An Orky story. There didn't seem to be many around, so I wrote one. Sorry about the title, I might change it if I can think of something better. Anyway, please read and review; if I get enough positive reviews, I'll continue it.
"RUNT! RUNT! RUNT! RUNT!"
The cries that followed him out of the doors penetrated deeper into his conscious than even the pots, pans and occasional food squig; still live; thrown after him, the squigs screaming in pleasure at the prospect of this unexpected flight. He had always been treated in this way, and more Orks joined in the jeers as he bolted through the main courtyard.
It was only when he reached a much quieter part of the base, between the Mek's garage and the pen in which most of the squigs were kept; that Nozgub finally stopped and dropped to the floor, exhausted.
Nozgub was small for an Ork, even for a Mekboy; and it was for this that he had always been the subject of the most abuse from the other greenskins, and even other Meks. In any other Ork, such abuse would've sent him into an uncontrollable rage; but in Nozgub, even that latest humiliation had barely sparked the anger and bloodlust that was the inner Ork. This was a fact that he lamented, and one of the main reasons why he had not grown when other Orks he had known since he was a Yoof, had reached positions in the Warboss' bodyguard. Though most had instead met with grisly deaths on the battlefield; that was one thing to be thankful for at least.
"Boss?" A small and high-pitched voice inquired; Nozgub instinctively drew his Slugga; a life of being snuck upon and ambushed had at least tuned his reflexes. But there was no need to be worried; the voice belonged to Smashit, one of his Gretchin assistants. It was only these two Grots, Smashit and Hitit, out of the entire tribe that Nozgub could succeed in intimidating, not that he ever really tried, which is probably why they still followed him around; he could always count on them to steal food or equipment that he needed and now was no different.
Each of the Grots stood before him now, each carrying large and juicy looking food squigs. The Grots themselves were typical for their type, pale skinned and small, only just under the size of a Human; Smashit was noticeable by the red bandana tied around his head and the large Orky mallet slung across his back; Hitit beside him wore a similar bandana in yellow which covered his eyes and had to have holes cut in it such that he could see out of it, he carried an oversized spanner. Both Grots were armed, as Nozgub had taught them, with Grot Blastas; Hitit had a large blunderbuss like weapon, which he treated as though it were made of shiny stuff which Nozgub had sometimes seen Humies fighting over; and Smashit had his own pair of miniature sluggas made by Nozgub himself and of which he was extremely proud.
"We 'as brought you some food." Smashit squeaked nervously. Holding up the squig; he stood anxiously, even though neither Grot had ever seen Nozgub be as aggressive as any other Ork, they were still cautious around him after he had been bullied.
Nozgub slipped his Slugga back into the holster attached to his tool belt. "Fanks." he grunted, taking the still wriggling squigs. Both of the Gretchin seemed to swell with pleasure, large grins swelling across their faces; as they did whenever Nozgub said anything nice to them. Nozgub ignored them and stared at the squig whose tail he held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand; it swayed back and forth merrily, surprisingly energetic for a creature bred and fattened for food. Nozgub stretched out his middle finger and tickled the creature's belly; it rocked back and forward more rapidly, squealing in its manner of laughter, kicking out with its two clawed feet and giving a large and toothy grin alternately to Nozgub and the Grots as it swayed to and fro.
In a flash, as the squig turned towards him, Nozgub struck; and, in one bite, ripped the creature's head off. It took the remainder of the body several moments to realise that it had just been killed before it actually stopped moving. During that time Nozgub felt the taste of its warm flesh; the trickle of blood and the lovely crunch of bones beneath his teeth; he liked the way the blood trickled out of his mouth and the flesh and jellied brain slid down his throat. It was at that moment that he realised just how hungry he was, having eaten nothing but scraps for days. In seconds he tore apart the two squigs, delighting in the taste of real meat.
After it was done, he belched loudly; spitting out one of the little squig bones onto the grass, which was now stained with spots of blood. Those two Grots had really outdone themselves this time, he thought; laying back and feeling immensely tired. "Where'd youse two nick dem from?" He asked.
