Down in the sump-shadowed habs where rust never sleeps and rad-glow paints everything sickly green, the Lemon Jellies carved out their reputation the hard way: by surviving where smarter, richer gangs got sloppy and died. Officially, they’re just another Van Saar outfit clinging to a decaying settlement, but everyone in the dome knows better. Their home turf sits atop a half-buried archaeotech cache: an ancient machine whose purpose is long lost, but whose power output still hums like a caged sun. The Jellies learned early that the device doesn’t like being moved, tampered with, or ignored. So they built around it, wired into it, and made it the bitter heart of their operation. Every member of the gang takes the name of a lemon strain: Eureka, Lisbon, Meyer, Femminello. Not as a joke, but as a reminder. Life in the underhive is acidic, corrosive, and unforgiving, and only those tough enough to thrive in it survive. Clad in yellow armor plates streaked with purple hazard striping, the Lemon Jellies are impossible to mistake once the shooting starts. They favor precise, methodical violence: overlapping fire lanes, calibrated kill zones, and weapons tuned just shy of meltdown. Their settlement may look like a ramshackle sprawl of hab stacks and gantries, but beneath the patched plating lies a disciplined, tech-savvy gang with a long memory and a short fuse. Other gangs mock the name - right up until their fighters start dropping with smoking armor seals and liquefied optics. The Lemon Jellies don’t mind the laughter. Sour reputations last longer in Necromunda, and they intend to make theirs permanent.

Meyer didn’t earn leadership of the Lemon Jellies by being loud, charismatic, or particularly likable. He earned it by being right: about angles, timing, and exactly how long it takes a plasma coil to reach catastrophic instability. Born in the settlement that grew around the archaeotech device, Meyer learned early that speed matters less than controlled speed. Anyone can pull a trigger twice; Meyer learned how to do it before his opponent finished thinking about cover. By the time he claimed his plasma gun, he’d already rewritten its firing logic, bypassing half the safety interlocks and rerouting the rest through his own reflex-enhancing rig. In a firefight, Meyer is terrifyingly efficient. His Fast Shot isn’t wild spraying—it’s two perfectly timed discharges, heat bleed managed on the fly, target acquisition recalculated between pulses. Fighters who survive the first blast often don’t survive the second, delivered a heartbeat later while they’re still registering pain. He positions himself where the archaeotech’s faint power harmonics stabilize his weapon systems, turning ancient, half-understood tech into a force multiplier. To the Lemon Jellies, Meyer is proof that discipline beats bravado every time. To their enemies, he’s the moment a fight stops being fair and starts being terminal. Meyer’s rise wasn’t clean, and it certainly wasn’t quick. Before he led the Lemon Jellies, the gang was a loose collective of Van Saar tech-hands and hired guns squatting around the archaeotech device, more concerned with keeping it running than defending it properly. That changed when a rival gang tried to seize the territory outright. Meyer was still a junior gunner then, assigned to perimeter watch with a plasma gun most people considered unreliable scrap. When the attack came, command froze. Meyer didn’t. He rerouted power from the settlement’s auxiliary grid into his weapon, stepped into the open, and broke the assault with a brutal, precise counterattack that left half the enemy burned into the ferrocrete. By the time the dust settled, the old leader was dead. Meyer was the only one giving orders that made sense. Control didn’t come without resistance. Two senior gangers challenged him in the weeks that followed, each convinced that technical skill didn’t equal authority. Meyer put that theory to rest in the tunnels beneath the settlement, where tight corridors favored reaction time over muscle. He dropped the first challenger with a double-tap so fast witnesses swore the plasma gun malfunctioned. The second never even raised their weapon. After that, the Lemon Jellies stopped arguing and started listening. Meyer formalized the gang’s structure, standardized their gear, and turned the archaeotech device from a liability into a strategic anchor. He doesn’t rule by fear alone, he rules by results. Under Meyer’s leadership, the Lemon Jellies stopped being squatters guarding a mystery machine and became a gang that other crews plan around… or die ignoring.

