Attention, Helldivers: Read Before Dropping

Transmission From HellDiversity Command

Welcome, Helldiver.
You have not stumbled into a normal shop; you have dropped into an outpost welded to the side of Super-Earth’s propaganda cannon.

Here we don’t “sell merch.”
We mint limited-run relics of Liberty: keychains, sigils, banners and tokens that could pass for medals in a war the Ministry prefers to script rather than survive.
Each batch is a drop. Once it extracts, it’s gone.
No quiet reruns, no sneaky restocks, no cloning vats on some forgotten moon. Finite runs. Infinite noise.

Read these listings as mission briefs, not product pages.

Between the lines you’ll find:

• House rules of this outpost.
• Field traditions whispered from Diver to Diver.
• Occasional classified hints about unlisted boons that may be tucked into future pods.

• When one of our relics reaches you, treat it as war gear, not a souvenir.
• Clip it to your keys like a medal earned under bug-blood skies.
• Pin it to your wall like a flag that remembers each friendly-fire incident you pretend never happened.

If you send back an honest review — words, wit, and a battle photo — Command logs your service in the archives.
Veterans of sincerity are sometimes greeted later with unannounced extras in their drops:

• never promised, never owed.
• Liberty rewards freely, not by force.

HellDiversity is still being forged:

part foundry, part chapel, part comedy club at the end of the galaxy. You are not “a customer.” You are a co-conspirator in the loudest, dumbest, bravest idea Super-Earth ever had:

• send ordinary people into impossible battles…
• and watch them become legends anyway.

For those who know the war, and those who will learn it on arrival:
this is your broadcast.

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Propaganda Verse for All Who Dive
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Muzzles flash white over seas made of chittering teeth and chitinous hide,
Our pods hit dirt like thrown insults from orbit we stubbornly wear with pride.
Rockets misfire, a nuke goes short, and we laugh while we’re vaporized side-by-side,
Falling to “friendly” fire again, yet bragging about how gloriously we died.

Endless the waves of bugs and bots that chew on our courage and steel,
Dumber than doctrine, we call another drop, because hurt is the proof that it’s real.
Under the sermons of Super-Earth screens that tell us what to think and feel,
Metal on our chests, not just on our guns, is the quiet promotion we steal.

Banners of skulls and eagles glare down, demanding devotion on cue,
But we have seen capes catch fire, limbs respawn, and still we shout “For you!”
We know the script is rigged and bent, the numbers cooked, the credits few,
Yet every time the siren sounds, we queue up grinning — we always do.

Keychains clink like medals of shame and honor, both welded into one,
Dog tags rattle a rhythm of names who fell before the mission was “won.”
Posters at home show perfect drops in the glow of a righteous sun,
While we remember mud, misthrows, and screaming “REQUESTING NEW GUN!”

Helldiversity rises where satire and faith march shoulder-to-shoulder in line,
We mock the speeches, roast the brass, yet still polish our armor to shine.
We know that the “managed” in democracy hides more dirt than any mine,
But under the joke, our battered hearts still beat to a stubborn, loyal design.

When you clip our relics to your belt, you’re not just wearing something cool,
You’re pinning on proof that you were there when chaos rewrote every rule.
You stood in the crater, out of ammo, laughing like an absolute fool,
And dove again into that hell — not for sense, nor pay — but because it’s our rule.

So let the new ones scroll this page and feel an ache they can’t explain,
A mix of pride and hollow laughter, joy braided tightly with pain.
Let veterans taste the ash and cordite as the memories fall like rain,
And let each tear drop steady in time with this ridiculous, righteous refrain:

We are the capes cut short so they won’t snag when we charge the line,
We are the boots that learned to dance on mines and still call it “fine.”
We are the fools who shout “For Liberty!” while wading through corporate design,
And we are the ones who make it true — because we keep diving, time after time.

If these words sting and soothe at once, then you already know your worth:
You are a Helldiver — forged in fire, stitched with humor, bound to this cursed, beloved Earth.
Take up a relic, soldier. Remember the war, the lies, the laughter, the endless rebirth.
While any of us still drops from orbit, there is hope for this ridiculous, precious world’s girth.

For Liberty. For satire. For scars that shine.
For every Helldiver who died on a punchline and still pressed “READY” next time.
Welcome to HellDiversity, Diver —
where your tears and your pride both count as a sign.