The Warforge Miniature Modelling and Conversion

Da Historee ‘Uv Zanzag Barga

Skwadron Kommanda Zanzag Barga stepped from the hangar into the outside air of the makeshift tarmac. He took a final drag on his squigar, letting the pungent smoke fill his lungs before plucking the smoldering creature from his surly jaw and dropping it to the ground, careful to step on it with a satisfying squish before it could roll away. As smoke poured from his nostrils, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth - the skies of this planet got darker every day as Waaaghboss Gargrim's relentless campaign churned across it, burning and destroying everything in their path. With one last tug on his gloves to make sure they were on snugly, Zanzag began the walk to his fighta-bomma, Da 'Eadsploda.

As he neared the craft, the other fighta-bomma pilots nearby became aware of his presence, and snapped to an entirely un-orky salute. Zanzag releived them with a nod, and continued walking towards his bomma, as a diminutive gretchin approached with a map. "Ya gotz da planz wot I asked 'fer, Raydar?", inquired Zanzag, taking the piece of parchment from the grot without waiting for an answer. Scrawled over imperial litanies and praises to the emperor in what appeared to be blood was a crudely-drawn overhead sketch of the surrounding area. Zanzag squinted, trying to glean any useful information from the tattered rag. Without warning, he wheeled on the grot.

"'An yoo'z sure dat 'dis time ya didn't jus' make da map up, yerh?", Zanzag asked, watching the grot's reaction closely. Raydar began to visibly shake, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"Course not, boss! I... I toldz ya dat las' time wuz jus' a mistake, won't 'appen again!" Zanzag let out a low chortle at the grot's distress, turning back to his bomma.

"Ya best 'ope it doesn't, ya runt, or I'll see dat ya get strapped to a bomb when I getz back," Zanzag threatened over his shoulder as he walked away.

As he climbed into the cockpit of his bomma, Zanzag called out. "'ey, Fodda, you in 'ere yet?" From behind the pilot's seat, a gretchin head peeked out. "I'z 'ere, boss. S'all set up like ya said ya wanted - da meks put on more dakka on yer gunz, but 'dey sed 'dey 'ad to cut back on da bommz so'z it'd fly proppa." Zanzag frowned, but shrugged it off a moment later. "I'll 'ave Booma take a look at it 'an see if he can't fix 'dat. Let'z get in da sky 'fer now." Fodda simply nodded and pulled down a pair of goggles over his face, returning to his tiny seat behind the pilot's chair. As Zanzag began to flip the switches, the monstrous ork plane chugged to life, coughing up all manners of ugly smoke and flames from it's twin engines. Zanzag beat the control panel with a wrench, and after a moment or two the bomma settled down into an uneven rumble.

Zanzag picked up his raydee-o and pressed the button, talking into the scrap-made transmitter. "'Dis iz da 'Edsploda, callin' in. Sound off like you'z a proppa ork!" A moment later, a chorus of replies came back over the static-garbled box.

"Big Berfa 'ere, I'z good ta go!"
"Red Meenz Ded. I 'fink me bomma'z not on fire anymore, so I'z reddy."
"Da Led Sled, standin' by."
"Mork's Revenge iz-"

The last fighta bommer'z reply was cut short as one of its wheel struts gave out under the weight of its bombs, and the plane folded in on itself. The engine promptly exploded, and many of the orky weapons strapped to the aircraft detonated. Moments later, the raucous laughter of the other pilots filled the airwaves, and even Zanzag howled in approval in his cockpit at the sudden fireworks display. As meks and grot orderlies alike rushed to the wreckage to pick over it for parts, Zanzag gave the command. "To da skiez, ladz!"

Funneling out enough smoke and flames to rival their exploded companion, the fighta-bommaz lurched down the abandoned superhighway that formed their airstrip. The planes painfully came free from the ground as metal parts groaned and strained against the pull of gravity, and seconds later the Dakka Skwadron was airborn.

---

Princeps Gahm Kriken sat at the helm of the Reaver titan, surrounded in the cavernous bridge of the god-machine by his subordinates. His frail body rested upon the chair in the center of the chamber, bathed in the glow of hundreds of displays, each one monitoring a thousand more systems. The moderati were buzzing with activity, but Kriken had no interest in their affairs - his was a purely meditative state, as he gathered his focus and control for that moment when he would interface with the titan and deliver the will of the Omnissiah upon the Emperor's foes. He craved the moment when he would be able to assert his power over the giant machine.

His concentration was interrupted by the address of one of the moderati. "Princeps Kriken", began the moderatus, waiting until he was sure he had his Lord's attention. "The ork hordes rapidly approach, and we have just received final authorization from Legio Destructor for the Moirae Infernus to deploy. Shall we commence the mind-link?" Kriken glared at the man in a manner that would have sent the most staunch Commissar fleeing, though the Moderatus was unphased. "The Legio's authorization is nothing more than a formality; we deploy when I say we deploy," Kriken growled in reply, running his eyes over the databanks surrounding him. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Still, it is time. The xenos have become too much of an irritant to go unchecked. Begin the link."

The moderatus' many-fingered machine hands danced across the control panels, and Kriken felt the comforting sensation of the mind-link cables pressing into the back of his skull. In the background, vaguely distant to his ears, he heard the countdown of the moderati:

"Mind link in four... three... two..."

Kriken closed his eyes and became a god.

---

Colonel Hector Penny and Lieutenant Eli Zane stood atop a cliff, surveying the vast swaths of armor and infantry stretching out before them. The colonel stared grimly at the horizon, knowing that just beyond it waited an ork Waaagh! of monumental scale. Colonel Penny had been engaged with these foul monsters for almost three months now. In that time, he had seen his front pushed farther and farther back, and he was rapidly running out of room to maneuver. He had placed an emergency request for the Legio Destructor's assistance in the campaign, and they had responded admirably. Penny wondered to himself if the Legio's hasty answer of assistance was due to the proximity of this planet to other Forgeworlds in the sector, but dismissed the thought a moment later, returning his attention to the battle to come. As it was, a response time of nearly a month was breakneck speed by imperial standards, and he was grateful for any support.

At his side, Lieutenant Zane was checking the ready status of the varying platoons arranged in the valley down below over the Vox-caster. A moment later, he rose from his kneeling position next to the heavy machine, and addressed Colonel Penny with a salute. "Sir, I have just been given word that the Moirae Infernus has deployed."

