2
White drop pods descended from the sky like fallen angels. Six of them. General †bermunchkin hid behind a tree and watched them with a kind of perverse fascination. They landed and the doors slid open automatically. Six shapes of varying sizes- three squat, one Dark Eldar, one ogryn and one dreadnought- stepped out. They scanned the battlefield for signs of life and quickly spotted the confused armies that were milling about like a colony of giant disorganised ants. The dreadnought turned its customised speakers up to 'extremely loud' and spoke wirh a voice that would befit a machine much, much huger. Its voice thundered across the battlefield, demanding absolute silence. Even the Orks obeyed.
"We are a neutral band of travelling field medics. We will aid either side. Do not attack us! I repeat, do not attack us! We will be establishing a neutral zone right here. If any of you attack us, we will be forced to retaliate. Thankyou for your co-operation."
The armies collectively waved at the medics cheerfully and went back to knocking each other to pieces. General †bermunchkin sighed. There were new recuits and stupid people on both sides. Someone, somewhere, was going to make a mistake. A badly aimed bolter, a frustrated Ork with no-one in their immediate vicinity to bash... and then there would be no escape from the terrible retribution. The Six Medics... how could he be so stupid as to turn up to a battle on a planet that was to be visited by the Six Medics? It was the second rule in the book, straight after 'if a Chaos Marine buys you a pint, don't drink it'.
"Hey, Duckie, pass me a medikit, mine's run out." said a gruff squat voice.
"Idiot, I told you to replenish it BEFORE we went down!" growled a female squat in reply. A small white metal object went whizzing through the air, catching the squat on the ear as he knelt beside an injured Marine and tended carefully to his wounds. He would have the man up and running before the battle was over. Drake prided himself on his skills. As he deftly applied a bandage to the nasty wound on the man's arm, he kept a close eye on Jack.
"JACK! Ask them first!" he yelled. The negative medic ignored him and swiftly provided someone with euthanasia before loping off into the distance to look for new patients. The dreadnought stomped past, revving up a large chainsaw. Quack was the technician; he liked big machines. He was off to fix the other dreadnought.
"Oi! Keep off neutral zone!" rumbled a deep, slow voice. It was punctuated by a cataclysmic explosion that tore an enormous crater into the surface of the planet, possibly changing the environmental conditions for years to come. At least fifty Orks, staggering into the roped-off area while blind drunk, were vapourised. A tree flew through the air and almost fell on top of General †bermunchkin. Bark splinters pierced his leg as he dived for cover. Pain shot through his whole body. I'm not badly damaged, he told himself, I'll live.
"Er... Duckie..." Drake stammered, embarrassed. The tree had fallen right on top of his medikit. This time, the replacement hit him in a more personal area of his body. He doubled over in agony, but got back onto his feet in seconds. His pain didn't matter; there were people in worse condition that needed healing.
"Reporting faults in Doctor Mallard's HP meter." announced Quack.
"What?" yelled the third squat medic. He hadn't heard because he was busy rolling underneath moving tanks, jumping on top of other tanks, leaping from tank to tank, running through hails of bullets, dodging flying trees and generally risking his life like a crazy suicidal maniac.
"Mallard? Do you read me, Mallard? This is urgent!"
Doctor Mallard ignored him; he threw himself under a bush and scrabbled through the undergrowth to where General †bermunchkin sat. He examined the man, aging but well-built and charismatic in his veteran armour. He had a deep leg wound and seemed to be suffering from some kind of shock, but Mallard really couldn't tell without his HP meter. The medic unslotted the device from his purpose-built armour and connected it gently to the patient. It beeped wildly. HP 3. Mallard shook his head. It didn't look that way, but it was. And Jack was right on the other end of the battlefield.
"MALLARD! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING? COME HERE AT ONCE!"
"Your wounds are too grave, brother. Do you desire the Emperor's Peace?" said Mallard softly. Unlike Jack, he was courteous and polite to senior officers; that's why he wasn't the negative medic.
General †bermunchkin blinked and tried to overcome his creeping terror. He wanted the man pointing the hole punch at his head to go away, but couldn't remember the right words. He couldn't even remember what the man had just said. Was he after some money?
