In the wake of the Battle of Nancora, the planet was evacuated by all remaining Collective forces and the grand foundries of the Technocratic Guild rigged to explode. In their haste to secure their own homeworlds, the Clans retreated swiftly as well, leaving few forces to sift through the rubble of the utterly hostile world that had cost them so many lives to conquer.

But amongst those desolate ruins, hidden beneath layers of shattered permacrete and bent durasteel, one molten heart continued to beat a ragged pulse. Rumor has it that a rogue overseer refused the order to self-destruct, or that perhaps a cell of Technocrats have returned in secret to the planet to relight the fires of industry. Whatever the truth, Foundry Kappa-37 continues to belch its acrid smoke into the Nancoran skies from beneath piles of rubble and debris.

What is found here no longer resembles the production line it once was. Bubbling vats of molten durasteel and slag shift atop rickety rails on unmanned carts, piloted by seemingly no-one. Sudden ventings of scalding hot acids spout from cracked pipelines and vents, bathing the surreal scene in a sickening greenish tint that mingles with the rust red corrosion that permeates the bare durasteel skeleton that still somehow survives beneath the wasted surface.

What purpose all this industry serves is anyone’s guess, but in such turbulent times, gaining control of such an asset would be of vital importance to anyone’s war efforts, for the automated lathes and assembler arms left behind are more than capable of manufacturing any desired munition from blasters and shells to cybernetics and starfighters. If one can wrestle control from the half-finished cyborgs that still roam the hallways, dare the perils of the assembly line and make their way to the central control room, still hanging perilously suspended above a giant crucible of molten durasteel, they can bend this arrhythmic heart of production to their whim — or finish what the Collective had started.