Chapter 26-30

Chapter 26: Touchdown?

Darrius was growing restless. Why had the human cruiser behind them slowed its pursuit? He had prepared the perfect snare. Had a few broadsides from the macro-cannons truly cowed them? It seemed unlikely, even for humies.

He had been working feverishly with the Meks, utilizing a heavy dose of "I-Fink-So" logic to jury-rig a damaged macro-cannon turret into a void-mine launcher.

The Mekboys had not disappointed. They had produced a staggering array of ordnance, a massive, volatile, and properly Waaagh! The feast was laid out; it was simply irritating that the guest of honor refused to sit at the table.

"Sneaky... Sir! Da ship ‘as enterd da nebula. Wot’s yer orders, Sir?" Smarty reported, his voice strained with an attempt at military discipline.

"..." Darrius was speechless for a moment. They were already at the threshold; there was no turning back now.

"Drop da speed ta half. Wans we'z clear uv da gas-cloud, punch it back ta full throttle an’ resume da S-pattern ‘till da next one. Slow it down again dere. Wans we'z out da second cloud, gimme flank speed an’ dunt look back." 

"Roger dat, Boss!" In his mind’s eye, Darrius could practically see the grot snapping to attention and saluting.

As the ship’s velocity bled off, Darrius and his Boyz began seeding the nebula with rows of highly creative void-mines. The Mekboys, in their characteristic fashion, had given their creations colorful monikers.

Names like Boom-String, Nog-Thumper, Da Only Wun, Grot-Skit, Chain-Krump, and Da Biggest WAAAGH! filled the manifest. In such company, names like Gork’s Greetin or Sky-Burna seemed positively mundane.

Greenskins truly knew how to enjoy a war.

Having saturated the nebula with mines, Darrius moved to his next workstation, feeling a twinge of regret that he wouldn't be able to witness the pyrotechnics firsthand. Aside from the mines, he had a secret weapon in development. With the vast, sophisticated knowledge swirling in his mind, it would be a tragedy not to build something. He felt like a hobbyist who had received a magnificent model kit and was being denied the chance to assemble it.

…

The pursuing Guardian plunged into the nebula and sailed straight into the trap. A four-kilometer-long cruiser was simply too massive to evade hundreds of void-mines drifting in the soup.

Magnetized triggers acted like mechanical piranhas. The moment the Guardian entered the field, the mines swarmed the hull, their chain-link triggers ensuring that one detonation set off a dozen more.

Violent explosions erupted across every axis of the ship. Blinding flashes of fire wreathed the hull as the void shields groaned under the unrelenting pressure before finally collapsing.

The tongues of flame finally licked the ship's actual hull, scorching the structural layers. Inside the Guardian, crimson emergency lights bathed the corridors in the color of blood.

The Captain, facing his first true trial of command, was paralyzed with terror. He gave the order to kill the engines and halt the advance until the void shields could be power-cycled and recharged.

By the time the explosions ceased and the shimmering blue-violet barrier of the shields rose again, an hour had passed. By the time the Guardian resumed the hunt, the Glorious Knight was already approaching the orbital path of Oronia IV.

In truth, the delay had been unnecessary. A few hundred-meter-long mines could never sink a four-kilometer-long behemoth. Had the Captain pushed through, he would have suffered only superficial damage, shattered turrets and scorched plating. The loss of time, however, was a wound that could not be repaired.

After a second bout of "Gork’s Greetin’" in the next nebula, the distance between the two ships widened further. The decision to leave an inexperienced officer in sole command was proving to be a catastrophic blunder.

Even Darrius was surprised by the incompetence of the human vessel. He had gone through the trouble of urgently magnetizing the Glorious Knight’s central spires to turn them into makeshift arc-emitters, an effort that now seemed entirely redundant.

"If I'z known dey were dis pathetic, I wudn't 'ave played it so safe," Darrius muttered. "We shud've made a break fer da habitable world, Oronia III. It’z too late now. Five kilometers uv metal is already locked into Oronia IV’s gravity well. Tryin' ta change course now wuld tear da ship apart."

"Howevva..." The cunning Darrius rubbed his bald green scalp. "Dere’s no reason I can’t 'ave it all."

