Da' Rippa' - Part Unoz

Ol' Grudgez

The streets seemed extra dirty that day, as if affected by some sort of weird filter. A small cloud of mist stuck to the ground, accidentally generated by mek Boomzappa' the night before. The humie district was surprisingly empty, with everyone cowering in their homes. A killer was on the loose.

Gorasho made his way to the crime scene, chomping down on something the humans called a donut. Dead gud, it was. Snogrot and Ugu were at his side, as was Miriana, more out of curiosity than anything else. The orkoids and eldar finally reached the crime scene, a shady alleyway connected to a darkened street shrouded in shadow. The lights needed some heavy fixing, they did.

An inspector was there, identified by a rather snazzy bowler hat and trenchcoat. Human police officers took pict-feeds of the crime scene. It was gruesome, to be sure, for a small crimson trail spread out into the street. The kaptin was pretty sure it wasn't paint, too. They approached the man, who looked up at them, a large cigar sending small clouds of smoke into the air.

"Captain. Good to see you here."

"Yeh, yeh. Ya' sounded worried on da' talky-majig."

"Yes, well, it's the circumstances. Two dead, man and his wife. No witnesses, just brutality," a brief look into the alley revealed some idle body parts, "signs of ork weaponry."

"And dat'z why we'z 'ere. Anyfin' else?"

"That's why I was worried, captain. There's a message. For you."

Gorasho took a few steps into the alleyway and almost immediately froze, his gaze locked on the nearest wall. There, painted in a dark crimson, was an image. An image of a serrated knife. Right below it, was a letter, partly stained, but otherwise quite readable. He grabbed it, almost as if in a trance, and scanned it with a quick glance.

"Dear ol' kaptin Gorasho. I'z sorrey it took me so long, but orksesez got stuff ta' do, right? Well, I'z been watchin' da' newz and you'z made lotsa' new matez since Iz waz gone. Figure I'z got some catchin' up ta' do. An' by catchin', Iz mean slicin'. Let'z see if ya' hit me dis time.

Yer goodest friend, da' Rippa'."

The other bystanders just stood there in silence. Finally, he blurted out:

"'E'z back."

While Snogrot and the inspector just gave knowing nods, Miriana asked for the necessary exposition:

"Who?"

"Da' Rippa'. Sorry, I'z need ta' go right now. Snogrot take 'er away."

"Yeh, kaptin."

The kaptin stormed off like a madboy, leaving a very confused eldar among the illuminated. She turned to Snogrot, who expertly anticipated the question:

"I'z tell ya' on da' way. Long story, dat one."

Big Rok. Often a hive of questionable, even downright heretical interspecies relations, but otherwise, not that bad of a place to live in. But there were always those hell-bent on destroying such a fragile peace. Gits and lowlifes believing that one section of inhabitants was superior to others. Most often, such enemies were taken care of with a quick clobberin', followed by a slower, more deliberate clobberin'. But then, there was him.

Known by many names. Crimson Shadow, Purifier, Black Death, Snikrot's Cousin. Finally, there was the name he had given himself. Rippa'. A dark spectre that always struck and disappeared swiftly, leaving the polees no evidence other than taunting letters to its kaptin. An ork of Ghazghull's teachings, believing in the utter superiority of orkoid life.

"We'z thought 'e must 'ave been a kommando or somethin'. Possesed a mean kunnin', dat one," Snogrot explained, expertly dodging an exposed manhole, "but then, one night changed it all. He zogged up, iz what I'z sayin'. Wasn't quick enough. And da' kaptin' started chasin' 'im."

Their chase was often spoken of in legends. For hours, the duo ran through the streets and alleyways of the Big Rok, neither ork capable of gaining the upper hand. Finally, the race took them to the sewer, its maze of tunnels a surefire way to lose any pursuit. The kaptin was exhausted, yet da' Rippa' seemed to move with renewed vigour.

A fateful set of crossroads was close by. One turn and the criminal would easily escape once more. Gorasho decided to take one last shot. Well, volley. As he unloaded his entire magazine, most bullets only ricocheted off the walls harmlessly, but some struck true, proving that more dakka was always best. Da' Rippa's right arm exploded in a red mist, but once it cleared, there was no ork in sight. Only an enraged scream, echoing within the tubes:

"We'z gunna' meet againz, Pain!"

"Kaptin' came out alone. Exhausted, not quite happy. Didn't even go ta' Joe'z dat night."

"Could this not be just some imposter?"

"Nah. Same style of cutz. Same numba' of cutty bitz on da' knife picturez. Same writin'," he said, examining said letter, "dis be 'im."

"And what does he want? Revenge?"

"Dat would be a start. But rememba' wot'z in two dayz?"

Her eyes shot open in realisation.

"But why would he announce his presence beforehand?"

"A challenge, Iz think."

In another part of the Big Rok, a very big ork was shouting at an even bigger ork, surrounded by hat-covered pointy stikks:

"You'z gotta' call it off!"

"Gorasho, youz can't jus' say dat," a small tower of gretchin balanced next to the boss, handing him new styles of hats from the aforementioned stikks, each coloured dark blue. Another bunch were holding up a damaged mirror with all their strength, "we'z been preparin' dis fer weekz now, I'z spend a trukkload of teef on all dese hatz alone."

"Betta' ta' lose teef than lose da' attendeez."

"Listen up, Pain," Nignub abruptly turned around, sending the hat gretchin onto the ground, luckily not onto the mirror. One poor grot was crushed as the warboss took a step forward to the nob, "you'z da polees kaptin 'ere. You'z da' one who'z takin' care of securitey round 'ere. So you'z gotta' make sure it all goez gud," turning back to the mirror, he grabbed another hat by himself, "dis parade will be da' biggest on da' Big Rok. So bring about da biggest numba' of boyz. Simple, ain't it?"

The kaptin wanted to retort, but finally just gave up:

"Yeh, boss."

"Dat'z da' spirit! Dis'll be great, I tell ya! First of its kind, too!"

With a sigh, the kaptin left the building, clobbering one of the nob guards on the way out.

The call had been mysterious, brief, to the point. 'Come to da' roof.' The roof in question was one of the few on the Big Rok that offered any sort of view, as it belonged to an unconventionally high building. It was therefore not of orkish design, which also meant the staircase was actually useable.

It had become a favourite spot for her. Not too far from the ship, secluded away from the hustle and commotion of the hulk. A perfect spot for meditation. Or a little meeting.

He stood there, scratching his thick, green neck, just gazing off into the distance. She brushed a rebellious strand of silver hair from her face, then spoke:

"You called."

"Dat Iz did," he didn't actually turn over to her, just slightly moved his head, "youz probably know why, too."

"It's not hard to connect the dots. Parade and Ripper equal danger. And I'm an honoured guest."

"Not just dat. You'z sittin' right with da' boss. Gud stuff, dat. Not so gud with da' Rippa' around."

"Gorasho..."

He nervously stepped to the other side of the roof:

"'E mentioned matez. 'E neva' just writez somethin'. Dat waz a message."

"Pain, listen here," he finally turned, "if he is as determined as you say, not coming to a parade will only delay the inevitable. And if he does want to attack," a faint crackle of eldritch energy danced around her fingers, "I'd rather he attack when we're expecting him, in a place surrounded by an army of easily-irritable security guards."

"Well... Iz guess dat'z... not gud. Just betta'."

"Good. Now, please, allow me to rest my mind. There's a lot to prepare for."

"Iz couldn't agree more."

With a renewed enthusiasm, the nob set off for parts unknown, leaving her alone in a cool breeze.