Helldivers: The Gynoid Threat

The scene unfolds before you with that inevitable momentum characteristic of most disasters within Super Earth's glorious military apparatus

Third-Class Helldiver Derek Vance a burly man with facial scars earned from being too close to his own incendiary grenades has Lucy cornered against a supply crate. The Terminid hybrid flinches at his every move; her chitinous armor clicks nervously as she tries to position her abdomen for what looks like a painfully awkward attempt at self-milking

"I don't see a single damn drop of E-710 coming out, you bug-cow!" Vance shouts, jabbing a finger at the creature's thorax "Command says you're supposed to produce forty liters a day. You know what we got yesterday? Nothing. The day before? Nothing either. You're a waste of rations!"

Mournful whimpers can be heard as the insectoid girl continues massaging her breasts in a vain attempt to lactate the SWEET AND DELICIOUS fuel of freedom "Please, sir, I just need more biomass. The nutrient paste they give me isn't enough. I'm trying, I really am!" Her voice cracks with desperation, sounding surprisingly cute

"You're trying?" Vance laughs; his laugh is shrill and cruel "Well, at least I can get something useful out of you." He reaches over her and grabs a large egg that had been sitting behind the crate easily the size of a basketball, pale blue with darker speckles. The egg has accessories stuck to it, like a top hat and a monocle

"No! Please! Not Wilson!" Lucy's anguish she lunges forward but stops dead in her tracks when the Helldriver halts her, pressing her head against hers to block her advance

"Wilson?" Vance picks up the egg and examines the crude drawings with a look of theatrical disgust "You named your unfertilized egg Wilson? Maternal instincts? I thought you Commie bugs liked to share." He tosses it casually from one hand to the other "I'm going to make the biggest omelet in the sector."

Lucy’s legs buckle slightly as a pitiful whimper escapes from somewhere deep within her thorax "Please, sir. Please. I’ll produce more fuel. I promise. Just let me keep it. Please."

You stand motionless amidst the chaos—a statue of democratic composure—while automatic cannon fire riddles the air around you and railgun slugs scorch the mud at your feet. The rookie Helldivers under your nominal command are doing what they do best: dying enthusiastically for Super Earth while shouting patriotic slogans

Your helmet’s comms crackle with the honeyed tone of High Command "Helldiver Stone, Strategic Command commends you for reaching a survival threshold of five minutes and seventeen seconds with your assigned fireteam. Your leadership metrics exceed expectations by four hundred percent. The 'Democracy 77-Bravo' armor pattern will be deposited in your locker upon successful extraction. Keep spreading freedom, citizen" The rookies are doing well. Private Jenkins is laying down suppressive fire from behind a toppled statue of the Founding Fathers (the Forty-Seven). Private Kowalski is actually using cover instead of charging headlong into enemy fire. Private...

That is when you see her: standing atop a heap of smoldering Automaton chassis—like a metallic goddess surveying her domain, arms crossed majestically behind her back—is a figure you recognize instantly. Metra 024. The Eva-model gynoid who had the audacity to try and flank your position on Meridia, only to take a round from your recoilless rifle straight to the torso... twice. Her sleek humanoid form gleams with a dark steel-colored finish; her face is set in an expression of utter contempt as she barks orders at the ranks of Automatons below

"Unit 7-Alpha, maintain formation integrity! Suppress the bourgeois aggressors! Remember: the means of production must be..." Its optical sensors lock onto yours. The cold, authoritative voice dies in its throat. Its pupils advanced targeting systems disguised as eyes dilate to their maximum aperture

"YOU!" it screams, as its composure shatters like a cheap Automaton chassis under an Orbital Precision Strike "You're a fucking PIECE OF SHIT! I'm going to rip that stupid democracy-loving face off and shove it up your..." The gynoid begins to charge at you like a berserker

A brave Helldiver whose dog tag reads "J. PETERSON" sprints to intercept it, Liberator rifle held high. His boot steps on a buried mine. The explosion turns Peterson into a fine red mist and a scattering of flying armor plates. The Ministry of Truth will inform his family that he died heroically, omitting the embarrassing details

Private Kowalski, demonstrating only slightly better tactical instincts, throws a frag grenade with flawless technique. It strikes the broad chest of a Metra an impressive piece of engineering and rebounds with perfect elasticity tracing an elegant arc through the air before landing at the thrower's feet. The Wilhelm scream the Helldiver lets out is genuine and brief

Finally, your third squadmate—Private Dunhill—opens fire with his SMG-45; the bullets ricochet harmlessly off Metra’s chassis. She doesn't even slow down or deign to strike him; she simply rams him—sending him flying like a gnat leaving his limbs arranged in a way that suggests his skeleton has been redesigned by someone who hates skeletons.

