[img]https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/cantarbria/images/4/49/Under_City.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20130502224846[/img]

Inevitable is a strong word. When the spindling lines of fate coalesce into one immutable path. The anathema of Chaos and all its glorious mind-bending change.

Yet still, some fates are inevitable. No amount of effort could save the shuttle once the missile had struck home, the damage done and the craft sent into a cataclysmic dance through the sky from which it could not recover. The time between the initial strike and the impact providing those on board simply with time to prepare themselves for the coming impact.

The small voidcraft crashed into the archaic ruins of the old city as a comet of smoke, fire and metal. A hab block older than the civil war which had doomed the planet practically collapsed into dust as the shuttle shot through it, pulling back the craft's momentum by only a fraction. A moment later, and the shuttle struck the 'ground' level before ploughing through, shuddering through a ravine of man made construction and into the depths of what had been the Old City's lower levels.

To call it a rough ride would be something of an understatement, but the crew compartments remained intact, preventing the would be treasure hunters from immediate conflagration. As the emergency systems finally wrenched the exits open, a new threat soon began to materialise. A chittering, swarming movement in the dark, only the barest of light reaching down into this new underdark. A laughter of excitement broke out among the mutants gathering towards the downed craft and it was not long before the boldest of their number began to swarm towards the craft. Food and loot for the impoverished hordes.

As the tide of violent, unwashed, death approached the stricken craft and the survivors of the crash, a new noise began to echo over the growls and whoops of the approaching mutants. The building scream of jets bounced from shattered wall to shattered wall. Even to the untrained ear the noise was distinct, clearly artificial yet of a purity of purpose the engineering of the Imperium could not match. Terror shuddering across the air.

With a concussive wave of displaced force, a pair of jetbikes burst into the cavernous space of this particular branch of the Old City. Bathed in darkness, they skimmed across the tide of mutants. The bikes banked once, around the shattered shuttle, before pulling up. A sharp hiss heralded a rain of disk-like motes of light from the new arrivals, and where this rain fell among the crowd of mutated freaks, they fell and died from a thousand bleeding wounds.