The West is Dead

Hive Brigstowe is dying.

The infection came from the West, carried on a lone ridge hauler that tore through the hive’s outer wall like a shell through bone. The driver was already dead by the time the hauler crashed through the breach. But it carried one survivor - an Orlock named Flask.

Flask staggered from the wreckage half-mad, raving about “cargo still alive” in the hauler’s hold. Within hours, the habs near the impact went dark. Within days, the infection was crawling inward, seeping through the transport tunnels and fractured causeways toward the hive’s heart.

The Enforcers sealed the western rim, claiming the threat was contained. The gangs believed them - for a while. They fought their turf wars, scavenged for scraps, and told themselves the fires on the horizon were someone else’s problem.

Then the smoke stopped rising.

Then the vox chatter went quiet.

Then the screaming started.

Now the western edge of Brigstowe is a wound - it's hab-blocks cracked open to the wastes, its people half-starved and desperate. The infection pushes deeper every day, swallowing sector after sector. Small bands of Enforcers cling to choke points, armour scorched and ammo low, while the gangs find their old territories devoured by panic, hunger, and worse. 

Between the last flickers of order and the surge of madness, survival has become the only law.