After nightfall, Gragoth walked through the camp alone and entered the scrapyard.
Big Rivet’s workshop was still lit.
Several hanging lamps cobbled together from oil drums and batteries dangled from iron frames, their dim yellow light illuminating workbenches piled with parts and half-finished projects.
The sound of metal being hammered came from deeper inside the workshop in a steady rhythm, occasionally mixed with the hiss of a welding torch.
Gragoth ducked through the sheet-metal doorway.
Big Rivet was leaning over the workbench at the very back, his goggles pushed up onto his forehead.
His hydraulic claw held a bent iron pipe as he repeatedly measured it against something.
Several pieces of badly cut scrap lay scattered around his feet.
Another young Mek was squatting beside him, holding a welding torch and waiting for instructions.
“Big Rivet,” Gragoth called.
Big Rivet turned around and saw Gragoth’s massive body squeezed into the workshop, taking up more than half of the already cramped space.
He pushed himself up from the workbench, and his hydraulic claw released the iron pipe with a click.
“Primarch?
What’re you doing here?” Gragoth said, “Make Blackfang a suit of power armour.” “But it can’t be better than mine.” Big Rivet put down what he was holding, looked at Gragoth’s four-metre-tall iron shell, then lowered his gaze and estimated the size of his material pile.
“Then I’ll weld one less layer of plating onto his?” “And give him one less engine.” Big Rivet thought seriously for a moment.
“One less layer and one less engine means his armour definitely won’t be as strong as yours when he walks around.
And the three exhaust pipes on his back won’t make as much smoke either.” Gragoth waved a hand.
“Do whatever you fink works.
As long as everyone can tell at a glance that his is one level below mine.” Big Rivet nodded, pulled a sheet of metal out from behind the workbench, scribbled a few rough measurements along the edge with charcoal, then drew three crooked lines to represent the exhaust pipes.
“I fink I can weld it together in two days.” Gragoth’s gaze moved away from the workbench and settled on the young Mek squatting beside Big Rivet.
The Boy looked a little thinner than an ordinary Ork, but his hands were unusually large, and his fingers were even longer than those of most Meks.
He was lowering his head as he passed wrenches to Big Rivet.
Gragoth grinned.
“You.
Come here.” The young Mek looked up, glanced around, then pointed at his own nose.
“Primarch, you mean me?” “Yeah.” The young Mek put the wrench on the workbench, stood up, and walked over to Gragoth.
He looked up at Gragoth and wiped his long hands on his trousers.
Gragoth looked down at him.
“Make something for me.” The young Mek immediately became interested.
“What?” “A light.” The excitement on the young Mek’s face instantly dropped by half, and the corners of his mouth sagged.
“What’s fun about a light?
I fink you’d want something like Big Rivet’s hydraulic claw, or maybe a super bolter—” Gragoth bent down and interrupted him, bringing his faceplate close to the Mek’s face as he quietly said, “I’m planning to take you lot fighting at night.” The young Mek immediately stopped talking, his eyes lighting up again.
“So I need a really bright light,” Gragoth continued.
“And it needs a remote.
I wanna be able to press something from far away and make it turn on.
Make it as bright as you can.” The young Mek spread his long hands in front of his chest.
“Bright enough to blind someone’s eyes?” Gragoth thought for a second.
“About that bright.
And remember, don’t tell anyone.
Otherwise, I won’t bring you along.” The young Mek grinned and whispered, “Leave it to me, Primarch.
I fink I can make it in half a day.” Then he turned and ran toward a workbench in the corner of the workshop piled high with wires and lenses, immediately digging through everything.
Three days later, at dusk.
Saint Hecate Square.
The square had once been the most prominent administrative centre on the entire planet.
Most of the white stone paving had already shattered, with dry weeds and clusters of grey fungus growing through the cracks.
The ruins of buildings around the square leaned crookedly in place.
Wind swept across the empty ground, carrying yellowed scraps of paper and dust through the air.
At the centre of the square stood a massive statue of the Emperor.
The thirty-metre-tall stone figure had once worn gilded armour and held a flaming sword in its right hand, its stern gaze fixed upon the distance.
Now its left hand was broken off at the wrist, exposing the steel reinforcement inside.
The sword blade was covered in bullet marks and gouges, while most of the gilding had long since fallen away from the armour, revealing the grey-white stone beneath.
Yet even in such a ruined state, the statue still overlooked the entire square, its broken sword tip pointing downward toward where a podium had once stood.
Several hundred Orks crowded into the square before the statue.
The clang of iron armour, weapons scraping across the ground, rough conversation, and curses all mixed together.
Every now and then, someone shoved another Ork while fighting for space, only to be dragged back by those nearby.
Blackfang stood in the very front row, proudly stretching out his arms to show off the new “First Company Captain’s power armour” he was wearing.
The dark grey iron shell stood more than half a head shorter than Gragoth’s suit, with narrower pauldrons and only three exhaust pipes on its back spewing black smoke.
Three additional layers of iron plating had been welded onto the breastplate.
The surface was crude, but thick.
A newly forged battle axe hung at his waist, its size alone enough to intimidate anyone looking at it.
Blackfang turned around so the Boyz behind him could get a good look at the exhaust pipes on his back, grinning so widely that the gap left by his missing tusk was impossible to miss.
“Captain Blackfang!” one of his former Boyz shouted.
Blackfang waved toward him, looking extremely satisfied.
Gragoth approached from behind the crowd.
His four-metre-tall dark green power armour stepped across the stone paving, crushing another cracked tile with every step.
He passed through the crowd as it automatically parted for him, walked to the base of the statue, then turned to face everyone.
He hefted the massive axe in one hand, then slammed it into the ground.
Clang!
The axe haft struck the stone, sending fragments flying.
The entire square instantly fell silent.
Gragoth looked over the crowd.
Several hundred pairs of green eyes stared back at him.
“Today.” Gragoth’s voice came through the speaker in his faceplate.
“I wanna ask you all a question first.” The Orks waited in silence.
“Why are you so good at fighting?” The Orks looked at one another.
Some scratched their heads, while others grinned.
Then a huge Ork in the front row shouted, “I was born fighty!” “I could fight from da day I was born!” “Me too!” “Who doesn’t know how to fight?” Gragoth raised a hand and silenced the voices.
“Then lemme ask you another one.” He raised his voice.
“Why do Ork Boyz know how to fight without anyone teaching them?
Why do Meks know how to build guns and vehicles without anyone teaching them?”
It really helps the fic grow!