A crackle of static, then a voice. "Butterbread Team here. We're deep in the eastern mountains of Velmorian. Greenskins everywhere, but we haven't engaged. Keeping low, observing. Coordinates incoming. Over."
Kayvaan's helmet interface mapped the report in real-time, a pulsing marker appearing over the forested terrain.
"This is Butterscotch Team. We're rolling down State Highway 301. And you know what we found? Nothing. Road's clean, too clean. No vehicles, no wreckage, not even corpses. Either the greenskins cleaned it out, or someone moved in ahead of us. Personally, I don't think orks are smart enough to drive, but I wouldn't put it past them. Coordinates uploaded. Over."
Another marker appeared.
"Chocolate Team here. We've reached Little Rock." A pause, then a growl. "Or at least what's left of it. It's not a town anymore—it's a slaughterhouse. Orks executed everyone. No survivors. Old, young, doesn't matter. But we're checking, just in case. Emperor help us. Over."
Kayvaan frowned. That wasn't part of the mission parameters. And truthfully, he doubted they'd find anyone still breathing. But for now, he let it slide. The third marker glowed crimson on his map. "Brown Bread Team, reporting in," came the next voice. "Sir, it's Virgil. My nose healed years ago, can we please drop that joke?"
Kayvaan grinned but said nothing.
"Anyway. We're inside what used to be a university, but it's been turned into a weapons factory. And I know what you're thinking—'orks can't build for shit'—but, sir, you have to see this. They're making weapons. Out of garbage. Just saw one slap together a Piranha Gun using a plastic Coke bottle, a stereo, and some random tubing. It worked, too. Fired razorfish right into his squadmate's face. He's dead, by the way."
Kayvaan exhaled. "You were about to call in an orbital strike?"
"Was considering it, but now I have no idea what to hit. It's chaos in here. Some of their contraptions explode on launch, others fire just fine. Some of them—Emperor knows how—are putting together actual, lethal weapons. Reporting coordinates. Over."
Kayvaan filed that information under high priority. The orks' infamous ability to manifest crude but functional tech out of sheer belief was troubling enough. If they'd established a mass-production center here, it needed to be erased. Then—another voice, tinged with barely restrained irritation. "This is Marshmallow Team. And I want to know—who the hell named us this?!"
The radio erupted.
"Finally, someone said it!"
"Biggest disgrace to the regiment!"
"Seconded!"
Virgil chuckled darkly. "It was Lancelot. That pompous ass. He's not even on the field. Pulled rank and stuck us with these names for a laugh."
The outrage was immediate.
"Kill him."
"Rip his teeth out."
"That White Knight bastard is dead."
Kayvaan sighed. "Enough. You're on an open frequency, for Throne's sake. If you want to rant, switch channels. Marshmallow Team, status?"
"This is Marshmallow Squad," came the reply. "We're positioned on a ridge overlooking the ruins of the 9th Army's armory. There's no 9th Army anymore. Last battle here must have been six hours ago. The greenskins sent a small detachment to pick through the wreckage, but there's nothing left to salvage. Looks like the 9th held to the end. Tactical records confirm they executed final protocols—armory completely demolished. They made sure the orks got nothing." A brief pause. "Salute to the men of the 9th. They fought to the last."
Kayvaan nodded to himself, but before he could respond, an alarmed voice cut through the channel.
"Emperor's teeth, what the hell is that? Marshmallow Two, confirm nine o'clock—am I seeing things?"
"Either we're both hallucinating, or that's real. Over."
"Marshmallow Squad, report," Kayvaan demanded. "What the hell are you looking at?"
Static crackled, then the reply came, unsteady. "Sir, one of the orks just restarted a destroyed tank. I repeat, a tank with a burnt-out engine is moving. I watched it get scrapped—no way it should be functional. That greenskin walked up, gave it a good kick, and… it started. The damn thing's rolling forward, slow but steady."
Another voice cut in, incredulous. "The engine's still on fire, sir. They're not even trying to put it out. Hell, they're using it. Some of them are cooking rations over the flames!"
Kayvaan exhaled sharply. "If they can get that wreck moving, then every disabled vehicle in the armory might still be viable."
That was the real problem. If a greenskin could revive a completely gutted tank just by kicking it, then any wrecks left behind weren't truly destroyed. The 9th might have thought they'd denied the enemy resources, but if orks were involved, nothing was truly beyond salvage. That meant anything waiting in the ruins—armored transports, war machines, possibly even siege engines—was a potential threat. "Marshmallow Squad, confirm coordinates."
A long hesitation. "Sir… we're debating whether to request an orbital strike, but… what do we even target?"
This was the eternal problem of fighting orks. It wasn't just Sir Tigait's dilemma—it was a universal headache across every war zone where greenskins infested the stars. Even the aloof Eldar, for all their arrogance, had no clear solution to this madness. If there was one thing about orks that made them truly nightmarish—besides their ability to reproduce at a horrifying rate—it was their impossible ability to scavenge, rebuild, and repurpose anything.
For all their brutishness, orks possessed an almost supernatural talent for mechanics. The Mechanicus, for all its reverence of technology, struggled to explain it. Take, for example, a delicate, intricate chrono-device. A simple watch. If it broke, you'd take it to a Tech-Priest for repairs. The priest would first offer prayers to the Omnissiah, then recite the Rite of Small Repairs. If the Omnissiah was willing, sometimes the device would miraculously start working again, a sign of the Machine Spirit's favor.
If the Machine Spirit remained uncooperative, the priest would consult his knowledge reserves, checking if his assigned repair lexicon even included chronometers. If not? He could attempt a manual repair—but that was dangerous. Unauthorized tinkering risked censure. If another priest caught him tampering with sacred machinery without proper blessings and permission, he could be reported to Mars for discipline.
At worst, he'd receive a formal warning—not recorded, of course. After all, it was just a watch. But the chrono-device would no longer belong to you. It would be seized as evidence of potential techno-heresy. And your only reward for seeking repairs? A bureaucratic headache.
But an ork?
Give the same broken watch to a greenskin, and one of two things would happen.
One—he'd eat it. Entirely possible. If you then told him that the device wasn't edible, he'd probably be annoyed. "Oi! Ya shoulda said dat before I munched it, ya git!" He'd cough it up, wipe it off, and glare at you like it was your fault.
Two—he'd fix it.
Not by any recognizable method. No prayers, no schematics, no understanding of internal mechanisms. He'd shake it, slap it a few times, maybe take a wrench to it. And somehow—somehow—the damn thing would start ticking again.
If you tried to argue that the repairs were nonsense? That it shouldn't work? He'd just laugh and call you a runt for overthinking things. "Wot, it works, don't it? Stop messin' about an' take yer zoggin' watch!" And at that point, you wouldn't dare put it back on your wrist.