Every bump and rock of the heavy loaded wagon made his old bones grind at the joints. His one tired eye darted from left to right, a possible ambush position there, a dangerous roadside obstacle here. His mind was racing with anticipation. His green blood pounded in his tattered ears to the incessant drumming of the Waaagh. The smoke in his breath ignited the fires of his long memory; the destruction, the brutality, the blood.
A sudden burst of kannon fire ahead was greeted with a chorus of jeers and commotion as an enemy skimmer came strafing along the convoy line. It caught a burst of oily flack and banked hard into the cover of a tall ruin that pierced the landscape. They were getting close.
"Dat's far enough." He barked.
The wagon's driver slammed the breaks on hard and a shrieking clamour erupted from the grots in the rear. SkagNet slammed an open palm on the bare metal container to silence them. It did nothing.
He tossed a string of teef into the lap of the expectant driver who inspected them without enthusiasm. He gave SkagNet a look that said, get out.
The old Runtherd shouldered his pack and grabbed the hand hold on the outside of the cab swinging out with a dexterity the belied his aged frame. He dropped and landed hard on the metal stump of his peg leg and managed a near pirouette before coming to a graceless halt. Muttering under his fetid breath he shambled to the rear of the container trukk. Reaching up with his grot stick he flipped the latch and rear doors swung out under their own weight. Deep in the blackness within the grots squinted and blinked at the flooding moonlight.
"Alright you lot," grunted the Runtherd, "We'z 'ere! Welcome to da Waaagh!"

The battle was going well. Explosions were tearing through the frontlines, the scent of promethium permeating the refinery. Bellowed orders and Waaaghs! rose up from the trenches. The clash of slugga on flak armour and lasgun on greenskin flesh, was a chorus of madness below the watchtower.
In truth, Gakkit had no idea who the battle was going well for. The extent of his knowledge came from the looted Imperial vox-caster he had pulled from the corpse of the guardsman which had been holed up in the watchtower before him. Unable to move the corpse from the platform, Gakkit instead leant up against it's stiff corpse, and helped himself to the guardsman's lho-sticks. Why the humans ate these, he had no idea, he wondered, spitting out another lumpen wad of tobacco.

Gakkit pulled himself up, and aimed his precision grot rifle at the battle below. Little but bleary grey met his eye.
"Gak it." He swore. The thick, oily clouds of promethium obscured most of the trenchlines and killing fields - the accidental destruction of the numerous promethium caches by the majority of the ork force below made his job as marksman very difficult. Not that Gakkit minded. He was more than content to stay back. After all, it's not like any one would question his kill tally. His status as the "Eye of Mork" was uncontested for a reason.

Five 'umies in the last engagement. Three before that one. He'd even killed one of those "Ogryn" things once. Gakkit grinned to himself. He hadn't even come close to hitting the massive thing. All he knew was that it had crumpled dead before it hit the main Ork line. All he needed to do was shout loud enough to claim it as his kill.
He passingly noted the scores of notches down the barrel of his grot rifle. He doubted he'd earnt a quarter of them. The rifle wasn't Orky - he'd looted it in his first battle. Lightweight, modular, and topped off with a "pressishun scope" and some attempt of a silencer, Gakkit had used the weapon so much that the ELYS-ACCA AUTOGUN stamp had nearly worn off the framework. That rifle was his life, and what gave him top pickings of ammo and food. After all, the semi-legendary "Eye of Mork" deserved it.

"++Overwatch, investigate Point Eagle, Find out why he's not responding.++"
Gakkit ignored the vox caster. He had no idea who this "Overwatch" was, and nor did he care. His scope hovered over the battle below. Even if he doubted he would hit, there was no harm in trying. Suddenly, a glint caught his beady red eyes, and he panned to the source. The muzzle of a long-las, the flash of a lens flare. The thick coat of a ghillie suit shadowed by the flickers of promethium burning.
A sniper.

"Gak it!" he blurted out. Gakkit fired his rifle without aiming, and ducked behind the boarding of the watchtower. A lasbolt broke apart the board just below where his head had been. Unconsciously, Gakkit rolled to his right. Movement was key to a good sniper. Gakkit was not a good sniper. He knew that. He would be an alive sniper instead.
As he rose to his knees, he noticed vaguely his previous position blasted apart by another precision lasbolt. He exhaled, and yanked on the trigger again. The rifle jerked up, silent. It missed. Gakkit saw it slam into a rebar jutting from the floor above the sniper.
"Gak it!"
He was about to duck, in whatever pitiful good it would do him now, when the floor began to cascade over the sniper. His bullet had somehow hit some vital structure point. The floor crumbled apart, crushing the sniper where he lay. The man's screams as he was crushed were muffled as soon as they began. As the dust settled, the vox caster blurted to life, causing Gakkit to jump in panic.

"++Overwatch is down! We have no support, pull back to the transports now!++"
The lasfire below seemed to slacken, and the faint figures in the oily smoke seemed to pull back to the half-tracks that were providing meagre fire support to the embattled guardsmen. The throaty roar of their engines vanished into the smoke as they skidded away, leaving their dead and wounded in the hands of the louder yelling greenskins. Gakkit sighed, feeling his beating heart almost puncture his fragile ribs, and lay back against the dead guardsman behind him. He reached for a lho-stick from the cadavar's pocket. A single soggy remnant rewarded the grot; resigned, Gakkit popped it into his mouth. As he chewed on the lho-stick, he drew the scrap of metal he used for a choppa, and etched another notch into the old rifle.

The Eye of Mork really had been looking over him today.

Another bump, and Grimy smacked is head into the ceiling of the tight space within the Battlewagon's service ducts. "Oi, those big dumb gitz can't steer fer gak," he muttered to himself, rubbing the sore spot gingerly. He finished up what the driver had bellowed at him to do moments ago: to fix some of wiring that had come loose when a missile detonated alarmingly near the vehicle, and to increase gas intake to the engine so the Boyz could go even fasta. Carelessly dropping a wrench to his feet, Grimy took moment to wipe some sweat off his forehead with the greasy, splotched rag that had once been a decent excuse for a white shirt. It left a small black smudge on his face.

Crawling back out of the ducts as the wagon tore across what apparently was very rough terrain, Grimy emerged in the driver's cabin beside the transmission. "We'z all set, boss!" he shouted. "Yessir, engine's gettin' enuff juice ta reach rammin' speed now!" Barely distracted from his driving, the goggle-wearing Ork grunted to acknowledge the Grot's report, then as another small explosion rocked the vehicle hard to the right, he leaned out the driver's window, screaming and firing his slugga at some unseen enemy. "Oi, ya zoggin runt!" another Boy barked from above in the gunner's turret. "Me big shoota's runnin' dry! Get me MOAR DAKKA!!" Grimy hated hauling ammo along the roof of the wagon. It'd only be a matter of time before he got hit by a stray shot, leaving a little pair of smoking, green feet behind. Better that than get krumped by the Boyz for muckin' about on the job, he figured.

The Battlewagon rattled violently as enemy fire intensified. Teeth chattering from the vibrations, Grimy made his way to the extra dakka lying around in the back, snatched up a large ammo drum, and hoisted it up onto the roof of the wagon. "'Ere ya go, guv--" the Grot managed, when another massive bump jolted him. The drum tumbled away and off the wagon into the carnage on the ground below. The gunner was livid. "WHAT DA ZOG WERE YA FINKIN?!" he bellowed, shoving Grimy in the direction of the wayward ammo. "GRAB DAT DAKKA BEFO--"

As the hapless Grot was falling off the edge from the Ork's shove, another missile hit the Battlewagon square in the engine. If the force from the exploding munition was not enough, it ignited the gas, causing a secondary explosion when the blast reached the oversized gas tank. In an instant of yellow-white, the fuming gunner and most of the wagon was gone. Grimy skipped across the turf until he ground to a halt. His comically large, pointed ears rang fiercely. When his vision refocused, he peered at the flaming wreck still rolling quickly towards the enemy line, and the smoking horned helmet the gunner Boy had worn. "Grab the dakka? Sure fing, boss," Grimy spoke dryly to nobody. It took the Grot several minutes to set up a nice spot, but somehow he managed to locate the ammo drum, an intact big shoota among the battlefield debris, and some crude sheet metal to hide behind. He hoisted the massive gun barrel over his makeshift barricade and loaded the drum into place. Grimy wiped his face with his shirt once more; now a dull red and dusty browns joined the other filthy discolorations on the raggedy cloth. All he could hope for now was to appear as though he was making himself useful, before the prying eyes of a Runtherd spotted him...

"Where are we goin'?" Wotzit asked whoever it was whose elbow was digging into his side.
"To da Waaagh ov course!"
The obvious reply was only to be expected. Grots weren't known for their keen intellect. Wotzit pressed his point.
"I know but, where's dat?"
"Duzn't matter, its where da Waagh iz." Came another voice, looming somewhere behind and above him in the cramped darkness.
"It materz cuz we need to know wot to expect. Like who we iz fightin'."
"Expect lots ov krumpin!" Another grot enthused, "An' yellin', and shootin'; Dakka dakka dakka!"
Wotzit rolled his eyes as loudly as he dared in the blackness of the container, and sighed. He needed intel, he needed it to survive.
He and his fellow grots were being shipped of to some brutal Gork-forsaken krump-fest like so much tinned Grox-meat. He had no idea wot to expect, who was the enemy, who was the Warboss even?
He had heard plenty about a wierdboy named WazzBad but they were notoriously fickle. They appeared and disappeared and spread the Waagh madness everywhere they went. As quickly as it ignited a Wierdboy Waagh might fizzle out with the disappearance of more often catastrophic head-banging of the Weirdboy a its centre. A BigBoss was a more stable prospect. Steadfast and iconic. The centre of his own universe, gathering all the Greenskins within his influence under his sway.
It was a shame GorGoff had just been killed, at least that was the word on the grot-vine. They had been known to make mistakes before, often enough, it was more communal chatter than a dedicated intelligence network but it was the best he could do. He asked his questions, filtered the myriad responses, drew conclusions, made choices, survived. It had served him well. Until now.
Wotzit pondered. He knew one question had the potential to illuminate many things but it was also a good way to start a fight. Still, he was getting desperate and he was out of options. Plucking up a little grot courage he raised his voice loud above the squeaky murmur of the cramped metal container and yelled, "Who's in charge around here anyway?"
"Wot?"
"I am!"
"Who's dat?"
"You're a git! It's GorGoff what's in charge."
"GorGoff's toast! I killed I'm myself!"
"You're fullov Grox-Gak!"
"Wot about SkagNet? I fought he woz da boss..."
"SkagNet's a on old Git! He don't own me!"
"SkagNet never killed GorGoff, what gak is dis?"
"No ork own's me! I'm me own Grot!"
"GorGoff ain't dead! Ya can't kill da Waagh!"
"Shut up ya gobby git, dat's just ork-talk. They don't got know wotz like us! Orks don't know nuffink!"
"You don't know nuffink! You don't even know who's da boss!"
And so it went on. Wotzit crouched low and tried to move himself out of his position in the dark. Hiding from any possible repercussions of his agitation. But he kept his ears open.

The mix of arguments and opinions was fascinating. He'd not mentioned the death of GorGoff but here it was again. And from more than one voice. And SkagNet, the old Runtherd who had been placed in charge of this lot garnered little more respect. There was more than one dissenting voice at the mention of his authority. What was more, there was a rebel in their midst. Unafraid to espouse grot freedoms in the relative safety of the anonymity offered by the pitch black. Few things could get a whole grot mob killed more quickly than an Ork who caught a wif of grot rebellion.

