A-C can be found here and D-M can be found here
N-Z
Contains...
Nastanza, Twilight Huntress, Nem-Rath, Nexus Psi, The Plague, Plague 2nd Gen, Plague 3rd Gen with Grenade Launcher, Plague 3rd Gen with Heavy Machinegun; 3rd Gen with Rifle, Plague Zombies, Predator and Prey - A Deadzone Story, Prefabricated Units, The Rebs, Rebs Commander, Rebs Grogan with Desolator Heavy Weapon, Rebs Kraaw, Rebs Yndij, Recon Unit N32-19, Ruined BattleZone, Sergeant Howlett, Sorok, The Survivor, Teraton, Wrath, Judwan Assassin, Yndij.
Nastanza, Twilight Huntress.
It is said that if one was to catch a glimpse of Nastanza they would be hollowed out – joyless, emotionless: forever empty.
A solitary figure, she is neither human nor Asterian, more an agent of something altogether more sinister. She is the silent reaper, stalking across the battlefield cloaked behind her camo shield, taking pleasure in the slaughter. She is the invisible executioner, a precision shot and expert head hunter responsible for the murder of countless soldiers.
She is the Twilight Huntress, and where Nastanza walks, only darkness follows.
Nem-Rath.
Shuutavar are observers, or "watchers" to translate their name literally. Their role is a passive one of observing the commander and his demeanour in battle. Should he fall in combat they will sometimes step in and take command of the Cyphers themselves, though this is not really their primary aim. Mostly they are interested not in the outcome of the mission as such, but the way in which the commander conducted himself. How did he cope with setbacks, loss, disaster even. These are of more interest than the result itself. Military losses can be replaced and battles re-fought. An individual's road to purity and calm can be set back centuries or stalled forever by a careless response. The Asterian way is a fragile one.
Even among the Shuutavar, Nem-Rath is regarded as being something of a stickler for the traditional. In a position that focuses on maintaining the Asterian way, Nem-Rath is a leading light. He is unflinching in his criticism of those who fail which makes his infrequent praise all the more valuable. His many years of experience and the finest battle gear available make him a formidable warrior in his own right - not that he will be pleased if he has to take part. Ideally his presence should not be felt by either side, save by the Asterian commander who will be hard pressed to avoid the sense that his every move and thought is being scrutinised which, of course, it is.
In the unlucky event of the commander being slain a Shuutavar’s objective changes. Nem-Rath, like any other of his class, will take over the command, completing the mission or recovering resources as he deems appropriate. The commander’s loss is regrettable, but need not be compounded by failure.
Nexus Psi.
Nexus Psi was just another mission.
The keyboard jockeys called this kind of operation R&R – Reclaim and Recover - or sometimes Sweep and Clear if they were feeling particularly aggressive. Here in the strike craft, running through weapon checks one last time as it dropped through the burning atmosphere, the veterans of Strike Team 91-Urilla called it what it was: Search and Destroy.
The briefing had been nothing new. An artefact had been recovered on Nexus Psi, and the fallout hadn’t taken long. Recon had swept the planet and tagged a prime vector, which had been designated their secondary target. Primary was the artefact itself, and tertiary was the retrieval team that had been unlucky enough to dig it up. No one in 91-Urilla entertained the notion that any of them would still be alive. Or human.
Just another mission.
The Plague.
There have been increasing reports of a terrifying virus unleashed by alien artefacts scattered across the Expansion Zone. Each primary victim is twisted into a brutal colossus hell-bent on spreading its contagion to new hosts. These second-generation victims suffer the same mutation to a lesser degree, becoming less massive but no less deadly. Once the virus reaches its third generation the physical changes are mostly superficial and some brain function is left intact; some say that these are the worst of the three, as they can still operate weapons and machinery. These beasts exist only to spread their Plague to new hosts, and once they arrive on a planet it can only be a matter of time before it is overrun and ruined.
Plague 2nd Gen.
When the first victim of the Plague succumbs to the deadly alien virus then become what is known as a 1st Generation - a brutal colossus hell-bent on spreading its contagion to new hosts. These massive beings spread the plague in the ensuing slaughter and those second-generation victims that are infected suffer the same mutation to a lesser degree, becoming less massive but no less deadly.
Plague 3rd Gen with Grenade Launcher.
