Into da' Warpzone
Big Rok was, for all intents and purposes, your regular, everyday space hulk. And as such, it did things any self-respecting flying junkyard would. Mostly ram into anything in its path, but sometimes, it would travel. Travel vast distances in seemingly random amounts of time. Yes, just like many of its kin, the Warp itself would sometimes just gobble it up, only to spit it out elsewhere.
And so, its inhabitants would sometimes find themselves in the Warpzone, where normal things did not happen very often.
The BRPD headquarters was under siege. By vast amounts of paperwork, after an especially troublesome week. While most of the boyz were enjoying their well-earned breaks, a select few stayed behind to make sure everything was in order. They were also fortunate, though, for the circumstances brought in a few extra... well, not hands, per se.
Snogrot, the supervisor over the entire operation, placed another pile of paperwork onto a table. This batch contained complaints about property damage from idealists, complaints about assorted injuries, death threats from those already gunned down and letters containing something their writers had mistaken for a dialect. With a grin, he turned to one of his temporary helpers:
"More stuff fer ya', Yelly," a harmless little nickname, it was.
The daemon screeched loudly, flapped its almost-cosmetic wings and then clumsily bit into the pile, pulling the material into its maw. At another table, a multi-limbed creature spewed fire at a similarly-sized pile and swept the ash onto the floor using some of its tails. A small squad of gaunts, equipped with tiny brooms and bags, appeared shortly afterwards to clean it all up. Like some sort of malfunctioning, but well-oiled machine. Almost brought a tear to his eye.
"Ringo, ya' finished wif dem holes?"
The monstrous snake of a tyranid looked up from its table, nodding. Snogrot came closer, saw that the bite marks were in completely random places on each paper, and spoke:
"Close enuff. Gud job." which earned him a monstrous purr.
After throwing the newly collected pile into a random drawer in a random table, he looked out the window, at the training yard. Half of it had been repurposed into a school for the polees, or any other inhabitant with an interest in learning languages. Since the locals couldn't possibly speak in the same dialect as the bug boyz, knowing both was the only way to properly coexist. A group of eye-catching, purple-skinned ladies watched the proceedings from a bench, giggling and pointing at gaunt students.
Something tugged on his leg. A brief look downwards revealed Ugu, clutching a very messy, even bloodied envelope:
"Wot ya' got dere," he retrieved it, wiped off the slobber on Yelly's back, opened it up and, after a bit of reading, he looked back at the squiq, "where'd ya get dis?"
"I brought it," came a borderline seductive female voice.
He looked up to see another daemonette, holding one of the gaunts and scratching its belly. Little guy seemed to be enjoying it a lot, too:
"Oy, put down me' worka'!"
"Oh, sorry," she put him down, much to his disappointment, "they're just so cute! Anyway, I hope that helps you."
"Oh, yeh, real gud info. But where'd ya get it?"
"Oh, robbed one of them. We do like annoying them from time to time, you know," she brushed through her green hair with her crab-like claw, "anyway, I'm gonna' go back to the yard. Their squeaking is adorable."
"Okay. Fankz," he immediately turned to the squiq, "Ugu, we gotta' find da' kaptin!"
A bark-like growl was all the confirmation he needed.
Joe's was even more full than usual, if only because of the competition. Dozens of figures, green, red and otherwise, huddled around a few tables, cheering their favoured warriors on. A khornate daemon roared in fury as it slammed yet another arm against the table, snapping it off in the process. Its green, and former, owner tried to insert a laughter into his agonising screams, with mixed results.
Arm wrestling was no mere sport. It was an art, with massive history on the Big Rok. Entire generations of sporelings dreamt of maybe, one day, having a shot at the championship title, an award second only to the boss' throne itself. Many heroes were noted in the annals, all either khornate or orkish, though, the inclusion of tyranids could very well bring an end to their streaks. Barathul the Great Master of Long-Named Arm Crushing, Zugzug Armsnappa', Milenius the Breaker of Palms, Gobby da' Gobbynator, only recently deceased. Such famous names, some easier to pronounce than others and therefore mentioned more often.
