Daily Grind

(Inside the daemon core room)

Korresh was having a bad day, for you see, in the life of a hungry daemon there is nothing worse than being cut down in your prime. One moment he was the proud demon rattling across the battlefield in his titan body, blasting and stomping across worlds, razing cities, and feasting upon the souls of the dead. This was all true, up until the point that a tribe of seemingly insignificant green skins found their way into his body. Klanking, rattlings, stabbing, and killing their way through his insides. Killing his crew and denting his interior.

His last memory of the outside world was the sound of an earthquake. No... It couldn't have been an earthquake. He knew that sensation far too well from his own rumbling across the fields of war. Nay, for this was an earthquake inside of him. Twisting an churning its way through his insides like an intestinal cramp that would make a daemon of Nurgle giggle with glee, hundreds of squigs frothed forth from his venting system.

They quickly surrounded his core, the source of his very essence, they bit, grabbed, and tussled at him. Korresh shook, lashing out with psychic bursts of energy but for every vanquished squig, a dozen more took its place. It was seemingly never ending until some of the squigs started glowing green. Somehow beginning being able to resist his lashes, these WAAAGHsquigs held him back with the echoes of bellows of orks around them.

"FOUL GREEN ONES, RELEASE ME FROM THIS PRISON OR I WILL DEVOUR YOU ALL."

With Korresh's psychic emanations cut off from the outside, the only response he got was in the form of an upside down squig that began unceasingly licking his forehead.

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(In the head)
Butting Heads

"This council session is now open, we will start with important business, then each sector will have their turn to voice opinions and concerns, and we will have free questions at the end"

The Gretchin looked around the room at the eight councillors in front of him. Two representatives from the legs, one from the entertainment sector in the left, one from the commercial sector in the right, and two from the joint sectors of the legs. The lower torso had a factory owner representing them, the upper torso an important civil servant. The left and right arms were each represented by a swingee, and were sitting on opposite sides of the room.

The rest of the room was filled with note takers, a journalist from the Titan's news radio office, a variety of factory owners, and some curious Grots who were on break and popped in, wanting to see what the high life was like.

"Now, to begin, the shortage of steel plates in the factory sector. I understand that the..."

"The representative from the left arm will now speak." The head of the counsel sat down as a surprisingly well kept Gretchin, adorned with an innumerable number knifes, small axes, and other generally point/sharp things stood up in front of his peers at the table. "Thank you councilor... *eherm* We of the left arm would like to motion for the reallocation of grotpower to our sector. The increasing demands of keeping Boris in working order is becoming taxing for-"
"Rubbish!"

An equally well kept but infinitely more frustrated Gretchin, with a shoota bigger than his entire body propped up next to him, shot up from his seat across the table. "We all know that the left arm is doing just fine. You installed a new motor on Boris's main saw last just last week, where as we've been barely able to keep the Gailgun batteries running at all! If anyone needs more Grots its the right arm!"

The representative from the left arm immediately fallowed up with a retort "We upgraded the motor because the old one had broken! Perhaps if we had more Grots It wouldn't Have needed to replace it in the first place!"
"Maybe if you weren't so busy playing with knives it wouldn't have needed replacing in the first place!" Their banter had the ease and timing of a well practiced play. "The idustial sector has been short staffed for months! The Warboss just keeps ordering bigger and stupider crap and our current workforce isn't enough." A third counsel member had jumped in, this one short and grimy, years of oil, grim, and grit staining everything about him from his skin and close to his personality.

"The production of weapons and machines for our boys is more important than the needs of some stupid ass gits who cant help but spasm over every shooter and choppa they some across!"
"How about I personally show you just how 'Important' Shooters are!" the counsel room was ablaze with anger, each counsel member passionately stating their argument while yelling over the others.

"Gentlemen please, this is no place for conflict. We are supposed to be deciding the future of Boris." The counselor was the picture of stoicism among the carnage that was the counsel table. "We must set aside our quarrels and look to what is best for our society. Save your your wrath for the battle field where it is needed, for now we must think of a solution to this staff problem."
As rational and calm as he was the counselors efforts to assuage the raging representatives was for not. If something wasn't done soon the situation would only escalate and the bureaucracy that has lead Boris to prosperity for so long could come crashing down around him.

