggs. “They burn much more cleanly and evenly.”
“Are you sure it’s okay though? That’s a lot of Illuminate blood on the skillet.”
“It adds flavor!”
Fynn pulled the blanket around his shoulders more tightly around himself and turned to another set of Helldivers.
“Look, being called ‘Rusty’ isn’t an insult.” Malikai explained patiently. “It’s a Call Sign. It’s a name you earn through combat and brotherhood. A call sign is most often not a name you get to choose, it’s chosen for you. So, like it or not, you’re stuck with Rusty.”
“But how can I be Rusty?” Rusty asked mulishly, his voice for the first time holding a tone other than ‘monotone’. “I haven’t yet earned my Super Destroyer. I can’t have become ‘rusty’ at any skills yet!”
“Not up to you, Rusty!” Malakai insisted.
Fynn took a deep, shuddering breath and looked out at the shattered ruins of his home Mega City the sun having long set.
Gerry had said that the fighting had moved on to other sectors. At some point during the battle, the Helldivers’ Super Destroyers had left low orbit, leaving them stranded until they could come back and pick them up.
The white armored one hadn’t cared, they’d just flew off with a maniacal laugh, shouting something about murdering the enemies of freedom. That one scared Fynn a little.
Fynn thought he’d feel something with victory, but all he felt was tired.
A plate with blue scrambled eggs was set in front of him. He ate mechanically.
They tasted strangely sweet. Like eggs made with milk that had been served with Böffs & Nörfs. It didn’t taste that bad, though he wasn’t sure he’d go out of his way to find this flavor again.
“And I’m telling you, there are hundreds, thousands of stories of valor happening all around us, right this minute!” Chucho was saying, gesticulating excitedly next to Santo as he cooked another batch of what he was calling ‘Illuminate Omelet’. “How many have been lost purely because nobody writes them down? How many will never be heard because they only survive as an after-action report? Someone should do something, bring these stories to the fleet!”
“What?” Santo asked, looking up from his skillet. “Like a news paper?”
Chucho snapped his fingers. “Yes! Exactly! A newspaper for Helldivers, by Helldivers! And for the regular citizens of Super Earth too!”
Santo snorted and turned back to his omelet. “That’ll never work.”
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