Editing Toyhammer (section)

=Chapter 4=

Time to visit the Orks. Of all the forces here, they were the least controllable, so the others worked together to keep them bottled up in the basement.

The basement themselves were sparsely used, just four walls with a door leading up some winding stairs. Shelves were fixed into the walls, and all manner of junk was strewn about. The Orks moved in after I had removed anything vaguely valuable, dangerous, combustible or useable to create a weapon, so in essence I emptied out my basement – the shelves and cupboards excepted – to make room for the Ork horde that had to move in. It was only a small force, the fact that they had lost just over two thirds of their hundreds-strong force in the first day of scrappin'. But then again, the coalition of Tau and Imperium had only accounted for one third the total losses, The other two thirds would be because of the internal animosity between the greenskins themselves, especially after the confusion during the first few minutes of their arrival.

I looked at the encampment surrounding the doorway to the Ork domain. "Justicar Amadeus, Shas'vre." I greeted the two figures in command: a well decorated Grey Knight Justicar – the equivalent to a Major in this Earth's military rank, and the orange painted helmet of the Tau Shas'vre, the equivalent to a Lieutenant, or maybe Captain.

"Titan Michael." The Grey Knight stationed at the doorway said. The Tau and Imperium had both cooperated, and were keeping the Orks bottled up inside the basement. The Grey Knights, and Tau were stationed at the doorway, while the Sisters of Battle and the Cadian Guardmsen were keeping them from the window exits, along with the Space Marines spread between those two. I reached up, and grabbed the overhead pipe to steady myself as I missed the first step; that was where the Grey Knights were stationed, with the more fragile Tau units behind them. These guys got the brunt of the fighting, but I smiled to myself as I saw the ten Grey Knights sitting there and peacefully talking to the Tau. Armistices had never been so peaceful before, with the shared threat of the Orks below them.

However, one of them stood out. He had, for lack of a better word, a very large hat. It seemed to go with the theme of Inqusitors, so for the moment I looked on. This particular Grey Knight wasn't quite... standard. His weapons were a pair of bolters, their large, drum-like magazines about the size and weight of a man's torso. He waved one around like a toy, causing one Tau soldier to duck under an over enthused sweep of the arm as he tried to regale the stories he was no doubt spinning. There was a small, shared chuckle as the routine of the sweeping arms continued, and soon enough they noticed me. The Grey Knights – with one exception – snapped to attention. The hatted Knight just waved at me with his left arm, before realizing why there was a thump on the way up. A knocked out Tau soldier shook his head as he tried to blink the stars out of his eyes, his helmet cracked.

"Uh... hi." I managed to say, kneeling down beside the dazed Tau. The soldier took of his helmet, where I saw his markings around his armor's collar – unique among the Tau, almost, they were personal name-tags. This set belonged to a Tau Sergeant named Shas'ui D'lytir Nin'per... er... the name got a bit tricky. It meant 'Talon of... something', so normally we just called him the Gothic equivalent: Sergeant Talon.

"Good morning, O'Mikel... what just hit me?"

"This dude's bolter, Talon... why do you use a bolter, anyway, I thought Grey Knights used those wrist mounted things..." I looked at the wrist-mount, which had been shaved clean into a flat panel. The hatted Knight simply looked up at me. His face-plate and armor bore a lot of burn-marks and a corner of his pauldron had simply been slagged from a near miss with a heat weapon. Unlike the knight-like crusaders of the other Marines, resplendent in hearldry, this Grey Knight had little in the way of decorations, beside the hat and the bolters.

"What hap- "I DON'T KNOW!" The automatic response shocked everyone within hearing distance.

"Uh... the- "DON'T EVENT THINK ABOUT IT!" I pulled my hand back as the mouths of twin bolters grinned at me.

"Alright then... Good morning to you..."

"His name's Silverite, from what I gather." The dazed Sergeant Talon said, pointing at the person who just broke his faceplate.

"O-kay... see ya."

And with that, I moved on.

"Mornin', gretchz." I greeted the outcast little goblins, who were tinkering away at a short, stubby Duracell battery. Though the rough equivalent to mechanics and repairmen, these guys often got the short end of the stick when it came to Ork society, and often were living in outposts at the fringes... or they could just have been the security teams, deprived of fighting while the rest of the Orks fought downstairs.

