Extracting Victory: The One Where We Nearly Choked

 

Prologue: The Thunder Hammer Debacle

Before the gas incident, there was the small matter of a demon, a warehouse fight, and a very one-sided negotiation over a rather large hammer.
It all started when we encountered a group of cultists mid-ritual, presumably summoning something unpleasant. Naturally, we opted for the traditional approach: interrupting with extreme prejudice. Things escalated quickly, as things do when warp-spawned horrors are involved, and Craig, in a masterstroke of tactical deception, decided to pretend he was completely incompetent. Why? Because he wanted the Thunder Hammer.
"I simply can’t wield it!" Dave wailed, in what Craig would later describe as a pitiful display of groveling. "You must take it!"
Craig, being the noble and selfless teammate that he is (his words, not ours), finally relented and claimed the hammer, much to Dave’s "relief." With the demon dispatched, our new buddy Jae recruited, and the warehouse fight behind us, we moved on to important business: shopping, upgrading the ship, and preparing for Argenta’s pilgrimage. Because nothing says piety like heavy artillery.

The Descent Into Chaos

In our ongoing quest to prove that tactical brilliance and abject panic can, in fact, coexist, we ventured into the lower levels of Footfall’s shadow quarters. Because where else would one willingly go if not into the grimy underbelly of a rogue trader’s least reputable neighborhood? If this place had a tourism brochure, it would just be a single page that read: "Welcome! Good luck not getting stabbed."

We found ourselves staring at a large facility populated by some extremely unsavory individuals who, in true video game fashion, were loitering around in an ominous yet aimless manner. There were two gantry staircases leading downward, so we did the only sensible thing—split the party.

The Gas Cloud of Death

We stepped forward, and a fight broke out. That, in itself, wasn’t an issue. The real problem arose when the boss turned off the extractor fans. Within moments, the entire room filled with a thick, green toxic gas that rapidly eroded our collective hit points and, more importantly, our morale.

"Right, strategic retreat!" Myles commanded, proving that even in crisis, he could find an excuse to issue orders we would immediately ignore.

Our brilliant plan? Run back up the stairs, escape the poison, and let the enemy come to us. Genius, right? Except for one minor detail: The hostiles were immune to the gas.

So there we were, heroically gasping for air in a corridor - which was not indeed free of gas as we thought, watching as our foes stood perfectly content in the swirling mists of doom, waiting for us to make the next move. According to our best calculations, we had about six rounds before we all keeled over dead.

Craig’s Suicide Sprint

Faced with the certainty of death via asphyxiation, we developed a new plan: Craig would sprint straight to the control panel and turn the extractor fans back on.

"Just run past the boss, don’t engage!" Myles instructed.

"What if I—" Craig began.

"No engaging!" we all yelled in unison.

Our job was simple: distract the enemy while Craig made his grand sprint. This mostly involved a combination of haphazard gunfire, dramatic flailing, and Dave loudly reciting a litany of grievances against our tactical choices.

Miraculously, Craig made it to the control panel and, in a shocking display of competence, actually pressed the right buttons. The extractor fans roared back to life, sucking away the poisonous cloud, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief (and oxygen).

The Inevitable Beatdown

With our lungs functioning again, we set about the usual business of bashing, stabbing, and shooting our way through the remaining enemies. Craig, buoyed by his successful sprint, immediately reverted to form by charging into melee and getting promptly bodyslammed by the boss.

"At least let me enjoy my victory lap first!" he protested as we pried him off the floor. (This didn't actually happen - it is a fiction made up by the AI. We believe at this point Craig was still eyeing off Dave's thunder hammer, and so had to make do with mere mortal weapons).

A few well-placed shots, some reckless heroics, and a surprisingly effective tactical flank later, we emerged victorious. No one died (which is always a bonus), and we proved once again that we excel at making plans that mostly hinge on Craig doing something dangerous while the rest of us look busy.

So, in conclusion:

• Splitting the party is always a great idea until it isn't.
• Breathing is, in fact, important.
• Never trust a room with a big-arse fan.

Next time, we’ll probably make another brilliant tactical decision that ends in chaos, but for now, we bask in the glory of our not-quite-disastrous victory.

How Not to Warhammer: A Guide by Us

Sir Vegetable and the Case of the Flaming Incompetence

Another week, another perfectly good Warhammer 40K session derailed by our collective inability to function as a coherent unit. This time, the highlight reel included Craig—henceforth known as "Sir Vegetable"—accidentally saving the day, Dave continuing his long-standing tradition of vanishing at key moments, Zaph prioritizing his imaginary pub crawl over our survival, and me, well... standing in fire. Again.

Act 1: The Pub, the Pyromaniac, and the Lost Nun

The mission was simple—get in, locate the high-value target, and not get horribly killed. This plan lasted approximately 37 seconds before Dave disappeared into the ether. One moment, our pious Sister of Battle was preaching about righteous fury, and the next, he was nowhere to be found. We considered the usual possibilities:

1. He wandered off to collect lore.
2. He got distracted by loot.
3. He was, once again, trapped in a staircase.
4. He simply ceased to exist.

