Two miracles sat on the table before me. The first was a miracle of physics, ignoring the laws of reality, turning what was essentially a scrap toy gun by human standards, into a fully fledged Slugga. The pistol lacked any real mechanism to expel the casing of each fired round, and though the gas from the bullet could theoretically do the job, the reliability of the weapon was incredibly improbable. In addition, the magazine was literally just a metal stick, bullets stacked haphazardly within, no springs or mechanisms to lift each new bullet into the gun’s chamber. But despite this, the gun, to use a dead meme, ‘Just Works’.

But such miracles are a common sight amongst the Orks. For their Tek isnot based entirely on science, as I understand it. Instead, all Orks possess a form of magic, a psychic presence capable of bending the rules of reality. Almost all Orks are ignorant of these powers, and are unable to wield them directly. Instead, they provide power for a form of energy field known as Waaagh! energy. This field gives Orks all sorts of powers, such as the ability to sniff out good fights, or to almost instinctively know where to find Nobs and Warbosses to follow. But most importantly, it powers their technology. By bending the rules of reality, their weapons and other tek can be cobbled together from almost anything, and so long as enough Orks BELIEVE it will work, it will. From scavenged laser weapons repaired with duct tape and grease, to force fields made from copper wiring, crude batteries, and some shiny gold totems.

This first miracle, while incredible, was commonplace, only of interest to me. But the second one, well, it fascinated my Grot minions to no end. For next to it sat another miracle, this one of craftsmanship. Hand-made to exacting standards, the pistol was fully functional in every way, from receiver, to magazine, to ejection port, something never seen in Ork circles. The weapon could operate without any Waaagh! energy, a weapon based on science and basic physics. The creation of this weapon would soon help answer a very important question. What would the spare Waaagh! energy do, now that it no longer needed to waste its power modifying reality to make the weapon function? While I wasn't positive, I had my theories.

I carefully loaded both weapons with bullets as similar and uniform as I could make, having hand-crafted each to avoid any discrepancies in powder amounts or bullet tip size that often occurred in my automated process. Then, with a prayer on my lips, and putting as much effort as possible into accuracy, I fired the pistols, unloading every bullet into two separate metal sheets. Once my guns ran empty, Grikkle quickly brought the thin metal sheets to me, which I examined with great care, even bringing out a crude ruler, whose measurements were based on my thumb size. Or rather, my thumb size as of two days ago. I was a growing boy, after all.

Though I wanted to wait until every bullet hole was examined and a proper datasheet written up before drawing any conclusions, the early results brought a smile to my face. Already, after only measuring a few holes, I could see a clear, if small, difference in penetration, as well as accuracy. The latter could be explained away by chance, but there could be very little that could cause an increase in the sizes of the bullet holes and subsequent fractures and rips, beyond an increase in the power of the gun, or a difference in the angle of firing. In order to verify my findings, I redid the experiment four more times, each time making sure the plates faced me directly, so there would be no differences in penetration from differing angles.

But I was right. My theory, that merging technology and Tek would improve on both, appeared to be correct. I measured roughly 12 percent increase in the damage caused by each bullet, as well as a 27 percent decrease in distance between each sheet’s two furthest bullet holes, AKA, the Group Size Measuring technique. So, not only did the gun fire more accurately, as proven in five separate tests, but the damage was greater, despite there being no difference in bullet size and power, angle of fire, or barrel length.

To say I was excited would be to compare the buzz of a single beer to being black-out drunk. I was elated, ecstatic, exultant. It would take me growing five feet, a thousand pounds of muscle, and gaining ownership of an entire spaceship to make me happier. Hell, with this kind of power, doing all that would be a fucking cinche! For if I could improve basic ballistic weapons by such an amount, what could I manage with advanced technology? After all, the more the Waaagh! energy needed to change reality to make the weapon work, the more power it would gain from being remade with science. At least, in theory, but that theory was already half proven. I would just need to find some functioning advanced technology, and figure out how to replicate it. Oh, the thought of what I could do.

What if I managed to loot a plasma gun from some humans, and upgraded it? Would I get a 15% increase in damage? Even that would be amazing. But it could be more. 30%? 50%?! Could I loot a suit of power armor, and reverse engineer the technology to make myself one of the greatest sets of armor in existence? And what about tanks and aircraft? Or, oh my god, what could I do with the Waaagh! energy used to power an entire SPACESHIP?!

No, calm down Felix, you’re not there yet. You’ve just got a slightly better pistol, and that alone won’t keep you alive. Remember, loyal minions, superior equipment, cunning plans. You can definitely do the second, and the third will be a cinch. Now, you need to manage the first.

