Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Old Smokey

 

“Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em”

A tale from the Kravox Slum Offensive

No one really knows how Old Smokey came to be part of the 13th Necromunda. Some say it was fished out of a sump canal beneath Hive Primus, others whisper it just rolled up one day during a firestorm with its engine growling and its crew demanding hot food and a case of lho-sticks.

By the time of the Kravox Slum Offensive, Smokey was a legend—held together by spit, prayer, and a deep-seated hatred of stillness.

The 13th were bogged down in a decaying manufactorum district, facing off against a splinter group of traitor Guard dug into a series of collapsed transit platforms and fortified upper levels. Attempts to punch through had failed three times.

Then, over vox, came the grating, soot-caked voice of Smokey’s commander:

“Give us five minutes. And a clear lane.”

The line cut.

The ruins began to tremble.

Out of a collapsed alley thundered Old Smokey, belching thick clouds of black exhaust like a caffeinated hive-dragon. It didn’t creep or crawl—it charged, treads grinding over rubble, skulls, and a downed streetlamp like they weren’t even there.

First came the lascannon, mounted low and proud on the tank’s soot-streaked front. A piercing red beam lanced out, punching clean through an enemy heavy stubber nest, turning a would-be hero into glowing ash and slag.

Then the main cannon roared—a shot so loud it cracked windows in the buildings behind the 13th’s lines. The shell exploded inside a reinforced bunker, turning three traitor's into charred mist.

The sponson-mounted heavy bolters spun up like hive-fans in overdrive. Brass casings poured onto the street as they tore into gunlines along the upper balconies, carving fire lanes that allowed the 13th’s infantry to surge forward behind the mobile wrecking ball.

The enemy tried to return fire—but the traitor Guard had made a fatal mistake. They were used to newer tanks, newer crews. Old Smokey was old-school. And like many veterans, he didn’t go down easy.

Even after taking a direct missile hit to its left track (which it shrugged off with a shudder and a blast of smoke), Smokey kept rolling. By the time it reached the enemy’s command point, the lascannon was still spitting death, the bolters glowing red, and the cannon barrel looked more like a branding iron than a weapon.

The traitor commander made a break for it—ran through an archway, hoping to escape down a stairwell.

He didn’t make it.

The last shot fired by Smokey that day didn’t come from the cannon, or the bolters. It came from the commander’s laspistol, fired from the cupola hatch, right into the back of the traitor’s skull.

“Told you,” the crewman muttered, “Five minutes. Give or take.”

Aftermath

                                

With the enemy in disarray, the 13th swept in and secured the slums. The Kravox Offensive turned in their favor that day—and the name “Smokey” was spray-painted in bright white on a dozen walls by grateful troopers.

One green-haired Goliath from Squad 3 was overheard saying:

“Emperor help me, I think that tank was smiling.”

The commander of the 13th, watching from a command post, simply said:

“There goes Smokey. Ugly as hell. But I’d take a dozen of him over a regiment of parade tanks.”

Postscript:

The only casualty on Smokey’s crew that day was a pot of recaf that boiled over when they hit a bump.

“Bloody crater,” one gunner swore, “We just got that pot working again!”

The crew spent the next night cleaning the soot off the lascannon’s barrel—well, most of it. “The rest is luck,” they said. “Let it bake in.”

13th Necromunda- Units of Note- Destroyer Tank Hunter

 

Long Tom

Destroyer Tank Hunter – Callsign “Tom”
“First to fire. Last to break.”

The Death of a Legend

The original Long Tom was a beast from an earlier age—a Destroyer Tank Hunter of venerable pedigree, fielded by the 13th Necromunda long before they became the Rat Catchers. It was sleek, imposing, and blessed with the rare gift of accuracy in a world that had long abandoned precision for firepower. It bore a Heavy Laser Destroyer Cannon, long-barreled and temperamental, but devastating when it hit.

Tom’s end came during the Siege of Spindle Wash, an ambush sprung by a rogue Knight engine flanked by traitor armor. Tom, dug into a rubble-line on Overlook Ridge, held his fire until the Knight breached the outer curtain wall.

Three shots.

