Boris the Titan

Boris is a Titan. Or at least, that's what he wants you all to believe.

Boris' status as "Da Biggest Ork In Da Universe"

Tremble before Boris, destroyer of worlds

Initially, Boris was a generic Mekboy. Content with tinkering with various machines, he never took much of an interest in anything. That was until the Scraplootas ran off with their greatest prize yet: A Chaos Titan.

The titan was originally a chaos Imperator titan named Vae Victus, a prize that would tempt any mek. As soon as Boris set eyes upon it, unsurprisingly, he decided it was to be his by any means necessary. After beating up any other Orks in his way, he clambered up into the pilot's seat. As soon as he made it into the gargantuan machine's control room, though, he decided he wasn't coming out. Ever. He has stayed in the pilot's seat since that day, fed by Grots.

The latent warp taint within has had some effect on Boris. He is now wired directly into the control throne of the titan and believes he is the titan itself, referring to the machine as his own body. Apparently no one seems that bothered by it (or, at least, nobody wants to usurp his position as permanent, slightly mad pilot.)

The effects of the taint aren't just limited to the pilot though, the countless Grots that crew the titan have felt its touch as well. Many years of exposure has led to a dramatic increase in the spawn of "Weirdgrots" and generally more intelligent Grots. These smarter and often psychic Grots run the behemoth more like a strange cross between a city-state, the mafia, and actual living body than a war machine. Boris contains distinct entertainment, commercial, industrial, and governmental districts, each with specifically and uniquely mutated grots living in them. These social organs (set up in a strange facsimile of real organs) work together to create a self-contained society. This government is run by a council of highly intelligent Grots that live in the control room with Boris and who disseminate orders to the heads of each district via highly psychic "message snotlings" in addition to more traditional runners. The council, strangely enough, speaks proper Gothic, an unusual ability for even the smartest of orkoids.

All is not perfectly harmonious, though. Particularly the bitter rivalry between the two arms and the still-functioning demonic core are problematic to say the least. The right arm believes in the superiority of shootas, the left in choppas. Needless to say this causes some friction in the council. However, the two districts function perfectly well together despite their differences, especially as they are too unwieldy to target each other with their weapons. As for the core, the daemon at its heart is still alive and well, held in check inadvertently by Weirdsquigs stuffed inside the core. These squigs unwittingly assault it with concentrated orkish psychic emanations at all times, keeping it suppressed and grudgingly obedient. Ironically these Weirdsquigs are also caused by the lingering warp taint.

The Boris Bureaucracy

The feet and lower legs form sort of hub areas. Grots come in and out, are signed in, assigned to different areas, there are basic market stalls and entertainment, casinos and the like. There is no particular culture to speak of, though the right foot is more shop-oriented, and the left more entertainment based.

Heading up the legs, we hit industrial areas, controlling joints and things in the area. Tends to be filled with lower level workers, and is a usual starting place for Grots, though some stay there, preferring its easy lifestyle to other areas.

Reaching the lower body/crotch area, we hit the first bit of proper industry. Bullets are made, parts are repaired, new parts are made. There are actually a few different factories, foundries, manufacturing areas and storage warehouses. Each run by an enterprising capitalist Grot. The parts are distributed throughout by a complicated series of elevators and service hatches.

As we head up to the heavily armoured chest, we reach the heart of the Titan: the Bureaucracy. The bureaucracy is made up of many different offices, each with specialised areas of charge, distributing parts (known as the mekanicum), allocating jobs (known as the minis'tratum), appeasing the different areas, and so on. This is arguably the most important part of the Titan.

Next, we hit the arms. The two arms actually have a bitter rivalry, as the left arm has a lot of saws, chainsaws and choppers, whereas the right arm has a lot of guns, artillery and shooters. This has led to two factions, the Shootists and the Choppists.

