Chapter 12: Chosen of Mork

Whether it was a trick of his own fraying nerves or the cold reality of the Warp, Darrius felt the Commissar growing stronger by the second. The chainsword-wielding human was fighting with a burgeoning ferocity; his speed was increasing, his strikes carrying more supernatural weight.

You miserable gitz! Darrius cursed internally at his own warband. If you keep finkin' like this, you're gonna fink me into a grave!

He didn't dare voice his frustration. In the brutal hierarchy of the Orks, a Warboss had to be the biggest, the brawniest, and the most indomitable. Any flicker of doubt was a scent of blood in the water. A "soft" Boss was a weak Boss, and a weak Boss was destined to be replaced by the nearest ambitious Nob.

The two combatants clashed again, the shriek of metal on metal filling the bay, before springing apart. A jagged furrow was torn across Darrius's chest, the humming teeth of the chainsword having chewed through thick muscle and corded tissue. In return, the Commissar sported a long, weeping red line across his abdomen.

Darrius was fighting a war of attrition, trading blood for blood. He gambled on the fact that an Ork's physiology could endure horrors that would liquefy a human. A chainsword wound was a setback for him; a single clean hit from his massive Choppa would be a death sentence for the mortal.

Yet, bolstered by the Orkish Waaagh! Field, the Commissar seemed reinforced. When Darrius's blade had connected, it hadn't felt like cutting flesh, it felt like striking a reinforced adamantium plate.

This is cheating! My own Boyz are sabotaging me! Darrius scanned the crowd of leering green faces with a mix of fury and desperation.

Then, he spotted a familiar, eccentric figure twitching in the crowd: Kukka, the Weirdboy, performing a spasmodic, rhythmic shuffle.

Mork be praised, Darrius thought. I've got it.

"Kukka! Ya said I was bein' watched by Mork 'imself! Dat I 'ad Mork's own blessin'!" Darrius bellowed, his voice booming so all could hear. "I fink ya wuz right! I feel it now!"

"Eh? I dunt—" Kukka stopped his erratic dancing, looking bewildered. He opened his mouth to protest that he'd said no such thing, but Darrius cut him off with the thunder of a Warboss.

"Look at me! My shoota nevva misses a killeen shot! My Choppa always finds da soft bitz of da sneaky humies! Dat ain't luck, dat's da Gaze of Mork!"

The surrounding Orks looked at the red ruin on the Commissar's belly and began to nod. It made a certain kind of "sensible" Orkish logic.

Kukka, being a Weirdboy, was naturally stubborn and more than a little touched in the head. He still didn't sense Mork's gaze on Darrius and prepared to argue.

"Yes! Dat's roight! Sneaky Boss iz definitely Mork's Chosen!"

It was Smarty who saved the day. The Grot, still clutching Darrius's kombi-weapon, shrieked at the top of his lungs. "I seen it from 'is shoulda! I nevva seen a Boss shoot so straight or hit so 'ard! It'z a miracle, it iz!"

The seeds of suggestion took root in the fertile, violent minds of the Boyz. A low rumble of conversation spread through the mob.

"E'z got a point. I nevva seen a Boss shoot like 'im."

"An' 'e's dead kunnin', too. Led us 'round da back an' kicked da humies roight in da exhaust port."

"Even Smartnog said 'e wuz a smart wun. An' Smartnog is da smartest Mek dere iz!"

"If Smartnog finks so, den it's true! 'E's got da blessin'! 'E's Mork's favorite!"

The "I-Finks" field began to shift. The momentum of the psychic gestalt surged away from the "legendary" human and flowed toward Darrius. Even Kukka began to scratch his head, wondering if he'd simply missed the divine green light shining off his leader.

"Watch diz!" Darrius roared, seizing the moment. He focused every ounce of his will as he raised the Choppa with both hands. "Mork tells me dis one chop iz gonna split dis humie in two! He can't even move!"

On the other side, the Commissar felt a sudden, chilling shift in the air. His confidence, previously bolstered by a strange, righteous wind at his back, evaporated. He felt heavy, slow, and suddenly very, very mortal.

He thumbed the trigger of his chainsword, the weapon coughing and sputtering as if the machine spirit itself were afraid. He raised the blade to parry, intending to catch the Ork's blow and counter with a decapitating strike.

In that heartbeat, the world fractured for the Commissar. His vision split in twain, followed instantly by a void of crimson and shadow.

Driven by the collective belief of hundreds of Orks, Darrius's Choppa didn't just parry the chainsword, it sheared through the Imperial weapon like a hot knife through grox-butter. The blade continued its downward arc, cleaving the Commissar from crown to sternum before burying itself deep into the deck-plating.

"WAAAGH!" Smarty led the cry, and the loading bay erupted. The Boyz, the Grots, and every Squig in the vicinity surged forward in a manic frenzy. They swept past Darrius like a green flood, overrunning the final Imperial pocket and slaughtering every soul left standing.

Once the soldiers were gone, the Orks turned their blades on the servitors and thralls still chained to the loading mechanisms. These lobotomized husks, their emotions long ago surgically removed by the Adeptus Mechanicus, didn't even scream. They simply kept pulling their chains and levers until they were hacked into scrap and gristle. In the grim darkness of the Imperium, they were merely biological components, born to toil and destined to be forgotten.

Darrius exhaled, leaning on his gore-stained blade. He'd been genuinely worried the "I-Finks" wouldn't pivot in time. Had the Boyz kept believing in the human, his head would be on a trophy rack right now.

As he stood over the bisected remains of the Commissar, a strange sensation washed over him. The green aura that had once protected the human was being drawn into Darrius. He felt his bones knit, his muscles swell, and his stature grow. He was becoming taller, broader, and more terrifying.

He wasn't the only one; the Boyz around him seemed to stand a little straighter, their green hides darkening with newfound vigor.

However, the cost had been high. His mob was thinned out; many Boyz had fallen, and his Grot and Squig numbers were decimated. He needed more lackeys.

If only I could get some fresh reinforcements, he mused.

As if answering his thought, the outer bulkhead of the loading bay buckled and shrieked. A massive, cylindrical Boarding Torpedo slammed through the hull, skidding across the deck in a spray of sparks.

The hatches blew outward. From the smoking interior, over a thousand Orks spilled out, weapons raised and screaming "WAAAGH!" into the rafters. They expected a desperate fight against a wall of Imperial steel.

Instead, they found a silent charnel house and one very large, very mean-looking Ork standing amidst the ruins.

Darrius grinned, revealing rows of jagged tusks. Five meters tall now, he loomed over the newcomers like a minor deity of war.

Some of the new arrivals looked ready to challenge him. Darrius didn't waste words; he walked over and began "persuading" them with the heavy end of his fist, one thick skull at a time. It was the Orkish way of "Physical Reasoning."

Very quickly, he had a brand new mob.