Ork's Meeting

The orks stiffened at that. "WHAT? THEY DANCED? THAT'S JUST RUDE!"

"That's too much! We didn't even dance on da battlefield! No matter how much fun we have, no matter how sweet da sound of gunfire is, we hold it in!"

"This is an insult! We gotta stomp 'em good! Put 'em down!"

More and more voices joined in, turning into a unified roar of agreement.

"CAR! CAR! CAR!"

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

"BURST 'EM! BURST 'EM! BURST 'EM!"

Chief Zoggit grinned wider. Now they were talkin'. "Yes! We're gonna stomp 'em proper! But—" He lifted a finger, silencing the group, "—we gotta be smart about it."

Silence.

'That was new.' The bosses blinked at him, their faces blank. Chief Zoggit nodded sagely. "See, I called ya here 'cause we gotta have a war meetin'. We ain't just gonna charge in headfirst this time. No. We gotta be… strategic."

The bosses exchanged looks. 'What the zog was a 'war meetin'?'

One scratched his head. "Uh… don't we just run at 'em, flip their tanks over, an' krump 'em?"

Another ork nodded slowly. "Yeah. Dat's a strategy, right?"

A heavy silence fell over the group. For the first time in a long time, the assembled orks were thinking. Chief Zoggit waited patiently. This was the moment. Someone had to have a good idea. The minutes dragged on. More silence. A few orks clutched their heads, clearly in pain from the effort. Finally, one of the bigger bosses cleared his throat. "…I got an idea."

Chief Zoggit was delighted. Finally, someone had spoken up! And when he turned to see who it was, his grin grew wider—it was his new favorite follower, Zhanzhan. "Oi, Zhanzhan! What kinda brilliant idea ya got rattlin' in that big green head of yers?"

Now, among orks, Zhanzhan was considered a thinker—not exactly a mekboy, but certainly smarter than most. He squared his shoulders and declared boldly, "We should go east! Smash da humies in da east!"

Immediately, a few other orks grunted in disagreement.

"Why east? Ain't da south better?"

"I like da west."

"How 'bout north-northwest?"

"Oi, wot da zog is north-northwest?"

The argument was already starting to spiral when Chief Zoggit slammed his fist into the ground, making the nearby orks jump. "Enough! Shut it an' listen to Zhanzhan! I wanna know why we should go east."

Zhanzhan took a deep breath, then proudly explained, "Because dat's where da big fireball rises! Every morning, da sun comes up in da east! If we always charge toward it, we'll never get lost!"

Silence. And then—like a bomb going off—the realization hit every single ork in the meeting. 'By Mork… he was right.' Zhanzhan wasn't just a smart ork—he was a genius!

For centuries, orks had charged in random directions, never bothering to check where they were going. Half the time, they just followed the loudest boss. If a boss yelled "We're goin' north!" they might charge south anyway. Direction didn't matter—only the fight did.

But this? This was revolutionary.

If they always ran east, they'd never wander aimlessly again. They wouldn't end up back where they started after krumpin' their way through an entire battlefield, only to realize they'd looped back around. And they wouldn't scatter like grots chasing a squig, only to get separated mid-fight.

It was simple, effective, and most importantly—orky.

The bosses nodded in deep admiration. "Oi, da Chief really is da smartest! Even 'is followers are brilliant!"

Some bosses, overcome with excitement, were already planning their new and improved daily routine. "Every mornin', we get up, we chase da fireball. We krump anything in front of us. WAAAGH!"

Another ork, trying to sound wise, put his hands together and muttered, "Mysterious. Very mysterious. Da Chief an' Zhanzhan think on a higher level. It's da kind o' strategy dat makes da humies nervous."

An ork standing nearby, not wanting to feel left out, scratched his head. "Wot's so mysterious about it? Explain it ta me!"

The 'smart' ork smirked. "Oi, ya don't get it?"

The confused ork shook his head. "Nope. Explain."

"If ya understand, ya understand. If ya don't, ya don't. If ya understand, ya understand. But if ya don't, no amount o' explainin' will help ya understand."

The poor ork's brain nearly exploded. He staggered back, shook violently, and collapsed into a pile of dazed confusion. His last conscious thought? "Wot… wot da zog?! Dat's too deep!"

The first military meeting had ended, and the greenskins were feeling something they rarely experienced—pride. They had actually held a proper military gathering, complete with an agenda, discussions, and a final decision. It had structure, order, and even an actionable plan. A true rarity among orks! Across the entire galaxy, few ork warbands could claim to have conducted such a "successful" meeting.

Bubble! Book. Bar!

The warboss and his lieutenants had, against all odds, come up with a plan that was both practical and effective. Even better, it had that mysterious something—that special, indescribable Waaagh! energy that made it irresistible. Of course, if some poor fool were dumb enough to ask, "Oi, wot's da zoggin' plan?" they'd be met with the legendary response: "If ya get it, ya get it. If ya don't, ya don't. And if ya don't, ya still won't even if I tell ya."

As for when they'd put this grand strategy into action? That was another matter. Chief Zoggit, the warboss, had a prized vehicle—a heavily modified four-wheel-drive Hummer built by the renowned mekboy Grimgutz. A beast of a machine, violent and indestructible. But recently, it had a small issue: the engine kept cutting out for no reason. This, naturally, had made Zoggit reluctant to move.

Any mekboy worth their teef could have fixed the problem in minutes, but only a true master would be allowed to touch the boss's ride. The issue? Simple. The Tusk Boss, in his infinite wisdom, had a habit of pissing in the wrong tank. He thought he was adding his own special touch to the truck's coolant, making it extra orky. But the problem was... he kept confusing the coolant tank with the fuel tank. Even the best meks and the most devout followers of the Machine Spirit couldn't make a vehicle run on ork piss.

Thus, until a master mek was found and Zoggit's Hummer roared back to life, the grand battle plan—driving all da way to da big fireball wot rises!—would have to wait.

Kayvaan and his scouts arrived at their designated rendezvous. Unlike regular soldiers, his team consisted of fully enhanced Astartes, though they differed from standard Space Marines. These warriors had been trained for stealth, infiltration, and sabotage, and unlike their towering brothers, they lacked the gene-modifications that made Astartes giants. At most, some stood around 1.9 meters—still imposing by human standards, but nothing compared to the towering behemoths of the Adeptus Astartes.

Their smaller stature did nothing to diminish their lethality. These warriors could fight for weeks without rest, possessed enhanced vision and reflexes, and could digest nearly anything organic. Bark, roots, even dirt—if it could be chewed, they could process it. More than just warriors, they were shadows, assassins, saboteurs—silent reapers lurking in the dark, far deadlier than the brutish warriors who relied on sheer forke.