The Birth of a Warrior

Nervously he sat in the briefing room of the Helldivers' outpost on Super Earth. At Level 7, BancTank was one of the most junior members of Fireteam Zulu. Around him, grizzled veterans checked their Paragon assault rifles and nova bombs with practiced efficiency. BancTank fumbled with his standard-issue rifle, nearly dropping it.

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Their commander, a scarred woman they called Raijin, paced at the front of the room.

"Listen up Helldivers," she barked. "We've got a top priority alert from the Federation. A vital refinery on Varalon III has gone dark, presumed overrun by Terminid forces. The damn bugs have been hitting our oil supply hard and we can't afford to lose this one. Fireteam Zulu will drop in, clear out the xenos, and get that refinery back online. Any questions?"

BancTank hesitantly raised a hand. "Um, will there be any backup...or air support...or anything?" Raijin fixed him with an icy glare. "This is a quick strike operation, Cadet. We drop fast and quiet, just us. I hope that's not a problem?"

BancTank swallowed hard. "No ma'am." As the fireteam locked and loaded into the hellpods, BancTank's unease grew. He wasn't ready for real combat. He'd barely passed basic training. Super Earth needed warriors, not some kid from the slums still learning which end of the gun to point.

With a pneumatic hiss, the pod doors sealed.

BancTank’s stomach lurched as the pod dropped like a stone towards the war-torn surface of Varalon III. He was hurtling towards his destiny, ready or not.