Suddenly the trukk breaked and they all rattled around like bullets in a drum. An Ork voice punctuated by an angry fist on the container side demanded their silence but the mood was already well beyond his ability to quell. Especially with an armoured container wall between them.
Wotzit pressed his boney little shoulders against the side of the container and hoped to Gork that no-one he knew was in here with him. No one who knew him, he corrected himself. He was skittish and determined and sleekit as they come. The first chance he got he'd...

The container echoed with the grinding of the latch and the doors swung open slowly, bathing their pathetic little faces in a pale greyish light. A grim wrinkled shadow awaited them without, his one eye glowering in the darkness.
"Alright you lot," it grunted with contempt, "We'z 'ere! Welcome to da Waaagh!"

Stepping out into the acrid, smoke-filled air, Weezul knew immediately in what direction Cutty had set out; he could hear the thundering of artillery fire off in the distance which was surely the siren song that had lured his master out of the belly of the space hulk. The three suns of this planet were all setting, lending an eerie orange glow to the wasteland before him. At least the coming darkness would make it easier to advance; he could see just fine in the dark, unlike the ‘oomies who were surely still out there.
Weezul inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest to strengthen his resolve before setting out, and immediately flew into a terrible coughing fit. He recovered, reminded himself of the consequences of not finding Cutty, and then set out to retrieve his wayward employer.
There was plenty of cover for a small gretchin like Weezul; all he had to do was sprint from one smoking vehicle carcass to the next. As he made his way keeping a sharp eye out for danger, he had to marvel at the wreckage wrought by the warlord’s new “advance party”.
The last planet had put up a much better defense than this one, and a lot of squads had been decimated. During the long trip here, the remaining Sneekerz (a group of cutthroat ork kommandos) and the remaining Splodaz (the tankbusta squad in charge of softening up enemy armor) had gotten into a brawl which took an intervention from the warlord himself to resolve their differences. The warlord had the cunning to mash them into a single squad, and this time around, the Sneekerz had taught the Splodaz how to get really close to their targets undetected, while the Splodaz had shown the Sneekerz how better to blow things up. They had gotten on famously ever since.
The artillery fire provided Weezul with a general bearing, and Cutty’s exact path was easy enough to find. By now, Weezul had gone quite a ways towards the ‘oomie citadel and was currently sneaking his way onto the roof of an occupied bunker. He found what he was looking for- a large blue handprint on the side of a turret. If even Cutty got up here unnoticed, these ‘oomies must be really daft. Three lasgun barrels poked out from firing slits in the wall below him, and Weezul had a mind to toss his one stikkbomb into the bunker to end their miserable lives but thought better of it. The Burnaz would be through this way soon enough, and they got awfully abusive if the work was all cutting and no killing.
This was the fifth planet the ork Waaagh had smashed since leaving their homeworld, and Cutty’s crew had worked out a system. Once the perimeter defenses were annihilated, Cutty instinctually set off into the wreckage to claim the best loot. He kept the hulk aloft after all, so he got first pick of the weapons, armor, and miscellaneous gubbins from the enemy to keep him busy building other machines of war during the long interplanetary trips.
Cutty carried a squigskin bag of blue dye everywhere he went. He would wander from one bit of wreckage to the next, and leave a blue handprint on whatever piqued his interest. The Burnaz followed after, cutting anything free that was still attached. Lastly, the Lootas would roll through in their awful smoke-belching scrap trukk and haul off the day’s loot.
Weezul clambered up to the top of the turret to have a look around. The report from the artillery fire was quite loud now, and the twisted piles of metal before him were the remains of heavy armor, rather than the lighter vehicles closer in to the hulk.
Although neither the warlord nor any of the other meks would admit it, Cutty was the most important ork in the Waaagh, and being his bodyguard did have certain advantages thought Weezul as he pulled his ‘oomie surplus scanner from under the two highly technical weapons slung over his shoulders. He pushed his beanie back on his head and peered into the device.
Far off in the distance was the citadel, the source of the artillery bombardment. Closer to him he could make out columns of armor moving to the front lines. The front end of the closest column was obviously under attack; every so often one of the lead tanks would light up like a firecracker in the night and then grind to a halt. Setting the scanner aside, Weezul looked down at his feet and picked up Cutty’s direction from the drips of blue paint trailing from the smeared handprint; he was headed right towards the heart of the fighting.
As he cautiously drew nearer the advancing line of tanks, Weezul heard the telltale sound of the killsaw which had replaced Cuitty’s left arm, grinding away at a piece of metal over the din of the battle. Hearing it always reminded Weezul of his own left arm and how Cutty had “fixed” it for him after it got blown off in a battle against those awful robotic ‘oomie scouts. Thanks to Gork though, the orks won the fight and all the ‘oomies died. Thanks to Cutty, Weezul now had one of their arms and two of their fancy guns. He spied the shower of sparks and sprinted towards his master in a panic; something clearly wasn’t right.
Cutty was happily carving out a square of metal plate a half-meter to a side from the side of a tank whose treads had been blown off. The tank had fired its smoke launchers, but the running lights were all still on, and the gun turrets were sweeping back and forth looking for something to shoot. Weezul ran as fast as he could while keeping out of the line of sight of the tank and got within three meters of the blissful oddboy just as he completed his operation. The piece of plate fell to the ground, and as Cutty bent down to pick it up, a volley of las rifle fire sprayed out of the new opening. One shot scorched Cutty’s backpack and another bounced off the blade of his saw which he was resting on the tank; the rest of the enemy fire flew harmlessly overhead.
Bounding onto Cutty’s pack, Weezul unshouldered his two flechette blasters and completely unloaded both weapons into the interior of the tank. Tiny darts whizzed around the cabin, ricocheting off the walls until they found their mark. By the technological magic of the Adeptus Mechanicus, any time a dart pierced flesh, those near it would home in and sink into the unfortunate victim too, shredding them where they stood. All the occupants were dead in a matter of seconds.
Cutty stood up to his full height and admired his prize. Weezul hopped off his back and landed on the tank. Cutty lowered the plate and peered through his grease-smeared goggles, and recognized the familiar shape of his old sidekick.
“Aye Weezul, how ya been lad? Lookit the skull on this bit!”
Weezul shook his head at the obliviousness of this old ork. How he had survived countless battles wandering through the thick of it was a mystery to anyone who had ever seen him operate. For the first time, Cutty noticed the pile of bodies in the interior of the tank.
“Nice bit of work that is.”
“Yeah Cutty,” said Weezul while he reloaded,”the boss needs ya back at the hulk. We never finished fixin’ the engines, ‘member?”
Cutty tilted his head and pondered for a second. A glimmer of acknowledgement spread over his features. “Oh yeah, the engines, right. We goin’ somewhere?”
“Yeah Cutty, word is this planet’ll be finished in a day or two and the boss wants to find something more… something what’ll put up a better fight, eh?”
“If the boss says… best get back to it then,” the ork made a full turn, paused for a second, pricked up his pointy ears, and headed towards the citadel.
“Oi Cutty!”
“Yeah?”
“This way!”

"I'm telling you, man, those little fellas ain't no joke. Sure you can kick em as far you could chuck a grenade, they ain't built of much, all snot an' claws, but they're vicious little feths all the same."

"Get Santos here! He's scared of the little snots!"

"Give it a rest O'Brien. I'd like to see you stand up to a swarm of the little gaks. In fact I'd pay to see that."

"Gretchin baiting... You may have invented the next sporting craze to sweep the Imperium."

"Our squad was pretty well positioned, I reckoned. Wall in front, couple of feet above the ground below. We had hight and cover and a clear view at least forty yards ahead. Battery was in place and the Greenskins arrived on cue."

"Sounds better than our post. Stinking gak pile that it is now."

"Yeah ours weren't left much better. Skimmer flew by near right over our heads an' the Sergeants yell to ready was near drowned out by the first couple of vehicles to hit the square."

"That'll have been the ordinance, the noise."

"Yeah that too. Anyhow, entrance choked, no room for ork trucks to get though so they're all comin' in on foot..."

"Yeah I was there, remember."

"You were at the Plaza?"

"Oh no, we were down at the north gate. Same drill I guess..."

"Oh, I heard about North Gate, heard it went badly... Worse'n we got anyhow... Same drill I guess... But like I was sayin', when a pack of those big muscle-hulk freaks comes pouring into your gun-line you drop the big guys first right? Or at least you try to. They can suck up some las-fire fo' sure. I mean you could land a whole volley into just one of those big brutes and..."

"Your point, Santos?"

"Well what I mean is them little'uns get through. You could plug one easy with the dog end of a half flat las-pack but you don't, see? You just keep tryin' fer the big'uns and then before you know it they're in under your bayonets and..."

"An' what?"

"One of 'em had my gun, grip like a ripper, couldn't shake the little fether... His mates were savage little gits, caught one a good boot round the ear though, he backed off. The Sarg took a knife to the gut, a real bloodthirsty little thing, stuck him and then sunk the teeth in, they're small but they take you unawares and in numbers too. I must've had at least four of them trying to pull me down. Cut one loose with my blade and shook another biter off my leg. Never did get my lasgun free, had to fight them off with a trenching tool, there big brute of a handler too. Gnarly old one eyed feth he was, wasn't for fightin'. Funny that... When the order came to withdraw he just let us go."

"Malcador wept, Santos. You're sat here grousin' over grots that let you run away?"

"Not all of us! By the time the old buffer called 'em off we'd lost five good men. But not next time, next time I'm onto them. I'll nail every last little fether I see in the charge before he gets close enough too..."

Emperor have Mercy! You're the dumbest piece of gak I ever heard spout strategy. Seriously, write the Militarum high command, they love input like this from experienced troopers. Feth! Shoot the little guys first, it'll appear in the next printing of the primer for sure."

"But nobody does! And they should, they wouldn't get close to..."

"Nobody shoots the the grots cause if you drop their bully ork buddies they gak their little green pants and run scared you dumb feth! If you or any of your squad had clocked old one eye in time it'd be different story."

"..."

"You wanna try slowing down a flight of rocket propelled storm boys with chopper support. The road block in the North Gate didn't and by the time we had them beat the rest of the Greenskins had closed the gap and were on us.

"Yeah, well I guess that's different..."

"You kill any Orks today, Santos?"

"I dunno, O'Brien. I... We all fired into..."

"Well don't come cryin' to me with your gretchin nightmares, I got plenty nightmares of my own. I wish we'd had gretchin on our hands. I'll take them odds any day. So quit yer belly achin'. I don't wanna hear it."

The hunt was on.

Weaving between the boots and legs and low slung blades of the greenskin advance SkagNet's gretchin were driven on.

Wotzit was still frantically trying to get his bearings, trying to guess what lay ahead, to stay one step ahead of the game. Right now one step ahead of SkagNet's grot-prod was about the best he could manage though.

His companions fared little better. They seemed to share the wrath of their driver evenly. Once stung a grot was seldom likely to allow himself again to be the one who lagged. There was however one among them who seemed a little different, less reluctant for the advance, positively enthusiastic in fact. Far from sharing the burden in the heels of the pack he was out front, setting the pace. Wotzit had never seen the like of him, he had to know more.

Beating a cautious advance he made his breathless introduction.
"You seem keen." He gasped, ducking a volley of lasfire aimed well above their head hight.

No response.

The stranger deftly manoeuvred around a crumpling Goff body without breaking his stride. Wotzit had never seen a grot so driven before, so self possessed.

"What dey call ye?" Wotzit asked in vain. Tripping over his own feet in an effort to keep pace. The barest glance of dismissal from the other grot was all his reward. Just enough it seemed to discount him as a threat.

