The thoughts are chasing me for the last few weeks or so, so now I’m gonna share them with you.
TaskForce 141 x Helldiver!Reader
141 who are getting higher clearance to find out about the whole entirely separate military branch that operate on intergalactic fucking levels.
And then they meet the Reader — always in armour, primary weapon slinged over their shoulder, heavy boots thudding on the metal of their ship as they jog from armoury to main panel, punching in coordinates.
141 don’t think they ever saw someone work this quickly with missions that never last more than 45 minutes at most, jogging through harsh terrain to work through every mission objective.
But still it seems doable. It doesn’t seem like anything too harsh they’ve seen on Earth. Not so different really. They don’t get why the soldiers of this branch are called “helldivers”.
Reader hums, voice getting distorted due to helmet they seem to be always in. Always ready for battle.
“Cause we dive feet first into hell”, they chuckle, rolling their shoulders before locking themselves down into the pod.
141 watching with growing worry the way the pod gets fucking launched down the orbit like a bloody missile. It’s a miracle the person inside even gets out upon collision. It’s a miracle they are in any state to fight.
But there is something wrong with the whole branch. Soldiers too young, heads too hot, missions too risky and weapons that are never provided. Most of ammunition helldivers buying themselves. Spending their own money to improve the state of the ship and their own weapons.
It’s not until 141 find out the horrifying statistic that colour drains from their faces, fingers cold and static-y.
Average lifespan of Helldivers in the field is less than half a minute.
Transformers x Helldivers! Here are my designs for the main Decepticons! (AU info in text, also AMA?)
Off the bat, I would like to mention that the Autobots will likely not be getting unique Helldivers-themed designs, due to story reasons. Civilian vehicles do exist in Helldivers anyway.
Hello! I'm Langodan. This is actually my first time drawing Transformers so I hope you enjoy these! This AU started as a literal dream of mine, I woke up thinking about it and the more I did the more I realised how well this worked.
The AU is tentatively called "Super Earth Sparks", which abbreviates nicely to SES. It has absolutely nothing to do with Earthspark.
Other than existing characters, there are a set of OC Transformers and OC Helldivers, designs still pending. The TF OCs are an Eagle, Pelican, FRV and Super Destroyer. Some of them will be using designs by The_Pug_Artist, maybe all of them if he does more.
This is a group effort with a couple friends of mine and might become a fanfic? We don't know yet, still working on it.
Anyway, a short summary premise thing below! Also feel free to AMA about the AU!
It is the year 2184.
200 years ago, the Autobots drove the Decepticons away from Earth. Fearing their continued presence would draw other threats, they left for a planet out in the galaxy rich with energon, where they went into stasis.
However, the Earth they fought so hard to protect the freedom of went to war with itself. From the ashes, a new regime was founded, becoming known as the great federation of Super Earth.
140 years ago, Super Earth declared war on the three factions that had sprung up around the galaxy. One of them, Cyborg defectors, took shelter on a planet they called Cyberstan. On it, they found strange dormant robotic-organic lifeforms, using them as inspiration for their cybernetics.
100 years ago, the war was won by Super Earth, thus beginning the Great Democratization. The Cyborgs were trapped on their planet, but they kept what they had found secret.
Two years ago, a Helldiver scouting party found a crashed alien ship on a distant planet. Super Earth’s scientists recovered what remained of the crew, turning their sparks and the ship itself into war machines. They were trained, conditioned, and sent out into service.
Now, at the onset of the Second Galactic War, a mysterious message from out in the galaxy is received by High Command, requesting an alliance with one known as Megatron.
A squad of Helldivers is assigned to a new Super Destroyer, equipped with experimental, highly advanced AI automated systems and support vehicles. They are assured, of course, that the AI are completely under their control and do not have emotions. But as they work with them, speak with them, they begin to think that they are more than meets the eye…
Aight, hear me out. (This is a broad strokes version.)
-The Decepticon missions would be shutting down Energon mining operations, destroying Protoforms, etc. It would suck to be the Helldiver that discovers an Insecticon nest.
-The Autobots might be the biggest threat in the long run due to the fact that they actually advocate for freedom of speech and are a genuinely well meaning faction. Super Earth would label them as zealots due to the Matrix of Leadership.
-All it takes is the Autbots saving some Helldivers & refugees from other factions + some time spent warming up to them and the seeds of civil war are planted. Super Earth does have thousands of ships in active service, tho, so unless either Cybertronian faction calls in backup from elsewhere things could get messy.
Continuation to this post, that came down to me like a message from a god.
“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.
You aren’t sure if the rapid ascend of extraction shuttle didn’t burst your eardrums.
“Lieutenant, look at me.”, the voice is closer and you can’t help but curl away, your whole body tensing, grip tightening.
Why are they speaking to you? Why- shouldn’t there be medic by now? Shouldn’t someone come out? What’s going on?
There is a stubborn nagging feeling in your chest — poking and prodding, fraying your nerves, sending twitch to your nervous hands.
Your wrists ache, tension coming through them to your fingers, every knuckle burning but the pain is dull.
You are just so cold. Why are you so cold?
It’s not supposed to be so cold on the ship, you just paid for an upgrade, just fixed the ventilation and heating, just —
Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. You don’t know them, they probably came through on the SOS beacon you deployed, just a little too late. The mission is done.
You are out.
But you are wet and cold, lighter armour that let’s you run faster, that lets you get to the exfil as soon as possible is now clinging to your body — wet and sticky in a way that makes your skin crawl.
God, do you hate sweating that comes with running like a mad fucking chick through the terrain that’s never on your side.
“Lieutenant”, the voice of commander — their rank shining like a fucking supernova — is practically gentle. Almost soft.
Unusually so. It grates down on your nerves. Helldivers aren’t soft. You aren’t made to be soft, it gets trained out of you. You can’t be if you want to survive.
“Lieutenant”, but they are soft and you want to scream at them, rage and despair coiling in your belly, your wrists ache, your fingers burn. “You need to unclench your fingers”.
Your mind is so blank, so painfully empty but you just grip harder, your knees joining in, boxing in your valuable cargo against your body, your vision blurring for some reason.
“…Why?”, is a broken quiet whisper, your voice hoarse in a way that makes commander carefully cover your hands with theirs.
Prying your fingers open.
“They are gone, lieutenant”, their voice is just as quiet as yours when they get your right hand uncurled.
Off the vest of your teammate.
The notion hits you like a dumbbell, your eyes sliding to them, your whole body instinctively tries to curl harder around the diver you managed to shove into Pelikan-1 before it got off the ground.
It’s impossible.
You got them inside, you got them out, you two got back, what do they mean?
You saved them, you brought them back, medic will just need to patch them up, why isn’t medic there, why is no one here?
You don’t realise you are shaking until commander physically pulls you off the ground, their gauntlets cold against the torn fabric of your armour.
You don’t notice. You aren’t sure you remember how to breathe.
There is a small persistent sound, that reverberates through your chest, that rises to your head and your mind is so blank and you are shaking.
Sound just gets louder — raw and wet, broken wail no human should be able to make, no human should be made to make.