Meanwhile, Zaph decided that stealth and strategy were overrated, electing instead to head straight for a bar, despite us reminding him that the "pub" was a smoldering ruin. His only response: "Yeah, but it’s still got chairs."

As for me, I spent a significant portion of the session pausing the game at critical junctures, mostly while standing in a jet of burning promethium. In my defense, I was "thinking." The problem is, my thought process did not extend to "moving out of the flames." A small oversight.

Act 2: Enter Sir Vegetable

With half our team either missing or mentally checked out, it fell to Craig to, somehow, be the functional one. This is normally a sentence that heralds disaster, but fate—or more likely, sheer accident—decided otherwise.

Craig, whose primary skill set usually involves charging into battle without reading mission objectives, found himself in possession of a control panel that could shut down the death-traps scattered around the area. He didn’t intend to interact with it, mind you. He was actually trying to loot a nearby corpse. But in the process, he pressed something important, and suddenly, the security turrets stopped vaporizing us.

"Uh. That was intentional," he said, nodding sagely, while the rest of us stared in disbelief.

Act 3: Dave Returns, Craig Ascends, Myles Burns

Dave eventually rematerialized, possibly from an alternate dimension, having accomplished something only he could explain.

"I found a scroll that details the ship’s entire history!" he declared, proud of his efforts.

"We were supposed to disable the bomb," I pointed out, still slightly on fire.

"Ah, but knowledge is power."

At that moment, Craig, still riding the high of his accidental competence, activated a final console that—surprise—completed the mission. Technically, he didn't know what he was doing, but that’s hardly relevant. The end result was victory, and Craig was hailed as the hero of the hour. Sir Vegetable, the savior of fools.

Final Thoughts

Was it pretty? No. Was it dignified? Absolutely not. But through a combination of blind luck, poor decision-making, and Craig’s unwavering commitment to unintended success, we managed to scrape through another session.

Next week, we’ll see if we can function like actual professionals. Spoiler: we can’t.

Another take on what really happened that night...

Flavius? I Hardly Knew Us: A Market, A Funeral, and A Fire Hazard

As is tradition, our session began not with heroics, but with a shopping spree. Unfortunately, our fine collection of intergalactic tat was not met with enthusiasm by the local vendors. Apparently, nobody was interested in purchasing a box labeled "Miscellaneous Crap & Assorted Nonsense." Outrageous. Fortunately, we had Dave to lead us to better financial decisions—by purchasing a collection of Xenos from a circus. Our prosperity factor promptly plummeted by one point.

"What?!" Myles protested. "I didn't even get to haggle!"

"You are a shit trader," we all declared in unison.

A Funeral for Some Guy (Possibly Flavius)

While looking for a merchant dumb enough to take our wares, we stumbled upon a funeral. The ceremony was waiting for someone named Flavius to arrive.

"I am Flavius," declared Myles.

"Yes, he is Flavius," we all immediately backed him up.

A round of suspicious glances from the mourners confirmed that we were, once again, off to a great start. The chaplain gave a eulogy about what a great fellow 'such and such' had been, and the ceremony ended on a resounding note of "meh."

"Who the f#@k is Flavius?" Myles finally asked.

"No idea," said Dave. "But they have food and drinks."

Pasqal wandered over, only to detect that all the drinks were poisoned. Instead, he found a conveniently labeled "Goods" box. Naturally, it exploded, nearly launching him into the abyss.

"What the hell?" he shouted. "It's like someone is trying to kill me!"

The Crematorium Caper: A Hot Situation

While trying to blend in, we met a very nervous clerk who revealed that he had been swapping out body implants for fake ones, storing the real ones in the crematorium for later retrieval. Unfortunately, "later" had arrived, and he needed a few chumps to retrieve the latest batch before the body went into the furnace.

"Chumps?" said Craig. "We’re in. For 50% and some documents proving Myles is Flavius."

So off we went to the crematorium, where Craig rushed ahead to open the loot box.

"Hey, it's empty!" he said, just as the crematorium doors slammed shut and the incinerator ignited.

"Oi!" Fake Flavius yelled. "We're in here! Let us out!"

"Oh, right," Pasqal muttered. "I might have forgotten to mention that someone is trying to kill us."

"YES!!!!" Myles screamed. "You TOTALLY forgot to mention that!"

Panic ensued. Myles repeatedly paused the game, demanding a plan. Dave repeatedly unpaused it, declaring, "Move out of the flames!" Pasqal finally took action, smashing the floor open, and we all tumbled into the sewer—still on fire.

Sewer Survival and Clerk Conspiracies

The local sewer-dwellers were kind enough to extinguish us with their soup (the less we dwell on that, the better). After some bribery, we got directions out: crawl through the sewer, pull the lever, climb the ladder.