Gorasho sat at the bar and watched a pair of daemonettes cheer around the newest victor. Such good, wholesome, ork-friendly fun. Brought a tear to his eye. With a satisfied grunt, an empty jug slammed down onto the bar, forcing Gorasho to look to the left:
"Man, this stuff is great," her tentacular hair was practically dancing from excitement, "you say it's made of fungus?"
"Yeh. Only da' best qualitey 'ere at Joe'z."
"I must agree wholeheartedly," the mutated mass was remarkably contained, somehow managing to maintain a humanoid form. The tentacles sprouting from its back, along with a single huge, green eye, belied its true nature. The similarly huge monocle and top hat made up for it, though, "a wonderful beverage. May we have some more?"
"Comin' right up," said Joe with boundless enthusiasm. Daemon teef were of high quality, after all.
"And for the lady."
"Got it."
The daemonette giggled, her tail waggling in the air:
"You're spoiling me, Malmortus."
"And it is a pleasure. So, captain," the single eye turned back to Gorasho, "how has the war on civil revolt been going?"
The kaptin took a gulp from his own jug, before answering:
"Ah, ya' know. Blown up warehouse 'ere, chopped up gitz dere. Da' bug boyz are makin' it much easia' dese dayz, though."
"Sounds splendid. I bet they still wouldn't manage a thing without you, though."
"I'z usually 'umble, but no. Most of 'em be squigbrainz, still."
Daemonette and... thing laughed together, just as two figures stormed into the bar, screaming:
"Kaptin, kaptin!"
He turned around to see a boy and his squig:
"Wot iz it, senior kadet Snogrot?"
"We'z got problemz, kaptin! I'z got sum info!"
"I see," he turned back to his drinking buddies, "I gotta' go, sorry. Duty callz and stuffz. Youz two 'ave fun."
Malmortus watched the trio leave:
"A shame," he turned back to her, "I must say, however, you look even more marvelous than usual today, Mirana."
Her talons scraped along the bar:
"You don't look too bad yourself, good sir."
"Ya' sure all dis is right? It could be a joke."
"Kaptin, I'z sure! Dey even put their picture fingy on da' papa'."
A daemonic motorcycle roared past them, its rider's skull on fire as he screamed about consuming illegal substances. They did not seem to notice.
"Dat'z true. Okay, so we'z sure. We gotta' round up da' boyz, den. And bring 'em to da' goody boy district, get some of dem, too. Now dat Iz fink about dis, dis could be fun."
"Yeh, kaptin. Let'z go, den."
In their rush, they left the letter behind and it fell to the ground, a group of curious grots mustered the courage to approach and, after a bit of bickering, the oldest one was chosen as the reader. If only because he could actually read.
"You stupid sons of Tzeentch. We're gonna' get in there and smash them up, to make up for our humiliating failure from last time! YOU HEAR ME, IDIO-," part of the letter was covered in blood, unreadable, "the portal shall open to their Tau district, so that we can take out their ranged superiority! We will tear them apart, as my name is Gugulash, the Butcher of Bovinus, Enslaver of Generis, Reddener of the Dunes!"
Finally, at the bottom, was a golden maw on a crimson background, ready to devour an entire planet.
As soon as he finished reading, they were all flattened by the daemonic rider, who returned for another go, screaming about roadkill.
The Tau district was quiet, unreasonably so. Not a single philosopher walked the streets, talking of the true nature of the Greater Good, while enduring constant mocking laughter from nearby polees personnel. Not a single Fire Warrior was trying to impress ladies with his aim, or the state of his rifle. Not a single being was in sight when the portal was forcefully torn open.
Band after band of figures in crimson armour charged through, armed mostly with melee weaponry, a select few carrying flamers. They smashed a few nearby walls and stands, before devolving into a mass of confused idiots, from their previous state of focused idiots. One last figure stepped through the portal before it closed, taller than the rest of his kin, his armour a defiled terminator suit. One of the berserkers shouted at him:
"There is nobody here, damnit!"