First: the Knight’s shoulder-joint—shattered.
Second: the reactor housing—pierced but not breached.
Third: the kill shot—never landed. The enemy returned fire, and Long Tom was reduced to molten ruin, its remains half-buried under collapsed hab-blocks.

A New Shape for an Old Grudge

But you can’t kill an idea. And you damn well can’t kill something the Commander still remembers.

“Recover everything. The gun, the scope, the cogitator. If it reparable, it's on the table.”

Rebuilding Long Tom wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t in the books. It wasn’t even wise.

But it was necessary.

The 13th built the new Tom from the ground up, using salvaged and stolen parts:

• The main body came from a Leman Russ—its turret destroyed and hull armor scorched, but the chassis still sound.

• The tracks and side armor were stripped from a gutted Chimera, narrower but faster—ideal for urban warfare.

• The back end was extended with a WWI-style trench-crossing tail, fabricated from demolition rubble and tank scrap. The result gave Tom an oddly stretched silhouette—like a rat slinking in the shadows.

• The main gun, the soul of Long Tom, was recovered—the original Heavy Laser Destroyer Cannon, fused with elements from a Hellhammer barrel for stability and reinforced with Leman Russ bracing. It sits casemate-style, fixed into the hull like the ancient Jagdpanthers of Old Earth’s history—low-profile, deadly, and unflinching.

• For close encounters, a pintle-mounted Storm Bolter was yanked from a fallen Space Marine Rhino, now crewed by a Goliath loader who claims it still "smells like heresy."

• reinforcement bolts reminiscent of  molecular bonding studs from the Horus Heresy were used to strengthen the hull and front plate.  

The result is ugly, mismatched, and terrifying. Weld scars cover the hull. Bolted-on plating gives it a lopsided look. And yet it moves, breathes, and kills with the same merciless precision that made the original a legend.

Crew of Long Tom (Mk II)

• Gunner/Leader “Scars” Melko – The only surviving crewman from the original. Rumored to speak to the cannon like it’s a fallen comrade.

• Tech-Able Vyra – One-time vox-operator turned field-mek. Her motto: “If it explodes, I fix it so it explodes in the right direction.”

• Driver “Gnat” Hark – Half-blind. Full crazy. Claims he can hear enemy tanks through concrete.

• Gunner “Brick” – Ex-Goliath. Communicates in grunts. Eats shell casings for breakfast. Possibly literally. Mostly fires the Storm Bolter.

The Tale of Vornax Heights

Long Tom earned his second name in the wreckage of Vornax Heights, a crumbling hab-district overrun by a traitor armor column led by two Renegade Leman Russ Executioners and a Heretic Forge-walking monstrosity.

The 13th were pinned.

Artillery out of range. Maus reloading. Even the Rogal Dorn, Night Blade, hadn't yet joined the unit.

Tom rolled in through sewer rubble, silent as sin. No vox. No warning.

Just the flash of that rebuilt laser cannon.

First Executioner—dead center shot. Exploded before its turret could rotate.
Second Executioner—moved to flank. Didn’t make it five meters.
Forge-Walker tried to close in.

That was its mistake.

Long Tom backed up over its own trenchline, reversed across a crater, then fired as the walker crested the rubble—a perfect shot to the undercarriage.

Brick popped the hatch just long enough to light a cigar off the sparking wreckage.

Legacy

Today, Long Tom is more than a tank. He’s a symbol of the 13th: pieced together, furious, barely sane, and still deadly. 

On the hull are the words:

“First to fire. Last to break.”

Long Tom may not be pretty. But the dead don’t care about aesthetics.

13th Necromunda - Units of Note- The Commander

 

The Commander

True Name: Lord-Captain Darius Varn (stripped of title)

Callsigns/Nicknames: The Commander, The Old Man, Iron Butt (when he's being particularly unyielding)

Rank: Commanding Officer, 13th Necromunda "Rat Catchers"

Wargear: Master-crafted las pistol, ornate powersword, customized flak-coat (former parade uniform, refitted for combat)

Background & Fall from Grace

Once the youngest son of House Varn, a lesser noble house in Necromunda’s labyrinthine political spire-web, Darius was raised more for ceremony than combat. But Darius had a mind for logistics, a talent for command, and a dangerously idealistic streak. He gained minor acclaim for leading PDF units during the Guilder Revolts, where he held Hive Cantoris for 23 days with only a handful of men, cunning supply tricks, and a well-timed bluff involving a malfunctioning Basilisk.