Pasqal refused to crawl through filth, citing "circuit damage." Sister Argenta did it instead, because someone had to be competent.

In a warehouse above, we overheard two clerks arguing about their plan to cover up embezzlement. They noticed us.

"Do you know who Flavius is?" Myles asked.

"No, why? Did you overhear us?" one clerk demanded.

"Didn’t hear a thing," Myles said, adopting his best Fake Flavius voice.

"Oh good. Carry on, your lordship."

"Just kidding," the clerk added. "We have to kill you now. No hard feelings."

Battle Against Middle Management

The fight began. Pasqal got to the front, planning to axe the clerks in half. Instead, he got stun-grenaded and spent the first round as a very expensive statue. Craig took on two servitors, while Argenta and Hecata discovered that servitors are annoyingly durable.

Myles, in his new role as "Master Tactician," unstunned Pasqal just in time for him to get stunned again. "Oi! You stunned him just as he woke up!" Myles protested, slipping into full Monty Python mode.

Craig eventually cleaved two servitors, Argenta stabbed a clerk in the back, and Zaph (in absentia) sniped the other. Victory.

Promotions and a Sudden Change of Heart

We hit level 16 and picked our new archetypes:

• Pasqal: Grand Strategist, now capable of drawing lines on the battlefield and calling them "frontlines."
• Craig: Vanguard, now tankier but still allergic to reading instructions.
• Myles: Master Tactician, which mostly means pausing the game more.
• Argenta & Hecate: Arch Militants, which means "more shooting."
• Lanto: Unleveled, pending Zaph’s return.

We returned to the funeral, where everyone was surprised to see us alive. Naturally, they decided to try killing us again.

"Stop!" Myles shouted. "I’m not actually Flavius!"

"Of course you would say that," one of them replied. "Flavius is the heir. If he’s dead, we inherit."

"This will be easy," Myles scoffed. "They can't even count. There are thirteen of them."

"Actually, there are fourteen," someone corrected.

"Craig, cleave the one who can’t count!"

"Sure," Craig’s voice called—from somewhere far behind us.

Pasqal, now in full "Grand Strategist" mode, designated official battlefield positions.

"This is the front line," he announced, pointing to the open killing field.

"This is the back line," he continued, pointing to us.

"And this is the rear," he concluded, pointing to where Lanto was setting up a sniper nest.

"None shall pass!" he declared—while standing in the open like a buffoon.

Myles, ever the tactician, picked a corner and ordered us to hold the line.

And that’s where we left it: cornered, outnumbered, and pretending to be an heir to a fortune we absolutely did not inherit.

Next time: Will Fake Flavius survive his would-be murderers? Will Pasqal ever learn the benefits of cover? Will Craig be there before the fight ends? Tune in next session to find out.

Justice, Heresy, and Poor Life Choices

The Inquisition of Craig, Sir Vegetable the Heretic

Date: 322.987.M41
Location: Tribunal Chamber IV, Holy Ordos of the Inquisition, Segmentum Obscurus
Presiding Officer: Grand Inquisitor Sir Reginald the Pious
Accused: Craig, alias “Sir Vegetable”
Charges: Heresy, Insubordination, Tactical Incompetence, and Unauthorized Battlefield Interpretive Dance

In the name of the Holy Emperor, Ruler of the Imperium of Man, Guardian of Mankind, and Supreme Arbiter of the Adeptus Terra, let it be known that the following transcript is the official record of the Inquisition of Craig the Heretic, as dictated by Grand Inquisitor Sir Reginald the Pious.

---

Sir Reginald: Craig, you stand accused of heresy, insubordination, and generally poor decision-making. How do you plead?

Craig: Not guilty.

Sir Reginald: Not guilty?

Craig: Correct.

Sir Reginald: Craig, did you or did you not receive a direct order from your commanding officer, Rogue Trader Sir Lazarus von Valancius, to fall back and regroup?

Craig: I did.

Sir Reginald: And did you follow that order to the letter?

Craig: I did.

Sir Reginald: Let the record show that Craig the Heretic is a liar and a heretic. Play the surveillance footage.

[Footage Begins: A wide-angle shot of the battlefield shows the squad falling back to cover while Craig, in a magnificent display of singular incompetence, stops directly in the middle of the war zone, looking around confusedly.]

Sir Reginald: Craig, what do you have to say for yourself?

Craig: I was following orders.

Sir Reginald: You were following orders?

Craig: Yes.

Sir Reginald: You were ordered to fall back and regroup, yes?

Craig: Yes.

Sir Reginald: And yet, rather than regrouping, you instead stopped in an open killing field, twirling about like a particularly lost servitor.

Craig: That is a mischaracterization.

Sir Reginald: Pause Would you like to characterize it yourself?

Craig: I… was performing reconnaissance.

Sir Reginald: You were standing still, in broad daylight, amidst a hailstorm of bolter fire.

Craig: Exactly. I was acting as a distraction for my teammates.