Third-generation infected put a variety of weapons to use, and occasionally one of them will stumble across specialist weaponry such as a grenade launcher. Although these are not generally used by the civilians that make up the bulk of the first wave of Infected, they are standard gear for the military forces that accompany them. Their explosive ordnance can quickly throw organised firing lines into disarray, giving first- and second-generation infected the chance to break cover and charge enemy lines.
Plague 3rd Gen with Heavy Machinegun; 3rd Gen with Rifle.
By the time the Plague reaches its third generation, its mutating effects are considerably lessened, meaning a much higher number of victims survive to join the ranks of the infected. These third-generation troopers still undergo a physical alteration, but their minds are left almost intact. As a result, they are the only warriors in the Plague ranks that are capable of operating machinery, and quickly scavenge weapons to provide covering fire to their bestial masters.
Plague Zombies.
Towering men in shining suits of armour, hulking green monstrosities, the alien with a face full of tentacles… Ana thought she’d seen it all. But the sight of her friend, half of her face missing, clawing herself along the ground; that was too much to take.
Paralysed, too scared to even scream, listening to the sounds of the half-dozen Infected tearing flesh from bone in the next room, Ana resigned herself to death.....
In the aftermath of infection, many millions of citizens encounter the nightmare horrors of the Plague. Not all meet the same fate.
A handful survive, scratching out a living on the shattered remnants of their world. By far the majority are slaughtered, their minds and bodies succumbing to the infection.
The remainder are those who survive the first attacks, often horribly wounded and mentally scarred by the ferocity of the mutants. These regular citizens are infected by the mutating horror of the alien plague. This mutation creates the sadly familiar monsters you see on the battlefield, but these are just its greatest works. Far more common are the rejected mutations that have overwhelmed their host to the point of leaving little but a hollow shell of a twisted animal.
Officially these creatures are 3rd Generation Plague mutants. However, to distinguish them from the normal 3rd Gens who retain memories and skills from their former lives and hold a degree of higher cognitive function, these are coded as 3Z. They are bestial and savage creatures, driven by pain and hunger to attack, though lacking the fighting skill of the purer, more successful mutations.
Given their appearance it is hardly surprising that most combat troops refer to them as zombies.
Predator and Prey - A Deadzone Story.
Gregson fled across the ruined outpost, and somewhere behind him, a deranged beast followed.
He’d been hiding out in a network of caves less than a klick away since the first reports of monsters and gunfire, living off emergency rations he’d found on the way there. Things had been quiet – all the more so when the long-range comms signal died. One of the nights he’d ventured to the cave mouth to look out over the jungle canopy of Nexus Psi, he’d seen an incredible display in the skies; he’d seen enough CorpCast footage of orbital disasters to recognise a collision between two or more ships in the upper atmosphere. He’d fled back to the safety of the lower caves when the debris started falling like a series of flaming comets. He’d stayed there until the food ran out.
Now here he was, sprinting for his life across blood-spattered neocrete as one of the creatures he’d heard so much about across comms chatter chased after him. He’d only seen it once, not having dared to look back at it once it started chasing him, but that was all he needed. It was burned into his brain forever, maybe to the end of his life; of course, given his current situation, that might not be too far away. The thing was apelike, with long arms ending in wicked claws. Its head was disproportionately small, protruding from a bony shell that looked like it could easily stop gunfire. Of course, being a senior technician attached to an Exploration / Retrieval team, he wasn’t armed, but the thought had still crossed his mind.
Given the beast’s mass, he was astounded that it could move so quickly. He’d only evaded it so far by ducking through narrow gaps and outmanoeuvring it across the tight confines of the outpost. It was gaining on him, though. He altered his course to duck down a covered alleyway between two habtainers, the entrance partly choked with rubble.
Gunfire barked behind him, and he almost sprawled to the floor in shock. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw no sign of the creature. Then it flashed past, clearly heading for whoever had opened fire. He didn’t know who his saviour was, but he muttered a word of thanks all the same. The poor wretch didn’t stand a chance.
There was a sound like a blade being drawn from a silken sheath and a hum that reminded Gregson of the energy cutters they used for deep-core extractions, followed by a squeal of agony that couldn’t have been human. Then… silence. He crept back to the mouth of the alley, half expecting to see teeth and claws flashing towards him, but something made him stay his course.
