The morning came as it always did, when my belly growled too loudly to ignore. Stretching, I shambled out of my shack, snagging a roasted squig carefully positioned by one of my Grots, to lower the chances of him being turned into breakfast instead. A smile split my face to look upon my Mobz base. Scrap lay sprawled in great piles, along with much smaller piles of specific parts or metal ingots. Several tonnes of medium quality steel lay ready for molding into whatever came to the imagination, and my mind was full of insane and brilliant designs. However, I resisted the urge to begin creating. I was a Boss, after all, and my Mob needed minding.

  Yes, the time had finally come. I always keep my promises, and the Squigs would be feasting well today. But first, to deal with Pig-Boy… er, Aaron. There were plenty of tasks to assign a Mek, but he clearly had a penchant for vehicle work, given his previous life as a car mechanic. His ability to create cybernetic parts was definitely interesting, and I could think of a few improvements to my own cybernetic arm, but again, the Mob came first. Specifically, their transport. Rokkets were costly in terms of fuel, as well as weight, and slogging it on foot or flying all the way to the battlefield just wasn’t a good idea. That was why I had built my original Trukk. Or rather, what my human side used to justify its creation by Orky me. But one Trukk wouldn’t handle my entire Mob, which was somewhere in the range of 150 boyz, down from the 250 odd boyz I had inherited. I didn’t count the new hangers-on as my own yet, as they needed to prove themselves.

  150 boyz, minus any culling, and plus any successful recruits. That was a lot to transport. A good sized Trukk could carry anywhere from 10 to 20 Boyz, but that didn’t include their Rokkets, or the extra ammo I would want to be bringing. Thus, I would have to keep their numbers fairly low. The Grots could just hang on to the outside, like usual. Thus, I would need a dozen Trukks or more. But where to get them? Fortunately, my Boyz had already handled that part. Half a dozen stripped down vehicles had been looted from a nearby Speed Freak clan which could be worked on for now, and there was plenty more to be taken, once the Boyz were ready. Plus, it would be good to give the Boyz a proper fight, and solidify the hierarchy. Keep the rambunctious Boyz in line by showing them what a REAL Ork could do.

  In addition, I had my new Meks to put to work. With both need and ability, it was a clear what to do. I gave Aaron a call over the comms, and gave him the plan. He accepted with some temerity, which I assumed was due to having to work directly with other Orks, given his previous attitude. I could care less. He’d do the work, or he’d find himself another human-Ork hybrid to shelter behind. Oh, wait, I was the only one. Funny, that.

  Meks and transport needs handled, it was time to check on the Boyz. I gathered my three bodyguards, who were currently lounging about, enjoying the easy life, and occasionally picking a fight with random passersby, heading down the road-like tunnel leading through the encampment. I led the three through the camp, eyeing the small squads as they went about their business. Most were doing a fair job following my orders, albeit not exactly following the rotation I had set up. That had seemingly been abandoned as soon as I left to do some Mek work, but the spirit remained. Now, the weakest squads did the majority of scrap gathering, while the strongest spent their time polishing their gear, and training with their Rokkets. The middling did whatever was available at the time, and if the Rokket range was occupied, they did some shooting, or more often, Beat Stikk.

  My passing did lead to a considerable shift towards the firing range, but time had started to wear away at the fear my threats had imposed. It was time to fix that. I gave my three bodyguards the order, and the squads were slowly rounded up. Including new recruits, there were roughly five hundred Boyz assembled, most with only the minimum uniform, including leather armor, a slugga, a choppa, and a Rokket. Most of the new Boyz had the most shoddy of Rokkets, likely bought off Hedsnagga from his scrap heap. I’d be fixing that, once the culling was done. No Boy of mine would be wearing such trash.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Once the scav Boyz had returned, it was time. I could already see plenty of nervous shifting amongst the Orks, as it slowly dawned on them just what was about to happen. Bosses made threats, its what they did. Mostly, it was just bluster, and the real punishments were dealt on an individual level, when a Boss or Nob decided to smack a gitz head and get him back in line. Few ever went through with the worse threats. I was an exception.