The Glorious Knight began an elliptical orbit around the barren rock of Oronia IV, using the edge of the gravity well for centrifugal force.

Blue lance beams suddenly pierced the gloom as the Guardian finally clawed its way back into range. Likely spurred by a blistering reprimand from the Governor, the Guardian’s gunnery had become far more aggressive. Even at ranges where a direct hit was unlikely, the long-range fire was being used to herd the Glorious Knight toward the planet.

"A bit late fer dat, innit?" Darrius didn't care. He sat firmly on the bridge and commanded the vessel to begin a slow descent into the atmosphere of Oronia IV.

In all honesty, after two ambushes, a warp transit, and a long-distance pursuit, the Glorious Knight’s structural integrity was screaming. Continued void-war was suicide. Bringing the Boyz down for a "controlled" crash-landing was the only sane path.

Observing the Glorious Knight dropping toward the rocky surface under his "relentless" pressure, the Captain of the Guardian allowed himself a moment of triumph.

"Primary mission objective achieved. The xenos vessel has been critically damaged and forced into a terminal descent. Within two Terran hours, it will be nothing more than scrap and dust in the desert of Oronia IV."

But as the Guardian’s victory report was beamed toward Oronia III, several streaks of silver light were launched from the Glorious Knight in the opposite direction. They were tiny, insignificant things on a cosmic scale. To a radar operator, they looked like mere fragments of debris or micrometeorites.

This was the true purpose of Darrius’s orbital maneuver. Using Oronia IV as a gravity slingshot, and utilizing the glare of the system’s sun to blind optical sensors, he had launched Ironklaw and a detachment of Boyz in small drop-pods toward Oronia III.

The math was solid. These pods would drift through the system like common meteors until they were caught by Oronia III’s gravity.

Darrius didn't particularly care if they survived the landing. As long as a single scrap of greenskin tissue reached that soil, he had won. The spores would spread. They would take root in the dark places of the earth, and soon, a new generation of Boyz would hatch.

…

Atmospheric friction began to ignite the outer hull of the Glorious Knight. Broken turrets and scorched armor plates sheared off, trailing behind like glowing embers.

To any observer on the planet's surface, the sky would have seemed to be falling. The gargantuan warship descended like a falling god, its burning wake a trail of judgment cast down from the heavens.

The ship struck the earth.

The resulting mushroom cloud of dust and fire rose ten thousand kilometers into the air. The shockwave swept across hundreds of square kilometers, scouring the land of everything in its path.

Chapter 27: Feral Ork Tribes

A five-kilometer-long voidship was never designed for planetary landings. A vessel that relied on the raw physics of reaction engines would be shackled by a planet’s gravity the moment it touched the surface; the cost of breaking atmosphere a second time was often deemed prohibitive.

But Darrius didn't give a damn. He didn't care how many Boyz died in the impact, that was the Ork way. An absolute, callous disregard for the lives of others, and even one’s own.

Besides, the carnage and structural damage caused by the impact were a small price to pay for the strategic cover it provided. The gargantuan mushroom cloud would kick enough particulate matter into the atmosphere to blanket hundreds of square kilometers, choking out all visibility from orbit. This would blind the "eye in the sky," preventing orbital bombardments and buying him the time he needed to evacuate the wreck and build his strength.

Aboard the Guardian, having witnessed the Glorious Knight’s terminal descent in full, the Captain immediately ordered the pict-feeds and sensor data transmitted back to the Governor’s Palace on Oronia III. This was his golden ticket to a promotion.

When Cornwatt, who was deep in discussion with Pex regarding the restructuring of the PDF, received news that the cruiser had been downed, he nearly lost his aristocratic composure in an outburst of joy.

"General Pex! It seems our preparations were redundant. The Orks couldn't escape the pursuit. They’ve been neutralized on Oronia IV, look, here is the crash footage."

Pex took the data-slate, his eyes fixed on every frame of the recording. After reviewing it twice, he handed the device back to Cornwatt.

"Governor, I believe we must not only continue the restructuring but accelerate our rearmament. We must expand the manufactorums and prepare for a conflict that may last years, decades... perhaps even centuries," Pex said, his tone devoid of warmth.