Wotzit stopped, tightened his belt and narrowly avoiding a prodding from SkagNet set off once more in pursuit, eyes locked on the diminutive forerunner. He'd show that wiry little git who was a threat. Mounting a pile of ruined masonry Wotzit picked out his path ahead. A wall of ork bodies ahead still shielding them from the brunt of enemy fire, there was just enough time to gain ground behind his quarry and land a boot squarely in his little green behind.

The situation went from prank to reprisal with terrifying speed. In the blink of an eye the two grots were nose to nose, blades and teeth bared. Wotzit was lucky to have survived the initial attack and his assailant, though smaller and lighter already had the upper hand. It was all Wotzit could do to keep his throat from the wickedly sharp blade. It wasn't a fight he was winning.

Then SkagNet weighed in. A reassuring dose of Grot-prod voltage convinced Wotzit of his survival. The feral grot had dodged the prod somehow but was off out of reach spitting and hissing furiously at SkagNet. The old ork, unimpressed, lobbed a half brick at him.

"Sikkum!" He growled at the diminutive little fury who flinched and vacillated, the brick falling wide of the mark. SkagNet's patience was a frayed end. He drew a rusty choppa from his belt and made to slap the little git with the broad side.
"I said Sikkum!" He bellowed swinging again and again as the grot fled before him in the desired direction.

They picked their way through the melee of combatants and emerged into the flank of an embattled squad of guardsmen. Slipping in under their raised bayonets the grots went to work.

Wotzit stood aghast as he watched the feral grot stab a man in the gut and use the still embedded blade as a foothold to hoist his teeth to the level of the man's throat, which he set upon with relish. Wotzit, wide-eyed, gulped. He'd had no idea... Sikkum, indeed!

A stumbling guardsman interrupted his daydream, shambling into Wotzit as two of his grot comrades flailed and swung from his arms. Wotzit looked for his knife. He must have dropped it in the fight back there, he shrugged, and sunk his teeth in.

There was something about the end of a battle. That moment between conflict and victory; between madness and clarity; between savagery and society. Where an ork with a quickness of mind could gain in a second what a slow minded brute had fought hard to win.

While the bestial roars of the bull goff Nobs still reverberated off the walls of the plaza SkagNet's beady eye roved over the spoils, assessing, dismissing, cataloging.

A nifty looking throwing axe found its way into his sack, his grabba stick swiped a likely slugga for one of his grots. A bullet belt and a couple of frag grenades, a discarded trenching tool, anything was fair game so long as nobody bigger than SkagNet was within reach and wanted it. Most were still bellowing and flexing their egos as the humans beat an orderly retreat.

SkagNet assessed his situation. No bosses, no big bosses at least, meant no orders, which meant no rush and likely no trouble. If he gathered his grots and their wits fast they could be off on their own, free from the endless drudgery of logistical warfare. Haul this, strip that, oil these. Zog that noise.

He'd lost about a third of their number in the fight. Better than anticipated but still, numbers were half the battle in this game. All the gear in the world wouldn't matter squat if he didn't have a pack of grots to make it work. He needed more.

A trio of bulky vehicle husks in the main entryway were already semi stripped and being towed clear of the thoroughfare, trailing drips of oil and blue paint. Where there were vehicles there were riggers, oilers, loaders and bodgers. And by the looks of those three wrecks they'd not be needing any. The plan was simple.

"Oi! Listen up you lot." The grots were all ears. "I call dis game Grab-a-Grot." SkagNet grinned, his favourite pastime. "You lot iz gonna keep runnin' till I quit proddin' yer in the rear. An' when you see anuva grot you grab 'im. Da game only stops when I gots me enough grotz!"

A wave of anxiety swept over the assembled grots as SkagNet stowed his grabba stick and produced his much feared grot prod.

"Got it?" He asked, firing up the charge. "Then run!"

The grots came pouring through like rats, into the access hatches and out the gaps in the wrecks where sponsons and engine had been removed. Following on their tail came a wizened old crone of an ork shambling along grot prod in hand.

Grimy watched them from his improvised fox hole. The terror in their eyes was so appealing. The way they fled their tormentor, threw other grots into the game and in front of the prod to save themselves. It was a fascinating sport.

One grot got tied up in the electrical cables of a wrecked wagon, he grabbed his friend's ankle and pulled the other grot down with him. They struggled free together moments before the Runtherd caught up with them.

Taking advantage of the Runtherd's distraction another grot made a break for it, trying to get around the side of the wreck. The ork whipped out a snub nosed six shoota and placed a round right next to the grot's left ear. It ricocheted noisily off the metal causing him to yelp in fright and right his course back into the pack.

Counting his grots the Runtherd lashed his whip at their rear and urged them on.

"More grotz!" He demanded, "I wants me dozen!"

So that was the game, Grimy concluded, the gathering of grots into the pack. Another three or four and the Runtherd might have it. Still the chase was on and any one of the grots might manage to get away given the opportunity. Grimy watched with rapt attention.

A nasty little git in the front of the pack took the legs out from under an ammo grot who was carrying a heavy crate. The crate toppled spilling dakka all over the ground and another helpful grot dutifully started to gather them up. Both grots were promptly added to the tally as the round up continued. The play was complex and engaging. A pair of grots might help eachother in an escape attempt in one moment only to turn traitor in the next and throw their partner in front of the grot prod in a bid to escape. Another newly caught grot might catch on fast and drag his own crew mate into the game or might fall foul of the rabble in too strenuous a fight against his capture. All the while the Runtherd watched and corralled and herded with seasoned skill and proficiency. He looked worn out as a speed freak's gearbox but Grimy had to admit, the old fella still had some pretty serious chops.

An errant trio of escapees had their freedom curtailed with the judicial use of the Runtherd's six shoota. They fell back in as another grot, an oiler from a nearby caravan of lootas, was absorbed into their number. Grimy tallied up the head count. A full dozen grots, the Runtherd was victorious. Grimy almost stood and cheered.

But that was when he spotted the fugitives. A pair of desperate runaways were heading toward him, making for his own foxhole. They had a way to go yet. It seemed a forlorn hope as the Runtherd raised his shoota until,

Click... Nothing happened. The grots must have been counting his rounds, they had to have known.

The old ork was reduced to scrabbling for loose dakka in the dirt while the pair made off. But Grimy had seen enough, he levelled the barrel of his big shoota dead ahead and squeezed the trigger hard. The burst of sudden dakka from their intended sanctuary stopped the pair in their tracks. Indeed one of the grots was torn to bloody shreds where he had stood. The other dropped to dirt a quivering bundle of nerves in abject surrender.

Grimy was shocked. He hadn't really intended to kill anyone. He was just really into the game, and rooting for the old Runtherd apparently. Who was now down one grot, thanks to himself. Then again, he was a grot and he'd just been spotted. The maths wasn't beyond anyone's reckoning.

The old ork shambled over and examined his property with something close to indifference. He prodded the survivor back to his feet and indicating Grimy and his big gun said but two words.

"Pick'em up."

The blood spattered grot gave Grimy one heck of a stink-eye as he closed the distance between them and without another word proceeded to heft the business end of his heavy shoota out of the foxhole. Grimy took the heavy end and together they joined the rest of the SkagNet's grot mob heading out of the plaza and into the burning city.

SkagNet was still, the stillness of the aged. His knotted muscles like steel cables, tight on a creaking frame. His was an economy of movement born of pain and tiredness.

All around him Grots wriggled and twitched and cowered in the cover of an upturned trailer.
He listened, tuning out their whiney little squeals and straining his ears for the sound they had been following since sunset. A plaintiff buzz saw moving at random through the smouldering city, its sporadic bouts of activity tearing holes in the calm after the storm, always the prelude to a flurry of gunfire and then silence.

"Kan it yer gitz!" He spat with enough malice to freeze their tiny hearts. The barest twitch of his grot-prod was all the treat required to cow the rabble. Though he could hardly be bothered to do much more his fuse was a short one and the grot mob knew it. There were few steps between the twitch and the employment of near lethal force.

The air was still, nothing moved that made a sound.

"K'mon," SkagNet grunted as he pressed his groaning knees into service. "We'z movin' on."

Behind the shambling Runtherd there followed a train of misery, all breathless muttering and resentment. A dozen angry little charges set to go off on command.

There it was again, the buzz saw, calling out, brazen as a crow in a snowy graveyard. Calling every ork and every man within earshot to converge. An inexorable pull, an invitation to death.

SkagNet went willingly, he was getting too old for this.

That old git of a Runtherd whose name Pokey didn't really bother to remember had finally let that antic bunch of Grotz pile out of that nasty Trukk. Yet SkagNet had given his orders, in the form of a sadistic little game to amuse the others. Not that Pokey minded cruel humor, but the Ork had hardly finished explaining the rules when Pokey's brainless companion wrapped his grubby paws around the former's neck, squeaking "Look, boss! I fink I winz!" A sharp kick from Pokey's foot to the other Grot's gut was enough to get him some breathing room, but not enough to wipe that vacant grin from the other's face. Nothing ever was.

"Fer Gob's sake, Snot, he meant new Grots, not us gitz he'z already bossin' around!" Pokey's indignant anger died down slightly when the Grot he called Snot-fer-Brainz displayed a slight semblance of understanding. The particularly runty and blobby thing, truly blurring the distinction between Grot and Snotling, hopped back to his feet, unfazed and eager to this game with Pokey's new rule. Pokey fell on the opposite extreme of the spectrum of Grots: one might suspect he was an Ork proper, if not a Nob, in fierceness, with the cunning intellect of the brainiest Grots. Despite Pokey's harsh attitude and harsh nickname, he came to understand he and Snot-fer-Brainz were inseparable; otherwise the latter would probably have been a Squig-hound's lunch some time ago.

The lesser being was clearly raring to go, but Pokey held him for a moment longer, adding one final instruction that Snot may or may not have the capacity to remember. "Now, dis iz awful important, ya hear me, Snot-fer-Brainz? We'z gonna grab them new Grotz, but if they ain't running to our boss, ya come straight ta me. I'll sort out da panzees before we send 'em ta SkagNet." Snot paused, his face going expressionless as little gears churned in his head. After a moment, he resumed his irritating grin. "Gotcher, boss! Time ta grab new Grotz now!"

Pokey knew more ground would be covered, and thus more favor from SkagNet would be earned, if the two split up, but a niggling concern arose in the back of his calculating little head that Snot may not perform as desired. What if, in a worst-case, some conniving bugger even convinced the poor Snotling of a Grot to run off? Perhaps Snot's level of stupidity hid an element of unpredictability that would get them into trouble one day, Pokey thought. Thoughts of his companion ceased when Pokey caught sight of something small and green flitting about in a burned out Trukk. It was another Grot alright, but what the zog was it doing mucking about in that pile of scrap? Upon closer inspection, Pokey noticed this new Grot's unhinged nature: he was continually mumbling the orders the former Trukk drivers must've given him, and he ran back and forth, continuing to apply oil to various formerly moving parts.

"Oi, git! Yer Trukk ain't goin' nowhere no more, ya hear me? Ya ain't doin' nuffink helpful. Now git over here, ya've got a new boss now." Pokey barked his orders with the gruff impatience of a Goff. Yet despite being perfectly clear, the newcomer practically ignored his words. "Must... oil... Go fasta, theyz told me... Make dis Trukk da fastest any Greenskin'z ever seen, he sayz... and oil makez it fast... so I'm oilin'!" Pokey had no time for this. The more time this took, the fewer Grots he'd bring to his Runtherd, and the less likely he'd be to avoid his master's abuses. In the interest of time, he strolled up to the raving Gretchin and pulled out his crude blade, pressing the tip against the new Grot's back, causing him to freeze. They certainly didn't call him Pokey for nothing. "Now, as I woz sayin'..."

