here is my Fluff:
Written by: Lord GreyWolf
Edited by: Lady GreyWolf
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The arid smoke choked the soldiers lungs. He tried in vain to see into the swirling clouds, but they were too thick. He tilted his head trying to decipher the sounds that rolled out of the smoke, nervously peering at the man beside him. A young newbie, fresh off the boat, his hands clenched so tight you'd swear he was going to leave an imprint of his hand on the cold metal. He tried to smile at the young boy but it was hard when he, too, was feeling uneasy. “Have a look, son. There's nothing out there. You'll be fine.”
The cadet nodded and smiled weakly. His face said it all, white as parchment and slick as oil. He leaned against the trench wall and took a deep breath before he eased himself up to the edge. His eyes barely rose above the wall before he ducked back down into the trench.
The soldier chuckled.
As if his confidence had been boosted, the cadet tried it again, this time actually raising his head over the lip. The young man turned and smiled as if to say: “Yeah, I did it. I'm like you. A soldier.”
The old soldier didn't hear it, but he saw it. The bright blur of a tracer round speeding towards them.
Each second was stretched, then stretched again to the point it felt like years were passing. Part of his mind screamed at what he was witnessing, the other, the more experienced part stood transfixed as the macabre scene played out.
The bullet cut into the skin, piercing a neat hole in the cadet's forehead. In the blink of an eye the tracer round finished its evil job, erupting out of the back of the boy's head and spraying the Sarge behind him with blood and gore. The soldier watched painfully as the young boy toppled backwards into a dank water-filled hole.
His senses returned, the noises of the trench impacting on him as if he had broken the surface of a lake after diving down deep. The Sarge was yelling orders to the rest of the men as they scrambled to defend the line. Men were screaming, some were sobbing, others dazed. The smell of sweat, unwashed bodies and urine surrounded him, it was the scent of fear, knowing you could die any second, it sat like phlegm at the back of your throat making it hard to breathe. He swallowed his fear and took up position in the middle of the trench.
The boy was now just a memory that would eventually fade. The soldier needed to react or he would end up like the cadet. He wiped the moisture from his face with a trembling hand. It was always like this, he felt sick, light-headed, every battle he had through was the same. Fear ate at him each time, in his younger days he had thought it would fade with time but it did not, merely growing into a mistress he loved to hate. He shook himself. He had a job to do.
A small shape shuffled through the fog. It was hard to make out, but it looked as if a child was out there, two more could be seen coming up behind the first. One of the recruits yelled out,
“Over here!” He frantically gestured to them, most likely assuming they were refugees. The three turned as one, red light pierced the fog glowing ominously onto his uniform. “Oh frag.” The words escaped his lungs when the tracer rounds ripped across his chest. He tumbled back into the trench, his blood mingled with the other cadet. Experience paid off here in the trenches, but it was a bitch to earn.
“Get those bastards!” yelled the soldier, and he kept on yelling as round after round spewed from his autogun, yet the three merely stood their ground. Slowly the soldier's mind cleared from the shock of the cadets death, he realised there was something missing, it was like an itch you couldn't reach. Something was wrong but his exhausted mind couldn't get it. As the hail of autoguns, las-guns and the Sarge's bolter thudded or sliced their way into the three shapes he struggled to think, and then it dawned on him.
The left flank was still concealed by fog. The soldier spun from his post, sprinting down the mud filled trench. As the three attackers crumpled to the ground he knew he would be too late.
He saw the end of the line; he was almost there. A glint of metal caught his eye as he ran. Instincts honed in combat on untold worlds saved him as he dived to the ground. He was faster than the two men at the end of the trench as the stik bomb sailed over their heads to detonate behind them. The screams died as quickly as the men did. He wiped the water and blood from his face, his weapon slipping in his grip as a solid mass skidded into the trench.
Metal glistened as water and mud slid off the hulking form of an Ork.
It was like no Ork he had ever seen before. It was like some kind of Tzeentch experiment. Not fully Ork, but a hybrid of Ork and machine. Two great wheels spun up mud, a third reached out in front of his body, a large blasta gripped in his right hand and where his left hand should have been was a saw toothed choppa, its blades spinning with deadly speed. His jaw had been replaced with an oversized metal contraption and one piggish eye peered at the prone soldier. The other had been replaced with some sort of optical enhancement.
“What are you?” he gasped as he lay on the cold damp earth.
"We ahh da B'Orks. We gonna add ya bilogkil and teklogkil dist...distinc...stuff to our own.
Your culture gonna adapt ta serve us. Resistance is futile.” Even his voice was not the loud gruff booming that accompanies the Ork speech, but rather it was as if more Orks were present, all talking at once but using one voice to do it.
The soldier turned, more cybernetic Orks were jumping, leaping and diving into the trench. Two bore burners fused to their shoulders, others had choppas and blasta's. But each methodically stalked through, dispensing death to all the guardsmen. The NCO was impaled on a large Ork's contraption, an over sized drilling head fused to its right hand. It spun its way through his gut, finally erupting out of Larry's back. The Ork's grunting laugh could be heard over the explosions and gunfire that blazed insanely around him. He pulled the drill out, spinning intestine, blood and other bodily parts over the defenders who stood in shock. The NCO was still screaming when the Ork withdrew his ghastly appendage, only silencing when the Ork placed the muzzle of his blasta to his head and fired.
