Battle Report: Vault of Lies and Betrayal

The rumours spoke of another vault—this one hidden beneath a graveyard of forgotten industry, surrounded by rusting walkways, abandoned machinery, and derelict pipelines. But something was wrong. The place bore strange symbols, layers of cultist iconography unfamiliar even to the Helot Chaos Cultists. The figures drawn on the walls had claws and too many arms. Deep, jagged claw marks scarred the metal, as though something had tried to carve its way out.

Barry Hood and his Barry Men had come to crack this vault and claim its secrets. Opposing them, Billy's Scrappers, a band of hardened Ironhead Prospectors, had the same goal. Despite their clashing allegiances, the two gangs worked together—warily.

The early moments were quiet, save for a single crate cracked open by one of the Ironhead Squats' servo-rigs. Their reward was a few measly credits.

Then came the first real strikes against the vault door. One of Billy's Scrappers, a freshly recruited Hive Scummer wielding twin chainswords, revved his blades and carved deep furrows into the reinforced metal. Inspired, Angry Barry, a zealot of the Chaos Cult, followed up with whirling glaives, widening the wounds in the steel.

Then an unusual sight. Lil Barry, one of the cultists, arrived on the field alongside Brains, a Prospector. They were chatting, laughing—side by side, as though old friends.

The vault door was nearly open. One of Billy's Scrapper Hive Scum took one final, brutal cut, and the locking bolts snapped free. The massive door swung open with a deafening boom and a sound echoed from the darkness—not the groan of shifting metal, but an alien, inhuman screech. From the shadows, Genestealers and their Brood Scum surged forward, their ambush sprung.

One of the hybrid Brood Scum, clutching a battered lasgun, charged wildly, swinging the weapon at the chainsword-wielding Prospector. He missed. A moment later, his face was split open by a roaring blade.

Elsewhere, Lil Barry moved with eerie precision. He tripped a Brood Scum with his flail, then blew open its gut with a shotgun blast. The abomination collapsed but still crawled forward, twitching unnaturally.

Angry Barry’s hand flamer engulfed a Genestealer, setting it alight as it screeched and flailed. It didn’t last long—Dirty Barry, perched with his Heavy Bolter, obliterated it in a hail of fire.

Nearby, Hot Barry let loose a jet of flame at an Ironhead Prospector, the fire rolling over the unfortunate ganger’s armour. As the Prospector crumpled, the Cultist pressed the hot barrel of his flamer against his own flesh, searing another mark into his skin—a permanent testament to the kill. Smoke rose from his burned flesh, the scent mingling with the charred remains of his victim.

A Brood Scum hidden behind a rusted shipping container levelled a shotgun at the one called "Free Next Match," an Ironhead Hive Scummer. The shot hit home. He crumpled to the ground, bleeding out on the rusted floor.

The battle should have ended there. The Brood Scum fell one by one, their feeble weapons no match for the combined firepower of the Chaos Cultists and Prospectors. The last Genestealer, heavily injured, slunk back into the machinery, leaking vital fluids.

Then the signal rang out.

Without hesitation, Demagogue Barry turned on the nearest Prospector, slamming into him from behind. The pact was over. Lil Barry, who had entered the battlefield laughing beside Brains, now turned his flail around and brought it down on his so-called friend. Brains hit the ground hard, his neck stomped into the dirt.

Chaos erupted.

Billy, the Charter Master of the Scrappers, was crossing a makeshift bridge when the treachery struck. He narrowly dodged a Heavy Bolter volley meant to blow him to pieces. A Hive Scummer wielding twin chainswords charged Spooky Barry—and missed completely. Spooky Barry barely reacted, turning around with a smirk and punching the man in the face, sending him reeling.

Two Ironhead Prospectors, pinned down under fire, threw a smoke grenade, masking their movements. But there was no mistaking the target of the Barry Men’s wrath: Charter Master Billy. The Heavy Bolter roared again. This time, the shot struck home. Billy staggered and fell from the bridge, his body limp.

A Juve tried to get to him, desperate to save his leader, but was blindsided, knocked from the ledge, and slammed into the ground. He barely had time to groan before Barry himself dropped onto him and finished the job.

Then, in the middle of the carnage, the final Genestealer struck. It charged from its hiding place, throwing itself at the nearest Chaos Cultists. Despite their infighting, they turned their guns as one and unleashed hell. Heavy bolter rounds, flamer bursts, even stub gun shots peppered the beast. Finally, it collapsed in a ruined heap.

The last Brood Scum tried to crawl away. Angry Barry ended it with a final sweep of his chain glaive.

With the battlefield littered with corpses, the surviving Ironhead Prospectors called out.

"Truce!"

The Barry Men could take the lion’s share of the credits, but the Scrappers wanted any Archeo-loot they might find. The Prospectors were dug in tight, their autoguns trained on the cultists. After a long, tense moment, the Barry Men begrudgingly accepted.

And then, the final insult: the vault was empty.

Rusting machinery, so decayed it crumbled in their hands, was all that remained. The Chaos Cultists seethed—until, beneath a tangle of rusted pipes, they uncovered something else.

A Camo-Weave Mantle—a relic of refractive, light-bending scales that rendered its wearer nearly invisible when motionless. A prize worthy of the carnage.

Barry Hood, ever the schemer, knew he couldn’t let the Ironheads suspect. He gestured for one of his men to grab a nearby crate, dusting it off theatrically.

"Fine. You get your loot," he announced.

Billy’s remaining Scrappers took the box and cracked it open, expecting some forgotten relic.

It was empty.

The laughter of the Barry Men echoed through the underhive as the battered survivors gathered their wounded and returned to their strongholds.

As the dust settled, word of the raid spread; the vault was empty, the loot was paltry, the blood spilled was excessive. But the whispers that followed carried a different message—this wasn’t the Vault. There was another, a true prize, still hidden, still waiting.

The Escher gang known as the Bitches of Battle listened intently. They weren’t scavengers, they were hunters. If there was a real vault, they’d find it first, and they’d take it for themselves.

They weren’t the only ones. The Entourage, a band of Venator bounty hunters, had been tracking this story since the first false vault was cracked open. To them, this wasn’t about loot—it was about reputation and loot. If there was something worth fighting for, worth killing for, then they would be the ones to claim it.

For now, the Barry Men and Billy’s Scrappers licked their wounds, their uneasy truce held in place by exhaustion and empty pockets. But the cycle of violence never truly ends in the underhive.

And as the next contenders gathered their strength, one thing was certain—

The true Vault had yet to be opened.