Pokey returned to SkagNet with his captive ahead of him. The poor Grot had sustained a couple more sharp pokes during their return. Putting the knife away, Pokey shoved the hapless Grot into the Runtherd's watchful gaze. Something else caught the Gretchin's eye. Snot-fer-Brainz was returning with a quivering prisoner of his own, declaring "I'z done it! Grabbed a Grot, I did! I winz!" and giggling uncontrollably. Pokey's face nearly betrayed a smile upon witnessing his companion's own success. Perhaps Snot's stupidity didn't conceal any unpredictable actions after all; rather, he had once again proven his simple-minded reliability.

Grimy:

Very grimy...



Pokey:


Snot-fer-Brainz:

Red was pissed.

He marched behind Grimy as SkagNet led them on through the endless sprawling ruinous city.

"Oi!, you two," SkagNet barked, "keep up!"

Grimy hopped to it and Red came tripping after as together they hustled the heavy shoota along the rubble strewn streets.

What a little git! Red thought, bitter little eyes burning holes into the back of Grimy's skull. What a traitorous, back stabbing little stooge! The ork hadn't even had to ask and Grimy had jumped to order. Killing one of his own, and for what? For the progress of the green tide? The glory of the Waaagh!? Grox-gak, all of it!

SkagNet's fist was in the air, the signal to stop and take cover. The grots laid low and waited.

Red was waiting. Come the day, the hour, the moment when the tipping point was reached, when the long suffering grot race could take no more, the cry would go up. Revolution! Arise and resist! The grots would turn and without their support the pathetic ork race would fall to squabbling amongst themselves and would surely crumble.

They were off again.
"Oi! Red!" SkagNet spat, "Quit yer daydreamin' and pickup da Kan!"

"Yes Boss! Sure fing Boss!" Red grabbed up the ammo can from where he'd left it and trotted dutifully back to his partner.

Sure, he'd carry the can, he'd do what he needed to do to be there, to be ready when the time came to strike. But that little scab, Grimy had chosen his side. He'd taken up his weapon against his own. He'd been only too keen to do the ork's bidding. He'd pulled his trigger and laid low a fellow comrade. The worthless turncoat scum! He'd be the first to go. Him and any other grot unwilling to lend a hand to the righteous work of the revolution.

Grimy turned and smiled benignly at his loader. Red smiled back, friendly, encouraging. He'd keep him close, watch and wait. The time was coming soon, he thought. He could feel it in his bones.

There it was. The buzz saw. Wielded by some half mad mek in broad daylight. Brazen, loud and unafraid, or was that stupid and utterly feckless? Alone but for one twitchy grot assistant he merrily cut, hacked and dismantled a piece of civic art inhabiting the centre of a once quaint courtyard. Mounted upon its hewn granite block he rained down scraps of metal as the grot beneath hurriedly gathered them into a pile, all the while watchful and anxious.

SkagNet eyed the surrounding buildings. Mostly intact, save a few broken doors and windows. Rubble and courtyard furniture formed a few serviceable barricades but whatever skirmished had taken place here were of the smaller sort. Running battles, street to street fighting, flanking and outmanoeuvring the enemy on foot; The archways and close built structures affording no room for heavy machines.
Still, thought the old Runtherd. There were plenty of places to hide.

A high south facing gable wall festooned with balconies and elaborately dressed windows overlooked the courtyard. It could easily house a whole platoon. Three narrow alleys led out and away to the lower end of the city, the ork districts. Another wound up and out between a pair of leaning apartment houses. A tall partially ruined water tower overlooked the square from the east over the ragged canopies of market stalls and dining areas. Behind him brooded an old gutted skeleton of a thing, all trussed up in scaffolding. A number of machines at its feet, a mixer a generator, bore the blue hand, the claimed property of the Mek in the centre.

SkagNet eyed a large red wheelbarrow lying overturned in the corner of the courtyard. Suspiciously overturned. He glanced at his diminutive mob of undersized belligerents thoughtfully.

"Oi, Wotzit," the grot in question snapped to attention, "go see what's under dat wheely bucket."
Wotzit grinned, he was only too eager to look into it.

*******

Private Santos' patrol stalked the eerily silent street. They moved single file down the shadowy side of a wide avenue, eyes peeled, ears pricked.

Santos hated being on point. The strain of the responsibility weighed heavy on his nerves, made him over sensitive, jumpy, downright on edge. They could be out on these patrols for hours at a time, depending on how the Sarg was feeling. They'd take a turn around the block well within limits and declare the perimeter clear of hostiles. Or they'd go on long circuitous treks through the ruined streets looking for supplies, survivors, trouble.

Santos jumped. That sound again. The saw, that same damned saw. Like a ghost it had haunted their patrols for days. Always appearing to come from just across this plaza, or just down that alley. Always just beyond the next corner and always vanishing. An echo and the smell of hot metal, and the shards, the cuttings, the empty spaces.

He'd heard the rumours of course. The tank crews and engineers called it the Blue Hand, the Can Opener, the Blender. They told grisly tales he'd rather not think about.

"Hold steady." He raised a hand and the patrol took cover. O'Brien's voice echoed his "Hold Steady" in his vox bead, all nasal and irritating. The man's voice was as grating as his know it all self-righteous attitude.

The sound was coming from a narrow alley on the left that led down crocked steps to a stone archway and into a cobbled courtyard below. It looked like an invitation to an ambush addressed to him and signed by a blue hand.

******

Gakkit adjusted the scope of his Elysian long las. That Runtherd was ugly as a groxes rear and the magnification was so close he could practically smell him. He counted off a dozen grots and raised an eyebrow at the big shoota they were lugging around. Ambitious, effective, no doubt, if they could bring it to bear. He knew better than to underestimate the potential in grots.

Cutty looked about ready to wrap up his work. The Mek was unquestionably mad, but an unqualified genius. He'd clearly seen something in this odd shaped sculpture that had piqued his interest but Gakkit wasn't sure what. He hadn't dismantled, dismembered or significantly disassembled the thing. If anything he was, sculpting? Weezul fretted as ever but seemed to be working with him, gathering the shards which they had only now begun to pour back into the top of the thing. Gakkit grinned, an inkling of the Mek's devious intent growing in his mind. Cutty was a true artisan among orks.

Gakkit scanned the surrounding buildings for any sign of Gorrsneek. Cutty's little stooge was never far away these days, always scouting ahead, laying an ambush or rigging some demolition of dubious strategic value. Gork! He halted that little git. Would it be poor form to put a las round between his ears? Hardly.

"Hold Steady." A new voice broke in from the old vox unit. The thing was a heavy lump but it was worth keeping around. He didn't always understand the chatter but it was often a good indicator of local movement.

There they were. He caught the tail end of a squad of humans moving into the shadows in the next street over on the left. Gakkit thumbed his power gauge, not a full cell but it would have to do. He hoped these men might just be delivering him a fresh supply. Las packs for all their ubiquity came in many shapes and sizes. He knew the ones he needed when he saw them.

"Hammond, Reid, bring it in. Santos take point and advance with fire team Alpha."

Oh! Gakkit could hear it in their chatter, the humies were up to something.

"Manny, take Beta and back-track. You guys bring it back around and advance through the market. Keep to cover, and check your targets when we close. Alright, execute."

Gakkit watched as a detachment doubled back and ducked in underneath his position, to weave in among the market stalls heading toward the courtyard. He spat out a wad of well chewed lho-stick and settled his eye into his sights. Things were about to get very interesting down there.

Grab a grot indeed! Dapper had never heard the like of it! No sooner had he found a mirror in which to inspect his new shades than a crazy little grot in a big daft hemet had him by the collar of his jacket and was hauling him before the tender mercies of the ugliest brute he'd ever laid eyes on.

Still, he was out of that Gork-awful stink-tank of a wagon. Tending dirty, greasy, smokey engines and kannons was not Dapper's kind of work, he preferred to stay clean. He kept his boots real shiny and his knees off the dirt. His glossy hair-squig named Quiff was his pride and joy and he kept it well oiled.

But he was finding that being part of SkagNet's crew had its hazards too. That nosey git Wotzit was one. Always watching, always trying to poke his nose into your business or your pockets. A sideward glance confirmed his privacy and he inspected the swag stowed in an inner pocket of his studded jacket. Human's swag, nice stuff. Things that only he seemed to value but were none the less useful. An Imperial Officer's standard issue shaving kit for example, complete with cutthroat razor. A pair of tinted glasses, an engineer's fine wire cutters, a glossy lacquered flip-top lighter. All very useful, all beautifully made.

He tightened the strap on his weapon harness as far as the buckle would allow. The Imperium didn't exactly make the things to fit one of his stature but it concealed his weapon of choice well enough beneath his coat. Nestled carefully beneath his left arm there swung a small light-weight autopistol. It may once have belonged to a man or woman of some standing and dignity. It was elegantly styled in polished chrome and rested neatly in his delicate grot fingers though he daren't take it out of it's holster now for fear of brutal mockery. It was human made and perhaps the most singularly unorkish weapon on the planet. It was small and potent and beautiful.

Wotzit cocked an eyebrow in his direction and Dapper casually dropped his hand from inside his jacket. Nothing to see here. Nothing of any interest to a grot like you. He gave Wotzit a look. A glare almost as he reached into his pocket and flicked out his shades, the eye contact only broken as he put them on. He gave Quiff a quick comb with his delicate fingers and turned away. Wotzit was getting no answers from him today.

The familiar crack of lasguns heralded the coming madness. SkagNet ducked down into cover of a ruinous stone wall. Nothing seemed to be aimed his way, though it was hard to be sure with the way the sounds echoed around the open Plaza. A pair of guardsmen appeared at the entrance of an alleyway, rifles shouldered and fingers heavy on their triggers.

Cutty had been hit though the half dozen of so las-rounds had not in any way impeded his progress. He continued his work on the statue in the centre of the square regardless as Weezul alternately ducked and took potshots in the direction of their assailants.

SkagNet's grots were getting jittery. Sikkum, knife at the ready, was itching to go. SkagNet dragged him back into cover by the belt strap of his ragged grot shorts. "Git down!" The enthusiasm melted out of Silkkum's sharp little features at the Runtherd's withering glare. "Wait fer it!" He growled. "We sit tight an' shoot'em up til dey'z 'ad enuff. An' when dey come runnin', Den you can stick'em!"

********

Wotzit was just peaking under the red wheelbarrow when the shooting started. He ducked down and pulled himself tight in behind it. The darkness beneath looked safe and inviting but his muscles were frozen for the moment in terror and he dared not move for fear of drawing attention to himself.

It seemed like hours, maybe just minutes, more likely only seconds but eventually Wotzit's curiosity overmastered his fear and he dared a glance.

Two men in the alleyway entrance, just two! They hadn't seen him, or weren't shooting at him at any rate. all their focus was on trading fire with the mek and his orderly who were still at work in the centre of the courtyard. Wotzit began to feel brave, or at least not so crippled by fear. He produced a grot blasta from his belt and levelled it atop the base of the upturned barrow. He closed one eye and squinted his aim across the courtyard at the guardsmen.

A lasbolt flew past his nose, close, really close. Wotzit was down and underneath the wheelbarrow before he knew what was happening. Where had that come from? His fear addled grot brain was clawing for any information critical to his survival. Those men in the alley hadn't been looking his way, it wasn't them. That shot had come from the other direction. Wotzit twisted around shoving something angular and uncomfortable out of his ribs. Evidently he was sharing this space with some large lump of... Whatever it was. He could feel wires and tape and some sort of clay or putty or... He shuffled the thing with an effort out into the crack of light at the edge of his tiny shelter. It was red and orkish looking, like a bomb of some kind. Whatever it was there was more room to hide under there now without it.

