It’s time for a mid-week visit to the Warhammer 40,000 universe with some Ork-themed fan-fic.
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Monolithic storm fronts were common on the planet of Mariner’s Pity. The world was close to the system’s star, and the weather systems were in a state of permanent agitation from the ionising solar winds. Granite clouds hung low over the steaming jungles, lashing the swaying trees with driving rain. The air was close and humid, the vegetation was twisted and impenetrable in places, but, worse still, the jungles were teeming with Orks.
Og Throatchoppa was laying on a small ridge at the edge of the jungle, overlooking a ramshackle town that, until a few days ago, he had ruled with an iron fist. But now it was bustling with human soldiers. Once, more years ago than the Warboss could count, this world had belong to the pink-skins, and now it seemed they wanted it back. Hastily erected flood-lamps lit the buildings as the ‘Umies worked through the night to turn the Ork settlement into a forward operating base, stacking supplies and rebuilding defences. The invaders had cleared the jungle away from the outskirts of the town, leaving open ground approximately equal to the effective range of an Ork shoota, forcing Og to perform his reconnoitre from a distance.
Dat was kunnin’ of ‘em, mused the Warboss as he thoughtfully chewed his cigar, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other. The massive greenskin lay in the long grass, crude night vision lenses held in from of his beady eyes and his soaking uniform plastered to his skin by the endless deluge. In the distance, humans patrolled on the partially burnt walls of his town. Og thought the green hue of night vision made the Imperial invaders look like pale, lanky grots.
“Look at dem ‘Umies down der,” said Og to no-one in particular, “sat on our stuff like a squig on a turd.”
There were mutterings of assent from his entourage. A huge number of Orks crammed into the undergrowth with him; officers, advisors, meks, doks, kommandos, drinking buddies, hangers-on, grots, food sellers, squigs. It would perhaps have looked comical under other circumstances, if there weren’t there to plan a slaughter.
“What do yoo fink?” said Og, passing the night lenses to Wazzdakka. The Big Mek took the lenses and watched their former home for a few seconds.
“Yer, dey’s ‘Umies alright, boss,” replied the Orky engineer.
“I know dat,” grunted Og, cuffing Wazdakka round the ear and snatching back the night lenses, “I meant can we take dem?”
“I’d say so, boss,” muttered Wazdakka, rubbing his sore ear.
“We need our stuff back,” someone grumbled from elsewhere in the bush.
“Dat’s right, all me delikate fine adjustment toolz are still in me hut,” complained Mek Gunzog, patting the empty spot on his belt where his number 5 lump-hammer normally hung, “I can’t fix anything ‘til we get dem back.”
“Alright alright, quit yer whining,” muttered Og, “we attack at dawn. Den we’ll have our stuff back, and we’ll have all der stuff as well!”
The warboss crawled out from the grass, wet vegetation slapping against his face. The scouting mission now over, the rest of his entourage pulled themselves out of the undergrowth, tripping over each other and slipping in the mud as they followed their boss back down the hill. The remainder of the warband were crowded in the shadows beneath the jungle trees, a discontented wall of shifting muscle and angry eyes, waiting for the order to attack.
“Right yoo lot,” said Og, raising his voice to be heard over the storm, “as soon as it’s light, weez gonna attack da ‘Umies and get our hutz back!”
There were a few cheers from the crowd, but most of the Orks looked pretty fed-up with having to be outside in the storm. Og knew a brewing mutiny when he saw one and decided it was time for some inspiring words. Or, failing that, a couple of inspiring skull crackings.
“Now I’ve ‘eard some of yo gitz sayin’ dat we shouldn’t have run away when da ‘Umies attacked in da first place,” continued Og, “but it was unfair of dem to drop out of the sky like dat when we weren’t ready. It ain’t a proper battle if yer don’t know yer fightin’ one! So as it weren’t a proper battle it meanz we didn’t lose by runnin’ away, see?”
There were some enthusiastic murmurs and nods of assent, but not all the greenskins looked convinced.
“Now, are we gonna stand fer ‘Umies comin’ down ‘ere and takin’ our jobs?” demanded Og. He was meant by a sea of blank faces.
“What jobs, boss?” someone piped up from the back.
“Fightin’ and killin’ all da other Orks on dis planet! Dat’s our job!” roared Og.
Resounding cheers this time, and some random weapon fire that the Warboss hoped was drowned out by the noise of the storm.
“Right, come on den, da sun is nearly up, time to get to it while da ‘Umies are still gettin’ der fort ready! They’ll never see us comin’! WAAAAAGH!” bellowed Og.
“WAAAAGH!” the boyz echoed.
The Orks set off at a jog through the trees and up the ridge, towards the town. In the distance the storm clouds were beginning to clear and the horizon was lit with a pre-dawn pink.
“‘Ere, boss,” said Mek Gunzog, coming up alongside Og as they ran, “why are we attacking if da ‘Umies ain’t ready for us? I thought you said it weren’t a proper battle if yer enemy doesn’t know they’re fightin’?”
“Nah,” replied Og, “I meant it ain’t a proper battle if da Orks ain’t ready, as we’re da best fighters. If we’re not fightin’ then it ain’t a fight. Stands ta reason, don’t it?”
“Oh, ok boss,” nodded Gunzog, apparently seeing the Warboss’ wisdom.
Og Throatchoppa hoped to Gork and Mork that would be the last time he was questioned today; he was much more in the mood for bashin’ ‘Umies round the head than Orks.
Chris Buxey 