Chapter 11: "I-Finks"

Before the gathered greenskin masses, the Imperial Commissar raised a single middle finger. In the crude language of Ork culture, this gesture was synonymous with skewering a runt on a spit to roast over an open flame, a fate shared by many a Grot. It was an insult of the highest magnitude.

"Ya lot ain't big enough, and ya ain't WAAAGH! enough!" the Commissar roared in fluent, guttural Orkish. "He thinks he can krump me? I challenge your Boss!"

At this, the Ork Boyz erupted in a cacophony of foul language and jagged roars. Yet, despite their fury, none stepped forward to strike.

They were not the Boss. To step out and slay the Commissar now would be a direct challenge to Darrius's authority, an act of insubordination usually resolved by the Boss beating the offender into a green pulp.

"Sneaky Boss! Dat Humie iz talkin' big!"

"Yeah, Boss! Krump 'im! Chop 'im! Mince 'im into squig-feed!" A throng of Boyz crowded around Darrius, their indignation reaching a fever pitch.

"Boss, take my Choppa! Use it!" Ironklaw said eagerly, proffering his massive, notched blade. "Drive it straight down 'iz noggin! Splut! Two 'umie bitz fer da price of wun!"

Darrius felt a headache forming behind his eyes. You're brown-nosing me by lending me your gear? More importantly, he knew he could simply pull the trigger on his kombi-plasma and vaporize the Commissar instantly. But to do so would be "un-Orky."

Greenskins appreciated low cunning and treachery, but they worshipped martial prowess above all else.

Among the diverse Orkish Klans, the speed-freak Evil Sunz, the lootin' Deathskulls, or the wealthy Bad Moons, it was the Goffs who set the standard: the biggest and the best won by charging headlong into the fray with a Choppa in hand. If Darrius declined this duel, he would lose the "respect" of the mob. The challenges to his leadership would become endless and bloody.

He shoved his kombi-weapon into Smarty's arms. Even though the Grot had grown considerably, he staggered under the weight of the reinforced steel.

"Hold my shoota. If dere's a single scratch on da paint when I get back, I'll pop yer head like a fungus-ball," Darrius growled. With that, he gripped Ironklaw's heavy Choppa and stepped toward the Commissar.

"Sir," one of the remaining guardsmen whispered as the Ork approached. "The xenos leader is alone. If we open fire now, the greenskins will lose their head. They'll fall into infighting."

"Negative," the Commissar replied, his gaze fixed on the approaching brute. "If we were in the shadows, an assassination would break their morale. But here? Under the eyes of the whole mob?"

He gestured to the surrounding sea of green faces, Grots, and Squigs.

"To strike him down treacherously now would only trigger a mindless frenzy. They would tear us apart out of pure spite before they ever turned on each other. This is a lesson bought with the blood of thousands who came before us."

The Commissar discarded his bolt pistol and drew his Chainsword. He thumbed the activation stud.

"Slaying their leader in a duel is our only hope for survival. For the Emperor."

With the roar of the chainsword's monomolecular teeth hungry for xenos flesh, the Commissar charged.

Steel met screaming chain-teeth. The two figures, one a towering mountain of green muscle, the other a defiant shadow in black, clashed in a spray of sparks.

Darrius was stunned. He had expected his sheer mass and Orkish strength to end the duel in a single stroke. How could a mere mortal, unaugmented by the rites of the Adeptus Astartes, possess such strength?

Roaring, Darrius shifted to a two-handed grip and shoved. The balance of power broke; the mortal was finally overborne by the xenos's brute force.

But the Commissar did not lose his footing. He rolled with the momentum, pivoting low. The chainsword sang through the air, hissing past Darrius's thigh. Had Darrius not leaped back, his leg would have been severed; instead, he was left with a jagged, cauterized furrow in his green hide.

They traded blows for four more exchanges, a deadly dance of power versus precision. Darrius, a man with zero formal melee training, was being stymied by a creature a fraction of his size.

It makes no sense, Darrius thought, his frustration mounting. How is a mortal this fast? Then, he heard the whispers of the Boyz watching from the sidelines.

"Dat Humie Boss... 'e looks like Ol' One-Eye."

"Ya fink so? Yeah... I finks so too."

"Shurrup, ya git! Ol' One-Eye iz dead! 'E died of bein' old!"

Two Orks nearby started headbutting each other. "You'z da git! Ol' One-Eye can't die! 'E's special! 'E's a Humie, but 'e's un-killable!"

Darrius looked closer. His blood ran cold. There was a faint, shimmering aura of green energy clinging to the Commissar.

It was the "I-Finks" power, the Orkish Waaagh! Field. The Boyz were "finking" their enemy into a legend!

The Waaagh! Field is the Orks' greatest racial cheat-code, a phenomenon where "Mind over Matter" becomes a literal physical law. If Orks "fink" a red truck goes faster, the laws of physics warp to make it so. If they "fink" their scrap-heap guns shouldn't jam, they don't, at least not in Orkish hands.

Humanity's Adeptus Mechanicus had studied this for millennia. At a microscopic level, the Orkish psychic field actually compensates for mechanical tolerances and precision errors. It is consciousness dictating reality.

Darrius wanted to scream. These idiots were "finking" his opponent into a demi-god!

"Ol' One-Eye" was the Orkish name for a legendary human Commissar (known to the Imperium as Sebastian Yarrick). Because Yarrick had defeated so many Waaagh!s, the Orks had elevated him to the status of a boogeyman, a "Humie" so tough he was basically an honorary Ork.

If these Boyz truly "finked" that this Commissar was Ol' One-Eye reborn, Darrius was dead meat. He wasn't Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka; he couldn't survive a fight with a legend.