Hive Punk Lucky Louig

WS 30 BS 40 S 30 T 30 Ag 35 Per 40 Int 30 WP 35 Fel 25

Movement: 3/6/12/24 Wounds: 13 Armor: 0/0/0/0 Insanity: 5 Corruption: 27
Skills: Common Lore (Underhive), Dodge, Inquiry, Linguistics (Low Gothic), Stealth, Survival, Tech-use
Talents: Weapon Training (Melee, Solid Projectile), Jaded, Light Sleeper, Lucky Dodge, Machine Empathy,
Traits:
Gear:  Recruit robes, Lucky Star

I was Lucky Louig, a hive punk born under the right stars but cursed with the wrong constellation. The underhive was my home, and the hive gang was my family. We fought for scraps, and I trusted my fellow gangers for survival in the unforgiving depths of the hive city. My only solace in those grim surroundings was a plasteel piece shaped like a star, glowing dimly in the darkness of my cupboard home—a token that helped me to sleep among the cacophony of my existence.

Life in the underhive was a constant battle, but I, Lucky Louig, had two apparent blessings. Whenever the fists of rival gang members rained down upon me, I miraculously avoided serious wounds. And when I dared to interface with the machines that littered our grimy surroundings, they inexplicably favored me. It was as if the very essence of the underhive recognized me as one of its own.

However, life took a drastic turn when the enforcers launched a purge raid on the underhive. In the chaos that ensued, I found myself among hundreds of juvenile gangers rounded up and delivered to the Adeptus Mechanicus for processing. A tech-priest, his augmentations whirring and clanking, scanned us to determine our fates—whether we would be assigned to chemical waste pit cleaning duties, servitorhood or conscripted into the Imperial Guard.

But the machine beeped differently as it scanned me. Lucky Luig, the hive punk, was selected for a different path. The Ordo Assassinorum claimed me as their tithe, and my life took an unexpected turn. Loneliness and insecurity gnawed at me as I stepped away from the familiar faces of my gang into the sterile, unfamiliar environment of the assassin’s training dome.

In the shuttle bound for the sky, leaving the underhive far below, I longed for the comradery and pack mentality that had defined my existence. Among the cold and calculating agents of the Assassinorum, I felt like a thing. The only comfort I carried was the hidden dimly glowing star-shaped token, a relic of my past life.

As the shuttle ascended, I pondered what awaited me in the stars above. The anticipation turned into dread as I was thrown alone into a small cell aboard a star vessel, isolated from the familiar chaos of the underhive. The cold metal walls echoed with the distant hum of the ship’s engines, and I was left to wait, uncertain of my destiny in the vast, unforgiving reality.