His house, however, fell to political scandal, possibly orchestrated by rivals or off-world Inquisitorial pressure. Accused of trafficking with outlawed tech cults (and perhaps guilty, or at least complicit), House Varn was stripped of its name, rights, and contracts.

Rather than fade into exile, Darius did something few nobles ever do: he took the survivors and turned them into a fighting force.

Leadership Style & Reputation

Darius is not flashy. He rarely raises his voice. He does not need to. The Old Man’s quiet command presence, icy stare, and ability to remember the name of every trooper who’s died under him makes him the moral anchor of the 13th.

While not the best fighter, he's a strategic genius in low-intensity warfare—urban combat, logistical scavenging, and psychological operations. He sees war as a puzzle to solve, not a matter of glory.

 "You don’t survive on Necromunda by being bold. You survive by being underestimated.” – The Commander

"Iron Butt" Moments

His stubbornness is legendary. He once held a trench for six hours past the fallback order because, quote, “the PDF timetable was wrong, and I refuse to die on someone else’s schedule.”

He has been known to sit through artillery barrages unmoving, berate officers for “tactically flamboyant” actions, and insists that every tank be tracked, maintained, and named—partly as morale, partly as superstition.

 “Sir, we’re being shelled!”

“Yes, and if they kill us, I’ll have them court-martialed. Now find me my damn tea.”

Relationships

The Major: Loyal to the bone. Darius trusts him implicitly, and while they rarely speak emotionally, there is a deep bond of shared failure and purpose. He knows Alric would take a bullet for him—but would also stop him if he ever lost his way.

Mr. Bison: A necessary evil. Darius respects the Commissar’s effectiveness but privately considers him a “sledgehammer in a toolbox.” Their relationship is icy, but functional. Bison has never once heard the Commander raise his voice to him, which somehow makes it worse.

The Troopers: The Commander remembers names, stories, and losses. He eats the same rations as his men. He’ll dress down a squad for disrespect—but then spend hours helping them salvage a wrecked Chimera. They follow him because he never lies to them.

Combat Role & Flavor

Darius isn’t the spearhead—he’s the one orchestrating the flank three turns before the enemy sees it coming. His command tank, "Little Willie", has reinforced vox arrays and a relic auspex system tied into the battalion’s network. He occasionally leads frontal actions—but always as part of a calculated plan.

Quotes From the 13th

“He’s old. He’s stubborn. He’s smarter than you. And if you’re lucky, he won’t make you prove that.” – Sergeant Hex

“Iron Butt may never bend, but he don’t break either.” – Goliath Trooper Krug

“He still writes letters to the families. Even when there’s no one left to receive them.” – Sniper Dally

Tales of the 13th Necromunda

 

Field Tale: “Cat and Maus”

Location: Ruined City of Grendel's Hollow, Planet Velkrad III
Combatants: Hellhammer Super Heavy Tank Maus vs Ork Stompa DA STOMPY GOB
Outcome: Urban artillery ballet with a 300-ton punchline.

It was supposed to be a cleanup op.

Velkrad III’s upper hives had already fallen, and Grendel’s Hollow was little more than a smoking crater where hive towers once clawed the sky. The 13th were mopping up the last of the Ork holdouts. Spirits were high. Shells were low.

Then DA STOMPY GOB showed up—an Ork Stompa patched together from refinery wreckage, railguns, and what looked like part of a Titan’s shinplate. Big, loud, and way too close.

Enter: Maus.

Too big for most roads. Too heavy for most bridges. Too dangerous for most commanders. But not too stubborn to hunt an Ork in his own scrapyard.

DA STOMPY GOB

With Captain Hawley at the controls and Tech-Priest Rozz clinging to a maintenance hatch screaming something about sacred machine spirits, Maus stalked into the ruin-choked streets of Grendel’s Hollow.

