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Subject: Give it yer best Grot! Building a grot mob of unlikely heroes. (Insert your own grot)
Edit/Update: I'm going to use this post to keep track of who we have in our story so far.
SkagNet's Grot Mob SkagNet- Really old and nasty Runthurd.
Wotzit- a dangerously inquisitive grot
Grimy-a former oiler with a big shoota
Gakkit- a foul-mouthed grot sniper
Sikkum - a vicious feral grot
Pokey and Snot-fer-Brainz - a duality of Grot intelligence
Red - the revolutionary
Gorsneek- the kommando grot
Dapper- the fancy grot. (caught by Snot-fer-brainz)
Slik the crazy grot oiler and his Oil-Squig Splurt- (caught by Pokey)
Slimey - the squig feeder.
Blunder- a grot with a blunderbuss
Booker - a grot Kounta.
Cutty & Weezul- an absent minded Mek and his deadly grot minder
Humans- Santos and O'Brien.
Ok, I love threads where everyone chips in and creates a character and gives us their background then we all write up their manic adventures.
So how about this, lets start a Grot mob. Just a regular bog-standard bunch of grots in a big ol' Waaargh trying to survive.
The mob can be any number as "Grots don't count" (that's more a comment on effectiveness than numeracy)
They can start doing any job, and that can and will change. Grots do a variety of jobs.
They can and will die. Often, so if you get bored of your grot kill him off and throw a new one into the mix. Or just leave him alive for someone else to kill off. (Please don't kill off someone else's grot without permission)
Grots are great fun so lets go crazy.
I'll kick things off with...
SkagNet the Runtherd
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!"
This message was edited 31 times. Last update was at 2021/03/10 18:46:44
Glad to join in this - I've always had a soft spot for Grots.
As such, I'd like to throw my own little fella into this.
Gakkit, da Eye of Mork
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.
This message was edited 3 times. Last update was at 2017/05/19 20:55:45
I'm a bit of a sucker for Ork fluff/lore, so I'll bite. I'll probably use names given to Grots I've painted for sentimentality. Not that they're safe from a grisly demise...!
Grimy, the ex-Grot Oiler
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...
Thanks KK. I look forward to adding more smudges to his little grimy grot face soon.
And just while we're on a roll I'll drop another personality into the mix.
Wotzit, the very inquisitive grot
"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?"
"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!"
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2017/05/24 21:03:25
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.
Thanks for joining the party. Its nice to see there's still a bit of interest in this.
I've been in a deep dark writing funk these last few months and I'd hoped this little project would jolt me into creative action but its been slow going.
Honestly I just need to read more.
I'm happy to let this sit here and gather characters and ideas for the meantime, I'll work on pulling them all together into our main story eventually.
Cutty and Weezul are a nice pair, I look forward to incorporating them into things.
Hi folks, I wrote something! Woot.
Its a couple of guardsmen sharing war stories after the initial encounter with our grot heros.
"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..."
"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."
And the same from the Grots' perspective including a new character!
Sikkum - The feral grot.
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.
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.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2017/08/23 23:28:58
Thanks, I surely will.
Sorry everyone that I havnt been incorporating your characters into the story much yet. I feel like they're all out there in the same conflict just waiting to be discovered at some point. Gakkit is watching events unfold from up high, Grimy is nearby (likely about to be grabbed) Weezul and Cutty are somewhere out there.
Anyway if you want to add to the story at any point don't wait for an invitation, just jump on in and make it your own.
I call this short follow-on instalment...
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. Feth 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 to 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!"
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2017/08/23 23:27:22
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.
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.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2017/08/11 00:09:59
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.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2017/08/23 23:26:03
I know this thread's been cooling off, but I think it's time to get it a little more life. Time to introduce a couple more characters, I say!
Pokey and Snot-fer-Brainz, a duality of Grot intelligence
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.
Footnote: all of my Grotz thus far are based off existing models of mine. For future reference, here's a quick look at their 3D renditions:
Nice to see them in your pics too. I don't feel like I really need to draw them now, though I still might some day.
I've made old Skaggers a real mean piece of work in this story and I havnt yet drawn a version I him that looks mean enough.
Anyway, I'll add Pokey and Snot-fer-brainz to the top post and get to thinking of another one myself.
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.
This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2017/09/18 23:45:47
The battle was going well, gorsneek thought, as he quietly scrambled forward up the hill of rubble, broken glass, and metal bars that had once been the wall of the promethium refinery. To any other grot the thick smoke and constant noise of an ork horde in an industrial sector would make them gak themselves, but to gorsneek it was perfect.