"What? Why?" Cornwatt looked baffled. "Oronia IV is a desolate rock. No water, thin atmosphere, virtually zero flora or fauna. Between that impact and the subsequent explosions, the xenos should have been vaporized."

"NO!"

The shout was thunderous. Pex, who had until now maintained a veneer of refined elegance, roared with a sudden, startling ferocity. "Do not underestimate those damned green monsters!"

Whatever Pex’s true agenda was, his hatred and respect for the Orks were visceral and real.

"Ah... my apologies. I lost my temper, Governor." Facing the stunned Cornwatt and a room full of gawking officers and aides, Pex immediately offered a stiff, formal apology.

"..." Cornwatt, shaken from his brief elation, composed himself. "General Pex, why do you place such weight on these creatures? They are merely primitive, savage xenos, are they not?"

Primitive, savage xenos. This was the pervasive view held by many high-born nobles of the Imperium. Even among the commoners, stories were told mocking the Orks for charging Imperial lines with rusted axes, stones, and scrap-iron plates. In the propaganda vids celebrating the might of the Emperor’s reach, Orks were depicted as clumsy fodder, scythed down in droves by heavy bolter fire or pulverized by artillery.

To Cornwatt, and many like him, the idea of a race that still fought with rocks and axes being a credible threat to a civilized world was laughable.

Internally, Pex looked upon these humans with utter contempt. Their vision was so narrow. Moments ago, when the Orks were piloting a warship toward them, they were terrified. Now, with the immediate threat slightly diminished, they had already regressed into arrogance and complacency.

This race is too young, Pex thought. Ignorance is their undoing.

"No. Many are deceived by their brutish appearance," Pex explained with forced patience. "They are cunning, innovative, and utterly obsessed with war. They possess a strange, inherent technology, and most terrifyingly... their numbers are infinite."

"An Ork’s logic is singular: War. Total war. They exist for nothing else; to kill, or to be killed."

"A single scrap of greenskin tissue, dropped by chance onto a planet's surface, is enough to sow the seeds of disaster. It takes root. Before long, the planet’s crust will birth an army of Boyz, Grots, and Squigs."

Like a dark fable, Pex began to outline the biological horror of the greenskin race.

"A Feral Ork tribe will form with impossible speed, growing in number by the hour. If there is a civilization on that planet, the Orks will be overjoyed. They will congregate to tear it down, and through that very conflict, they will evolve. If the civilization fails to exterminate them quickly, their technology will begin to spike like a magical contagion."

"The first time you see them, they are using stones and bows. The second time, they are experimenting with black powder and cannons. The third time? They will be wielding plasma weaponry and towering walkers. The fourth... they will bring forth the Titans of their kind."

Pex’s words sent a collective shiver through the room. Such a leap in technological development was unheard of, and not even the Adeptus Mechanicus on Mars could claim such a rate of progress. To develop in such a manner could surely only be a miracle of the Omnissiah, or a curse from the Warp.

"Time is always on the side of the xenos. Eventually, the indigenous civilization is extinguished. To find new foes, the Orks will turn on one another until a Warboss emerges to unite them."

"That Warboss will then lead them to build ships capable of void-flight, a craft that should not be able to fly, yet do, and they begin their own 'Great Crusade.' They conquer or are defeated. And when they are defeated, their remains drift through the void until, by chance, a fragment lands on a new world... and a new Feral Ork tribe is born."

"That is why they are the Green Tide. The plague that cannot be cured."

When Pex finished, the silence in the hall was absolute. It was as if the room had been plunged into ice.

Cornwatt swallowed hard, his throat dry. "General Pex... what is your counsel? What must we do?"

"Exactly what I said before. Mobilize. Prepare to send an expeditionary force to Oronia IV. We must strangle this threat in its cradle," Pex said, his eyes gleaming with a murderous intent.

…

On the grey, dust-choked plains of Oronia IV, Darrius was in a foul mood.

The place was a graveyard. Rocks, more rocks, and not a drop of surface water. Can you even grow mushrooms in a place like this? he wondered.

He had a choice to make: should he "fink" a way to make this rock work, or should he go to ground and wait for Ironklaw and the others to kick off a proper scrap on the humie homeworld?