Looking around, I found almost every Boy had taken a turn at the Goblin Gauntlet, or so I had decided to call it. My entire band huddled around a crude wooden stage, ogling a large TV display, watching an Ork perform the Gauntlet from six different angles, projected onto six bleached squig leathers. Oh, did I mention I made a projector TV? Yah, well, I did. Kinda had too, actually. I forgot that Orks had naturally bad eyesight, and seeing the action was kinda important to my plans, as was keeping the band far enough away from the bunker so as to limit temptation.

I donned one of the new uniforms, giving Grikkle a wave. The small Grot reluctantly extracted himself from his own power armor, before clambering up onto my shoulder with a grimace. I gave him a light smack on the head, then a gentle pat.

“Wipe dat frown offa ya face. You’z getta show all deez gitz why you’z Boss Grikkle, my ‘Ead Grot. Dis is your chance tah show off to all dah Mob, and yah might not get a bettah one.” Grikkle perked up at this, dower grimace turning to determined scowl. “Right, Big Boss! We’za show ‘em!” Giving the goblin what I hoped was an encouraging grin, I turned to the bunker.

It looked a lot more dangerous, now that I was the one going up against it. I took in a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. I was about to do something risky. I wasn’t that much bigger than my Ork Boyz, not yet. And without the protection of my power armor, or the sheer bulk of a larger Nob, I could very well die. Granted, it was unlikely, but the possibility remained. Normally, the fear of death was merely background noise, a quiet voice driving me to action. But now, with my Orky side pretty much tucked away thanks to all the boring, mundane tinkering, I lacked some of that ballsy courage Orks were famous for.

I couldn’t help but worry. All it would take was a few bullets in the right places, and I would be dead. But I was the Boss, and had to be better in every way. The only other option was death. There is no retiring from Boss-hood, not unless it’s the final retirement.

Giving Grikkle one last pat on the head for luck, I clambered up to the top of the trench, stepping out in front of all my Boyz. The lot were rowdy, excited by the fights, but a bit bored by the repition and orderliness to it. Perfect. I sucked down a deep breath, then let it rip.

WWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!!

Like a bunch of wild dogs, the Mob erupted into howls, mimicking the cry instinctively, hands moving to weapons, eyes darting about, searching for the action. Several shots were fired at the ceiling, and a few Grots were stomped on as they scrambled to escape the sudden commotion. Heads soon began to settle on me as I began to stalk in front of the crowd, a massive grimace on my face. Once things quieted down a bit, I started.

“You lot fink you’re so big, yah?! Beatin’ a bunch o Grots!? Well, not all yah, some of yah gone and got KRUMPED BY EM! GAAAHAAHAAHAAA! Oooh, look at yah, so brave, facing dah Grots wif yah gunz. Well, I’za show you. I’z don’t need no gunz to win dis fight, I don't even needa try! I just needz me trusty Grot. We’z gonna go up dere togeva, and eat every last Squig!”

A nasty smile split my face as I lifted my new and improved pistol up to the Grot, which looked more like an stocky, oversized rifle in his small hands. With practiced ease, the little goblin hooked the weapon onto the small, shielded pivot secured to my pauldron, a small, partially encased turret housing-like construction that would both protect the weapon and its user, as well as absorb some of the recoil from the weapon, letting Grikkle fire faster, and with more control. The protection wasn't very thick, as Grikkle needed to use his own strength to swing the weapon about, but it was a small enough target to not need too much armor. I'd fix the manual motion later, once I fixed up my power armor. Heh, a little power-armored midget on the shoulders of another set of power armor. A mecha, but inside another mecha! Same energy, and I love it.

With no further words, I turned around, and marched down and out of the trench, not even bothering to toss a grenade. Immediately, a hail of fire reigned down, the gretchin mob prepared for my advance, alerted ahead of time by my speech. Furious at the thought of all the squigs being stolen, even the Grots that were busy eating stopped their desperate scramble for food in order to draw their own weapons to join in the fight. And while Orks have poor aim, the same cannot be said of Grots, especially when in the defence of food.

Dozens of bullets struck my armor, tiny hammers pushing at my body at odd angles. Each step was difficult, like walking through water. No, like walking through the ocean during a storm, with wild, shifting flows battering at you from random angles. Thankfully, my armor lacked any large holes, and was thick enough to resist the hail of lead, at least for a while. But I didn’t intend to just sit there and take it. Well, actually, I did, but that’s besides the point.

Having practiced several times before with my favorite Grot, the little git hid behind my shoulder, biding his time. Once the Grots confidence grew, seeing no return fire, they began to step further out of cover, searching for better angles, and letting more Grots step up to the bunker slit. Then, once the idiots were jam-packed together, he popped up, bringing the oversized pistol to bear, and sending off a burst of fire into the bunker. It was a slaughter. Grikkle's better accuracy compared to other orks, combined with the large target the clumped up Grots made, well, as the saying goes, 'Like fish in a barrel.'