An Ork wearing off-white armour bent down and grabbed up the Sarge who lay motionless in the mud. The Sarge's arm hung loosely at his side, having been almost severed by one of the Ork's choppa's. The sick greenskin sniffed the wound, poked one of his clawed fingers in and causing the Sarge to waken in pain. He licked the blood off his finger, grunting with pleasure. Turning towards the huge Ork that stood behind him, the one in white bowed. The soldier could not make out anything as this ones face was covered in a hideous white mask. It was like he had tried in vain to mimic the medics that were stationed at the many Imperial bases. He must be the Ork Pain Boy, the one who was trained in the ways of Ork medicine. If you could call what he did medical treatment. Still holding the Sarge, without pause he tore the nearly severed arm off and tossed it towards the soldier. He recoiled as he heard the Sarge scream himself unconscious.
“You gonna be da voice of da B'Ork, you gonna tell dem we ahh here now and we gonna assimilate y'all.” As if conjured up by the Ork Nob, the Pain Boy returned with the Sarge. Where his left arm had been was now a gigantic metal arm, and fused to his wrist was a buzzsaw. He watched in horror as the Pain Boy injected a green fluid into the prone form of the Sarge. If the Sarge had been conscious it would have been a torment for him as his body began to pulse, vibrate and twist around as if something was trying to escape from within. The Sarge's body arched in a violent convulsion, his feet and head pounding into the mud. His skin, now grey, was pulled taut over his skull, it started to shift from the grey pallor to a soft green tone that tainted his cheeks first. The green rash spread over his face in a matter of seconds, and minutes later the Sarge had greenskin from head to toe.
The soldier was appalled at the sight of his Sarge being corrupted. He could not understand what they were planning for him but he wished to the mighty Emperor that he would die before they performed such a thing on him. He did not have to wait long, as the final stages of the Sarge's transformation were nearing completion. The sounds of bones snapping and grinding grated at his frayed nerves. He could not look away, he could not believe his eyes, what he saw should not be possible, it could not be done. And yet it was happening, right in front of him. May the Emperor have mercy on us all. No longer was it the Sarge resting on the ground, instead the hulky form of an Ork lay there in the mud. The soldier could only lay there, his face a calm mask that could be shattered at any second by the screaming man that lurked in his mind. He tried to stop the panic from rising in him. “It's not right, its not right,” he chanted to himself, and he could hear the fear—verging on hysterical—in his own voice.
The Pain Boy knelt down beside his new creation and placed a long cylinder to the Orks head. With a shudder it's eyes opened, limbs began to function with jerky shifts and it crawled up out of the mud to stand beside it's creator.
“We da B'Ork, resistance is futile.” His voice had the metallic over tone that resonated with many voices. The Ork leader reached down and grabbed the soldier. “Imperial scum, you'll be da teller of woes, for you will spread da word to all humans dat we gonna assimilate dem into our collective.” He snatched the autogun out of the soldiers feeble hands. With a careless toss he was flung out into no man's land, landing hard in a pot hole, the wind knocked from his lungs. He saw the three shapes that had earlier taken the lives of the two cadets. They were gretchins, blastas fused to their shoulders. Behind the trench loomed the great city of Lordal, and he could see distant Ork hordes as they invaded. Fires burned bright in the distance casting the clouds with a blood-red hue . He contemplated this new enemy and shivered as he held a hand to his ribs, knowing from past experience he had cracked them on his landing.
The soldier walked for two days before he was found and evacuated with the other retreating Imperial guard troops. He suffered six months of debriefing before he finally found someone to believe him, and it was a further three years before a task fleet was sent out to Thordan III to see what had become of the planet and to confirm that the B'Orks were there.
The soldier was with them when they journeyed to that distant planet. The Battleship Vargors Might was on point when the first scan of Thordan III came though. He stood beside the Captain of the vessel. No longer was he just a soldier. He was now Captain Maddock of the Grey Wolves. The sole survivor of the Timber Wolves regiment, who, in honour of their sacrifice, had been given this command.
Captain Alkur handed Maddock the report. Skimming it, he rubbed his weary eyes. “Are you certain, Alkur?”
“I am, my friend. There is no question about it, this sector is no longer under Imperial control. There are sixty billion B'Orks here now.”
Maddock clenched his first over the report. “Get the Astra path to communicate this to Terra. Let them decide on the course of action. Until we hear, set up a perimeter around this sector, Captain Alkur. Let no one in or out.”
“At once.” Captain Alkur bowed and left Maddock to his thoughts.
It had begun. The road to his vengeance would be paved with the corpses of the B'Orks, but he was certain that on Thordan III there was an Ork waiting for him to come back. The one he would make pay for the deaths of his battle brothers. Maddock looked at his reflection in the window. He wore the uniform of the Urban fighter, blue, with white, black and grey streaks, each shoulder-pad bore the colour of his lost regiment, the Timber Wolves green. His new squad would remember the men who had fallen.
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