It was a proppa conundrum.

Chapter 28: Da Big Drill

A week bled away on Oronia IV. Initially, the human warships attempted several orbital bombardments, but the thick, soot-choked cloud layer rendered their targeting data useless. Eventually, they ceased wasting ordnance on the gloom.

The week remained relatively peaceful. The Glorious Knight was over seventy percent non-functional; repairing such a behemoth required vast quantities of refined minerals and resources. For now, it served as little more than a fortress of scrap metal.

Using the crash site as his primary node, Darrius frequently led his Boyz on excursions across the planet’s surface, scouring the environment for usable resources. The more he searched, the more his mood soured. There were no mineral veins, no precious ores, only endless, jagged stone.

Spores shed from the Orks' bodies had already begun to take root in the cracks of the desolate rock. Giant mushrooms struggled to sprout from the sun-scorched earth and flinty soil. Perhaps due to the sheer hostility of the environment, many of the fungi appeared wilted, and some had already shriveled into black husks.

Looking out over the struggling mushroom patches, Darrius felt a pang of genuine frustration. How was he supposed to farm this salt-blasted wasteland? This wasn't a game of Civilization VI; he couldn't just restart because of a bad spawn point.

"Sneaky Boss!" An Ork Boy came barreling toward him, mounted atop a massive, yellow Squig.

"Wot is it? Dunt be lookin' fer me unless it's proppa urgent. I'm feelin' roight zoggin' annoyed," Darrius muttered. He didn't even have the heart to krump the lad.

"It’z da well, it’z da well! Sumfin’s ‘append at da well, Boss!" The Boy was frantic, but Darrius remained unmoved.

"Da boyz scrappin’ again? I tell ya, it’z weird. We spent da 'ole trip fightin' an’ singin' wivout a rest, an’ not a single lad complained. Now I ask 'em to dig a few wells, an’ suddenly ev'ryone's too tired."

Darrius stood up from his crouch and rolled his massive shoulders, preparing to head to the dig site to settle whatever riot had broken out. As long as there was a fight to be had, whether they were winning or losing, the Boyz usually settled down for a while.

"It’z da watta! Da boyz struck watta!" the Boy finally blurted out.

"!" Darrius’s eyes widened. "Now dat’z some gud news. I fought we’d be diggin' fer a month. Wot luck! Move it! To da well! Da mushroom patch needs a lot of water for da crops."

…

In a jagged canyon scarred by deep fissures, a colossal drilling rig stood defiant. It was thick, crude, and topped with a massive head of Mork painted a bright, lucky blue.

The heavy drill screeched as it gnawed through the subterranean rock, generating a cacophony that failed to dampen the spirits of the surrounding Orks. However, the Boyz weren't exactly "working." They were brawling, specifically, brawling to decide who didn't have to work.

A mob of blue-painted Boyz had just triumphed over a group of red-clad rivals. The victors stood atop the machinery, letting out a thunderous "WAAAGH!" of triumph. The defeated red Orks slouched off, grumbling as they snatched tools from the trembling hands of Grots and descended into the shafts to begin their shift.

This was Darrius’s solution to labor management. Orks lived for war and loathed mundane toil. By turning work assignments into a combat sport, he had successfully reduced the frequency of full-scale mutinies from three times a day to just one.

As the Boss approached, the mob parted instantly.

"I 'eard ya hit watta. Show me where," Darrius commanded.

A Squig the size of a small dinosaur stomped toward him, its shadow completely engulfing Darrius’s five-meter frame.

"Sneaky Boss!" Perched atop the beast's head was Smarty. The grot had grown notably larger, and considerably fatter. He waved enthusiastically. "We 'it watta, Boss! Real gud watta! I told ya our drill an’ my Squig were da best dere iz!"

"Cut da chatter. How’z da quality? How much iz comin' out?"

Smarty hopped down and led Darrius into the mine shaft. They descended deep into the dark, walking for what felt like an eternity before reaching a small fissure in the rock wall. From it trickled a thin, muddy stream of silty, brackish water.

Darrius cut Smarty a sidelong glance that conveyed a single, chilling message: This is it?

