Deep within the rest area of the nuclear power plant, the air was thick with the faint scent of ozone and machine oil.
Several members of the Helldivers were sitting around a pile of crates, idly passing the time. The squad leader was tinkering with a sophisticated-looking black box—a modified military radio. He twisted the knobs, trying to catch a shred of meaningful sound from the endless expanse of static.
However, the radio emitted only a rhythmic hiss of white noise, as if the entire universe had fallen into a dead silence.
Watching their leader's focused yet futile efforts, the other squad members couldn't help but strike up a casual conversation.
"Sarge, didn't you say this radio cost you a ton of Merit Points? You hyped it up like it was some divine tech, saying it could pick up signals from an entire sector—even private chats from the Navy fleet."
"Yeah, you've been tuning it for ages. Aside from noise, there's nothing. I'd even settle for a broadcast of morning calisthenics at this point."
Irritated by his subordinates' teasing, the squad leader slapped the radio's casing and cursed, "How the hell should I know! That tech-priest who sold it to me swore up and down that it used some 'all-band receiver array' and would have a signal anywhere, anytime. I'm starting to seriously suspect that bastard ripped me off!"
Just as the leader prepared to give it a few more forceful smacks—using that ancient "percussive maintenance" technique—Zzzzzt—!!!
The radio suddenly erupted into an incredibly piercing shriek, a sound so sharp it felt like it would puncture their eardrums.
Following that, the monotonous static was instantly replaced by the overlapping screams of countless voices.
"Help! Save us!"
"By the Throne! They're here! They're everywhere!"
"For the Emperor! Aaaaaagh!"
It was the desperate wail of countless people in their final moments, the collective scream of millions of lives vanishing in an instant. The sound didn't just travel through the air; it seemed to burrow directly into the brains of everyone present, making their skin crawl and their souls shiver.
Even though the Helldivers were players, the hyper-realistic sound effects gave them a massive fright; several of them instinctively leapt off their crates.
Before the squad leader could actually turn the device off or throw it away, a massive shadow suddenly loomed over him.
Thump!
A heavy, dark-red power-armored boot stomped down hard.
The high-end radio, which had cost the leader a fortune in Merit Points, didn't even have time to make a crunching sound before it was pulverized into a pile of metal fragments and wire coils.
The noise stopped abruptly. The world returned to silence.
The squad leader stared at the wreckage for a second, stunned, before letting out a heart-wrenching cry: "Ah! My radio! My Merit Points!"
He snapped his head up to see a Flesh Tearer in dark-red power armor standing before him. The Space Marine's breathing was heavy, his eyes glowing with a dangerous red light beneath his helmet, his entire body radiating an irrepressible aura of violence.
The previous screams had clearly agitated this Astartes, who was already on the brink of collapse, nearly sending his Black Rage spiraling out of control. He stared intently at the mortal on the ground, his fingers twitching on the hilt of his chainsword, barely restraining the urge to tear the noisy human into pieces.
He constantly reminded himself: Calm down, brother, calm down. These are the 'high-quality blood bags' Chaplain Appollus specifically mentioned. These are the catalysts to soothe the curse. Do not kill them; if you kill them, there will be nothing left to drink.
The Flesh Tearer forced a low growl through his teeth: "Too loud."
Looking at that terrifying face—so close he could practically feel his throat being bitten out—the squad leader wasn't afraid. Instead, he stood up with a look of immense pain and said indignantly, "Sir, I just bought that! You broke it, you have to compensate me."
The Flesh Tearer froze.
First came surprise, followed by a grim and distorted smile—he was laughing out of sheer exasperation. He had seen countless mortals on the battlefield; some revered him as a god, others feared him as a demon, but never had a mortal dared to demand "compensation" from a furious Flesh Tearer.
This death-defying courage—or perhaps stupidity—piqued a bit of morbid curiosity in him.
He leaned down slightly, his massive frame creating a suffocating pressure, and asked in a grim tone, "Oh? Interesting. Tell me, mortal, how should I compensate you? Shall I trim your nails with my chainsword?"
The squad leader completely ignored the threat. His eyes lit up as he held up three fingers, saying expectantly, "How about you let me donate three cups of blood every day? As long as you let me donate more blood, we'll call it even!"
Flesh Tearer: "..."
The air froze again.
This battle-hardened Space Marine actually felt his brain stall for a moment. He looked at the mortal, trying to find signs of fear or madness, but all he saw was... a bizarre sort of longing?
What was in this guy's head? Filth? To demand more bloodletting just for compensation?
Seeing the sincere and hopeful look in the leader's eyes, the Flesh Tearer felt a sense of absurd powerlessness. Even his murderous rage was dampened by this ridiculous request.
If you want to die, if you want to become a dried husk, then I will grant it.
"...Fine," the Flesh Tearer squeezed the word from the depths of his throat.
Hearing the Astartes agree to the absurd demand, the squad leader immediately cheered up. His dust-covered face bloomed into a grin as he shouted toward the tall, retreating back of the Astartes, "Sir, you're a good man! May you have a long and peaceful life!"
The Flesh Tearer's footsteps visibly faltered, and he began walking faster, as if a terrible plague were chasing him. He didn't want to spend another second with these humans and their twisted logic.
Once the terrifying red figure had completely disappeared at the end of the corridor, the other players in the squad immediately crowded around, looking at the leader with envy.
"Man, you really lucked out."
"Three cups a day? That's 300 Merit Points, right? I think you just bamboozled that NPC."
"I want to donate too. I'm almost at full health and respawned; I feel like I have so much energy and nowhere to spend it."
As everyone chattered about the leader's "dumb luck," a player in charge of heavy weapons kicked the scrap metal on the floor, changing the subject: "But seriously, why did that radio suddenly start working? It was mute before, then suddenly it's wailing like a banshee."
"Yeah, if it hadn't made that noise, Sarge's treasure wouldn't have been crushed."
A player who had been tinkering with a tactical tablet seemed to remember something. He scratched his head and said, "Uh, I think I remember Dr. Soft mentioning this in a forum announcement. It said the Necrons use their dark tech to block all communication signals in a star system, creating a silence zone."
He paused, continuing to recall: "Then, right before an attack, they lift the entire communication blockade at once, releasing all the accumulated distress signals and screams of despair from fallen planets to destroy the defenders' morale with psychological warfare."
Realization dawned on the squad leader. He stared wide-eyed at the fragments on the ground. "Huh? So my radio wasn't broken? That tech-priest didn't rip me off?"
"It probably wasn't—you were just the one messing with the settings," the player rolled his eyes. "Don't you check the forums? Dr. Soft's posts are high-value; they're basically the official lore and strategy guides for the game."
"Damn it, I'm not a lore-junkie. Who has the patience to read those multi-thousand-word essays?" the leader said defensively, picking up a piece of the radio wreckage to mourn it. "My knowledge of Warhammer is limited to 'For the Blood of Sanguinius' because it sounds cool, and that handsome Primarch with the big wings. How should I know the rest?"
The surrounding players were speechless; he was a typical "casual fan."
"Anyway," the player who had read the guide shrugged, his eyes turning toward the deep entrance of the power plant's corridor, his tone tinged with excitement and tension. "Since the 'shriek' has been released, it means the communication blockade is lifted."
He gripped his lasgun, clicking the power pack into place. "That means the Necron skeletons we've been waiting for should be here soon."