Early that morning, Pyro headed to the Quartermaster's office with the ten squad leaders of his recon company to draw supplies.
After some back-and-forth negotiation, the necessary gear—ammunition, rations, and various other odds and ends—was finally hauled onto their Chimera APC.
While riding in the back, Freeman got bored and pried open a few crates, only to find they were packed with nutrient bars. Holding one up, he looked confusedly at Pyro, who was behind the wheel. "Yo, Pyro, why'd we even take these nutrient bars? It's not like we're actually gonna eat 'em."
He unwrapped one and took a whiff. An indescribable stench of rust and rot nearly made him gag. Looking closer, he could even see bits of unidentified insect husks mixed into the paste. "Gross. You could kill me and I still wouldn't touch this crap."
For these Helldivers—players who could reset their physical state through dying—saying "I wouldn't eat this if it killed me" wasn't just a figure of speech; it was a literal fact. Their fear of death was far outweighed by their revulsion toward such food.
"They're high-calorie nutrient bars, at least. It beats Corpse Starch, which is just the bare minimum to keep you breathing. On a battlefield, you take what you can get," Pyro replied. He navigated the Chimera expertly over the rugged terrain, his voice slightly muffled by the roar of the engine. "But you're right; those aren't meant for us anyway."
"Then who are they for?" Freeman asked, squinting at the "poison" in his hand before tossing it back into the crate. "And where are we headed? Bro, did you sniff out a hidden quest?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Pyro said, playing his cards close to his chest. "As for quests... in this game, you can't just limit yourself to what's on the mission board."
Just as Freeman was about to press for details, the vehicle ground to a halt. Pyro reached back. "Alright, pass me that bar in your hand. We're here. Everyone out, weapons hot."
Freeman popped the top hatch as the Chimera's rear ramp hissed open. The squad leaders stepped out and saw exactly where their captain had led them: the Mid-Hive.
It lacked the gilded glory of the Spire and the absolute anarchy of the Under-Hive. The Mid-Hive was a microcosm of urban decay—dense residential blocks, crumbling factories, and an air thick with the stench of poverty and despair. Countless skeletal figures scurried through narrow alleys, their numb eyes only flickering with a hint of alertness when they spotted the Chimera.
Pyro rapped his knuckles against the Chimera's heavy metal plating, the sharp clank drawing every eye in the vicinity. With his other hand, he waved the nutrient bar. The faint "aroma" wafting from the torn packaging was a lethal temptation to the starving residents. Those vacant eyes instantly turned predatory and feverish. The locals swarmed the APC like sharks smelling blood in the water.
The squad leaders grew visibly tense. They finally understood why Pyro told them to keep their weapons ready. One wrong move and these starving people would riot to get their hands on the food. It would be an uncontrollable bloodbath.
Freeman handed the bar to the first person to reach him—a sallow-faced young man with bloodshot eyes. Freeman said in a low, firm voice, "Eat it right here in front of me before you leave. One per person, no extras. Start handing them out."
The last part was directed at his squad leaders. Being veterans with plenty of organizational experience, they quickly delegated tasks, some keeping watch with rifles ready while others began the orderly distribution of the bars.
The handout went smoothly for a while, and the squad leaders began to relax—until one resident stepped forward. Unlike the others, he didn't immediately snatch the bar to cram it into his mouth.
Instead, he pleaded, "Milord, my sister is starving. she's so weak she can't even walk. I'm not asking for two. I'm just begging you—can I take this with me instead of eating it here?"
Without waiting for a response, he dropped to his knees and began to beg repeatedly, his voice trembling with desperation. The player facing him looked at the emaciated wretch, unsure of what to do, and turned to Pyro for guidance.
Pyro closed his eyes as if resting. "We're here to save his life, not get him killed."
The phrasing was subtle, but the players caught on quickly. With their small numbers, they were barely maintaining order around the Chimera. If this guy walked away with a nutrient bar in his pocket? He wouldn't make it ten feet before being beaten to death by someone else looking to steal it. In the face of starvation, humanity is a fragile thing.
The player pulled the man up, shoved the bar into his hand, and said firmly, "Eat up. Get your strength back first, then figure out how to find food for your sister."
The man went silent. His sunken eyes lingered on the player's face for a few seconds before he turned around and began to shove the bar into his mouth. He chewed slowly, methodically, as if trying to absorb every last drop of nutrition. A flash of cold ruthlessness crossed his eyes—the look of a creature pushed to the brink. It wasn't hard to guess what kind of path he would take after this.
Once the distribution was finished, the group piled back into the APC. Pyro sealed the hatch and cranked the engine. The atmosphere inside the cabin was heavy.
"This is the Mid-Hive, right?" Freeman said gloomily, recalling those hungry eyes. "How is it that these people don't even have Corpse Starch to eat?"
"They used to," Pyro replied casually as he steered the Chimera away from the district, his tone tinged with irony. "But after the former Governor diverted the bulk of the military to Amarah Prime, the sudden economic burden meant they couldn't even afford the scraps anymore."
"Damn, this game is way too real," Freeman hissed. "So... us eating those Ant-Bull cans and Grox meat every now and then—that doesn't affect them, does it? Amarah doesn't even farm that stuff."
"Where do you think that batch of nutrient bars I got from the Quartermaster came from?" Pyro asked with a sneer. "We don't eat them, but our 'allocated rations' are still being produced anyway."
"That's... well, what if we report our 'special condition' and tell them to stop producing our share? Would that help their situation?" Freeman asked naively, still trying to find a shred of decency in this decaying system.
Pyro glanced at him. "You ever heard of 'phantom payrolls'?"
"Uh..." Freeman froze. He got it.
"Even if you reported it, the production quotas for the Mid-Hive workers wouldn't drop an inch," Pyro continued. "The nobles would just be thrilled that their kickbacks got even bigger."
"Damn it!" Freeman fumed for a long time before finally spitting out, "Then why don't we just gun down all the nobles? We could replace the factory management with Mechanicus players."
"Easy there," Pyro said. He understood Freeman's rage, but impulse wouldn't fix this. "Since we know Chaos is stirring the pot, the issues in the Mid and Under-Hives have to be dealt with. Otherwise, we're just gift-wrapping opportunities for Chaos infiltration. That 'Faith Audit' before was just the preliminary round. When Calgar arrives, there's going to be a second audit."
He paused, as if already seeing the coming storm. "The Space Marines and the Kriegers won't take the lead on something like this. When the time comes, the ones left to clean up the mess... will be us."
"Isn't that a good thing?"