"Didn't ya brag ya’d find watta in a week?" Darrius rumbled. "You'z got two days left. An’ lately, I’z been gettin' bored of eatin' Squig meat."

Technically, Orks could survive on photosynthesis, as they were fungus-men, after all, but heavy exertion required caloric intake. They had mouths for a reason. More often than not, however, they ate for the joy of it rather than out of necessity. In Ork society, Squigs were the staple of every menu; they were versatile, plentiful, and came in a variety of "flavors."

Of course, plenty of Orks enjoyed a good Grot-kabob. Grots always looked for a powerful Boss to serve, largely in the hope that having a protector meant they’d survive a few extra days without being eaten.

Smarty’s mind raced so fast his head practically smoked. Darrius almost felt sorry for him; it was mostly a joke, and he’d had to do enough mental gymnastics just to stomach Squig meat; he couldn't bring himself to actually eat a Grot.

"Boss... yeah, dis ain't enough," Smarty squeaked, wisely choosing not to argue that "water is water." "I'll make da lads dig ‘arder. We'z go deeper."

"Speakin’ of which, Boss... wot ya want da water for anyway? If it’z for drinkin', I know a type of juicy Squig dat tastes roight fine. If it’z for da feelin', I can brew up sum mushroom ale."

Thwack. Darrius delivered a swift cuff to Smarty’s head. Even with his strength held back, the blow sent the grot face-planting into the dirt.

"Wot’z goin' on in dat noggin of yorz? Juicy Squigs? Drinkin'? Dis rock iz bone-dry an’ da mushroom patches are dyin'. If we dunt grow new Boyz an’ Squigs, we’ze finished, an’ you’ze worried about brew?"

"Eh? Boss... ya want da water fer da mushrooms?" Smarty looked up, his expression one of pure, unadulterated shock. It was as if Darrius had just suggested the sun was made of squig-pie.

"Are ya thick? How ya gonna farm wivout watta? Crops need watta!" In his previous life, Darrius had never been a farmer, but he at least knew that plants required water and nutrients like nitrogen and potassium. You couldn't grow something out of nothing; the laws of conservation had to apply somewhere.

"..." Smarty stared at Darrius as if he were a ghost. Finally, cringing away from a potential second blow, he spoke up weakly. "Boss... if ya want da mushrooms ta grow big an’ killy, ya dunt need watta. Ya need Snotlings. Ya find da dumbest Snotlings ya can, let 'em sleep in da dirt, an’ da mushrooms grow like crazy."

"Wot?!" Darrius stared at Smarty. His expression was clear: Are you taking the zogging piss?

"Boss! Let me handle da patches! Gimme ten dayz, an’ I’ll grow ya enough Grots an’ Boyz to fill a moon!" Perhaps sensing a genuine murderous intent in Darrius’s eyes, Smarty’s survival instinct flared into a brilliant surge of confidence.

Darrius wasn't sure if Smarty was just stalling for time to leg it, but a powerful instinct in the back of his mind, that strange, genetic "fink," suggested he should let the grot try.

Chapter 29: The Big Mek

"Roight den, I’m givin' ya ten dayz. I wanna see mushroom patchiz growin' boyz by den." Darrius wasn't just barking orders to pile on the pressure; that would be nothing more than corporate "PUA" in a past life.

He was genuinely eager to see if Smarty could pull off a miracle. To help him along, Darrius handed over command of half his Gretchin and a fair chunk of the Boyz. Snotlings, however, were nowhere to be found, boarding planks on void-ships rarely carried those tiny, useless gits, and even if some had snuck aboard, they’d likely kicked the bucket long ago during the journey.

Once Smarty led the swarming green tide away, Darrius had his own work to attend to.

One Gork-drill wasn't enough. It wasn't just about finding water; he needed to strip-mine minerals to forge new choppas, new plate, and new ships. Especially new ships, if things went south on Oronia IV, he needed a way to loot a ride to Oronia III.

Crouching down, Darrius touched the edge of the murky spring. He scooped up a handful of wet silt and rubbed it between his fingers; it felt surprisingly cool. The flow wasn't much, but with more digging and widening, it could serve as a damp, simple spore-cultivation base. Some fungi preferred the dark, and Darrius figured that more research and "proppa practice" couldn't hurt.