'Yes." he said weakly. He heard a click as Mallard pulled back the catch on the hole punch... * * *
White drop pods descended from the sky like fallen angels. Six of them. General †bermunchkin hid behind a tree and watched them with a kind of perverse fascination. They landed and the doors slid open automatically. Six shapes of varying sizes- three squat, one Dark Eldar, one ogryn and one dreadnought- stepped out. They scanned the battlefield for signs of life and quickly spotted the confused armies that were milling about like a colony of giant disorganised ants. The dreadnought turned its customised speakers up to 'extremely loud' and spoke wirh a voice that would befit a machine much, much huger. Its voice thundered across the battlefield, demanding absolute silence. Even the Orks obeyed.
"We are a neutral band of travelling field medics. We will aid either side. Do not attack us! I repeat, do not attack us! We will be establishing a neutral zone right here. If any of you attack us, we will be forced to retaliate. Thankyou for your co-operation."
The armies collectively waved at the medics cheerfully and went back to knocking each other to pieces. General †bermunchkin sighed. There were new recuits and stupid people on both sides. Someone, somewhere, was going to make a mistake. A badly aimed bolter, a frustrated Ork with no-one in their immediate vicinity to bash... and then there would be no escape from the terrible retribution. The Six Medics... how could he be so stupid as to turn up to a battle on a planet that was to be visited by the Six Medics? It was the second rule in the book, straight after 'if a Chaos Marine buys you a pint, don't drink it'.
"Hey, Duckie, pass me a medikit, mine's run out." said a gruff squat voice.
"Idiot, I told you to replenish it BEFORE we went down!" growled a female squat in reply. A small white metal object went whizzing through the air, catching the squat on the ear as he knelt beside an injured Marine and tended carefully to his wounds. He would have the man up and running before the battle was over. Drake prided himself on his skills. As he deftly applied a bandage to the nasty wound on the man's arm, he kept a close eye on Jack.
"JACK! Ask them first!" he yelled. The negative medic ignored him and swiftly provided someone with euthanasia before loping off into the distance to look for new patients. The dreadnought stomped past, revving up a large chainsaw. Quack was the technician; he liked big machines. He was off to fix the other dreadnought.
"Oi! Keep off neutral zone!" rumbled a deep, slow voice. It was punctuated by a cataclysmic explosion that tore an enormous crater into the surface of the planet, possibly changing the environmental conditions for years to come. At least fifty Orks, staggering into the roped-off area while blind drunk, were vapourised. A tree flew through the air and almost fell on top of General †bermunchkin. Bark splinters pierced his leg as he dived for cover. Pain shot through his whole body. I'm not badly damaged, he told himself, I'll live.
"Er... Duckie..." Drake stammered, embarrassed. The tree had fallen right on top of his medikit. This time, the replacement hit him in a more personal area of his body. He doubled over in agony, but got back onto his feet in seconds. His pain didn't matter; there were people in worse condition that needed healing.
"Reporting faults in Doctor Mallard's HP meter." announced Quack.
"What?" yelled the third squat medic. He hadn't heard because he was busy rolling underneath moving tanks, jumping on top of other tanks, leaping from tank to tank, running through hails of bullets, dodging flying trees and generally risking his life like a crazy suicidal maniac.
"Mallard? Do you read me, Mallard? This is urgent!"
Doctor Mallard ignored him; he threw himself under a bush and scrabbled through the undergrowth to where General †bermunchkin sat. He examined the man, aging but well-built and charismatic in his veteran armour. He had a deep leg wound and seemed to be suffering from some kind of shock, but Mallard really couldn't tell without his HP meter. The medic unslotted the device from his purpose-built armour and connected it gently to the patient. It beeped wildly. HP 3. Mallard shook his head. It didn't look that way, but it was. And Jack was right on the other end of the battlefield.
"MALLARD! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING? COME HERE AT ONCE!"
"Your wounds are too grave, brother. Do you desire the Emperor's Peace?" said Mallard softly. Unlike Jack, he was courteous and polite to senior officers; that's why he wasn't the negative medic.
General †bermunchkin blinked and tried to overcome his creeping terror. He wanted the man pointing the hole punch at his head to go away, but couldn't remember the right words. He couldn't even remember what the man had just said. Was he after some money?
'Yes." he said weakly. He heard a click as Mallard pulled back the catch on the hole punch... * * *