Colonel Penny's grim demeanor evaporated at the news, a grin breaking out on his face. "Then the day is ours, Zane. Ready the men; we march in an hour."

The colonel produced a cigar from his greatcoat, lighting it in preemptive celebration.

---

Hurtling across the smoke-filled horizon, the fighta bommerz raced one another, jockeying for position to be first to drop their deadly payload on the unsuspecting 'umies below. Zanzag pushed his throttle all the way forward and easily assumed the head of the pack. He called back to his grot assistant.

"Oy, Fodda, we'z almost ova da target! Get reddy ta drop da bommz!" Without wasting a second, Fodda crawled into the hole next to his tiny seat, and wiggled his way down through the plane's hull into the cargo bay. He assumed his usual position above the payload hatch and called into the speaking tube

"Say da wurd, Boss!"

Zanzag squinted through the targeting reticle on his dashboard, even though it clearly was not pointing at any discernible target. After a moment's pause, he bellowed.

"Now, ya runt! Show 'em wot 'fer!" Fodda beamed an awful sneer across his face as he hit the big red button above the bombs.

Fodda's smile quickly evaporated when the bomber bay hatch doors sparked and failed to open. The bombs clanked against the hatch, but were not able to begin their deadly plummet. Fodda quickly began to panic, jumping up and down on the bay doors to try and make them come free. From the speaking-tube, he could hear the angry bellowing of Zanzag in the cockpit.

"OI, WEN I TELLZ YA TA 'LET DA BOMMZ GO, YA LET DA BOMMZ GO, YA MANGY RUNT! WOT'S GOIN' ON IN 'DERE?"

Fodda scrambled back to the tubes, replying in terrified tones. "The bomb doorz - dey ain't wurkin', boss!"

Zanzag snarled over the tubes before issuing his next command. "Fine. We'll krump 'em all da same. Get yerself in da turret, Fodda."

As the grot navigated his way through a tight tunnel in the Fighta Bomma's hull towards the ball-mounted dakkaguns, Zanzag caught a glimpse of the other fighta-bommerz deploying their explosive payloads. Over the raydee-o, he heard some garbled taunting from his fellow pilots.

"Sumfing wrong, Boss? Fink maybe ya should have da Mekz check da weldz on yer bomb doorz when ya get back! Grahahaha!" Zanzag's frustration peaked as he grabbed the transmitter and began to bellow.

"JUS' YA WAIT 'TILL WE'Z ON DE GROUND, I'LL FIND WHICHEVA UV YA RUNTZ ZOGGED UP ME BOMMA AN' TEAR YA LIMB FROM LIMB!"

Zanzag smashed the transmitter back down onto the dashboard, and yelled into the speaking tubes. "Fodda, give da 'umies some 'uv da dakka!" Without waiting for a reply, Zanzag sent the bommer into a roll, turning it upside-down so that the ball-mounted turret on the top had a clear line of fire to the imperial guard arranged below. The sound of the guns firing was deafening, even over the roar of the Bommer'z engines, and Fodda began to unload high-caliber machine gun fire onto the 'umies below. Both the pilot and the gunner broke into a sadistic guffaw.

---

The crude ork aircraft had arrived as though from nowhere, but Colonel Penny remained unphased as his lines received strafing fire and the occasional bomb. Lieutenant Zane's vox was accosted with dozens of simultaneous squad status reports. "Sir," began Zane, addressing his commander, "We've reports of at least four squads taking casualties already!" Penny simply shook his head, the cigar still smoldering at his lips as he responded. "These fething planes. How do they even stay in the air?"

Both men watched as one of the Hydra Flak Tanks clouded the air with fire. Seconds later, where an ork fighter had been, there was a huge ball of flame... and then, nothing.

"Tell the men that-," Penny began, interrupted by the movement of the very earth beneath his feet. He turned to look at the source and his gaze was met with the towering profile of a Warlord Titan, the Infernus. Next to him, Zane's vox-caster ceased crackling, as all channels went blessedly quiet; the entirety of the Imperial Guard was stunned to silence at the sight of the god-machine's approach.

Regaining his composure a full moment later, Penny continued, "... tell them that this day, we begin our march toward victory."

---

Zanzag righted his plane above the raging battle, having come perilously close to the ground in his last strafing run. As he gained altitude, he was afforded a view of the clashing armies below. Even from this height, Waaaghboss Gargrim was still visible thanks to his monstrous size, and Zanzag's face bore a manic glee as he watched explosion after explosion surround the giant ork's form. His attention was suddenly diverted by an enormous beam of energy sailing just beneath his wing and crashing into a line of greenskin armor, triggering a chain of explosions. Zanzag followed the energy beam's line back to the source, and his eyes widened as he got his first look of the giant Warlord Titan. "Zoggin' 'ell, will ya look at da size 'uv dat fing! I bet Booma'z loozin' 'iz mind down 'dere."

Without a moment's hesitation, Zanzag broke off his strafing runs and began to veer towards the Titan. Da 'Eadsploda closed the distance rapidly, and Zanzag began to circle the giant warmachine, giving Fodda a clear line of fire with the turrets. The barrels of the aircraft's guns glowed white-hot as they spat round after round towards the towering Imperial machine.

The shots flared against the Titan's void shields and were dissipated before they could even contact the surface of the warmachine's hull. Zanzag roared in frustration and wove the ungainly bommer around another gigantic beam of energy spat from the Warlord's arm-mounted weapons. The beam soared past and struck a much smaller Ork Stompa cleanly in the chest, detonating it in a fiery display.

Zanzag broke off his circling and steered away from the Titan.

---

Mind-linked to the god-machine, Kriken weilded the massive Warlord Titan like an extension of his body. As he maneuvered his way towards the battle, he received a continual barrage of information that would have twisted the mind of a lesser man. He experienced each servo, each cogitator, and each sensor bank as though they were the nerves of his own body, and felt the sensation of the ground beneath his feet as the giant warmachine strode foward. Unleashing barrages of indiscriminate fire from the titan's Volcano Cannon and Turbo Lasers, he swept killing lines of energy across the greenskin front, each blast vaporizing huge swaths of orks and contemptibly-designed armor.

