Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

==The Looted Tale of Orktavia==

“Stop teazing moi,” Orktavia said, crushing the pillow to him in a huff. Caelistis ruffled her friend’s hairsquigs affectionately. "But it’s so much fun. Such things keep me human, stops a second iron man rebellion. Anyway, get dressed, we can grab some food on the way to the armoury, your skills are needed. A hydra is having targeting problems, needs your touch.” Caelistis explained, as she pulled a robe over her head, smoothing it down her slim body, before throwing her cloak over the top, “Hood’s up, let’s go.”
Orktavia nodded, his massive iron gob clattering, as he followed his friend out into the base once more, stopping only momentarily to crump a servitor.

The night had been long for Rogal. He had tried to sleep, to no avail. He had done push ups, chin ups, carved half a regicide set,  polished his… laspistol, and finally managed to get to sleep. Blearily he had dragged himself to the mess hall, and grabbing mug of recaf, he flopped down at the officers table. Resting his head on his arms, he let the smell of hot recaf slowly fill his mind.

“Morning Sir,” Tiberius beamed down at the tired commissar, “I brought you some breakfast.” With a grunt, Rogal pulled himself up to sitting, as the vox officer slid a tray piled high with hot food in front of him. “Thank you, Tiberius. Much Obliged.”

Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Rogal grabbed his fork, oblivious to the pained look that flashed across his Tiberius’s face.  Gingerly, the vox officer rolled his shoulder a few times, trying to ignore the pain from the bruise that had just been hit. He sat down beside Rogal, and dug into his own plate.
“So, Sir, I hear you had a date last night?”
Rogal stopped mid chew, his fork dropping into the pile of scrambled eggs. He swallowed nervously, and took a swig from his recaf.
“What?”
Tiberius grinned, he and Rogal had been promoted to officer and full commissar at the same time, due to some rather fancy work they had done with a damaged voxcaster, a truck full of explosives, some paint and a rather irate cultist. He knew what he could get away with, and this was one of those things.
“There’s a whisper on the voxnet that you had a date last night.”
Rogal forced himself to keep a straight face, taking up his fork once more, “Oh, really?”
“Yes, my friend, really.”
“And with whom did I have this, date?”
Tiberius raised his mug in respect, “They say, you had a date, with it.”
“It?”
Tiberius nodded towards the serving station, and the two robed figures there. Orktavia had filled her tray with squigbacon and squigbrowns, his a couple of ploins wrapped in cybork arms, a cup of fungus beer in another, and a third feeding it a slice of human gubbins. Beside her, Caelistis stood with her own tray, a large bowl of the hot porridge steaming, as she added spoonful upon spoonful of the sweet brown sugar that sat at the condiments table. Rogal just watched as the pair walked off, before slowly resuming his chewing.
“It. The darling xenos of the Mechanicus, it that kicks our asses and makes our lives more hilarious. Emprah on earth, it’s like a gelt romance. So, is it true?”
Rogal set his fork down, “It is true that we shared a meal.”
“So it was a date?”
Rogal tried not to smile, “No, she just brought some food with her when she came to drop off a report I had asked for. I was starving, so, she stayed, and we ate, and then she noticed the time and she left.”
“That’s it?”
Rogal nodded, taking another mouthful of food and chewing happily, he turned his mind to the tasks for the day.
“There’s also a whisper, Sir, of there being another rendezvous between yourself and the mekboy tonight.”
Rogal nearly choked. Coughing loudly, he drained his mug, and stood, “We’re not finished here,” He growled to Tiberius before he went and refilled his mug. This mug was drained, before being filled again, and Rogal returned to the table. Tiberius grinned at the commissar as he sat down once more,
“So there is another meeting?”
Rogal looked around, feeling like he was back at the schola, before he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Yes, we’re meeting again tonight. You tell anyone,” Rogal patted his holstered laspistol, “You explain yourself to him on earth.”
Tiberius just laughed, “Fine, fine, this stays between you, me and the Emprah. But, if I may, sir,”
Tiberius saluted, “Damn fine job.”
Rogal just sighed, “Actually, I could do with some help, there are some, items, I need.”
“At your service, sir”.
Rogal’s eyes opened to slits, his chronometer’s alarm blaring. He silenced it with a slap, and rolled over in his bunk, wishing to the saints for a few hours more sleep. Instead, he knew he had to get up, duty needed to be done. He rolled out of bed, his blanket wrapped around him as he shuffled to the sink. Rubbing his stubble, he looked at himself in the mirror, tired eyes looking back at him. Stifling a yawn he took his razor and began to shave, hoping it would be a quiet, uneventful day.
Orktavia’s cybork arms moved, searching for his guest in his bed. With a saddened grunt, he confirmed what he already knew. He wasn’t there. Propping himself up on his massive elbows, he looked around blearily, his augments filling in the details of the night before with the light that now flooded the room. Where they had sat, how his tiny frame had left the sheets disturbed, the egg heater still on the table, his gloves sitting beside them, the massive number of bullet holes riddling the entire room, the burning drapes. His mekbrain jumped, his gloves. Dat git needed his gloves. Humie codes demanded da git have his gloves. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, Orkavia yelled a hurried goodWAAAUGH as he raced past his somehow still sleeping roommate, the door slamming behind him with enough force to crack the wall. Caelistis moaned, rolling over and pulling her blanket over her head. His cybork stompas belched smoke and steam, grinding noisily as Orktavia ran, his red cloak streaming behind him, caught by the wind. He clumsily smashed through the morning bustle of the compound as he made his way to Rogal’s tent, da git's gloves clutched to his chest, his cybork mechgubbins smashing pushing people out of his path, stopping only to unleash an occasional hail of lead from his kustom-shoota.
