Rhea IV, at the Governor's Mansion spaceport.
The bitter cold wind howled, swirling dust that carried an acidic tang, but Planetary Governor Blackwood couldn't bother to wipe the grime from his face. He was staring anxiously at the sky, filled with anticipation for the reinforcements promised by the Tyrant of Badab.
This planet had recently suffered heavily from the raids of the Drukhari. Those xeno raiders from Commorragh came and went like ghosts, turning the entire planet into their personal hunting ground. The regular Planetary Defence Forces were like lambs to the slaughter before them, forcing Blackwood to seek aid from the Master of the Maelstrom.
"They're here! Lord Huron's space transport!" the adjutant shouted excitedly.
A transport ship with mottled hull plating broke through the clouds and touched down heavily on the spaceport. The pneumatic valves hissed as the hatch slowly opened.
Blackwood straightened his back, preparing to welcome those legendary, power-armored, demigod-like Adeptus Astartes. He had even pre-formulated words of praise in his mind.
However, as the dust cleared, the figures stepping out of the hatch were not the Astartes of the Astral Claws, but a group of—mortals wearing standard carapace armor?
Furthermore, they didn't look professional at all. They completely lacked that elite sense of strict discipline and grim solemnity; he even spotted quite a few of them pointing and gesturing at the architecture of the Governor's Mansion.
The smile on Blackwood's face froze instantly, and his heart turned incredibly bitter.
That's it?
The reinforcements Lord Huron promised were just a few hundred mortals? Was this a joke at his expense? Facing those lightning-fast Drukhari with their bizarre technology, what could a mortal force do besides march to their deaths? Even a single squad of Astartes would have been better!
"You're the governor of this planet, right?" The leader, Ghostface, walked over. Looking as if he hadn't fully woken up yet, he casually placed a hand to his forehead in a makeshift, unorthodox salute.
Blackwood forced a tight smile, his disappointment hard to mask: "Dear—Officer, is it just you? I mean, facing those cruel xenos, perhaps we need a more—powerful line of support?"
Ghostface saw right through the governor's thoughts and waved his hand dismissively: "Don't worry, Governor. When dealing with things like the Drukhari, sometimes mortals are much more useful than Astartes."
"This—" The governor looked entirely unconvinced.
"Think about it, what do the Drukhari come here for? To capture slaves and torture souls, right?" Seeing his disbelief, Ghostface began deploying his warped logic, leading him on persuasively, "If we were Astartes, they might choose guerrilla tactics or just retreat. But we are mortals; in their eyes, we're just walking, delicious snacks."
He patted his chest with an air of righteous self-sacrifice: "We are the bait! Besides, even if we fail the engagement, what's the worst-case scenario? It's just letting the Drukhari carry us away. That way, once they've taken enough slaves, they will naturally leave, and you won't lose anything. You won't even have to pay out pensions for the Planetary Defence Force."
The planetary governor listened, completely dazed.
This argument—why did it make so much sense?
This group came here to act as cannon fodder and bait? And from their tone, they seemed completely unbothered by the prospect of being dragged to Commorragh by those sadistic aliens to suffer eternal torment?
For a moment, the governor truly felt there was nothing wrong with this logic. Since they had already put it in those terms and were willing to throw themselves to the wolves, it wasn't his place to object.
"Then—then thank you all so much for your heroic sacrifice," the governor's expression turned solemn, even though he still felt this group most likely wouldn't return, "I wish you all success in repelling the Drukhari and a victorious return. May the Emperor protect you."
After a brief handover ceremony, the planetary governor left, his mind filled with doubts and a sliver of hope.
Once the group of finely dressed officials had walked far away, the "righteous self-sacrifice" on Ghostface's face vanished instantly. He let out a massive yawn, turned around, and waved to his teammates behind him: "Alright, the fuckass NPCs are gone. Back to work folks, back to work."
He returned to the transport ship alone, walking past the numerous Helldivers who were organizing their gear and laughingly discussing what kind of good loot those Drukhari would drop. He headed straight for a heavily locked room in the deepest part of the vessel.
The temperature here was much lower than outside, and a disconcertingly oppressive sensation hung in the air.
A player named Jason Vorhees pushed open the heavy isolation door and stepped into the dim room. In the center of the room stood a specialized cage etched with runes, surrounded by several burning incense sticks that emitted a strange odor.
He walked forward and casually snuffed out the incense sticks, which were made from the ashes of Blanks.
As the wisp of green smoke that suppressed the fluctuations of the Warp dissipated, the air inside the cage instantly became thick and ambiguous.
"Wakey-wakey, sleeping beauty." Vorhees tapped the bars made of specialized alloy with a wrench, producing a sharp clinking sound.
The shadows inside the cage writhed, and then, a face raised up—one of absolute beauty, yet one that caused a shudder from the deepest depths of the soul.
It was a Daemon of Slaanesh; to be precise, a Daemonette.
Hunger and malice flickered within its violet eyes as it stared intently at the mortal before it: "Mortal!—
You had best have something important. I hope you truly can, as you promised, bring me the souls of the Eldar. They are a supreme delicacy—otherwise, I will vent my wrath upon you, allowing you to experience ten thousand years of ecstasy and agony."
To the Drukhari, Slaanesh—She Who Thirsts—was their eternal nightmare. The moment the scent of Slaanesh appeared, those normally cruel and arrogant Drukhari would become as terrified as mice encountering a cat, their very souls freezing in fear.
This was the "superweapon" the players had prepared.
Faced with the daemon's threat, Ghostface didn't panic at all, even letting out a cold chuckle.
"Don't threathen me with a good time and you better quit bragging," he looked at the daemon in the cage with disdain, "Or did you forget how we captured you in the first place?
Perhaps you want to experience the feeling of a few hundred burly men pinning you to the ground and manhandling you again? Kinky~"
The Daemon of Slaanesh's originally proud expression stiffened, as if recalling an extremely humiliating and terrible experience.
It gritted its teeth and ultimately chose not to reply, lowering its head again in resentment, though its eyes still burned with a craving for Eldar souls.
"That's more like it. Cooperate nicely, and the all-you-can-eat Eldar buffet will arrive shortly." Ghostface chuckled, turned around, and walked out of the room.