Three days later, Gragoth was busy telling the Boyz things like, “We’re da Eleventh Legion…” and “Boyz who do well can become Company Captains,” when One-Eye suddenly came over and told him that Big Rivet had finished the power armour.
When One-Eye brought Gragoth to the northern scrapyard, he could already see the thing standing beside a war vehicle from a distance.
The metal structure stood nearly four metres tall and more than two metres wide at the shoulders.
Its overall colour was a mixture of dark green and deep grey, and its surface was covered in densely welded additional armour plates.
A single curved steel plate protruded across the chest.
The pauldrons were nearly three times larger than those on ordinary Ork iron armour, looking as though two vehicle wheel hubs had been flattened and welded into place.
Four thick exhaust pipes extended from the power pack on its back, their ends curving upward.
More than a dozen thick cables hung from the waist, their ends secured to the outside of the thigh armour with metal clasps.
A telescoping hydraulic piston had been added to the left forearm, while a row of riveted attachment points had been welded above the right forearm.
Big Rivet stood beside the armour, his face covered in grease, his goggles hanging around his neck, while sparks hissed from the hydraulic claw on his left arm.
“Primarch!
Da power armour’s done!” Big Rivet said.
Gragoth stood in front of the armour and looked up at it.
Honestly, it didn’t resemble any pattern of Astartes power armour he remembered.
Judging by its appearance, it looked more like a mobile boiler room that someone could wear.
Every component had been built according to the principles of “make it as thick as possible, as big as possible, and as strong as possible,” with absolutely no concept of ergonomics.
“Wait, this thing is power armour?” Gragoth asked.
“Course it is!” Big Rivet slapped the breastplate, producing a dull metallic clang.
“I guarantee it’s strong and tough.” Gragoth walked around the armour once.
The four exhaust pipes on its back were giving off faint white smoke, while a quiet humming came from the power pack, as though some kind of engine was idling inside.
“What are da four pipes on da back for?” Gragoth asked.
Big Rivet followed his gaze.
“Looks powerful.” “Do they do anything?” “They make smoke.” Big Rivet pointed at the white smoke coming from the pipes.
“More smoke means more power.” Gragoth stared at the smoke.
Well, there certainly was plenty of it.
“How do I put this thing on?” he asked.
Big Rivet pointed toward the back of the armour.
A vertical seam ran down the middle of the rear plating, with six metal clasps fitted along its edges.
“Open it from da back, climb in, then lock it shut,” Big Rivet said.
“I made da back plate movable on purpose.” Gragoth walked behind the armour and pulled the clasps open.
The rear armour plates sprang outward, revealing the space inside.
A rough humanoid cavity had been cut into the interior, with several raised metal supports welded around its edges.
Gragoth turned sideways and squeezed into the cavity, pressed his back against the inside of the armour, slid both arms into the armoured sleeves, and inserted his legs into the greaves.
The clasps snapped back automatically.
The rear plates closed with a clang and locked into place.
Darkness lasted for a second before the display inside the helmet lit up.
A crude metal mesh viewport had been fitted into the faceplate, with two crossed iron bars welded over it for protection.
He raised his right arm.
The armoured sleeve moved with him.
The movement was stiff, and there was still friction in the joints, but at least it could rise and lower normally.
He stepped forward with his right leg.
The leg armour creaked, but the joint bent smoothly.
Gragoth straightened inside the armour.
His viewpoint was now much higher than usual, close to four metres above the ground.
He turned toward the scrap-metal wall in the middle of the camp that they used to test weapons.
It had been welded together from several discarded armour plates, stacked three layers thick and measuring more than ten centimetres in total.
In the past, an ordinary Ork swinging a heavy hammer could only leave a shallow dent in it.
“Clear out,” Gragoth said.
All the surrounding Orks backed away.
Gragoth raised his right arm.
The hydraulic system in the arm joint let out a heavy hiss as he clenched the gauntlet, making the riveted attachment points on it protrude.
He pulled his right fist back to his waist, then drove it into the metal wall.
The instant his fist struck the plate, the entire camp heard the thunderous impact.
The metal wall caved inward from the centre.
All three armour layers bent at once, and the welded joints burst apart under the tremendous force.
A collapsed hole appeared in the middle of the wall, with cracks spreading outward from its edges.
The Orks collectively fell silent for one second.
“He smashed through it!” “Da Primarch punched through da wall!” Gragoth pulled his right fist back.
A dent had appeared on the surface of the gauntlet, but the overall structure remained intact.
He looked down at his gauntlet, then at the shattered metal wall.
Big Rivet stared up at Gragoth, his mouth stretched into the widest possible grin, every tusk exposed.
“Power armour!” Big Rivet shouted.
“Power armour!” the surrounding Orks shouted with him.
Gragoth stood inside the crude suit of armour, about to say something, when the sound of an engine suddenly came from outside the camp.
One-Eye reacted first, turning and sprinting toward the camp gate.
He peered through a gap in the welded iron doors, then quickly ran back.
“Primarch.” One-Eye’s expression had changed.
“There’s a vehicle outside.” “Whose?” One-Eye glanced at Gragoth and lowered his voice.
“Looks like Blackfang’s Boyz.” Before Gragoth could react, the camp’s iron gate was rammed open.
A modified off-road vehicle charged into the clearing at the front of the camp.
Thick ochre stripes had been painted across its body.
A one-armed Ork sat in the driver’s seat, while another Ork stood in the passenger position holding an iron megaphone.
The Ork with the megaphone jumped down from the vehicle and looked around at the Orks in the camp.
His gaze finally settled on Gragoth in his power armour.
He raised the iron megaphone and shouted to all the Orks in the middle of the camp.
“Boss Blackfang says Gragoth got into one fight, then started callin’ himself some Primarch-Astartes thing.
His head’s obviously busted, so he oughta hand over his territory.” The camp instantly fell silent.
He lowered the megaphone, bared his tusks in a grin, and waited for Gragoth’s response.
It really helps the fic grow!