Kriken perceived the giant-caliber shots of the circling aircraft as tiny, insignificant pinpricks against the indomitable strength of the Warlord's void shields. 'Such arrogance,' he thought. 'How can it possibly hope to stand against a god?' In the depths of the Princeps's mind, the titan's machine spirit raged at the audacity of such an affront, but Kriken forced mastery over his command, focused instead on annihilating the army that stood before him. Moments later, his decision was rewarded as he observed the aircraft pulling away in retreat.

The Princeps sneered in satisfaction as he continued his war.

---

"Wot now, Boss?", inquired Fodda, who had returned to his seat behind Zanzag in the cockpit. Zanzag's face was grim as he considered his options. "Da gunz ain't doin' da job, and da bommz is stuck inna bay. Ain't nuffin' else we can do 'fer now." As Zanzag finished speaking, a beam of energy arced out from the titan and carved a line of death through the orks. Zanzag watched as the killing beam swept back and caught another Fighta Bomma pilot in it's path. The plane was annihilated instantly, but for one of the engines mounted on the wing which escaped the blast and went careening through the air. The stray jet engine curved towards the titan, still operating under it's own power, and Zanzag's eyes widened as he saw it punch through the walker's Void Shields and explode on the Warlord's leg.

"Zog! Dat'z it! I know wot we'z gotta do!" Zanzag exclaimed, manic inspiration taking hold. "Buckle yerself in, Fodda, we'z gonna show dat big 'umie fing wot we'z made 'uv!"

With that, Zanzag banked the plane into a hard turn, and rounded on the titan. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes and hunched over in his seat, looking through the targeting reticule on his dashboard and lining up the titan's head in the sights. His free hand reached out and punched "Da Big Red Buttun", and the bommer surged forward at breakneck speed. Watching over Zanzag's shoulder, Fodda suddenly realized the larger ork's intent and began to scream, while Zanzag simply began to laugh.

---

Colonel Penny flexed his power fist and crushed the head of the last ork that had dared assault him. He spat on the corpse around the cigar still in his mouth, and turned to observe the rest of the still-raging battle. He was rewarded by the sight of the Infernus' guns laying waste to more of the greenskin army, nodding to the leuitenant next to him. "That, son, is how wars are won," the colonel began, his eyes picking out the bright-red shape of an ork fighter-bomber turning in the air. "There is no substitute for the application of overwhelming military force."

Penny watched the ork plane with some fascination as it suddenly belched a huge gout of fire and smoke and accelerated through the air. The colonel noticed, almost nonchalantly, that the bomber seemed to be heading right for the titan. "Fething lunatics, these or-", Penny began. The fighter-bomber suddenly lit ablaze as it came into contact with the Warlord's void shields, turning the aircraft into a fiery comet as it arced through the sky. The colonel's sentence was cut short as the aircraft punched through the shields at an entirely unreasonable speed.

The comet hit the titan cleanly in the neck, just behind the head, and the munitions trapped within its bomb bay detonated at once, rocking the Infernus with a massive explosion. The groan of twisting steel mingled with the agonized scream of the Titan's machine spirit as the head separated from the body, plummeting to the battlefield below.

Colonel Penny's mouth fell agape; his cigar dropped to his feet. The entire battle seemed to stop as Guardsmen and Orks alike tuned to see the god-machine die. With an earth-shattering rumble, the titan began to lean backwards, falling to the whim of gravity. The Moirae Infernus crashed to the ground with a world-ending smash, explosions rocking its crippled form as it fell.

After a second more of stunned silence and ceased battle, Imperial Guard began to run.

---

It was just a few hours after the ork victory that Booma stood atop the still-burning wreck of the Warlord's torso, supervising his Lootas with the 'salvage' efforts. They tore at the machine with their winches and cranes, hauling burning bits of scrap and debris out from the wreck for later use. The fires that had raged around the Warlord's head had begun to burn out, and Booma himself descended down into the cavernous hole that remained to look for "speshul bitz" to use for himself.

The Lootas that accompanied Booma rapidly tore walls and machinery down with their cutting torches and buzzsaws, hauling the pieces back to their camp. As one of the Bulkheads was torn free, a gush of blood and green issued forth, and the corpse of half an ork in a leather bomber jacket tumbled out of a red-colored wreck. Curious, Booma approached it, and kicked it over so that he could get a look at it's face.

When he did, he was greeted with one angry eye glaring up at him. Zanzag was still alive.

"Zog me, 'dis un'z still kickin' about!" Booma exclaimed in surprise. He turned to the grot oiler at his side and commanded, "Go get Mad Dok Ruzzgut, 'an tell 'em to bring da Blood-squigs. We'z got a live 'un 'ere." With a kick, Booma sent the gretchin on his way, and looked back at Zanzag's body. "So you'z da bomma wot took down da titan, eh? Well, I 'spoze I gotz ta thank ya 'fer 'elpin me get me 'andz on all da werky bitz 'ere. Don't ya worry much, we'll 'ave ya fixed up in no time." Booma grabbed Zanzag by the jacket, hefting the ork's tattered body over his shoulder and out of the wreck.

---

Zanzag spent the next six days in the confines of Ruzzgut's 'clinic'. On the seventh day, he was able to take his first awkward steps outside. Darkness still loomed in the skies above, but he found himself only able muster half a grin with the remains his face. He flexed his new bionic limbs and stole a glance downward at the mess of his abdomen, looking at the neat line where machine joined with ork. He had lost almost his entire right side, clean down the middle – payment for his kamikaze assault on the Imperial titan. However, Booma and Ruzzgut had rewarded him well for his efforts; their combined efforts resulted in a cutting-edge Cybork body that was a masterpiece of Ork technology. He was still able to wear his bomma jacket, but exhaust pipes protruded through his right sleeve, chugging thin smoke as he moved.

Zanzag lumbered toward the aircraft hanger, his heavy robotic leg clanking against the ground with each ungainly step. As he entered the hanger, the other pilots looked up in surprise at their Kommanda. "It'z da flyboss! 'E'z still kickin'!" exclaimed one before snapping to an un-orky salute. The rest followed suit, and Zanzag walked past them, towards his plane. Booma had seen to it that his subordinate meks had built a replacement for Zanzag's lost aircraft, Da 'Eadsploda II . It was nearly identical to the original 'Eadsploda, though now it bore a caricature of the Titan's head on it's tail – an homage to Zanzag's great victory. Climbing into his new cockpit, Zanzag addressed the other fighta pilots.