********

The appearance of another squad of shooters sheltering amongst the market stalls was enough for Cutty to at last look up from his task. Weezul had been busy down below laying down plenty of suppressing Dakka but truth be told his flechette blasters weren't exactly the right weapons for the job. He needed something with a bit more noise and smoke and threat about it, something with range and...

The unmistakable staccato bark of a big shoota took up its chorus on the west side of the plaza. Weezul smiled, the perfect cover. Slipping in low like a rat in a gutter he moved to the west of Cutty's artwork. The Mek who had finished cutting was taking some abuse from the pair in the alleyway but their lasguns, being only two and not the usual fusillade of twenty plus were having little to no effect. Cutty was tough old nut, and indeed there was little evidence in his manner to suggest that he was more than passingly aware of the assault. He was searching through his sack for something as he casually rubbed a scorch mark on his neck like a Bullgrox flicking squig-gnats off it's ears.

Weezul noted with growing alarm that the firefight was heating up. More humans had arrived in the east. The frequency and volume of lasfire was intensifying and by answer his unlooked for allies to the west were responding in kind. It was high time for Cutty and Weezul to make their exit.

********

"Not da Mek, you stupid berk!" SkagNet delivered a savage backhand to the offending grot who sprawled full length on the cobbles. "Shoot da Zoggin' Oomies!"

The rest of his charges levelled their weapons at the selected targets and obliged their brutish overlord. Even Red and Grimy had managed to mount their big shoota pointing in roughly the right direction in a pile of rubble which formed a rudimentary fox-hole. Their opening burst of Dakka hit little more than plaster and brickwork but certainly drew the attention and the fire of the human attackers away from Cutty and Weezul.

A flurry of pink laser beams lanced across the plaza from a new direction.

"More Oomies!" Yelled Pokey, his little grot blasta firing non-stop in a two handed pistol grip at the newcomers. SkagNet stomped over to the big shoota. He slung a loop of his whip over the hot barrel and adjusted the direction of fire back across the square. Slapping the top of the thing, good to go, he left the grots to feed and fire the hungry machine at will. SkagNet stepped over a dead grot and continued the fire fight, his shoota leaping and barking in his hands. That stupid Mek and his minder were still plumb centre of the plaza, what were they waiting for?

********

Gakkit's sights hovered like the hand of Death over the mere mortals beneath. He had a few choice targets, easy shots, he would normally have thought, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Something wasn't right here; there was something else going on.

Cutty was done cutting, Weezul was squirming at his heals eager to be away and the grot mob were probably seconds away from being badly outflanked and skewered on bayoneted lasguns.

If that guy didn't get them first! Down below, weaving his way through the market stalls was a man with boom-tube. Gakkit had seen those in action before. The big tube would be raised up on the shoulder and out would fly a rocket, like what a tankbusta might fire only it usually went in a straight line. One of those placed neatly amidst the rabble of grots in the plaza would be the end of them. The man slipped away beneath a striped canvas awning, swinging to the right, Gakkit thought. Tracking the shadows as best he could be tried to bring the crosshairs to bear on the spot where he anticipated the man would emerge. He waited.

"Beta in position." The vox behind him mocked.

Where was that boom tube? Gakkit's eye flitted at random across the market place. Two men on the left, kneeling behind a stack of pallets. Another to their right, a head and shoulder visible through the ragged tarpaulin. Las rounds coming from his position indicating that he wasn't the one. A flash of movement on the far right, another rifleman. Where was that boom-tuber? Then he saw them. Boots, black against a green plastic crate. He followed upward but the body was soon obscured by a hard wood market stall front. Its flapping canopy covered the rest of the man intermittently but Gakkit had found him. A light breeze billowed the canvas outwards revealing for a fraction of a second the man's figure, weapon shouldered ready to fire. It was all Gakkit needed. Even as the canopy dropped back down obscuring his target he pulled the trigger both eyes now half shut, trusting to the Eye of Mork.

The man fell to his knees beside the market stall, one hand sliding off the bench he had hoped might steady his collapse. The other hand clutching his throat as the gory life poured out over the cobblestones and ran away in little rivulets beneath his now discarded weapon.

Not clean, but effective enough. Gakkit listened for a report on the vox but nobody seemed to have noticed just yet. He checked his depleted power cell, one shot, maybe two if he tapped out a short round. Eye to the lens he scoped out the unfolding drama below. Passing over the plaza on his way to the men at the alley mouth his gazed paused at an odd thing. He stopped up the magnification a couple of clicks and refocused to be sure.

Yep, it was definitely a bomb. And one of an all too familiar design at that. It was one of His, one of Gorsneek's.

**********

Gorsneek didn't appreciate all his hard work and long preparation being interfered with. They'd been hours in the planning, setting the trap, laying the bait and luring the enemy in. And all for what? So some stupid bungling Runtherd and his rabble of naff-headed grotz could go stumbling into the middle of it all and ruin the lot. He wasn't having it.

And who was this burke slipping in under the wheelbarrow to hide? That was Gorsneek's hiding place first, and what was worse, now the bomb he'd hidden there was lying out in the open, in full view for all to see. They may as well have put a sign up. "It's a Trap!" In large red letters on a banner over the plaza. "All Oomies welcome."

It was no good, he'd have to intervene. Picking up his pack, and his shoota, Gorsneek headed for the stairs. Alighting on the ground floor he ran to the doorway and took up a ready stance, weapon shouldered and placed a few rounds into an abandoned potters stall.
Shards of glassware and fragments of shattered pots and earthenware rained over the marketplace as Gorsneek advanced toward the red wheelbarrow.

He pulled a pin on a guard-issue smoke bomb and tossed it toward the eastern end of the plaza putting a little smoke between himself and the men in the market place. And perhaps more importantly between himself and Gakkit. The eye was definitely watching them. Gorsneek had seen that boomer go down. And this was just the kind of situation that a little stray friendly fire might go unnoticed. There was no love lost between the two.

Sufficiently covered he bent down and retrieved his wayward bomb. Ripping the arming wires clear he stashed it in his bag for later. Now to deal with the interloper. A toe beneath the rim of the bucket and the barrow was flipped noisily onto its wheel. Wotzit squealed and cowered and cringed; death had come for him at last.

"Come wif me if you wanna live." Gorsneek the Kommando grot held out a big meaty hand, big for a grot at any rate. Wotzit, confused but undoubtably relieved reached up and took it. No sooner had he planted his feet on the ground when he was tossed bodily into the barrow, wheeled back across the plaza and dumped unceremoniously at SkagNet's feet.

"Kollect yer Gak an' skidaddle Runtherd!" Gorsneek yelled, "Dis ain't yer fight."
The grot addressing SkagNet was a disconcertingly self possessed one. Not a trace of natural fear or respect for his ork betters seemed to lurk behind those steely eyes. SkagNet didn't like it one bit. He squared his toothless jaw and made for his trademark backhand but the grot was quick. Turning the ork's motion into his own side-stepping roll he somehow overbalanced the Runtherd and SkagNet went sprawling into his back.

"Grot's wiff me!" The impressively capable newcomer commanded with all authority and he set off into the western buildings behind them brooking no dissent . SkagNet was about to rise in protest when a large armoured boot fell from on high. Cutty, having evidently found what he was searching for in his squig skin sack had finally elected to join them. Though now he was standing on SkagNet's arm pinning him to the ground as his grots abandoned him one by one. Red wheeled Grimy and the big Shoota away after Gorsneek without a second glance.

"Oi! Yer big lug!" SkagNet's yelps and protests went unheeded. "Gerroff me arm!"

Cutty was fully absorbed in his task and cared not a zog for the agonised Runtherd beneath his feet. SkagNet briefly considered availing of his grot-prod but thought better of it. He'd already lost a leg, an eye and several fingers; there was no point in giving a crazed Mek with a buzz-saw any excuse to add an arm or a head to that list.

Men were emerging now from the smoke in the plaza, lasguns shouldered, close order drill, a sergeant calling the shots. The exit music was in full chorus now and finally Cutty stepped off the stage, following Gorsneek and SkagNet's grots inside.

Weezul made a show of himself one last time, squealing and capering for their adoring fans, a shining beacon of grotliness for all to steer for. SkagNet raised his head in time to witness a broad fusillade of lasfire crack dangerously over the masonry of their crumbling shelter. He ducked back down but quickly realised he was alone. They had all abandoned him.

*********

Everyone was gathered inside. They were just waiting for Cutty and Weezul. The Mek appeared remote trigger in hand, grin writ large on his manic features. The time had almost come. A noisy volley of lasguns sounded just outside and Weezul ducking into the doorway at last nodded his confirmation. Cutty held up the big red button in one hand his thumb raised and pressed it home with a surge of immense satisfaction.

There was just enough time to look askance at SkagNet, hobbling in through the door: that "where the zog did you just come from" expression as the statue in the plaza exploded in concert with Gorsneek's charges on the surrounding buildings. The whole world without was noise and fire and smoke and debris.

SkagNet slumped to the floor. He was getting far too old for this gak.

"No, no! Not in dat bag! Give it 'ere!" Booker snatched the big molar out of Wotzit's hand and shot him a withering stare. "Dat bag'z all junk for Blunder."

Blunder looked up briefly from inspecting his blunderbuss. For such a basic weapon the thing seemed to take a lot of maintenance. Grimy too was hard at work reassembling his big shoota, elbow deep in squig greese as ever. The rest of the grots were engaged in the standard post-battle scramble; the gathering of weapons, ammo, limbs, and of course teef.

Booker da Kounta screwed a thick lens over his left eye and inspected a big tooth that Wotzit had found, a nice big ork molar.

"Good fat one dis." He weighed it in his hand, turning it over and inspecting the long roots, "Come out good'n clean too. Nice bit of dosh... very nice." he muttered. "Too good for da teef bag. An' it ain't junk for Blunder's junk bag dat's for zoggin' sure." he scolded, "Teef like dat go to Cutty!"

He tossed it back to Wotzit to take to the Mekboy. "Pokey, Snot! Wotchagot feruz?"

Pokey dropped a handful of dentistry onto Booker's counting mat. A couple of good tusks among them. It was a respectable haul and all but one of the teeth went into the teef bag. The last it turned out was a bone fragment and that went into Blunder's junk.

"Nice one, Pokey." Booker popped the eye glass off and squinted up at Snot-fer-Brains. "Wocha got Snot?"

Pokey's simple-minded companion dropped an armful of detritus onto the mat. Lots of little broken bits of all sorts of plastics, bones, some small rocks and many unidentifiable things. Some of them white, none of them teeth and all of them junk. Booker sighed, it wasn't even worth rolling his eyes over. He just rolled his mat up into a tube and poured the lot into the junk bag. It might be useless as currency but it could feed the blunderbuss all the same.

In that moment Red came pelting through. He shoved past Pokey and spotting the open end of the rolled up mat in the open mouth of a sack he slapped his own contribution down the shoot. Whatever it was, thought Booker it was in the junk now and he didn't care to go hoking around in there to check it out.
Slimey was next in line. His fingers were dripping gore and in one bloody hand he presented what looked like a full set of squig's teeth. Booker wrinkled his nose and did not unroll his mat again. "Fanx but no fanx Slimey."

Slimey shrugged and pocketed the change happily.

"Get back 'ere yer thievin' git!" The unmistakable bawl of SkagNet turned a few heads but the grots didn't exactly jump to attention. Blunder didn't even flinch. Perhaps his headphones had cancelled out the sound. SkagNet came clamouring in and looked around, practically blind with rage.
"Where izzee?!" He guldered, "I'll rip out his stinkin' little grot gizzard!"