Each arm does their jobs more than adequately, and when Boris moves, the arms obey, but they still feel hatred towards the other side. The arms work in an interesting way, due to their constant state of movement. Instead of using a traditional floor system, the Grots move around with a complex set of wires and harnesses, attaching themselves to different wires when the arms are up, down and horizontal. The more important Grots, foremen and the like, have become known as "swingees", from their ability to quickly travel around the arms using the wires.

Then there is the head. The head has a council, with a representative from each area of the Titan. Most of the tension comes from the two arms and their bitter rivalry, but it is unusual that any council members come to blows. There is also an elected president, who is in charge of making the ultimate decisions. Given its nature, the head of the titan has become known to the Grots as "the 'ed of state", the joke lost on them all. The head is also known for being well kept, clean, and respected. The council chambers are a sight to be seen.

Finally, there is the castle-esque fortress on the top of everything. This area is mostly left fit for Orks, but since the Orks tend to just hang around on the outside, the inside of the castle has become living quarters of a sort. Higher class living areas are at the top and around the outside, allowing for a good view and natural light. Lower class living facilities are found on the inside, and is a lot more cramped and uncomfortable. Increases of crime in this area have led to the creation of a makeshift security force.

When Boris was boarded by Dark Mechanicum Skitarii during "Da Big Scrap-Up", these security Grots proved to be noticeably better at combat than their untrained brethren (Although that isn't saying much). This lead to the Council deciding to institute a Titanopolis Militia of sorts, to make the endless waves of Grots more effective in combat and improve their chances of survival. They have also expanded the pre-existing Security force and providing them with better equipment and minimal training in fighting in organized squads instead of chaotic mobs and in basic operation of their weapons, forming the Titanopolis Guard: The "Elite" arm of the Grot fighting force.

Needless to say, Boris remains completely oblivious to ALL of this, except when they're late bringing his lunch.

Writefaggotry

Grot-mek of da groteptus Mekanikus;

Climbing down to the foundry level in Boris, Finkle had his new assignment. Amongst the swaying furnaces and sliding piles of scrap an important looking grot was shouting at the team pouring shell casings "NO, NOT LIKE DAT! POUR IT QUICKA, OI ... OI UGLY, YEA YOU, YOU WIV DA FACE WAT YOU DOIN?"

Finkle edged nervily closer to the head grot and offered him a data-slate, he snatched the metal plate from his hands and sniffed as he squinted at the runes drawn in grease paint. "Yow have been assigned to da Bloomery by da wisdom of da council of finkin fings, long may de guide us. In dis Gork'z Bloomery wez make iron and iron accessories. Da work is 'ard un ugly butz we dois it betta dan eny over of da ova free blast furnacez in Boris, Yea seems loik this is yor furst day on da job. Mi namez Senior-grot-mek Thud da first or to you, Forge Masta. Ya' got a lot ta lern boy, but we'll look afta ye' coz ya find us fair and hard workin lot here and you'z turn arund in 45 years find yourself a supervisor. Coz I fink yus a kleva boi you's go far 'ere. Keep ya nose clean an yors mouf shut and we's guna have no problems." He smiled and offered a blackened hand. Finkle met his grip and looked him in the eye and then smiled. "So, er boss. Whut yu wantin me doin now?" Finkle rung his hands nervously together,

"Well as its yor first day I fink you need to make the tea for da lads,"smirked Thud. "Firs you's find da big pot, den ya grab ya squig, den boil it. den ya ring da big bell and da ladz cum an get da tea, Simples." Thud pointed him in the direction of a grubby kitchen annex listing against a bulkhead in the opposite corner of the foundry. Looking returned to shouting at his work gang, Finkle scratched his head and got on about his new found responsibility. After much fighting with the squig he found bouncing round the corridors,

finally subduing it with a large spanner and dragging it back to the kitchen he looked around for the pot he was supposed to use, after a good hour he still couldn't find it so he scraped with an old can of GROTOLA a mega-bolta shell clean and filled it with grey-brown water that spurted out of a pipe marked "WARTA" some time later he dropped the squig in and waited for it to come up to the boil. A large, scarred and greasy grot came to see what he was doing "So you da new tea grot huh?-