  As the first squad finished showing off, all failing spectacularly, I leveled my coilgun, and let her rip. Modified specifically for this occassion, primed to fire faster, and with less power per shot, it was easy to cripple, but not kill, the failures. The Orks were sliced up good, leaving them badly injured, and easy prey. I took off their limbs with my chainchoppa while they struggled weakly to fight back, leaving them with just their heads and torsos, bellowing out in fury and pain. Then, their bodies were dragged to an Attack Squig den, and thrown in. The screams took on a more frantic pitch, and some of the weaker Orks looked on with fear. Good. Fear would see them follow orders. The strong, I didn’t mind failing to follow as rigidly, as was their right.

  Despite my display of intent, there was no mutiny, no civil war. It was the arrogance of the Orks that proved their undoing. Many would not pass, but few considered that they would fail, not truly. And even fewer considered the possibility that they’d actually die for their failure, even after seeing the results for themselves. Death was seen as something other gitz did. This made it surprisingly easy to have each squad step up, and take the test. Few succeeded. My chainchoppa’s teeth broke twice during the culling, and replacements had to be brought in by my Grots. I didn’t care. I never stopped looking my Mob in the eyes, even as the screams of the failures echoed in my ears.

  Orks are tough bastards, but aren’t cruel, not truly. They act almost entirely on instinct, and little of their actions are malicious. Humans, on the other hand, we have a mean streak a mile wide. That was one of the few tools in my arsenal that few other Orks would have, and I would use it to the utmost. If I didn’t, I’d end up dead, pure and simple. It was these Orks now, or me in the near future. I had few qualms when that truth was laid bare, and I didn’t hesitate, not after the first kill, and not after the hundredth. However, unlike normal fighting, my Orky side found only a little joy in the culling, instead watching with a curiosity that had me worried. It would not do to have Orky me gain a cruel streak, that was a tool human me needed. So I wrestled and distracted my Orky side, forcing him away from the forefront of my senses, and focused on the thrill of a brawl, though one fought with minds, and not muscles.

  Once all was said and done, a mere one-hundred and thirty-seven Boyz remained. Less than half of their original numbers. Most were from the original band of Stormboyz, but they had had their own losses as well. The Orks had a somewhat sober look to them as the last squad was dealt with, and it was the perfect moment to introduce my next big change. With a mutter into my Comms, Grikkle took to the stage, followed by over a hundred Rokket Grots. With a wave to regain their attention, I began my speech.

  “My Boyz, I hope you’z seen dah price o’ failyah. I won’t have no Gitz in dis Mob wotz less killy than a humie. They isn’t Orks, and dey can’t be ‘llowed to be more Kunnin dan dah children o Mork and Gork!” The Mob grumbled and cursed, muttering profanities and promises to show the humans a proper fight. Good.

“Dey is weak and puny, and we is big and stompy! So they don’ fight propah. They fight wif big killy guns from ‘undreds of trukk-lengths away. They don’ rush inta a good fight wif choppa and slugga, they hide in holes in da ground, so’s we can’t krump em wif our own killy guns. And if they ain’t gonna fight propah, then we gotta show em how its done!” This brought a roar of approval, mixed with disdain for humanity. Not necessarily something I wanted to foster, but it was necessary to get them in the right mindset. “Boyz, if’n we want to show em how a real fight goes, we’z gotta first beat em at their own game. We gotta use even killier gunz, from even furver away! We gotta reach their puny holes too fast for them to use their killy gunz to ruin dah fight. We gotta shoot their big gun krewz real good, so we can get stuck in right propah.'

  This last dampened the din of approval, confusion showing on many faces. But that didn’t matter. Understanding was only needed by those giving the orders, and I was going to be the one giving orders, at least for now. But if there was a chance some few Orks would start to understand even a portion of what I had planned, that meant I had someone to rely on, at least in a limited fashion, to lead while I had other business to deal with. “As dah Boss, its my job to make you gitz the killiest bunch of Boyz evah. Dat means you gotta do wot I say, even when you’z too shtupid to understand. I’z the boss, you’z dah Boyz. Follow me, and we’z have a fight like you’z can’t even dream of.” The din grew, most Orks choosing to forget whatever was confounding their small brains before. But some still looked confused. I took that as a sign they were starting to think a bit, though it was probably just extra dull Orks.

  Now, for the important part. “As dah killiest Boyz, we’z also gotta have dah killiest Grots. Dat’s why I’ve gone and got us this lot. They is gonna ‘elp bring dah propah fight to dah humies. And I’z gonna show you lot how."