As you slide down a rusted ventilation shaft, the screech of metal on metal alerts the guards. You don't hide. You activate your , soaring across the chasm while raining down lead from your customized autogun. Mid-air, you see him—the Goliath.
In the Underhive, you don't fight for glory. You fight to buy enough ammo to survive tomorrow.
He bellows a challenge, but Rust is already a blur of chrome and teeth, lunging for his throat. You land, sliding through the grime, and level your shotgun.
The neon-drenched depths of never sleep, but they do bleed. You are a bounty hunter in Necromunda , where the air is thick with chemical smog and the only thing cheaper than a life is the spent casing of a bolter shell.
Your latest mark is a deserter hiding in the "Sump-City" refineries. He’s massive, grafted with illegal stim-pumps, and carries a heavy stubber that could level a hab-block. But you have something he doesn’t: a cyber-mastiff named Rust , whose steel jaws can snap a ceramite plate.
"Nothing personal," you grunt as the muzzle flashes. "Just credits."
As you slide down a rusted ventilation shaft, the screech of metal on metal alerts the guards. You don't hide. You activate your , soaring across the chasm while raining down lead from your customized autogun. Mid-air, you see him—the Goliath.
In the Underhive, you don't fight for glory. You fight to buy enough ammo to survive tomorrow.
He bellows a challenge, but Rust is already a blur of chrome and teeth, lunging for his throat. You land, sliding through the grime, and level your shotgun.
The neon-drenched depths of never sleep, but they do bleed. You are a bounty hunter in Necromunda , where the air is thick with chemical smog and the only thing cheaper than a life is the spent casing of a bolter shell.
Your latest mark is a deserter hiding in the "Sump-City" refineries. He’s massive, grafted with illegal stim-pumps, and carries a heavy stubber that could level a hab-block. But you have something he doesn’t: a cyber-mastiff named Rust , whose steel jaws can snap a ceramite plate.
"Nothing personal," you grunt as the muzzle flashes. "Just credits."