Nobody sees a grot coming up behind them when it's this hard to see, and especially not when an ork is charging with a choppa aimed for their face
Gorsneek thought back to earlier, when he had ambushed an umie bunker, the pounding artillery fire and waves of orks kept them very busy, busy enough to not notice gorsneek setting the umie explosive cutty had given him and scrambling off to hire in the burnt shell of a vehicle
The small grots thoughts were soon interrupted by tripping over a box left on the floor of the refinery
"Riyt no mor renemburin' got a jobb to do" he muttered to himself
The acrid smoke and noise had not yet reached the interior of the refinery and so after a brief look around he found his target.
A large fuel tank positioned at the top of a loading slide 3 floors up.
If the refinery was functioning (and not currently little more than cover for the countless imperial guard regiments) the tanks would be filled and rolled down the slide where they would be collected by trucks and shipped to other parts of the hive
"Dis is gonna make some real dakka" the grot thought
He grabbed the scaffolding holding up the ramp and begin to haul his body up
Upon reaching the top the Kunning little grot had a thought
"If it goes boom here da boss iz appy bechauzz it gowz Boom!"
"But if it rowls down da ramp it goz boom on da humies!"
He thought to himself briefly
Disobeying da boss would usually mean death
But the tactical advantage, the fact da boss was busy jumping some human "comysah" and gorsneeks reputation among the orks and especially the kommandos as the "knife of mork" made him decide he would probably get away with it
He pulled out his trusty "mini choppa" (in reality just a cadian combat knife he looted from a guardsman) and began hacking at the supports leaving one intact
He reached his scarred hands into his pack and pulled out his favourite umie toy
A time bomb
"Mayk daddy prowd littul bomm" he whispered before placing it by the last remaining support and setting it
He quickly scrambled away, stepping out of a window and climbing down the wall of the refinery
He didn't have much time and the only cover he could find war in the form of a watchtower across the street
He hoped it's height was enough distance from the blast to live
As he climbed the side of the tower he heard a voice from above
"++Overwatch, investigate Point Eagle, Find out why he's not responding.++"
Gorsneek pulled out his choppa and held it in his teeth and he continued climbing
He had almost reached the top when he heard a massive explosion from behind him
The fuel tank had successfully rolled down the loading ramp, and instead of rolling into the sophisticated pulley and loading system that would direct it into the back of a transport truck
It had hit the imperial guard heavy weapons squad that was defending the alley and it's massive amounts of ammunition
This explosive ordnance had levelled the refinery and the surrounding buildings in blazing fireballs coloured emerald green by the promethium
As well as causing major structural damage to the buildings nearby
One watchtower had the left half blasted out of it and looked oh so close to falling.
Staring at it gorsneek noticed a Humie sniper! Pointing straight as the watchtower!
"Cmon mork if ya lovez me" me muttered in what could be sees as a prayer for his life
Suddenly a stray round from a tankbusta hit it. Smashing out the upper floors and sending the roof down on the humies head
This extra push from the blast was enough, as the lower floors crumbled sending the tower down like a domino
Gorsneek climbed his way up the last edge of the tower
Grabbed his knife from his teeth as he instinctively vaulted the ledge and threw it at the first movement he saw
As he performed this highly skilled manouver the
Vox caster next to him blared into life throwing him off
++Overwatch is down! We have no support, pull back to the transports now!++"
Gorsneek jerked from the sudden noise, throwing off his aim as the blade spun into the ceiling
Looking forward he realised his target was no umie
It was a grot
The last grot gorsneek wanted to see right now
There was a long running hatred between gorsneek and gakkit
Ever since gakkit stole credit for his kill
He was the one who slashed that ogryn
He was the one who climbed it and slit it's throat
And gakkit was the one who claimed the kill
Gakkit looked up from his rifle
"Knife" he said contemptuously
"Eye" gorsneek replied
Both had given themselves the title of morks chosen grot, so to refer to the other as that title would be a clear mark of weakness
"Was dat u?" Gakkit asked, nodding towards the green smoke and vague screams below
"Nice job, I'll remember to tell da boss I did it"...
Subject: Give it yer best Grot! Building a grot mob of unlikely heroes. (Insert your own grot)
Warboss Grimdakka wrote: Guys I'm really not a writer or creative in general, so sorry if this isn't up to the standards of others
Well you can knock that on the head for a start. You showed up, created a character and wrote a story for him. And if it's not something you've done much of then all the better that you're starting here. Don't fret about quality, just keep reading and keep writing and you'll improve. But there's all levels of talent on here. I read stuff on Dakka regularly that just blows my work out of the water but I just keep on throwing it out there.
I enjoyed your writing. Yeah there are technical issues here and there but the story is good, you've researched and built it around an existing piece which really grounds it in our story so top marks for that. And I've immediately gone and started drawing a grot based on Arnie from Commando!
Thanks for joining the party.
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.