Monday, June 16, 2008

Warhammer 40,000: Are You My Warboss?

A ork waaagh lands on a desolate necron tombworld, and the soulless automatons quickly arise to eradicate the infestation. Every single one of the boyz is vaporized, and sterilization fields are activated that kill off even the spores. But through mutation and sheer luck, one spore grows so quickly that it escapes the sterilizing fields. A single ork is born.

He acquires a choppa and pistol from the ruins of the orc's encampment, but there aren't any boyz to be found. The ork looks about uncertainly, then smiles and with a tentative "waagh!" runs off in a random direction- the boyz left without him, so he'll just have to track them down.

He wanders the dusty wastes for weeks. Once he sees smoke, but it turns out to be the remnants of some spilt fuel containers. He plays with the fire for a while, but moves on- after all, the real fun will be when he catches up with the boyz.

Then, to his joy, he finds one of the entrances to the tombs. Down in the vaults, he gazes across row after row of inert necron warrior. He runs through the halls for a while, roaring and firing his bolter, trying to liven the place up a little. Eventually he walks over and punches one of the warriors in the shoulder; it simply tips over. The tomb remains inert.

Since he's the biggest, the orc figures it's his job to whip these funny-lookin boyz into shape. He gathers a bunch of them together in a pile, then stacks a few more to form a nearby podium. Standing on it, the ork gives a rousing speech about how this is a sorry lot but he'll get them shipshape soon enough. He tries all sort of things to get a waagh going- insults, violence, praise and flattery. . .He tries hobbling around on folded knees, thinking that if he's smaller someone else might go and do a better job of starting a waaagh.

Eventually he goes up on the surface again. He heads off and after much searching manages to find the camp. Nothing there has changed. He grabs up as much dakka and choppa as he can carry and hauls it with him as he spends several weeks looking until he finds the tomb entrance again. Staggering over to where all his boyz are, he dumps the huge assortment of weaponry down and looks up hopefully. The moment stretches out as he stands there, looking on with a tentative smile. Eventually he starts picking up choice bits of weaponry and offering them to the necron warriors. None show any signs of interest.

He tries fitting in for a little while, by standing in the same posture and not moving. He pretends to leave and then sneaks back and peeks around the corner to see if any of the necrons move.

He wants to fight with somebody, just once. He wants to get shot up, to ride shotgun, hooting and hollering. He wants to meet a weirdboy or a nob or a dok. He wants to chant and pound the ground in unison with a massive crowd, to sail through the stars to a new world, to play catch with another ork using gretchins.

Just once, he wants to hear somebody call him something. Just one time; then he'd have a name.

He wishes he knew why the boyz left him behind.

He knows he'll find them. Some day...


Anonymous said...

I've read this before, and it's still one of those stories that gets me.

Now, if somebody ever does one for the "I can make it on my own" ork pic, AKA L'il Brudder, I'll be an eternally happy man.

Anonymous said...


y u do dis