With a hoarse, grinding shudder, like an old man's violent cough, a heavily armored Leman Russ Battle Tank finally rolled to a halt.
The engine's roar dropped to a low thrum, eventually subsiding into nothing more than the hiss of steam escaping the cooling vents.
The players clinging to the tank quickly and expertly dismounted. An Astartes Tech-Marine in Power Armor, his pauldron marked with the cog-and-skull of the Mechanicus, immediately moved forward alongside an attached Tech-Priest to begin diagnostics.
They brandished their strange tools, and the sparks of plasma welding and sacred oils flashed in the dim light. Clearly, this wasn't their first rodeo; everyone was working like a well-oiled machine.
The tank crew threw open the hatch, a grease-stained face popping out. "What's the verdict? Can she still move?" he asked, anxiously.
The player responsible for the main diagnostic, whose right arm had been replaced by a cable-wrapped mechanical prosthesis, slowly shook his head, his voice strained through a modified vox-grille.
"The situation is grim. The main engine shaft is severely worn, and the drive system has been running on borrowed time. Even if we fix it now, I reckon we'll only get another few dozen kilometers before it completely kicks the bucket."
He paused, looking around at the dense, alien environment. "I think it's time to hit the brakes. Our non-stop push has taken us a thousand kilometers deep into Tyranid territory. Eighty percent of our armor is either destroyed or has given up the ghost from the sheer intensity of the assault.
I say we need to pull back, establish a defensive line, conduct proper maintenance, and resupply our ammo and fuel before we even think about moving forward again."
"We can still stick it out!" the tanker insisted, wiping sweat and oil from his faceplate. "I'm ready to fight! I'm raring to go!"
"We're with him," said an Astartes warrior standing nearby, gripping his bolter. His armor was scarred from countless battles. "We can still handle combat missions, and I flat-out refuse to retreat.
I won't give up the ground we've taken, and I certainly won't give these despicable Xenos a moment to catch their breath. I imagine my brothers share that sentiment."
He glanced around, receiving several firm nods from the surrounding Astartes.
"Your resolve is holding up, but your gear isn't!" the Tech-Priest player countered emphatically. "Pushing our luck any further will cause our vehicles and weapons to permanently break down on the battlefield, leaving us with a pile of scrap.
Our strategic reserves are running on empty, and we're in completely uncharted territory. Rushing headlong will only leave us isolated and vulnerable. Simply put, I strongly recommend we halt the advance now, consolidate our gains, fortify this position, and draft a new plan."
"Alright, that's enough back and forth," a commander in the uniform of the Helldivers stepped forward. "This isn't something the few of us can hash out here. The clock's ticking.
I'm calling a meeting of the executive committee right now. We'll submit the results to High Command. Until then, hold your positions and reinforce this temporary perimeter."
An emergency meeting was quickly called in the makeshift command post. Astartes commanders, the human officers of the Helldivers, and the Tech-Priests gathered around a simple table dominated by a holographic map, each taking turns to state their case.
The most vocal opponents to continuing the advance were, unsurprisingly, the Tech-Priests.
They argued that equipment attrition had reached a point of no return. One Tech-Priest warned, "The flesh is weak, but even steel is not eternal. Our sacred relics—the Leman Russ main battle tanks, the Chimera transports, and the lasguns and autocannons in our soldiers' hands—have all borne immense stress during this endless assault.
Ammunition reserves are at a critical stage, fuel consumption is enormous, and crucially, we've lost the ability to repair these holy machines. To press on would be to needlessly surrender these precious artifacts to the Xenos for defilement."
The Astartes, while expressing deep hatred for the Xenos and distaste for any form of retreat, were generally on the same page as the Tech-Priests.
A Space Marine Captain stated solemnly, "The Xenos must be purged; this is our duty. However, a force lacking resupply and heavy weapon support, no matter how iron-willed, cannot sustain an effective front.
We must face reality: a tactical pause to regroup is necessary to ensure we can deliver a far more effective knockout blow to the enemy." Only a handful of Astartes felt they could still push forward, but their voices were largely drowned out.
The surprise came from the most aggressive faction: the human executive committee members of the Helldivers. Eighty percent of them demanded that the attack continue, insisting on finding the Tyranids and fighting without stopping for even a heartbeat.
If this were purely a Helldivers-only operation, the decision would have been simple: full steam ahead.
They could rely on their system's store for gear, trade death for resurrection, and fill every rational blank space with raw fanaticism.
However, the force included Astartes and regular Tech-Priests who couldn't simply pull supplies out of thin air like the players. For them, every bolter round, every drop of sacred oil, and every fallen brother represented a tangible, irreparable loss.
Nevertheless, this macroscopic strategic decision ultimately rested with the High Command, who would decide whether this was a brief tactical halt, or a prolonged period of rest and reorganization.
Reports poured into the High Command post like a floodgate opening. Though the information came from different units, the general consensus was clear:
Tech-Priests, both NPC and player, vigorously opposed to continuing the assault. Their reports were saturated with data on severe wear, major failure rates, and critical supply shortages, stressing that any further move would be a suicide run.
Ultramarines and Successor Chapters: While their hatred for the Xenos burned bright, their strategic discipline led them to favor digging in.
They acknowledged the tremendous success of the current operation but understood that with a stretched supply line and heavy gear attrition, continuing the advance would leave the troops isolated, potentially snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. They advocated for consolidating the current line and awaiting reinforcements.
The Helldivers: They remained fanatically insistent on doubling down and pushing forward.
After a fierce debate and careful deliberation in the High Command war room, the final decision was handed down:
Halt the advance. Construct a defensive perimeter immediately to repel any potential Tyranid counter-attack.
The gains from this lightning assault had been massive, effectively slicing a huge chunk out of the Tyranid advance and opening a channel deep into enemy territory. The Astartes' superhuman efforts had been instrumental in this success.
Continuing the push would lead to a large-scale reduction in armor, likely making the Space Marines the Tyranids' primary target. Once those unyielding Astartes lost the cover of their heavy armor, their casualties would inevitably skyrocket.
Space Marines are not like Leman Russ tanks that can be mass-produced; every Astartes is a priceless commodity, forged through years of brutal training and genetic engineering.
They are also not like the Helldivers, who can cheat death and return to the battlefield endlessly. Every Space Marine casualty represents a tremendous loss.
After weighing the massive risks of continued advancement against the necessity of protecting these invaluable warriors, the High Command ultimately chose the more conservative strategy.