"Da boyz hut." Hitit answered, speaking just as nervously as he had done earlier; "We slipped 'em out of da Kitchun; when da uvver Orks was shoutin' at you."
Nozgub knew why the Grots were so nervous, they expected him to be angry about that as well; but he knew that his inner Ork had gone to sleep long ago, and he wanted to join it. He grunted; "Keep an eye out, I is goin' ta sleep." He said from the corner of his mouth, it was as close as he got to ordering these tiny greenskins about.
"Yes boss." The Grot responded, and he heard the distinct noise Hitit loading his blasta; he laughed quietly to himself, if any trouble came along that puny weapon wouldn't do much compared to the things Nozgub had tucked away.
[*]
The roar was deafening; and it pounded through Nozgub's skull like a drummer beating directly onto his head. He sat up like a spring-loaded Cybork, his Slugga drawn even before his eyes had cleared.
It was a second before he realised, with precision that only a Mek was capable of that the roar was being made by engines; lots of them. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, pushing out those little gritty bits which often got stuck there after sleep. Wide awake now, he could tell that there must be at least a mobs worth of engines.
His eyes finally cleared, he took a quick look about him and saw no sign of Hitit, who was supposed to be keeping watch; quietly cursing the Grot, he got to his feet. There seemed to be nothing amiss within the base, other than that great rumbling noise; it seemed to be coming from the main courtyard, and looking over he could see a large plume of smoke and dust arising from somewhere beyond the Mek's shop. He decided that it would be best to see what was going on, lest he face more accusations of being a wimpy Grot; so Nozgub moved towards the source of the noise as quietly and sneakily as possible.
Nozgub was fairly skilled at moving quietly, years of stealing from other Orks as he scraped out a living on the edge of the camp had made him quite experienced in this regard; and his lack of any armour other than the thick squig-hide shirt he wore made it much easier. The others often taunted him for this as well "Real Orkses ain't supposed to hide, dey's supposed to WAAAGH!" they often said; not that Nozgub minded much, they didn't know that all of their missing stuff was being taken by another Ork, they thought that it was the Grots. Nozgub laughed quietly; he may be weaker than the others, but he was a lot more cunning.
When he finally reached the main courtyard, Nozgub was astounded by what he saw. The place was filled with vehicles, Warbikes and Warbuggies in their dozens and even a collection of mean looking Wartrukks, each one kitted out with guns and whole mobs of Boyz hanging from anywhere they could. Nozgub had never seen so much technology in one place, even though he was one of the tribe's Meks; they all sat there like great snorting beasts, belching out smoke and exhaust fumes, grumbling and roaring. All of the vehicles were painted in bright reds, like the colour of 'Ooman blood; though this made good sense, every Ork knew that red ones always go faster.
A congregation of his own Tribe's Orks had come out of the Boyz Huts to watch this strange collection of Greenskins. Many of them, like Nozgub, had come prepared with weapons, Shootas and Choppas; ready to join a fight, if one was going to start, or start one themselves, if it wasn't.
It was only as one vast Warbike, bedecked with a variety of huge guns and a huge Ork to match entered the base, that Nozgub realised just who he was looking at. Most of the other boyz called them 'Speed Freaks', a type of madboy who believe that going fast and getting to the fight first is more important that weight of numbers; as a result they always travelled in vehicles of varying sizes, roaming around and lending their services in battle to any tribe who could promise them food, fuel and a share of the looting after the battle; from which they would build even bigger, faster and shootier machines on which to go charging into the next battle. That must be what was about to happen here, the huge Ork on the bike was the Speed Freaks' boss, and in a moment he'd do a deal with Nozgub's boss; and they'd go out to fight with some other tribe somewhere.
