The space around the Beat Stikk arena was far too crowded for the number of Boyz that were supposed to be there, and there was a disturbing lack of shooting happening at the empty Dakka range. I grinned at having a perfectly legitimate excuse to bring the hammer down. I stomped through the crowd, literally flinging aside two Orks that didn't get out of my way fast enough. At the center of the fight stood a beaten, bedraggled, and helmetless Ork. All along the edge of the arena lay a dozen unconscious and badly damaged Orks, their bodies dragged into a rough circle to surround the ring.
Looking at the Ork in the center, it was clear he had broken plenty of bones. Were they not following the rules? I turned to the ‘arbiter’, Grikkle, raising an eyebrow and motioning at the Ork. Grikkle just grinned, hopping off the high chair that sat atop a small platform, his floppy black hat nearly falling off his head. The Orks didn't make way for him, but neither did they bother him, which was tantamount to royal treatment for a medium sized Grot. The hat, which I’d recently granted the goblin as a symbol of his status as the pet goblin of a Nob, would give him some amount of safety, so long as he didn’t get uppity. The goblin ran up my leg and quickly perched on my shoulder, having already decided on his favorite spot, right atop my left pauldron, feet hanging off the side like kids on a dock.
“Dis Boyz real ‘ard-like. He didn't even bovva wiff dah ‘elmet, and keeps asking fer more to fight wiff” said Grikkle, and approving smile on his face. I took a moment to size up the Ork, the way he held his Beat Stikk, and the way he kept his legs apart. A tiny part of my mind said the Ork seemed familiar, but all Orks seemed that way to me, and I dismissed the thought. Turning back to Grikkle, I asked “Did dis git go by dah rulez? First wiff two broken bones iz out?” Grikkle looked a bit sheepish at the question, ears twisting slightly as he reassured me everything was as I'd asked. I didn't believe it for a second, and grabbed him by the ear. I twisted it enough to be painful without causing permanent damage, which turns out to be quite a lot, given Orks remarkable toughness and regenerative abilities. The little bastard squealed and whined that there was nothing he could do. I slowly stopped the ear-twisting at this admission, Orky bits saying it was only logical that he couldn't do anything, and human bits questioning my decision making skills in putting a damnable GROT in charge of enforcing the rules. Not that I could back down on that decision in front of everything. No, I'd have to make them fear disobeying me more than being annoyed that a Grot was referee.
With as calm a face as I could, I slowly extracted myself from my armor, baring my muscled body to the cool cave air. Terror at leaving myself open to attack was mind-numbing, but the risk of standing by and doing nothing was far worse. Once they started questioning my leadership, they'd work together to take me down, or worse, think of a clever plan to take me out when I was weakest. I had to face this head on. But I had one advantage the rest lacked. I looked fondly at my personal Beat Stikk, the weapon being thicker, longer, and hollowed out, making it tougher and faster to swing. Physics, oh how I love you.
As I extracted myself from my armor, I got to watch the Ork fight another contender. The two squared off, the crowd roaring, jeering, and cheering as they circled each other. Both screamed and roared at each other, and after a few moments of posturing, the two collided in a tidal wave of flesh. Fists were exchanged, and Beat Stikks struck bare flesh. Blood sprayed from busted lips, followed by ever growing roars of excitement and pain. There was no finesse or skill, just brute strength. There were barely any attempts to block blows either, just an endless barrage of attacks. And as I watched, I slowly forgot my intent to discipline the Boyz, and was pulled into the excitement, screaming with the crowd at each blow.
Slowly, the Orks wore each other down. Teef were broken, bodies bruised, and blood stained the rough, sandy floor. More than a few bones were broken, but neither would relent. Finally, a blow to the head cracked the helmet of one, sending the contender to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, and my enthusiasm had me moving into the arena, and slapping the victor on the back. This was far from the norm, and the Ork, thinking I was attacking him, spun around and swung his Stikk at me. I caught it with my mechanical arm and twisted it from his grip before grabbing his other arm and raising it high into the air. I roared into the Orks ear, screaming his victory to the crowd. He managed to get the picture once other Orks started hitting him on the back, mimicking my strange form of praise.