"It'z been too long since I'z been able ta get in da air. I'z gonna take 'dis fing out fer a spin!"

Zanzag tried to sit in the pilot's chair, but he found that he was unable; his new bionic half was far too large and awkward to be properly accomodated in the cockpit, and he had grown in size some thanks to his injuries. Spouting vulgarities, Zanzag tried to wedge himself into his seat. With considerable effort, he was eventually able to work his way down into the chair. The nose of the plane dipped dangerously – the wheel strut groaning loudly under the weight of Zanzag's heavy cybork frame. With one last squeal, the strut snapped; the nose of the bommer smashed into the ground. Zanzag bellowed in frustration, his bionic fist sending bitz in cascading arcs as he smashed his way free of the wreck.

"ZOGGIN' IMPOSSIBLE! 'OW'Z I SUPPOSED TA FLY WHEN I WEIGH AZ MUCH AS A FULL-BELLIED SQUIGGGOF!? GRAAAAAAGH!" The other pilots watched in horror; losing the ability to fly was a concept too horrible to contemplate. Zanzag continued to tear Da 'Eadsploda II into ribbons of fine scrap, bellowing his rage loud enough for the entire Waaagh! to hear.

---

Several days later, Zanzag awoke to find himself strapped to a familiar bed in Ruzzgut's clinic. It had taken almost all of the Mad Dok's squig-sleep juice to stem the Skwadron Kommanda's unbridled fury; in the end, Big Boss Gargrim himself had to come down and restrain the crazed ork, as Zanzag's new bionic parts afforded him considerable strength. In the ensuing weeks, Booma tried a number of different fighta-bommer designs, but none proved properly capable of actually lifting the weighty ork. Those that were able to take off would list and spiral to the right, offset by the immense weight of Zanzag's bionics, and none were able to accommodate the extra weight of bombs and guns. An Evil Sun at heart, Zanzag's true calling of unbridled speed seemed denied to him. In desperation, he approached Booma, asking for the bionics to be removed. The Big Mek staunchly denied the request.

"First, ya go and ya blowz up da new plane I made fer ya. Den, ya nearly wrekk 'alf uv da bommerz wot I built 'fer da uvva boyz. Now, ya wantz me ta jus' remove da nizest cybork body wot I'z eva made fer a boy? Yer mad! Sidez, if I even did, ya'd be ded az nailz inside 'uv a few minutz. We 'ad ta replace a lot 'uv partz ta keep ya kickin', ya ungrateful runt!" Despite Zanzag's desperate state, Booma was not ready to admit defeat. An idea began to form in the back of the Big Mek's mind, and he turned away from Zanzag, walking back towards his mekshop.

"I tell ya wot," Booma called over his shoulder as he walked away, "Ya come back 'ere dis time tommorrow an' I may 'ave sumfing 'fer ya." With that, Booma dissapeared behind a pile of scrap.

---

The following day, Zanzag loped into the mekshop, still unsteady on his new bionic leg. Booma, roused by the sound of the pilot's mechanical gait, looked up from his work with a massive, toothy grin playing across his face.

"I'z dun it, lad! I'z got sumfing dat shud make ya quite da 'appy ork." Booma motioned for Zanzag to follow, and proceeded toward his garage. Zanzag followed close behind; as he looked past Booma, he caught a glimpse of a shape covered in a squig-leather tarp.

"Dat dun' look big enuff ta be any fighta-bomma wot I'z eva seen, boss," Zanzag said, approaching the concealed form. Booma chortled in reply. "'Courze it doesn't, ya naff runt. Take a look, eh?."

Zanzag grabbed the tarp with his bionic hand and pulled it off the machine. As the cover fell away, the visceral shape of a massive ork warbike revealed itself. The bike was monstrously large by any measure; countless exhaust pipes stemmed from its hulking engine, and it sported the most stunning Go-Fasta Red paint-job that he had ever seen. Zanzag took a clanking step back in shock.

"Gork 'an Mork, it'z... it'z... byootiful!"

Booma's pride was evident as he began his explaination. "Since we can't get ya inna air proppa, I figya dat 'dis iz da nex' bezt 'fing, yeh? It'z got da same squigpowa' az wot yer' ol' fighta-bomma 'ad, an it'z plenny fast. I even managed ta dig up yer' ol' dakkagunz from Da 'Eadsploda and put 'em on 'ere. It'z built strong 'nuff dat it'll 'old 'yer weight an' won't constantly leen to da side while yez ridin'. "

Before Booma could finish, Zanzag had mounted the bike and applied the kickstart. With a monstrous rumble, Booma's creation shuddered to life. The rumble and volume of its exhaust was nearly identical to that of his old fighta-bommer, and the Skwadron Kommanda felt right at home astride the machine. Zanzag turned his head towards Booma, the orky half of his face split in the most massive smile he was capable of.

"I'd thank ya, Booma, but I'z too buzy! WAAAAGH!"

With the roar of a fighta-bomma, the bike accelerated and crashed through the wall of the garage, out into the Ork encampment. Through the new hole in his mekshop wall, Booma could see Zanzag rocketing off through the camp, a trail of burnt rubber chasing after the Speed Freek. The Big Mek rolled his eyes, grumbling.

"Grah! It'z like I'z neva done fixin' 'fings."

The Rise of Gargrim

The whole thing started innocuously enough - at least, as innocuous as orks can be, which is to say with a bang. The particular bang in question was that of the enormous space hulk, Da Earff Shaka, entering the atmosphere of the Imperial colony world known as Feritas Prime.

This bang was proceeded by the sound of an even larger explosion that made the first pale by comparison, a sound emitted from the hulk as it hit the surface of the planet and proceeded to dig an impossibly long impact crater across the world's main continent. Needles scribbled across the surfaces of parchment in an erratic pattern, as seismic monitors on the world heralded the landing of these interplanetary guests. As far as orks go, their craterous landing might have been called subtle, had the hulk not come to rest directly in the center of Peralius, the primary hive city on the planet.

