How to describe the feelings filling me after the battle. Exaltation? Paralyzing fear? Horny as fuck? Exaltation? It was something inbetween those emotions, and was a sensation I was more than willing to feel again. But there was the small matter of staying alive to handle. Whatever had just happened, it could happen again. And if a bunch of crazy Daemon things from the Warp wanted to take a bite outta me, I’d rather it happen in the middle of a bunch of battle-hungry Orks. This, combined with my newfound knowledge, quickly led to the idea of heading to the closest manufacturing area ASAP. And wouldn’t you know it, I knew just the tour guide.

I turned to my #1 Grot, who had jumped off my shoulders to inspect a nearby corpse, making sure it was dead dead. “Grikkle, we’z gonna go to dat worky place of yourz. You know dah way?” A part of me died when Grikkle failed to follow through with the meme, but you can’t have it all. “Sure fing, Boss! Dis way!” The speed at which the little goblin responded, as well as the sudden wave of greenskins eager to follow me to safety proved once again that, despite the few with the willingness to fight when their lives were on the line, the instinct to flee at the first sign of danger remained strong in goblin-kind.

And so Grikkle led the way to his workplace. Along the way, I couldn’t help but wonder what in the hell had just happened. I mean, I know Chaos can pop into the world and fuck shit up, but why me, and why then? Was it all a coincidence? Somehow, I didn't think so. I was too weird to NOT attract the attention of anyone and everyone, and creatures from what amounted to the Plane of Souls would probably have a leg up on figuring out I was no ordinary Orky boy.

The thoughts distracted me from the more important task of watching for hungry Chaos beasties, but my Grots were more than up to the task, jumping and screaming at every shadow and wandering Squig they saw, making it impossible for even the sneakiest of Daemons to approach unawares. To my great fortune, there were no other Daemon attacks. There were plenty of DEAD monsters, including a few Orks that were quickly stripped of any and all valuables, but nothing living that posed a threat.

As we moved, the landscape quickly shifted from rocky tunnels with the occasional vent, hole, or pipe system, to a quickly increasing mass of metal and machinery. Pumps, steam, rust, and oil filled the world with a stench that defies words. It wasn’t bad, per say, it was more of a thick perfume that lingers, but doesn’t really offend, it just exists. Kind of like most Grots. It was my second time in a heavily industrialized section of the…. whatever I was in, but it was still utterly alien. There were no single words to describe the place. It was moldy and damp, hot and musty, rusted and boisterous.

Teeming hordes of Gretchins hauled bits of scrap and gubbinz to and fro, hammering in a part here, tearing off a piece there, and idling about everywhere. It was much like highschool, with the students putting in some token effort, and the teachers, or the Orks in this particular metaphor, punishing any and all who failed to meet their impossible expectations. And by impossible, I mean a completely reasonable standard, which somehow almost every student failed to meet. The thought of Grots in school uniforms, sitting in little desks while a muscle bound Ork teacher struts in front of them, pointing at a greasy blackboard covered in chicken scratches was enough to break the anxious atmosphere, causing me to let out a deep Ork chuckle. Every Grot in hearing distance cringed in fear at the laugh, knowing it to be a harbinger of pain and cruelty. Only Grikkle failed to recoil, having learned quickly my lack of violent tendencies. Well…. lack is a strong word. I wasn’t above kicking a Grot to get them out of the way, but if they weren’t causing trouble, I didn’t give them any. Then again, that was probably how the Orks saw it too. Damn, I must be losing some of that world renowned human morality. Meh. I kicked a Grot for good measure, just to prove to myself how much losing my humanity was no biggy. It wasn’t like my every waking moment had a corner of my mind gibbering about the monster I was becoming. That would be very un-Orky, and I couldn’t afford to be un-Orky right now.

I did my best to ignore the few Grots that immediately split from my horde, slinking away into the crowd, but I had neither the desire, nor time to give them any thought, and Grikkle was too busy riding on my shoulder as he polished his treasured gun. And speaking of a lack of time, what time was it, anyway? Things had been far too hectic to keep track, and I didn’t even know the time when I was… born? Hatched? Released from extended incubation? Whatever the term, it was unclear when it had occurred, leaving me without a reference for when I was actually supposed to go to sleep. And that very subject, the nightly ritual of dying, then returning to life a few hours later, was at the heart of one of my many worries. The thing was, I wasn’t tired. And that was worrying. I mean, sure, I was big Ork and all, but I’d only gotten, what, four, five hours of sleep in the past day or so? And I’d gone through three life and death fights, had the constant nagging fear of death and madness dogging my every waking thought, AND I couldn’t even rub one out. How in hell’s fiery armpits was I not exhausted?

And it wasn’t just physical exhaustion I lacked, I was also feeling awake and, well, pretty excited. I had things to build, servants to put to work, and enemies to meet, and it all seemed like a grand adventure. Perhaps it was the strangely muted sense of danger that had me so excited. After all, I was living in perhaps the most dangerous of cultures ever imagined by man, and should be hiding in some corner with a shotgun and a years supply of Squigs. And yet here I was, entering the proverbial lions den to go build me some rockets and stuff, and maybe knock the snot out of a few smaller Orks.

