Something suddenly moved in the garbage pile.
Clatter— A sheet of metal was thrown aside.
Blastfurnace crawled out from underneath.
Half his face was covered in black soot, one of his red mechanical lenses was shattered, and the power unit on his back was still spitting sparks.
He stood up.
First, he looked at his giant machine lying completely disabled on the ground.
Then he looked at Gragoth.
His expression was ugly enough to scare someone.
Gragoth pointed his massive axe forward, the tip aimed directly at Blastfurnace’s head.
“You give up?” Blastfurnace said nothing.
His mechanical claw slowly clenched.
Clack.
Clack.
The hydraulic pistons began building pressure.
“Da machine’s broken.” Blastfurnace stared at Gragoth.
“But I ain’t!” Gragoth froze for a moment.
Blastfurnace was already charging at him.
“I wanna fight you one-on-one!” His mechanical prosthetics crushed loose parts beneath his feet as he rushed up to Gragoth, the huge hydraulic claw on his right arm raised high.
“I wanna see what kind of Primarch you really—” Gragoth raised his leg.
One kick.
Bang!
The rest of Blastfurnace’s sentence disappeared.
His entire body flew backward, bounced once against the ground, then rolled five or six times before his head slammed hard into an abandoned oil drum.
Clang!
The drum caved in.
Blastfurnace stopped moving too.
Gragoth looked down at him.
“You give up now?” Blastfurnace breathed heavily, looked at Gragoth, then at the completely disabled Super-Invincible Big-Foot Smash King in the distance.
“I don’t!” The massive axe immediately came down against Blastfurnace’s neck.
Blastfurnace’s face twitched.
“Boss.” The axe didn’t move.
Blastfurnace fell silent for another two seconds.
“…Primarch.” At the southwestern edge of Scrapheap City.
An old warehouse stood there with half its roof collapsed, while the remaining sheets of metal clanged loudly in the wind.
In one corner of the warehouse, more than a dozen Orks sat around a pile of burning tyres that crackled as they released thick black smoke.
Two choppas, several battered guns, and a mechanical leg taken from who knew where lay beside the fire.
An Ork missing half an ear sat directly in front of the flames, one foot resting on an abandoned gear while he used a half-burned iron pipe to poke at the fire.
The flames illuminated his face, making the outline of his missing ear especially clear.
“Heard about it?” He prodded one of the tyres, sending a taller flame rising from the pile.
“Blastfurnace is with Gragoth now too.” The Ork sitting across from him looked up.
A half-chewed piece of rubber tubing was still hanging from his mouth.
He narrowed his eyes at the half-eared Ork, then spat the rubber onto the ground.
“Bullshit.
Blastfurnace is a big Boss.
Why would he follow Gragoth?” “‘Cause Gragoth beat him into submission!” An Ork sharpening a blade nearby stopped moving, leaving the back of the blade resting against the whetstone.
He lowered his voice, as though he didn’t want anyone to hear while also wanting everyone to hear.
“I heard Gragoth split Blastfurnace’s big iron shell apart with one swing of his axe.” The half-eared Ork looked disdainful.
“That news is ancient.
I heard Gragoth blew da whole big iron shell apart with one punch!” “No!” Another Ork immediately leaned closer, spreading both hands to imitate an explosion.
“I heard Gragoth just looked at it, and da big iron shell fell over by itself!” The area around the fire went quiet.
Several Orks looked at one another.
The half-eared Ork furrowed his brow.
The one sharpening his blade stopped moving the whetstone.
The Ork who had been chewing rubber blinked.
The one leaning forward froze in place.
“Seriously?” someone asked.
“Dunno.” The half-eared Ork leaned back again.
“But Blastfurnace really is with him now.” “And Blackfang,” said the Ork sharpening his blade as he put the weapon down.
“Blackfang joined him ages ago.” “I’ve seen Blackfang!” an Ork at the very edge suddenly interrupted.
He had been squatting by the warehouse entrance against the wall, listening the entire time without saying anything.
His shout made everyone turn toward him at once.
The Ork hurriedly sat up straighter and wiped both hands on his trousers.
“A few days ago, I went over to Scrap Street to grab some stuff and saw him.” “Blackfang?” “Yeah!” The Ork nodded hard and gestured with both hands.
“He was wearing this huge Boss-sized iron shell!” He spread his arms exaggeratedly wide.
“Anyway, it was big!
Really big!
Smoke coming out da back, and there was a bird with two heads welded onto da chest.” “A bird with two heads?” the half-eared Ork asked with a frown.
“Yeah, that—” The Ork scratched his head and thought for a while.
“That thing!” He pointed toward a patch of faded paint on the warehouse wall.
“Like that, but made of metal and welded onto his chest.” The half-eared Ork turned and looked at the faint outline of an Imperial Aquila on the wall, then turned back.
“And then?” “Then he left with a bunch of Boyz.
I heard him shouting something about ‘battle-brothers’—and ‘Astartes.'” “Asta-what?” “Astartes!” “Astartes!” the half-eared Ork supplied.
“Yeah!
Astartes!” Another Ork picked up a half-eaten bone beside the fire and took another bite.
While chewing, he asked, “What’s so good about being Astartes?” “You get an iron shell,” the half-eared Ork said.
The Ork sharpening his blade slapped the half-sheet of metal strapped across his chest.
“I’ve got one too.” The half-eared Ork looked at him, his expression making his opinion obvious.
“Iron shells ain’t da important part.
I heard Gragoth gives something else to da fightiest Boyz under him.” Every Ork immediately focused on him.
The circle of tusks and red eyes around the fire turned his way at once.
Even the Ork chewing roasted leg meat stopped, holding the meat in his mouth as he waited.
“What?” The half-eared Ork lowered his voice and leaned closer toward the fire, as though afraid someone outside the warehouse might overhear.
“Green-seed!” “What’s green?” “Green-seed!” “What kinda green seed?” “How should I know?!” The half-eared Ork grew irritated and slammed the iron poker against the ground.
“It’s some kinda seed!
I heard Gragoth sticks that stuff inside da hundred fightiest Boyz under him, and then they all get bigger and greener!” He pointed toward a leader nearby who was noticeably taller than the others.
“I heard some of ’em are already almost as tall as a Boss.” The leader hadn’t spoken yet.
He sat in the darkest spot opposite the fire, his body nearly twice as broad as the other Orks.
An old scar ran diagonally from his forehead to his chin, while an extra layer of iron plating had been welded onto his right pauldron.
He stared into the fire and finked for a while.
The flames flickered in his one good eye.
“How many Boyz does Gragoth have now?” the leader asked.
“Loads,” said the half-eared Ork.
“How many?” “Dunno.
But Blackfang’s with him, Blastfurnace is with him, and I heard loads more Boyz have been going over there these past few days.” “Oh, right.” Another Ork suddenly remembered something and pulled the roasted leg meat out of his mouth.
“I heard Gragoth’s been taking Boyz around fighting every day lately.
He fights whoever he sees.” The fire crackled twice.
A tyre burned down to charcoal rolled out of the pile and smoked white for a while before going out.
The leader suddenly stood up.
“Boss?” The leader picked up the choppa lying on the ground, rubbed the blade twice against his trouser leg, then shoved it behind his waist.
“Stop cooking.
Pack your stuff.” The dozen or so Orks looked at one another.
The half-eared Ork asked, “What for?” The leader kicked over an iron bucket filled with parts, scattering them across the floor with a clatter.
“We’re going to find Gragoth.” He patted the old scar on his chest.
“I want that green-seed too.” ————————————————————
It really helps the fic grow!