I'm trying to get into actually writing. Maybe help get some of those ideas out of my head and onto paper. I thought a good exercise would be to write tiny short stories. Just a scene or two to go with the models I paint up. With that in mind, I hope you enjoy.
The box was not a pleasant place to be. It was meant to be the passenger compartment of a transport, but it was obvious that this was an afterthought. Not a great surprise though, for this was an Ork gunwagon. A pile of junk with shabby construction and little planning involved. If an Ork can fit between the various piles of ammo, then surely it must be a transport as well.
The air was stifling and nearly suffocating from the engine sharing the same space. It was a cacophony of sounds; with the roar of the engines, the chatter of ammo and the krump of cannon fire. The dark space was sparsely lit by only a few bulbs and red LED’s. Red, black and white played across the walls as the bulbs swayed with the truck and electrics sparked. It was a tightly packed space of chaos as grots scampered back and forth, frantically manning guns and hammering the engine back into shape.
Amongst all this typically Orkish pandemonium were three immovable shapes of hulking metal. Ork meganobz, veterans piloting shoddily crafted exoskeletons piled high with scrap armour. Snarling faces peeked out of the ablative junk. Their gnarled muggs showed just how old these Ork nobles were. It was difficult to tell where the suits ended and the orks began. Like old trees grown into structures around them. Their faces were permanently fossilized into a scowl, their flesh a map of craggy scars and old sutures from the endless facial reconstructions. The biggest and ugliest was Uzgork and his armour was covered in enough trophies and medals to let anyone know who was in charge.
A grot scrabbles up to his shoulder. The studious gretchin yanking a vox piece down from a wire on the ceiling and holding it to Uzgork’s ear.
“Uzgork. Can ya hear me ya old git?” An orkish voice buzzed across the link.
“Ya, I hear ya. What ya want?” Uzgork called back.
“I ‘ave loads o’dakka headin to dat wall and ya betta be riding one,” the voice growled through the tinny speaker.
“Dey gunna crack it proppa and dats where you get goin’, got it?”
“Ya Ya, wotevva;” the dismissive old ork replied.
Uzgork shrugged off the grot who tumbled off his shoulder with the vox.
“Bossez deez days. Too busy wid’ dere plans. No appreciation for a proppa rush’” the cantankerous Ork complained. “Back in my day, all we ‘ad to do wuz load up some dakka and get stuck in. Good ‘an simple!” The others grunted in agreement.
It was easy to miss it over the engine and Uzgorks complaining, but there was definitely some sort of barrage going off around them. They all could feel it through their steel shod boots and pick up the muffled shockwaves hammering the hull. The grots around them were bowled over as their ride lurched forward, laying on more speed. Their metal box bucked hard as the wagon scaled the rubble and an unlucky grot broke their neck against the steel wall. The orks in their powered armour rode out the buck-wild driving with ease. Their wide and heavy frames kept them firmly planted. A screech of brake pads and the grots were thrown once again to the other side of the wagon. A klaxon blared and another red light flashed overhead.
“Roight. Dat’s us ladz,” Uzgork shouted over the din.
The hatch slammed open and their metal frames stomped down the ramp. The wagon had been obliging enough to park right on top of the enemy. The three geezers gathered in relative safety at the rear of the wagon. A smattering of gunfire ricocheted off the bulk of the armoured vehicle. The grots poured out after them, hauling out Uzgork’s most prized possession. His warbanner. Two panels of flack board as tall as the old ork. Painted with all the iconography of the Bad Moons and decorated with a panoply of trophies. Medals, seals and the flags from all Uzgork’s most decorated victims. Fixed over his shoulders, everybody knew who was coming for them. Sure, it made Uzgork quite the target, but that’s what all the armour was for.
All decked out, Uzgork rounded the corner with his possy in tow. And that’s when they were finally able to lay eyes on their enemy.
“Beakies! And it’s da black, shouty ones,” Uzgork exclaimed.
Astartes waded through the dust and rubble, eager to escape the collapsing bunker and fill the breach. Clad in black and adorned with crosses of jet on a field of bone white. These were the Black Templar, a frequent adversary the experienced orks were quite familiar with.
“Dey’re gonna mess up our ride,” Uzgork shouted. “Get stuck in dere, WAAAAUGH!”
With a roar, they thundered down upon the distracted space marines. It did not take long for them to notice the clank and clatter of mega-armour. The closest astartes turned with superhuman speed and fired their bolt pistols. A perfect shot. Center of mass and right in the heart. A regular ork would have been knocked flat. But, of course, these were the Bad Moons. Sensible orks with sensible tastes. And they came prepared with the heaviest armour that teef could buy. The first salvo ricocheted off the bulwark of their armoured jaws. Uzgork mashed down the trigger of his gun and replied with a hodgepodge of his own firepower. A rokkit went wide, but the solid caliber flew true. The templars turned away from the hailstorm of bullets and then it was too late.