Citron was never built for the long sightlines and patient marksmanship most Van Saar favor. She grew up in the Lemon Jellies’ settlement levels where ceilings are low, corridors twist unpredictably, and fights happen at breath distance. While others obsessed over stabilizers and range calibration, Citron learned to read motion in weight shifts, muzzle twitches, the split second of hesitation before someone commits. Dual pistols weren’t a stylistic choice; they were the only tools that kept her alive in the tight confines of the underhive. By the time she earned her place as an Augmek, she could put two las-bursts into separate targets before either realized they’d been picked. Her Gunfighter skill is the result of relentless iteration. Citron constantly tweaks her pistols’ grip geometry, trigger resistance, and power cycling so both weapons feel identical in her hands. She treats them as a matched system rather than separate guns, firing in alternating rhythms that overwhelm less disciplined opponents. When the Lemon Jellies started pulling in real creds, Citron was the first to push for plasma pistols—not out of vanity, but necessity. Laspistols taught her speed and precision; plasma rewards commitment. She’s already burned through two prototype housings and carries the scars to prove it, but every upgrade brings her closer to her ideal: twin plasma pistols tuned to discharge like controlled lightning at arm’s length. Where Meyer is cold calculation, Citron is controlled aggression. She acts as the gang’s breaker, sent forward to collapse enemy lines once fire lanes are established. In the settlement, younger gangers watch her work and learn fast or die faster. Citron doesn’t boast, doesn’t grandstand, and doesn’t miss often. In the Lemon Jellies, that earns respect. In the underhive at large, it earns fear, especially when both pistols start to glow.

Dorshapo is living proof that Van Saar ingenuity and self-destruction are two sides of the same credit chit. Once a promising Archeotek obsessed with pre-Imperial power systems, Dorshapo got too close, literally, to the Lemon Jellies’ archaeotech device during an ill-advised calibration run. The machine surged, the containment failed, and what was left of Dorshapo’s torso had to be scraped out of the gantry plating. Survival came at a cost: a full cybertorso, over-engineered and brutally functional, rated to absorb recoil, radiation, and heat loads that would pulp a normal ganger’s organs. Dorshapo doesn’t talk much about what they lost. They talk about what they gained. For now, Dorshapo wields a rad beamer, a weapon that suits their temperament perfectly: slow, inevitable, and horrifying in its aftermath. They favor deliberate firing positions, anchoring engagements and poisoning ground the enemy needs to cross. The cybertorso hums softly when the beamer discharges, stabilizers compensating for feedback that would cripple lesser fighters. But the rad beamer is a stepping stone, not an end state. Every cred Dorshapo earns is logged, allocated, and earmarked for heavier armament - in the form of plasma cannons, grav weaponry, anything that can fully exploit the cybertorso’s reinforced frame and integrated bracing. Within the Lemon Jellies, Dorshapo is both asset and warning. Meyer trusts them with the gang’s most dangerous hardware, knowing the Archeotek understands exactly how close to the edge is too close. Citron respects them for holding ground she can exploit. The younger gangers just see the metal silhouette and the faint radiation shimmer and keep their distance. When Dorshapo finally upgrades to true heavy weaponry, everyone in the underhive will learn the same lesson the Lemon Jellies already know: some people survive disaster so they can finish the experiment later.

Dot earned her grav-cutter the hard way - by not dying when everyone expected her to. As a Neotek prospect, she started out running messages and hauling parts through the upper gantries of the settlement, learning the vertical maze above the Lemon Jellies’ turf better than anyone else. When Meyer needed eyes where auspex pings couldn’t reach, Dot volunteered, trusting speed and height over armor and luck. The grav-cutter wasn’t a reward; it was a test. One mistake at that altitude and there’s no second chance. In combat, Dot is motion incarnate. She uses the grav-cutter to claim angles no one thinks to cover, drifting between firing positions, tagging targets, and relaying data before enemies realize they’ve been marked. Her shots aren’t heavy, but they’re timely. Pinning a fighter at the wrong moment, breaking a charge, or forcing someone into Meyer’s kill zone. For reconnaissance, she’s invaluable, mapping enemy movement and spotting ambushes before they snap shut. Dot knows she’s still a prospect, but every run proves the same thing: the Lemon Jellies don’t give mobility to people they can’t trust, and Dot is fast becoming indispensable.

Sunny is optimism sharpened into a survival trait. Where most Neoteks treat speed as an escape plan, Sunny treats it as a promise. Namely that there’s always a better angle, a cleaner line, a smarter way through the chaos. She’s newer than Dot and less polished, but what she lacks in experience she makes up for in instinct. Sunny learned the grav-cutter by feel rather than theory, trusting momentum and timing to carry her through gantries and open air where hesitation would get her killed. In the field, Sunny works best as Dot’s shadow and counterpoint. She ranges wider, probes deeper, and takes risks that would make a full ganger wince, darting ahead to flush out sentries or bait reactions the Lemon Jellies can exploit. Her recon reports aren’t always tidy, but they’re honest and fast, and that matters when bullets start flying. Sunny knows she’s still proving herself, but every successful run earns her more trust and more responsibility. If she survives long enough to slow down, she’ll be dangerous. If she doesn’t, the Lemon Jellies will remember her as the prospect who flew bright, fast, and fearless through the underhive.