Red was hiding behind the wheelbarrow but nobody let on.

"He's nabbed me teef!" the Runthurd complained, "I swear to Gork if I don't have 'em in my hand in da next five seconds... Both of 'em!"

"Der's a whole bag of teef here, Skaggers." Booker spoke calmly, irritatingly, and with a degree of over-familiarity for a grot. Kountas were like that, thought SkagNet; real full of their own self worth. Think they know the value of everything, everything but a smart-arse grot.

"Pick any two you like." Booker smirked a little, he didn't even try to hide it.

SkagNet saw red. He flipped his Grabba-stick end over end and brought the business-end down around Bookers throat with a deftness none would have guessed of one so decrepit. He brought the struggling grot up to eye level squeezing mercilessly waiting for a glimmer of respect to appear before putting his request to the grot accountant a second time.

"Red took me teef." He began slowly. "He came in 'ere, an' gived 'em to you."

Booker nodded breathlessly.

"I likes me teef." He continued. "Dey fits in me gob jus' right."

Booker begged for a breath in silent appeal.

"See, he finx I won't be able to find 'em among da ova teef, but I rekkon you iz da exspurt when it comes to teef. Am I right?"

Booker nodded. He might have been passing out but his head wobbled in the right way. SkagNet relinquished his grip and the grot fell gasping in a heap.

"Now find me da teef wot Red brung ya before I really lose me gak!"

"Blun..." Booker gasped still seeing spots, "Junk..." He coughed. SkagNet almost kicked him but wobbled off balance on his metal peg leg.

"Don't you call'em junk! I knows dey ain't no prize gnasherz yer gobby git!"

"Blunder!" The grot squealed. "Blunder's junk-bag!"

SkagNet shifted his focus immediately over to the oblivious Blunder still ardently mending his piece-of-junk blunderbuss, headphones on, for all the world he might have been the only grot in the room.

"BLUNDER!" Barked the Runthurd.

Blunder jumped, his finger on the trigger, the upright blunderbuss went off right in SkagNet's face. SkagNet staggered backwards in shock tripping over Red who was crouching behind him, and landed rear-end first in the red wheelbarrow. Quick as lighting Red was on his feet, barrow in hand and calling for help.
"Come on, nowz da time!" He called, "da revolution is now!"

Nobody had the faintest notion what he was on about.

"Give'us a hand wit dis big lug, Pokey?"

In a moment they were off. Red and Pokey beating it down the road with a blinking Runthurd in the wheelbarrow still reeling in shock. The rest of the gang were following hot on their heals, whooping and jeering, all enjoying the comedy spectacle.

"Where're we taking 'im?" asked Pokey as they hustled along.

"I dunno," Red didn't care, "I just wanna get rid of 'im."

"Can't we just poke 'im?" Pokey mused, "wif a knife?" He was a big fan of that particular solution to most problems.

"Nah, he's a tough old git. An' canny. We just need some stairs."

"Like dat?" Pokey was nodding at a big civic building entrance, all grand polished steps and columns.

"Nah! We need down ones,"

SkagNet was beginning to re-combobulate. They were running out of time.

"Oi, 'ere we go. Make a right!" Red had spotted a likely alley way he hoped might work. They tilted over to the right nearly tipping their load. The leg of the wheelbarrow scrapped and banged on the cobbles as they straightened up and pressed on into the gap between the buildings. SkagNet flailed like an upturned turtle trying to get a grip on the world. The alleyway went down but not steeply enough. They clattered through a dog-leg corner threading a narrow gap between two high tower blocks and then there it was. The end of the road, a perfect stair, and only about twenty yards to go.

SkagNet used the wall on his right to shift his balance onto one side. Pokey heaved and strained taking most of the weight as they desperately closed the distance. Red ducked a flailing boot as SkagNet rolled onto his belly and gripping the front edge of the rattling wheelbarrow with both hands lifted his face up in time to see the ground disappear beneath him.

Pokey and Red watched in fascination as the wheelbarrow careened down the narrow stairway like a runaway mine-cart. SkagNet clinging on for grim death rode it to its unceremonious terminus landing face first in a paved plaza very far below.

The metallic gong of the wheelbarrow echoed up the alleyway for a long second leaving them in an eerie silence. The grots all crowded together on the top of the stair watched and waited as far below nothing moved.

"Izzee dead?" asked Wotzit. "Did we kill 'im?"
"Did I kill 'im, ya mean?" scoffed Red, "I should zoggin' well hope so!"

Down below, as they watched, SkagNet didn't move.

"D'ya reckon 'es dead yet?" Slimey was getting bored and anyway it was nearly feeding time, the squigs would be getting nippy.

The down below there came a sound, the fearful crack of a volley of lasguns. SkagNet's body twitched in the brief flash and a whiff of smoke betrayed the welcome truth.

"E's dead now, I reckon." Pokey concluded somewhat redundantly.

"At least we got his teef." Booker added, that was what mattered after all.

"Yeah!" Red yelled, his grotly defiance echoing down the alley "Long live da Grotz, you dumb brute git!"

A man appeared below and immediately shouldered his lasgun in readiness to fire.

Red stopped statue still, his little grot fist hanging in the breeze "Uuum... Run for it!"

"GorkDamnit!" Weezul cursed, dropping another clatter of gubbins noisily as he tripped through the street. "Where is dat mis'ribul RuntHurd an' iz grotz when you needs 'em?"

Cutty had had a busy evening salvaging, it seemed like, everything within reach of his saw. Weezul had enjoyed some help from the grot mob but now...

He dumped the heavy armload of gubbins onto the pile and, turning confirmed that he was in fact utterly alone.
"Gakkit!" He stepped outside into the street and scanned up and down. Not a grot in sight. It hadn't been that long since he'd seen them all, had it? They had been helping with the collecting, they had even had their ridiculous squeaky wheelbarrow in use. Though he had to admit he hadn't heard a squeak from it for quite some time.
"Zoggin' goodfernuffink RuntHurd." He groaned, "when I finds 'im Cutty's gonna cut 'im a new..." well, even Weezul had to admit he'd rarely been able to direct Cutty very effectively toward any particular end. He sighed and started walking back.

The shadows were lengthening as the sun sank behind the high hills in the west and the sky glowed pinkly between the rooftops. The yellow sandstone walls were turning blue grey in the dusk. Weezul passed along alone drawn as ever toward the distant song of Cutty's saw like a moth in the night to a candle in a far window.

******

"I can't believe I'm even having to explain dis!" Red groaned. "Da Runthurd iz dead. No orks iz lookin'..."

A lot of blank expressions met his eager gaze, all just waiting patiently for him to spell it out.

"So we iz free!" Red yelled exasperated. Even then, even after so explicit and momentous an announcement, there wasn't so much as a raised eyebrow among his newly liberated grot brethren. They just didn't get it.

"Slimey, you don't gotta splat no meat no more to feed no squigs." He explained. Slimey didn't seem particularly impressed.

"An' Booka!" he continued, trusting that the intelligence of their grot accountant would not let him down, "you don't gotta count anuvva toof for anuvva ork as long as you iz free!"

Booka frowned. Red was floundering. He turned to his most trusted friend, his fellow big shoota crewman.

"Grimy' you don't gotta fix an' clean an' shoot dis heap ov junk no more." He kicked the big shoota hoping to knock it over onto its back but only succeeded in hurting his big toe.

"But I like to feed da squigz." Slimey offered. It was true. He liked squigs more than he liked most grots.

"An' I like countin' teef." Booker confirmed, "I like teef, an' I already counted all my own."

"But, but..." Red was getting exasperated, "Grimy?"

"I miss riding in da wheely-barrow." Grimy sighed.

"Gyaaaagh!" Red exploded, "Fine! Stay here an' wait for da first big green goon wif a grot prod to show up and stick you all in da rear." He yelled, "an' beat you aroun' an' work you to da bone!" He picked up a six-shoota and checked that it was loaded. "Me? I'm gonna be free! Do what I want! Be my own grot!" He grabbed another pocket full of dakka and stormed out the door alone.

There was a squeal and a shout and a shot. The door flew open again and Red came tumbling through, a smoking gun in hand and a look of absolute panic on his face.

"Oomans!" he yelped, "Run!"

********

Dapper slipped into the shadow of another doorway and checked back over his shoulder, laspistol held ready. The little blinking red dot was bugging him lately. He knew what it meant; the little power cell was nearly dead.

The roadway was quiet. All safe. For now. He leaned against the door and quietly tried the handle.

Locked. He moved on.

Doorway to alleyway, dumpster to dustheap, slinking like a shadow between shadows. The place was deserted but there was plenty of evidence of recent activity. The Orks had been through here judging by the kinds of destruction evident. Huge oily black scorch-marks, spent shells and discarded detritus of clearly ork manufacture. But there were no bodies, either human or greenskin. Either the the humans had come back through and gathered their dead and their wounded along with any serviceable equipment or the grots had picked the place clean to feed the squigs and the Meks. Either way there was little left for Dapper here. He needed to find a fresh fight, where the orks had moved on and the humans were busy elsewhere.

Squeezing through a gap between a high wall and a wire fence he scurried across an enclosed yard and up to the rear door of a blasted out building. The latch responded with a gentle click and the hinges whispered their welcome as the door gave way to allow him inside.

Dapper's eyes became saucers as the wealth of riches within unfolded before his hungry gaze. It was a storehouse, full of gear, all of it human. His favourite kind. There were racks of lasguns, piles of rain cloaks, crates of grenades and food rations and water canteens. There were boots and satchels and trenching tools, helmets and webbing and torches. Dapper was practically salivating. He grabbed a standard issue Imperial haversack and stared shovelling in swag like it was the mushroom stall on market day.

He grabbed a nice new bayonet and jabbed it into the top of a crate to lever open the lid. The reward for his efforts was rich indeed for inside, to his great delight there lay six unique and unusual laspacks. No your common as muck regular old paperweight these, oh no. He picked his chosen prise from its cut-foam bed holding up into the light to better behold it's exquisite form. I slim-line pistol pack, light and compact. The perfect size and shape for his own little las-pistol, which had been badly in need of a recharge for quite some time.

"Hey Santos go check the sack door will you?"

It was Humans!

Dapper jumped about the hight of himself at the sound of their voices fumbling the little las-pack out of his grasp. He flailed and grabbed at the air trying to catch the little treasure but it fell down behind a crate of lasguns. He cursed and reached over stretching and feeling around but his knee knocked over the box of laspacks and they clattered noisily to the floor.

"O'Brien, there's somebody in there."

"Hold up, I'll cover you."

The brief delay gave Dapper a chance to hide. Yellow light flooded in as the humans entered, weapons shouldered, eyes alert, scanning for intruders. Dapper slid further back into the boxes and bags, his little heart racing.

"Santos, check the door."

One of the men crossed to the back of the room and closed the door with little click. He grabbed hold of a heavy crate and grunting hauled it over in front of the doorway. Dapper's best hope for escape was now blocked.

"That oughta hold it for now. The quartermaster needs to run a security assessment on this place."

The other man had crossed now to the exact spot where Dapper had left his haversack, still full of swag and lying discarded on the floor. Dapper's eyes fell upon the little power pack. There it was, his prized treasure now sitting just inches from the man's foot. He couldn't reach it. He couldn't risk it. The best he could hope for was that he might somehow get out of this place alive.

