Chapter Text
Two minutes, twenty-eight seconds.
”Eagle-1, re-armed and ready to go. Try to actually aim for something made of metal this time, Helldiver.“
”And why don't you try actually hitting your target instead of a damn iceberg?“
“I only drop ordnance where you throw the beacon, pal,” the pilot snorted.
“Thanks a bunch, Eagle-None--” the Helldiver growled, getting to his feet and brushing the snow off his knees.
One minute, fifty-nine seconds.
”Easy there, Helldiver,” Eagle-1 cautioned, “You're in the 45th, after all. Wouldn't want to say something to-“
”...Further get on Liberty's bad side, yeah, yeah. Believe me, I know.” The man sighed, his frozen breath enveloping his visor as he turned to take a final look at his target.
The bright, sun-bathed white-gray of the snow-spotted ground contrasted starkly with the grim iron of the Automaton fortress before him. Just a moment more, and his task would be complete. One more successful mark in his record, one more point towards regaining Super Earth’s favour.
One minute, thirty seconds.
He shook his head, inputting a code into his Hellpad. This was no time to be counting victories before they’d been won. Time to get to work.
Bursting from his hiding spot, the Helldiver rushed forward, gripping the glowing red stratagem beacon like his life depended on it. Half-sprinting, half-slipping across the slush that covered most of Choepessa’s surface, he suddenly lunged, throwing himself to the ground. Half-melted snow and mud splattered across his oil- and blood-stained uniform, his throw sending the ball of death gracefully over the harsh, authoritarian walls.
Pulling himself to his feet, he began to grin as the sounds of Automaton alerts quickly shifted into metallic screams, the golden judgment of an orbital laser strike vaporizing any trace of their mindless existence in mere moments.
They’re not mindless, though.
The old nagging feeling in his chest snapped the diver out of his heroic arrogance.
You’ve watched enough Bots live and die to know they’re more than steel and code. You know better, C2.
One minute, three seconds.
Nervously rubbing the gold skull necklace resting on his dark chestplate, the Helldiver finished standing just as his comms crackled to life.
“Democracy Officer says you’ve cleared the mission objectives.” The communications officer’s voice came over the radio, “Go call in extract as soon as possible and come on home, Helldiver. You’ve earned it.”
‘Earned it.’ Sure. The thoughts returned as the comms went silent again. Aren’t you thrilled that you’ve earned the right to live another day?
“Will you shut up, already?…” The Helldiver mumbled, shaking his head, trying to push the thoughts away.
Fifty-six seconds.
No sense in rushing to call in extraction at this point. Not with the minimal amount of time the Super Destroyer had left in low orbit. After all, if he just let Pelican come at his own pace, there would be time to grab some samples on the way- and the Leviathan of Self-Determination was always in dire need of those.
Plus, a few more good boy points with Super Earth wouldn’t hurt.
He was known as C2, callsign “Chef”; Veteran of Malevelon Creek, second-in-command of the 45th Experimental Fleet, proud soldier of Super Earth. Unfortunately, he was also known for his lifelong dissidence, repeat treachery, and rampant automaton sympathizing. He was a skilled walker of the razor-thin edge between glory and execution, alive only thanks to the grace of Super Earth- and the privilege that came with being a skilled Helldiver. His success was living proof that traitors could recover from their dissent-afflicted ways.
Or was it?
Taking his time walking towards the thin blue laser that indicated the extraction point, C2 kneeled, picking a large, dusty, yellow flower and gingerly placing it into his sample tube. He should, probably, be more worried about living to see another day. Even with the Leviathan’s above-average lifespan of five minutes, Helldiving was still a treacherous profession. Despite his quiet and still surroundings, there could still be Automaton patrols around.
Actually, no. It was more than likely that there were still Automaton patrols present. C2 excelled in the rapid delivery of democracy, the best in the fleet. Decommissioning Automaton bases and wiping their numbers out was his bread and butter. He knew the risks of performing a high-difficulty operation on his own, and he thrived under the pressure.
Ooh, that rock looks interesting.
He stopped for a moment to gather another sample, the lid on his container giving a satisfying Pop! as he placed the gem-like outcrop inside.
Even with the danger, Helldiving had its benefits. It was much more varied than the decades of labour in munitions factories that Super Earth had offered him as penance. He got to see the galaxy, revel in its bloody beauty. He got to be a part of something bigger than himself-- the Helldivers. Life was hard, but life was good.
You’re lying to no one but yourself, you know.
The Helldiver’s stream of thought turned hostile again.