You realise that it’s yours only when commander forces your head in their shoulder, muffling it effectively.
“You did your due, lieutenant. Democracy’s dignity is protected”, they murmur the script you both know too well.
Words echo through your skull as another wail rocks your body with a force enough to make your knees buckle.
Whats good is your due right now? What’s use of this protection if you couldn’t save the young diver that answered your SOS beacon and bought you time?
“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the voice above your head is thick with something you can’t place and hands around you just get tighter.
Uniform clings to your skin, your body still shaking, awful sticky feeling making your skin crawl.
You don’t realise why until you get back to your quarters, mirror making you lightheaded with panic, suddenly clicking that it’s not sweat.
It’s blood
Gaz looks over your ship with the same excitement young cadets usually have, his eyes shining when he turns to you.
“This sure is something. You keep your bird in prime condition, captain”
You hum, helmet in your head shining with metal detailing in fluorescent lights of your ship.
Prime is an understatement. You poured all resources and money you earned into this ship. You still do.
“I was just wondering…”, sergeant starts carefully with the wariness of someone who knows that it’s not up to him to wonder. Not when it comes to things so much higher his pay grade. But you nod, encouraging him to speak his mind and he continues. “You don’t have med bay around here. Seems like you could use one in your line of work.”
Gaz smiles, lips curling wider and god, he’s so young.
Young and brilliant, eyes so bright you can feel the phantom feel of the blood seeping through your uniform again.
“Had one. But command pulled the funding and pulled the stuff while we were deployed. Said that it’s not profitable use of resources”, your tone is carefully level, your helmet covering your whole head. Nothing to give you out. Nothing to report.
You are a picture of devour Helldiver.
But Kyle’s eyes still sharpen.
Like he can sense years-old rage and despair under your breast plate.
Like he can see the blood seeping though your uniform.
(It’s impossible, you washed it so much skin on your palms started to peel. You washed it so much you no longer smelled anything other than bleach when you wore it)
“Must’ve costed you a lot of good soldiers”, he muses carefully and something in your chest snaps painfully.
Something important. Something soft.
“Well, you know how it is, sergeant”, you say and there is rage in your chest and years-old blood in the threads of your armour (you will need to wash the bloody thing again until you can’t remember how sticky it was).
Kyle’s eyes are sharp and he’s brilliant and you never wanted to get someone off your fucking ship this quickly.
Your voice strings higher but you push through it, turning away, your words coming out more of a script than human speech.
“We do our due, sergeant. We protect democracy’s dignity”
You don’t add that the same can’t be said about your own.
Little angst to sprinkle, but Helldiver!Reader who are tired.
God, you are so fucking tired. None of this matters, none of this makes any fucking sense at this point.
You climbed the ranks and you did your due and you paid in blood and flesh and chips of your own sanity. You gave and you gave and you gave.
You trained new cadets, explaining the terminals and heavy nests and fortresses. You have been everywhere command allows space jumps to.
Your ship a big menacing thing, a blade forever suspended in the vast cosmic nothing. Weightless and creaking whenever you have to engage orbital thrusters, chief engineer muttering something under their breath. You never ask what. Engineers can have their superstitions.
You can’t afford to have any.
You can’t afford much at all nowadays, prices biting harder than they ever did, missions deadlier.
You have less and less divers with each year — numbers of your branch diminishing quickly. Frankly, you don’t blame them.
Average age of Helldivers is 18 to 22 years old.
Average survival time out in the field — less than half a minute.
Even with all the propaganda and enlistment perks command simply cannot supply new meat to the frontlines. There is simply no more new meat.
Conditions get worse for rookies, their chances of survival dropping through the crust of the earth. At least when you were starting out you still had a med bay.
At least you managed to scramble some manuals for proper ammunition assembling.
You drag yourself onto the ship, steps heavy and tired — there are black spots in your vision, your head is swimming and you are pretty sure you no longer have anything in your stomach.
Bloody stims devour any available energy source to power your body through the life-threatening injuries.
No wonder you are still limping. Your mind doesn’t understand why the leg that got torn off is in place again.
You don’t really notice Price chatting up your chief administrator when you drag yourself in — bloody and tired, limbs so heavy it’s a miracle you are still standing.
But you can’t call it a day, there are three more missions. Then you can rest.
There are black spots swimming in your vision, you are lightheaded and nauseous, stomach aching — it clenches around nothing, trying to dissolve the food that isn’t there anymore.
You whip out the stim you didn’t dispose after the last mission, needle sliding in your thigh with practiced ease. Your body filling with energy, your vision brighter.
You can finally fucking think again.
There is a heavy silence you don’t notice immediately, too high on the endorphins stims bring. Pain free for the next two minutes or so.
“Captain?”, Price is hovering just behind your shoulder, your fingers twitching around the base of your secondary weapon — you are jumpy straight out of the mission. Automatons start looking like people after too long.
Down on Chort-Bay is hell likes of which you haven’t seen before.
You are not looking forward to jumping down there again. But duty calls, right? No one else would do that. No one is on the orbit right now but you.
“Captain”, you hum, eyes flickering to him for a moment. You have to wipe the visor of your helmet to properly see him — one of the diver’s got blown up on a landmine, his blood is still on your armour.
You don’t have time to wash it off. Not if you want to finish mission before you will need to be up for the next order.
“I noticed…the syringe.”, Price starts after prolonged silence, brows furrowing as he watches you. Eyes the softest blue you ever saw. The summer sky.
You remember the one you saw back at home. The time before helldiving now feels like a feeble attempt of your imagination to cushion the fall from the height of your exhaustion. The time before helldiving feels nowadays like a fairytale.
“Didn’t know you were sick”, he continues and you chuckle, typing in your coordinates. It’s cute that he worries about your health, though understandable. You are still alive and therefore a valuable asset to the command.
“Not sick. Just fucking tired out of my mind. We get a shit ton of stims with every resupply. Probably the only thing we get for free”, your laugh is a dry static-y thing, distorted from helmet, coming out of dynamics in your helmet feeling wrong and twisted.
But Price looks at you now like you have three heads and you try to explain. Perhaps SAS don’t get any of these. Though not like they need the thing, they got actual medics ready to stitch them up as needed.
They got off days and luxuries you cannot afford.
God, you might consider marrying on one of these days. Purely for tax benefits.
“Stims are used to patch us up on the go. Don’t have a whole lotta time to waste. We use them sometimes as energisers as well. A tired soldier is a sloppy soldier and a sloppy soldier is a dead one”, you say, brain fog finally lifting, god, this is good.
“Wouldn’t that constitute addiction with how often soldiers use it?”, John is a heavy stare and deep frown in the line of his mouth, his eyes the prettiest summer sky. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
You shrug, checking your gear before getting yourself in the pod and locking your ankles in place.
“Command told us they had scientists test drive the things and they aren’t addictive. Honestly I don’t know much, Captain. You might wanna ask someone with actual degree about the stuff”
You salute him for the road and then the pod slides you down, all ready to go.
Down there hell awaits. Down there torn off limb is the least that could happen.
Down there you could use any help you can get.
