Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Lucky 13

 

Regimental Folklore – “The Run of 13”

Ask anyone in the 13th Necromunda when Lucky 13 earned her name and you’ll get the same story, told with different details but the same ending.

A platoon had been cut off in the lower levels of a shattered hive district, boxed in by enemy infantry and a pair of light walkers prowling the main avenue. Vox was dead. Ammo was low. The only way out was a half-collapsed transit causeway command had already written off as impassable.

Lucky 13 took it anyway.

Rounds hammered her hull as she pushed through the smoke, one track throwing sparks, engine coughing like it wanted to quit. The driver never slowed. The gunner kept the turret moving, firing short bursts to keep heads down. Inside, the passengers held onto straps, gear, and each other.

Halfway across the causeway, something hit the rear hard enough to lift the back end. One of the doors tore free and vanished into the haze. By all rights, that should have been the end.

Lucky 13 kept going.

She came off the far side trailing smoke, one flank blackened, armor scarred, engine screaming in protest. But she was still moving, and she still carried everyone she started with. When they finally rolled into friendly lines, the crew just patted the dash like nothing unusual had happened.

After that, nobody laughed at the name anymore.

Since then, it’s been tradition in the 13th to knock twice on Lucky 13’s hull before climbing aboard. The crew pretends not to notice. The veterans pretend it doesn’t matter. The new recruits do it because everyone else does.

Before one push into another ruin-choked district, a young trooper froze at the ramp, eyes wide at the distant thump of artillery. He looked back and saw The Commander waiting his turn, coat dusty, face lined with the kind of tired that never really goes away.

The trooper gave the hull two quick taps and hurried inside.

The Commander stepped up next. He rested his hand on the scarred armor for a moment, thumb tracing a weld line from some long-ago repair. Then he gave the metal two solid knocks with his knuckles and climbed aboard without a word.

Nobody saluted. Nobody made a joke.

But everyone saw.

And when Lucky 13 rolled out, she carried a little more than just soldiers.

------------------

Driver’s Log – Lucky 13

They say every vehicle has a spirit. I don’t know about that. I just know Lucky 13 has a personality, and she’s stubborn.

I’ve been in her driver’s seat long enough to know the feel of the controls, the little delay in the left track when it’s cold, the way the engine growls different depending on how bad the damage really is. The techs say she should’ve been decommissioned twice. Maybe three times. I stopped asking.

You learn to listen to a machine like this. She tells you things. Not in words, just in vibration and sound. When she’s about to stall. When she’s got one more hard push left in her. When she’s running on fumes and faith.

The superstition started after the causeway run. I remember the sound more than anything. Not the shooting. Not the shouting. The engine. Like it was angry we even asked, but too proud to quit. I kept expecting the tracks to give out. They didn’t.

Now I watch the troops when they board. Veterans knock twice and don’t break stride. New kids hesitate, glance around, then tap the hull like they’re trying not to be obvious. I pretend I don’t see it.

One time I did look up.

The Commander was climbing aboard. Thought no one was watching. He put his hand on the side plate, right over an old patch we welded on after the run. Stood there a second, quiet. Then he knocked twice, same as everyone else, and came inside.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

I don’t know if Lucky 13 has a spirit.

But I know this.

Every time I start her up, she turns over. Every time we roll out, she brings people home. And every time someone knocks on the hull, I ease the throttle just a little gentler.

Just in case she’s listening.

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Oddball

 

Nobody in the 13th Necromunda could agree on when OddBall officially became OddBall. Some said it was the day Tech-Priest Moriarty finished “improving” the engine and the tank accidentally reversed out of a manufactorum breach faster than most Chimeras could advance. Others said it was when the barrel got longer. Much longer. Long enough that enemy auspex crews began reporting it as something else entirely.

Commander Donald never corrected them.

Donald had the look of someone who enjoyed being underestimated. The leather aviator helmet and goggles weren’t regulation, but they stayed. He claimed the goggles helped with glare. The crew claimed he liked the way people reacted when he leaned out of the hatch, smiling, like he knew a secret they didn’t.

OddBall’s first real test came during a running fight through the lower hab districts of a nameless hive city. The 13th was outmatched, facing heavier enemy armor moving to seal the streets ahead. The sensible move would have been to pull back and wait for artillery. OddBall did pull back. Just not the way anyone expected.

The engine howled. Moriarty’s handiwork kicked in. OddBall reversed down the avenue at full speed, loudspeaker blaring music that echoed between the ferrocrete walls. The barrel, absurdly long and unmistakable, swung as if daring the enemy to take a shot. They didn’t. Auspex readings didn’t make sense. Visual confirmation was worse. No one wanted to be the crew that challenged a gun that might have been a mega-cannon. Or worse.

When OddBall stopped, it fired.

Not high-explosive. Not armor-piercing. A shell burst in a brilliant splash of color across the lead enemy tank, paint cascading down its hull in bright, unmistakable streaks. Another followed. Then another. Fire discipline dissolved into confusion. Targeting optics were fouled. Vox traffic spiked with shouted questions and half-formed warnings.

By the time the enemy realized what they were facing, the rest of the 13th had repositioned, artillery had dialed in, and OddBall was already gone, music fading as it disappeared back down the street the way it had come.

Afterward, someone asked Donald why he bothered with the loudspeaker.

He shrugged and said it kept everyone calm.

OddBall returned with fresh scrapes, more stories, and a growing reputation. It never destroyed the biggest enemy tank. It never needed to. It scared them, marked them, distracted them, and left. In the 13th Necromunda, that counted as a victory.