What followed was less a battle and more a game of urban chess played with demolitions.

Maus would fire—one shell.
A building would collapse.
No Stompa.

Stompa would fire—five shells.
Two would miss. One would hit a statue. The other two accidentally destroyed a fellow Ork buggy.

Every alley became a hunting lane. Maus would disappear into rubble clouds, then reappear a block over. DA STOMPY GOB roared in frustration, leveling entire city blocks trying to pin Maus down.

That’s when the Rat Catchers sprang the trap.

A section of underhive foundation had been rigged with mag-mines earlier by Sump Dogs of Squad 3. When the Stompa finally lumbered over it in pursuit, Maus rolled out of concealment at point-blank range.

“Say cheese,” came the vox from Captain Hawley.

One shot. Right between the armor plates of the Stompa’s central tower.

The Hellhammer round turned DA STOMPY GOB into a cloud of green fire and badly aimed limbs.

Maus rumbled through the smoke, its hull scorched but intact, turret rotating like it had all the time in the world.

---

Since then, the crew of Maus have scrawled a tiny Ork glyph on the turret, underneath the words:

“Cat caught it.”

13th Necromunda - Units of Note- The Major

 

The Major

Real Name: Major Alric Varn (suspected, but not confirmed)
Title: Executive Officer, 13th Necromunda “Rat Catchers”
Weapons: Power Sword (ancestral), Plasma Pistol (custom-fitted)
Appearance: Grim features, greying hair at the temples, permanent scowl. Always watching.

Background & Reputation

Before the 13th was forged from castoffs and criminals, there was the Lord’s Guard—a once-proud household retinue that defended the Varn holdings in the underhive spires. At its head stood The Major, a man of precision, principle, and ruthless efficiency. When the noble house fell from grace, the Guard followed their commander into exile—becoming the elite core of the Rat Catchers.

Rumors swirl that The Major is the Lord’s younger brother, left out of succession, which may explain both his unshakable loyalty and his deep sense of quiet resentment. He is the steel spine of the regiment, enforcing discipline among the former gangers and ensuring that the Lord’s vision doesn’t dissolve under the weight of cynicism and Bison’s brutality.

Relationship with Mr. Bison

The two men never openly argue, but the tension between them is enough to ignite promethium. The Major believes in discipline, honor, and order. Mr. Bison believes in results. They respect each other’s talents, but each considers the other dangerous in the wrong way.

If Mr. Bison executes a trooper, The Major is often the one who ensures the unit is rebuilt and the mistake isn’t repeated.
If The Major hesitates in the name of honor, Mr. Bison is there to do what must be done.

They’ve saved each other’s lives exactly once, and neither ever speaks of it.

Quotes from the Field

• “You want to impress The Major? Do your job. Do it right. And never make excuses.” – Trooper Hesk

• “He gave me his sword once. Just for a second. I felt like a god.” – Sergeant Bren of Squad One

• “Him and the Commissar are two sides of the same lascutter. Problem is, I think they’re aiming at each other.” – Vox Officer Graal

Combat Role

The Major leads from the front with the elite squad of the Lord’s former guard, his power sword humming with crackling energy as he carves through enemy lines. His leadership is calm, strategic, and utterly ruthless when needed. He wears a custom carapace chestplate, scored with hits from hive battles and trench assaults alike.

13th Necromunda - Units of Note- Commissar “Bison”

 

That's Mr. Bison to you.

Commissar “Bison”

Real Name: Unknown (or long-forgotten)
Designation: Commissarial Overseer attached to the 13th Necromunda “Rat Catchers”
Appearance: Crimson uniform with black trim, polished to mirror-shine. Glowing eyes. Grin like a power knife. Moves like he’s on rails. Hat never, ever falls off.

---

Background & Reputation

No one remembers requesting a Commissar. One day, he was just there—standing in the parade square with a dataslate, a lit cigarillo, and a stack of execution forms. The 13th, being what they are, tried to haze him. He broke a Goliath’s jaw with one hand and reassigned the squad’s rations to the sniper teams “for style.”

