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Calm Before the Storm

In the bushes of Veld

ETA: Someone reblogged this with the tag 'pretty correct and in character' and... yeah. You're right. 😅

Helldivers 2 fancomic - sentry enjoyer

“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”

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.

Average age is 18 to 22 years old.

Ra, God of the Sun