-Dun' worry yus self about Thu, hes a good hart but little distracted he likes his tea wiv a dash of mota oil and sturred wiv a rag, like dis." He motioned Finkle to cupboard above a hole in the floor, "You wanna use da' oil in da' yella tin, yea dat one" he grinned. Finkle was quite pleased with himself by the time he had finished, the tea had gone a pleasing sickly green-purple. He raised a massive hammer and stuck it with all of his might and to his delight. The work-grots were slowly starting to assemble around the pot dressed in home-made lead lined aprons and welding masks staring at him, clutching assorted tin mugs, cups and mortar casings."Wher' ma tea?" demanded a particularly dim looking grot. And then he realised what he had to do, Finkle smiled his toothiest smile and started pouring the tea into their cups with a ladle he had bashed out of a bucket. After all one-hundred, odd coal shovelers, porters, cleaners, rakers, had been served and the pot was empty he felt quite pleased with himself. First day, first job well done and no muck ups. The foregrot from before came in and slapped him heartily on the back, "Con'gratz neu boi, welcom to da foundry!"

He sniffed the pot and poked the squig, he smiled again. Finkle didn't like this grots smile. "Errr, were you find dis' squig mate?". "Dunno jus bouncin' around da' corridor." "Dun' you know a weird squig when you see one? Oh dear oh dear oh dear, what have 'ave ya done?" Finkles heart sank as the impact of the words sank in, he felt a bit sick, had he messed up his first day of work, would they feed him to the orks?

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA, Boss is gunna have a good laff' at dis, I wunda wen da firs O' da boyz start growin horns an stuff. But didn't yow notice he wuz takin da piss, you know like get me a left-clawed hamma? or a bucket of stripy paint? or a long weight? Dunt worry 'bout it, last time they asked him to taste da molten iron, so's we know if its cooked." "Yer anyway that silly grot fell in, but we'z did make a lot of funny lookin metal from dat, so not a total rite off."

Quotes

"SEND YER ANGELS O' DEFF, HUMIES, FOR MEIZ AN ENGIN O' DESTRUCTION! ALL O' YEZ WILL BE CRUSHED BENEATH ME BOOT, ALL o' YEZ WILL BE TURNED TO ASH BY ME DAKKA, IZ UNSTOPPABLE, IZ- No, get away from dat you lousy git! Dis is my speaky stick, not yers! Get back ta werk 'efore I krump ya hard ya worthless grot! AS I WAS SAYIN, IZ BORIS DA TITAN! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH"

"Dere are three gods in dis world you'z gotta worry about: Gork, Mork, and ME! BORIS DA TITAN! DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!"

---

"Sir, the left elbow separatist movement has taken up arms."

"They are fighting against us with weapons?"

"No sir. They've jammed the elbow mechanism, so the arms are up."

---

You will never hear an orky version of this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yvoRtHSQ4Y

Look, he's crashing down my wall

Steel and shooty, very tall

Now he's up above my head

Crushing, smashing, we're all dead

Boris the Titan

Boris the Titan

Now he's blown the hab block floor

Heading for the fortress door

No way he's as scared as me

Where's he gone now, I can't-CREEED

Boris the Titan

Boris the Titan

Shooty, choppy

Shooty, choppy

Shooty, Shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, Shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, Shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, Shooty, choppy, choppy

There he is stuck in a wall

Doesn't seem to move at all

Praying he's dead, I'll just make sure...

By the Emprah he kills more!

Boris the Titan

Boris the Titan

Shooty, choppy

Shooty, choppy

Shooty, shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, shooty, choppy, choppy

Shooty, shooty, choppy, choppy

Our world is come to an end

Don't think we can ever mend

All around us, we hear the sound

Space marines crushed in the ground

Boris the Titan

Boris the Titan

Gallery

• 

  Boris inside Boris' cockpit.

• 

  Just another day at the office.

• 

  A description of Boris' bits

• 

  A map of the innards of Boris

• 

  Another grot in the bureaucracy

• 

  Red Boris for your enjoyment