"Mornin', boss." They replied, wary of any whimsical punishment that might have come their way.

Now, with the Orks bottled up in the basement due to their inherent... well, the word for it would have been aggressiveness, although the difference between an orkish attitude and 'aggressive' was... vast. Like, from the Earth to the Sun kind of vastness. Although, thankfully, this attitude tended to implode when left in a small, enclosed environment. The large Ork 'WAAAGH!' had divided in their little underground basement. The mob had migrated into their respective 'clans': the 'Deathskullz', the 'Evil Sunz' and the 'Goffs', with their own color schemes and style.

The first were brutally cunning in their ability to mash two things together and make a vehicle or weapon, the second cunningly brutal in their speedy raiding and vehicular man/alien/people-slaughter, and the third were just plain brutality incarnate in in-your-face or stomping on your guts hand-to-hand brawling, with close combat weapons galore. They were fighting among each other, as I – their 'Big Boss' - had ordered them to stop fighting everyone else. An interesting loophole, but one that everyone was rather happy with having.

Descending the stairs and the jarring shocks that it shot up my legs reminded me of my injuries. My entire body was still sporting small scars from my skirmish with the Orks, which had made me look like I had been dragged through a garden of roses and shattered pottery. Actually... that would make a good excuse! I made a mental note to use that excuse for my appearances. Not wanting my house to be undermined by constant use of high explosives, I had told these Orks they were allowed to fight, but without anything that could punch through a tab of plywood at long range. That limited them to their axes and smaller caliber weapons. The heavier guns, the looted tanks and the rokkit launchas were right out.

Mind you, the black and white checks of the Goff's colors were very interested in my 'no big gunz' attempt at giving rules, too. They loved close combat. The Evil Sunz, red comets of the battlefield, were having a roaring party with their speedy vehicles, as the Deathskullz's blue facepaint and looted gear compressed into a dense formation as the two sides fought to get at each other.

Watching from the stairs, I was faced yet again with the reason why Orks were ignoring the others. It was simply that they didn't care who they were fighting. The three Greenskin factions were in a melee in the middle, quite happy to bash each other's brains in. The average Ork 'Boy' used weapons drawn from a very ramshackle arsenal; they used both home-made and looted gear, often from the larger of the Space Marines. The close quarters weapon of choice was the axe or cleaver/sword, collectively known as a 'choppa'.

The triangular battlefield was awash with Orks, all clambering over each other to get to an enemy, hacking and stabbing their large, heavy weapons. I quietly walked over to the underside of the stairs, pulling out a rusted old vacuum cleaner, affectionately known as a 'Sukka' by the Orks. I mean affectionately in the way a pyrotechnician would be affectionate to a pyromaniac. Plugging it in, I swept the long tube over the Orkish lines. A few of their still-living members were sucked up the tube, to be deposited into the vacuum bag. Wartrukks and buggies were knocked over as I slapped them with the tip of the HyperVac 3200. A few seconds of that, and the fighting had stopped.

One Ork looked up at me. A Deathskull Nob. His lower jaw was made of metal, a replacement jawbone of steel and whatever alloys they had cobbled together for him that was painted a deep blue. He held a drum-fed shotgun-type weapon, which he held as if a pistol, and waved the serrated blade welded onto the tip. A clumsily constructed dual-bolter arrangement was strapped to his back, which had all shades of blue in skin-pain painted on, and his left hand held on to the most stubby looking rokkit launcha that I'd seen. The greenskin turned around, bringing his rokkit up to launch at me.

He was promptly swept up into the tube that was my HyperVac 3200.

A Goff charged up to me. He was pretty young looking, still barely up to the chests of his seniors. Probably a young'un. He was introduced to the Sukka, and joined the Deathskull Ork that had gone up earlier on. A third Ork was booted as he tried to stab me in the ankle. Numbers four and five also went up the Sukka's gob as they came forward.

"Anyone else?" I asked, looking at the stunned Orks. There were no takers.

From the innards of the vacuum machine, though, there was a little clanging as a smaller scrap started inside. Picking up the heavy machine, I gave it a good shaking, jostling its contents violently. The screams subsided a few seconds later.