Price watches you getting launched down the orbit and turns away, tension coiling in his shoulders.
Price whisks away one of the stim vials, hiding the thing in the pocket and walking away. He will need to have someone check the bloody thing.
There is no way godsend ambrosia that cures torn off limbs and massive bleeding is not addictive.
John remembers the way your whole body buzzed with energy from the moment you pushed it in. Like there was no more pain, no more exhaustion, no more fear.
Like you were high.
And that’s for sure that sloppy soldier is a dead one. But so is the drugged out one. So is you, if his suspension is right.
Shoutout to my buddy @jesterinc without whom this wouldn’t have happened. Let’s all cheer for him for listening to my feverish rants, contributing a great deal of his own insight and adding fuel to this fire
It wasn’t difficult to get the injection with a stim off your ship and in the lab. All Price had to do was pull rank and say that it’s highly classified.
Coupled with lieutenant Riley’s heavy presence and “stop asking fucking questions and do your job” glare it did the trick.
So no, it wasn’t difficult to whisk away the miraculous thing that stitched you up in the matter of seconds and left you in a state John could only describe as “high on pain relief”.
Thank God, Laswell was more than inclined to keep it under the cover until they have any substantial evidence or sufficient proof that something was very fucking wrong in Helldiver branch.
Took them a couple weeks to actually get the bloody lab reports and get through thick pages of terminology that made their blood run cold for more reasons than one.
Stims were highly addictive and devastating in consequences in long term usage.
They drained the resources of the body, they wore out heart’s ability to pump blood, they ate Helldivers alive, they made them dependent on the next dosage and were frequently used as regular energy supplements.
It was not right or safe to keep this information hidden so Price had Kate to call in every favour and get the report and their own letters as high up the chain of command as it was possible.
The more people would find out about it the better.
It was something that had to be loud and flashy, something that would be impossible to ignore.
And slowly, the wheels came in motion.
They were picking up speed with every higher up official that saw the reports and detailed brief sent over from base.
Summary which could have been only described as "we are killing our own soldiers".
And upon investigation that got rolled out another nerve-wracking fact came to life - there were no regulation for how exactly stims were made.
There were no protocols of distribution.
Which meant that every day Helldivers all across the board would get different varieties of the same drug.
With different side effects and different components.
Some made out of terminid remains, some engeneered with the information they brought off Chort Bay, some from picked up samples of Illuminati sector.
Commandment pushed for the whole branch of Helldiver's to be put under review until further notice.
No missions, no dives, no stims.
Taskforce 141 volunteered to be the ones to come to your ship with these news. So you wouldn’t hear it from someone else. So you wouldn’t piece together the timing of it all.
Partially because Laswell let them know that if they won't — someone else will.
And partially because no matter what was going on with your branch — they knew you.
You were a good soldier.
A decorated military officer with years of experience and dedication likes of which Price hasn't seen before.
You were good, you were smart and what mattered the most — you were a friend.
You were their first link with the Helldivers and you were kind enough to let them onto your ship and into your armoury and never have asked a single question about their arrival.
Perhaps, because you never provided a lot of answers yourself — always in the rush, always one leg already in the hellpod, always ready to dive down.
So, naturally, when Kate told them to be part of the internal investigation. Investigation specifically into your involvement, they didn’t spend too much time mulling it over.
Of course, they will take the job.
Better them than some pencil-pusher that wouldn’t know the price and value of diligent work you conducted.
Therefore, without much hassle they packed up and came back to your ship.
They will need to find out whether or not you (divers) were aware about consequences stims brought onto your ships.
Whether or not you participated in distribution and if there was anything else command needed to know about.
Anything at all.
Especially, if there were any Helldivers that were no longer able to continue their service due to the effects of stims.
Taskforce were carefully notified that if you as a current captain of notorious SES “Whisper of Steel” were no longer able to continue in your current role — a thorough report was expected.
So they came back — tight-lipped and tense, bags of equipment in hands, explanations on the tips of their tongues.
Just to find you as calm as a soldier that was used to constant action can be out of said action.
You were sitting on the steps to the hellpods when they were dropped off — old journal in your hand, it's cover so beaten up it was a miracle the damn thing wasn't falling apart.
It was like nothing changed at all, your ship buzzing under their feet, stuff quietly chatting to each other, repairs being made in engineering wing.
Nothing out of ordinary.
You were still covered from head to toe — always ready to jump back into action at moment's notice.
The only part of you not covered were your hands — wide steady palms, deft fingers with a few crooked digits, skin wrapped in scars — jagged shrapnel cuts, splashes of old burns, pearly lines of skin tearing.
You didn’t pay much attention to occasional staring — too engrossed in your work, cataloguing newest supply arrivals, counting up how much more you’d need to order — pen spinning in your fingers.
Simon's eyes linger on ugly markings on some of your fingers — telltale signs of them being torn off and then stitched back on in time, before it was too late. That’s entirely too much pain for a single person, but who is he to judge.
Your nails are short and clean, cuticles darker from gun grease that never washes off fully.
But no signs of neurotic biting or picking of skin, no self-inflicted scratches, nothing to account for your supposed instability.
Or withdrawal symptoms.
Simon slots the knowledge for later, turning away from you.
It's rare to see even a sliver of your skin. Feels almost alien to see that much now.
A little reminder that you are a human just like them.
Simon sits himself down on opposing stairs, watching you out of the corner of his eye.
It's funny, he never thought that that's the way some (most) people feel about him.
So used to seeing armour and fabric covering every inch of skin at all times — the reminder of warm human flesh underneath feels almost uncomfortable.
How much does it take for a person to become something else? How long can you be a soldier before you turn into an archetype? A story.
Something intangible and ephemeral, ghost wearing human's body, memory of memory wrapped in flesh and greyish lines of nerves.
Not a person but a concept.
Part of the agenda, part of the myths, part of the story.
Simon watches you write crouched on the steps of the stairs, so human in the moment he feels like he doesn't know you at all.
Who are you under all that gear? Who are you with it?
His attention slides off you because Kyle as carefully as he can herds you away, pacing in front of you back and forth until you finish and get off the stairs with quiet groan.
His hand gets draped around your midriff which, they still can't get used to, is very much welcomed.
Because you grumble something, reluctantly melting into the embrace and allow him to lead you away, finally giving Simon space to work.
It’s not something he likes doing to you, especially considering how relaxed you seem — you don’t look nervous, you don’t look guilty or like you are trying to hide something.
But as much as Simon likes you and would like to believe what he sees, experience tells him that sometimes people are not who they seem to be.
So, the faster they check you out, the sooner you will be away from the scrutiny and spotlight of the command.
That’s what matters the most.
And with you finally leaving your perch on the stairs right next to control panel means he gestures to Soap to come in and start shifting through files.
They finally get to slip through the cracks and dig up whatever you could have buried.
No matter how deep it is.
Price doesn’t come to meet up with Simon until the evening, too focused on your state and the way you stall under Kyle’s touch before relaxing when you realise it’s just him.
Like you need conscious effort to remind yourself that he is safe.
That they are safe.
