Chapter 459 - 459: Grot-Kong

The Gretchin wagon rumbled off happily toward the destination Kian had pointed them to, utterly trusting in Grot Marjack's guidance.

The direction Kian had given them was, in fact, the genuine route back to Ork-held territory, and one clear of any human forces along the way.

His hope was that they'd bring the transformer home, build something to rival the Gorkamorka Walker with it, and touch off some proper infighting among the greenskins.

...

A few days later, at Three-Arm's war-forge, buried beneath the ruins of a human hive city.

Several thousand Mekboys swarmed around the Gorkamorka Walkers, welding torches and cutters in hand, bolting equipment onto the towering frames.

Three-Arm, Blackiron still strapped to his back, bellowed orders at the crowd, directing the installation of the transformers.

Amid his roaring and constant threats of boot-to-backside discipline, one transformer was finally wired into place inside a Gorkamorka Walker.

The Gork Walker was the melee-focused unit, its frame bristling with nothing but close-combat weaponry aside from a handful of small point-defense guns.

Its left arm was the Claw of Gork, a savage slashing weapon forged from some mysteriously acquired adamantium.

Its right arm was the Fist of Gork, a massive oversized power fist.

The Mork Walker, meanwhile, was the ranged unit, both arms fitted with enormous rotary cannons, thirty-six large-caliber autocannon barrels combined, capable of unleashing an absolutely terrifying wall of rain-like fire in an instant.

Its head housed several additional rocket pods, capable of firing a massive salvo of Ork rockets in a single burst.

By now, both Gorkamorka Walkers stood at roughly 90% completion, their outer plating essentially fully installed.

Three-Arm scooped Blackiron up off his back and cradled him in his arms, cackling.

"Alright, my big beautiful machines are almost done!

See dat? Da Gork Walker's yours! Da Mork Walker's mine!"

Three-Arm genuinely considered himself an artist, the artist who'd built the Gorkamorka Walkers.

And to make sure his masterpiece performed at its absolute best, he'd kept Blackiron with him the whole time.

Under the Orks' brutally Darwinian social order, a former warlord reduced to a stump like Blackiron would normally have been killed and replaced by Three-Arm ages ago.

But Three-Arm knew full well that the bigger the war-machine, the greater the psychic strain fed back into the pilot, and an ordinary Ork Boy simply couldn't withstand piloting something this size.

Only someone truly favored by Gork and Mork, himself, and someone with a skull absurdly thick and dense, Blackiron, could possibly handle a machine this large!

Blackiron, the amplifier coils still jutting from his skull, roared:

"I want revenge on Old Fart Kian! I'm gonna drive dis big walker and get my revenge!!"

Three-Arm cackled again.

"Course you are, partner! Right then, let's get you hooked up!!"

Three-Arm loaded the shrieking, excited Blackiron into the Gork Walker, connecting the tangle of cable-like neural leads to his body.

Once the neural link was complete, Three-Arm held up a small activation switch in his hand and pressed it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"

The Gork Walker's engine roared to life, a massive surge of current flooding into the transformer, the transformer feeding that power straight into the chassis.

But whether it was a power leak or the neural feedback itself, Blackiron inside the Gork Walker started shrieking in agony.

Blackiron, twitching and numb all over, howled: "Electric, electric, electric... I'M BEIN' ELECTROCUTED!!!"

Three-Arm scratched his head.

"Ain't nothin'. Just a minor short. Dat's Gork testin' ya. Just power through it, you'll be fine."

He simply tossed the switch aside, ignoring Blackiron's continued shrieking, and walked over to inspect his own Mork Walker, a voltage tester in hand, carefully checking for leaks of his own.

Meanwhile, in a corner of the war-forge, Reform Old Fart was leading a few dozen Gretchin in a quiet stealing spree, wrenches, screwdrivers, wire, useful or not, grab it and run.

None of the Mekboys were watching them, since every last one of them was crowded around the Gorkamorka Walkers, watching the "electrocute the little guy" show.