Time for a test run.

After delegating the manual labor to his Boyz, Darrius returned to his Mek-factory. Calling it a "factory" was a bit of a stretch; it was more of a cramped workshop. The lathes, welders, and mechanical arms were small-scale, suited only for tinkering with pint-sized contraptions.

Lately, his focus had been on the "farming initiative," so he hadn't spent much energy on tech. The shop itself had been thrown together by the Spanners under his command. In the center of the main platform, several Spanners were busy bashing away at a Kustom Mega-Blasta with welders and hammers.

"Kidd, how’z my gear comin' along?" Darrius shouted at the largest Spanner on the platform.

The Ork, known as Kidd, didn't answer immediately. He struck a component twice more with his hammer, then held it up to his eyes, squinting as if the precision wasn't quite "Orky" enough. He gave the part a quick chew, then used a welder to scrawl a crude face of Mork on the casing. Dere. Now it'z prisays.

After slotting the part into place, Kidd finally looked up. "Boss, I'ze finkin' yer gear'z gonna take us anuvva fifteen dayz ta finish up."

"Wot? All ya doin' is improvin' on Smartnog’s motor! Why’z it takin' so long? Are ya slackin' off, or is it 'cause I ain't given ya enough teef?"

Had Darrius been human, he wouldn't have been so harsh. Modding a suit of Mek Mega Armour, capable of both building machines and krumping enemies, in fifteen days would be a miracle by Imperial standards. But after spending so much time around Orks, Darrius knew just how terrifyingly gifted these Spanners were.

Every Mek and Spanner was born with a blueprint hardwired into their noggin. When a "spark of finkin'" hit, they didn't need drafts, they just saw the design. Their wrenches and hammers were as accurate as the finest STC manufactorum, producing parts with an uncanny success rate.

Moreover, their eyesight was incredible. Darrius suspected they could see down to the nanometer when inspecting a gear. They were basically biological "cheat codes" capable of hand-crafting microchips! It was this same eagle-eyed focus that made Meks and Spanners excellent Lootas and Snipas when they weren't busy with logistics.

"It ain't about da teef, Boss. Dis place iz too skummy, and it'z too small. We'ze low on metal, an’ da dust iz everywhere. I made free circuit boardz, but wun uv 'em got zapped 'cause of da grit."

Kidd didn't stop working while he spoke, his head buried in his task like a "plastic-glue addict" who didn't want his model-building interrupted.

"Roight," Darrius muttered, backing off. In just seven days, he and his Spanners had built a Mek-shop, a Gork-drill, and enough digging tools for the Boyz. Pushing them any harder would make him feel like a "Greenskin Capitalist."

Sharpenin' da choppa don't waste time for da choppin', he reminded himself. He couldn't just stand around. Once his gear was finished, he could expand the works and skyrocket their production efficiency.

"Go fetch sum juicy Squigs fer da Spanners. An’ no snackin' on 'em yerself, or I'll smash yer teef in!" Darrius growled at a nearby Ork. He then plucked a promising piece of scrap from a junk pile and began grinding down a new rod for a Kustom Mega-Blasta.

His vision for the Mega Armour was ambitious: an oversized kustom generator on the back capable of powering three separate magnetic inductors. This would make the suit versatile; he could blast enemies with lethal arcs of electricity or use the magnetic force as mechanical limbs for hauling scrap and crafting parts.

With the blessing of Greenskin "Tek," the inductors could even generate a Kustom Force Field for protection. Of course, the Tellyporta functionality remained, now beefed up to teleport a whole mob of Orks instead of just one.

Building was addictive. The more Darrius surrounded himself with scrap, the more his "Mek genes" flared to life. Watching rusted junk transform into a magnificent mechanical beast, vibrating with the raw, thumping roar of power, felt like slamming the pedal of a luxury supercar to the floor.

The best part? He had built the car himself. This was more addictive than pulling all-nighters for gaming or web novels; Darrius completely lost track of time.

The other Spanners were just as obsessed. Finally, today, the Big Mek’s kustom Mega Armour was complete.

Gretchin assistants used heavy chains to hoist the final magnetic inductor onto the power pack. Wearing red goggles and wielding a delicate welder, Darrius carefully fused the circuits and components.

