Among the misty, menacingly sharp and high mountains, as if buried under a centuries-old shroud of woe and suffering, lies a mining village.
A small haven for laborers who had successfully settled in the Expansion Region. Not too far from the edge, but the fat cats from the Core wouldn't bother them with exorbitant taxes or demands for bribes.
The planet... actually, it would be more accurate to say the moon Mayvitch-7, hung in orbit around the gas giant Amador. A small, run-down planetoid, and there was hardly anything worth taking from here.
Mayvitch-7 is not the most comfortable planet, dotted with mountains full of useful minerals and endless plains inhabited by many local predators of various shapes and sizes.
The sun hangs over it, parching the earth to the state of ash, and the stifling heat seems to try to crush everything living into the ground. Every damn breath turns into a painful process as the stale, dust-filled air enters the lungs, leaving a bitter aftertaste.
But it wasn't just the constant aromas on the moon that tickled the nose.
The biting wind, weaving through the narrow streets of the mining town, brought with it the foul scents of soot and dried blood, merging into a suffocating cocktail that filled the village like poison.
The sweet scent of rot mingled with all this, creating a horrific stench that reliably repelled even the least picky Scavengers.
Stone houses, which once embodied hope and industry, now stand like grim witnesses to a forgotten time, every crack in their rough walls whispering... frightened, dark, and with shades of fury, as if calling for vengeance.
On some of them, pathetic scraps of wood and leather remained—damp remnants of the past, worn and cracked, as if the walls themselves were decomposing under the pressure of Mayvitch.
Between the ruins, the remnants of human lives peeked through like shards of broken dreams; dark spots were visible on the ground. Practically black streaks of dried blood, with drag marks leading toward the center of the town...
The Spaceport.
This ancient structure towered over all the other houses. Dilapidated and plastered with rusty scraps of metal, it belched thin white smoke, as if assuring that life had not yet left this desolate place.
A pathetic self-deception, for the smell of soot and burnt human flesh carried by the smoke made it clear...
There were no survivors.
"Hm..."
Setting the binoculars aside, Salco Sharus curled his lips in distaste. Squinting his eyes, hidden beneath his helmet mask, the man stood to his full height, then tucked the small binoculars into a magnetic lock on his belt.
Grasping his Blaster with both hands, "Eagle" stared into the distance for a few more seconds, but seeing nothing unusual, he turned his head back slightly and whistled. The piercing sound echoed off the walls, but the Helldivers commander neither doubted nor feared—rather the opposite, showing by this single act that he did not fear potential attackers... But to his regret, the town proved to be completely empty.
"Phew, I'm sick of sitting there," "Reed" said, shaking the clinging moss off his armor and shielding himself from the wind with his cloak, as if that could somehow help. "Froze my whole ass off."
"Well, our Firefly is always ready to warm you up... in every sense."
Laughing gruffly, a large soldier in heavy armor slapped Myrkr on the back, drawing smiles from everyone except the shortest member of the squad.
"Screw you, Booker, put your own crack under the flamethrower, or whatever you meant by that!"
"You tell me, little bluebird."
Continuing to needle his comrade, Billy guffawed particularly nastily, clearly intending to escalate their playful conflict, but the cold voice of the squad leader cut both jokers off mid-sentence.
"Enough. We're entering the town." Without listening for confirming answers, Salco pressed a couple of fingers to his PDA, going onto the general communication channel. "Minuteman One to Bulwark, entering the town."
"Copy that, One. Two and Three will go with you; the rest will bypass and proceed further to the designated objective." A cold mechanical voice responded in the earpieces, and then a map appeared on Salco's helmet screen showing the approximate state of affairs and their further actions. "Continue mission execution, out..."
"Acknowledged." Clicking his tongue because they'd have to search ruins and poke through corpses instead of creating new ones for the glory of Holy Liberty, Sharus turned to his men, who were already prepared to move, as were two other squads that had pulled up to them from the flanks. "Assigned to search duty again..."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Booker said, throwing his hands up in frustration, capturing the squad's mood perfectly. "Why us again?!"
"The deputy commander is still sulking and hasn't forgiven us for indulging the Commander in his escapes and strange little dealings. Vindictive... woman." Before he could finish, Myrkr met the commander's matte-black visor, which was staring intently into his eyes. "Well... uh, I meant to say she values us very much and doesn't want to risk our lives."
"Correct answer." Sharus nodded encouragingly, then beckoned everyone forward with a wave of his hand, hoping deep down that the network connecting them wouldn't carry this conversation to the deputy commander, who was already none too pleased with their little band acting as Altman's errand boys. "Now, to work..."
"Eh, it'd be better if he just married her already and be done with it," Myrkr muttered, unable to shut up. "It'd make things a lot easier for all of us... financially too."
"Yeah, right." Catching the implication, Booker was right there beside him, along with the perpetually silent but attentive Jeg Wright. "I bet someone just placed a bet against our brave commander!"
The guess hit the mark. Unable to find an immediate answer—something unusual for "Reed"—the poor guy looked around in a panic, forcing the squad to stop.