You choke on the propaganda Super Earth feeds you. You watch your friends die every single day. You force yourself to sing the battle-hymns of the Federation, to feign patriotism, to salute that damn planet every time you step foot out of the cryo-freezer. Is this what a good life is? Really?
“It’s fine. It’s fine, everything’s okay—” he growled aloud, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head more aggressively, carefully punching the side of his SC-34 helmet. The last thing he needed was an argument with himself to distract him at such a critical moment.
“I’m lucky to have gotten such a kind fate, Super Earth was incredibly generous, and I should be grateful. To serve the Federation in exchange for the freedom of the galaxy is something I should be thrilled to—”
CLANG!
The Helldiver felt his head run into a solid object. He stumbled backwards, reeling, his eyes snapping open.
“...Oh shit.”
His eyes traveled upwards from the slate-gray steel chassis, into the hateful red glare of the Rocket Devastator he’d run into.
C2’s heart skipped a beat as he leapt back, the bot’s metal fist just barely missing his face. What fear and self-loathing he’d felt was quickly replaced by his signature cockiness. Even though it was buried under his helmet, a toothy half-grin as wide as the known galaxy spread across his face at the prospect of a fight.
“HA!” He mocked, scrambling to his feet as the devastator leaned forward to fire its deadly volley, “Do it! I dare you, metal freak! Come get me!”
Rockets whizzed past C2’s head narrowly as he dove to the ground, cold slush spraying up into his helmet. The helldiver spluttered, taking aim at the bot’s exposed stomach and firing. Bolts of superheated plasma ripped into the automaton, sending sparks dancing over the ground. It stumbled back a few steps with a mechanical whine, then slowly raised its head to meet the Helldiver's gaze. Flickering, dying red eyes burned into C2's as the bot sank to its knee.
C2 smirked, standing and aiming for the injured Devastator’s head to put the machine out of its misery.
"Nice try, Socialist," he mocked, "But it'll take more than one measly ambush to stop the forward march of Managed Democra-"
A sharp pain shattered his train of thought as a heat-blade connected with the bones of his shoulder. He howled in agony, turning to face his assailant, the stock of his Scorcher meeting the fragile knees of the Automaton Brawler who'd snuck up on him. Drops of blood mingled with oil as he struck at the now-supine bot's face, crushing its steel skull.
Groaning through gritted teeth, C2 looked up, meeting the eyes of at least a dozen other Automatons. The squad consisted largely of lightly-armored bots. Troopers, Marauders, Raiders, Berserkers, Commissars... Despite being well outnumbered, this pathetic patrol was still no match for the veteran Helldiver.
His hand instinctually reached for his left thigh, where he kept his supply of stims. He was lucky the bot hadn't tried to decapitate him where he stood; He was even luckier that Super Earth had provided him with plenty of drugs to shake off any wounds he received. All he had to do was grab one, and--
The Helldiver's hand brushed over the smooth strap on his thigh, a cold sense of dread washing over him. He checked again, this time turning his gaze down to look for just a moment. Sure enough, his stim holster was empty.
"Don't panic. Fear is what kills you. You panic, you die." he muttered, the ‘pathetic’ patrol suddenly looking ten times more intimidating as Raiders took aim and Berserkers revved their saws.
Plans formed in his mind as he felt his adrenaline kick into high gear. He glanced at his Hellpad. Zero minutes, zero seconds. Pelican-1 was surely on his way to pick him up by now, and they had emergency medical supplies on board. All he had to do was make it to extraction.
C2 gingerly moved his shoulder, assessing the damage. He winced, feeling another spurt of warm blood trickle down his back. That was bad. Handling a firearm was not something he looked forward to.
Suddenly, the bot forces rushed forward, closing the distance. His uninjured right hand grabbed at his other thigh, whipping out his well-worn Redeemer pistol and emptying the magazine into the crowd. Silently, he thanked the soul of whatever brilliant gunsmith invented one-handed weapons.
The Helldiver reloaded as he scampered away from the oncoming metal army. With the Super Destroyer no longer in low orbit-- without his stratagems-- he'd have to be careful with the amount of ammo he spent. He was already incredibly lucky that bots had bad eyesight. If he could just get far enough out of their view, they'd lose track of him.
Explodium projectiles whizzed past him as he bounded through the slick slush, stuttering, robotic cries calling for the death of the “Helldiver Scum” pursuing him even as several ridges of tall rocks blocked the Automatons’ line of sight. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, listening to the bots’ chatter and callouts get closer, homing in on his position.
Odd. They should’ve given up by now.