The creature was slumped to the ground no more than three metres away. The top half of its head lay a short distance away, and a disgusting smell of burnt offal hung in the air. His saviour stood silent, regarding him evenly. He was tall, encased in slate-grey armour, his face hidden by an enclosed helmet. The technician had never seen one in person, but there weren’t many citizens in the GCPS who would fail to recognise the ominous bulk of an Enforcer. A heavy pistol was held comfortably in one hand; the other was clenched into a fist, a blue-white energised blade extending from a device the warrior’s his wrist. He relaxed his hand and the blade retracted smoothly. He took two steps towards Gregson and began to speak, his voice amplified by external speaker grilles in the armour.
Before he could finish the first word, a second creature, almost identical to the first, sprang from hiding with a defiant shriek. The Enforcer span, raising his pistol and snapping off two shots at impossible speed, but sure enough they were deflected by the bony plates covering the creature’s chest. It hit him with its full weight and both fell to the floor. Gregson scurried back into cover, looking around for a weapon to defend himself with. There was nothing.
The armoured warrior rolled with the impact, trying to pin the creature to the ground under the weight of his suit, but it was too strong. It was as though it had been created solely with speed, brute force and resilience in mind; the ultimate predator. It threw the warrior off, and he skidded across the neocrete, raising a flurry of sparks. He didn’t waste the opportunity, bringing his pistol to bear with surprisingly good aim, and unleashed a salvo of shots. Gregson couldn’t tell whether they hit their target, but the creature ducked back long enough for the Enforcer to regain his feet. He clenched his fist and the energised blade flashed back into life. The respite gave the technician a better chance to look at the new arrival, and he saw that it wasn’t quite identical to the one that had been chasing him. It looked older, and its face was patterned with scars. Its carapace was gathered into ridges of sharpened bone. Blood-flecked drool dripped from between its needle-like teeth. It was nothing less than terrifying.
The two combatants seemed to size each other up for a moment. Each must have been a veteran of countless battles, Gregson realised. They circled, bloodshot eyes locking with hard red lenses. The Enforcer held steady, wristblade held up at shoulder height, pistol arm extended; the mutant dragged its claws along the ground, twitching and spasming with barely-contained fury. Then, with a roar of primal rage, it tensed to leap.
The Enforcer hesitated for the smallest of moments before firing a single shot. The beast was springing forward, legs extending like pistons, claws outstretched, as the round took it in the centre of the face. Time seemed to pass in slow motion; its stub nose caved in on itself, pulling its lip up in a sneer. Its head whipped back even as it clumsily took to the air. Something in its brain seemed misfire and its arms flailed almost comically as it overbalanced and rolled to the ground. It continued to flail spasmodically until the Enforcer stepped forward, pushed it onto its back with the tip of an armoured boot, and plunged his blade through its neck.
Gregson broke cover, feeling almost as though he could weep with relief. He knew he looked pathetic, but he didn’t care; he was going to get off-world, and this would just be a memory.
His saviour glanced up at him, and raised his pistol.
“As you were.”
The technician faltered, and the Enforcer fired a shot past his shoulder.
“Keep running. You’re drawing them out.”
The armoured brute fired a second shot that passed so close he felt it rush past his ear. Without another moment’s thought, he ran.
***
Gregson fled across the ruined outpost, and somewhere behind him, a deranged beast followed.
Prefabricated Units.
In the sparsely populated planets of the far reaches of Corporation space, the settlements all tend towards a familiar look – built from the same prefab units that are supplied by Shensig Interplanetary to almost every colonist collective and security unit known to man. These boxy and utilitarian blocks are formed into storage units, barracks, workshops, offices, armories, labs, holding pens, and medi-centres with equal ease. They are the defining architectural wonder of the Corporation and are commonly what alien races assume to be the pinnacle of human achievement. They are a far cry from the architectural marvels of the Core.
The Rebs.
The Corporation sells itself as a utopian society, but there are those among its citizens that disagree. For these free-thinkers, anarchists and dissidents there will always be the welcoming arms of the Rebellion. Following a crushing loss against Corporation forces thirty years ago, the Rebs have been slowly rebuilding their numbers, taking on recruits from alien races who share their grievances with the Council. They use hijacked corpcast scanners and planted agents to plan raids on vulnerable installations, slowly building their stocks of munitions and technology. Amid the chaos of a Deadzone it would be easy to ransack enough to fund an entire campaign, but the Rebs know that the Corporation don’t call for containment protocol lightly. Only their most dedicated soldiers are willing to take the risk, knowing that their lives could well be forfeit in the name of rebellion.
