The battle ignited into a white-hot frenzy from the very first second.
Persistent, guttural Orkish roars whipped every greenskin into a combat trance as they tore into the foe with choppas, fists, palms, and bared teeth.
The Genestealers soon found themselves buckling under the pressure.
Desperate to buy more time, reinforcements flooded onto the bridge through hidden access shafts, plunging headlong into the fray.
The Orks did not emerge unscathed.
Even a massive Ork Meganob has his limits.
The Tyranid swarm was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency and surgical precision; once trapped in a prolonged encirclement, even these walking tanks of green muscle and iron could be rent into scrap.
Yet the Ork Boyz were legion.
Whenever a Nob fell, fresh Boyz surged forward to plug the gap, lost in the swirling melee with the xenos.
This bloody war of attrition, a literal “filling the gaps with meat,” lasted for an eternity.
In the Warp, time is a fractured concept; no one knew how many hours or days had bled away.
They only knew the final tally: the Tyranids were exterminated to the last organism, and the bridge was carpeted in a thick layer of Orkish dead.
As the battle-lust receded, Darrius felt as though lead had been poured into his veins.
He was immobilized by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion.
He slid down a bulkhead and sat on the deck, gasping for air.
At that moment, Smarty, who had vanished during the height of the slaughter, scurried back into view.
“Boss Sneaky iz da best!
Boss Sneaky is da biggest, da strongest, da waaagh-iest!” the treacherous runt chirped, falling back into his habit of shameless sycophancy.
A massive boot abruptly sent Smarty flying, cut short his flattery mid-sentence.
It was Smartnog, his entire frame drenched in a thick coating of xenos ichor and Ork blood.
After punting the grot, the Ork slumped down next to Darrius.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder like brothers-in-arms who had survived a lifetime of war together.
Darrius was perplexed.
Why wasn’t Smartnog busy “looting” and refitting the ship?
Hadn’t he spent his whole life dreaming of a vessel like this?
The atmosphere felt…
strange.
Darrius shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Sneaky…
you’z a gud Ork.” A rare, melancholic shadow crossed Smartnog’s brutal features.
“I really loike you, lad.” Darrius’s eyes widened in sheer shock, his pupils vibrating.
What in the name of the Warp is this?
We’re greenskins!
We don’t have genders!
We’re fungal spore-creatures!
We’re mushroom men!
“Ya know?” Smartnog continued, ignoring Darrius’s internal crisis.
“Wen I wuz a yoof, I wuz weak.
Real weak.
Even da snivellin’ grots used ta gang up an’ pick on me.” “I wuzn’t like da ovva Boyz.
I didn’t care much for da choppin’ an’ da shootin’.
I loiked sounds…
no, I loiked moozik!
I wuz a Rok Boy.
But ‘coz me moozik wuzn’t ‘armonious, da grots called me a Noise Boy.” At the memory, Smartnog’s temper flared.
He reached out and crushed a passing grot who was trying to scavenge some scrap.
“Leyta on, I krumped ’em all.
Dere wuz dis wun Grot Boss who dunt like dat da ‘ol punchin’ bag wuz fightin’ back.
‘E brought a mob of grots wiv sticks an’ shivs to corner me.” “I wuz angry, see?
I just loiked fings different dan dem, an’ dey wudn’t leave me be.
So I got me a big choppa…
it wuz a real beauty, dat wun.” Smartnog fell silent for a moment, lost in the red mists of memory.
“We hacked at each ovva.
It hurt wen dey cut me, an’ it hurt ’em wen I cut back.
I dunt remember ‘ow long I spent choppin’, only dat me blade ended up in da Grot Boss’s mouf.
‘Is eyeballs popped right out, dey wuz dis big.” Smartnog gestured with his hands; by his account, they were massive.
“Afta dat, no grot dared call me a Noise Boy.
But I dunt wanna play wiv grots.
I went lookin’ for da Boyz.
I fought dere wud be Boyz loike me, wunz who cud ‘preciate me moozik an’ da songs I sang.” “But dem Boyz wuz thick.
All dey cared about wuz eatin’ an’ scrappin’.
Dey dunt get me moozik.
Dey wuz just loike da grots, luffin at me, shovin’ me around.” “I cudn’t take it no more, so I fought ’em!” Smartnog slammed a fist into the deck, then slowly uncurled his fingers.
“I lost.
Dey pinned me down an’ gave me a proppa hidin’.” “But I wudn’t give in!
I ‘ad a fire in me gut!
As soon as me wounds ‘ealed, I went back for more.
Fightin’, fightin’, always fightin’.
Evenchwaly, none of da Boyz in dat sector cud beat me.
I krumped ’em into submission an’ became dere Boss.” Becoming a Warboss is the pinnacle of Orkish ambition, but Smartnog’s tone held no triumph.
“I made da Boyz sit down an’ listen to me moozik.
To me singin’.
It made ’em miserable.
Dey only stayed ’cause dey wuz scared of me fist.
Seein’ dere sad faces made me feel miserable too.
I started finkin’…
maybe I really dunt ‘ave da talent?” “Just as I wuz doubtin’ meself, a lad gave me a tip.” A spark of light returned to Smartnog’s eyes.
“I needed better kit!
I needed rok guitars, drum kits, an’ ‘uge speakers!” “So, I started livin’ in da junkyards an’ da scrap-heaps.
I bodged togeda all sorts of fings, dead-killy shootas, waaagh-y bombs, but I cudn’t evva make a gud instrument.
I…
I wuz gutted.” Smartnog slumped like a wilted plant.
“Dunno ‘ow long passed, but I bodged a Gorkanaut for a fella covered in stikkbombs.
Dat weird git wuz real ‘appy wiv it.
‘E told me me ‘art wuzn’t ‘artistic’ enuff yet.
Said I needed to find me own path.
Like ‘im, ‘e believed dat Art wuz an explosion.
A big, zoggin’ explosion.” “Dat’s when I understood.
I sold me scrap-heap, became a Mek, an’ joined a Freeboota fleet.
I ‘ad a goal: I’z become a Great Big Mek, get me own Great Big Ship, an’ fill da bridge wiv instruments an’ da hull wiv speakers.” Smartnog turned to Darrius, his eyes shining with a fanatical brilliance.
“I wuz gonna sing an’ play while me music inspired da Boyz to fight ‘arder, stronger, an’ more Waaagh!” Darrius was stunned.
He never imagined an Ork’s emotional life could be so nuanced, so…
aspirational.
Though, the story sounded suspiciously like a certain failed art student who took a much darker path after being rejected from the academy.
“Ya got yer ship now,” Darrius said softly.
“Why ain’t ya fixin’ it up?
If ya scared o’ da bugs, I’ll grab da Boyz an’ sweep every deck till dis cruiser’s spick‑n‑span.” “…Maybe I’ll pass,” Smartnog said, his voice dropping.
“I fink I really dunt ‘ave da talent.
I can bodge a shoota, an engine, or a power-klaw betta dan anywun.
But I can’t evva get da instruments roight.
Da bass, da guitars…
dey always sound rong.
Always out of chun.” Smartnog looked down at his scarred green hands.
“Maybe me endin’ is just nevva findin’ me Art.” “After ol…
I’m dyin’.”