Maybe it was the pressure of the final step, but his hand slipped. He made a bad weld and realized he’d forgotten to install a crucial internal gear...

Glancing at the admiring eyes of the Boyz surrounding him, Darrius knew he couldn't drop the ball now. To be an Ork Warboss, you had to be the biggest, the baddest, the waaagh-iest, and the "kunnin'ly brutalist."

Without changing his expression, Darrius gave a subtle nod. Secretly, he triggered the Tellyporta. With a flash of yellow light, the forgotten gear was precision-teleported directly into its housing, clicking perfectly into place.

With the deed done, Darrius stepped into his kustom-engineered Mega Armour under the envious gaze of the horde. The sensation of the plates locking into place was like a "Sentai transformation," satisfying from head to toe.

"BIG MEK!"

"BIG MEK!"

The Spanners and Gretchin erupted into a roaring cheer.

Chapter 30: The Mushroom Patch

A Big Mek? Darrius didn’t feel his skills had reached that lofty plateau just yet; truth be told, he felt there was still a bit of a gap between himself and the likes of Smartnog.

But the Greenskin collective consciousness didn't care for such modesty. In their eyes, Darrius had forged a suit of Mega Armour far more "flash" and "shooty" than anything Smartnog wore. He had built it, he wore it, and therefore he was bigger, stronger, and far more Waaagh! than Smartnog. To an Ork, that made him the Big Mek, plain and simple.

In the brutal reality of the Greenskins, there are two ways to rise: you krump your way to the top, or you do something so "proppa" that the rest of the lads can't help but respect you.

Darrius felt the emerald tide of Waaagh! energy surging through his veins, centering upon him. Inside his mind, complex and arcane technical schematics flickered like static-heavy pict-feeds. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a Great Green light, the twin gods Gork and Mork, casting a brilliant, jagged bolt of energy directly into his soul.

The Orkoid DNA within him began to mutate and accelerate. Ancient, dormant secrets buried deep within his genetic code started to stir, awakening a primal technical genius.

"WAAAGH!!" Darrius roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated aggression.

"WAAAGH!!!" the gathered Greenskins bellowed back, their frenzy ignited by his own.

The sensation of evolving was intoxicating, like a clarity that washed through his entire being, much like rush of cold water flooding through a parched body.

"Sneaky Boss! Sneaky Boss!!" a familiar, shrill voice pierced through the din.

Darrius looked down. Smarty, now clad in a crude set of iron plate, was elbowing his way through the crowd of Gretchin.

"Smarty, why ain't ya at da mushroom patchiz? I didn't give ya all dat time just ta wanda around 'ere!" Darrius growled, his mood souring.

"Boss... I'ze dan wot ya askd!" Smarty squeaked, looking wounded. "Da patchiz are flowery wiv Squigs an’ Grots already. In a couple uv days, da first batch uv 'ealfy Boyz is gonna crawl outta da dirt, too."

"Dat fast? It’s only bin a few days. Ya better not be pullin' a fast wun on me, ya git." Darrius was skeptical. Smarty was a font of low cunning; he wouldn't put it past the Grot to just round up some random Gretchin and Squigs to claim he’d grown them himself.

"Boss! 'Ow cud ya say dat about me? I might be a lyin', teef-stealin' scumbag, but I'ze nevva told a lie ta da Boss!" Smarty’s face was a mask of tragic indignation, as if his very honor had been spat upon.

Honestly, if Darrius hadn't personally witnessed Smarty swindling other Gretchin out of their teeth on a daily basis, he might have actually believed him.

Darrius grabbed Smarty by the ankles and gave him a vigorous shake. Sure enough, a heavy pouch of teeth clattered to the floor. Without skipping a beat, Darrius tossed the pouch to the Spanners behind him.

"Kidd, 'ere'z sum extra teef fer da ladz. Take a break an’ get sum grub. We'ze gonna be buildin' somefing even bigga an’ more killy soon."

With that, Darrius hauled Smarty away. He intended to see these mushroom patches for himself to verify if the Grot was indeed "full of squig-slop."