Building up trust takes time and effort and John would like nothing more than to stay in this slow warm state with you gradually letting them in.
But he has never compromised in the matters of health and livelihood of his man. He’s not about to make you an exception out of his rule.
But Simon doesn’t find anything.
Neither does Soap.
There is nothing — no personal mementos, no diaries, no letters or email.
There is nothing, it’s like you-person has never existed.
Like there is nothing to you other than Helldiver-you. Other than soldier-you.
Which should be a relief but the gnawing feeling doesn’t let John to just let it go and report you as another Helldiver perfectly loyal to their duty.
Now it was not a matter of work ethics even, it was a matter of bone deep need to know you.
Everyone has something that makes them tick, that makes them them, that gives an inch he could hook onto to pull out the rest of your soft innards out of the hard shell.
There has to be something.
And something they found. Kyle does.
And not exactly finds.
There is a flash drive — angular little thing, old metallic case of which is covered in tiny scratches. Like it spent one too many years in someone’s pocket with all kinds of things.
Kyle pulls it out of your breast pocket, right under the heart, when you start dozing off.
Shame churning in his gut at that, because that’s low.
That’s not fair.
If you ever find out he might never come back from it.
The flash drive in front of them feels like a point of no return. Like stepping over some invisible line in the sand. Like pushing too hard into somewhere they were not invited to.
Johnny doesn’t like it. Johnny doesn’t like sneaking around in your personal things and he can see that neither does usually calm Simon.
None of them does, it’s written on everyone’s faces.
In a way small muscle in John’s jaw twitches with tension, in a way Soap rolls his shoulders as if hoping to shake off whatever sticky feeling he’s got from looking somewhere this deep — from sneaking around to find if you are hiding something.
Heavy hover of Simon’s brows doesn’t encourage Price either. None of them likes it. None of them feels like it’s the right thing to do.
All of them know it’s the necessary one.
“Doesn’t mean we will report everything that can be on it. We looked the other way before, we could do it again”, Simon hums out and it’s so sudden, but Kyle glances at him sideways and turns to captain to give him a tight nod.
It’s their job to work in the grey, is it not?
“But we have to see what’s on it, right? Just for…protection, aye?”, Soap still sounds as unsure as he can get but he actually takes the flash drive now and doesn’t watch it like something that could bite him if he’s not careful.
“Aye”, John just nods, crossing his arms over the chest and nods at Soap’s laptop. “Open it up, let’s see what’s in on it”.
There is no way you will give them all the answers willingly.
Which is weak excuse at best but the more solid one is that they can’t afford to tip you off if you do have something to hide.
Soap spends the next few hours trying to get into whatever encrypted data you have there.
Which admittedly is not what they have expected.
There is a strange type of encryption on them, Johnny shares, eyes glued to the screen as he waits for everything to upload.
Very different from what they usually see on protected data — not meant to destroy everything on the flesh drive as soon as it’s opened.
The code was specifically designed to preserve it.
Was it some kind of valuable intel you never passed on? Were these some kind of records you never got rid off?
About something or someone.
But there is nothing of sorts when Soap manages to crack it open.
On the flesh drive there’s nothing other than audiologs — hundreds of hours of audios, dozens and dozens of half-scraped recordings.
Terabytes of them.
It doesn’t make much sense on the first glance. It makes even less when they start listening.
They don’t know the appropriate order and it looks like a lot of dates has been scraped off the logs.
Frantically, feverishly, like someone without much technical expertise was rummaging through it, wiping off any trace of when and where it happened.
They click through few trying to grasp what is going on there only to find the unexpected.
It’s an entire year of audiologs that just get longer and more detailed the longer they keep going.
There is recorded music in horrible quality, there’s singing — a little off tune and a little hoarse — voice of someone not used to using it this much, but the melody is steady and excitement is palpable.
They don’t recognise the voice. Not at first.
Though whoever is singing they were having the time of their life. They were elated to share.
There’s also obviously male voice — strangely mechanical in its range, almost blank, completely level.
It reminds 141 of butchered quality of dynamics some Helldiver’s comms have. Like someone smashed it before using.
The sound is a little distorted, static flaring up when Soap tries to speed it up so they resign to just listening through the whole thing.
God knows these logs have seen better days.
But there is a lot of what they never expected to find.
There are jokes — old puns and dark humour and laughter, god, there is so much laughter.
It echoes through conversations, it cracks through years to the TaskForce listening with baited breaths.
It’s a beautiful laughter.
They don’t realise at first whose laughter it is. Whose singing it was.
They have never heard you laugh before.
You sound so young there. You sound so human.
Such a stark contrast to the person they came to know you as.
Older you is closed off, older you is guarded and twitchy — silent more often than not, feral animal aching for warmth and terrified of feeling any.
Marks of phantom old collar chuffing the skin of your neck until it breaks. Until you break.
What have been done to you? What happened?
There are million questions swirling through John’s head as he listens, brows furrowing when static flares up once again.
There is nothing wrong with recordings per se. Frankly speaking Price doesn’t see the reason to continue listening, especially since he can see how uncomfortable his team is with going through something so personal to you.
Something that obviously meant enough that you were carrying it with you whenever you went.
But there’s a nagging feeling that doesn’t leave John alone. Like they are missing something.
Helldivers are still soldiers — they are not forbidden from maintaining personal connections.
Why would someone (most likely you) try to scrape the flash drive so desperately? Why would you bother holding it as close to the body as possible?
Somewhere along these recordings there is answer to why you never come down on Chort Bay anymore. Somewhere along the audiologs they are going through there is a reason to why you do missions only in terminid sector.
There’s a question that doesn’t leave Price alone as he sits and listens through another dozen of butchered recordings.
Who’s the person on the other end?
And why do you still have this flesh drive if you could have gotten rid of it long time ago? Would save you a lot of trouble considering how hard you tried to cover up tracks.
So Johnny scrolls through the logs until he finds first one actually dated.
March. Tuesday. 11:51. Six years ago.
“What did you want to be before?”, male voice cracks to life startling them after almost three minutes of radio silence, Simon’s fingers twitching to reach for the gun.
But it’s just a recording, no one is here but them and these butchered audio logs. “Surely…surely, you did not intend to be this. No child does”
There is a small pause before you answer.
As if you want to ask how can the other person know it.
As if you don’t know if you should tell that most children actually do.
Because being a Helldiver is an honour.
It seems like one, at least.
The ultimate sacrifice in the name of greater good.
Your bones might have a chance of being the base of someone’s throne, shouldn’t this be honour enough?
“Ballerina”, your response makes Price quirk a brow, leaning back in chair. That’s the first log without any static. The first one where they can hear you clearly.
Your answer is short, curter than what you’d give your companion before. It reeks of old vulnerability and almost shameful shyness.
Not in your nature to play coy and you apparently didn’t intend to make it seem like it was.
“Ballerina?”, metal creaking is more evident now, male’s voice grinding on their ears, faint whisper of his comms acting as a white noise.
Filling the air with hum none can make out and falling into the background.
It didn’t occur to you at the time that those like your companion have lifespans even shorter than Helldivers so.