Menton is ambitious in the quiet, dangerous way. Watching, learning, and never wasting motion. As a specialist, he sits at the narrow intersection between ganger and elite, trusted with more complex kit and less supervision than most, but still close enough to the ground to know how fights actually go wrong. Menton studies Meyer’s firing patterns, Citron’s movement, and Dorshapo’s positioning, logging every engagement in a battered dataslate he pretends is just for maintenance notes. His current gear is solid, functional, and unremarkable. Exactly how he wants it while he proves he can be trusted with more. In battle, Menton makes himself useful rather than flashy. He covers flanks, secures objectives, and keeps weapons running when heat, grit, and bad luck start stacking up. He’s the one who drags wounded gangers back into cover and the one who volunteers to test newly salvaged tech before anyone important risks it. Menton’s goal isn’t glory; it’s promotion, and he understands that in the Lemon Jellies, advancement comes from reliability under pressure. When the creds come in and the roster shifts, Menton intends to be the obvious choice as he is better armed, better positioned, and already acting like he belongs among the champions.

Eureka is the kind of ganger most gangs overlook and the kind Van Saar rely on to keep everything from falling apart. She isn’t augmented beyond the basics, doesn’t chase experimental kit, and doesn’t talk about moving up the ranks. What she does is show up, check her weapon twice, and put shots exactly where Meyer tells her to. In a gang built around volatile technology and ambitious champions, Eureka is the steady constant, anchoring firing lines and holding ground while flashier fighters push forward. Her precision comes from repetition rather than inspiration. Eureka drills the same sight pictures, the same reload motions, the same target transitions until they’re muscle memory. When a plan goes sideways, and in the underhive it always does, she’s the one still covering the approach, still hitting center mass, still alive when the smoke clears. The Lemon Jellies trust her because she’s predictable in the best possible way. She may be “just” a ganger, but every successful raid, every defended settlement, has at least one moment where Eureka quietly makes the difference and keeps the whole machine running.

Sammy is still learning which noises in the underhive mean “run” and which mean “hit the deck and don’t breathe.” As a fresh Subtek, he’s barely more than a shadow in oversized armor plates and borrowed gear, trailing behind the Lemon Jellies on cleanup runs and low-risk jobs. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask dumb questions, and listens hard. Especially when Eureka or Menton takes the time to correct his stance or slap his hand away from a hot barrel. For now, staying alive is his primary qualification. What Sammy lacks in skill, he makes up for in eagerness and adaptability. He watches how Meyer commands space, how Citron moves when the fight closes, and how Dot and Sunny vanish upward when things get loud. When ordered to hold a position, he holds it, even when his hands shake. The Lemon Jellies don’t expect much from a Subtek, but they watch closely. If Sammy survives his first few scraps, learns when to keep his head down and when to act, he might earn a real weapon and a real place in the gang. If not, the underhive will take him like it takes everyone else.

Bonzo isn’t a fighter : he doesn’t claim to be, and the Lemon Jellies don’t expect him to be. He’s a tech merchant, a scavenger, and a hanger-on who somehow survives the underhive by keeping his mind and his ledger sharp. Bonzo drifts between the gang’s settlement and nearby trading pits, buying, selling, and occasionally “acquiring” pre-Imperial tech that the Lemon Jellies can’t source themselves. Most gangs ignore him, assuming he’s soft and profitable. Only Meyer and Dorshapo know the truth: Bonzo’s knowledge of the gear, its flaws, and its hidden quirks can be just as deadly as any ganger’s plasma gun. Bonzo thrives on information as much as creds. He tracks who’s upgrading what, which tech is shifting hands in the domes above, and when a shipment might go missing before anyone else notices. In battle, he’s the invisible support: patching weapons, jury-rigging overheating devices, and occasionally tossing a hastily modified gadget into the hands of a desperate fighter. Bonzo’s loyalty isn’t flashy, but it’s reliable. The Lemon Jellies can always count on him to have the right piece of kit, or at least to know where to find it, without ever asking twice. In the underhive, that makes him quietly invaluable.