The victor soon broke a collarbone from the ‘praise’ of his colleagues, but he only beamed brighter, a smile of childish glee splitting his face. It was a moment to remember, all the Orks following my lead in cheering on the winner. It took a bit to calm things down, but when I made motion for another fight to begin, the crowd returned to the edges of the arena, and contenders quickly moved forward, Grikkle selecting the next two fighters. As a reward for the previous victor, I allowed him to sit on the raised stand along with me, my three bodyguards, and Grikkle, as well as a promise of a new melee weapon. The Ork nearly died of pride, the sight killing all fear of an assault. With a shout, the games began.
Ork after Ork entered the arena, and while none actually stuck to the two bone rule, fights were stopped before permanent damage was done, though one case required my /personal/ touch to get it through the Orks skull ( almost literally) that killing a downed Ork was just making everyone else wait for the next fight. Each winner was allowed to sit atop the ramp, and promises of a new weapon were made for exceptional victors. Everything was perfect. Orky me was as much apart of my actions as human me, each enjoying the spectacle in full, and in those precious minutes, it was as if we were truly the same being. The feeling was incredible, and slowly, the sensation of oneness grew more permanent. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, our little party was interrupted by very rude guests. As we cheered on yet another fight between two of the larger Orks, a loud ruckus started on the outskirts of the ring.
Cries of pain and anger rose above the general clatter, and a small Ork was thrown from beyond the crowd and into the arena, smacking the ground right next to the struggling combatants. The cheering slowly died, replaced with confusion and annoyance. I got to my feet, peering above the heads of the crowd, and spotted the disturbance. A massive, heavily armored Ork was bellowing at the crowd, waving his two-handed Choppa back and forth. Behind him were several dozen Boyz, each equipped with some studded leather armor, pistol and Choppa, with the occasional two handed Shoota, and even a shoulder-mounted minigun my Orky mind recognized as a Deffgun.
I almost lunged out of my seat, ready to do battle at the sight of the foreign Orks, but the cooler human head prevailed, sort of. I turned to Grikkle and shoved him towards the Ork. “Go figure out wot dat git wantz.” The Grot was far from pleased at this order, and when he made no immediate moves to follow them, I grabbed him by the legs and hurled him off the platform and in the general vicinity of the commotion. Slightly panicked, and extremely eager, I ran over to my Mega Armor, and started the difficult process of entering the suit, with only my three dim-witted Ork bodyguards to assist me. Despite the troubles, I was fully suited up before the crowd parted way for the massive Ork, who held my favorite Grot by the feet, shaking him rigorously. The sight filled me with fury, and all thought of careful maneuvering to get a personal duel went out the window.
I leaped off the platform, slamming into the floor with a force that sent small cracks running through the stone. Activating my Voice Enhancer, I roared as loudly as I could at the intruder. “Wotz your fink you’re doin’, puttin’ dem filthy ‘ands on MY Grot? Lookin’ tah lose dem fingerz, iz yah?!” The fearsome bellow grabbed every Orks attention, some taking several steps back out of instinctive fear. The Nob, and Nob he must be, given his thick armor and fine Choppa, only stared blankly at me, hand still holding Grikkle. After an awkward moment, the Ork grinned, and shook my Grot again. “Oh, iz dis little fellah yourz? ‘Es a yummy lookin’ git, ain't he? Maybe iz eat ‘im and let you keep dat bucket o’ rust your Boyz gone and stole.” The Ork grinned even wider, opening his massive jaw and dangling Grikkle above him, two fingers holding him by the shirt.