The events that followed the crash made the landing seem tame by comparison, as orks poured from between torn armor plating and open hatches into the city. Their survival of the crash stood as a testament to the brutal resilience the xenos possessed. In a matter of hours, Peralius had been transformed from thriving hive city to burning effigy of Imperial power. The world's Planetary Defense Force was ill-prepared for the sudden and bloody arrival of the aliens: the Imperial Guard stationed on the planet quickly lost any footholds they may have held in the city, pushed back to the fringes of the hive and the harsh deserts beyond.

Gargrim "Uge" Mungus allowed a grin to bloom on his face as he planted his chainaxe into the face of an Imperial Commissar half his size, his bulk musculature giving the weapon the momentum to easily chew it's way through the man's body and come free in a bloody mist. Gargrim was a massive ork by any standard, three and a half meters tall in his usual slouching ork posture. Overcome with blood lust and satisfaction, the ork felt delinquent laughter rumbling from his gullet. The sight of the enormous, muscled ork bellowing his exuberance over their severed leader was more than the remaining Guardsmen could bear, and they promptly put the tread of their boot to the test as they turned and ran.

Gargrim watched them run in an apathetic fashion uncommon for an ork. Surely, he could chase the remaining humans down, but Gargrim had bigger things in mind and was content in the knowledge that the 'Ard Boyz he led would make a suitable and bloody mess of the runners. "'Ave at 'em, boyz!", he bellowed, as though they needed his permission. He basked in the resounding roar that answered him as the heavily armored orks surged around him, hungry for the slaughter.

Turning to look at the smoking Earff Shaka, Gargrim considered for a moment before sparing a glance at the ground around his ankles. "Oi, youz still alive, Urk?", the massive ork inquired.

The gretchin clambered out of his hiding spot beneath a large rock, running over to Gargrim. "Yes, yes, I'z comin!", the small creature intoned. It stopped only briefly to pluck the Commissar's hat from his severed body before jumping onto Gargrim. The grot began scaling the rough iron plates that adorned his hide to assume a spot on the massive Nob's shoulder.

The difference in stature was immense - Urk, considered slightly runty among grots, was not even the height of Gargrim's knees. Any other greenskin Gargrim's size would be hard-pressed bother interacting with even some smaller orks, let alone a gretchin such as Urk, but Gargrim was unusual in many ways. Many of Gargrim's green companions found this practice dubious as best due to the disposable nature of such small creatures, but none would dare give voice to such thoughts; to do so would conclude in that particular ork emerging from the Painboss weeks later with half a squig for a brain, if he survived at all. Nobody quite understood why Gargrim would choose to associate with the small, goblin-like creatures. Truth be told, even Gargrim wasn't quite sure - only that he felt reassured by the presence of the small, timid gretchin.

"'Ow many waz dat, Urk?", Gargrim rumbled towards his shoulder-mounted companion.

Urk had spent the duration of the fight hiding under the rock as was the way of such weedy creatures, but he was also smart enough to make up a number to appease Gargrim. "Dat woz... carry da tew... 'bout twenty, twenty five of dem, boss, not countin dat kommy-sar," Urk replied in his high-pitched squeal of a voice.

Gargrim nodded in a manner that might be called thoughtful were he anything but an ork. Though the larger Nob wasn't able to count much higher than about fifteen with difficulty, he was satisfied with the size. "Add dat to da total fer me, Urk", Gargrim intoned, and watched Urk pull out a piece of scrap metal from within the folds of his clothing. The gretchin began scratching marks into the surface of the already pitted metal with a rock.

Gargrim assessed the downed Hulk a moment further, chuckling to himself as a small, random explosion blew off the remnants of a wing from the impossible vehicle. "Da meks 'ave made a right proppa mess uv fings dis time. Booma'z prob-ly tearin' em all apart fer wreckin' it. I'd luv ta see 'im frothing at da gob. Let's go 'ave a look, eh?" With that, the two greenskins began the trudging walk back to the downed ship.

---

Gargrim walked into the expansive mekshop of the hulk, it's floor tilted and askew thanks to the impromptu crash landing. The distinct smell of cooked flesh wafted over him. It's source was evident: scattered around the shop between huge hulking vehicles were the ruined bodies of orks that had been brave or careless enough to intrude upon Big Mek Booma's rage. Each smoking ork corpse bore evidence to the same method of death - incredible blunt trauma with something very, very hot.

"Oi, 'Urk. You go 'an wait out dere a bit, ya zog. Booma'z in a rage 'an he'd krump ya inna-," Gargrim started to suggest before realizing the smaller gretchin had already fled from the room at the sign of danger. Gargrim began pacing around the husks of what used to be a Leman Russ Tank, working his way deeper into the shop.

As Gargrim navigated around the war machines, he felt a twinge of phantom pain in his right arm - or rather, where his old arm used to be. He flexed the dark iron forearm that remained in it's place, clenching the bionic power fists that was crafted by Booma as a replacement. Fully articulated with fingers, the fist was a masterpiece of greenskin engineering, it's hydraulic grip only letting loose the occasional spark and only sometimes leaking oil. Having Booma make the lethal replacements was only fair, thought Gargrim. Booma's rage had removed his original arms!

"'Ey, Booma! Ya still 'ere?", yelled Gargrim in the direction of Booma's workbench.

The gutteral roar of another large greenskin answered him from the side of a monstrous battlewagon as Booma brought his hammer around, connecting with a nearby ork and sending the immediately dead body flying clear across the shop. The body snagged on the tip of a spiky metal protrusion in the wall and came to rest suspended on it, hung in a grim but late warning.

"JUST LET DA ZOG WHO CRASHED DA 'ULK SHOW 'IMSELF! I'LL TURN 'IM INNA A TOY FER DA SQUIGZ TA FEAST ON!", the Big Mek bellowed over the revving sound of item he gripped with both hands. Glancing at it, Gargrim recognized the visceral shape and size of Booma's signature weapon and tool, 'Da Boomhamma'. Half Mek's tool, half power weapon, Booma's hammer had become a local orky legend among the greenskins on the hulk. Two enormously toothed gears served as the opposing heads of the mallet, with a massive engine serving as the joint between them. The gears spun at impossible speeds, glowing red-hot and crackling electricity, while an exhaust on the side chugged rough black smoke. The obscene weapon was capable of punching clean through the armor of a tank with ease, and made even shorter work of orks that tested Booma's temper.