Sir Reginald: Turns to scribes Let the record reflect that Craig the Heretic has now confessed to deviating from orders and engaging in reckless battlefield behavior.

Craig: That is not what I said!

Sir Reginald: Silence, heretic!

---

Sir Reginald: Let us move on. Witness testimony will now be provided by your squadmates. First, we call forth Rogue Trader, Officer Sir Lazarus, House von Valancius of House von Valancius.

Rogue Trader, Officer Sir Lazarus, House von Valancius: Steps forward, looking exasperated.

Sir Reginald: Please recount for the court your recollection of the events.

Rogue Trader, Officer Sir Lazarus, House von Valancius: Sighs deeply. We were falling back. Everyone was moving in an orderly fashion, except Craig. Craig, instead of retreating like a normal person, ran toward the enemy, stopped halfway, and started fiddling with his inventory screen.

Sir Reginald: His inventory screen?

Rogue Trader, Officer Sir Lazarus, House von Valancius: Yes, Lord Inquisitor. I believe he was looking for a different weapon.

Sir Reginald: Rubs temples. Very well. Next, we call forth Lanto, the Sniper.

Lanto, the sniper: Steps forward with a look of resigned frustration. I took my position, provided cover fire, and then I saw Craig standing in the middle of the battlefield. He then proceeded to look up at the sky as if contemplating the meaning of existence. Then, when an enemy charged him, he panicked and dropped his weapon.

Sir Reginald: He dropped his weapon?

Lanto, the sniper: Indeed, Lord Inquisitor.

Sir Reginald: And what, pray tell, did he do next?

Lanto, the sniper: He attempted to punch the enemy in the shin. It was, unsurprisingly, ineffective.

Sir Reginald: Turns to Craig. What do you have to say in your defense?

Craig: In my defense, the shin is a vulnerable point!

Sir Reginald: Visibly restraining exasperation. Craig, did you at any point read the tactical brief provided to you prior to the mission?

Craig: Pauses. The, uh, tactical what?

Sir Reginald: Turns to scribes. Let the record show that Craig the Heretic does not read mission briefings.

Craig: That seems unnecessary.

Sir Reginald: Silence!

Ironing My Cape While the Galaxy Burns

Ironing My Cape in the Grimdark Future

There’s a lot they don’t tell you when you sign up to be a Rogue Trader. For example, nobody warns you about the endless cape maintenance. You’d think the Imperium would have a servitor dedicated to the task, but no. It’s all me, standing in my quarters, flattening out creases while my so-called allies discuss important matters like whether or not breakfast rations should include recaf.

This week’s primary mission: acquiring a new Navigator. Because, apparently, operating a massive voidship without one is considered “ill-advised.” Bureaucratic nonsense if you ask me, but off we went to some distant station orbiting Eurac V. But before we could enjoy the soothing ambiance of an orbital paperwork hellscape, the lower decks of our own ship had erupted into a small domestic crisis.

The Great Heating & Beating Debate

Depot 4 on the lower decks had a problem. Two, actually. First, the heating was being turned off at night. Second, the locals were being enthusiastically beaten by the higher ups. Being a gracious and benevolent leader (or just too annoyed to ignore it), I deigned to visit this festering pit of proletarian grievances.

Shockingly, they wanted to be treated like humans. Equally shockingly, they also wanted guns. I, in my infinite wisdom, granted them one of these requests. They got their heating back. As for the guns, I politely declined, using my most diplomatic tone of voice: “No.” And, miracle of miracles, nobody had to get stabbed, shot, or hurled out of an airlock. A rare day indeed.

Eurac Bureaucracy and the Art of Not Caring

With that minor crisis averted, we arrived at the station orbiting Eurac V. A fine establishment, if you enjoy being lied to, deceived, and force-fed regulations that seem to exist solely to make your life miserable. After a series of tedious conversations filled with false pleasantries and veiled threats, we eventually acquired our new Navigator, Cassie.

Cassie, in turn, immediately decided to take a break to read a book. I had no idea Navigators even could read, let alone indulge in leisure literature. But, apparently, she felt the need for some “me time.” I filed this under “Entitlement Issues to Address Later” and turned my attention back to the planet below.

The Celebration of Explosions

The esteemed governor, Medineh, of Rykad Minorus, had the brilliant idea to throw me a grand celebration for assuming my Rogue Trader mantle. And by “brilliant,” I mean “insufferable.” I was to ride a massive tank through a ceremonial procession while everyone cheered. I endured this humiliation because I assumed there would be some manner of luxury refreshment at the end.

Then the Final Dawn showed up and shredded the planet’s sun.

It all went downhill from there. The tank I was riding was, predictably, blown up. There was running. There was screaming. There was shooting. More importantly, my cape was absolutely ruined in the ensuing chaos. Have you ever tried to get burn marks out of finely woven adamantine-threaded fabric? You can’t. It’s impossible.