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Stolen rust bucket? The wheels ( pun intended ) turned in my head, and seeing the nervous looks on what I believe were the Scav squads, the allegations of theft were no doubt true. Not that it mattered. This git was a dead Ork walking. But first, a bit of humiliation. “Now now, dere’s no need to call your only Trukk a rust bucket. Maybe iz give it to you, on account oh how poor and pitiful you lot iz.” This got the intended results, with all of my Boyz laughing, and a few of my target’s Orks snickering behind his back. The Ork roared in a fury, throwing Grikkle to the ground and stomping closer. “You’z gotz a tongue, you do. I finkz iz rip it out, and you not be so mouthy den!” I laughed at the threat, revving my chainsword. The Ork hesitated for a moment as he started to properly size me up, but I gave him no time to rethink his actions. With casual indifference, I unhooked my chainsword and threw it at his feet. “Maybe you take dat as well. Maybe den you’z ‘ave a real chance at giving me a scar to remember your quick death.”
The Orks howled in delight at this, the two parties swiftly mixing with no care of allegiances. This was a fight between bosses, and nobody would bother interfering. Why ruin a perfectly good fight for some silly reasons like loyalty? The Nob didn't take too kindly to this, and bitch-slapped an Ork with the back of his Choppa, sending the Ork to the ground. Annoyed, and unwilling to let such an opening go unpunished, I leapt forward, swinging my heavily armored fist at the Nob.
I'll give one thing to the git, he was fast. His blade swept out to intercept my blow, clashing against the forearm of the arm. But instead of slapping the heavy arm aside, as he no doubt intended, the thin plate collapsed under the blow, the blade catching on the inner skeletal frame. The Ork tried to pull his weapon free, but my cybernetic fist smashed into his face. The blow was powerful, and left plenty of rough cuts along his jaw, but the Ork hardly even flinched, returning the blow with his own, his other arm still pulling at his weapon. His fist struck my face hard, but I was far too Orky to let it bother me. Instead, I grabbed his shoulder, and slammed my leg against the side of his knee. The leg buckled, and the Ork dropped, stopping halfway down as he caught himself on the blade, still stuck on the inner skeleton of my armor. I punched the git in the face again, then stomped on his chest, the piston-powered limb smashing the Ork into the ground. Bones broke beneath me, and I didn't hesitate to stomp again, this time on the Orks head. He managed to get his arms up in time, but it wasn't enough, and I cracked his skull on the stone floor. Without missing a beat, I repeated the stomping until his skull was crushed flat, only fragments strewn across the floor.
The whole crowd, friend and foe alike burst into cheers, and a few of my Boyz mimicked my clapping and shoulder slapping from earlier, two breaking wrists against my metal armor. A few of the foreign Boyz tried to join in, and I let them, though I gave them each a stare that made them hunch over, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Once the excitement started to die down, I raised my arms, signaling for silence. Some of the new Boyz had to be smacked over the head before they got with the program, but otherwise the crowd went still.
“You new Boyz, you lot finkin’ you can just stroll on up ‘ere and cause trouble, only to just join my Boyz?! I don't fink so. You lot wantz to be part o’ my Stormboyz, youz gotta prove you’z ‘ard nuff. I gotz no room for freeloaders. You can either work as a scav boy, bringing me stuff tah melt or fix up, or you’z can prove you gotz dah strength to join.”
The announcement caused quite the stir, and without prompting, the new Boyz were herded into the center of the crowd and right in front of me. I looked down at the panicking Boyz, and did my best evil mastermind smile. By the looks of sheer terror on their faces, it worked. I paused for dramatic effect, then continued. “You want to join? Youz gotta be able to fly a Rokket, shoot like a propah Ork, and fight ‘Ard.” This brought cheers and jeers from my Orks, and somewhat relieved looks from the newcomers. Oh boy, but were they wrong to stop worrying.