There was another roar, and a whoosh which distracted Nozgub's attention; he saw a black shadow dart across the floor, heading for the end of the base from which Nozgub had come. The roar was another engine, but it was nothing like those which stood in the courtyard before him; it was smooth and powerful, like the voice of the god Mork himself; To Nozgub, it was the noise of the most wonderful piece of machinery he had ever heard. He needed to hear it again, to find out what made that noise; and the Mekboy's urge to tinker and build awakened inside him. All other thoughts forgotten, he rushed over to where he had seen it disappear, somewhere beyond the Meks' hut; he didn't care about the Speed Freaks or the possibility of battle; he just wanted that machine.
[*]
There it was, standing on the dirt only a grot throws away from him; and it was magnificent. It was a great steel bird; with a gaping toothy mouth instead of a beak, which sucked in air; and two blackened and burnt exhausts which blasted it back out again. It had wide steel wings, with many huge bombs slung underneath; from each wing poked what was unmistakeably a big shoota; with two more poking from its nose and another pair in a swivelling turret to the rear of where the pilot sat, it was one of the shootiest machines Nozgub had ever laid eyes on. He knew, from the stories the old Big Mek had told him when he was a yoof, that it was called a Fighta-Bommer. And it was sitting right in front of him, on two big wheels and one little one; he could just go over and take it. No, he couldn't; he realised as the great glass canopy over the Orkpit swung wide open and the pilot forced himself out.
The flyboy was a very big Ork; and a very mean one, he scowled at everything as he climbed out of the machine and gave it a brutal kick with one large, ironclad boot. Nozgub took one look at the Ork, who was much bigger than himself and carried a brutally large cleaver to emphasise it, and decided that he couldn't win a fight against him; especially if he were trying to steal the Fighta-Bommer. The flyboy stomped his way over to a vehicle which Nozgub hadn't noticed arrive, so enraptured was he with the flying machine. It was a modified wartrukk, with many large boxes, most likely filled with ammo; towing a tanker, which must be fuel; and complete with a very scared looking group of Orks and Grots, and who could blame them given the Ork they had to deal with.
"Boss." A small voice came from behind him; and in less then a second Nozgub found himself once again looking at his two Grot assistants from down the barrel of his Slugga.
"Don't sneak up on me." He half growled; holstering the bulky pistol, although he was more relieved to see them than he'd let on.
"Sorry boss." Smashit squeaked. They were both very good at sneaking, most Grots were, but Smashit and Hitit were particularly skilled; it was often very useful.
Nozgub went back to observing the bulky Speed Freak flyboy, shouting at his ground krew, who had turned up in the modified trukk. The Orks looked scared, but the Grots looked ready to cover their vehicle in dung, if it weren't for the fact that this would probably drive their boss into quite a rage. Nozgub looked back to the Fighta-Bommer, he could barely take his eyes off it; it was as if it were calling to him, inviting him to get inside. "I want dat plane." He whispered to himself.
"But how iz we gonna get it?" Asked Smashit, taking Nozgub by surprise. He cursed silently; he'd forgotten just how good Grots' ears could be.
It took him a moment to answer but eventually he did, "We iz gonna take it right from under dere noses." Yes, he decided, that was good. After all, that stupid flyboy had left it completely empty; and that was as good as an open invitation. He turned to Hitit, "Distract 'em."
Hitit considered for a moment, before grabbing one of his smaller spanners, he held it with his arm cocked; taking careful aim; and waited. Nozgub knew what he was about to do, and readied his Slugga. Just as the flyboy turned away from his krew, Hitit swung. Releasing the spanner with great force, it flew through the air in a clean arc, before bouncing off the back of the huge Ork's skull.
There was silence for a moment, while a trickle of black blood dripped down from the flyboy's skull; his krew watching with stunned expressions. After what seemed like a long time, the Ork let out a bellow that seemed to shake the buildings and turned, screaming, onto his own ground krew. Nozgub didn't bother to watch as the area around the Trukk became a tangled mess of flying fists and shouts of pain and anger; instead he made straight for the fighta-bommer.