Rebs Commander.
Leading a group as diverse as the Rebs takes guts, character and wholehearted hatred of the GCPS. Thankfully, they say the Council makes a new enemy every three seconds, so the Rebellion has no shortage of candidates for leadership. Maybe they lost everything they cared about to a system-wide merger; maybe they were leaders in the Corporation Military who refused an order they disagreed with. In any case, their dedication to overthrowing the Corporation is absolute.
Rebs Grogan with Desolator Heavy Weapon.
Grogans are often looked down on by “civilised” society as brainless thugs. However, their straightforward demeanour and thick-set frame belies a keen mind and a knack for technology. Many of them have found their way to the ranks of the Rebellion, where they often act as both heavy-support troopers and engineers.
Rebs Kraaw.
The Kraaw have been clear opponents of the Corporation ever since the first exploratory fleet entered their space and was destroyed by swarms of fighter craft. They are fiercely territorial and little is known about them beyond their reputation as vicious predators, but occasionally small groups will approach the Rebellion and offer their services. On the battlefield they strike unexpectedly, bringing death to their hated enemies with Stingcasters and Talon Blades alike.
Rebs Yndij.
When the first elements of Mining Fleet 411 landed on Azure IX they came across the Yndij, a race of hunters living in the planet’s great jungles. They refused to leave, and would have been wiped out if not for a chance attack by the Rebellion. The invading forces were driven away, but not before the jungles were devastated. Now, the Yndij have taken a permanent place in the Rebellion, hoping to stop the same thing happening to others.
Recon Unit N32-19.
Gripping his weapon, his finger itching on the trigger, N32 breathed heavily, his back pressed against some low-lying rubble.
The Enforcer Pathfinder shifted slightly, reaching for his belt and unstrapping a metallic sphere from his belt. He tossed it in the air, a red glow bursting from the Drone's eye, and he opened the vidscreen. It lived.
He had eyes everywhere and still he couldn’t see where the beast had gone.
He’d been on the trail of the Prime Vector for days, even managing to unleash a salvo from his needle-gun into the colossal beast. And still it had kept going, luring N32 into the ruins of Nicorasi and it’s waiting brood.
Now he was cornered.
He knew the 3A’s were out there, he had heard their weapons fire, but it was the sight of the female that had concerned him – about as frightened as an Enforcer could get.
There.
He’d seen it, an oncoming pack – and the Female was with them!
The Pathfinder flicked open his Comms link, inputted the code and pulled himself off the ground...
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N32 is in danger, trapped by the Plague, his life in the balance. Can you save him?
Armed with a rapid-fire, neodurium-tipped Needle Gun and serrated blade, Recon Unit N32-19 was a fan favourite over on the Mantic Forums.
Ruined BattleZone.
Citizen Jael burst through the security door, weaving side to side as debris and rubble crashed to the floor. Warning sirens blared in the background and Jael tripped over lose wiring, electric sparks fizzing as he scrambled to his feet.
“Halt, Citizen!” came a robotic voice from behind.
Jael has been in hiding ever since the armour clad super soldiers had arrived in the region, unleashing devastating salvos of laser cannon fire on the surrounding buildings sending them crashing to the ground in a bid to trap the mutant beasts inside. But that wasn’t the end of it - Jael was learning just what happened when the Enforcers quarantined an area.
After their transports had landed, scores of citizens had been killed at point blank range as the soldiers ensured that the Plague wouldn’t break out again...
Now Jael was being hunted and, as he rounded a corner, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Smashing his head on the floor as he fell backwards, a dark presence loomed over him, snarling.
The Marauder Raiders had landed in the ruins.
Sergeant Howlett.
Most Enforcer sergeants are steady in battle, calmly holding a line when others have fled, or advancing methodically by long-established drill. Sergeant Howlett comes from a different school of tactics.
Most Enforcer sergeants rise through the ranks through the tactical units and it has long been acknowledged that this offers the best all-round training for a prospective leader. Tactical units face the widest variety of combat situations and foes, so the mettle of a trooper is tested most thoroughly. Sergeant Howlett has only ever served with assault units.