Nonetheless, we prevailed. The Final Dawn was repelled, the governor was saved (more or less), and we limped back to the voidship, victorious but begrimed.

Lessons Learned

1. Cape maintenance is a full-time job.

2. The lower decks are full of people who want things, which is deeply inconvenient.

3. Never trust a bureaucrat, a celebration, or a tank parade.

4. Navigators are apparently entitled to breaks.

5. Exploding tanks are not a good time.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to iron another cape. Again.

The Emperor May Protect, But Not from Poor Tactical Choices

Rogue Trader Chronicles: Myles and the Inadvertent Tech Priest Welcoming Party

The adventure was proceeding as smoothly as a warp jump through a region ominously labeled "DO NOT JUMP HERE" on all available star charts. Which is to say, with a level of chaos we should have anticipated but did not.

And then, of course, Myles found a corner.

A Corner of Infinite Regret

To be fair, it was a perfectly ordinary corner. No eerie runes, no glowing skulls whispering forbidden secrets, no helpful warning signs like, “Beware: Tactical Insertion of Six Mechanized Zealots in 3…2…1.”

So Myles, our valiant Officer, did what any of us might have done—he walked around it.

The universe, being the unfeeling and deeply malevolent entity it is, immediately rewarded this decision with an ambush. Specifically, a vertical ambush. From above.

With ropes.

Six very well-equipped and deeply enthusiastic Tech Priests abseiled down in what could only be described as a synchronized attack ballet, landing in a formation so precise that even Zaph muttered, "Okay, respect.”

Tactical Breakdown: Myles vs. Six Cybernetic Clerics

Myles, to his credit, took this development in stride.

"So, good news: We have company. Bad news: It’s six abseiling Tech Priests."

There was a moment of stunned silence on comms, followed by Craig’s thoughtful analysis:

"Ooooh. We’ve never had abseiling before."

Then Zaph: “How are you this bad at not triggering these things?”

And then Dave, ever the pragmatist: "Okay, but can you hold them off for two or three turns while we leisurely make our way there?”

Myles, having already pulled out his sidearm, gave what can only be described as an exasperated sigh. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll just... tank six Tech Priests, shall I?”

The Next Three Rounds: A Dramatic Reenactment

1. Round One: The "Oh No" Phase
   Myles heroically opened fire while trying to find cover that did not, in fact, exist. The Tech Priests, thoroughly unimpressed by his personal space requirements, advanced in terrifying unison while emitting eerie metallic prayers.
   Meanwhile, Pascal, ever the stoic Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, was already in the thick of it—hurling grenades and cleaving foes with his axe while the rest of us shrieked and dodged. If anyone was handling this properly, it was Pascal.

2. Round Two: The "It's Fine, I'm Fine" Phase
   Myles dodged, rolled, and started taking potshots while possibly rethinking every decision that had led to this moment. Meanwhile, the rest of us were still at least two turns away, leisurely discussing whether or not Zaph should take an elevated sniping position or, and this is a direct quote from Craig,
   “rush in headfirst and see what happens.”
   Craig, in an act of apparent clumsiness (or was it?), accidentally hit his space bar, ending his turn prematurely and effectively setting Zaph up for the perfect sniper shot. We all believed it to be a mistake. In hindsight, Craig insists it was a masterstroke of tactical generosity.

3. Round Three: The "Okay, Actually, I Might Die" Phase
   The Tech Priests, being unreasonably efficient, had Myles pinned and began the process of “welcoming” him with a variety of terrifying mechanical adjustments he had no desire to receive.

   "Lads. Lads, I am NOT getting cybernetically baptized today—hurry up!"

   At which point, Dave finally arrived and made the tactical decision to not open with covering fire, but rather, to dramatically stride forward and yell, "The Emperor Protects!"

   Which, to be fair, he does. But not when Dave does it purely for the cinematic effect.

The Aftermath

By the time the rest of us actually got to Myles, he had sustained what we’ll diplomatically call “an unfortunate level of perforation.” Craig arrived just in time to kill-steal one of the Tech Priests after Myles had done all the hard work, and Zaph, naturally, had taken up position exactly one turn too late to be truly useful.

Dave, meanwhile, was completely unharmed. Suspiciously unharmed. As if the Tech Priests took one look at him and thought, “Oh, this one’s already 60% machine. No further work needed.”

With all six adversaries finally defeated, Myles took a moment to lean against the wall, bleeding dramatically.

"I would just like to reiterate that ANYONE could have triggered that."

To which Craig replied, “Sure. But it was you who actually did.”

Thus concluded yet another episode of "How Has This Party Not Died Yet?" Stay tuned for next week, when Craig almost certainly sets something important on fire.

---

Toughness succeeded.

What's this switch do?

Luckily, the electricity targeted only the foe.

Well, being dogmatic and all, I had to kill him - it was the right thing to do.

Ah, yes, I may have gone ahead a little, and triggered some abseiling Tech Priests.

The void warp monsters seem to have way too much hit points.

