Hive in the Underhive

Originally painted in 1995 to fight it out in the Underhive.

I roughly tried to copy the box art.

Then repainted around 2001 when they were drafted into my Catachan Jungle fighter army.

I roughly copied my army’s colour scheme.

Now repainted in 2025 to return to Necromunda.

I roughly aimed for somewhere in-between the two previous colour schemes.

MISSION STATUS: ESCALATED

Deathwatch Kill-Team: Status — Unconfirmed / Presumed Lost.

Xeno Threat Classification: Severe — Hive-spawned bioforms exhibiting rapid adaptation and coordinated swarm behavior.

Sector Condition: Sub-Level 32 collapsed following detonation of recovered archeotech. Containment integrity unverified. Risk of resurgence: HIGH

RESPONSE INITIATED

Inquisitor Thauron Lex, Ordo Xenos, has been dispatched to assume operational oversight and execute in-situ threat assessment.

The Imperial Navy vessel Light of Judgement, currently under emergency diversion from prior engagement duties, is en route. Vessel is Exterminatus-capable and operating under sealed Inquisitorial directive.

Sergeant Hex led the final charge.

He and his remaining brothers advanced, relentless and resolute. The Queen loomed ahead — a grotesque titan of pulsing flesh and razor-edged limbs.

There would be no retreat. No safe distance. Not for the Deathwatch.

The Spyre Hunters followed, elegant yet faltering. The swarm pressed harder. One by one, the nobles fell — torn apart or dragged into the dark. Only an Orrus remained, bellowing with rage, his power fists smashing xenos like insects. Too wounded to keep pace, he stood his ground alone.

A Deathwatch Marine reached the Queen — only to be impaled by a scything talon the size of a man. She lifted him like a trophy, then flung the shattered corpse aside.

It was enough.

Hex surged forward, his power sword a blur. He struck with fury — carving through sinew and talon, hacking at swollen glands and twitching flesh.

Then she struck back.

A claw slammed down, pinning Hex to the floor. His armour cracked. Blood pooled. But he smiled through the pain.

His work was done.

From behind, the last surviving Deathwatch Marine raised a Power Cone — primed and humming with unstable energy. He hurled it.

The Cone sailed through smoke and shrieking air — and struck true.

It embedded at the base of the Queen’s neural stalk, its ancient mechanisms activating in a surge of destructive power.

The Queen convulsed — flailing, her massive body thrashing through the chamber like a storm. The crew braced themselves… but there was nowhere to run.

A single heartbeat.

A flash of impossible light.

Silence.

Guided by Theodore’s ravings, they descended into the Queen’s nest.

The plan was simple: find it, kill it.

The Orlock and Escher gangs advanced, sweeping forward along ledges and rusted catwalks, laying down disciplined suppressive fire. They had learned. They stayed at range. No more blades against claws. No more heroics. Just controlled aggression.

Xenoforms surged forward, countless in number. The Queen birthing new horrors. And worse… projectiles. Living ammunition launched from bio-organic cannons: biting, acidic, entangling.

Those struck didn’t die cleanly. They melted. Or were eaten from the inside out. Slow, agonizing deaths.

The enormous beast at the center discharged arcs of green electricity from a neural stalk — a symbiotic organ pulsing with malevolent energy.

Still the gangs held.

Two Heavy Stubbers — one manned by an Escher, the other by a grizzled Orlock — laid down sustained fire. Most of the rounds bounced off the Queen’s carapace, but the few that punched through tore at her exposed underbelly.

As her abdomen ruptured, the stream of fresh spawn slowed — replaced by bubbling ichor and wet shrieks.

They had carved a path, allowing the Deathwatch and Spyre Hunters to move in and deploy the Power Cones.

Now was the time.

Legends were born in the dark that day — of a Missionary who stood alone, a Spyre who outran death, a Sister who never backed down, and beasts that feasted on the Emperor’s warriors.

Stories. Whispers of heresy. Forbidden knowledge spreading through the Hive like rot.

The Adeptus Astartes deemed the engagement a success. Three Power Cones recovered. Mission parameters met.

The remnants of the Crew disagreed — but none dared question the judgement of the Deathwatch.

Only Sergeant Vortan Hex and two of his brothers remained. The Crew was broken, ready to scatter and return to their territories.

But that was clearly not an option, it had never been an option.

From the blackness, it came.

A ragged figure — hunched, limping, wrapped in filth. At first, they thought it was a Scavvie from the Outlands.

But when the light found his face… they saw Theodore. The Missionary.

Gravely wounded. Bearing grave news.

There was something down there. Something monstrous, wicked and unclean. Something that must be destroyed.

A confirmation of what the Astartes had already suspected.

The Power Cones were primed. Wounds bound. Weapons reloaded.

There was no turning back now.

At the centre of the chaos, the Deathwatch held firm.

They had seized the main platform with cold, surgical precision. Power swords crackled, bolters boomed. The Marines moved like veterans of a thousand wars — unshaken, unstoppable.

The Sergeant secured a Power Cone into a reinforced case while his brothers stood watch. A xeno lunged from the shadows — and was reduced to pulp by a single bolt round.

Extraction was called.

But as they prepared to withdraw, larger beasts emerged. Hulking xenoforms, faster and stronger than expected, fell upon the squad. Even ceramite could not stop their claws.

To the horror of the retreating gangs, the remaining Astartes were torn apart.

Although some objectives were met.

Victory was in the talons of the enemy.

The Escher gang had aggressively taken the right flank — but they had underestimated the scale of the swarm.

The enemy came in waves, claws raking through flesh and armour. The corridors and gangways echoed with the screams of the wounded as they fought hand-to-hand, blade to claw.

One by one, the gangers fell. Amid the carnage, a lone fighter stood defiant over her dying sisters, club in hand. She bought precious seconds — but it wasn’t enough.

Their Hired Gun, armed to the teeth and seasoned by war, decided they weren’t getting paid enough to die here. At the first opening, they vanished into the tunnels.

It quickly became clear — the flank had collapsed. Few escaped. Fewer lived.

The Spyre Hunters struck with grace and cruelty, carving through the swarm as if it were a game. For a moment, they were unstoppable — elegant killers in total control.

Then the xenos adapted.

Suddenly, one Spyre was snatched, vanishing into the dark without a sound. The swarm surged. The fight turned. It became clear who the real predators were.

A Malcadon grabbed a Power Cone but was swiftly brought down, wounded. An Orrus barreled forward, smashing through with power-fisted fury, trying to reach them.

He failed.

Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the Spyres fell back, leaving their injured kin behind.

But the Malcadon wasn’t done.

With the swarm distracted in pursuit of their allies, they rose. Clutching the Cone, they staggered into the shadows — battered, bleeding… but not dead.