Hive in the Underhive

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.

Under the cover of suppressive fire, the Orlocks moved, advancing over ancient walkways, each step rattling metal seams long since forgotten. Sparks flew from ricocheting rounds as muzzle flashes carved momentary light into the gloom.

They reached a Power Cone just as motion flared at the far end of the catwalk. A young juve lunged forward, snatching the artefact with trembling hands.

Then the shadows moved. Silhouettes. Claws. Glimmering eyes.

The gang leader gave the order they were all waiting for. The Orlocks obeyed, falling back, covering one another as they went.

The Missionary did not follow.

Rearguard fire echoed behind them — Theodore perched atop a broken railing, autogun blasting, voice bellowing prayers into the dark.

His chanting was soon drowned out by the roar of a chainsword as he leapt from the gantry, charging into combat with fanatical rage.

The crew moved through the wreckage of Sub-Level 32, their footsteps echoing through a forgotten world of rusted gantries, collapsed hab-tunnels, and flickering lumen-strips. The air was thick with the stench of decay and ozone. Strange fungal blooms pulsed faintly on walls where once there had been steel.

They had been searching for Power Cones — unstable archeotech artefacts discovered deep in this zone. The Cones were a vital part of the plan. Potentially devastating explosives, they represented the only heavy firepower available to the Marines in this subterranean warzone.

Then, the Auspex detected motion ahead. At first, they assumed it was vermin… or perhaps an Escher ganger scouting ahead.

From the blackness, they came.

Six-limbed horrors — chitinous, silent, and impossibly fast. Their forms blurred through the gloom, leaping from the walls and ceilings like arachnid predators. They struck with relentless violence.

The Deathwatch took point, bolters thundered as they pushed forward without hesitation. The others scrambled for cover, returning fire as best they could.

OPERATION: DEEP CLEANSE

Authorized by: Watch Captain Malrek

Ordo Xenos Liaison: Inquisitor Kovas

Primary Objectives:

• Deploy to affected Underhive sector, Sub-Level 32
• Retrieve and secure volatile Power Cones (archeotech cores)
• Engage and eliminate all xenoforms encountered
• Contain all evidence of xeno presence

Final Directive:

“Prevent dissemination of knowledge regarding xeno presence beyond authorized personnel. All non-Astartes assets are to be considered compromised and may be subject to immediate termination upon mission completion. Imperial secrecy is to be maintained at all costs.”

 — Inquisitorial Addendum 41-9B, sealed under edict of the Ordo Xenos

The Deathwatch Marines descended into the Underhive, summoned by dire reports of xeno activity. Their destination: Sub-Level 32 — Newly cracked open by a hive quake.

A long forgotten stratum, now a fresh battleground. House gangs, ever hungry for territory and spoils, had begun to probe its depths. But something stirred down there.

They met Theodore — a grizzled Missionary of the Ecclesiarchy, his sermons echoing through forgotten vox-channels. Many dismissed his messages as the ravings of a hive-priest broken by his travels. But the Inquisition heard the truth beneath the madness.

What the Marines found was not delusion, but resolve. The Missionary had not only identified the threat — he had acted. Rallying a disparate force from the Hive’s dregs, he forged an unexpected alliance:

House Orlock, pragmatic and heavily armed, saw profit and honour in the mission.

House Escher, lethal and ambitious, sought trade goods and alchemical salvage.

Spyre Hunters, aristocratic predators from the Hive’s upper spires, descended in ritual hunt, craving glory and the thrill of blood.

This was no army. It was a crew — a fragile coalition of zealots, mercenaries, gangers, and noble killers. Not ideal but a necessary escort for the Deathwatch to traverse the chaos of the Underhive