Blind with rage, Booma hurled himself at the larger Nob, bringing the hammer back over his head to strike another fatal blow. Gargrim was prepared; he had lost his arm to the Boomhamma once before by being careless, and refused to let himself be caught unprepared again. He brought his bionic arms up to block the anticipated strike from the scorching weapon.

Mid-strike, Booma realized his error. The instant before the power weapon connected, Booma pulled the swing, digging the weapon deep into the metallic floor of the shop instead, where it whirred and coughed more smoke in protest before being switched off.

"GRAH! Wots da big idear, ya zog! Ya tryin' ta make me 'ave ta build ya anuvva set 'uv arms?" Booma glared at the larger nob a moment before wrenching his hammer free of the floor and giving it a cursory check. The Big Mek was less enraged in the presence of the large Nob, but still very clearly angry. "Ya know how I hatez ta 'ave my mekanikal werks broken. Just LOOK at wot 'az 'appened to da Earff Shaka! I'll krump da meks dat were steerin', just bring 'em 'ere!"

Gargrim frowned. "I'z pretty sure deyz dead already. Da Boss wud 'ave stomped on 'em if they survived da krash."

Booma turned in frustration. The Big Mek took great pride in all of his work, from the largest warmachines to the smallest whirring gubbins. Da Earff Shaka had been his greatest work - a hulk of enormous magnitude whose construction he oversaw, building it in the likeness of Gork. Or maybe Mork. Booma couldn't remember anymore, but it hardly mattered now that the once-great ship was a smoking mess of metal. "Dis iz gunna take fer-evah ta fix, ya know dat? All dat werk! Gone! I'z already got plenty ta do on da uvva ve-hicles without 'avin ta rebuild it!"

Gargrim wasn't really listening at this point; he was instead captivated by the huge warmachine he saw before him. The metal monstrosity loomed over them, half draped in a canvas cloth. The crash landing had upset it's covering, and the thick armor plating that was visible gleamed between rusty bolts and rivets. Somehow, amidst all of the ruin in the mekshop, this half-built warmachine had arrived impeccably undamaged.

Booma followed Gargrim's eyes to the machine and realized that it's covering had come loose in the landing. The Big Mek moved to pull the canvas back down over the parts that had been revealed. "Dis iz a top sekret projekt! Nobody seez it till I'z done!", Booma grumbled as he finished adjusting the cover. "Da force fields wot I put up saved it from 'da krash, thank Gork".

Gargrim's focus on the vehicle was broken as the last of the machine was covered. ".. er.. yeh. Right. I'z gunna go see 'ow da Boss iz makin' out, an' leave ya ta yer repairz. I 'magine by now all 'dem weedy 'umies 'round da 'Ulk are krumped by now, but maybe 'dere's some left ova," the Nob rumbled, turning to walk out of the shop. What had he just seen? he wondered.

Gargrim didn't know, but he liked it.

---

Gargrim lumbered his way through the Hulk's rusty corridors, flexing the articulated mechanical fingers on his power fists out of habit. With most of the great ship's greenskins busy creating havoc in the streets of the city, the dark iron hallways proved an easy route to navigate. Between bare plates of metal, the massive Nob could catch flashes of light from the fight below, and he felt the aching need to be off the wreck and back into the thick of things. Gargrim fought away the urge, knowing that bigger things were likely afoot in Boss Dreggog's den, and rounded down the last stretch of platform leading to the helm.

Any Imperial pilot would be loathe to call the scene Gargrim approached a helm, let alone admit any sort of intentional design to the chamber. In truth, the orks simply referred to it as such because it contained the most whirring gubbinz per square inch of the entire ship, but Warboss Dreggog had adopted the space as his own personal quarters. Located high atop the ship, it was from here that Dreggog was able to supervise the entirety of his Waaagh. Series of intricate pipes and tubes carried his always-yelled orders to corners of the ship where lesser Meks awaited direction or a stern kicking. Around the chamber, large windows and portholes allowed the Warboss and his kommand krew the chance to view the wanton destruction being wrought on the city below. A testament to Booma's engineering prowess, the room appeared relatively intact following the crash, as many of the gubbinz kept here continued their insistent clanking and ratcheting. Only one significant sign of damage - a gaping hole in one side of the chamber - was visible, and Dreggog was occupying himself with yelling at the mek attempting to patch the damage.

Warboss Dreggog was slightly smaller than the massive Gargrim, but his form was encased inside obscenely bulky Mega Armor. Waaagh! Dreggog was host to one of the largest and notorious bands of Deathskull Lootas in the entire sector - Booma'z Boyz. Reporting directly to Booma himself, these voracious scavengers would loot anything, even if it was solidly bolted down. In years prior, Dreggog had found himself frustrated with all of his 'dissapearing' prize possessions - kustom kombi-shootas, extra-choppy choppas - and the warboss had struggled to find a solution. The answer had been simple - bolt them to himself! Dreggog's Mega Armor had become a massive and unweildy collection of the boss's favored items and heavy steel plates, and the floor tended to buckle and dent beneath where he stood from the sheer weight of it. For his part, Dreggog took pride in the massive machinery bolted to his frame, and kept a constant supply of oiler grots on-hand to grease and tune the mechanical parts. This was commonly known as both an extreme privledge for the grot, and the last thing said grot would ever do; the backside of Dreggog's armor had flattened many a gretchin. In any case, the armored suit rendered the warboss near-invulnerable, and he made a point of lording it over the other greenskins with regularity.

"PATCH FASTA! WHY AIN'T WE FLYIN YET, YA ZOG?" Dreggog was bellowing as Gargrim entered the room. The Hard Boy Nob arrived just in time to see Dreggog's mega-armored boot connect with the mek with a sickening crunch, ending the greenskin's life as a mek and beginning his new career as a stain on the floor. Dreggog grinned contently to himself, satisfied with the results. The grin quickly turned to a snarl as a twisted ork voice intoned, "Er, Boss... ain't dat gunna slow down da repairz?"