The Helldiver glanced up as he pushed on towards extraction, searching for any gunships that may be spying on him. The sky was, for better or for worse, empty. No detector towers on the horizon, no visible automatons, no bot ships of any kind-- nothing.
He stumbled up the short incline to where his extraction point had been marked, cradling his injured arm. Exhausted and panting, he collapsed to his knees as he finally made it to the landing pad. Slowly, he raised his head, eager to see the titanium shell of his shuttle savior.
Nothing.
There was nothing here. No beacon. No Pelican.
C2 fumbled with his Hellpad, desperately checking his map. No, this was the right place. He hadn’t made a mistake. Where was Pelican?!
He glanced up once more, a large boulder’s worth of worry settling in his stomach as he noticed the hellpod-sized hole in the middle of the landing pad. A retracted stratagem. The beacon.
He’d missed extraction.
In his many months of Helldiving, he’d never missed the shuttle. Gotten within a hair’s breadth of being abandoned, yes, but never truly left behind. He crawled closer to the hole, looking in at the metal antenna, lightless and inactive. A nail in the coffin of his fate.
He was finally going to die. In the middle of nowhere. On a cold, grey, shitty little planet no one cared about. A gloryless and depressing death.
Another bolt of pain coursed through his body as his shoulder throbbed, snapping him out of his spiral. He gritted his teeth, his hand going to hold his wound. Blood dripped from between his fingers as he turned, sitting against a storage container. He looked down at the filthy snow, his eyes tracing the trail of red drops that led to where he now rested.
He paused for a moment, gears turning in his head as a realization dawned.
He’d left a trail leading the bots straight to him. And he’d continue to leave a trail until he found a stim, or, more likely, bled out.
The fear returned, his panic only tempered by the dizziness that came with his pain. He knew he wasn’t that fast, and that the bots were more than likely still following him. His inner monologue was right on that, at least-- he knew bots well, he knew how they thought and plotted. For them to not follow a trail of blood that they knew led to their sworn enemy would be hopeful foolishness on his part.
He couldn’t get much further without being caught, that was true. He knew he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger if he held his Redeemer to his head, and he knew that it would be awhile and at least several dozen -likely harrowing- miles until he could make it to a radio station to get help. He couldn’t move, couldn’t die, and couldn’t get help.
The helldiver thought, a solution dawning on him. It wasn’t likely to work, but… it was better than killing himself or bleeding out. Getting to his feet, he began to put his Hail-Mary plan into action, and prayed that it might just work.
Soon, the bots arrived, their metal claws digging into the snowy ground as the patrol rounded the corner of the extraction point. Their lust for vengeance, however, rapidly morphed into confusion as they laid eyes on their target.
The proud black and gold of his armour clashed with the pain written over his helmetless face. Short, brown hair twitched in the breeze as the helldiver tried to raise his hands higher over his head, wincing as his injury stopped him short. There was nothing but silence as both parties took in the other’s presence.
“I’m unarmed-” C2 barked, “No guns, no grenades, no explosives.” He gestured to the pile of his weapons behind him with a toss of his head, “I’m injured and have no way to defend myself. I can’t hurt you, even if I wanted to.”
At least an automaton slaughtering a Helldiver made for better propaganda than suicide.
For a long time there was silence. The Helldiver’s hands wobbled in the air with effort as he struggled to keep them up. Pain clouded his mind, blackness slowly creeping into his field of voision.
First, a Commissar whispered. Then, a Trooper responded. A Berserker made sure to give its opinion. Conversation bubbled up among the metal foes, a discussion making the rounds at a rapid pace. Occasional glares met the Helldiver’s eyes, before turning back to talk with their comrades.
“What are you waiting for?! Kill me! I’m right here! This is what you wanted, right?!” The Helldiver yelled, egging the automatons on.
The bots stopped their debate, a dozen pairs of red eyes resting on C2’s face. Slowly, two members of the group approached, one walking behind him while the other stood in front. Soon enough, the cold barrel of a gun rested on the back of his head.
“Come.”
The bot’s voice was harsh and strained, the machine clearly struggling to speak the Helldiver’s language.
C2 froze, confused; his hesitation earning him a smack to his head from the other bot’s gun.
“Get. Up!” Anger grew in the metal enemy’s voice, and C2 slowly complied. Dizzy from the blow and blood loss, he stumbled to his feet. He’d never been this close to a bot before--
“Come.”
Prodded forward, he began to walk, hands still held up weakly in surrender. To where, though? He wasn’t sure. But... at least he wasn’t dead.
For now.