"OI Y' STOOPID GITS! What're y' go'n on about!? GET BACK TA WERK BEFER I KRUMP DA LOT A YA! ...stoopit grots... I swear Im da only sane one on dis whole dam fing..."

The entire counsel silent. "Motion to re-adjourn."

Motion carried.

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(In the right arm)

"And what do YOU do?"

The Head-Councillor did his best to hide his boredom, on his tour of Boris' right arm. He was already sick of having to swing around on all of these muddled wires, and he felt it was entirely beneath him. But votes were at stake, so he had to show his face.

"Oi'm in charge keeping ar' shootas clean and firin' proply, boss- I mean, 'ed Councillor."
"Fascinating. And do you enjoy your job?"
"Why yes, oi do indeed. Can't never get bored of workin' wit shootas, ser"

The shine in the Gretchin's eyes showed that he wasn't lying. Not that he had enough of a brain to lie anyway, thought the Head-Councillor. Blasphemous as it may seem, he was utterly sick of these hellish industrial corridors, he just wanted to get back to his comfortable office and do something nice and clean. Anything, even studying the daily oil distribution graphs seemed like a more interesting prospect that spending more time in this hellish place.

Still, it wasn't like he had much of a choice. If he was to keep his seat, he needed morons like these on his side, especially with the Councillor of the commercial sector hanging on his coat tails. He knew that if he was to put one foot wrong, he'd be down in the industrial sector breathing in smoke for the rest of his life. Best to just keep a friendly face. It'll pay off.

"Now, you mentioned this weapon here"...
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(Still in the right arm)

Da Blue Grot continued working up a storm throughout the ded-shooty alfa section of the arm. The Shootists had payed good teef for her work, and she wouldn't let Tinka down now. A sharp kick vaulted her back far enough to view her creation. What once been an intimidating relief of some 'umie git now showed Gork (or maybe Mork) lifting bullets toward the open feed for one of Boris' huge guns. Satisfied, she began fiddling with the medley of pulleys connecting her to the wire.

"C'mon Mr. Squig, we're done here." she said, pulling the final lever and beginning a rapid descent. Suddenly realizing the horror of his situation, he he gave a violent start. The movement proved too much for his position. As Blue down the wires, the squig flies past her, followed by a scream. The squig tugged furiously on the ignition as it fell.

Below, a grot had dropped his slight protection and was preparing for a climb. He'd get up there and krump 'em good! Or he might have, had the hefty Mr. Squig and drone not bounced off of his head. The drone sputtered, and Mr. Squig lets out a growl as the the rotors carry him through the air. Pulling on the brake, Blue jumped onto the platform where the grot is and collected the few teef that had been knocked out.

The poor grot was knocked silly by the impact. He'd barely gotten out a word before she was over the edge again, cheekily calling back up. "Always keep yer eye on the squig, zog-fer-brains!"

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(In the hip)
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 nerviously 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 come 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 scatched 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 wealding masks staring at him, clutching assorted tin mugs, cups and mortar casings."Wher' ma tea?" demanded a particularly dim looking grot. And then he realized 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 didnt 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."

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(In the right leg)

"Oi, wot'z dat flashy place over there"

"Oh dat? Da grotz call it a 'kuhseeno'. S'like a place fer tradin' teef. Cept dere's no krumpin'."

"Tradin' teef wifout krumpin'. Dat'z not orky at all!"

"Ya'd fink dat, but it iz! Da grotz in dere are like a bunch uv little morks! Wif just some fancy scratched bitz uv metal or a trukk wheel they can have most uv yer teef before ya know it."

"But...can't ya just krump 'em? Dey'z grotz."

"Zog me, I tried. But dey have deez paperz sayin' dey're allowed to and stuff from da boss. So I wasn't sure if I should krump 'em, or da bass should, or maybe ecen I should krump meself."