So, this is the monastery power source, and you want to blow it up?  

SPEAR and Loathing: A Helldivers Tale

Operation: Spear Rules, Automatons Drool

Ah, Helldivers 2—the future where humanity's best solution to galactic survival is sending ill-equipped volunteers into a meat grinder while yelling "Democracy is non-negotiable!" As a change of pace, we dived back into this sucky version of the future last night, because nothing screams "fun" like constant existential dread and malfunctioning stratagem drops.

First up: three missions against the Automatons, because we apparently missed them so much. The automaton playbook is as follows: Be giant, metallic, and angry. Our plan? Fire SPEAR missiles at everything that moves (and some things that don’t, just in case). For the uninitiated, the SPEAR is a man-portable missile launcher. It’s single-shot, reloads slower than Craig solving a Sudoku, and the ammo pack takes up precious backpack space. But who needs a guard dog when you’ve got 500kg of automated problem-solving?

We added some spice to this by approving Craig to deploy anti-personnel mines, Tesla towers, and a 380 artillery barrage. Truly, we are masters of our own demise.

The Great Airfield Debacle

Our warm-up mission was a simple one: destroy the airfield and take out the command tower. Nothing could go wrong, right?

Wrong.

We hot-dropped into chaos. Myles, still reacclimating to the controls, immediately spotted a Giant Robot. “What do I do?!” he yelled as the SPEAR launcher refused to deploy. “RUN!” Dave shouted, already lobbing an orbital laser pokeball over his shoulder. Myles did just that, sprinting like a caffeinated squirrel as the flaming robot pursued him. Dave’s orbital strike hit home, reducing the mech to a molten heap. “Run faster next time,” Dave suggested helpfully.

Once we were re-armed, we scrambled toward our objectives. Drop ships rained enemies upon us, met by a symphony of SPEAR missiles and increasingly panicked shouts of “I need to reload!”. The airfield met its end via a 500kg bomb, and the command tower—well, that involved some improvisation. We summoned an SSD (a fancy USB stick for Helldivers), but Dave spent five frantic minutes searching for the terminal. Craig and Myles were too busy fighting bots to help. Eventually, Dave found the terminal and overloaded the heating system, blowing up the tower. “A Hellbomb would’ve been simpler,” he muttered.

Illuminate Missions: Never Let Children Play with Lightning Guns

With Myles now back up to speed, we tackled the Illuminate—a faction combining zombies, teleporting ships, and shielded monstrosities. What could possibly go wrong?

Defend the Base: The Swarm Strikes

“Bring turrets,” Dave advised, his voice dripping with wisdom. “And napalm. Lots of napalm.”

We set up a solid defense: turrets, Tesla towers, anti-tank emplacements, SPEARs, and enough ammo to supply a small army. It didn’t matter. The Illuminate blew the gates, swarmed our resupply point, and shielded their giant robots like overprotective parents at a school recital. Myles’ swearing reached new heights, punctuated by Dave yelling, “Craig, deploy the Teslas!” Craig complied, but his aim was… suboptimal. The Tesla tower took out a turret and Dave instead. “Great plan,” Myles deadpanned as he reloaded his SPEAR for the thousandth time. Somehow, we scraped by.

Urban Combat Chaos

Our next mission involved navigating small towns swarming with Illuminate ships. Myles tried to SPEAR a ship, only to learn that their shields laughed in the face of missiles. Dave demonstrated the proper method: “Rip the shields down first, then blow them up.” It worked, though grenades and orbital strikes proved equally satisfying.

We found a black box, lost it, retrieved it, then lost it again in a heroic display of teamwork. After multiple cross-map sprints, we uploaded its contents, proving once again that chaos always trumps planning.

The Kid and the Lightning Gun

Our final mission introduced us to an 8-year-old recruit. “Watch Craig get schooled by the kid,” Dave predicted. Turns out, the kid’s weapon of choice was a lightning gun—a weapon that, when misused, becomes a team-killing nightmare.

Mid-mission, as Myles and Dave were valiantly holding off waves of zombies and robots, the kid unleashed a zap that fried them both. “He’s worse than Craig,” Dave muttered, just as the kid fried Myles again.

The mission ended in true Helldiver fashion: chaos. Dave stopped to clear an outpost while Craig called in the dropship. Everyone piled in, leaving Dave stranded on the zombie-infested planet. “Oops, my bad,” Craig said cheerfully as the ship ascended.

Closing Thoughts

If last night proved anything, it’s that teamwork makes the dream work—and also creates spectacular trainwrecks. See you next week, comrades. Bring extra SPEAR missiles and a lightning gun-free zone.

---

Addendum: Craig’s "Corrections"

Tonight, for a change of pace, we went back to Helldivers 2 to experience a different (yet no less sucky) version of the future. Myles needed a refresher—a complete refresher—so we did our first set of three missions against the Automatons. Later, we moved on to more difficult settings. As usual (and expected), Craig saved the day on all the levels we played. Myles was in complete awe of my awesomeness. No matter how many times I told him, "I’m not that great, I’m better," he continued fawning over me and my superior AMD-based PC.