The cowardly Grots immediately panicked, and their stampede to find cover claimed more lives than Grikkle did. Taking advantage of the lull, I rushed forward, eating as much ground as possible before the fire resumed. I moved so fast Grikkle nearly spilled out of his harness. I stopped as quickly as I started, planting my feet, and preparing for the next wave. Sure enough, some of the Grots stepped out of cover to hose me with bullets, desperate to protect their foodstuffs. But Grikkle was ready. With the shield covering the weapon and his shoulders, there was little the goblins could do, only a narrow eye-slit revealing Grikkle to the enemy. And though Grots were better shots than Orks, not even they could manage a shot through the thumb-sized slit. Not without time to aim, which Grikkle made sure not to give them.

He spun the weapon like a dancer, moving from Grot to Grot, firing only a couple bullets at each before moving on. He didn’t wait to see if he hit, I’d disabused him of that habit early on. After all, it didn’t matter if the enemy died, they just needed to stop fighting back. An injury, or even fear of injury, was enough to keep most men out of the fight, let alone a cowardly goblin.

It was like stealing candy from a baby. Though they had the firepower to bring me down eventually, they simply lacked the courage and discipline to stop me. It was over quickly, taking less than a minute before I was in front of the bunker. With a loud warcry, I swiped at the screaming goblins huddled behind the table, sending them scurrying, before claiming my prize. The other Orks had had to grab their meal and go, either out of ammo, or unable to keep up their suppressive fire with one hand preoccupied with a squig. I had no such problem. With Grikkle using careful, accurate shots, there was plenty of ammo to spare, and I was hands free.

Lifting the visor of my helmet, I went at the meat with gusto, relishing the taste of meat mixed with the tang of fresh blood in my mouth as the metal plated treat cut scrapes along my tongue and mouth. I didn’t stop after the first squig, nor the second. Only after downing six hand-sized squigs did I stop. Only, rather than retreat, I grabbed another squig, and began peeling off the plating with my teeth and nails, throwing the slivers of metal into the bunker. By now, the goblins had long since learned to stay in cover, lest Grikkle take off their heads. Fighting with superior numbers was one thing, being the first one to step out into enemy fire was another. Still, even with me eating right in front of him, he was watching the bunker with cruel eyes, though a lathering of saliva covered his chin. Good boy.

With a smile, I handed a half peeled squig to the Grot, who grabbed it with relish, digging in. Not wanting to give the Grots a chance to interrupt my minion’s well deserved meal, I strode up to the narrow slit in the bunker, drawing a pair of flash grenades in one hand. A single goblin poked out its head as he heard my approach, a look of fearful determination on his face. I stared into the shaking creature's eyes, letting a hideous, hungry grin spread across my face. With murderous glee, I pulled the pin on both grenades, and simply tossed them into the bunker.

The little git shivered, but rather than scurry for cover like I expected, he did the unthinable. He shot me. The crude revolver barked out, and I felt something in my face crack and tear. I watched in astonishment as my third biggest tooth dropped out of my mouth, followed by the taste of blood as a small flood of the potent liquid slid down the back of my throat. Fury rose up in me, and I almost krumped the git then and there. How dare he destroy my tooth! I'd been growing that one since I was born!

But despite my fury there was still enough of cunning human me to notice an opportunity when it arose, especially when on camera. With a grin, I grabbed the grot by the neck, and hoisted him out of the bunker. The git soiled himself as I brought him up to my face, and his cries of fear threatened to overwhelm my control, and to just eat the little bugger. But I had already eaten plenty, which helped me resist the temptation. Plus, I was on camera. Milk it, Felix!

Swallowing down a mouthful of blood, I leaned down, and picked up my tooth. Rising, I gave the terrified Grot a pat on the head, then handed the tooth to him. Or rather, I tried to, but the git kept struggling, ruining a perfect moment, and on live TV, no less! Fuming slightly at the ruined theatrics, I gave the Grot a more powerful pat on the head, stunning him long enough to shove the tooth into his tiny hand. This time, he managed not to ruin things by dropping the gift, and when he regained focus, he seemed to realize his good fortune, staring up at me with wide eyes. Though cheesy, I couldn’t help but make a dated reference, after swallowing another mouthful of blood.

“In my Mob, you keep what you kill.”

And with those simple words, I earned myself the title of ‘Best Boss’. At least, according to Grot Gazzete, the up and coming newspaper who wrote a very truthful article on the whole Grot Gauntlet endeavor, and the stunning rise of quality of life amongst a certain Mek’s Grots, sandwiched nicely between a brilliant how-to guide on “How to avoid bein' eaten by yah Boss”, and “Three easy trickz to remove pesky rust!” Sometimes, my genius, is… it’s almost frightening.