Chapter 4: Gear Up

Watching the rowdy, brawling mob of greenskins before him, Darrius couldn't help but feel that while they were barbaric and cruel, they were also remarkably earnest. There was a strange charm to them; they were happy, like a pack of oversized, carefree hooligans.

Fine, a Warboss it is then, he thought. As a greenskin, he lacked certain... "attachments," making the human dream of marrying a beauty and rising to the peak of life a physical impossibility. Constant warfare was dangerous, and one could get "krumped" at any second.

But was being reborn as a human any safer? Rebels, Chaos, Tyranids, the Inquisition, everyone in this galaxy was out to kill you. Being a "Humie" might actually get you dead faster.

As a happy-go-lucky Ork, why not just enjoy the present in this dark millenium?

Having reached this epiphany, Darrius stood tall, shoulders back. His field of vision expanded instantly; he truly was the biggest and tallest brute in the vicinity.

He holstered his modified plasma gun at his waist and raised a massive hand, delivering a thunderous slap to the head of a Boy locked in a wrestling match. It was a crisp, resonant sound. Truly a fine head.

No wonder Smartnog loved hitting him; this was addictive. Darrius proceeded to deliver a rhythmic succession of slaps across the bald pates of the nearby Boyz, stopping only after he'd cracked a few dozen.

It wasn't that Darrius wanted to stop, but rather that the Boyz had all been slapped flat. They crouched on the deck, clutching their heads in a display of submission. Boss, we getz it! Stop hittin' uz!

Smarty had reappeared out of nowhere, tailing Darrius like a shadow. Every time Darrius floored a Boy, the Grot would scurry up and deliver a spiteful kick, playing the part of the Boss's lackey to perfection.

"Stay sharp, ya gitz!" Smarty shrieked between kicks. "Sneaky Boss says ya only krump when 'e says krump! Ya only WAAAGH! when 'e says WAAAGH!"

After finishing his "encouragement," Smarty scrambled back up onto Darrius's shoulder, wearing his most sycophantic grin. "Sneaky Boss, Great Mek Smartnog told uz to 'it da Powa Room an' smash da Humies. We movin' out now?"

"No. We wait," Darrius grunted. "Tell da Boyz to get more gear and more explosives before we go. And you, do ya actually know where da Power Room is?"

They were clearly aboard an Imperial starship, though Darrius couldn't identify the specific class. It felt like a massive capital ship, a vessel the size of a small hive city. Without a map, getting lost was a certainty.

"I dunt—" Smarty started to say, but he caught himself. Ork Bosses were notoriously violent; a wrong answer could mean a messy end. He pivoted instantly. "I mean, dere ain't nuffin' I dunt know! Just ya wait, Boss, I'll get uz dere."

With that, Smarty leapt down and, invoking the name of the Sneaky Boss, rounded up a gang of Grots and Squigs. They scurried through the crowd and vanished from sight.

A few minutes passed before Darrius realized something: Wait, did that runt just leg it? It was a distinct possibility; Gretchin were notoriously shifty creatures.

If I see that Smarty again, I'm definitely squashing his head, Darrius thought grimly.

"You! Yeah, you. Come 'ere!" Darrius pointed at a particularly large Ork.

"Whazzat, Boss?"

"What's your name?"

"Me? I'ze Ironklaw."

Darrius glanced at the Ork's crude bionic claw and marveled at the sheer simplicity of Orkish naming conventions.

"Go count da Boyz. Den go find more lads nearby. More Boyz means a bigger Waaagh!"

After sending Ironklaw off, Darrius roared at the crowd, "Any Spanners or Mekboyz in here?"

Soon, half a dozen smaller but noticeably shiftier Orks approached. They were accompanied by Grots lugging heavy wrenches and hammers.

"Listen up. I'm leading you to krump some Humies. To krump 'em proper, we need better gubbinz. You got three hours. I want more Shootas, more Choppas, more Big Booms, an' Stikkbombs. If you can get Warbikes or Killa Kans, even better."

Darrius still wasn't used to the Orkish accent, and his speech sounded a bit "off" to the greenskin ear.

Finishing his decree, Darrius reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of teeth, the currency Smarty had "gifted" him earlier, and handed them over.

The Spanners and Meks looked hesitant. One opened his mouth to complain, but the sheer pressure of the Boss's presence stifled the words.

If you want them to work overtime, you gotta pay them right, Darrius thought. He reached into the crowd, grabbed several Boyz by their collars, and delivered a swift punch to each of their faces. Teeth flew like confetti.

By the time he hit the tenth Boy, the Mekboyz' gloomy expressions had turned into broad, toothy grins. They snatched up the currency, thumping their chests and promising the Boss that the job would be done.

Under Darrius's direct orders, the chaotic, brawling mob transformed. They shifted into a state of feverish war-preparation. The transition from a disorganized rabble to a focused force was so stark they almost looked like a different species.

The Old Ones didn't skip a beat when they engineered these things, Darrius mused. The biological talent for total war is baked into their very marrow.

Three hours passed in a blur of welding sparks and hammering. Darrius's warband had shed its ragtag image, evolving into a well-equipped, savage machine of slaughter.

Ironklaw had done his job well; the number of Boyz had doubled to over a thousand. As for the Grots, their numbers were even higher, though no Ork truly cared to count the runts.

Fueled by the payment of teeth, the Spanners had displayed incredible initiative. Not only was every Boy now armed with a long-range Shoota, but they had even cobbled together several Big Guns (recoilless rifles). Every Ork carried a satchel of Stikkbombs.

The crowning achievement, however, was a pair of six-meter-tall Killa Kans the Mekboyz had bolted together from scrap and ship debris. The corridor felt claustrophobic just having them there.

The Killa Kans were terrifying. The massive hydraulic claw on the left arm had enough crushing force to snap an Ork Nob in two. The right arm featured a monstrous buzzsaw; its frenzied rotation and size were enough to saw through an Imperial tank, let alone a man.

Twin-linked Big Shootas, or Big Dakka, as the Boyz preferred were mounted on their torsos, with Grot pilots inside, itching to vent their fury in a hail of lead.

Everything was ready. With a force this WAAAGH!, Darrius believed nothing could stop them. The Green Tide would drown all in its path.

The only problem remained: Where is the Power Room? You can't have a proper scrap without finding the enemy first. Darrius's thoughts drifted back to the "missing" Smarty.

Just as he was imagining exactly how he would krump that sneaky runt, a shrill cry echoed from the back of the mob.