Talez and Runtz

The building was nothing special from the outside. Just another hunk of steel, with very little in the way of decorations, slapped onto the hulk's wall. But, as many doks would claim, it was always the inside that counted.

The kaptin approached the door, a very rare wooden piece, with a grin, just like every month. A gentle knock on its surface later and it was opened. The noseless lady on the other side smiled, her charcoal hair tied into a messy braid:

"Ah, captain! Come in, come in!"

"Sorry I'z late, Ann," her full name was much longer, but a mutual agreement shortened it to a more pronounceable form, "some gitz set fire to da' boss pole."

"Oh, that's fine. Hurry, though, they're getting restless."

"Got it."

He ascended a small flight of stairs and opened another wooden door. The room beyond it was, to put it simply, cozy. Several small beds on one side, a set of former toolboxes, now filled with peculiar, even cute items of all shapes and sizes. All nestled on a pleasing red carpet, formerly the property of an unlucky inquisitor.

He was soon overwhelmed as the local inhabitants charged with zealous fervor, screaming his name, title or both. They flung themselves onto him, a mass of many colours and sizes, until he was brought down onto the ground under their weight.

"Okay, okay, Iz give," the little ones freed him and now stood all around, a mix of races only found on Big Rok, "Iz take it ya missed me, ya lil' runtz."

The children frantically nodded and screamed, their joy more than apparent. Save for one. Nestled in a nearby corner was another little figure, dressed in a dark green robe, her long, black hair flowing down to her back. Two long, dagger-like ears peeked from among it. Gorasho walked over to the corner and sat down right next to her, her large sky-blue eyes following his every step.

"'Ullo."

"H-hello."

"You'z new 'ere, ain't ya? Wot'z yer name?"

"Adriana."

"Gorasho," he extended his hand, massive compared to hers, and she slowly shook it, with some effort, "pleased ta' meet ya'. Da' otha' runtz treatin' you propa'?"

"W-well..."

He glared at the surrounding youth:

"Wot dat mean?"

A sporeling spoke up:

"She'z got pointy earz, kaptin." Some of the kids nodded.

Gorasho smirked and started pointing at each of the little ones:

"Well, youz may be killy, but you'z ugly and green. You dere, you'z blue and 'ave no nose. You 'umiez, youz ain't anyffin' speciul. So dere," he turned back to the little eldar, "so she haz pointy earz, so what? And soon, she'll even 'ave kurvez."

A no-nose spoke up:

"What are curves, captain?"

Gorasho scratched his head:

"Iz don't know. But all da' 'umiez Iz work with keep sayin' dat 'bout all da' eldurz. It'z a gud thing, I'z sure. Now, say sorry," some mumbled, some were more loud about it, but the apology was sent either way, "betta'?"

"Y-yes. Thank you."

"Gud. Dat'z 'ow wez like it," with a terrifying grin, he quickly changed subjects, "alright, runtz. Who wantz ta' hear a story?"

There was no protest to that, as the little army sat down around him.

"Wot'z it gonna' be, kaptin?" shouted one impatient ork.

"Well, Iz fink you'z gonna' like dis one. Seein' as dere 'asn't been much lately, maybe somethin' olda'. 'Ow about tellin' ya 'ow I became a kaptin."

Gasps of awe followed and the kaptin began his tale.

Big Rok. A place where several cultures combined, but always under the threat of a possible orky freebootin'. The BRPD, its stalwart defence against all things janky and downright git-like. And its kaptin, the fiercest of them all.

The nob stood there, among all of his semi-competent colleagues, looking like a boss. Hat stolen from an unlucky commissar, fashionable navy-blue uniform, twin-linked shoota' and his beloved chain-axe, Bessy, were ready to frighten or inspire anyone nearby.

His voice suddenly rose, louder than a trukk:

"Senior kadet Gorasho!"

The ork that approached was uncannily large, not quite as big as the kaptin, but big enough. His kunning, though, that was at least on a level with the leading nob.

"Yeh, kaptin?"

"Wot ya make of all dis?"

The scene was gruesome, to be sure. Pointy stikks lined the warehouse's walls, each with an accompanying orky head, the bodies just thrown about carelessly.

"Iz think dis be a message, kaptin. Someone doesn't like da' Grotsnakez."

"No one likez da' Grotsnakez, dey be pushy and loud. Iz need real info, senior kadet."