"Seriously? You bet against Sam? What kind of person are you?"
"Come on, guys. The odds were nineteen to one that they'd snare him before Valorum's term ends!" Even under the helmets, it was clear the information didn't sound very convincing. "Oh, don't act like you don't care..."
"Yeah. Right. Definitely."
"Damn it..." Hanging his head, Myrkr was about to pull a couple of arguments out of his sleeve when the Jabiimite raised a hand in a warning gesture, calling for silence.
"Copy that." Looking over the squad, Salco shook his head in disapproval. They'd been working together for so many years, and yet they were still like children... and he was no better. "Let's go; the second squad found something interesting."
****
"There were many of them... Came from over there. At night." With an accent characteristic of Ukian farmers, "Jaeger," one of the third squad's soldiers, rose from his knees. Dusting the dry, ash-mixed earth off his armor, the man of about fifty pointed toward the forest beginning in the foothills. "A company. Maybe two. Left the same way..."
Shrugging, the Ukian pressed a hand to his temple and stared into the distance, as if hoping to see something there that the helmet optics couldn't make out.
"The killed?" Turning away from their squad tracker, Salco shifted his full attention to his deputy for this mission, with whom he had worked several times on other assignments.
"Three hundred were burned on a common pyre," "Paprika" said, pointing a finger toward the spaceport, clearly grimacing at the words. Despite his intimidating appearance—standing nearly seven feet tall, covered in dented and scratched armor, and festooned with various ritual marks and trophies—Vit Fordo was an extremely kind and, one might even say, compassionate man. Operations with him always resulted in minimal civilian casualties... and in the Helldivers, that means whenever less than half the population dies. "The rest, it seems, were driven off with them..."
"True. 'Paprika' speaks the truth. They rounded everyone up. Dragged them, even..." Kneeling again, "Jaeger" ran his fingers over the ground, scooping a bit of dry, parched earth into his palm. "They showed no mercy."
Sadly shaking his head, the Ukian crushed the clod of earth in his hands with fury, letting it sift through his fingers. Straightening up and gripping his blaster, the elderly Helldiver clearly wanted to get to business as quickly as possible, and Sharous had no reason to refuse him.
***
Deep in the mountain forest, among tall trees and thick bushes, lay a Yinchorri camp.
Upright lizards, seven and a half feet tall, were armed with whatever they could find, ranging from ordinary spears to blaster repeaters.
Noisy, fierce, and simple in their desires and goals, the Yinchorri lived for the moment, rejoicing in their latest success. Let the Council of Chieftains worry about tomorrow; today they were celebrating a new victory, with many more to come.
Huge bonfires burned brightly, illuminating the heavy faces of their distorted forms. They celebrated their success surrounded by the victims they had captured in their last raid. The sounds of loud laughter and shouting filled the air, mixed with the crackling of burning wood.
The strongest of the Yinchorri lazily flicked their tails to the beat of the merry songs echoing from their bloated throats. Their smiles were ferocious, and their eyes glittered with the greed of red pupils.
They drank from large homemade cups filled with something bitter and strong. Some were carved from wood, others hammered from solid pieces of metal, and others still...
Not all captives were lucky enough to survive such a difficult journey through the mountains.
Occasionally, one of them would raise a cup high, as if summoning the spirits of ancestors, and the whole company would begin to hoot and holler, supporting his cry-roar. Their merry shouts were punctuated by brawling when someone drank too much and began to brag about their trophies—especially the weapons and armor they had personally stripped from enemies.
Curses and jokes thundered through the air, but alongside the Yinchorri's revelry and madness, a sense of longing and despair hung in the air. The captives, bound in chains, sat on the ground, looking warily at their captors.
Some were terrified, others simply bewildered, having lost all hope. Their clothes were torn, and their eyes were full of fear. They awaited their fate, hoping for even a shred of mercy. After all, not everyone faced the fate of a slave...
One only had to look at the freshly gnawed bones to realize that, despite all the technology acquired in such a short time, the Yinchorri savages remained exactly what they were—insane tribes who recognized only strength and reveled in the blood of the weak.
The aliens themselves, meanwhile, began counting their loot. They were proud of the trophies they had brought with them. Bags filled with Credits, helmets, and armor. They kept rare weapons for themselves as proof of their strength, not to use, but merely to boast about back home. Every find elicited joyful shouts, and threats were hurled at anyone who dared touch another's trophy.
In the background, deafening shouts and laughter erupted when one Yinchorri started a fight with another over the last drops of brew. Both growled at each other and soon ended up on the ground fighting, twisting and pulling each other's tails, scratching and biting, dealing loud blows to tough scales with fists like sledgehammers.
This only added to the fun for the others; growling and roaring, they cheered on the fighters, occasionally firing hand weapons into the air.
The forest was filled with the sounds of a mad feast and the bright reflections of the bonfire, which was visible for many kilometers...