"Shut up, you useless sack of filth, and look harder!"
"I think this whole thing is a load of juggernaut!" came another voice.
"I'll shove such down your throat if you don't shut up! Now search!"
"Ya' lookin' fer me, squigbrain?!"
The leader looked up, to see an ork kaptin suddenly standing in the middle of a street, his hat bearing more scars than before.
"You idiots, he's right there! Kill! Maim! Burn!"
As the khornates let out a battle cry, Gorasho grinned and shouted back:
"Iz couldn't agree more!"
Without warning, the street behind the fallen marines burst open, revealing a squad of tyranid warriors, who immediately opened fire with their mighty venom cannons. Orks of all shapes and armour class spewed from the upper floors of surrounding buildings and jumped down onto street level, some clumsily enough to get flattened by the next wave. Several Shas'la took aim from the upper balconies and shot with pinpoint accuracy. A black squiq was chasing a trio of enemies in a circle.
The khornate leader did not particularly care, his mind was focused on a single thing, the chain choppa'-wielding nob charging right at him. His power fist roared to life and he tried to punch the enemy in two. Gorasho dodged only narrowly and brought down his own weapon. Bessy only scraped along the suit's surface.
"Upgradez, Gug?"
"Oh, indeed. And my name is-," a powerful kick made the terminator stumble backwards. The suit's second power fist was activated, "I will crush you!"
"Iz don't fink so," another narrow dodge, "Gug."
"You will respect my name and titles!"
The terminator grew even more furious. Yet even as the rest of his warband was slowly whittled down, no shot could scratch him through his durable shell. And the dodges were becoming rather dangerous.
He ducked under a sloppy right hook and rammed into the similarly-sized marine with full force, sending him back by a good few feet. The kaptin shouted:
"Tekbrain! Goooo!"
The mek's scream of childish joy could be heard just before his beemy deffgun cut a path through the air and, for that matter, the terminator suit. The hole wasn't the biggest one, but large enough for their plan.
"Aaaargghh! I will rend you limb from limb!"
"Yer upgradez be dumb."
"Kaptin, catch!"
He instinctively grabbed the falling object and gave Snogrot a thumbs up. Gugulash charged once more, his feet creating small craters in the ground. His blows were even faster, yet after a few dozen, an opening appeared. Sidestepping, Gorasho took his new weapon and rammed it right into the marine's wound. The khornate roared and looked down, only to feel a slight tinge of shock when he spotted a ridiculously large rokkit:
"Iz gave ya' a warnin' last time. Now Iz done wif talkin'."
He pressed a large button on the surface. The rokkit's powerful thruster roared to life. Gugulash resisted for a bit, but he was eventually lifted off the ground. Flying through the air like a furious comet, he screamed obscenities at anything in earshot, before finally erupting into a crimson rain of armour and body parts.
"Iz do love it when ratingz skyrokkit."
The damage was manageable. Several dozen dead boyz, three dead tyranids, a few broken walls and a gaping chasm leading directly into the sewers. Nothing a few grots couldn't fix. Well, except for the dead things. That was something for the dok, if he was feeling experimental on that particular day. Snogrot had more paperwork to fill out, too.
Gorasho received some more praise, before retreating back to Joe's. His two drinking buddies were nowhere in sight and so he merely sat at the bar. Joe was there momentarily:
"Ah, kaptin! Welcome back!"
"Where'd Malmortuz and Mirana go?"
"Oh, dey were talkin' about flexible tentaclez or somethin'. Deyz somewhere," Joe's grin grew wider, "Iz got a speciul meal fer ya' today kaptin!"
"Wot might dat be?"
"Iz call it Lendin' a 'and. Top secret recipez."
"Sounds tasty, Joe. Bring it right up."
It was more or less a stew. Tasted funky. Funky gud.