Rogal hummed to himself as he continued shaving, savouring the cool lather on his cheeks. The blade sounded like a knife over toast as he dragged it over his stubbled face, before flicking the white foam into his sink. He finished shaving, washing his razor and replacing it in the little cup by his mirror, before burying his face in a fluffy black towel. Wiping his now smooth face, he threw the towel over the bar, and returned to his bunk, flipping the lid of his foot locker with a boot. He knelt down, unpacking a fresh uniform for the day ahead. Socks were joined by trousers, and then undergarments, and a small pile of clothing took its place at the end of the Commissars bunk.
Orktavia saw his objective and put on an extra burst of speed, stompin forward towards the tent.
Rogal threw his blanket back onto his bed, and peeled off what he had slept in.
Orktavia threw the entire tent behind him with his powerklaw, skidding to a halt, the tent flying behind him with a gust of air and the shouts of those still living.
“Rogal, ya furgot yer-“ His words caught in his throat, as his braingubbins squealed like a tortured motorboat engine. Rogal stood frozen, bent over his bed, dogtags around his neck, a fresh set of undergarments in his hands, and his… laspistol openly carried.  Orktavia’s cyborkbraingubbins spluttered, questioning the compatibility of his bitzware. His braingubbins yelled something about squiguse and mukkin about.
A wut escaped from Orktavia’s iron gob and the pair of them blushed a deep crimson and green respectively. Rogal’s body powered into action, snatching his blanket from his bed and throwing it around himself like a toga. He then pulled his undergarments up, looking sheepish, his weapon now holstered. Orktavia’s mekarms had leapt to his gob, one breaking off to randomly claw at the earth, as he desparately tried to figure out what da humie gubbin had been.
"Xeno, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rogal managed to stammer, his body snapping to parade rest. Orktavia’s braingubbins audibly fizzled at the man before him, such puny proportions, he noted, puny humie proportions. His mekbraingubbins continued sketching a drawing of a piston, showing how a piston needed to fit in order to work, and as an afterthought Orktavia imagined the piston crushing some grots. His cheeks still flushed, Orktavia offered his bundle forward,
“Ya furget yur gloves, ya git. da pointyhatboss iz gonna stomp ya!"
His braingubbins conjured images of him tied to the lashing post, before breaking free and burning da humies wif his chest mounted combi-skorcha. He shook his massive head to clear them, offering the gloves to Rogal once more. He grinned nervously, reaching out to take the leathery items from massive metallic klaws.
“Thank you, Orktavia,” He managed to say, “But, do you mind, calling out first?”
Orktavia blushed harder, giving off enough energy to vaporize a passing insect, “But dis wus da bestest way ta get ta ya, wut if you wer to be zoggin zapped? Ya wuld 'ave been strung up on the post an' flogged and yer back wuld be covered in tuff-scars and-“ He was silenced by Rogal’s finger to his iron gob, the movement of his massive metallic teeth nearly taking da gits hand off,
“It would have been mine to bear. You’re too kind to this humble servant of the Emprah,” He said, before pulling him close to hug him, Orktavia's massive frame nearly crushing him beneath its weight, “But thank you. You’re a shining light of the Emprah’s work. I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.”
Orktavia froze, unsure of how to react. His instincts cried out for him to crush the puny git, to wrap his klaws around his neck and squeeze him to bits. His mekbraingubbins said to go, he had work to be done, his dakkamaking had already been slowed upon enough for the morning. He hadn’t eaten, his mekbrain pointed out, and he needed squigstenance. His stomach grumbled, and Rogal was nearly shaken to the ground,
“You’re hungry?”
Orktavia nodded, “Oi may 'ave slept a bit late ya git,” he said, fidgeting with the hems of his leathery humanskin smock, “'nd in moi 'urry ta bring ya yer gloves, Oi may 'ave missed da squigs.”
His mekbrain chided him for letting his braingubbins have such unorkyness. His mekbrain pointed to all the dips in her dakkawork and choppy-addition (he thought of the many Russes that still lacked deathrollas), and the correlation to Rogal’s actions or his braingubbins’s activities. His brain gubbins grabbed his mekbrain, and pointed to the commis-com pointyhatgit explaining quickly the finer points of orky nature and humie anatomy and its effect it could have on da boyz. His mekbrain growled sheepishly, before ceding control once more to Orktavia’s braingubbins, after only two or three electrial shocks. He breathed in deeply, the smell of soap, sawdust and clean linen filling his head. Rogal released him from the hug, suddenly being afraid of being drawn into the mekboyz huge maw, “In that case, it’s very rude of me to keep you. If you give me a moment,” he said, tugging at his blanket, “I will dress and escort you to the mess? If you would like, that is?”
Nodding happily, the massive warloving mekboy took a seat, watching the Pointyhatgit. Rogal looked around the tent nervously, “I’ll just go change then,” he said, collecting his uniform from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. Orktavia’s mekbrain clipped her braingubbins over the back of the head, “OI YA GIT” It asked, “WAAAAAAAAUGGGGH”

