Chapter 2: The Kunning Boss

In the eyes of the defending human soul, the Orkish monsters, who had only just been suppressed were surging back in a fresh, verdant wave of savagery. Small, red-skinned runts, their bodies strapped with fizzing explosives, hurled themselves relentlessly against the Imperial line.

More and more Orks poured from the smoke of the detonations. They no longer charged mindlessly with rusted blades; instead, they traded volleys of gunfire and grenades with the defending soldiers.

Though the human soldiers possessed superior tactical discipline, their fragile frames were no match for the mountain of muscle that was an Ork, and their resolve paled before the greenskins' monomaniacal thirst for battle.

Under the weight of this suicidal charge, the human line finally buckled. Several hulking Orks hefted massive Big Shootas, their heavy suppressive fire drowning out the defenders' response.

The moment the Orks, clutching an assortment of jagged Choppas, breached the perimeter, the human defense collapsed into total route. Not even the summary executions carried out by the Commissariat could stem the tide of fleeing men.

A Commissar in a peaked red cap managed to gun down a few deserters before a closing Ork Boy hewed him to the deck with a massive blade. Crimson vitae fanned across the cold metal plating of the floor.

Amidst the rout, Darrius reaped a grim harvest. He braced a heavy weapon so large it had to be shouldered, venting his fury into the human ranks.

The weapon spoke with a rhythmic Dakka-Dakka-Dakka, its high rate of fire and devastating caliber shredding groups of humans into literal "scraps," physical remains that barely held form.

Smarty and the other Grots were ecstatic. Their shrill, piercing shrieks harmonized with the thunderous Dakka to create a symphony of Orkish violence.

Grots continuously scurried from the shadows, lugging heavy crates of ammunition. Smarty took charge, feeding long belts of shells into the feed-tray to ensure Darrius's fire remained an endless torrent.

The shells were larger than Smarty's own hands, perfectly embodying the Orkish aesthetic: Big, Fast, and Loud. Clinging to Darrius's back, Smarty felt the bone-shaking recoil of every shot. A sense of manic satisfaction rose within the Gretchin; his bloodlust was sated as never before.

The surrounding Grots watched Smarty with naked envy, wishing they were the ones handling the ammo. Bathed in their jealous stares, Smarty's confidence swelled until he felt as though he had physically grown a size larger.

The skirmish drew to a bloody close. Whether they had surrendered, fled, or fought to the bitter end, the human soldiers were all reduced to meat, with the only difference being the size of the pieces.

With no enemies left to kill, the WAAAGH! energy began to subside. The mysterious green psychic tide ebbed, and Darrius's mind finally began to return to normal, no longer enslaved by that strange, overwhelming compulsion.

The sensation had been incredible. A rush more potent than any physical indulgence, perhaps even more intoxicating than hallucinogens. It was no wonder the Orks lived for the WAAAGH!; it was an ancestral instinct so rewarding that no sane creature could resist it.

Finally able to breathe, Darrius slumped onto the floor. There was a faint squelch. A wet, viscous sensation spread beneath him.

Darrius stood up immediately, felt the seat of his pants, and looked down. Oh god... I sat on a Grot.

Human instinct flared briefly, a flash of panic at having killed an "ally." Is this... okay?

"Hahaha! Stoopid! Roight stoopid!" Smarty shrieked, leaping off Darrius's back and pointing at the heap of mangled Grot meat. "Fink ya can take ma spot?! You'ze a dung-eatin' moron!"

The other Grots joined in the jeering, while a few of the craftier ones began picking through the remains to scavenge loose teeth.

The social hierarchy of the Orks was brutally simple. They were cruel to their enemies and crueler to themselves; the "Law of the Biggest Fist" was the only eternal truth.

It took Darrius a moment to adjust, but he realized there was little choice. He was here now, and he was an Ork. He would have to adapt.

Darrius grabbed a nearby Grot by the scruff of its neck, used its hide to wipe the gore off his backside, and found a cleaner spot to sit.

The other Grots gave the massive Ork a wide berth, scurrying past him to the wreckage of the battlefield to begin looting "shiny gubbins."

The same Grots who had worked in perfect unison to haul ammo were now brawling in the ruins over scraps of metal and teeth.

I need to think, Darrius mused, his mind struggling to balance human logic with Orkish impulse. Fighting is fun, but getting killed isn't. There's gotta be a way to have the fun without the dying.

Perhaps it was the limitations of his new green physiology, but no matter how hard he "finked," he kept arriving at the same conclusion: Become the Boss. Only by being the biggest, toughest, meanest, and most "kunnin'" Boss could he ensure a life of constant battle without an early grave.

No, wait. I have a human's IQ! I can't be "out-finked" by an Ork! I gotta think harder. Darrius propped his head in his massive green hands, lost in thought.

The other Orks and Grots ignored him, dismissing him as a "weirdo" as they scavenged for loot and teeth.

Orks were used to "Oddboyz." Some liked "shootin'" more than "choppin'"; some liked blue more than green. If he wanted to sit and stare at a wall, that was his business.

After a long silence, Darrius felt a tap on his shin. He looked down to see Smarty.

The Grot seemed to have grown; he was now a head taller than his peers, and his wiry muscles looked firmer. He led a gang of Grots dragging a pile of strange objects.

"Sneaky Boss," Smarty said, his voice a sycophantic wheeze as he looked up with pride. "I found ya some proppa loot. Got sum shiny bitz, some teef, an' a Humie 'Big Boom'."

Darrius glanced at the pile. Most of it was literal trash.

The "shinies" were just metal buckles and shards of glass. The teeth did give him a brief instinctive urge to grab them; it was currency, after all, but he knew that was the Ork brain talking.

However, there was one genuine prize in the junk: the "Big Boom." It was a Plasma Gun, a true instrument of devastation. When fully charged, a pull of the trigger would unleash a bolt of superheated matter that could melt through anything in its path.

As a Warhammer fan, Darrius recognized the weapon's value instantly. He reached out with a massive green hand and pulled the sophisticated device into his embrace, tracing the vents and coils as if he were admiring a work of art.

Smarty's cunning eyes darted back and forth, his grin widening. He felt he finally had a handle on the "Big Wun." No matter how "sneaky" an Ork claimed to be, they were never as kunnin' as a Grot.