When Grimy heard the word "Run" issued as an order, the cowardly majority of his Gretchin psyche nearly took over. An icy sensation shot up his spine, and he instinctively thought to flee in some random direction and hide away in the first nook or cranny he encountered. There he would be invisible, safe. Safe... until when? And with whom? Did he really want to be completely isolated again, like when his battlewagon detonated what felt like an eternity ago? These doubts flashed through his mind briefly, just long enough to help him think rationally. Enemies approaching would kill on sight. Returning to Ork lines alone, moving away from the direction of battle, would likely earn him a good krumping as well. For better or worse, his best chance was with his fellow Grots, in numbers. But how could he keep them together? Some had snuck off zog knows where already, and the rest were just starting to scatter as well. He needed a strong voice, one that could offer at least some semblance of organization. Wait a second...

"Red!"

The self-proclaimed revolushunary turned to Grimy, wild-eyed with fear of the opponents he discovered.

"Grab some grots! We haff ta stay togevver ta stay alive! Tell em to stay put for just a bleedin' second!" Grimy then spun round and leapt for the nearest Gretchin, Wotzit, tackling him to the ground.

"Oi, oi! Geroff me! Wotzit doin' to me? We gotta scarper, why is ya holding me instead?" The inquisitive Grot spouted off. Despite protesting and struggling, he was pinned down by Grimy well enough for the latter's purposes. Ignoring Wotzit, Grimy looked back towards Red to see how he reacted.

Sure enough, Red must have come to the same conclusion. He was clever about it, too, as Red had latched onto Pokey's arm, knowing Pokey would never let Snot-fer-Brainz out of his sight, ensuring two more Grots would remain in the group. Even better, Snot-fer-Brainz had tripped up one more Grot long enough to corral him. It was Slik, whom Pokey had "recruited" during the late SkagNet's game. Grimy and Red exchanged a glance, both clearly pleased with the results of this plan. Grimy hoped they shared enough comradery that Red would forget his transgression when they first met. He had, after all, turned another Grot into red mist, and even though it was completely accidental, he knew these revolushunary types took deeper offense than normal for that sort of thing.

The group quickly looked around and assessed the situation. Dapper and Weezul had already been missing. Gorsneek, Sikkum, and Gakkit were actually moving to and take up hidden positions in the building: the little Kommando crouched behind an upended tabletop, Sikkum climbed onto a ledge just above the doorframe, ready to drop down viscously with his blade, and Gakkit found a nice spot on a nearby staircase to cover the door with his rifle. Had they worked out some sort of plan among themselves, or were they just like-minded enough to have each had that idea on their own? The rest of the crew, Slimey, Blunder, and Booker, were bugging off (with all the teeth!), but fortunately they were fleeing in a group, presumably searching for another door or window to escape.

The main team of Grots hesitated, caught out in the middle of the open floor. They had precious little time to act, let alone create a plan. Grimy feared he would die where he stood, but snapped back to reality when he heard Red bark some quick orders to the Grots laying their ambush: "Sikkum, Gorsneek, the both of ya will distrakt da first humies comin' through da door! But after ya chop 'em, get back! When they do, Gakkit, hit da... 'shandaleer' fing up there, then we follow those other gits running off!"

Within seconds, there were voices just outside the door. Lights began shining through chipped frosted glass. The Grots cowed slightly as a lasgun stock impacted the door outside. The next hit smashed a hole through the door near the knob, and the door swung open uselessly. Human Guardsmen pushed through the threshold, lasguns at the ready, demonstrating their aptitude at building sweeps. However, their barrels and lights remained level; they were clearly searching for full sized Orks after discovering SkagNet's body. For the briefest moment, which felt like an eternity to Grimy, the Guardsmen were completely oblivious to the presence of the Grots. The notion would have offended Red, if he had time to worry about such things.

Gorsneek was already over the table and dashing silently towards the door when Sikkum made his move. Shrieking loudly, he pushed off the ledge of the doorframe, crashing violently into the second human intruder filing in. The first Guardsman turned back to witness a green blur plunging a blade into his comrade when Gorsneek arrived to exploit the distraction, slashing wildly across the man's legs. As the pair finished dispatching their targets, a wild flurry of las-shots spread from the doorway, peppering the back wall randomly. Gorsneek and Sikkum leapt to the other Grots with cruel sneers as Gakkit took his shot. The beam of his longlas perfectly severed the ornate chain holding up a heavy looking chandelier. The Guardsmen recoiled as it met the floor, sending shards of debris out in all directions.

With the plan having gone exactly as planned so far, Red took the chance to yell "HOOF IT!" to the rest of the Grots. In a panicky green wave, they surged out of the room to the back of the building. With any luck, Grimy thought, the others will have found a way out by now. All we have to do is find them before--

A round of lasfire struck the floor just under Snot-fer-Brainz's heel as he stumbled along behind Pokey. Pokey ground to a halt and turned as he heard his companion exclaim sharply. As they were towards the front of the group, the rest could barely see his eyes staring down the encroaching Guardsmen under his oversized hat as they passed. Despite this, it was obvious to everyone they were filled with unbridled fury and contempt. Pokey puffed up his chest and bellowed, his voice dropping lower than most ever hear out of a Grot, "NOBODY KILLS SNOT 'CEPT FER ME, AND TODAY AIN'T THAT DAY!" Raising his knife in one hand and already cracking off shots with his pistol in the other, Pokey let out a "WAAAGH!" more like a miniature Ork, then charged headlong into the enemy.

Sikkum was covered in blood. Human blood, his favourite. It had all gone a bit red back there and he wasn't entirely sure how he'd been removed from he situation. He sat and sucked his fingers sullenly. They were human ones, already sucked dry and tasteless. GorSneek was there wrapping a nasty bite mark on his arm. He gave Sikkum a dark look but not an unfriendly one.

"You wanna watch that." He began, "I fink you got a taste for it."

Sikkum spat a knuckle bone at him and showed his teeth.

"It'll getcha killed is wot I mean." GorSneek continued unperturbed. "I was able to drag you out dis time." He cinched the bandage tight and gave his grotly muscles a pump. "Next time I might not bovver."

Sikkum hung his head.

GorSneek hefted his webbing and jacket up and slipped his bandaged arm through. He turned to leave.

"Fanx."

"So it speaks!" GorSneek didn't sound all that surprised.

Sikkum just looked up at him. A little less fiercely this time. He just looked tired. Bloody and tired.

"I don't got no grabba stick is all." GorSneek explained. "An' I ain't yer RuntHurd."

Sikkum looked away and blinked a bit. He didn't exactly miss old SkegNet. He had resented their old slavedriver just as much as the next grot but he had to admit, he'd had it good for a while there. Plenty of humans to sink his teeth into.

" 'Ungry." He grumbled. He licked a little sticky muck from between his fingers but it already dry and tasted of dust. He hung his hands back over his knees and shook all over.

"Ol' Slimy there'll getcha some squig-meat." GorSneek offered. "Fill you fight up. Make you fart like a champion too." GorSneek chuckled trying to lighten the mood.

"Bah!" Sikkum spat. His fingers were gnawed to the nub by now and just threw them in the dust angrily. He gave GorSneek a dark hard stare. His quivering eyes screamed in silent appeal.

"Oh I gets it." The Kommando grot had figured it out. Sikkum had a problem. His blood-lust had become an addiction. "Manflesh izzit?"

Sikkum gulped and looked away. He wrung his hands trying to keep from shaking.

"Da Sweet meat." GorSneek pondered. He'd seen it before. In orks more often. They became berserkers, thirsting after blood. Sure it would make them wild and furious in battle, but also insatiable and unreasonable; Not that he'd ever really met a reasonable ork in a combat situation before... More often than not they would die in the end, eventually; too fat and bloated to realise some obvious danger; a big tank or an unexploded bomb or a runnaway deffdread.

"You got some skillz, I'll give ya dat." Admitted GorSneek, "Ain't too many grotz can get stuck in like wot you can. Yer a nachural, see. Be a shame to see dat raw talent go to waste."

Sikkum got to his feet. He didn't want to hear it. The encounter with the humans had been brief and the small taste he'd gotten wasn't nearly enough. He could already feel himself starting to get the jitters. The sun was hanging low now like a great orange ball drowning all the world in a bloody mask. Sikkum could hardly stand it.

"Be dark soon." GorSneek's voice startled him out of some dire reverie. "If you can 'old on for a bit I'll take you stalkin'. We'll getcha wotcha need."

Sikkum tried to look over but he couldn't bare to meet GorSneek's sympathetic gaze. It was hard. His eyes were twitchy and wild. The blood red sky was pounding on him.
"Dark soon..." He muttered, "Dark soon. Dark soon." He went and buried his face between his knees, eyes screwed shut clutching his ragged ears in his fists. "Dark soon." He rocked and muttered back and forth.

Wotzit cocked an eyebrow toward GorSneek, pointing with his thumb at Sikkum.
"Wotzup wit dis guy?" He asked loudly. Wotzit didn't give a stuff for Sikkum's precious feelings.

"GorSneek didn't answer but the savage look he shot the mouthy grot was nothing short of bloody murder.

"I go see if Grimy needs an 'and wif da big shoota den." Wotzit staggered to his feet and disappeared quicker than a squig-hound at the races.

GorSneek checked his gear. He was running low on a few things, shotgun shells, frags. His arm was beginning to itch. He'd have to keep his eyes open for more bandages too when he went out. The sky was beginning to bruise into purples now.

Sikkum still rocked.

"Dark soon.

Dark soon.

Dark soon."

Gork Almighty! Red was so bored he could almost eat his own hat.

Blunder was tuned in to yet another riveting broadcast courtesy of Orky TeeVee; a seemingly non-stop sports channel run from some Space-Hulk out there broadcasting orkish events from across the galaxy. Right now, apparently live from Gork knows where it was yet another Evil Sunz Grand Prix. The incessant screaming of the Formula Waaaagh speedsters going round and round spliced with the near constant chants of “Ere we go; ere we go, ere we go!” was really starting to grind Red’s little grot gears.

“Red, Red, you gots to come see dis, Red.”

Red raised his hat above an already raised eyebrow. A welcome distraction? Thank Mork for small mercies, he thought. Another two minutes of these squig-brained racers and their redder than red cars and he might of gone out and thrown himself in front of one.

Wotzit busstled in carrying a box.

“I found dis over in da white streets, down near da Big Whoop.”

Red knew the place. Every imperial city had at least one large cathedral. This one, that the Orks called Da Big Whoop was situated in a particularly swanky part of town, where the sandstone architecture of the sprawling residential zones gave way to gleaming white marble and polished granite. It protruded like a great white needle in the eye of this otherwise ork infested sore of a city. The place was usually crawling with humans. Humans, tanks and defence lasers! Whatever Wotzit had been doing poking his little green nose around those parts was the more pressing question.

“I foun’ a Beaky!” Wotzit produced his prize from the unassuming cardboard box. A thing so shocking; a shock so utterly ingrained in the green-skin psyche that Red almost fell backwards off his stool; a Space Marine helmet!

“Wot da Zog!” Red blurted, scrambling to compose himself.

“It’s not a real’un.” Wotzit smirked, enjoying Red’s discomfiture. “I fink its fer puttin’ in water…” He showed the thing to Red, who tentatively stepped forward. Sure enough it had a handle on the back, and a lid on top for filling it with water. The beak made the spout for pouring it out.

“It’s a tin kettle!” Red grumbled with embarrassment. “Wocha wanna beaky water pot for?”

“I dunno.” Wotzit shrugged, “Jus’ to see your face!” He held the thing up to deliver the finest imperial decree he could think of, “Gak yer pants, in da name ov da Emp’rah!”

Red snatched the thing and inspected it a bit more carefully. He looked it over, considering it’s fearsome visage. Wotzit was turning to go when Red suddenly grabbed him by the ear and held the thing against the side of his head for comparison.