"Gork'n'Mork, that sukka's nasty!" A familiar voice echoed out from the innards of the 'Sukka'. I recognized it instantly, as the Deathskullz Ork that had too much dakka for his own good.

"Is that you, Gunna?" I said to one of the ventilation slits. There was a little scuffling around inside, before a shotgun-bolter-gun-thing went off, blasting a hole into the side of the Sukka. I had no doubts about it; the Ork was one of the 'Flash Gitz', an Ork who had it in for Dakka. He worshipped firepower and high lead-content in the air.

"Yep, 'ts me al-rite, boss!" The reply came. "'tho dere's sum sneaky smart'rses that're tryin' ta take me shoota!"

"What did I say to you earlier on?"

"A lie? You sez dat I 'ad too much dakka. Ain't no such ding as too much dakka, Boss." The voice protested, to the assent of many of his fellow Orks, both inside and outside the vacuum cleaner.

I sighed, and spoke again. "There is such a thing as 'Property Damage' or... how about 'Collapsing a house on top of yourself', Gunna. Too much Dakka around here, and there won't be anyone to fight, y'know. There won't even be a you, kapeesh?"

"Uh... soz does dat mean dere be no thing like too much dakka?"
"Nothing is too much, but just point it in the right direction, okay?"
"Okay, boss!"
"Good."

"Uh... boss?"

"Yes?"
"Can youz let us out now? It's kinda dark in 'ere."

Having pacifed the Orks for the moment, I quickly went over a few administrative stuff, namely: "Oi, boss, can wez make dat tin' goez boom?"

"No."

The Goffs chortled at this, as they were the Orkish clan that most preferred close combat, and therefore because of my rules they enjoyed themselves the most. Their 'ead nob was an Ork that used a massive powa klaw in combat, as well as a massive cleaver when - not if - it broke down. He was called 'ead-smasha for a reason, and a damned good one. The blue with black-and-white checkered trim banner waved about as he made his way over to me.

"Oi, boss! We'z gettin bored down 'ere! Can we go an' giv de'm el-dar boyz a liddle smackin'?"

"No, I don't want any more trouble with those guys... I'm getting enough migraines as it is."

"Oh... iz it okay to crump each other, den?"
"Yes. I guess so. Try not to make too much of a mess, cuz you'll be cleaning it up."

Mounting the stairs, I went back up as the Orks re-started their skirmish without the Dakka.

As I was exiting the basement, I nodded to the hatted Grey Knight. He waved the torso-sized grenade launcher in one hand as I passed by.

My stomach rumbled, causing a few chuckles of amusement - even from the stoic Grey Knights - as I passed.

Breakfast time. I gently reassured my stomach that food was coming, so I began to make my way to the kitchen. This took me past my study room, of sorts: computer, books, all manner of reference materials, that kind of thing. Oh, mind you, I didn't study all the time. I sometimes played. The computer had been given all manners of upgrades, thanks to my tech-savvy friends. It also had CounterStrike and other simple multiplayer games, which let me play with them, on occasion. However... the Adeptus Mechanicus had also made this place their second home, as well as a small force of Imperial Guardsmen and Sisters of Battle. After all, the Cogboys were the ones who maintained their gear.

They had also found a little niche of Earth society in which they could find themselves comfortable.

"WTF! U n00b! Teh h4x0r in teh b0 1s n0t b3 4 l4m3rs!" The mechanical voice - I recognized it as a copy of the 'Microsoft Sam' program with a slight modification - mainly that it always had a rising intonation at the end, which made it sound like it was constantly asking questions.

"Huh?" A confused male female voice drifted to my ears.

"He says: What are you doing, you idiot. The computer is not for incompetents." A more bored, male voice intoned. I recognized the voice. Sohm Vekt, an Imperial Guardsman. He was a simple trooper with an interpreter's job back in his homeworld. The guy loved to pore over the more philosophical texts my grandfather had left behind in my care.

"Oh. Well, I'm trained in the Gestal pattern logic engine, which isn't too different from this... can you let me through, please?" The last word would have twisted many a man around its owner's pinky. The owner was... it was... Meliya, wasn't it? She was the Battle Sister translator, and the second voice coughed.