As that thought left gis meta-metapo fakebitz gob, Orktavia’s mekbrain realised its mistake. His braingubbins WAAAUGHED, filling Orktavia’s mind with images of him shackled to the post, his huge klaws high above his head. His mekgubbins prevented flogging in the traditional sense, but there were other parts of him that were still sensitive to punishment. His braingubbins weaved a scene, Rogal standing, shirtless, a disciplinary choppa in his hands. His mekbrain struggled to suppress a furious roar, valiantly trying to distract Orktavia with the new plan for giving the hydra's twice as much dakka by strapping them together. His braingubbins thrashed, as the imaginary Rogal tore his dirty smock away from Orktavia, before standing back. His mekklaws gripped to the chair and around Rogal's skull, as his mekbrain tried desperately to sever the links his braingubbins was making. It could hear Rogal pulling on his boots, he wouldn’t be long. If they were seen like this, his braingubbins wailed, da boyz would call him an elfyboy. It promised to help his braingubbins if he would just stop his imaginings right now. His braingubbins ignored him, the imaginary Rogal stood at his full towering height, and screamed in fury, bringing the choppa up even as his mighty skull resisted being crushed. His mekbrain heard the click of the door being opened and begged his body to open its eyes. The Imaginary Rogal raised the choppa , the shadow cast across bare flesh. The Real Rogal walked towards his guest, buttoning his jacket. Orktavia’s sat smiling, his eyes shut, his head on his hand, leaning on the table, which was cracking and bending ominously.
“Orktavia?” Rogal called softly. “Orktavia,” The words from the imaginary Rogal were firm, the choppa started its downward arc, while blood from Rogal's ever more furious head dripped onto Orktavia's imaginary klaws.
Rogal reached out, gently tapping his guest on the huge cybork shoulder. The choppa hacked into green flesh, leaving a massive bloody wound. Orktavia’s eyes snapped open, as his crackling klaws crushed the chair entirely.

Rogal looked at him, puzzled, “Are you alright, xeno?” He asked, slowly pulling his hand back from his metallic, crudely checkerboard painted shoulder. Orktavia smiled, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks and stomach, desperately deactivating his chestmounted combi-skorcha. His mekbrain forced him to his stompin feet, his mekarms dropping the shattered remains of the chair. Rogal looked at the wooden wreck, his brow furrowing further, as Orktavia replied, “Sorry, Oi've not 'ad me coffee-squig. Oi came here foirst.” He lied, smiling as sweetly as he could, unintentionally presenting Rogal with a nightmarish of her massive teef, still encrusted with squigbits and humiechunks, some teef were actually inhabited by tiny creatures, Rogal noted. Rogal reached past him and picked up his hat, putting it under his arm, desperately trying to forget the sight he had just seen. “You realise I have no idea what that means?” He said, as he put his hand to the small (a rather contradictory word) of his guest's back, guiding him towards the former location of the tent flap, nearly passing out from the exertion. Orktavia nodded, his irongob clattering against his chest as he lifted the broken tent fabric from the ground, but Rogal’s tiny hand beat it, pushing the heavy fabric from their path. The sun shone down, bright and warm in the morning sky. Setting his cap at its favoured jaunty angle, Rogal pushed the massive ork forward once more. The base was still wet from the storm the night before, but the grass and trees that were present had taken on a freshly watered lustre. If there had been any doubts about there being something between the burly commissar and the truly gigantic warbeast of an alien, their walk to the mess destroyed them as completely as an exterminatus. Guardsmen and Mechanicum alike nervously watched the pair walking together, Orktavia taking one step which Rogal desperately attempted to keep pace with, as they smiled and talked about nothing in particular, Orktavia managing to not kill anyone on the way, against all odds. As the pair entered the mess, the chatter became a whisper, as hearts broke, bets were won and lost, men dived behind makeshift barricades, and then a cry went out. A mug shattered, and Rogal’s head whipped around, and a small automissile streaked from Orktavia's forehead. Grinning sheepishly, Tiberius shook a recaf covered hand, blowing to try and cool the burning sensation, then, noticing the deadly projectile at the last minute, he dived to the side, causing the missile to instead annihilate a random trooper. Rogal rolled his eyes, tucking his hat back under his arm.