A few dozen Gretchin worked together, hauling off a transmission assembly toward the edge of the war-forge, while Reform Old Fart himself cradled an engine piston and slipped quietly out of the workshop.

The Gretchin group made their way twenty kilometers out of the ruined hive to the scrap-heap headquarters, home base for the Gretchin movement.

Under the watchful gaze of the twin portraits of Grot Marjack and Reform Old Fart, several thousand senior Gretchin gathered, chattering amongst themselves in an urgent council.

"We want to fight! We wanna fight!!"

"That's right! We want to overthrow the Ork Boyz!!"

For all their timidity, Gretchin were still part of the greenskin ecosystem at the end of the day, and they too hungered for battle.

Especially now, after all this time spent scavenging Ork power armour and mass-producing Grot-suits and Grot Big Guns.

Their swelling military strength had fed a swelling ambition, one their war-hungry instincts could no longer keep suppressed.

One Gretchin stood and shouted at Reform Old Fart:

"Great Revolutionary, give the order! Overthrow every Ork Boy, let Great Gretchin-ism advance to its second stage!!"

Reform Old Fart called for quiet, then said:

"Everyone, now is not yet the time to strike. Have you not seen? That damned Three-Arm and his wicked Mekboys have already built the Gorkamorka Walkers, built on the blood and sweat exploited straight out of us Gretchin!!"

A wave of gasps swept the crowd. Some of the Gretchin who'd witnessed the Gorkamorka Walkers firsthand at the war-forge shouted their agreement, describing the towering, terrifying war-machines, utterly unbeatable in a straight fight.

One Gretchin demanded, furious:

"Then when DO we strike?"

"Yeah! When?! I can't take the Ork Boyz' oppression anymore!"

The crowd chattered on, their frustration plain for all to see.

Reform Old Fart could feel his hold on their fighting spirit slipping. Keep suppressing it much longer, and he might just find himself with eight bullets in his back, dead of acute lead poisoning.

Reform Old Fart looked up at the towering portrait of Grot Marjack on the scrap heap and silently prayed: Grot Marjack, grant me wisdom, help me find my way through this.

Just then, a Gretchin wagon rolled up to the gathered crowd, the driver shouting excitedly:

"Look, look! We got a shrimp-tin-can transformer!!"

The council members swarmed the wagon, staring at the transformer in the bed, unsure what exactly it was even for.

Reform Old Fart's eyes lit up the moment he saw it. This was a critical component for building a Gorkamorka Walker!

An idea struck him, and he leapt straight onto the wagon and shouted:

"Gretchin! I know when we strike! We strike the moment we build our own Kong!!"

The crowd stared at him, baffled. Reform Old Fart bellowed on:

"Gretchin! I saw it with my own eyes in that useless bastard Three-Arm's workshop, the single most important part of a Gorkamorka Walker is the transformer!

Whatever the Ork Boyz have, Great Gretchin-ism has to have too!

Once we build our own Grot-Kong, THAT is when we strike with everything we have and overthrow the Ork Boyz once and for all!!"

The crowd froze for a beat, then erupted into a wave of ecstatic cheering!

If they could build their own Grot-Kong, they could finally strike. They could finally kill the Ork Boyz. They could finally achieve Great Gretchin-ism!

And just like that, Reform Old Fart had defused the internal crisis, and every Gretchin present threw themselves into planning the construction of Grot-Kong.

Watching the crowd disperse to work, Reform Old Fart let out a breath of relief, then walked over to the driver of the wagon and asked:

"How did you all make it back? So many of our lads went off with the Orks to raid that shrimp-tin-can substation and never returned. You're the only ones who made it home."

The driver Gretchin shouted, thrilled:

"It was Grot Marjack! Grot Marjack himself showed us the way back!!"

Reform Old Fart went still for a moment, then looked up at the towering portrait of Grot Marjack on the scrap heap, eyes welling with tears.

So it had been Grot Marjack guiding him, all along, seeing him through his moment of crisis.

Of course. Grot Marjack truly was the guardian spirit of the Gretchin. Grot Marjack truly was the greatest Gretchin of them all.

☆☆☆

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