"Dat'z zoggin' unfinkable. Some git takes yer teef, ya krump 'em. Simple."

"But it'z not! Dey even took me teef before I lost 'em!"

"Dat doesn't make a squig of sense."

"Dey have dis system. Ta play gamez fer teef, ya need ta trade teef in fer little bitz dey say rep...reperz...are teef but not."

"Ya'z been drinkin' too much squig beer."

"Maybe I haz. But in dere, dey got deez choppaz...and flashy bitz uv dakka...zog me, it was hard ta concentrate on me losin' teef."
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(Still in the right leg)

"Dat slippery grot. I oughts krump 'im fer bein' so-"

"Fine, but you must fill out sections A, C, T, and G to apply for krumping."

"Er...can't I jus-"

"Seeing as this is the 'ead Councillor, a fee of 580 teef is required. Your dakka and choppa, should it be used, will have to be submitted for review by the respective departments."

"Listen, I just wantz ta kru-"

"We can't forget about your size, either. You are at least five times larger than the councillor and have moderate armor as well. As such, the councillor shall be given adequate shielding and an entourage of grots of his choosing. Weaponry shall be matched if and when you submit it."

"But...um...I-"

"Please report back here on the 15th to return these forms, the 17th for weaponry submission, and the 21st for finalization. With any luck your krumping will be within the next few months. Don't count on it though, the councillor is a very busy grot."

"...da zog just happened..."

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(Continuing to be in the right leg, in the Nid pit specifically)

Gladiator Grot

The smell of blood hung thick in the air of the gutworks. Durk sat before the gate cross legged, prepared to go out and make his appearance and fight for more glory, and more teef. Since the council had put together the arena Durk knew it was for him. He wasn't like the other Gretchin. He had instincts, cunning, brutality. He was called 'the smallest ork in duh tribe' by some scraplootas. He sat calmly and breathed deep, the anticipation felt like static to the other combatants but to him, it was a light rain.

The sirens whirred, the gates went up, the crowd roared and snickered. Durk arose and tread carefully unto the center of the complex, raising his twin choppas in the air. They were simple, buzzsaws on the end of short sticks. But he liked them, he'd always liked them. The second sirens began to wail, the fight had begun, the gladiators took their ready stances and the clash began.
There were 6 of them in the ring, and the fight was conducted as an every man for himself battle. Durk licked his cracked lips and turned on his choppas.
He spun gracefully around the battlefield, dodging, ducking, weaving, rolling, and parrying in an arc through his foes. Lopping off a head, then whizzing through an arm, blocking a hammer and buzzing right through a couple of legs. They were fodder to him. None could even land a blow on the graceful green killing machine. Within a matter of minutes, everyone in the ring was in pieces save for Durk. Another match won. Again now, he raised his choppas into the air. The crowd screamed in approval. Durk turned away now, walking as calmly from the fray as he had entered it to collect his reward of teef in the gutworks.

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(In the head, probably)

"What's dat? You want to know da longest a single Grot has stayed in da 'ead office? I think I have the documents around 'ere someplace"

The Radio-Journalist from 102.5 Boris FM, Korckuk, followed the Grotocrat down the corridors of library. He'd not been a journalist long, and he felt that this could well be his big break, that he had stumbled onto a story that would get him promoted right up to the top.

As far as the Grots in Boris were concerned, there had always been a Head Councillor. And there had, that was true. But the story that had been held from the populace was that the Head Councillor changed, and changed often. Such a thing had never been considered before, but as Korckuk trudged slowly by the seemingly endless set of books and records, he realised that his little theory may indeed hold water.

"And 'ere we are, the book of the 'ead councillor." The wise looking grot passed the book to Korckuk.
"Thank you, you've no idea how important dis book is to me."

He opened the book. Looking at its first page, he saw what he thought was the census, names, names, names, names, stretching long into the past. The names each had a little date alongside them, and it was this date that was important. Korckuk had got his big break. And he was about to break the entire conspiracy wide open.