Since then, Mr. Bison has become the necessary evil in the Rat Catchers’ chaos. He rarely speaks, but when he does, it’s usually a monologue, often while explosions are happening behind him. Officers fear his audits. Troopers fear his smirk. No one knows if he’s sanctioned, rogue, or some strange manifestation of Imperial Will.

He always shows up right before something explodes.

---

Quotes from the Ranks

• “He didn’t yell. He just stared. Next thing I knew, I was reloading with my own teeth.” – Trooper Rikk, Squad 2

• “Orders came down from Mr. Bison himself. How do we know? They were written in blood. On a ration crate. Delivered via artillery shell.” – Voxman Jurt

• “We were about to break. Then he walked out of the smoke, cloak flapping, and told us to die later. So we did.” – Sergeant Calro, Squad 3

• "For you, the day Commissar Bison graced the 13th was the most important day of your life. But for me, it was Tuesday." - Mr. Bison to Major Alric Varn

---

Combat Role

Mr. Bison rides in NightBlade when attached to armored operations but is known to wander the front lines alone, often “evaluating morale.” He carries a bolt pistol, a power sword, and an absolutely terrifying presence. 

Psyker or Not? He’s probably not a sanctioned psyker. But that wouldn’t explain the time he stared down a Daemonhost and made it apologize.

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- "Ma Bell"

Field Tale: “Dial V for Vengeance”

Vehicle Designation: Ma Bell – Manticore Missile System

Crew Motto: “We don’t call often, but when we do—it’s collect.”

The siege of Hive Segmentum 44-Zeta was going badly. The traitor line was dug in, triple-reinforced, and shielded by a network of stolen void-field projectors. Most of the 13th’s armored company was stuck playing meatshield while the artillery units played a guessing game with their targeting cogitators.

But Ma Bell’s crew didn’t guess.

Hunched over their strange mess of humming vox-receivers, signal rods, and a cracked dataslate permanently tuned to "something called Channel 5," the tank’s commander—Sergeant Picker—claimed to “feel” the signal more than track it.

“It’s a tone lock, lads. They’re trying to mask the grid with harmonic static. But they forgot—”

He tapped the launch console, a ghost of a grin creeping under his comms rig.

“We invented the dial tone.”

With a whisper of ancient music playing softly in the background—something about “reaching out”—Ma Bell’s launcher lifted into position. Four warheads screamed skyward, curving over the hive’s dead spires in a textbook-perfect arc.

The traitors didn’t even have time to raise shields.

The missiles hit the exact void-node junction powering the projector net. Not the area—the node itself. The explosion didn’t just collapse the shielding—it caused a chain reaction that lit the trench line like a promethium refinery.

Cheers echoed down the 13th vox channels, but Ma Bell’s crew was already tuning in to another frequency.

Sergeant Picker lit a lho-stick off the venting heat panel and leaned back, muttering:

“Next time, they can call us.”

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Ratling Sniper Teams

 

Field Tale: “Lunch at No-Man’s Table”

Featuring Ratling Sniper Teams: The Verminators & "Whisker six”

No one really knows how the two Ratling sniper teams ended up a full kilometer ahead of the main line, dug in behind enemy territory. Official records say they were “scouting forward positions.” Most of the 13th know better.

They were looking for a place to have lunch.

The ruins of an old hab block on the outer ridge of Zone Theta were just right—had a clear field of fire, plenty of broken wall for cover, and a collapsed pantry that still held a crate of somewhat-edible ration bricks. Naturally, the two squads set up shop.

Sergeant Bort of Whisker six even laid out a proper cookfire using promethium gel and a bent ammo pan. Meanwhile, Gunk and Loaf of The Verminators started racking up headshots on a Chaos militia patrol trying to set up a mortar nest on the far side of the ridge.

Between bites of scorched grox hash and sips of recaf boiled in a helmet, they casually dropped twelve enemy troops, one vox operator, and a cultist standard bearer.

“Ey, Gunk,” Loaf mumbled through a mouthful of protein bar.
“Hmm?”
“Scope that fella trying to flank our position.”
Pffft–click.
“Not anymore he ain't.”
“Ta, mate. Pass the salt.”