Orkish and imperial powered armour collided with a sound like an industrial accident. Hardened plasteel crashed against refined adamantium. Uzgork’s entrance into the melee was no more elegant, barging his shoulder into the closest enemy. The marine was knocked off balance and took a backward step. The ork stepped forward, swinging in with his claw. Uzgork snagged the extended leg and that’s all he needed. He pulled on the marine, yanking him back into the muck. The noble warrior chipped his blade and emptied his gun in a vain defiance. But no such luck. Uzgork squeezed. Armour cracked and servo cabling sheared. Blood gushed from the stump as the claw ripped away the limb. Uzgork mashed his gun barrels into the visor and pulled the trigger. Lenses shattered and metal buckled under the deluge of lead. He stomped the marine’s head into the mud for good measure. And because it’s fun.
Uzgork’s goons pressed around him, eager to protect their boss and get a piece of the action. They weren’t quite as fancy as Uzgork’s blade work. They waded in with buzz saws and chainsaws bolted around their fists; hacking and slashing at the space marines. The noise was atrocious. Motorized blades screeching against metal and digging their way through flesh.
But Uzgork’s banner was doing its job. And perhaps the crusaders were not keen on Uzgork’s treatment of their fallen compatriot. The astartes retaliated, seeking to overwhelm the orkish leader. Uzgork rolled and swayed to keep his weak spots moving. The boss knew that an easy target was a dead target. A short sword skittered high over a pauldron, nicking his ear. A maul banged against the reinforced chest plate, rattling his chest. Then some bastard tried to take a shot at him with their pistol. Uzgork ducked and twisted to put his shoulder in the path of the bullet. The bolt round exploded, spraying metal shards in his face.
Some breathing room was needed. Uzgork swung his gun arm around and sprayed lead into the scrum. The marines backed off and another fell as the rounds tore through his groin seals. Without missing a beat the ork brought his claw forward in an uppercut. The talons pierced the faltering warrior right below the plastron, right where the orkish veteran knew the armour was weakest. A twist, a squeeze, a pull and guts and machinery spilled into the muck.
No sense wasting a good piece of dead weight. Uzgork heaved the body off his claw and back into the fallen warrior’s brothers. The line was pushed back once again and Uzgork barged forward to fill it. Another victim trampled into the mud beneath iron shod boots.
And on this proceeded. One venerable crusader after another faced the old ork only to fall short against the whiley beast. With just a few more numbers, a space marine can make quick work of a meganob. But the rest of the boss ork’s mob wouldn’t let that happen. If Uzgork’s claw didn’t get them, then his goons had a killsaw ready to cut down any flankers. This machine of hydraulics, muscle, teeth and blades inexorably chewed through the line of astartes. And then it was done.
“Wuz dat? I can’t hear ya,” Uzgorks mocked the sergeant marine beneath his boot.
The fallen warrior struggled valiantly as he drowned in the sinking sludge of mud and blood. But with one arm and no weapon he was helpless to move the literal ton of ork above him. Grots fussed over the nob’s weapons as Uzgork surveyed the carnage, feeding in new ammo belts and fitting fresh rockets into place. His chest swelled with pride at the broken bodies that littered the field.
One of gretchin plucked something from the dying sergeant and presented it to the boss.
Oh, now dat’s nice,” Uzgork exclaimed as he appraised the bauble. It was a maltese cross of obsidian glass fitted to a gold wire frame. The treasure glittered with hidden wealth and it was even in his favourite colours. “Go ahead, tack it on with da rest.”
One of the little goblinoids, equipped with a craftsman’s harness, scampered up the ork’s shoulders. With a dollop of glue and a bit of wire thread, the grot secured the new prize to the cluttered banner.
But for some reason, something was spoiling Uzgork’s good feeling. Something wasn’t right. Something was missing. Uzgork wracked his brain trying to grasp the thought pestering his brain. That’s when it hit him.
“Wait. Where’s da wagon?” Uzgork asked.
And there it was, trundling away over the hill. The driver was obviously unconcerned with giving anyone another free ride.
The meganobs all cried out in anguish. Mega armour is many things, but mobile is not one of them.
“BAAAAAH, now we gotta walk?! Wat’s da point of havin’ all dese meks if ya can’t get sum decent transpotation!” Uzgork lamented. His lackeys grumbled in sympathy. “Ugh, my knees. I aint made fer all dis slogging about.”
And so the mob of juggernauts lumbered their way through the ruins. On the hunt for a new fight or a new ride.
.
