The drop-pods hit the lower sub-levels of Sieve Station 31 at terminal velocity.
They did not simply descend.
They fell.
*Gunshot*
*Narrator hits the ground...dead.*
Deadpool entered the room.
[Pause! Freeze frame!
Look at this mess. Look at all these single-line paragraphs. Who printed this, a fortune cookie factory on strike?
I mean just look at this!
"Not to negotiate. Not to retreat. Not to contain the darkness."
We get it, narrator-guy, may you rest in peace, you love dramatic pauses, but my attention span is shorter than the time it takes for the readers to rub one in the bathroom!
Let's smooth out this clunky nonsense and turn up the crazy!
Let Uncle-Grandpa Deadpool read this one for ya!]
The drop-pods hit the lower sub-levels of Sieve Station 31 at terminal velocity. They plunged straight through three kilometers of buildings galleries like a giant metal fist smashing through drywall.
[Dramatic Music]
The first pod punched right into reactor shielding, the second squashed a mag-rail junction into scrap metal, and the third hit a reality-warping void that made the ship's machine-spirit cry. Then retro-thrusters fired, shaking the station so hard it rattled teeth three systems over. Heat shields scorched red, then white, then burst into explosive petals that vented hyper-pressurized steam everywhere.
Out stepped a dozen massive hulks in black-and-gold plate, sporting heavy firepower, absurdly glorious combat capes, and helmets with that classic brutal look. On every breastplate shone the skull-and-wings of the Helldiver Legion, with Chapter Master Andrew right in the middle wearing battle-scarred armor. On his right pauldron was a stylized globe surrounded by stars with the High Gothic motto DEMOCRATIA PERPETUA.
[Ah, Chapter Master Andrew! It's been a while since we've seen him! I heard he went on a training arc!
And man he's grown!
I mean, look at him! Man's got so much chin under that helmet he needs custom ceramite just to fit it.
Also, capes in combat? Edna is screaming in her grave right now, but hey, if you aren't fabulous while committing galactic-scale pest control, why even leave bed?
And he's bringing a whole arsenal of democracy!
Nothing says "free speech" quite like a 2000kg bomb dropped directly onto your opinions! God, I love these guys.]
Andrew raised his helm as the station's corrupted vox-relay looped its frantic final transmission: "Mayday! Mayday! This is Sieve Station 31. We found something down here... it's spreading... our citizens and soldiers are changing into abominations!"
[Oof. Classic one-star Yelp review right there.
"Service was awful, host turned into a horrifying bug-monster, zero stars, would not visit again."]
Andrew peered into the poison air. Spores floated around pulsed organic growth while human corpses hung from ceiling membranes like terrifying meat-curtains. Thousands of former workers, security guards, and families had been remade into walking biological nightmares with calcified scythe-arms and split-open chitin ribcages. Andrew's tactical display ticked up past sixty thousand abominations.
Caleb checked his heavy bolter ammo. "How many bro?" he asked.
Andrew paused.
"Enough."
Andrew here was clearly aura farming.
[Oh, "Enough"?
No "We're surrounded, sir!" or "Tell my wife I loved her"?
Just "Enough"? The testosterone in this room is so thick I could paint my nails with it.]
Behind them, drop-pods opened as Terminators, Intercessors, Aggressors, and Assault Marines stepped out. The Helldiver creed was simple: descend from orbit, and if that failed, descend harder and if THAT failed then descend into nuclear fallout.
Down the hall, a wet, multi-jointed behemoth scraped its carapace against the ceiling, dripping acid from a mouth big enough to swallow a tank.
"Can we kill it?" Caleb asked.
Andrew chambered a round. "We must."
[Roll credits! He said the thing! Well, almost. He didn't say "It's Helldivin' time," which is a massive missed opportunity for merchandise sales, but I'll allow it.)
The creature screeched, and Andrew gave the command: "Deploy orbital strike."
Caleb slammed a beacon spike into the deck, shooting a vivid red laser straight through the ceiling and into the sky. Up in orbit, the battle-barge Liberator of Perditia, which looked like a cathedral designed by absolute lunatics, received the beam. Four seconds later, a beam of pure incandescent plasma punched through the station, vaporizing xenos, pulverizing hive-spires, and melting kilometers of rock into glowing glass.
Andrew stood motionless, his cape fluttering in the created 'wind'.
[And that, kids, is why you always tip your orbital strike coordinator.
Boom! Pure catharsis!
I need a ciggie and I don't even smoke anymore!
And don't go saying "But mister Deadpool, you smoke your ops!"]
As the blinding white flash faded, the remaining horde poured through ventilation ducts and collapsed ceilings in a living tide. The Helldivers locked shoulder-to-shoulder and advanced, heavy bolters, meltas, flamers, and autocannons tearing the bio-forms to shreds.
A Dreadnought strode into the middle of the swarm, rotary cannon whirring while its ten-thousand-year-old sarcophagus speaker bellowed: "For liberty! For the Emperor! For managed democracy!"
[Geriatrics play this game too?
A grandpa-in-a-box screaming about democracy while minced meat flies everywhere?
Stop, stop, I can only get so aroused!]
Suddenly, Andrew's auspex screamed. A vast, electromagnetic storm was moving through the upper atmosphere, the Gloom, a biological corruption that ate entire planets. The creatures below froze in terror and stared at the ceiling.
Andrew lowered his rifle and activated the long-range vox. "Prepare more orbital strikes."
Fifty red beacons lit up the dark complex like a chaotic rave. Above, the Liberator opened every weapon bay, launching strike fighters, torpedoes, and pods.
[Oh look, a light show! If you squint real hard, it looks like a rave where the beat drop is a high-yield nuclear payload arriving in three seconds!]
Missiles blew the roof off the station, opening the night sky. The jump-pack Marines ignited their turbines, launching upward into the swarm as chainswords revved and heavy bolters thundered. A Space Marine got dragged down by thirty monsters, only to explode out of the pile missing an arm, shouting "LIBERTY OR DEATH!" while sawing another beast in two.
[Tis but a scratch! Rub some dirt and some extra-judicial voting rights on it, big guy, you'll be fine!]
Andrew leaped off the edge of the ruined station floor, cape snapping behind him, before firing his jump pack and driving straight into the center of the horde.
"FIGHT NOW FOR JUSTICE! FIGHT NOW FOR FREEDOM! FIGHT FOR THE EMPEROR! FIGHT BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE!"
The sky rained thousands of burning capsules, turning the entire battlefield into an impact zone. Out of the fire came the Legion—the crazy Astartes who treated orbital insertion like a holy prayer and answered every threat with a red beacon, a drop-pod, and a massive explosion.
[It's raining men! Hallelujah, it's raining eight-foot-tall, hyper-violent men!]
They didn't come to negotiate or retreat; they came to dive right into the heart of darkness and blast it to kingdom come. Somewhere in the burning sky, Andrew laughed as another bombardment flattened the horizon.
"HELLDIVERS!" ten thousand voices roared over the vox. "FOR THE EMPEROR! FOR HUMANITY! FOR LIBERTY! AND FOR PERDITIA!"
And with that, the sky tore open, and absolute hell rained down.
[And cut! Print it, check the budget... oh and Ainz, get me a chimichanga! I don't get paid enough for this!]