Dying?
How?
It was impossible.
During the boarding action against the humans, Smartnog had been practically disemboweled and kept on fighting.
How could a few nips from some bugs lay him low now?
Darrius couldn’t wrap his head around it.
He assumed there was some internal hemorrhaging he couldn’t see.
He scrambled to his feet, bellowing for a Painboy to get over here and patch the Mek up.
“Stop yer kit-bashin’, it’s no use,” Smartnog said, waving a hand with surprising stoicism.
“It’s da bug-venom.
Wen dey bite ya, dere’s a chance dey take over yer noggin.
Usually, an Ork of my size wudn’t care…
Guess me luck ran out.
Or maybe dat humie’s blade weakened me enough for da rot to take hold.” The Tyranid genetic virus, the Genestealer’s Kiss, was potent enough to subvert even the resilient physiology of an Ork.
However, because Orks reproduce via fungal spores, the infection usually died with the host, preventing the cult from spreading through the greenskin hierarchy.
“Dunt give up…
maybe da Dok has a bodge for dis,” Darrius urged.
“Nah, I can feel me own meat.
I can ‘ear da bugs in me head now.
Roight now, dat voice is tellin’ me to chop ya into bitz.” Darrius felt his knees go momentarily weak.
That voice…
Could it be the Hive Mind?
The gestalt consciousness of an entire intergalactic predator?
Was that a psychic weight any mortal lifeform could hope to resist?
“I told dat voice ta sod off,” Smartnog said dismissively.
“If I cud see it or touch it, I’z give it a taste of me klaw.” “I ain’t scared of dyin’.
I just ‘ate da idea of a bug pullin’ me strings.
But…
I got regrets.
Not about da ship.
Just…
dat I never ‘ad a proper song to call me own.
Is it ’cause I’m a greenskin dat I can’t do Art?” Smartnog raised his massive power-claw and rested it against his own throat.
His tone wasn’t one of fear, but of a profound, lingering sorrow.
A large hand gripped the metal of the power-claw.
It was Darrius.
“Wait.
Maybe I got a tune I can play for ya.” Smartnog’s story struck a chord deep within Darrius.
In his eyes, this hulking green monstrosity was no longer a terror of the stars, but something relatable, something real.
He saw a boy bullied at school for his hobbies, a boy who refused to abandon what he loved and instead fought back against every voice that sought to diminish him.
Through that struggle, he grew stronger and reached for greatness, yet kept that spark of a dream alive in his heart.
To Smartnog, that dream was more precious than life itself.
Knowledge and inspiration began to surge through Darrius’s mind, pulling memories from the deepest reaches of his former life.
Perhaps the Ork physiology truly did enhance cognitive retrieval; even the grayest memories were being dusted off, shining with new clarity.
He remembered a game from his youth: Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne.
At the end of the campaign, there was an electrifying track: “Power of the Horde.” His mental processors whirring at maximum capacity, Darrius scooped up the trembling Smarty and began barking orders.
He personally set to work, scavenging parts to bodge the necessary instruments.
“But Boss Sneaky, dis ain’t da time for playin’!
Da Meks say da ship’s navigations are locked tight.
Dey can’t fix it…” Smarty stammered.
“Tell ’em to bodge it or find a way!
Do wat I said first!
If dis ain’t perfect, I’ll feed ya to a squig meself!” Darrius roared.
Driven by the threat of immediate violence, the grots and Boyz worked with terrifying efficiency.
Within fifteen minutes, a makeshift stage of speakers and erratic wiring was ready.
To solve the problem of the other Orks’ lack of musical training, Darrius bypassed them entirely, coding a simple sub-routine into the machinery so the instruments would play the melody themselves.
Darrius placed his hands on the “kustom” electric guitar.
He had never touched one in his life, yet in this moment, the instrument felt like a natural extension of his Astartes-tier reflexes.
He struck the first chord.
“Storm, Earth, and Fire, hear my call!” The manic music erupted.
Translated into the guttural tongue of the Orks, the lyrics became something more, something primal, raw, and overflowing with power.
The blood-pumping rock music thundered through every corner of the bridge.
The Boyz looting scrap, the Meks trying to bypass the cogitators, and the grots collecting teeth from the floor, all of them stopped.
A wave of manic excitement washed over them.
Some began to howl the lyrics alongside Darrius; others stomped their boots in a rhythmic war-dance, their work suddenly infused with a new, frantic energy.
But none were as moved as Smartnog.
His face shifted from shock to a wide, toothy grin.
He began to sing along, his voice growing louder, more vibrant, more WAAAGH!
with every verse.
Had he been human, he might have wept.
On the bridge’s viewscreen, the kaleidoscopic, shifting madness of the Warp provided the perfect, psychedelic backdrop for the performance.
Hosting a rock concert for the Boyz in the middle of the Empyrean.
Check.
Perhaps because emotions are amplified within the Warp, one rendition wasn’t enough.
As Darrius finished the first set, the mob of cheering Orks demanded an encore, and they wanted it louder, faster, more chaotic.
Swept up in their fervor, Darrius struck a final, screeching high note and looked over at Smartnog to see if the Ork was satisfied.
Smartnog’s maw was split in a massive, happy grin as he locked eyes with Darrius from across the bridge.
“Sneaky…
you’z a gud wun.
I really loike you, lad.” The din of the crowd was too loud for Darrius to hear the words clearly.
In his vision, Smartnog gave a slow, appreciative nod.
Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, he snapped the power-claw shut around his own throat.
Darrius didn’t know how to feel.
He was an Ork now; he wasn’t supposed to be sentimental.
Yet, there was a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
Whether as a Great Mek or a Rok Boy, Smartnog was gone.
In the universe of Warhammer 40,000, millions die every day, be they Orks, humans, even the arrogant Aeldari.
When would his turn come?
Zog it!
He pushed the thought away.
Be a carefree Ork.
Be happy.
Just keep WAAAGH-ing.
Darrius slammed a final, soaring power chord on the guitar, reigniting the crowd’s passion as he launched into a new verse.
A crew of jubilant greenskins, piloting a stolen Imperial cruiser, sailed aimlessly through the Warp, singing at the top of their lungs.
Suddenly, a rift tore open in the Warp ahead of them, a yawning maw of real-space that swallowed the battered Glorious Knight whole.
The harsh, natural light of a star washed over the hull.
A pale yellow sun, a few orbiting spheres made up a mundane, quiet star system.