"Well, wez did find some," a bag labelled 'Importent stuffz' was quite full. First there came a torn flag, with a crossed out snake, "we'z got dis 'ere banna', belongin' to da' Snakehatez," next, a black badge in the shape of a skull, but with a massive nose attached, "dis Grothatez badgey thing," and finally, a pie, unnaturally green, "and dis pie, kaptin. Lookz old, though."

"Eh, green iz best," the kaptin spoke between bites, "so, wot we make of dis?"

"Everyone hatez Grotsnakez . Also, dose gitz did it, Iz think."

"You got dat right. And wez 'ave ta' go clobber 'em. Well, me and da' boyz do."

The slightly smaller ork was confused:

"Wot ya mean, kaptin?"

"Iz want you ta' stay back at da' base. If Iz call, you'z gonna' call fer more boyz."

"But kaptin..."

"Dat be an orda', senior kadet."

The HQ was silent, save for the constant beeping of his activated talky-majig. Tables were around him, each filled with a random assortment of papers, ammunition and others odds and ends.

The call still wasn't coming. Would it? He didn't know. All Gorasho knew was, that he hated waiting. Hated not knowing whether something was gonna' happen, or when. He hated just sitting and muckin' about. That was not something an ork should be doing.

He tried to get his mind off things, to no avail. Why weren't they back yet? The kaptin usually took care of stuff in a timely manner... he couldn't take it anymore. After a swift, perhaps premature distress call, he headed to the garages.

The buggy roared as it traversed the streets, its driver rushing to the scene. In the distance, he could see flashes of gunfire and explosions. He accelerated.

The scene was a mess. Polees boys trading fire with gangers, rokkits exploding all around them. They were in chaos, disorganised, inefficient. Where was the kaptin? He should have been there, shouting at them for muckin' about. Then he spotted it. A navy blue jacket, motionless on the ground. He dashed to the spot, luckily dodging a few stray bullets. The kaptin had obviously been less lucky, what with his legs missing and all that. The stubborn nob was still alive, though, if barely:

"G-gorasho?"

"Yeh, kaptin, it'z me. More boyz be on da' way."

"Gitz... got a lucky rokkit."

"Quiet, kaptin, save yer breath."

"Nah. I'z done."

"But kaptin..."

"Shut it. Iz... Iz promote ya, Gorasho," his arm barely touched Gorasho's shoulder, before he uttered his final words, "I'z promote ya ta' kaptin."

As the last bits of life left the former kaptin, many thoughts rushed through Gorasho's brain. The chief among them was 'I can get his hat'. And so, he did. Hat, shoota', even good old Bessy, he picked them all up. He then stood up and yelled at the top of his lungs, louder than a deffkopta':

"You gitz," the polees boys turned in shock, "youz call dat attackin'?! Stop muckin' about and get in dere!"

As soon as he finished that sentence, a bullet pierced his left eye and he fell to the ground. He lay there for a while, thinking about better tactical decisions. A polees boy suddenly entered his now-limited view, reaching down... for the hat. Oh, hell no.

Surrounding boys screamed when the new kaptin burst up from the ground with a punch, its strength enough to dislocate a head, about fifteen feet away from the rest of the body. He looked at the surrounding terrified orks, and shouted:

"No touchin' da' hat" he realised, suddenly, "oy, youz muckin' about! Get in dere and zog 'em up!"

With an ear-shattering waaaaagh, the polees charged into battle, their new kaptin at the head of the horde. Hatez were gonna' get stomped up.

The little runts liked the story a lot, they did.

"Iz must 'ave killed more than ten of da' gitz myself. Wot'z higha' dan ten? I'z neva' learned 'ow ta' count dat far."

"Eleven?" came Adriana.

"No, no, not dat many. Anywayz, runtz, I'z gotta' be goin'. Still got sum work ta' do."

With sometimes-teary goodbyes, he was sent off into the streets of Big Rok. After almost hitting the 'Two Hooves: Child Care' sign, his talky-majig rang. The news he received was not the best:

"Wot?! Da' boss pole be on fire again?!"

He was sitting near a trukk, covered in more blood than a khornate daemon, just trying to ignore the pain in his phantom eye. An ork came closer, dressed in polees colours:

"Kaptin?"

"Yeh, wot iz it?"

"Youz shouldn't leave it like dat. Da mek could give ya' a lil' fix fer dat. Cybork stuff."

"Not a bad idea. Youz a smart git. Wot'z yer name?"

"Snogrot, kaptin."

"Well, kadet Snogrot," a soon-to-be trademark grin appeared on the kaptin's face, "after Iz get me new eye, would ya like comin' ta' Joe'z? Iz hear dat place be gud."