"Wot? It’z bin a whole half-mont?!" On the way, through his "dialogue" with Smarty, Darrius realized just how much time had slipped away.

He had been so utterly consumed by the manufacture of his Mega Armour that he’d lost all track of the days. As the technical inspirations kept flooding his mind, he had kept adding "one more fing," reinforcing the plating and refining the sub-systems until the suit was a masterpiece of Orky engineering.

He had spent far longer in the shop than he intended, completely forgetting to check on Smarty’s progress. If the Grot hadn't come looking for him, Darrius would have guessed only a week had passed.

When they reached the mushroom patch, Darrius froze in shock. The previously withered fungal groves were now thriving, their territory nearly doubled in size. The barren, dusty earth was smothered in a vibrant, emerald-green carpet of fungal growth.

Some mushrooms towered higher than Imperial hab-blocks, while others were barely ankle-high. Dozens of tiny Snotlings were already scurrying through the fungal forest; running, playing, and napping in a scene that looked like a grimdark fairy tale.

"Look dere! See, Sneaky Boss! I told ya I’ze da best at managin' da patchiz!" Smarty hopped around excitedly, his iron plates clanking and rattling.

As Darrius stood there, still processing the sight, the ground nearby shuddered. A pair of green hands punched through the soil, followed by a bald, mossy-green head.

The first new Ork Boy of Oronia IV had been born.

"'Ow'd ya do it?" Darrius hoisted Smarty up until they were eye-to-eye. "Dis place wuz nuffin' but dust an’ rock. 'Ow did ya get all dis in just a few dayz?"

"It’z da Snotlings, Boss! Snotlings are da best at growin' da patchiz. Put me down, an’ I'll show ya 'ow it workz," Smarty bragged.

Darrius nodded and set him down, following the Grot deep into the fungal woods. Smarty led the way, searching until he found a stunted, sickly-looking mushroom.

"See dis one, Boss? Dis mushroom dunt grow big. It dunt make no Boyz, an’ it dunt make no Squigs." As he explained, Smarty used a jagged shiv to slice open the fungal stalk, reaching inside to pull out an underdeveloped, fetal Snotling.

"Den, ya do dis." Smarty chopped down the sickly mushroom and tore its mycelium into thin strips, stuffing them into the internal chamber where the Snotling had been gestating.

The viscous slime inside the chamber quickly dissolved the fungal strips. Smarty then forced the Snotling to drink the resulting sludge. After a few gulps, the tiny creature’s eyes snapped open, and it sprang to life.

The dim-witted Snotling looked up at the towering, fanged form of Darrius, let out a high-pitched shriek, and bolted into the undergrowth.

Ignoring the runner, Smarty continued, "Snotlings are stupid gitz, but dey're dead good at growin' fings. Even dere... uh... dis stuff iz good fer da patch."

Smarty poured the remaining slime onto the ground, where it was instantly soaked up by the fungal carpet. Darrius’s eyes, the eyes of a Big Mek capable of spotting a micron of error in a gear, saw much more.

The slime was a hyper-concentrated nutrient broth, capable of drastically accelerating the development of the Orkoid fungi. The secret here was far more complex than Smarty’s simple explanation suggested.

Darrius squatted down, his expression grimly serious. He used the magnetic inductors on his back to systematically strip the armor right off Smarty’s body, reshaping the metal plates into makeshift canisters. He began collecting every sample he deemed necessary.

His scientific curiosity had been set ablaze. The more knowledge his "Mek-brain" processed, the hungrier he became for new data.

Smarty, now standing shivering and stark naked, crossed his arms over his chest in distress. In this one trip, he had lost his teef and his gear to Darrius’s "administrative" whims. He felt cheated, but what could he do? Darrius was the Boss. If he wanted to keep breathing, he had to do as he was told.

As Darrius turned to leave, Smarty trotted tentatively behind him.

"Ya did good dis time. Dere’ll be a reward fer ya," Darrius said casually, not looking back. "Dat armor wuz junk anyway. Dunt go copyin' dem 'ard Boyz wiv dere big thick plates. When I'ze got a spare moment, I’ll build ya a proppa suit o' Grot Mega Armour."

"Hehehe!" Hearing that, Smarty’s face split into a wide, toothy grin.