I don't do well on short notice. Rather than be hyped up due to a shortened deadline, my already poor improvement rate suffered drastically. Repairing Grikkle’s suit made for a good refresher, but my problems still remained. Drastic measures were necessary. For example: Do I really need a hand on the left arm? I mean, it's just a glorified gun arm, so why not get rid of it all together? And while I'm at it, getting rid of the digits of the right arm, and replacing it with a rotating ball with the chainsword welded to it would work fine as well. And who really cares if the left arm has an easier time shifting left than right? Well, me, but that's beside the point. The point is, when you lower your expectations, the results can be really amazing! And embracing a bit more Orky features just made things even better! So what if my right thigh had a lump on it to make room for the extra motors to meet my movements standards? And who cares if I can't back-pedal quickly? It wasn't like retreating would be much of a priority, unless some big ol’ Nob wanted a go, in which case I was probably fucked anyway.

All in all, the results were quite satisfactory once satisfactory was redefined, and it only took two hours to get it all in order. I took a moment to admire the suit, which soon led to me frowning over the many sacrifices I'd had to make. Rather than a smooth, Fallout 4 power-suit looking deal, it had started to resemble a Space Marine's power armor, if an Ork Mek had gotten it into his head to 'fix it up all Orky like'. There were spikes. There were crude Ork faces bolted on. Hell, there was even a pair of horns welded to the side of the helmet. Okay, maybe I let Orky me go a bit farther than I'd have liked, but at least he got the job done. And since Orky me is still technically me, it was a win for me, right?

Questions of who deserved praise and criticism aside, it was time to get moving. Digga might start to notice his missing assistants at any time, and getting the jump on him was of tantamount importance. I didn't want to think what nastiness a fellow Mek could bring to bear once he had time to suit up. I entered the suit with haste, eager to get to the stomping part. Getting in was a good deal easier, and I was able to do it in a good thirty seconds, including firing up the power generators and warming up the rokket. The inside was roomy and cool, with some fans blowing on my face, and a tiny, tiny vent near the back of the knees pushing out the hot air from all the moving bits and engines. I took a few tentative steps, and compared to the old suit, it felt like I was walking on air. I jumped up and down a bit, and was able to get nearly half a foot off the ground without rokket assistance. Given the suit must weigh a shit ton, it was remarkable. All systems were given some quick testing, including shooting up the firing range, shearing through some metal bars with the chainsword, and generally mucking about like a child with his new toy.

The noise gathered a bit of attention, with Grikkle coming over to inspect, then promptly joining in on the festivities, followed by a veritable horde of adoring Grot fans. The sight of a hundred plus goblins all fawning over Grikkle, and eyeing me with an intensity that rivals aging trophy wives sizing up the competition, was quite intimidating. Sure, I could slaughter them all at the drop of a hat, but there's nothing quite like being the center of attention, especially from an audience that looks like a horde of half starved cannibals staring at a prime rib.

Unnerved by the press of greenskins, I opted to get things rolling. I flicked one of the dozens of buttons near my arm harness, activating the internal radio broadcast. With impish delight, I whispered spooky incantations in the mic that fed directly into Grikkle’s helmet. I nearly died of laughter when Grikkle flipped the fuck out, going so far as to rip the closest goblin in half with his mini chainsword in a mad panic. Seeing me on my knees, my laughter coming in through the comms, Grikkle caught on fast, and did the goblin equivalent of pouting, aka, taking it out on his inferiors.

Two more dead goblins later, with remarkably little effect on the adoring crowd, I might add, Grikkle settled down enough to follow orders. The orders were simple. Get me someone who can drive the Trukk. I sure as hell couldn't, lacking digits on either hand, and with big, stompy feet. I could try using my knees, but that meant precise control with them, and I doubted I was up to the task, especially with the terrain, and the general poor quality of Orkish engineering, and yes, that includes things made when Orky me is in charge.

Grikkle took the order with extreme smugness, which he was more than willing to showcase after I informed him as to the method to communicate through the radio channel. With almost feverish excitement, he lead me over to the Trukk, shouting orders to the goblins. As it turns out, Grikkle had not been idle. And as he used to work for Meks, he had a bit of Orky know-how. And what did the little bugger do? Well, let's just say he had made a removable baby seat for the Trukk. For the drivers side, of course. The git had gotten it into his head to be my designated driver.

It was with extreme trepidation that I allowed the Grot to drive, handing him the spare key with thinly veiled threats about the status of his body if he damaged the Trukk. The honesty of his enthusiasm was barely enough to get me to allow it, but only because his life was pretty much on the line, which guaranteed that he had extreme confidence in his skills, if he was willing to risk it all just to drive a slow, tank-like Trukk.

The drive was smooth, at least by Orky standards. Suspensions are not exactly the most common of parts, but I'd made damn sure to include them, and boy, where they weighty. They needed to be, given how much armor the damn vehicle had. It helped that Grikkle showed an almost supernatural understanding of the vehicle, like he'd driven it before, which is, of course, impossible, given I had the only two keys in existence. Totally impossible... I glanced over at the wheel, and where the spare key should have been was only a trio of thin wires and loose cabling. Motherfucker.

I considered making a big deal about it, but the fact that he had the balls to hijack my car was too impressive to punish. Besides, he was my #1, or so I kept telling him. Surely he had the right to drive a simple Trukk, right? Sure, it was my only one, hand made and all that, but still… Okay, maybe I should give him a little dressing down, while reinforcing my surprise and respect for….