As Dreggog turned to face the source of the interruption, Gargrim was able to catch a glimpse of the ship's warphead, Wurrzag Da Strange. "YOU FINK I DON'T KNOW DAT YA LOUSY RUNT!?", Dreggog bellowed at the weirdboy. Wurrzag raised his hands defensively, shying away from the Warboss and shaking his head. "Course ya did, boss, I'z just sayin'...", the weirdboy began, before Dreggog cut him off. "YER, WELL, DON'T! LAST TIME YA SAID SOMEFING YA ENDED UP CRASHIN' DA ZOGGIN 'ULK!" Wurrzag nodded solemnly, his face unreadable behind the crude wooden mask he wore. Still, the fire burning from eyes showed clear irritation with the Warboss and his antics.

Looking at Wurrzag always made Gargrim uneasy. His gut told him there was more wrong with the warphead than just his glowing eyes. Clothed in tattered robes and a variety of looted Imperial trinkets and ornaments, the weirdboy was much smaller than Gargrim or Dreggog. Wurrzag was both the ship's navigator and Dreggog's primary 'tactical' advisor, though the tactics often simply involved putting a choppa through whatever's in the way. Despite this, Gargrim got the feeling that the weirdboy was always planning something sinister and terribly unorky.

Gargrim's metal-shod boots came to a halt as he announced his presence to the distracted greenskins. "Oi, Wurrzag, ya best consider hidin' 'till Booma cools off if da crash wuz yer doin', 'e's in a proppa rage in da garage and 'e's out fer blood." Wurrzag's eyes flared bright and bled energy from the corners as the weirdboy's temper flared. "I ain't hidin' like no mangy grot! If Booma'z got a problem wif me, let 'em come 'ere and do-", Wurrzag began before being shoved out of the way by one of Dreggog's mega armored fists. "SHUT YER TRAP, YA GIT. GARGRIM, YA BRING ME ANYFING GOOD FROM DA FIGHTIN'?" Gargrim's eyes went wide as he realized he had forgotten to bring the Warboss a trophy from the battle for his suit, and his mind started racing for an excuse.

"Er, ya see, boss...", Gargrim stumbled for a moment before remembering Dreggog's love of hats. "I grabbed a hat offa one a 'dem Kommy-sars before, but I 'fink Urk ran off wif it. Speakin' uv Urk, I wonder where da runt ran off ta..." Dreggog didn't leave Gargrim time to ponder, lumbering toward the Nob with fire in his eyes. "WOT DID I TELLS YA 'BOUT COMIN' BACK WIFOUT SOMEFIN' FER ME SUIT, YA GIT!", the Warboss bellowed, gnashing the scissoring teeth on his power klaw in frustration. " 'PARRENTLY YA NEEDS TA HAVE A LESSON TAUGHT TO YA!"

Gargrim knew the look in Dreggog's eyes; this would not end without a fight. Gargrim raised his massive metal arms, ready to scrap, but while he prepared for the brawl he found himself wondering...

Where the hell was Urk?

---

Deep in the belly of the Earff Shaka's Mek Garage, Urk trod with the sneakiest care he could manage. Urk had seen Booma and his revving hammer flatten too may orks in the past to consider exposing himself, and the Big Mek was in a particularly foul mood. Fortuately, the tiny gretchin was nigh-undetectable among the warmachines that abounded in the space hulk's holds.

The Mek's Garage was expansive, home to the Big Mek's half-completed projects and giant piles of scrap and junk. Booma'z Boyz were some of the most voracious lootas in the galaxy, and Booma had amassed a startlingly impresive collection of parts over the years. Many of these parts were banged and bolted into various forms and shapes that filled the garage from wall to massive wall. It seemed a shame to Urk that so many impressive, oily machines were left half-completed, but the tiny gretchin knew that while Booma tended to be impulsive, the machines he did finish were superior. It had become the duty of the lesser meks on the hulk to attempt to animate the Big Mek's incomplete projects, though many were so bewilderingly complex that only Booma himself seemed capable of the job.

Urk found himself captivated by the sight at a small, compact armored walker near one of the garage's outer walls and approached it for a better look. The unmanned Killa Kan stared back at the tiny gretchin ominously, its ugly armored features fixed in a permanent and orky grimace. A giant wrecking ball hung from the single, attached arm - though incomplete, the Kan still looked enormously dangerous. The obviously incomplete walker stood balanced against the base of a ramp with some sort of crude rocket-propelled bomb propping it up.

Urk sighed longingly as he surveyed the walker. It was the dream of every Gretchin to get a Kan of their own - sealed inside it's rough armor plating, even the tiniest grot would become a capable fighter. Unfortunately for Urk and many other gretchin on the Hulk, Booma's work never came cheap. Urk had been scrounging teeth together from Gargrim's kills where he could, but 'umie teeth were tiny and as such not worth much in the Orky economy. It would be much longer before Urk had anywhere near the amount he would need to buy a Kan of his own.

"It'z a shame dat Booma leaves dis sorta 'fing just lyin' round... but den again, I'z 'spose dat nobody'd mind if I take a closa look..." Urk stared up at the top hatch of the Kan, considering his options. Though Booma would surely hammer the grot into next week for trying it, Urk couldn't help but succumb to the urge to climb into the armored walker. Urk circled around to the back and grabbed onto the bomb that the Kan leaned on, starting to climb up to the top. As he scrabbled for a foothold, he felt something give underneath his feet, and heard a quick, sharp beeping noise.

Urk looked down in horror to see that in the process of climbing up onto the bomb, he had placed an unlucky foot upon a large, red button built into the weapon. A red light began blinking in rapid succession as the rocket began to light up and spark. Urk realized a few seconds too late that he had just accidentally activated and armed a grot bomb. The gretchin tried to dismount the weapon and run, but he found his pants leg had snagged upon one of the jagged fins of the bomb.

A second later, the grot bomb ignited, spewing gouts of flame out the rear nozzle. After a creaking start it rocketed up the rusty ramp it had been lying upon and out an opening that had been cut into the wall, dragging a screaming Urk along with it. The grot bomb careened off into the planet's ugly sky, spiralling uncontrollably without a pilot steering.

Urk knew he was doomed.