Most Enforcer sergeants hang back slightly from combat, their duties being to direct the battle as a whole rather than show individual prowess. If personal leadership does need to be shown then they naturally lead an advance, but always as part of a key move within the structure of the overall operation. Sergeant Howlett leads by example, charging recklessly into the thick of battle to personally cut down as many of those who oppose the will of the Seven as he can. If others follow, that’s fine by Howlett. If not, then he’ll chew them out later, back at base. If they live.
Sorok.
The Sorok are a fierce race with a rigid warrior caste system. Their honour-duels are known to last for days, and a swordspawn is expected to make its first kill before it learns to speak. Despite this, they are often underestimated by those who do not know them, due to their outlandish appearance. The Rebellion boasts entire enclaves of Sorok warriors, who see the Corporation’s expansion policies as a threat against their traditional ways.
The Survivor.
A spacefaring traveller, The Survivor is the only known living being to have been infected by the Plague and survive a Containment Protocol. Since then he has had only one desire: to retrieve a piece of a Plague Artefact and try to synthesise a cure for himself. For The Survivor it is simply a race against time before the Alien Virus overcomes his biological defences and he succumbs to the infection - a race he cannot afford to lose.
Teraton.
Several decades ago the glorious Teraton Empire approached the Global Co-Prosperity Sphere, offering trade and counsel. Despite their reputation as shrewd merchants, the Teratons did not expect scheming and duplicity from what they saw as such as young, hopeful race. Now yoked to multifarious Corporations by galactic trade laws, contracts and treaties, the Teraton Empire is a shadow of its former self. Younger Teratons, lacking the patience of their elders, are now often found leading the charge for Rebellion forces.
Teratons are hulking soldiers that pack one heck of a punch. The hot-headed pups that have left the Teraton Empire strap vicious looking weapons to their arms, seeking to use their supreme strength, resilience and intelligence in the fight against the Council of Seven!
Wrath, Judwan Assassin.
Throughout their long and noble history, there has never been a Judwan warrior or a Judwan murderer, and certainly nothing like the psychotic assassin known as Wrath. At least, not until now. The following information has been pieced together from a variety of sources, and the truth of the matter will probably never be known for certain. The few that did know the truth of this code 8 secret operation are mostly dead. The handful that remain are running for their lives or hiding where they think he cannot find them.
It seems that he was taken from his parents at an early age and raised as an assassin for the Council of Seven. Producing such unwavering killers was probably only one order issued among many others and was long forgotten by the time he was old enough to be sent on his first mission. Still, he was their work.
His first mission was almost his last as the Enforcers he accompanied nearly shot him on the spot for disobeying direct orders under fire. Despite his excellence in training and simulation, when it came to reality he would not kill. He was, after all, Judwan.
The programme leader was give a month to persuade his subject to see reason. Failure would not be a healthy option for either of them. From that point the means of persuasion became increasingly blunt and desperate. Hypnotism, indoctrination, and behavioural therapy were quickly replaced by surgery, implants and mind-probes. These failed too, so more were tried, as was simple torture to break his will – to force him to obey. After a month the programme leader claimed a great success. He had broken the Judwan. Turning around such a high cost investment was such good news that even one of the Council saw fit to inspect this most lethal of new weapons in their arsenal.
Reports of this official demonstration are sketchy, but the results are clear. Today the assassin known as Wrath is the most wanted sentient in the galaxy. He is at the top of every Enforcers shoot to kill list and has been the target of no less than nine fleet sized actions. Small cities have been nuked in an effort to kill him, but he has slipped away quietly every time.
The main reason for this unusually costly pursuit is simple revenge. Wrath carries one of the Council of Seven’s ceremonial blades, and this he took from the dead hand of the Councillor himself. He cannot be allowed to live. His every breath is an encouragement to the Rebels and an embarrassment for the Council and the Corporation. The problem is that he was trained too well...
Yndij.
When the first elements of Mining Fleet 411 landed on Azure IX they came across the Yndij, a race of hunters living in the planet’s great jungles. They refused to leave, and would have been wiped out if not for a chance attack by the Rebellion. The invading forces were driven away, but not before the jungles were devastated. Now, the Yndij have taken a permanent place in the Rebellion, hoping to stop the same thing happening to others.
Swapping their homeworlds for the urban jungle, Yndij Hunters are agile troops for the Rebs and increasingly a mainstay unit of any Rebs attack.
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