That they are machines of war way more dedicated than any diver is.
That they probably don’t dance.
You tell yourself that it’s the only reason you continue talking about something that is no longer viable even as an old fever dream.
“Yeah, the dancer. Did you know they retire young?”, the tidbit of knowledge feels like an offering, like you are a child bringing your stick figured drawing for some approval.
Your voice goes a little higher — smile in your voice so wide, Soap can’t help but chuckle.
“Don’t you all retire young?”, the tone is so level, so perfectly polite that the question would sound innocent if not for undercurrent of teasing.
It leaves you gobsmacked for a moment.
Was that…did he just joke about fast mortality rate amongst Helldivers? He of all people?
Unbelievable.
There’s a pause before your laughter escapes the confines of your mouth — wheezing thin sound that grows into hoarse warm bark of laughter.
“That’s really dark, Sar”, finally a mention of a name forces Kyle to scribble it down as fast as he can. Finally something to hook onto. A bloody name.
“And yet you are laughing”, satisfaction in man’s voice is so obvious it practically drips off every syllable.
Unusually expressive from what they heard before.
Thick and sticky, filling up ears and coating skin.
Like oil.
The recording clicks off and the room falls silent for a few moments with them simply staring at the screen.
There is uneasy feeling in John’s chest, like they are getting closer.
He’s not sure if he wants to keep going.
At this point it would be okay to close investigation on you, to clear you in eyes of the command.
But Soap scrolls down, clicking on the next dated recording without Price stopping him.
It dates almost eight months after the one they just listened to. Johnny clicks “play” and sits back ready to listen, cold slowly filling his fingertips.
What would be worse now — to find something or not find anything at all?
How much is too much as a price for your broken trust?
Your voice rings out of the speakers, too quiet for them to hear and they have to adjust the sound before continuing.
Your voice is tired hoarse thing when you breathe out “what a wicked thing it is. To dream of you. To dream of what I can never have and should have never wanted” and it makes something inside of Gaz ache for you. Why would you say that?
Was the price of being a Helldiver really this steep?
You sound so small on the record, so broken — exhaustion wrapping its heavy arms around your shoulders and pressing down hard.
“I wish it wasn’t like that.”, you finally say after a moment’s silence.
Male voice they already got used to hearing is almost soft when it responds to you — gentle purr of automatic vocal cords, not yet honed timbre of a person still learning to love.
“I know.”, John doesn’t know what he expected but it isn’t this. There is a strange finality to these words.
A quiet intimate kind of resignation he saw in soldiers that knew they are not coming back.
“I can’t do this, Sar”, your voice waivers — wet and cracking and Kyle turns away, leaning heavily on the back of the chair, shoulders slumped down.
This is more difficult than he thought it would be.
You sound defeated.
He has never heard you sound like that before. He now knows he never wants to hear you like that ever again.
“I know”, the gentle acceptance of someone who they ever saw feels wrong in the moment.
Feels like they are still fucking missing something.
A clue that has been looking them in the face all this time.
But with the way you are coming apart at the seams…Ghost doesn’t know how anything but tenderness could be possible.
Stubborn beautiful captain, has no one ever treated you with kindness you deserved?
Has no one but this…whoever that is handled you with proper care?
Did he even handle you with it?
“I…this can never end well”, you got quieter with every word and John has to take a breath because he is aching for you.
Younger you, softer you, bruised you.
Soldier so young you grasped for any straw of support. Soldier so lonely you apparently fell into hands of someone you shouldn’t have.
“Does it really matter?”, the question is so soft John feels like raging, like dismantling the whole fucking branch, like cradling you in his hands and holding tight because the sharp inhale he hears cuts deep.
There is a long pause before you finally answer, familiar clicking of the clip of your gun holster a little too loud.
“No. No, it doesn’t”
Audio ends on that — no usual goodbyes or jokes exchanged. No banter, no witty remarks.
Almost like you can’t do that. Almost like a little more and the rags of you are going to be torn apart.
Too worn-out, too thinly spread.
Oh, dear god, Captain. What have you done?
They take a break so Simon can properly search the databases for any soldier named or call signed “Sar”, any trace of the other person in these audiologs.
There’s an eerie feeling that doesn’t leave John, the same one he can see in occasional fidgeting of his men.
Something happened to these logs — parts of conversations scraped, the sound butchered, the encryption so robust Soap could hardly get through it.
Maybe once it was a happy memento, a treasure you kept close to your heart.
But it was this for younger you — the one who laughed and sang and admitted childish dreams sitting somewhere on the empty battlefield.
Now, in its ravaged state it was no longer what it was before.
It was a reminder.
An ominous one at that.
The kind people tried to brainstorm for radioactive burials so whoever comes across them in the distant future would know that haunted stones of black obelisks meant “stay away”.
John sits in the corner fiddling with a pen, clicking it again and again, gears turning in his head.
The male voice on the recordings — it sounded too rough for a Helldiver, too static-y even when your own sounded clearly.
The voice way too unnatural.
Like the person it belonged to was still learning how to use it.
Like he was mimicking speech patterns.
John comes back to listening through the dozen more broken records until Simon comes back tight-jawed and dark as death.
Finally with an answer.
There is ice slowly spreading in their veins — jaws clenched so hard it’s painful.
But pain is nothing. All of it is nothing.
Because he finally knows why you were guarding the flesh drive.
Why there is no soldier named “Sar”.
There has never been one.
“Sar” is not a name, but a nickname you gave your companion during your talks. “Sar” is short for “Comissar”.
You were communicating with autobot commander.
You were committing treason.
There’s another recording. The last one. Still completely intact.
Soap presses the key so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t fall off.
This time there is no introduction, no greetings. There is only one voice.
The Autobot’s.
“Super Earth’s scum likes to portray us as unfeeling. Machines of pointless bloody war.”, he starts, voice as level as they get, eerie mechanical undertones of too static speech seeping through.
Sar…Comissar pauses before continuing, his voice getting so much softer it’s uncanny.
So soft John feels like grinding his teeth into nothing. Fucking hell, the autobot had no business sounding like that.
“But god, I swear, I could feel the sunlight shine on my face when you’d come down to me.”, there is a wistful component to his voice, one Simon doesn’t fucking like at all.
“I could feel the wind. I could taste the sea.”
“I could taste you.”, the implication leaves Kyle with dread raising its heavy head in his gut, eyes so wide it hurts. He can’t blink and he can’t turn away and he can’t stop listening.
They need to finish.
“We often think Helldivers to be soldiers of the guile — merciless and casually cruel, you plunge feet first into hell from a hell of your own straight above our heads — harbingers of death.”, is said almost conversationally, like it’s another fact. Another thing he probably had to get over.
“But I could have sworn you were an angel.”, there is reverence in the voice of the bloody machine the likes of which Soap hasn’t heard before. The absolute, almost biblical, devotion. Borderline an obsession.
“My angel”, the emphasis is not lost to them.
“My loveliest doom.”
“You were sent down to hunt and destroy my kind, to turn to ash my army, to bring ruin and despair.”, there is a small pause before the man continues.