The first stop was the shooting range. I had each of the new Boyz line up, and five were given permission to shoot at once. A sixth joined in, but I removed his head with my chainsword. The newbies immediately stopped firing and pulled back in fear as I screamed at them, “When did I say dat git could shoot?! When I sayz you can shoot, you can shoot. Only dah REAL Boyz ‘ere have dat right, cause DEY can ‘it dah cave wall wiffout missing ‘alf dah shots!” probably a lie, but one that would hopefully signal my expectations for the rest of my mob. I waited for a bit, letting the fear dig its way a little deeper. I gave the order again, and only two hit the target in the three alloted shots. I broke the arm of one who even missed the cave wall with all three shots, and threw him to the crowd, who quickly beat him to the ground, and dragged him to the rest of the unconscious Orks. Three hunched as low to the ground as they could, but the fourth looked at me with innocent curiosity, and asked the obvious question. “I fot dah shootin’ wozn’t all ‘bout ‘itting all dah time. Iz more ‘bout dah noise and being dah killiest, right?”
This got more than a few nods, but the wiser Orks chuckled as they saw my brows furrow. I took on a deep breath, leaned in, and spoke in an ominously quiet voice. “Dah ‘oomies can hit from you all dah way from my workshop up dere. Dah Orks is dah best, and though our weapons iz ‘arder, kicks like mad, and is more killy, I won't ‘ave any Boy dat finks being lesser den DOSE OOMIES IS SUMFFIN WORF BEIN’! DAH GREENSKINS IS DAH BEST!” The last words were bellowed out mere inches from the unfortunate Ork’s face. Every Boy within ten feet took several steps back, fear and confusion clear on their faces. But the chant of ‘Greenskins iz best!’ quickly spread through the crowd. Soon, the entire group was screaming and shouting, waving their weapons in the air. To hammer in my point, I grabbed a Slugga from one of the Boyz, and proceeds to land eight out of ten shots straight in the center of the plate, where the indents were the deepest. The crowd grew louder, and I turned on my Voice Enhancer to yell over the crowd. “Iz be a Mek, and Iz be makin’ dah killiest, shootiest Dakka guns you have evva seen. If you fink Iz gonna give dem to some snotling who can't even hit wif a Slugga, den you should just throw yourself into dah scav pot, cause you ain't gonna get ‘Ard like me and dah REAL Stormboyz.”
Once again, more yelling and roaring of approval, though the looks on most faces seemed to still be more than a little confused, and were just going with the flow. I roared one more time, firing my Slugga in the air for extra effect. “Iz goin’ to finish up dem weapons right now. You lot haz an hour before Iz coming back. Any git dat can ‘it dah plate free outta five times can stay, dah others gonna be scav gatherers or made into Squig feed. Any git dat can ‘it it six outta seven times is gonna gets one of dem new gunz. Get too it!”
This announcement immediately led to a mob-wide scramble for the ammo pile, each Ork fearing failure, and extremely excited for the potential reward. The ammo wouldn't last long with over a hundred Orks firing their Sluggas, but getting the Orks to actually HIT was far more important than ammo reserves. I might have been a little over the top with my expectations, but I would follow through. Even the squad leaders would be made into lowly scav collectors if they couldn't handle such a simple task. I wasn't going to waste my time outfitting sub-par soldiers, they had to be willing to train hard to stay in my good graces. The rest would be forced to do the dirty work, or act as meat shields in the coming battles. As for me, once again, my entire body ached with the need to make, and somehow, the answer to my energy problem was as clear as day. I grinned. The Ork life is a damn fine one. All that was left was figuring out the whole /mushroom/ problem. But such things would have to be left for a later date. Like after I found someone to DATE. Minor problems that would surely work themselves out in the future. The galaxy was surely crawling with hotties lookin’ for some Ork action, right? Damn right, there are, or there WILL be after I'm through making my mark. Images of hot female warriors, clad in booby-licious power armor filled my mind as I returned to work.
Mork and Gork looked down upon the galaxy, and saw that it was full of death and destruction. With no reason to spur things on any more than they already were, and after a quick checkup on their favorite Ork, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thrakka, they returned to beating the shit out of each other, as they had done millenia after millenia. Truly, a life worth envying.