“Didya see any more o’ these?” asked Red, a strange pondering expression growing in his eyes.

“Oh yeah, dere’s loads ov’em.” Confirmed Wotzit, “Red ones, blue ones… I found a whole shop full’o all sortz. Dem Oomies must love dis Beaky gak.”

“If Weezul can cut the bottom out… ” A very far away look had come over Red all of a sudden, he might have been beginning to have a plan.

********

“Aaaand Akshun!”

Five diminutive Space marines crowded the small screen of Weezul’s recording unit. Red squinted at the display, looking for tell-tale signs that might give them away. There were a lot.

“Attenshun Orkses!” Pokey announced in the deepest tones he could muster. “You is propa weak an’ puny.”

Someone was sniggering.

“Oi, knock it off! Cut!” Weezul stopped the recording and reset the device.

“Who’s dat?” Red lifted the blue kettle helmet off the smallest bogus Beaky to reveal Snot-fer-Brains grinning from ear to ear. “Beakies don’t larf, Snot!” He dropped the helmet and shoved the little runt back into the shot.

“Tell ‘em Gorsneek.”

The kommando grot didn’t look up from his bomb making. He only grunted, “I neva met one. But I reckon dey’d fink dat was pretty funny. Pfff!” He scoffed and continued wrapping nails around a pipe.

That wasn’t the kind of inspiring direction Red was hoping for. “No! No!” He complained. “Dey iz dead serious! Look! Lookit me!”

“I can’t see zog in dis fing.” Wotzit complained from inside his beaky kettle. “Can’t we cut out da eye holes?

“No! Jus’ listen. You is big, you is mean, you is gonna krump da orks inta mush. It ain’t funny!” Red corrected another errant sniggerer, “It’s propa serious an dead scary.”

“Blunder, yer big shoulder fingy is fallin’ off.” He spun one of the costumed grots around and tightened the straps holding the painted cardboard pauldrons in place. Someone farted. “Serious! Dead serious you lot.” Snapped Red, “I wants ya to scare da gak outta me.” He quickly straightened up their positioning in front of the big lights and ducked out of shot.

“Ready Pokey?”

The narrator nodded.

“Akshun!”

“Attenshun Orkses. You is propa weak an’ puny.” Repeated Pokey. “Beakys like uz is too good for ya. If you wants a propa scrap against da likes ov uz an’ not just some squishy Oomies den listen up!”

Red’s eyes were wide with enthusiasm. The shot was dead dramatic, all low angle, blindingly backlit and crammed with sinister beakys leering down at the camera. Pokey was really selling the voiceover too.

“…”

“Wot? Oi, Pokey? Cut!”

“Dat’s all der is, boss.” Pokey shrugged, “you din’t tell me nuffink else to say.”

“I din’t… I mean, I reckoned you would improvise, you know? Get into da fing…”

“But I don’t get it.” Pokey was close to pointing out some the obvious flaws in Red’s plan when one of the beakys in the back chimed in.

“It don’t matter, Poke.” Dapper sighed so heavily you could practically hear his eyes rolling inside the helmet. “Orks is fick as two short bricks anyways. Just slag ‘em off, dare’m to fight ya and say sumfink ‘bout da emp’rah an’ we can all get done ‘ere.”

“Yeah, I’m missing Orky TeeVee for dis!” whined Blunder.

“Right!” Red clapped the resentful grot on the back carefully between the wobbly pauldrons, grateful for Dapper’s keen insight. “More insults, Pokey, Orks is weedy, Orks is naff. But go ahead an’ put some real stink on it. Alright? Yes! One more time. Let’s take it from da top. Positions!”

The grot squadron shuffled in tight and pointed their beaks down at the camera.

“Got it, Pokey?”

“Da Emp’rah?”

“For da Emp’rah!” Red gave his confused narrator two big thumps up and an encouraging grin and yelled “Akshun!”

“Attenshun Orkses. You is propa weak an’ puny! Why, I neva seen such a bunch of worthless goodfernuffink hunks of fungus-meat! An’ believe me, I seen tones of worthless gak all ova! You make me sicker’n a bucket of barfed up squig-guts.”

Pokey was really getting going this time. The bogus beaky grots were all nodding on cue convincingly enough too. Weezul was getting it all in the can. Red was loving it.

“You fink you got wot it takes to scrap wif da Emp’rah’s ‘ardest ladz? You fink you’re ‘ard enough? You don’t got nuffink. We blow up whole planets for breakfast! You can’t even blow up da Big Woop!”

That got Gorsneek’s attention. The kommando grot looked up with some surprise. Did a grot really just dare his orkish overlords to target the Big Whoop for demolition? It was a big ask, but Gorsneek admired its vision.

“It’s coz yer ain’t nuffink but a bunch of scaredy grot gits!”

Red swallowed his rebel-grot pride for the sake of his art and encouraged Pokey to wrap it up with a vague gesticulation.

“An’ you iz dumb too!” Pokey continued beginning to flounder, “Dummer’n …Snot-fer-Brainz!”

Red’s gestures became more emphatic, this was going downhill fast, it had to end now. He gave Pokey two big thumbs up and a huge grin, praying to Gork that he would get the hint before it was too late.

“Err, For da Emp’rah!” barked Pokey so loud that the grots on stage all snapped to attention.

Red almost passed out with delight. “Cut! It’s a wrap! It’s a Gork-Damned masterpiece of da Green-Screen!”

Weezul checked the footage and gave Red the nod. They had it all in the can.

“Now wotcha fink?” Asked Weezul, “You gonna show it to da WaaaghBoss yerself are ya?”

“Ummm…” Red pictured his head in a blue tin kettle adorning the boss’s Waaagh! banner and knew he’d have to come up with a better plan. “Yeah, you lot, maybe get rid ov dat stuff.” He tore a cardboard Aquila off of Wotzit’s chest and scrunched it up. “Have yerselves a bonfire.” He suggested, “Burn da lot!”

Snot-fer-brains pulled out a lighter and immediately set about trying to set fire to his own pauldron, before Pokey stepped in and helped him to take it off first.

“An take dem beaky hats outside for target practice.” Added Red, “Wif da Big Shoota! I mean really smash ‘em up.” He didn’t want any evidence left lying around.

The assembled cast and crew dispersed, some to the cardboard bonfire, some to the beaky shoot. Blunder went straight back to the box-viewer hoping his favourite show wasn’t over already. He tuned in to find pair of gobby BadMoon pundits hashing it out following the end of the latest heavyweight slobberknocker between a couple of Goff Skarboys. Blunder had missed the bout but he didn’t seem to care so long as he could still watch the highlights.

Red remained silently in the corner watching the blundering fool already transfixed by the screen, taking it all in.

“Pfff, Orky TeeVee!” Red scoffed. If it wasn’t Goff Boxing it was Squighound racing, or Snazz-my-wagon, or some such other inane nonsense! He held the data pack from Weezul’s vid-corder tight in his little indignant fist. He’d give these complacent blabbering brutes something to really talk about; And soon enough the talking would reach a critical mass, where action must necessarily follow. He had the match to light the fuse. Now all he needed, he thought darkly, was access to an audience, a moment of their undivided attention, and the fate of this world would turn on the whim of a grot.

“Gakkit, you got da fingy?”

“Yeah, Weezul. It’s ‘evier’n a sack o’ gak.”

“Are you sure dats da place?” Red wasn’t convinced.

“Course it iz! It’s got da big tower an’ da dish an all dat!”

“So?”

“So da dish is how dey gets da signal in.” Explained Weezul, and then pointing up to the tall radio mast tower. “An’ dats how dey gets it out.. so dats how WE gets it out too.”

“Which is why we need you, Gakkit.” Red interrupted, reasserting his grip on the know-wots of da plan, “to get up dere.”

“With da gak-sack.” Complained Gakkit.

“Wiff da signal splitta!” Weezul corrected him, indignant at his highly technical gubbinz being so disparaged.

“If you says so.” Gakkit shrugged.

I does says so.” Weezul folded his arms in a huff. “Anyway da sign on da front clearly says “Orky TeeVee” so we’re in da right place.”

“If you says so.” Red didn’t mean to be such a git. He was just a little nervous. It might have had something to do with the razor wire, perimeter guards, attack squigs and sniper tower they’d have to get by to make the mission a success.

“Don’t worry about dat lot.” Weezul grinned. He wasn’t worried at all. He wasn’t going in. “Just remember, when you clamp da Signal Splitta onto da wire, you…

“Turn da screws on da clamps til it gets good’n tight.” Gakkit repeated, his eyes rolling summersaults. “Switch it on. And wait fer da signal.”

“An’ if I don’t give da signal.”

“You betta give da signal!”

“If da remote don’t beep,” snapped Weezul, “I don’t signal nuffink, mate.”

“If you don’t give da signal,” Red broke in. “I has to upload da vid an play it live, an’ get out before dey set da squigs on me.”

“Easy fer you!” Yelped Gakkit, “I’ll be hangin’ out like a squigeon up a tree while it all goes south down below. So like I say, dis gak-piece splitta gubbinz better work, cause I ain’t pulling Squig teef outa my rear on your account.”

“Alright, don’t gak yer pantz, I’ll fink of somefink.”

“Y’hear dat, Gakkit? Don’t worry. We gots da best grot brain on da job.”
Red was keen to keep the grot sniper sweet; they needed Gakkit’s head for heights on this one, and maybe his uncanny luck too. There was no way Red was climbing that tower.

Gakkit relented. He’d been promised a brand new power pack for his long-las, and he wasn’t going to get one hanging around down here.
“Well let’s get on wif it then.” He hefted the backpack full of gubbins and made for the front door of Orky TeeVee headquarters.

“Oi, wait.” Red grabbed the other grot by the ear and turned him about. “First we need to go pay a visit to a friend.”

“In da Big Goff Grill?”

Red fast around trying to find his bearings. “No, wait. In there! We needs to talk to a fella in da Guzzlin’ Grox.”

“Sure, I could use a fungus beer.” Weezul marched over to the grots entrance and ducked inside.

“C’mon,” Red briefly considers making for the Orks entrance but thought better of it. They needed to keep a low profile. “And bring dat gubbinz.”

 Dekskull wrote:

Guzzlin Grox bar to see if Finga has something for them.

The other grots arrived at the Guzzlin Grox, a wreck of a building that had deteriorated into an L shaped ruin.

They entered through the back way...well, there wasn't much of a wall left but at one time it had been the back way. In any case, it defintiely wasn't the front way, where the orks were all drinking brew and punching each other.

Finga moved a small barrel of something through the kitchen area, pretending to move a barrel of something across the floor as other grots scurried about hastily trying to fulfill the barking orders of a mad cook ork boy. When he saw the ork reach for another grot to grab it around the neck, Finga deftly pushed the barrel out of the kitchen area and into the shadows beyond...



Eventually Finga introduced the other grots to the barrel.

"Wot's in it?" Said Wotsit?

"Nuffin." Said Finga.

"Nuffin, den wots the point?"

Finga opened the barrel up.

"You scrunch in tight enough, the lot of youz can fir in this barrel. Da orks will fink youz a barrel of brew and take youz inside where youz lookin ta go. Thats ow yah gonna sneak in?"

"Oi, you awful cunnin for a grot, you ever done sumfin like this before?"

Finga nodded. "Yah, I woz Da Red Gobbo for a while, for I got side tracked with mi obbies."

"Obbies?" Wotsit asked?

"Yeah...cookin an paintin and wot not. I likes dat more den I likes Revolushuning. Course...if an ork deserves it den dats different. An kum ta fink of it. Der's always an ork dat deserves it."