In no time at all he had hauled himself up into the pilot's seat, it was big, hard and uncomfortable; but that didn't matter, To Nozgub it had that welcome feel like a favourite spanner or mallet. His eyes roamed quickly over the controls as he heard Smashit and Hitit scramble into the space behind him, under the controls of the turreted big shootas. There was a large stick in front of him, with a trigger on it, he guessed that it fired the other big shootas; to his right were a pair of big sliding things which must control the speed, to confirm his thoughts he spotted the writing at different positions the sliders could take 'fast', 'faster' and 'really fast'; just in beyond these was a big red button, and Nozgub knew from experience that whenever a Mek put a big red button on something, you should never push it unless it was a real emergency… or you REALLY wanted to. The rest of the control panel was a baffling mystery; there were so many buttons, switches, levers, dials and sliders and even a pair of pedals at his feet which didn't seem to do anything at all, not matter how hard he kicked them; he wondered if half of these controls even did anything. After a long search, he finally found what he was looking for; a big blue button labelled 'GO'; and pushed it.
The Fighta-Bommer started making that most wonderful of noises again as the engines kicked in and the machine began to roll forwards. Thinking quickly, Nozgub closed the canopy; and as he did so, he noticed that the sound of the engines starting had alerted the flyboy to the fact that someone was in his plane. Barely realising what he was doing, Nozgub forced the speed sliders into the 'really fast' position.
The effect was immediate, like he had just been sat on by a giant squig, but Nozgub revelled in the feeling as the Fighta Bommer began to speed forwards; bouncing roughly over the stones and holes that pockmarked this area where they had set up camp. He was taken by surprise when the tail of the aircraft lifted off the ground, and he almost fell over the back of the seat; instead he grasped the stick with the trigger on it, but it moved as he pulled it and, quite suddenly the machine shot up into the air.
This time he didn't grab onto the stick to save himself, but the sides of the seat itself; he heard squeals as the two Grots rolled down to the back of the plane. He panicked, Orks were meant for fighting, not flying; that's why Gork and Mork had given them guns and not wings. He grasped the stick in his terror, now certain that it was this which controlled the flight of the aircraft, and pulled in every direction he could get it to.
The Fighta Bommer dived, climbed, pitched, rolled and turned in large loops across the sky as its desperate pilot tried to bring it under some form of control; but it was not easy as all three greenskins were thrown about the Orkpit with each lurch of the control stick, and the aircraft itself screeched and screamed as it was put under such tremendous punishment.
"Boss, how does we control dis fing?" Smashit screamed, after being thrown against the turret guns for the fourth time.
"I 'as almost got it," Nozgub shouted back, the fear evident in his own voice.
"I fink I is gonna be sick." Hitit complained, holding desperately onto the back of Nozgub's chair.
"There, got it." Nozgub proclaimed; and the lurching stopped. The fighta bommer flew on the straight and level, still as fast and as wild as an untamed attack squig, but now Nozgub was in control; and it felt good. The sheer feeling of the speed they were going at awakened something inside him, the blood pounded through his veins and his heart sounded as loud as a squiggoth's; something filled his very mind, a savage feral desire, like nothing he had ever felt before. He felt the lust for power pouring through him, and this aircraft provided him with it; he could use it to shoot, smash, stomp and kill, nothing would stop him. So this is what it felt like, that inner Ork.
"Boss, there's someone behind us." Squeaked Smashit, gazing out of the rear of the canopy, where he could indeed see another plane weaving back and forth, streaming after them. Nozgub was barely listening, the sound of his pulse pounding against his eardrums seemed to drown out everything else; his mind only just registered the sound of four big shootas beating out a deadly rhythm.
"They's shooting at us!" Hitit screamed, having joined Smashit to stare at the other Fighta. "What's we gonna do?"
Nozgub didn't respond at first, his eyes were wide and more alive than ever before and drool escaped from his mouth.
"MORE SPEED!" He cried, and slammed his fist into the big red button.
It saddens me that there couldn't be more Orky humour in this chapter, but there has to be a serious start. If I get enough good reviews and continue it; then I'll be sure to try and insert some in later chapters.