All in all, there was plenty to worry about. On the other hand, everything that was worrying was also, well, fun. Sure, I might get attacked by some random Ork, but hey, I could totally get attacked by some random Ork! And sure, Chaos had apparently decided to drop in on my life and ruin my plans, but they made such sweet, delicious death screams when you smashed in their faces. Perhaps… Perhaps becoming more Orky really wasn’t such a bad thing after all. The thought, unbeknownst to me, helped sift some more of that sugarwater, Orky soul-residue stuff that I’d nommed down in the previous fight, which most definitely saved me from an almost certain death via exploding rocket jetpack.

The goblin horde slowly grew, as well as the additional appearance of the occasional Ork, moving about on whatever whim had them in this neck of the woods. And most interestingly, I spotted my first vehicle. Well, spotted might not be the best word. Barely survived being run over was a better fit. The vehicle in question was a monstrous truck, covered in heavy metal plating and sporting a veritable arsenal of weapons, manned by Ork and Grot alike. It made quite the din as it trundled down the tunnel, squashing the occasional deaf or unlucky Grot, and nearly running me down, noise masked by the roar of the crowd, and my mind distracted by anxious considerations of the state of my mind and soul. It was Quik-Fix who saved my ass, stabbing me in the leg when his incessant poking failed to garner my attention. It was lucky for him that I spotted the oncoming bulldozer before I turned him into a pancake, and enough sense remained in me to not punish him, despite his brazen willingness to stick sharp, pointy metal bits in me.

The truck quickly passed us by, drawing my attention from the small stab wound and the offending goblin, which no doubt contributed to my willingness to refrain from stomping the git. And boy, was the truck a beautiful sight. It was covered in sharp metal things, and a dozen small Grots manned an equal number of turret-like additions to the sides and roof. More of an APC than a truck, the miracle of engineering brought me no small amount of jealous, and already I was fomenting plans of acquiring such a vehicle for myself. This lasted for as long as it took to remember that I was supposed to focus on survival, and not making more enemies, a thought that killed the mood quicker than a grandma at a strip-club.

Finally, we entered the REAL powerhouse of the Ork warmachine. The Mek’s tinkering cave. The massive, heavily industrialized cave was filled to the brim with massive war machines, furnaces, workshops, and random gubbinz that no doubt served some purpose at one point in time, but said purpose appeared to have been forgotten, or maybe devalued, as they bore heavy signs of scavenging and deconstruction.

Despite the massive complex, my eyes honed in on one workshop in particular, guided by an almost intangible pull. A small, dingy hut surrounded by half-finished bits and pieces stood next to the most beautiful creation I had ever seen. A dozen rockets, each with an Ork-sized harness, stood leaning against the side of the hut. They were near perfect recreations of the image that had been floating in my head since the end of the last battle.

I wasted no time in hurrying over to the rockets, nearly salivating at the thought of running my hands along the sleek, hard exteriors. The closer I got, the more I began to notice the deteriorating state of the equipment. Large sections of the welding had been forced apart, leaving giant rents in the main rocket shaft. The sight was absolutely appalling, and already I was cataloging the necessary gubbinz and tools necessary for a full refurbishing. Once I arrived, I immediately set to examining the extent of the damage, finding only a small relief in the status of the controls on the harness. Otherwise, the rockets were mostly crippled from what appeared to be both gunfire, and repeated crashes.

A shout from the hut pulled me from my work, and I met eyes with an old, greyish-green Ork, waving a massive wrench-turned-ax in my direction. “Oi, you git! Getz your filthy ‘ands off my work!” The implications of the Orks words didn’t quite register, as I couldn’t fathom anyone other than me fixing the gorgeous machines. I only stood there, dumbly, as the Ork approached, wielding his hefty tool/weapon. Only after I got a mouthful of steel to the face did my momentary insanity fade enough for reasoned thought to take precedence. After getting to my feet, and making sure that all my teef where still in the right place, I turned to the Mek and began making my apologizes. “I’z sorry, Boss. I was just so caught by dah wunduful workz dat I didn’t fink to ask before touchin’.”

The words, laced with sincere flattery, somewhat won the Mek over, to the point where he only waved his weapon around, rather than continuing to brain me with it. “Dem’s nice wordz, but you’z can’t go touchin’ my stuff wiffout payin’. And dose fings are not fer sale. Sum Stormboyz asked me to fix em up, an’ dey is quite touchy wiff dah Rokkets, dey is.” The word Stormboyz, along with the implicit threat, failed to properly register, as I was fully focused on how to get the git to let me do the fixing myself. And as it so happened, I can be quite the clever little Orky, if I do say so myself. “Bein’ such a big an’ important Mek as you are, you can’ be expekted to do all dah little fings yourself. Why not let dis here Mek fix em up for you. I’ll even do it fer free.”

The Ork didn’t take the bait, shaking his head. “How’z I to know you won’t go an’ make a mess of it? You don’ look like a Mek to me.” Without a moment of hesitation, I tossed the bag of my remaining teef up to the Ork. “I bet dat ‘ole bag I can fix dem up so good, dah Stormboyz won’ even know it wuz me.” This, combined with the look of pure determination in my eyes, won the Ork over. He pointed to an open shed stocked with various tools, odds and ends, and the occasional gubbin. "Dems dah toolz. We see wot you can do." I rubbed my hands together with glee, and got to work.