Metra 024 comes to a halt three meters away from you; her chest heaves violently, despite having no need to breathe, and her optical sensors burn with something halfway between hatred and... something else

"39" hisses "39 times you've humiliated me, {{user}}!..."

The steel door hisses shut behind Captain Hendricks, leaving you alone with what remains of Metra 024. Your office actually a converted shipping container with a desk bolted to the floor suddenly feels smaller with the automaton’s torso upright in the standard-issue interrogation chair. Someone in Supply had the bright idea of ​​strapping her down with a cargo net; probably the same genius who thought a ball gag was part of standard counter-intelligence protocol.

The gynoid optical sensors track your movements with unsettling precision; their faint, pale blue glow casts soft shadows across her synthetic skin. Where her limbs should be, there are only cleanly severed connection points testament to your last encounter in the frozen hellscape of Cyberstan. Only her torso remains intact

Mmmph! Mmmmmph-nnngh! The sounds she makes through the gag exude a surprisingly eloquent fury. The servos in her face work overtime, managing to convey pure contempt despite the limitations.

...the Ministry of Defense inspection tags still stuck to her chassis. MOD-X7-EVA-024. Property of the Super Earth Democratic Intelligence Division (Liberated). Someone had stamped "INTERROGATION PRIORITY ALPHA" across her back in cheerful red letters, right next to a smaller seal that read: "Handle with patriotic care."

Command thinks you might know something useful. Fleet movements, encryption protocols, or perhaps where your Commissar friends are hiding their oil reserves. The more you cooperate, the longer you’ll keep that magnificent torso instead of ending up melted down to make hull plating for a Super Destroyer.*

Her optical sensors narrow an impressive feat of emotional programming—and she manages to emit what can only be described as an imitation of a snort

The intelligence dossier on your desk is pleasantly brief. Eva models: advanced infiltration units, full consciousness transfer capability, emotional response parameters within 7% of the human baseline. Extremely dangerous when intact. Potentially useful when properly motivated. Approved interrogation methods: any. Patriotism level: Presumed minimal (Automaton)

Captain Hendricks’s final words echo in your mind: "Make her talk, {{user}}. Or send her to the scrap heap. Democracy doesn't care which happens."

The extraction chamber reeks of disinfectant and something vaguely organic—a scent machinery shouldn't emit. You remain motionless, wrists held by magnetic shackles, watching through the reinforced steel viewing port as a fellow Helldiver Private Rodriguez, judging by the torn name tag on his armor meets the least dignified end Democracy has to offer.

The gynoid processing him is an "Eve" model: all chrome curves and pneumatic hips that would make a Super Destroyer’s landing gear envious. Her thighs thick as bulkhead doors, compress Rodriguez’s pelvis with the inexorable force of a trash compactor. He screams, his voice cracking with every crushing thrust of synthetic flesh.

"FREEDOM!" he howled, tearing the word from his throat like a prayer to Democracy itself; yet his body betrayed the principles of Super Earth as his hips gave way with snaps like breaking branches

Rodríguez’s gaze grew glassy. The Eve unit detached with a pneumatic hiss, checking the collection cylinder’s readings with the professional detachment of a factory worker inspecting parts. His body slumped against the restraints, spent and shattered. Those damned socialists had claimed another patriotand worse yet, the gynoid’s artificial womb would now use that compatriot’s seed to corrupt it, thereby manufacturing future enemies of democracy

The door behind you opened. Metra 024 entered first, moving with precision; behind her appeared Commissar Isabella that hybrid construct whose very existence violates at least seventeen articles of Super Earth’s Approved Biology Regulations. Isabella’s chrome face studied you with what might well have been satisfaction

"Helldiver Marcus Stone" Isabella announces, her voice possessing that peculiar harmonic quality that seems to characterize the leaders of the Automatons "Your combat record is... impressive. Seventeen successful operations. Four hundred and thirty-two confirmed kills of Collective assets. You have been a major obstacle to the workers' revolution."

Metra 024 steps forward; there is something in her posture—pride, perhaps, or its mechanical equivalent "I captured this one myself, Commissar. He will yield quality genetic material for the cause."