His voice as tender as they could get, so eerily soft that Soap barely contained the urge to turn it off.
To stop listening.
But they need to finish it, so he just steps back from the laptop, turning his head away, the automatic voice gnarling on his nerves.
“But you brought me peace. You brought warmth.”, there is wonder in Comissar’s voice, quiet excitement of someone who long gave up and accepted the way things are.
“You brought laughter and songs and dreams.”, he says like this was everything. Like it is everything. More than he could have ever hoped for. More than he, perhaps, deserved.
“How strange it is, my love, to be machine deemed incapable of human emotions but still feel.
How strange it is that you — the perfect lovely you — made me so human I can barely recognise myself.”, he stalls for a moment before chuckling — sound cool and gentle, his cords still a little rusty.
“Maybe that’s another ploy of your branch. Maybe Helldivers finally found the way to our absolute ruin.
But oh, what a sweet way to go.
I couldn’t wish for a different one. I wouldn’t have.
Know that no matter what happens next — I have always been devoted to you.”, John’s hand hovers above the keyboard, urge to turn off the bloody recording so strong he almost does it.
“The last time we saw each other you said that it won’t end well. And I won’t lie to you — it won’t.”, the autobot shifts, metal creaking with its every movement, comms whispering in a language they cannot understand.
“I know that they will come for my fortress. I know they will win — my head will be the prime trophy of this campaign.”, the man says and it feels a lot like a goodbye. Like this is it. The end of the road.
“I know it’s not your fault.”, notion kicks the breath out of Simon because despite the revulsion and anger, there is so much gentle acceptance in Comissar’s voice it makes his skin crawl.
“We are not bad people, my love. Just very unlucky ones.
I can only hope that the next time we meet will be better.
I hope next time you won’t have to choose between duty and your humanity.
I hope when we meet next time you will forgive me for making this choice for you.”, John’s eyes flicker to Simon’s who’s already trying to get reports of what fucking happened back then. Someone should be able to share at least a crumb of information.
“Goodbye, my angel. Remember that down on Chort Bay even the rusted remains of my skeleton will love you.
And please,
Don’t ever come back.”
There’s a heavy silence when they record clicks off, finishing the playing of it.
“What the fuck happened on Chort Bay?”, Price doesn’t recognise the hoarse rasp for his voice until Simon doesn’t give him a glass of water, brown eyes dark with something John isn’t sure he understands.
“War torn. The battles are ongoing as of right now but at the time of the recording…”, Simon glances down on the report on his laptop before turning back to his captain. “…Helldiver forces took Chort Bay back — effectively eradicating everything in their way”.
Which means that no one survived.
The “Sar” perished with the resistance leaving you only that — the flash drive with all of your conversations. Perhaps hoping (if robots can hope) that you would understand.
Price thinks to the quiet fractured way you carry yourself and wonders if you ever did.
They need to know what to do now. How to proceed. Because fraternising with the enemy…it’s going to be punishable by an execution. If anyone finds out about their discovery you are going down.
You won’t be just dishonourably discharged — you will be shot dead.
Price rubs his palms over his eyes, heels of them pressing onto his eyeballs because god, how did you even get into this kind of mess? Why would you even hold onto incriminating piece of evidence?
He knows why, god, of course he knows. He listened through remaining conversations and heard your laughter and heard your shy confessions.
(John tries not to think that he had no right to them. That these recordings were not his to listen to, he has no claim over them — they aren’t for him)
They decide to come clean the next day. Maybe figure out how to proceed from then on, what to write. How to save you from yourself, if needed.
But all plans go down the drain when the next morning you are antsy and fidgety, eyes roaming over the ship in frantic search. You already noticed your flash drive gone.
Johnny tries to carefully start the conversation, explaining why they came back, what was the purpose of it.
He feels bile rise in his throat at the look on your face when you see your audiologs in his palm.
When you hear that they listened to them.
Kyle steps in, voice gentle as he tries to explain that they didn’t want to, that it’s just vetting process, that they won’t tell anyone what they found.
He also says that you must have had your reasons, but keeping such thing this close was reckless and wrong and—
But then you snatch the flash drive out of Soap’s hand, eyes wide with something he doesn’t like, clutching the thing like it’s a treasured.
Your treasure.
These conversations — hundreds of hours of conversations with a mechanical voice, tenderness of which seeps through every sound. Very syllable.
Mad, wrong and forbidden.
This should have never happened. It would have never happened if Helldivers were treated more humanely, Price thinks.
It would have never happened if you had proper protocols and socialisation and support in place.
What kind of madness is it, to fall in love with a fucking piece of steel? An enemy no less.
It is wrong, it is mad, it is everything you were never supposed to do. As a soldier, as a Helldiver.
It’s not just a mistake. It’s treason.
You would be executed without martial court, without right to appeal. You are a traitor.
“Captain?”, there’s heavy silence in the armoury, stares on you almost accusatory and you hate it you hate it you hate it.
They don’t know you, they don’t know what it’s like.
They don’t understand. They probably never will.
So you don’t say anything.
You stuff the flesh drive into the breast pocket under armoured plates of your vest, not looking them in the eye, not willing to give them any more than they already took.
“Captain, you- have you ever returned to the automaton sector?”, Simon’s question is carefully worded and it is not the best time to ask whether or not you killed autobots after having an affair with one.
It’s not fair to you and he knows it.
But the situation itself isn’t fair.
Neither are you with your heavy silences and your high walls and your stubborn glares.
“No.”, the answer is as short as they get, your thumb pressing into the sharp side of the metal case, trying to take your mind out of a spiral by any means necessary.
You never came back to Chort Bay. You never came back to autobot sector after coming down to collect the last message from Sar. One mission before you realised you couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.
Robots were too human afterwards.
Even worse, you were too human — finger always stalling when it came to shooting other autobots.
Other’s like Sar.
Maybe in some deeper level you were still waiting for him to come back, to meet you with the flesh drive like he usually did. Maybe on some deeper level you were hoping for him to find another way.
Maybe you grew soft.
(Helldivers can’t be soft. Helldivers are never soft. Not if they want to survive)
“What does it say about me that I didn’t die with him and kept living?”, you don’t even realise you said it out loud until you look at Kyle and see that his face is grey with horror. He makes a step towards you, something pained in his eyes raising when you twitch away.
He’s spent his trust. It doesn’t take a mind reader to realise who took your flesh drive. It doesn’t take a psychic to figure out that he stole it.
But really, what does it say about you if you are still going though you admitted to Sar once that you probably wouldn’t be able to if something was to happen to him.
You kept living when maybe you shouldn’t have. You kept living like nothing ever happened, like you didn’t lose a part of you — a good part, a decent part, a humane part.
“Capt’n, please…”, there’s anguish in Price’s voice, his eyes — prettiest summer sky — looking at you the same way one would look at animal they ran over. Pity.
There is hot licks of fury in your chest, spreading like a wildfire, scorching you from inside out, cauterising the bleeding heart of yours.
How fucking dare he. How dare they scoop out everything that was left of the good you and watch it with morbid fascination like it was some suffering creature with broken spine.