"Noble One in position." Sharous's quiet voice sounded in the headsets of everyone gathered. Three squads of Helldivers surrounded the Yinchorri camp. Crazed by an easy victory and rich trophies, the lizards hadn't even bothered with sentries, firmly convinced they were in no danger... A mistake that would result in a few hundred fewer aliens in the galaxy.
"Noble Two in position. Noble Three in position."
Confirming his subordinates' words, Sharous slowly stepped forward, remaining hidden in the shadows and behind thick bushes. Touching the signature Helldivers PDA, the Jabiimite punched in the required numeric code and selected one of the dozen lines that lit up on the screen.
A soft but insistent and rhythmic beep sounded in the headset, warning him that he should hurry.
Reaching behind his back, he caught a small beacon ball that had dropped from his backpack with a practiced motion, its red light pulsing. Weighing it in his hand, Sharous pressed his lips together respectfully, marveling once again at this strange but effective method of war.
Stowing his blaster in its magnetic holster, the man made a sharp swing and, leaning his whole body forward, threw the beacon in an arc over the lizard camp. Lost in the noise and clamor of the aliens, the quiet beeping of the ball went unnoticed by anyone, which brought a satisfied smile to the face of "Beacon."
"Estimated time twenty seconds," the headquarters quietly reported through the earpiece. But even without the prompt, Sharous would have only needed one look at the sky to understand that everything was going according to plan.
How he wished he could just stand here, waiting for the punishing hand of Democracy to descend upon this vile nest of alien contagion. He wanted to see the triumph of Republican law over the bastards. The power of human genius, embodied in metal and plasma!
But he couldn't... On the contrary, he had to hurry if he still wanted to save the captives from the ruined spaceport, because when the guns hit, the civilians would surely start losing their minds and running around like a pack of singed womp rats.
"Noble One to all. Commencing attack. Push the bastards to the very edge of the camp!" Marking the point on the map where the beacon had been thrown, Sharous, along with the others, leaped from cover, opening up a hurricane of fire! "FOR DEMOCRACY!"
"A-A-A-A-A!"
Imitating his cry, the Helldivers ran out after him, raising rifles, cannons, and flamethrowers, beginning to pick off the still-feasting Yinchorri on the move.
The lizard-men didn't even realize what was happening at first, until Booker's massive autocannon began tearing their bodies to pieces, drenching the area in alien guts. Dropping to one knee and hoisting the massive weapon to his shoulder, Billy began spraying the enemies with a laugh straight from goddamn hell, sparing no ammunition.
"Firefly, on me! Noble Two, close in! Noble Three, stay at range!"
A rocket streaked past Sharous's left. Then another, and another. A volley of four little troublemakers raced past Sharous's head, causing his glutes to clench to monumental density, before the rockets exploded in the center of the enemy squads, tossing broken bodies in all directions.
Heavy rifles thundered, and from the east, near the cages with the captives, a repeater opened up. A multi-colored beam swept like a scythe through the unarmored raiders, clearly unprepared for a battle with an equal opponent.
Cutting through bodies and ricocheting off rare armor plates, the handheld light repeater staged a veritable light show, illuminating the forest with multi-colored fires that made everyone's eyes—except the Helldivers'—throb.
"Forward, forward, forward!" Waving his hand and pushing Jeg Wright ahead of him, "Beacon" climbed onto a large rock that had previously served as a stage for drunken lizards. Jumping up with the help of his jetpack, he stood at full height like an ancient hero and, switching to automatic mode, began firing from the hip at the scurrying enemies, who were becoming noticeably fewer with every passing second.
"FOR HOLY LIBERTY!" A guttural, terrifying scream, full of a thirst for violence and a cruel death to all enemies—Jeg Wright had finally reached his targets under the cover of the rest of the team. Raising a heavy experimental flamethrower, the damn pyromaniac slammed his hand against the fuel lever with a flourish—cranking it to the max! "FIRE WILL SEAR ALL SINS FROM YOUR VILE SOULS!"
The flash of blue flame was like a plasma reactor explosion. Incredible heat lit up the area, knocking back all participants in the battle and searing the retinas of nearby Yinchorri.
The mad roar of fire hit the ears, knocking Sharous off the rock onto the soft ground. Covering his eyes with the back of his hand, even through the protection of his helmet, he managed to scramble to his feet to crawl to the edge of the stone and look down...
The armor's sensors shrieked as a blue stream raced past. recoiling, Sharous looked with a face full of shock at the scorched clearing where, a few seconds ago, nearly fifty lizards had been reorganizing.
The light seemed to have gone out in that place, and all life had fled it. Darkness and silence enveloped the mountain undergrowth, and no one dared break it, even with a terrified scream. Only rare, eerie roars of flame announced the area when Jeg Wright found another survivor of the local apocalypse. And only blue flecks, like living flame, danced on this scorched wasteland.
"Well, shit..."
Struggling to his feet, feeling the char on his tongue even through the powerful helmet filters, Sharous watched with a sort of resignation and exhaustion as a dozen turbolaser bolts from orbit struck the edge of the camp—finishing off the lizards fleeing in terror.
***
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