Blackfang lay on the ground, blood running between his tusks, the iron armour across his chest shattered beyond recognition.
He panted for quite a while, the spot on the back of his head where Gragoth had slapped him still ringing.
Only then did he lift his face from the pile of rubble.
“What’s a First Company Captain?” The Orks around them, who had only just quieted down, immediately pricked up their ears again.
One-Eye stood slightly behind Gragoth, Stikk was squatting on a nearby scrap heap, and Shatterjaw stood at the edge of the crowd touching his bandages, all waiting to hear the answer.
Gragoth had originally intended to explain the complete organization of the Astartes, the role of each Company, and the size of their formations.
But after glancing at Blackfang’s huge green face, which was still dripping blood, he pushed the idea aside.
He put it in terms an Ork could understand.
“It means da fightiest bunch of Boyz under me,” Gragoth said.
“From now on, you lead them.
Whoever I tell you to fight, you take them and give ’em a good beating.” Blackfang planted his hands on the ground and pushed his upper body upright, sitting back on his heels as he looked at Gragoth.
Even while sitting, his body of over three metres still towered above most of the surrounding Orks.
“So I’m their Boss?” “You are.” Blackfang thought for a moment, then asked, “And you’re my Boss too?” “Call me Primarch.” Blackfang thought about it for a few seconds.
Primarch, then.
You were the fightiest, so you got to decide.
Several hundred Orks around them were all staring at him.
The Boyz who had originally belonged to Blackfang were waiting for their Boss to give his answer.
“Fine.” Blackfang slowly pushed himself to his feet.
The moment he straightened up, pain shot through his chest and made him grimace, exposing the gap where one of his tusks had broken off.
His expression looked awful.
“From now on, my Boyz listen to you.” He turned around and shouted at the Ork Boyz who had followed him before.
“You hear that?!
From now on, you all listen to da Primarch!” Blackfang’s former Boyz looked at one another, and some immediately started getting excited.
A young Ork Boy slapped the shoulder of the one beside him and lowered his voice.
“We’re da Primarch’s Boyz now?” “Looks like it.” “Then can we be Astartes too?” “Boss Blackfang—no, Captain Blackfang—is already First Company Captain.
We can definitely get in too, right?” Blackfang ignored the chattering behind him.
Ever since he’d stood up, his eyes hadn’t left the suit of power armour covering Gragoth.
The longer he looked at it, the more he wanted one.
He had personally experienced just how powerful the thing was during the beating he’d taken earlier.
Blackfang wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and suddenly spoke.
“But I want something.” Gragoth glared at him.
“You still dare make demands?” Blackfang shrank his neck.
The pain in his ribs reminded him of that punch, and he instinctively took half a step back.
But his finger was still pointing at Gragoth’s armour.
“I want one of those iron shells.” Before Gragoth could speak, Blackfang hurriedly added, “I’m First Company Captain now.
I can’t be wearing worse armour than the Boyz under me, right?” That actually made sense.
Gragoth looked over Blackfang’s ruined armour.
Half the rivets were gone, the breastplate was caved in, and the edges of the pauldrons had curled outward.
Going around dressed like this, forget looking like First Company Captain—he didn’t even look as well-equipped as an ordinary Nob.
Gragoth was just about to nod and say, “Fine,” when Blackfang added, “I want one as big as yours.” Smack.
Gragoth backhanded Blackfang across the back of the head.
The armoured palm struck with a crisp, loud clang that carried across the entire camp.
Blackfang had only just steadied himself and nearly fell back down again.
He staggered two steps before regaining his balance, while the skin on the back of his head immediately turned red.
“Keep dreaming.” Gragoth pulled his hand back.
“You think a First Company Captain gets to wear the same thing as da Primarch?” Blackfang held the back of his head, clenched his teeth, then slowly relaxed them before finally forcing out, “I can’t just wear broken scraps of iron, can I?” “You can have armour.” Gragoth extended a finger and pointed it at Blackfang’s nose.
“But it can only be one level below mine.
I’m da Primarch.
You’re First Company Captain.
When we stand together, every Boy needs to tell at a glance who’s biggest.” Blackfang’s mouth moved slightly.
There was nothing wrong with that.
Ork hierarchy was extremely simple: the bigger one was the Boss, and the smaller one was the underling.
The Primarch outranked the Captain, so naturally the Primarch’s armour had to be bigger.
It was something every Ork could understand at a glance.
He didn’t even need to think about it.
“Fine.” Blackfang lowered the hand covering the back of his head.
“One more thing.” Gragoth withdrew his finger.
“This ain’t called an iron shell.” “Then what’s it called?” “Power armour.” Blackfang rolled the words “power armour” around in his mouth, then curled his lip in distaste.
But the back of his head was still hurting, so he held it in.
Gragoth turned around to face Blackfang’s former subordinates.
More than two hundred greenskins were packed throughout the camp, hundreds of eyes all fixed on him.
Gragoth raised his voice.
“All of Blackfang’s old Boyz belong to me from today onward!
As for who gets into First Company—” He stopped and swept his gaze across the green faces.
“First Company doesn’t take useless gitz.
Da fightiest get in.” The moment the words left his mouth, all the Orks erupted.
An Ork carrying a hammer was the first to thump his chest.
“I’m definitely getting in!” “You ain’t worth squat!” Another Ork carrying a big gun stood up beside a war vehicle and pointed at him.
“I fought you three times last year!
Which one did you win?” “I was going easy on you!” “Rubbish!
I was going easy on you!” The two Orks immediately started glaring and baring their tusks at each other, tusk to tusk, their noses almost touching.
Gragoth roared, “All of you, shut up!” Three words.
The entire camp fell silent.
Even the two Orks who had been nose-to-nose separated, each taking half a step back, though they continued glaring at one another.
Gragoth looked around, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.
“Three days from now,” he said, “I’ll tell you who gets into First Company.” He paused.
“And I’ll tell you where we’re going to fight next!” A low buzz spread through the camp.
The Orks exchanged looks.
Some clenched their fists, while others gripped their weapons and bared a mouthful of tusks.
Anything else?
Not interested.
Fighting?
Now you’ve got their attention.
“Now—” Gragoth turned and glanced at the wounded Orks nearby.
“Anyone who’s hurt, go find an Apothecary and get it sorted out yourselves.
When the time comes, even if you have to crawl, you’d better crawl over to me.” Shatterjaw reacted first.
“What’s an Apothecary?” “A Painboy,” Gragoth said.
“Oh.” Shatterjaw turned and ran toward a group of greenskins squatting in the corner of the camp.
Among them was an Ork wearing a rough white coat, with an enormous bone saw hanging from his back and all kinds of medical tools piled beside him.
Shatterjaw ran up to him and pointed at his crooked nose and broken tusk.
“Fix me up quick.” The Painboy lifted his goggles and glanced at him, then pulled a thick iron rod from the pile of tools.
“Easy fix.
Might hurt a bit, though.” “How much?” The Painboy shoved the iron rod into Shatterjaw’s mouth and braced it against the base of the broken tusk.
“Won’t hurt once it’s fixed.” Before Shatterjaw could reply, the Painboy grabbed the broken tusk with his other hand and wrenched it outward.
Crack.
Half the broken tusk came out by the root.
Only Shatterjaw’s scream remained, echoing through the camp.
It really helps the fic grow!