The Orks were starting to react.
“Da fightiest?” “How big are da guns?” “How thick is da armour?” “Fightier than da Boss—than da Primarch?” Gragoth glanced at the Ork who had asked.
“A Primarch commands Astartes.
Who do you fink is fightier?” The Ork shrank back and stopped talking.
One-Eye squeezed forward and looked up.
“What do Astartes do every day?” Gragoth thought for a moment.
“Fight every day.” One-Eye’s expression changed instantly.
His mouth split into a grin, tusks showing, while firelight reflected off the metal plate over his left eye.
“Every day?” “Every day.” “Who do they fight?” “Da strongest enemies in da galaxy.” One-Eye jumped in place, his iron armour clanging.
“I’m joining!” The Ork beside him shouted as well, “Me too!” “I’ve always been an Astartes!” “You didn’t even know that word just now!” “I know it now!
I fink I always was!” The Orks immediately started arguing.
More than a dozen burly greenskins shoved each other around, their iron armour clanging together.
One of them was pushed back two steps and crashed into another Ork who was squatting nearby digging through scrap metal.
Both fell over, scrambled back to their feet, and immediately started grabbing each other by the collar.
Gragoth watched the scene, the corner of his mouth twitching.
He raised his voice.
“Shut up!” The Orks stopped and turned to look at him.
“Not just anyone can become an Astartes.” Gragoth said, “You gotta be an official warrior of da Primarch.
You gotta fight for da Primarch, follow da Primarch’s orders, wear Astartes armour, and carry Astartes guns.” He paused and looked around.
“Do you want to be Astartes?” One-Eye was the first to answer.
“Yeah!” Then came the young Ork from before.
“I wanna be one!” More joined in.
Within seconds, the entire camp erupted.
“Me!” “Me!” “Me too!” Gragoth raised both hands and pressed them downward.
The Orks quieted, but it was obvious they were barely holding themselves back.
Tusks poked through their lips, and their hands and feet kept fidgeting restlessly.
“Good.” Gragoth said, “From today onward, all official warriors of da Primarch’s Legion are battle-brothers.
You are Astartes.” He took a deep breath, then said the words.
“I fink you should all be Astartes.” The string deep within his chest vibrated violently.
He could clearly feel dozens, even hundreds, of faint currents of power emerging from the Orks around him, flowing into the string within his chest before rebounding outward and spreading evenly through every Ork who had been called an “Astartes.” One-Eye reacted first.
He looked down at his hands, spread his fingers, clenched them again, then looked up at Gragoth.
“Primarch,” One-Eye said.
“I feel…
a bit different.” “Different how?” “Can’t really say.” One-Eye clenched his fist again.
“Just feel stronger.” The hammer-carrying Ork beside him also looked down at his arm.
The muscles of his already thick upper arm seemed to have swollen slightly, making the sleeve of his iron armour fit tighter.
The young Ork touched his shoulder.
“I feel…
bigger too?” “You ain’t bigger.” The Ork beside him smacked the back of his head.
“But you look more lively.” “What does that mean?” “Means you look fightier than before.” “Really?” “I fink so.” The Orks looked each other over, shoved one another around, and slapped each other’s shoulders and chests.
Although the changes in each of them were slight, they could all feel that subtle strengthening.
Their skin was tighter, their muscles harder, and a faint warmth had appeared within their bodies.
Gragoth stood where he was, feeling the string continue to vibrate.
He could clearly distinguish how many Orks were accepting the identity of “Astartes.” The stronger their identification with it, the more obvious the power flowing back to him became.
One-Eye was the most convinced.
The others varied, but at the very least, they were all accepting it.
Gragoth looked down at his hands.
The changes in his own body were obvious as well.
A small portion of the power flowing back from the Orks had entered his body too.
His muscles were subtly adjusting to their new state, his joints had become more flexible, and his viewpoint had risen just a little higher again.
He raised his head and looked around the camp.
From the original owner’s memories, he knew that after the last major battle, he only had around seventy or eighty Orks left under his command.
If all of them accepted the identity of “Astartes,” and their numbers eventually rose to hundreds, thousands, or even more, what would happen when the tiny amount of power from each of them gathered together?
After the shouting gradually died down, a voice came from the back of the crowd.
“Primarch.” Gragoth looked toward the voice.
It was a young Ork Boy wearing battered iron armour.
Only half of his shoulder plate remained, tied to his upper arm with several lengths of wire.
The young Ork looked down at the metal plate on his chest, then back up at Gragoth.
“Astartes wear this?” Gragoth followed his gaze and looked around.
The dozens of “Astartes” were covered in all kinds of iron armour and metal plates.
Some pieces could still be recognized as armour plating from human vehicles, while others had breastplates welded together from discarded pipes.
He looked around the entire camp.
Scrap heaps.
Old vehicle shells.
Scattered metal pipes.
Welding torches and hammers.
And not far away, a war machine that had already been half dismantled.
Right.
Astartes wore power armour!
Gragoth’s gaze shifted toward an even more cluttered area on the northern side of the camp.
More mechanical parts and half-finished weapons were piled there.
Wrenches and welding torches of all sizes lay scattered across the ground, while several Orks who were broad but not among the tallest were hammering away at various things.
Gragoth stared at the area for several seconds, then turned to One-Eye.
“Take me to da best Mek around here.” One-Eye froze.
“You mean Big Rivet?” “Yeah.” “What do you want him for?” Gragoth started walking toward the northern side of the camp.
“To make power armour.”
It really helps the fic grow!