Corpse town rests in peace, which is to say that no one is shooting each other right now. The gangs – bruised, bloodied, and generally beaten-up – are taking what they feel is a well-earned rest: Those who successfully harvested the mysterious but eagerly sought-after crystals are enjoying the fruits of their hard-earned creds, mainly wild snake and rat-burgers; those who just survived are toasting their escapes with second best; the dead only quickly decay. Or get eaten.

Meanwhile, in the headquarters of the CCCP, the interrogators are far from resting. Piece by piece, they’re extracting tales and stories from the captives dragged in kicking and screaming by the gangs. They have found the Lost. They’ll soon wish they hadn’t.

It soon transpired that the Lost are misnamed – They are home. They are the last remnants of the original inhabitants of Cog-Port. Not those who has crept within its walls and into its ruins years after its fall seeking sanctuary or secrets; the Lost are those who had survived the fall of Cog-Port. Their ancestors saw, heard, and felt whatever it was caused this cataclysm. It may be hoped that their folk memory contains the truth of what occurred. Or it may be feared. In the meantime, the Lost are not telling anymore than this is their home and they want it back. To them the gangs are not explorers or prospectors, they are usurpers and intruders. And they must be driven out with extreme prejudice.

Thus, like the dead, peace decays too. In the glorious circle of ‘life’ that is existence on Necromunda, peace is reborn as violence from which death and its peace grow again. In corpse town, that rebirth begins not with a whimper but with a bang (and then whimpers along with screams, crying, anguished mewling, howls of agony and all the rest). Explosions tear through the CCCP headquarters, the wild snake dives, and traders’ caravanserai. The Lost have come to rescue those who were taken from them.