Dave was suspiciously quiet throughout this. In fact, we hardly saw him as he was off on his high-priority side missions. Never mind the primary mission, eh Dave? Lastly, my protégé joined the game and impressed us all with his expert and highly accurate use of the arc blitzer gun. Myles endlessly praised his use of the weapon and was not short of words.

So, all in all, I saved the night again.

Traps, Cultists, and Questionable Choices: A Squad Story

 

Operation "The Emperor Protects, Mostly"

We rejoin our stalwart band of misfit mercenaries as they plod along the charred, demon-infested corridors of what might generously be called a "plan." Having survived two ambushes (largely thanks to Craig’s fondness for explosive solutions and Pascal’s fondness for running headlong into fire), we arrive at an intersection. Straight ahead lies a door, ominous and uninviting. To the right, a corridor leads to generators. Naturally, we sneak right—because the correct choice is always the one most littered with traps.

And oh, the traps! Disarming them one after another, Pascal mutters, "I think someone doesn’t want us here."

"You don’t say," Zaph replies dryly.

Once we’ve cleared the path, Pascal decides to violate the cardinal rule of adventuring—stick together—and pops open the door. Inside, cultists are dancing in a circle around a giant warp-thingy, surrounded by purple candles. What is it with cultists and their candle budgets?

Splitting the Party (Again)

We split up because, apparently, nobody remembers what happened last time we did that. Pascal, Lando, and Iria hold the door while Argenta, Reggie, Lemming Von Huffledink, and the Vegetable flank around the back. Argenta hides behind a conspicuously red barrel, leans out, and unloads a hail of bullets… directly into the barrel. It explodes spectacularly in her face.

"Right," she coughs, singed but alive. "Red equals bad. Got it."

Meanwhile, the Vegetable demonstrates the mechanics of cleaving by carving through two rebels like butter. Reggie, to everyone’s shock, actually lands a shot with his laser pistol, dispatching another rebel. We briefly debate testing Reggie for possession.

Back at the door, Pascal casually leans on his robotic arm, Lando snipes rebels with the casual confidence of someone who insists they were "definitely out of range," and Iria rubs her hands together like an over-caffeinated wizard, static sparks flying.

Enter the Big Bad

The cult leader stops chanting and advances with two blue demon bodyguards. "How bad can they be?" someone asks. Famous last words. They somersault toward Craig, who responds by cleaving them into next week. Myles, deeply impressed, orders him to repeat the move, and Craig complies, obliterating another demon.

Pascal, deciding the flames in the doorway are fake, runs through them and promptly sets himself on fire. Iria screams at the rebels to surrender, and one drops dead on the spot. "Note to self: buy earplugs if we ever find a shop," mutters Lando.

Chaos Unleashed

Once the cult leader is down, we examine his warp contraption. It’s covered in the same glass shards found near Theodora’s body. Argenta immediately accuses Theodora of heresy, leading to a heated argument with Iria, who defends her. Lemming, ever the diplomat, stands around awkwardly watching the drama unfold.

Downstairs, we stumble upon terrified hive workers. They beg for their lives, so naturally, we leave them and poke around elsewhere. Iria examines a cultist’s corpse, which transforms into a Herald of Tzeentch. Great. It mind-controls 15 workers and starts hopping around the room like a warp-infused Donkey Kong. After much screaming and shooting, we neutralize the threat—mostly. A few workers survive, though not our patience.

Rebel Redux

Back upstairs, Reggie finds a vox caster. Pascal launches into an unprompted lecture on the individuality of vox casters. "Every scratch, every antenna bend is unique!" he rants as we slowly back away from the deranged tech priest.

When we’re finally ready to move on, Reggie bolts ahead, climbs two ladders, and alerts a horde of rebels to our presence. Lemming mutters "traitor" under his breath as we climb after him. The rebels swarm Reggie and, predictably, kill him. Lemming, attempting stealth, points out nine rebels lurking in the shadows.

"We can take them by surprise if we…" he starts, but Craig interrupts by charging in. One rebel hoses Lemming down with a flamethrower, eliciting a shriek of "It burns, it burns!" in a disturbingly accurate Gollum impression.

Meanwhile, Iria electrifies three rebels, Craig cleaves another, and Argenta discovers the joys of suppressive fire. The sniper in the distance takes a shot, prompting Lando to grumble about "definitely being out of range."

Victory (Sort Of)

After much chaos, we defeat the rebels, loot their corpses, and hand Craig a grenade, despite better judgment. Lemming, still fuming over the lack of shops, blows up an anti-air battery with a melta charge for catharsis.

As we call it a night, someone mutters, "At least the Emperor protects… sometimes."

Post-Session Debrief

Our loot: minimal. Our sanity: questionable. Our teamwork: nonexistent. But hey, we survived another session. Craig still has his grenade, Pascal still has his rants, and Lemming still dreams of a world with shops.