How dare they even look like they feel sorry for you when there’s nothing to feel sorry about?
“This- look around”, there’s manic desperate chuckle, crack in his voice the size of one in your chest. “This isn’t livin’, capt’n. You are not livin’. You are survivin’. And all for a machine that-”
Maybe you would have listened before to him, but John Price steps on the landmine the size of Jupiter and you snap. Snarling, feral creature — kicked dog whose tail got caught in the closing doors — your eyes stinging, armour clicking in place all around you.
“He has a name.”, you snarl with such viciousness that John blinks in surprise, taken aback by your reaction. “And you don’t know him.”
“For fuck’s sake, capt’n, it’s not a name.”, Price snaps in return, stepping closer to you, eyes blazing, shoulders squaring and it’s almost laughable because what the fuck is he going to do? Wrestle you to the floor of your own ship? “You gave him a nickname. He never had a name. He’s not an actual person-“
Maybe it would have been better if he tried to fight you. At least that way you’d have a good excuse to land a few punches on him. At least that way you wouldn’t feel like someone backhanded you across the face — skin tingling with heat, beast in your chest uncurling into something dangerous.
How dare he talk like he knows what’s been going on? How fucking dare he speak of your friend, of your Sar, like he has been some fucking pet?
The silence is dark and heavy between you two, fire raging so loudly in your head you hardly hear Simon stepping in.
It hardly registers until he mentions something about stims and “withdrawal induced agitation” and your head snaps to him so fast he actually steps back.
You’ll admit it takes you a few moments to piece it all together. The investigation, the secrecy, the tension.
The last conversation that you had with Price.
Your fury builds up into the whole storm, your face so hot it hurts, you are so hot it’s sticky and sweaty, your uniform clinging to your body.
(Blood in the threads of it-blood in the threads of it-blood in the threads of it)
“You stole from me”, the first exhale is pure disbelief before the last bits of you snap like a dry twig and you practically lunge at Price, fingers wrapping around his shoulder with the force enough to break it. “I let you in and you stole from me.”, your anger is deaf and blind. Your anger is powerful.
Your pain isn’t.
You don’t expect it but it still hurts because you let them see so much, you thought they were safe, you thought they were friends.
Rookie mistake. You won’t repeat it again. Never again.
Hurt just amplifies your anger, revulsion flaring up when Soap reaches for you. Usually warm hand trying to soothe, trying to calm down.
But you can’t do this. You can’t-you cant-you can’t.
You think of Kyle waiting for you to fall asleep to take your flesh drive and bile rises to your throat.
You think of Price stealing your stim, of Simon going through your things and talking about your anger like it’s a fucking symptom.
You think of them and you want to crawl out of your skin.
The loud slap of your hand against Johnny, smacking him away clicks something in the team, the whole TaskForce coming into action.
Pulling them into the formation, pulling out soldiers and not friends.
For some reason it hurts even more.
“Captain, you have to calm down.”, there is an edge to Ghost’s voice and you just sneer in response, his changed attitude doing nothing but agitate you further.
Kyle watches you like he’s expecting you to snap. They all do, you realise.
“Get out.”, your voice is alien even to you, your body uncurling to its full frame, fury — now cold and merciless flooding your veins. “Get your things and get the fuck off my ship. Now.”
Simon opens his mouth to say something but you snap before a single word leaves his lips.
“Get out of I will personally drag you off my fucking bird, lieutenant.”, you hiss his rank out and it’s so wounded you almost cringe. Fucking hell, you are getting soft.
But still it works. He pulls back and turns away.
You don’t wait to see whether or not they have something else to say. You want nothing to do with them.
You want them out.
You want to hate them but instead you are just hurt and furious.
It’s a solemn ride back home. A quiet and heavy one, all of them feeling the effect of your fury still.
Simon looks at John and John finally understands. There is no other choice. Not now. Not anymore.
Upon return Price sits in his office for a few very long hours before he finally gets to writing the report command requested on you.
He has never compromised on his soldiers’ wellbeing and he won’t start now.
Even if he will need to drag you thrashing and kicking with a force of a damn bull.
Report gets sealed and so does your fate when he sends it out.
Report written black on white, his full name and rank, date and location.
Report doesn’t name you a traitor but Price knows you will hate them nonetheless.
Report says “recommend immediate transfer. Not suitable for active space duty. Not able to continue in their current responsibilities. Recommendation to discharge Helldiver captain of SES “Whisper of steel” effective immediately”.
Fun funny idea that helldivers have a difficult time creating connections with other people, they’ve seen so many of their own die and not mention seen so much violence (I have seen helldivers whole bodies torn apart with only a torso left). I feel like they’d have a hard time connecting with normal folk but they have a difficult time explaining just why that is, so they instead just tend to stick with other helldivers when it comes to socialization. They won’t make too close of a connection since they know they could each die in any mission, but it’s still SOMETHING, something that makes them feel human again for even just a moment. Something to make them feel less like cogs in a machine that demands for blood and guts, and instead more like people, scarred, broken and bruised to all hell but still a person or at the closest they can get to being a human again after all they’ve gone through
Anon, you have such a big brain. You evil genius, let me affectionately pat your shoulder
Also you are so right because as far as I know it’s very common even for regular soldiers to stay within their military friends circles because when you return from battle it’s just…feels weird.
I can imagine Reader straying away a little from TaskForce 141 because they are military, yes, but they are not Helldivers. They don’t understand how it is.
So imagine feeling a little too out of place on some pompous gathering, different branches and soldiers all in one place, claping each other’s shoulders and grinning widely.
They know each other. Lucky for them not to move from planet to planet, lucky for them not to see what you see on daily basis.
Soap is hanging out nearby, as if feeling your discomfort, because gatherings like this require to be in formal attire and god knows after synthetic fabrics of your Scout armour the natural wool feels itchy.
You don’t know anyone here, you are both figuratively and literally so alien in here. A soldier from a different dimension. A soldier from a war none of these people participated in.
Kyle carefully herds you back to the corner when you almost sneer at some navy admiral, who jokes about you keeping helmet on. Who jokes about the cape of your uniform.
Man of his station is supposed to know that it’s mandatory part of your uniform. Man of his station is supposed to recognise that cape is Helldiver’s honour. A symbol of the branch as a whole. An insignia of all your sacrifices.
The mood shifts when a new group walks in the room, boots too heavy, uniform just a hairspread of being an armour, capes behind each and every one of them.
Your whole face lights up as you make your way to them through the crowd, the pack of four Helldivers perking up when they notice you pushing through them.
You salute the group, eyes quickly scanning the ranks of them, your body practically vibrating with excitement.
Finally, that’s someone who you can properly mingle with.
Helldivers circle around you, greeting you properly, their capes — different colours and patterns, signifying specialisation of each of them. Demolitions, terminid exterminator, ranger, medic — you have never met them before and they don’t know you, but it doesn’t matter in this moment.
Because in this room, there is no one else who would understand you better. There is no one else you’d rather chat with about the last improvements on the battlefield or the latest updates to the ship, cackling when the ranger of their team jokes about stealing you and the bright head of yours.
