Rebel Dawn
Dawn was encroaching when the camp finally grew quiet. Mazdrock’s Ladz had been up all night drinking that same festering squig drink that was slowly rotting their brains. A few more nights like this and his already dwindling mob would become nothing more than a handful of boyz.
The only ork in the entire mob who wasn’t addling his mind with grog was Grabnut, the mekaniak. And perhaps that was because his mind addled decades ago. He was snoring soundly under his workbench, surrounded by the detritus of another failed ‘genioos invenshun’.
Gubbinz opened his left eye and peered cautiously around. He did most things cautiously, for even in such a haphazard war band as this, the life of a grot is often short and messy. Once he was certain the orks were all asleep he crept from under his box and scurried across the workshop floor. He grabbed something from the table, then looked down at his master.
He’d been Grabnut’s chief, and well frankly only, oiler for years now. But working for a senile mekboy under a depraved warboss had huge advantages for Gubbinz. He got time to tinker with relatively infrequent beatings. Grabnut was often so involved in his latest plan (most likely a rocket power squig, or perhaps a bi-directional shoota for the suicide squad) he often forgot to bellow at Gubbinz for days on end. And being particularly bright for a gretchin, Gubbinz had started to learn things. He edoocated himself.
Moving quietly but franticly Gubbinz scurried out of the mek’s shed and into the camp. As usual the ladz were strewn around the various fires, most of them passed out in their drinks or dropped where they stood. A strange tableau in the centre of the main clearing showed Mazdrock and some other nob had been bashing each other senseless when the squig grog kicked in. They’d both fallen against each other, out cold and standing. Gubbinz silently picked around them, through the ramshackle huts and tents and up the large dune behind the camp. Looking back once to check he hadn’t been spotted, he slid over the top of the dune and down the canyon to his secret place.
For the past few months Gubbinz had snuck out every night like this, scavenging tools and parts from Grabnut’s workshop (and often out of invenshuns, ensuring none of them worked too well) and coming to the clearing. And tonight his work should finally be complete. See, Gubbinz had had revelation several months ago. He realised he was a greenskin. It had come as quite a surprise, but this epiphany of self-realisation led to one further thought. He wanted to kill stuff. Or more accurately, blow stuff up. Unfortunately Mazdrock had long forgotten about the war they were supposed to be fighting. Ever since Looga the madboy shared his squig grog with the other ladz, they’d lost sight of everything except where the next drink came from. And slowly the already dim-witted Mazdrock became slower and duller. Gubbinz knew he had to take matters into his own hands. If he wanted a waaagh, he’d damn well have to start one!
So like any true mekboy (well.. mekgrot anyway) he did what came instinctively. He started building a gargant. A gargant so mighty, so terrifyingly inspiring it would call all the other grots around to his banner, and together they would go show the oomies what real greenskin shootin and choppin was all about!
Gubbinz crawled in through the access hatch and ran through the crude corridors of his creation. He’d never felt more alive, he knew everything about this beast, for here he was the master. He cackled to himself, not knowing any better. Finally he scurried up the ladder into the control room and took his seat. With a sense of orkish pride and a snarl of triumph, he rammed the shiny knob he’d looted from the workshop onto the end of the gear stick, and his creation was complete!
He leaned out the window and looked below, admiring the view from the awesome height. They’d all know such fear, he could hear the oomies panicked cries already. But first he needed to test a few things. And being a reborn greenskin, and hence being a vicious, backstabbing double-dealing son of a bitch, he aimed his gargant towards Mazdrock’s camp and stamped on the go-fasta pedal. The control room lurched, then slowly, with a lumbering grace, a huge foot swung forward and the gargant began to move.
Mozza stirred. The sun was only just rising, so he instinctively knew something was wrong. The amount of grog he drunk in the night should have kept him out cold for hours. Vaguely aware of his job as sentry, he sat up and looked around. Everything looked pretty much as it did a few hours ago when he hit the dirt. Idly picking a lump of meet from his teeth with his choppa, he struggled to his feet and wandered off to relieve himself against Looga’s hut. It wasn’t until he stopped thinking loudly and started concentrating on walking that he heard the it. A low rumble coming from somewhere outside the camp. That must have been what woke him up. He wandered unsteadily towards the large dune at the edge of the camp, the rumbling growing louder all the time.
“Who dat?” he croaked, his throat dry and begging for another drink. There was no reply other than the rising boom boom boom from over the dune. He squinted up at the top of the sand, just as the sun broke over the horizon a square head appeared in the middle. “What dat?” he uttered. Standing still, swaying slightly under the influence, he waited and watched as the shape revealed itself. The unmistakable proportions of an Ork gargant crested the dune. “We don’t got one of dem,” Mozza said, as his acute mind wound around the task. “Dat means… dat means. Er. Oh zog!”
Scrabbling down the dune as fast as his beleaguered legs would take him Mozza rushed back to da camp. “Boss!” he screamed, “boss, we’s under attack!”