Until next week, comrades, when we once again defy the odds—and each other—in the grimdark universe where the only certainty is that Craig will blow something up.

Lemming Von Huffledink and the Chaos Brigade

 

Lemming Von Huffledink and the Incidentally Heroic Chaos

The dim, grimdark expanse of space once again proved that bureaucracy is alive and thriving, even amidst the never-ending war. As the newly self-appointed Rogue Trader (because reading the instruction manual is for heretics), I, Myles Von Huffledink, decided that our crew needed adventure—or possibly therapy. With a confident finger jabbed at the nearest ominous symbol on the star chart, I declared, "What's this? Let's go there." The starship’s automated response was less inspiring: "Unidentified void ship. Intercept initiated."

Cue Dave's panicked shout: "Abort intercept! ABORT INTERCEPT!" while Craig's more practical approach was to scream, "Man the guns! Prepare to repel boarders!" And, like clockwork, I innocently replied, "It’s not my fault."

After narrowly avoiding a high-speed introduction to the afterlife, the crew gently suggested we tackle something less apocalyptic for our first mission. I found a planet with a starport. “Starport equals market equals shopping,” Craig announced gleefully.

“No shopping,” I countered.

“I quit,” Craig replied immediately.

To which I calmly responded, “Fine, number one on our to-do list: replace Craig.” Thankfully, our ship’s Master-at-Arms was efficient. “Release the prisoner,” he commanded, and moments later, a newer, marginally fresher Craig joined the crew—equally irritating but slightly less defiant.

---

The Shuttle That Couldn’t

Our descent to the starport was a study in how not to land a shuttle. Anti-air fire lit up the sky, and Craig was already halfway out of his seat when I yelled, “Deploy chaff! Launch flares! Get us on the ground!” By some miracle—or possibly a glitch in the targeting system—we survived, slamming down on Pad 3 like a sack of grox dung.

We were greeted by a squad of guardsmen who immediately questioned our presence. "Don’t you know who I am?" I bellowed, slipping into character as Lemming Von Huffledink, scion of an illustrious Rogue Trader lineage.

“Forgive me, my lord,” their sergeant grovelled. “We didn’t recognize you.”

The sergeant explained the local rebellion situation, and I reassured him with my finest false praise: "You’re doing a stellar job. I’ll sing your praises to the governor." Just as I finished my condescending pat on the metaphorical head, Zaph and his Psyker sidekick arrived with their usual impeccable timing.

---

Ambush 101: Laser Bolts and Demons

As we advanced across the starport, rebels emerged from behind shuttles, yelling "AMBUSH!" and showering us with laser fire. Craig took the opportunity to flank the enemy (read: disappear to the other side of the battlefield), while I heroically shot a guardsman in the back. “Why aren’t the rest of you doing anything?” I demanded as the remaining guardsmen edged toward the nearest exit.

Zaph sniped a rebel, the Psyker did some psychedelic light show, and Craig eventually reappeared just in time to help us mop up. Then, because the universe hates us, the Psyker accidentally tore a hole in reality, summoning a Chaos demon.

“WTF?!” we collectively exclaimed.

After a chaotic battle that involved fire, screaming, and Craig maybe saving the day (the warp corrupted the video evidence, so there’s no proof), we looted the bodies, questioned the sole surviving guardsman, and marched toward the city.

---

Enter the Tech-Priest

On the way, we encountered a lone Tech-Priest obliterating heretics with an exploding machine. Impressed by his practical application of firepower, we kicked out one of our gunners and invited him to join the crew.

“He has grenades,” Craig noted approvingly.

“Exactly why we should confiscate them immediately,” Dave countered.

---

Righteous Looting in the Emperor’s Name

Our first stop in the city involved a frenzied looting spree across rooftops and elevators. “It’s for the Emperor,” I assured the team as we stuffed our packs with gear of dubious legality.

Finally, we encountered rebels attempting to override defense turrets. They failed spectacularly, activating the turrets, which shredded them into confetti. The Tech-Priest took the opportunity to prove his worth by securing the turrets for us just as 15 more rebels arrived. It was a bloodbath. We applauded.

---

Stairway to Betrayal

The guardsman led us to the site of his patrol’s ambush. After his third round of evasive answers, I suggested shooting him. Democracy prevailed, and we spared him—right before rebels attacked us again. The guardsman, bless his incompetent soul, was promptly stabbed.

The battle ended with Craig, once again, being suspiciously helpful. “Could we have been wrong about Craig all these years?” I mused.

Dave, ever the grudge-holder, replied, “We will never forget the gold dragon. No amount of heroics will redeem you, Craig.”

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The Verdict

In summary, we survived—barely. Craig is still Craig, the Tech-Priest has grenades (God help us), and I remain the only thing standing between this team and utter chaos. Just another night in the dim, dark future where there is only war… and the occasional loot-fueled shopping spree.