At some point, the fire from their perch was so effective that the rest of the enemy force turned and ran, believing they’d stumbled into a hidden Imperial forward firebase.

When command finally caught up with them six hours later, they were finishing second helpings and arguing about whether blood pudding counted as “morale-boosting” or “war crime adjacent.”

The ruins were renamed on the unit’s unofficial maps as:
“No-Man’s Table.”

Founding of the 13th Necromunda

 

 

The 13th Necromunda – Regimental History

Regiment Designation: 13th Necromunda Armoured Assault Company

Informal Name: "The Rat Catchers"

Motto: “We Take What's Left... Then We Take What's Yours.”

Originally raised in the wake of a violent suppression campaign within Hive Primus, the 13th was not part of a traditional founding. Instead, they were scraped together from the survivors of a failed Arbites purge operation against rising gang activity in the lower hive. The PDF forces, decimated and demoralized, saw unexpected salvation in the form of a dishonored noble house—House Malrec, stripped of its spire holdings after a failed political coup, and cast into the mid-hive.

When the Imperium called for reinforcements during the Fourth Archenemy Incursion of Heliox, Necromunda's hive governors saw an opportunity: sweep up the gangers, the exiled nobles, and the undesirables, slap on a regimental badge, and send them far from the hive.

Composition

Officer Corps: House Malrec’s remnants—militarily trained, bitter, and clinging to pride. Their personal vendettas and ambition for reinstatement fuel many of the regiment's more reckless operations.

Rank and File: Gangers from all across Necromunda’s underhive: Orlocks, Goliaths, Eschers, and even some scavenged Delaque and Cawdor cells. Hardened by gang wars, they're better at close-quarters urban warfare than parade-ground discipline.

Support Staff: Ex-hive techs, outlaw chem-surgeons, and a disgraced Mechanicus Enginseer with a fondness for salvaged STC templates and "questionable" upgrades.

Doctrine and Tactics

The 13th fight with a "smash and grab" philosophy—urban blitzkrieg powered by looted tanks and repurposed armored transports. Their vehicles are often heavily modified, featuring jury-rigged armor,  mismatched components, and unauthorized weapons mounts.

They prefer:

Close-quarters tank assaults

Surprise flanking maneuvers in urban settings

Combined-arms raids to 'procure' enemy supplies

13th Necromunda - Units of Note- “Night Blade”

 

“Night Blade”

Rogal Dorn Battle Tank

Freshly stolen from a Cadian motor pool during a “supply confusion incident,” its paint is still drying. The name—chosen by the crew’s gunner, a former Goliath named Rynn—pays tribute to a character from old underhive stories (and also happens to match the name of a favored D&D rogue). The vox-chatter still bleeds Cadian command codes on occasion, making it a minor security risk and a major nuisance for the Commissariat.

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Sniper Team

 

Field Tale: “A Brush with the Emperor’s Shadow”

They say Corporal Veck of Ghost Alley once found the perfect nest: a rusted gantry in the collapsed spire of Hive Helix, five floors above the kill zone and cloaked in sump steam and shadows. No light reached there. No sound escaped. It was ideal—the kind of spot Ghost Alley lived for.

He’d been still for four hours. Breathing through his mask’s slow-pulse valve. Watching through the scope. Waiting for the command.

Then he felt it.

Not a sound. Not a motion. Just… presence.

He shifted his eye just slightly from the scope—and froze.

There, not three feet to his right, nestled in the same ruin, a Vindicare Assassin sat cross-legged, rifle cradled, still as death. The black-clad killer turned just enough to lock eyes with him.

No words. No threats. Just a single, approving nod from the Emperor’s own executioner.

Veck nodded back—or at least tried to. Hard to say. He’d gone completely numb. Good thing he was wearing a rebreather, or the assassin might have seen the pure, unfiltered terror on his face.

They fired within seconds of each other.

Two targets dropped, never knowing how close they’d come to twice the Emperor’s judgment.

---

It’s become a quiet legend in the 13th. Now, whenever a member of Ghost Alley claims a particularly flawless shot, someone always says:

“Close... but not Vindicare close.”

 The 2024 Image I created but never posted.