"Sure. STFU... no, wait... GTFO... is that right? Oh, here it is: 'GTFO t3h l337z way, n00b... uh, I'm not too sure... This neo-lexicon is confusing."

I chuckled, and suppressed my rumbling stomach in time for them to see me. The cogboy immediately went into ecstatic convulsions.

"PH33r teh 4w3s0m3! M1kk3y'z h33r!" He shouted in a semi-deadpan voice. It was disturbing, for lack of a better word. I blinked a few times, before turning to Sohm.

"Uh... What did he just... say?" I'm a casual gamer, sure, but I just had no idea what the bastardized language was supposed to mean.

"He says it's good to see you... I think." Meliya said, a loud whisper in the room. I nodded, and looked at the red robed tech-priest, and the smaller mechanical constructs that chittered around it.

"Tech priest?..."

"Nuuu! Mah t4g b3 h4x0r-c0gb01!" 'Hacker Cogboy' shouted. He had been a rather mature-sounding, very serious worshipper of the machine before he had found the 'Temple of Pentium IV'. Sadly, he had now fallen into l337-tardation. No offense to the real people who came up with it, but some people were just... stupid.

"Wow, you're really getting into this." I looked at the two other Imperials, one of which nodded her head and the other gave an exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, he's... l337 now." Sohm muttered, (deadpan snarker mode, on!). "They've been like this since they found that... CounterStrike game of yours."

"KEKEKEKEKE! Ph33r da wr4t|-| 0 da 3mpr4! L0l0l0l0l0l0l, pwnt!" A cogboy jacked into the modem cackled, typing away furiously at the keyboard sat on his thighs, his mouse was being operated by his mechanical fourth arm - the third was a plasma torch. I tried to ignore the madness for a little while.

"... somehow, this worries me more than the possibility of the Orks attacking." I muttered. "Is there anyone here still sane?"

"That would be me, your lordship." A deep, vox-enhanced voice spoke. It belonged to, by the looks of it, the demented, crack-enhanced machine-human combination which would have put Doc Ock to shame. The cowl was thrown back, the mechanical collar (the kind you'd have on as armor, not the leather band around the neck) pulled down. Loose strands of green hair were shaken loose. It was cropped close to the scalp, barely coming to the Adeptus Mechanicus' ears. It framed the face of a young woman. She was beautiful, in that aesthetically pleasant way, but like many of the Sisters of Battle and the female warriors of the Eldar, there was that sense of absolute confidence in her position and strength that gave them a very valkyrie-like fashion. Flippantly, she flicked a lock of hair from her face.

"Boys and their toys." She sighed, to Meliya's most empathic nod and Sohm's snort of amusement. Amisa 238041-194513 (normally in barcode-like format) was a Skitarii lieutenant, and for all intents and purposes a second in command from the Artisan - the foreman, in other words. Her mechanical appendages - servo arms, plasma cutters, chain-bladed rippers and various other tools of mechanical warfare - curled around her like errant strands of her hair. After all, there were a series of cables attached to a metal plate on the back of her neck, which ran into her backpack and the armored suit.

"Forgive the Tech-Priests, Michael. It's just... well... all these ancient technologies..."

"Hey, it's not that old!" Indignity laced my voice as I cried out. Most of my stuff was second hand, sure, but not ancient! Well... admittedly, some of it could count as ancient, but it wasn't that old!

"... again, forgive me, m'lord." She bowed her slender (and literal) frame, and looked back up at me. "It's just that... all these technologies have the hallmarks of pre-Here... no, pre-Crusade technologies... and even then, I'm suspecting them to be Pre-Dark Age as well. All considered, that would make this technology almost 30,000 years old."

"Hell no! My stuff isn't that old!"

DING DONG!

"3h! W00t, h33rz sum ppls!"

Oh shit. And I haven't even had breakfast yet.

"Yo, Mike!" A rather accented voice called out – Vincent! (Quick note: His given name was Vincent, he also had one in Chinese, but identified with Japanese more – anime otaku – and was born of Indonesian parents. It's complicated.) "... Hey, are you in there! I thought I heard voices... you know I can break locks, right!"

"Michael, ya in there! It's us!" A southern belle voice filled the house. Alice, one of my circle of friends. Tau and Imperials alike were running around, looking for direction.

OhshitohshitohshitOHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT!