The trukk bore down on him and Trazyn swept the obliterator back, calculating his strike. The nob riding in the back planted his foot on the driver’s seat for balance and extended a crude slugga, taking what counted for orks as aim. The driver, his seat shoved forward by the nob’s boot, drove with his massive goggles only a hair above the steering wheel.
‘Oi, shiny git!’ the nob bellowed, and emptied his magazine.
Bullets the size of human tongues – and about as dangerous – whistled past Trazyn. One clanged off his forehead. This nob was clearly a marksman.
Trazyn slammed the ground ahead of the trukk, denting the earth in a pothole wide as a battle tank. Cracks jagged out towards the oncoming tyres.

The Infinite and the Divine