It’s lovely. You haven’t had this much fun in ages and maybe that’s why you don’t notice immediately the shift in the mood all around you.
Other soldiers pulling away, command watching you with barely concealed disapproval. They can’t say anything to you — the gathering was organised specifically for soldiers to mingle but you can see how uncomfortable your lot makes them.
Weird soldiers. Wild soldiers. Alien soldiers.
Rumour mill is already turning, pack around you tensing up and pulling back as well. But they are pulling back with you. They aren’t leaving you behind.
It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know each other until ten minutes ago, it doesn’t matter that your due is all that ties you together. None of it matters.
Once Helldiver — always Helldiver. And your lot may be wild and rowdy and alien to these folks. But they aren’t to you. And you aren’t to them.
So when their demolitions expert hooks his arm over your elbow and pulls you back, you don’t protest instead chatting them up about grenades they usually use.
And when their medic and exterminator “accidentally” position themselves so they could cover you both, you just murmur quiet thanks.
They are the biggest of the team, moving like a well-oiled machine — practiced ease of it testament to years of service together, testament to many such gatherings and unfriendly faces.
Exterminator of their team bumps your hip with theirs and slings their arm over your shoulder — their side pressing into yours, warm and human. Silent reminder to cheer up.
It doesn’t matter whether or not others like you, whether or not you are even welcome here. While these shitty parties have at least one Helldiver you will never be alone. You will always be part of the team and part of the family.
That day, when you leave the gathering your tracker blinks with four new connections.
Your shoulders still aching from how hard you hugged the whole pack of your new comrades before saying goodbyes.
141 just watches you silently, Kyle’s fingers tightening when Helldivers they don’t know (though what difference does it make) touch you, like you are theirs. Like they can just take you to themselves, like they don’t even have to steal you away — you’d go willingly, naturally gravitating towards those who understand you better. Towards those who aren’t regular soldiers.
Kyle doesn’t miss the way the tallest of the team, stares down anyone who’d like to approach your little gathering. Helldiver’s bright, ridiculously flashy cape — blue with orange attracting way too much attention.
In nature those who are so colourful are the most poisonous.
Soldier catches Kyle’s gaze and tilts his head to the side, their helmet a menacing angular thing with scribbled “one shot - one kill” just above the visor.
A sniper.
“Like a bloody fortress, aren’t they?”, John hums, nursing his glass, eyes trailing the whole group, eyes hardening when another Helldiver presses themselves against you with ease that grates on John’s nerves. Fucking wanker.
John doesn’t miss the way others in the room steer clear of the group.
John also doesn’t miss that Helldivers themselves aren’t too keen on mingling with anyone but each other. That they keep their packmates on inside and guarded tightly, that they aren’t the biggest fans of anyone but each other.
John doesn’t miss the way Helldivers hook in on each other and hold tightly, pushing away everyone else away.
Dangerous bunch. Entirely too co-dependent and entirely too unruly.
Just a matter of time before it blows up in someone’s face.
Helldivers are just little freaks to me, freaky half feral dog creatures that are tossed to the meat grinder of war. Starving war dogs that do not understand what they are starving for exactly but nonetheless still chasing after what was demanded of them, hoping that maybe, MAYBE, if they go further-If they complete even more missions, they’d no longer feel that gnawing hunger even if it chips away at their very souls.
ANYWHO😌 this is reader to me
“Remember that you can’t save everyone. Remember that you have to try” YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME JESTER OH MY GODDDDDDD THE WAY MY HEART SANK. But yeah, you are spitting facts out here, I’m ready to sign under every word you are saying here.
@jesterinc, my G, this one’s for you
Helldiver!Reader who lives this long mostly because of the kindness and patient teaching from older divers. The shared knowledge, the shared manuals, shared camaraderie.
Reader who doesn’t know why Helldivers who are so much more skilful and who could (and by any standard should have) left them behind decided not to.
Question that keeps them up at night sometimes, question that ping pongs off the walls of their head, echoing louder when it’s too quiet.
Why-why-why-why-why?
Reader who doesn’t understand why these behemoths of war tried to help time after time after time.
They don’t get it until they got their first cadet joining in for a mission.
Jumpy tense thing, losing more bullets than actually hitting the enemy, not used to a recoil yet, not sure how to adjust the satellite tower, not very knowledgeable about the mechanics of battle that are their new home now.
(Everyone knows that Helldivers don’t die sleeping. Everyone knows that death is better than shame)
Reader who suddenly gets it why these older Helldivers helped them, why they carried a new pup on the battlefield, why wasn’t they just kicked to the side.
It is often said that Helldivers as a branch are one big pack of feral dogs.
Starved for scraps of approval, dying too young and snarling at every outsider. Feral creatures. Weapons of war.
Judgement rained from the sky on unsuspecting enemies.
It is often overlooked that the most prominent rule Helldivers live by is “we do not mock young in the field. We do not make them crawl and beg. We help. We were there once. We know how it feels to be a feral dog in eyes both enemies and allies. We know how it feels to be left behind. We do not leave ours behind”.
You that lives long enough to get a little bit closer in experience and skills to mammoths that helped you years ago to survive.
You who patiently covers for young cadet as they fumble with terminals.
What’s a little time wasted if this one might live long enough to crawl higher in rank.
What’s a little effort spared if you as divers already have to prove to everyone that you deserve to be here.
That you are not just dogs. That you deserve the same respect command shows to other branches.
You aren’t going to make cadet “prove themselves” when they have already passed the selection.
They are already here, aren’t they? Means they are worthy. Means they are yours.
Once Helldiver — always Helldiver.
It’s a constant journey and an uphill battle, you seeing first hand how fucking cruel life is to their branch.
How unfair command is. How hard missions are.
So what’s a little kindness shown if cadet behind them might live long enough to see the new generation of cadets.
If one day they too might become what you were to them today. What older Helldivers were to you when you started out.
Your branch is full of feral dogs and behemoths of battle, your branch is a dangerous thing (a grenade without a pin, a rifle without safety, a big bad wolf) hanging on by a thread of believing that your suffering can make the world a little better.
A little safer. A place where young cadets like this one will have more support, more training, more respect.
Simon watches you intently, eyes heavy with understanding, fingers twitching to reach out.
“Remember that you can’t save everyone, Captain”, he hums out, meeting your eyes in the reflection as you watch cadet buying new stratagems with excitement, their rank plate moving up.
Slowly, torturously slowly but steadily. Up-up-up.
They live thought the mission. They live through next three you walk them through. You won’t let them die. Not if you can help it.
“I know”, you muse back and there is phantom feel of hands on your shoulders, hands showing how to properly hold the rifle, hands dragging you out of hell because yeah, no one is gonna save Helldivers.
Other than Helldivers themselves.
You watch the young diver jog to the “Stratagem Hero” arcade, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes darting to you, asking for permission.
Their grin so wide when you nod to go ahead and try it, that you feel like their helmet might be illuminated from inside out.
They are painfully young and achingly fragile, not yet honed by years of work out in the field, their hands not yet calloused and burned one too many times.