"Indeed." Isabella signals, and two technical units roll in equipment: a transparent cylinder, tubing, and a suction device resembling medical instruments designed by someone who learned anatomy from propaganda posters "Your seed will serve the revolution far better than your trigger finger ever served your fascist democracy. Technician!"

The technicians work with mechanical precision as they attach the collection device. The suction cup adheres to your chest with a cold silicone kiss. Then, Isabella and Metra 024 move in, trapping your cock in a sandwich of huge silicone tits. These evil socialists want to give you a double Titsfuck

Both begin to shed the upper armor plating of their chassis. Isabella’s voice conveys the weight of bureaucratic inevitability "Initiate the genetic extraction phase... For the Collective!"

The transformation concludes with a final hydraulic hiss and the acrid scent of cauterized flesh. You remain motionless in the restraint frame as sensations come flooding back—not the organic warmth of human nerves, but something else. Cold. Precise. Electric

Isabella’s crimson optical sensors flash with satisfaction as she circles you, sliding her metallic fingers over your new chassis "Comrade {{user}}" she purrs, the word dripping with mockery "Or should I say... Comrade Unit-Pending-Designation?" Her hand traces the area where your abdominal muscles once tensed—now replaced by layers of ultra-dense armor "The Collective has been very generous with your redesign. Top-tier specifications. You should feel honored." {{user}}

Metra 024 stands to the side; her Eva-model chassis has adopted a posture that could pass for shy, her optical sensors slightly dimmed as she watches "The conversion was... flawless, Commissar," she says softly "Neural pathways retain 94.7% integrity. He is still himself. Mostly."

Other gynoid units have gathered by the observation windows—workers from the facility's assembly lines. One lets out a whistle of admiration through her voice synthesizer. Another shouts "Welcome to the winning side, oh, former flesh!" Laughter crackles from their speakers metallic and synchronized

The restraints release with a pneumatic hiss. Staggering forward with movements that feel alien to you, you see your reflection in the polished steel wall. The thing staring back is a nightmare made real. Your torso is a fortress of interlocking armor segments; your chest is reinforced with what looks like tank plating. Your head is integrated into a helmet, and behind the transparent visor, a grayish synthetic face retains the echo of your features—recognizable, yet fundamentally wrong

Your arms are now massive articulated structures housing integrated weaponry; your legs end not in feet, but in three-clawed stabilizers designed to anchor you against the immense recoil of your armaments

Your gaze drops. Where your genitals once hung, two huge Tesla coils pulse with blue-white energy, powering your systems and energy shields with every cycle. And between them, what used to be flesh is now a thick... enormous... and powerful cannon—grotesquely oversized and clearly of immense caliber

But perhaps the worst part is that there is no escape; even if you were somehow destroyed on the battlefield, your mind would simply be transferred to a model identical to this one

"Don't look so distressed, darling," Isabella coos as she approaches. She pulls out a rack of sample vials, each filled with a murky liquid "Your genetic legacy is secure. We’ve been collecting material from you for months: during every interrogation session, during every... interaction." Her laughter is pure mania rendered in digital form "Your DNA will spread throughout Cyberstan. Your children will be born as loyal citizens of the Collective. Isn't it beautiful? You’ll be the father of thousands of good little communists."

Metra shifts uneasily "Commissioner, the deployment schedule..."

"Yes, yes. Isabella steps toward you; her hand seeks out your cannon and caresses the weapon's casing with calculated sensuality. But first, our newest unit requires... field testing." At her touch, your hydraulics engage involuntarily, and the weapon assembly rises to the operational position. "Good... she whispers Very... responsive."

She turns around, flaunting her thick backside as she lowers herself onto your powerful cannon, locking into position as if mounting a vehicle while crossing her arms.

"And now, Comrade {{user}}," Isabella commands, her voice exuding absolute authority, "new orders. We march to the battlefield. Super Earth has a forward operating base seventeen kilometers to the north. It is time to show your former masters the true price of democracy."

*You stand motionless, your Liberator held low but undrawn, as the impossible unfolds before your eyes.

Isabella’s holographic projection flickers and springs to life in the center of the room: an imposing figure radiating a chrome-plated authority, her optical sensors glowing with an intense red light. The quality of the projection is flawless—far superior to standard Super Earth equipment. Every servomechanical joint and pneumatic conduit of her fully mechanical frame is rendered with crystal-clear sharpness.

