Da Gobbo's Revenge (Warhammer 40,000) by Mike Brooks

Author:Mike Brooks [Brooks, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2021-11-12T16:00:00+00:00

REFLECTIONS

Orks did not, as a rule, go in for the notion of ‘creepy’, or ‘spooky’. The closest Fingwit had got to it was when he’d seen some tinheads get blown apart, and then they’d started to flow back together and re-form in a way that was abhorrently unnatural. He was used to the idea that you could stick someone back together – that was how orkish medicine worked – but generally you needed a painboy for it, and something like stitches or staples to anchor a body part in place until it healed properly. Ufthak Blackhawk, the newest of Da Meklord’s big bosses, had apparently had his entire head transplanted onto another body when his old one had got blown up. Nonetheless, seeing those strange bipedal machines re-forming themselves had made Fingwit feel quite uncomfortable, and not just because there was an increased chance of them getting up and killing him.

He was experiencing something of the same sensation now, albeit for very different reasons. There was nothing alarming about empty corridors in general: that just meant no orks to shout at him or clobber him. Likewise, there was nothing alarming about dead bodies, unless there was some notion that something monstrous had killed them, and was about to make him its next victim. Generally, dead bodies were a useful source of interesting items, and – if he was feeling particularly hungry, and there was no decent fungus or squigs nearby – food. However, the collection of quiet corpses he was walking over and past at the moment, with no sign of any living combatants anywhere nearby, was a bit… well, creepy.

It might have actually been better if he’d been able to hear the sounds of fighting, oddly enough. Normally that was the last thing Fingwit wanted to be near, but at least it might have reassured him that he wasn’t alone.

‘Dunno why I wanna be around anyone else, anyway,’ he muttered, kicking a dead humie as he walked past it. ‘Yoo lot can zog off, ya bastards. An’ yoo,’ he added to the charred remains of an ork who had clearly run head first into the blast from a humie skorcha, or equivalent. ‘Wot’s da big idea, anyway? Knockin’ us around just cos yer bigger? Dunno why us grots needs ya, anyway. We fix stuff for ya, we carry stuff for ya, why don’t ya just…’ Fingwit paused, and looked around to make sure no one could hear him.

‘Why don’t ya just do it yerselves?’

The echoes of his shout died away, and he cringed instinctively, but the punch or kick his hindbrain had half-expected as automatic punishment for such cheek never materialised. He stood frozen in place for a few moments nonetheless, until he was quite sure that no one had heard him, and was intending to exact revenge on the cheeky grot who dared speak up. Then he started giggling.

‘Heh. Heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh-heh!’

He jumped up onto an ork body and danced along the length of it, cackling with glee. This was great! No orks to get angry and clobber him for bein’ cheeky.

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