My train of thought abruptly ended when we pulled into the ramshackle remains of the Stormboy camp. Where dozens of hovels once stood, now only wood and leather frames remained, every scrap of metal having been scavenged. Only a few of the inner hovels remained untouched, and these were only sparsely attended by Snotlings, not a single Ork in sight. The sound of gunfire and yelling was still there, but no roaring of rokkets, and the Beat Stikk arena was empty. I hopped out of the Trukk, and jogged/wobbled over to the Dakka range, the source of the only Orky sounds in earshot. The sight was startling, to say the least.

Ninety Orks were in somewhat straight lines, firing volleys of gunfire down range. Dozens of Snotlings scurried beneath their feet, grabbing the spent ammunition casings, and hauling them to the drastically modified scav pot, while others filled magazines with rounds fresh from the portable munitions factory. At the front, one of my bodyguards, who hadn’t showed hide or hair in the last three days, was busy yelling profanities at the line. “You gitz bettah be ready for when dah boss comes! My Grot be sayin’ ‘es almost done wiff his projektz! You layabouts gonna regret not pracishing more!” Well. Well well well. WELL. Looks like some of my minions had both the brains to properly procrastinate, AND mount a watch on me. The lookout must have gotten caught up in Grikkle’s little cult, and forgotten his job. Poor bugger was probably squig food. And so was my bodyguard, if they didn't measure up. I had no intention on going back on my word. Any Ork that didn't show at least a passing amount of accuracy would be chopped up and fed to the squigs.

The Ork's firing discipline was a small miracle in and of itself, but as my eyes wandered the Dakka range, all thought terminated. My entire being honed in on an Ork that was tampering with my munitions machines. And by Ork, I mean Robo Cop. The Ork was more machine than flesh, with his entire bottom half being some sort of motorcycle without the handlebars or seat. The creature was busy digging through the interior of one of my machines, soldering some gubbinz inside. With almost apoplectic rage, I gave Orky me the reigns, and leaped out of the Trukk, roaring at the interloper, comms on full blast. The air practically shook, and one of the amplifiers exploded in a shriek as it overloaded, but it definitely got my point across. The entire mob came to an abrupt halt, and more than one pair of pants needed to be changed. All eyes turned to me as I stomped my way toward the cybork.

The interloper turned casually, slapping the top of my machine with a shit-eating grin.”Ho dere, Big Boy! Wossa right propah Mek like you doin’ ‘round dese parts? ‘As my name finally reached dah ears of some Big Mek? Sign me up!” The words barely registered, I was so full of fury at seeing someone screwing with the incredibly important machines. My helmet covered my expression, so it was probably reasonable for the Ork to assume I was just giving my mob shit. How wrong he was. I made no noise beyond the loud electric sizzle coming from my exploded amps, merely revving my chainsword into action, and pointing it his way.

The Ork raised his mechanical hands, his bike wheels scooting him backward as he tried to reason with me. “Woh there, no need to get violent. I woz just fixin’ up these here machines, wot with them having jammed from overuse.” It was a tiny miracle in itself that the words reached me before Orky me was in full control, and in what might be the luckiest moment of my Ork life, I stopped to think things through for a bit. Overused? Fixing? What did this git have to do with my mob?!

The wheels turned, and as I looked about, searching for clues, I began to notice some things. First were the dozens of steel sheets, covered in bullet holes, that were lugged in a corner near the scav machine. Next was the massive pile of ruined guns, sitting in a pile before a trio of smock-wearing Grots, busy fiddling with the ruins, saving what could be saved, and ignoring the general commotion. They had a job to do, after all, and blood hadn't been spilled yet, so they didn't dare risk stopping. And then there was the memory of how I left the mob last, assuring them that when I returned, those who didn't shoot well would be fed to Squigs alive, their four limbs chopped off and left to watch as they are eaten alive. For Ork standards, that was pretty brutal, given that most bosses just smashed you up, or killed you. Torture is a thing, but usually on the weakest, and usually on non-Orks, as Orks don't have as good of screams. Guess my parting had really stuck to them. So much so they'd gotten a Mek to handle the ammo problem. Huh. Guess I should be giving them props.

My mind tried to come up with a proper lie to explain myself, but then I remembered I'm a Nob, and Nobs don’t bother with things like explaining. So I just strode up to the machine that had been tampered with, and cut a big square out of the hull with my chainsword. I bent over and peered inside. Sure enough, there was plenty of damage, with signs of a few attempts at modification that had gone badly wrong. These attempts seemed a bit older than the more recent patches, which suggested either the Orks, panicking at the lack of ammo, had tried to handle it themselves, or they'd gotten a bad Mek to try it out, and when that'd failed, they'd gotten a better one.

I stood up, nodding with satisfaction. I muted the broken amp, which did nothing, so I just unhooked my arm from the harness, felt around for the proper wires, and yanked. That did the trick, silencing the wretched screeching. Now, where was I? Ah yes, why is the camp in ruins? Oh, the steel plates for target practice. They'd probably scavenged whatever they could find. Hmmmm…. Where did they get the Mek? Glancing about the camp, I spotted several scavenged vehicles, with most of their armor and hull having been ripped off, leaving only the basic frames and gubbinz left, and sometimes not even those. This just led to more questions. Guess I'll have to do this the old fashion way.

“Where you from, Bike Boy?” The sound was muffled, and nobody really made out what I said. Miffed, I pulled off my helmet. This did NOT get the results I was expecting. I guess I didn't realize the mob didn't know who I was, because once they saw my face, they all panicked, and starting firing at the targets again, looks of pure concentration on each face. The bike dude went grey, looking from the mob and back to me. He seemed to take a moment to think, but stopped to stare at my chest. His eyes furrowed, widened, then furrowed again. He have me a guarded expression, and with as much nonchalance as I'd ever seen an Ork give, he asked me a simple question whose underlying message had more importance than any single event in my Orkish life, barring fights to the death.

“So… what git painted dem dragons?”