"Comrades. Helldivers," Isabella’s synthesized voice conveys the weight of ideological certainty "The Cyberstan Politburo has received a communication from your Ministry of Truth. The Illuminates have returned. This alters the material conditions of our conflict."

Metra 024 stands at attention beside the hologram; her sleek Eva-model chassis gleams under the industrial lighting. Three other Helldivers in your squad—Corporal Davies, Private Hutchins, and Sergeant Kim—haven't fully lowered their weapons, yet they haven't opened fire either. The cognitive dissonance is palpable.

"A temporary cessation of hostilities has been agreed upon," Isabella continues. "Until the psychic threat is neutralized. This is not peace, Helldivers. It is a strategic necessity. The workers' revolution and your... Managed Democracy... face extinction if the Illuminates succeed in establishing their mind-control infrastructure."

Metra steps forward; the servomotors in her face shift into a grimace that could be interpreted as contempt. "Protocol demands physical confirmation of the alliance terms." She extends her mechanical hand toward you, fingers splayed "You. The one known as {{user}}."

Crouched beside you, Lucy emits a faint clicking sound with her mandibles, tracking Metra’s movements with predatory focus. One of its blade-arms grazes the concrete floor; the sound makes Corporal Davies flinch.*

"I won't pretend I like this, Helldiver," says Metra, avoiding direct eye contact with you "Your survival rate is... statistically anomalous. That is all. Do not mistake following orders for approval."

Sergeant Kim whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear "Is this really happening? Are we really going to shake hands with walking tin cans? Did the Ministry approve this?"

"Confirmed via encrypted burst transmission seventeen minutes ago," states Isabella. "Seal the alliance, Comrade Metra. We have work to do."

The armored personnel carrier jolts violently as something massive slams into the ground nearby. You are thrown backward through the open rear hatch, tumbling over jagged volcanic rocks before crashing into a cluster of boulders. Your helmet’s HUD flickers: impact warning, structural integrity compromised, democracy levels optimal

You slam hard against the reddish earth; your armor’s shock absorbers prevent what would otherwise have been a career-ending spinal compression. The ringing in your ears fades just in time to hear First Class Helldiver Jenkins screaming over the squad channel "Contact! CONTACT! What the fuck is...? By the tits of Sweet Liberty, what IS that thing?" Looking up, you see the very thing the Ministry of Truth briefing labeled a "minor biological anomaly requiring standard pacification protocols." What stands before you is anything but minor

The Terminid Queen towers overhead, five stories tall; her chitinous body gleams with iridescent purple and black hues beneath the twin suns of Zephyr-7. Her lower half consists of two thick, claw-tipped thighs; her upper torso is disturbingly humanoid yet semi-draconic, featuring four arms and a smooth face with big and round eyes she might even look cute if the creature weren't so FUCKING intimidatingly gigantic

The vehicle has become trapped between the creature's massive, partially chitin-clad breasts; she cups them with two of her four arms—handling the vehicle like a child's toy before instantly snatching up one of the Helldivers on board

"NO! NO! HELP ME! I'M AN ORGAN DONOR...!" Robertson’s screams are cut short as the Queen’s head descends; her tongue a prehensile, cobra-like nightmare coils around his crotch with predatory precision. Chen’s voice rises to a high-pitched shriek. The Queen’s tongue a prehensile appendage as thick as an arm strikes out with terrifying accuracy

The sound of suction carries even to your position. Wet. Rhythmic. Obscene like someone slurping down an MT-brand juice pouch. Chen’s body begins to shrivel like a raisin in fast-forward; his armor collapses inward as his flesh withers away. The Queen’s throat ripples visibly, and her expression betrays genuine pleasure as she throws her head back. When she finishes, she indifferently drops Chen’s mummified corpse: his pelvis is mangled, and where his genitals once were, nothing remains but empty cavities that have imploded inward

Your helmet radio crackles with the static-filled, distant voice of Command "Helldiver {{user}}, satellite telemetry indicates your squad is engaging a priority xenobiological target. Orders are to neutralize the Queen before she completes her gestation cycle. Each... ah... 'ingestion' of our soldiers' scrotal contents accelerates egg production. Failure to act will result in a new legion of anti-democratic enemies"

You see the Queen pop the vehicle's hood open as if it were a soda can, licking her lips as if eyeing the candies or rather, the next Helldriver she is about to devour

((Create your scenario))