After the death of the cult leader, Kyle, the Genestealers—now stripped of unified command—began withdrawing from the processing area. Though they still numbered in the thousands and retained several Purestrain leaders, they showed no willingness to engage in prolonged urban warfare against the players.
Even under strong leadership, victory had never been certain. Now, with their command fractured and coordination gone, the outcome was inevitable: annihilation. After a brief exchange of signals, the Genestealers retreated into the depths.
The players did not pursue. They understood the difference between completing mission objectives and farming experience. Once the area was confirmed secure, Robert raised his walkie-talkie.
“This is Helldiver Company. Do you copy?”
Static crackled. Then a synthetic voice answered, metallic and layered with faint echoes:
“This is Trinity Foundry Workshop. State your designation.”
“We have eliminated the Genestealer presence in the processing zone,” Robert replied. “We’re advancing toward your location. The black spires are in sight. Any threats along the route?”
Silence followed—long enough to suggest data processing rather than hesitation.
Then:
“Negative. Path is clear. Proceed.”
The players advanced at speed.
Soon, the Trinity Foundry Workshop came into full view.
It was less a workshop than a mountain of steel—black spires clawing into the sky, chimneys belching smoke, and a labyrinth of pipes coiling like veins across its surface.
The air was thick with oil, scorched metal, and sulfur. Steam burst from vents in violent hisses. Massive mechanical arms swung slowly overhead, each movement accompanied by a grinding roar that echoed across the wasteland.
When the players reached the main gate—a towering slab of reinforced steel—it opened with a deep, reverberating groan.
From within emerged figures clad in red.
Skitarii.
Their forms were a fusion of flesh and machine. Limbs replaced with bionics. Eyes glowing with cold red light. Respirators masked their faces, leaving only glimpses of pallid skin and exposed tubing. Their weapons were pristine—but their armor bore scars: welded seams, riveted plates, and layers of battlefield repair.
At their head stood a Tech-Priest.
He towered over the Skitarii, his robes richer, more intricate. Bundles of data cables extended from his spine, linking him to humming devices mounted across his back. Most of his head had been replaced by machinery; only fragments of pale flesh remained. One eye was a large optical lens. The other burned with a steady red glow.
When he spoke, his voice overlapped with itself—like multiple machines whispering in unison.
As Reddito surveyed the Helldivers, doubt flickered through his calculations.
Their armor showed wear. Their weapons bore damage.
But beneath that—
Everything was new.
Too new.
Fresh machining marks. Untarnished alloys. Systems that should have aged—yet hadn’t.
A contradiction.
He stepped forward and offered a mechanical salute.
“I am the Tech-Priest of Trinity Foundry. Designation: Reddito Omnissiah.”
“Robert,” he replied with a nod. “Company Commander, Thirteenth Company, Perditia Astra Militarum. Callsign: Helldivers.”
“We will conduct genetic screening,” Reddito said without preamble. “To confirm absence of xenos contamination. Do you consent?”
Robert gestured calmly. “Go ahead.”
The Skitarii moved instantly.
Their motions were precise—assembly-line perfect—as they extracted blood samples from each player. Needles clicked, vials filled, mechanisms retracted.
The players watched with interest rather than concern.
“Man… these guys are kinda sanity-draining,” one muttered, eyeing a Skitarius whose face was half metal.
“Disagree,” another said. “There’s something… elegant about it.”
“I think that one’s radioactive,” a third whispered, rubbing his arm. “Feels like it’s burning.”
“What if we mod ourselves like this?” someone else speculated. “Would it raise our stat cap?”
That sparked immediate discussion.
“If it carries over after respawn, that’s broken.”
“So this is the meta? Mechanicus build?”
“Flesh is weak!”
Meanwhile, Reddito completed the analysis.
No contamination.
His attention shifted—to the vehicle parked nearby.
The Chimera Wyvern Suppressor.
“Permission to examine the vehicle?” he asked, though his tone suggested urgency rather than formality.
Robert shrugged. “Be my guest.”
Reddito approached almost reverently.
His metal fingers brushed the hull, slow and deliberate—like a priest touching a relic.
He opened panels, inspected systems, traced connections. He lay beneath the chassis. Climbed atop the frame. Examined the quad mortar assembly in detail.
Every movement was methodical. Devoted.
Then he stopped.
Turned.
“Where did you acquire this vehicle?”
Robert blinked. “What?”
“All components are newly manufactured,” Reddito said. His voice trembled—barely, but noticeably. “No degradation. No wear. Not even one month of operational aging.”
He stepped closer.
“Where. Did you acquire it?”
Robert hesitated.
The NPCs were supposed to be intelligent—but this level of scrutiny was… inconvenient.
And worse—he had no good answer.
After a pause, he settled on ambiguity.
“It appeared on the battlefield,” he said. “A reward, perhaps. For loyalty to humanity.”
Silence.
Reddito’s instruments processed the statement.
Then—
Confirmed it.
Truth.
His mind stalled.
A fully functional, factory-new Chimera… manifesting from nothing?
Complete with munitions?
For a moment, Reddito’s logic faltered.
Then faith filled the gap.
Omnissiah…
Have you revealed your hand?
When he looked again at the Helldivers—
They seemed to glow.