---

The impact was massive, and Gargrim's metal fists groaned under the stress of guarding against Dreggog's ungainly power klaw. Still, Booma'z handiwork held together, and the Nob was able to break loose from under the Warboss's assault. Dreggog toppled backward a few steps before righting himself, the massive bulk of his mega armor proving a hindrance to his mobility. Gargrim's hands flew to his back, grasping the chainaxe that was slung across it. Gargrim brought the huge weapon around and without even starting the blades began to hammer upon the Warboss's mega armored outline.

Though the Nob's rapid and blunt strikes were enough to slough a layer of crude iron plates from the armor, Dreggog himself weathered the assault completely unharmed. Through the suit's enhanced voicebox he cackled harshly. "YER GONNA 'AVE TA DO BETTER 'DEN DAT IF YA WANTS TA HURT ME, YA RUNT!", the warboss laughed. Gargrim backed up a few steps before thumbing the ignition switch on his chainaxe. With a sputter and cough of black smoke from the exhaust, the weapon came to life in his hands, crude metal teeth spinning at impossible speeds. "I'z not even started yet, ya giant pile of squig dung!", Gargrim roared back.

Though the clash of the titans was a life-and-death affair, both orks involved wore wicked grins across their ugly mouths. There was nothing better than a good scrap, and this one had been brewing for some time! Even Wurrzag had his lips curled back in a grim smile, though none could see it from behind the rough wooden mask over his face. All of the activity in the hulk's control center came to a halt as the greenskins turned their attention to the developing brawl. Some started hooting for the warboss - others for the nob - but before long the cacophony was indistiguishable.

Dreggog and Gargrim clashed again, sparks showering the combatants as power klaw met chainaxe. Though Gargrim's huge axe whined under the stress of fending off the rough, scissoring talons, it continued to hold Dreggog at bay. Seeing an opportunity, Gargrim pulled one arm back, and behind his head. Electricity began to crackle over the rough iron knuckles of Gargrim's fist, superheating the surface. Gargrim let go of the chainsword with his other hand as he slipped to the left. As Dreggog's massive bulk toppled past the Nob, Gargrim swung a powerful blow with his charged fist into the mega armor's gutplate.

The sound was intense, and the greenskins in the room all bellowed exuberantly. Even Wurrzag was hollering his approval at the fight, his eyes glowing violently, resonating with the powerful Waaagh! energies gathering in the room. Gargrim jumped back from the melee, certain that the blow had to have crippled the warboss in some way.

Dreggog was unphased. His mega armor's gutplate bore a massive, craterous indentation, but the Warboss did not show any signs of injury. Gargrim roared in frustration. Dreggog's massive power klaw had embedded itself in the rough steel floor of the room, and his massive mega armored suit whined as it attempted to free the limb. "HAH! NICE TRY, YA MANGY GIT! IT'S GUNNA TAKE A LOT MORE 'DEN DAT - I'Z INVINCIBLE!" the warboss bellowed, still fumbling to free his power klaw from the floor. Gargrim flexed his arms, working the kinks out and testing his limbs to see if any serious damage had occured. "If 'dats wot you wants, I'm 'appy to oblige."

---

Urk was being dragged through the air by the careening, unpiloted grot bomb. The tiny gretchin had given up on screaming by now, busy struggling to free his tangled pants. Suddenly, the grot bomb lurched upwards, caught and redirected by a strong wind. Urk hung behind the grot bomb, only now seeing just how far up in the air he was, and resumed his screaming. The bomb began to corkscrew through the air before evening out and levelling off. Urk risked a glipse forward and saw that the grot bomb had managed to redirect itself 180 degrees and was now spiralling uncontrollably towards the crashed form of Da Earff Shaka.

---

Back inside the helm, Gargrim was thundering towards the stuck warboss. Dreggog continued struggling, attempting to withdraw his mighty claw from the chamber's floor, but the suit's own weight seemed to be overwhelming him. Gargrim delivered another mighty blow to the armor's gut plate with a charged fist, but the armor refused to give.

Over the hooting and hollering of the greenskins in the room, Gargrim heard an unusual sound and ceased his assault for a moment, unsure. It sounded like... like some sort of rocket? His eyes darted around looking for the source of the disturbance before glancing out the gaping hole in the chamber's wall and spotting a grot bomb careening through the air, coming right at them. Gargrim squinted, and was just able to make out a tiny gretchin dangling from the back of the rocket.

"WHAT DA ZOG IZ DAT!?" Dreggog bellowed, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the incoming grot bomb. Gargrim hurled himself off the stuck warboss.

Urk's own eyes were open wide as the gretchin continued to struggle with the grot bomb. Prompted by the sight of the rapidly-approaching hulk, the grot gave one last, mighty tug on his pants, and came free of the bomb with a tearing sound. The grot was able to fall off the bomb just before it rocketed into the hole in the helm, and Urk bounced off the rough metal exterior with a sickening sound.

Dreggog had only the time to roar angrily before the unmanned grot bomb struck him cleanly in gut. The suit of mega armor tore free from the floor seconds before detonating. Shrapnel and debris rained down upon the room, and a handful of the greenskins that had been watching the fight too closely were annihilated by the blast. Bits and pieces of Dreggog's massive power armor littered the scene. The explosion hurled Gargrim's massive bulk across the room and into the wall with a thud.

As the smoke cleared, Gargrim was greeted by an incredible scene. Dreggog's power klaw had come loose from the rest of the armor on impact and remained jammed into the floor, sparking and smoking. Any remaning evidence that the Warboss had ever existed was splattered around the room - burnt trophies, smoldering metal plates, and charred chunks of meat. Gargrim looked at the hole in the wall that the grot bomb had entered through and spotted his tiny gretchin accomplice, Urk, crawling in through the opening before collapsing in an exhausted heap.

Though many of the greenskins in the room bore signs of injury from the blast, Wurrzag appeared untouched, floating a few feet in the air with a shimmering green orb crackling around his body. The field dissipated as the weirdboy touched down and flipped his mask up. Gargrim had never seen Wurrzag without his mask, and looked on curiously. The wizened and eyeless face that stared out from beneath it surveyed the carnage for a moment before sliding the mask back down and into place.

Wurrzag slowly strode over to Gargrim, the weirdboy's staff clacking on the floor in the dead silence of the stunned orks. The weirdboy looked up at Gargrim for a moment, as though considering, before beginning to speak in his twisted voice.

"Nice one, Boss."

The orks began to bellow their approval.