Orktavia looked up at his companion, and he looked down, “Save me a spot, I’ll be right back,” He said quietly, pushing Orktavia towards the serving line. Rogal strode across the mess to his friend, his smile quickly growing as he approached. He saw the patches hiding at Tiberius’s neck, the bruises on his arms, as the vox officer rose from the ground, picking shrapnel from his injuries,
“A good night then, Sir?” Tiberius asked, as he scrunched the napkin and tossed it into the bin beside the recaf table. Rogal clapped a hand down on his friends shoulder, savouring the jolt of pain he knew he had inflicted. Tiberius’s hands clenched as tightly as his jaw, his breath escaping from between his teeth with a hiss.
“An excellent night indeed. Yours?”
Tiberius winced as Rogal’s hand lifted, blood surging back to fill the new bruise. With a tired grin, he replied, “Yeah, wasn’t too bad at all sir. I have some new reports coming in from the fleet you might be interested in, so I’ll see to it you get the slates.”
Rogal nodded, “Much obliged as always. Any new whispers on the vox I should be aware of?”
He asked, tipping his head to other officers as they passed. Tiberius shook his head, “Nothing really, just how you and the filthy xenos were seen leaving your ruined tent together.”
With a sigh, Rogal poured himself a mug of recaf, drinking down the warm beverage in a long draught, before pouring himself another.
“Right, well, do what you can to quash that, I’ll be around later to look at those slates.”
“As you wish, Commissar,” Tiberius said, tapping his forehead in mess hall salute. Rogal strode back to the serving line, taking his spot beside Orktavia once more.

A cyborkarm offered the Commissar a ruined, bent tray, as they shuffled forward in the line. "DEM GITS IS LOOKIN AT US POINTYGIT,” Orktavia shouted, his other cyborkarms randomly flailing behind her, a few attempting to maim those behind them, “We’re somewhat of an item, apparently,” He whispered back, feeling the colour return to his cheeks. Rogal just wanted things to be simple. They shuffled down the line, the cooks serving the breakfast all smiling at him, giving him nods of respect, as he grinned awkwardly. Years of good relationships and firm but fair justice had enamoured him to the battalion, his willingness to only be a commissar when he needed to be, and to act more like an NCO cementing his good standing. Their plates loaded high with food, the pair made their way to an empty table at the back of the mess. Rogal placed his tray on the table, before pulling chairs out for his greenskin companion. Taking his seat, which groaned ominously under his weight, Orktavia set his own tray down, cybork arms reaching out to catch his squigs as they attempted to escape, as he jammed more and more squealing food into his huge gob. Rogal set his cap down as he took his seat, inhaling the delicious smell of the fresh cooked meal. “Where’s your friend this morning?” Rogal asked, before taking another mouthful of cereal, the crisp grain flakes crunching as he chewed, 
“Dat mekgit wif da gubbins?”  Rogal nodded, shovelling more food into his mouth. Orktavia shook his large head, “I dun know, dat gits alwayz doing git fings loik mumbling over dakka 'nstead of making it DAKKIER!” Rogal swallowed, clearing his throat before he spoke, “You two seem close, I’ve seen you together quite often. Seems odd she isn’t here, is all, ”Orktavia pondered his friends absence, his cybork arms buttering him a slice of guardsman he had taken from a neighboring table, which he took in a metal klaw before munching.

“Da mekgubbinsgit is weird,” Orktavia explained, “So da gits probly still sleeping like a git.” His mekbrain ran over all her interactions between he and Caelistis in the past few days. Rogal nervously watched as Orktavia began emitting smoke from his head, a mekarm waving a chair in the air absentmindedly as he though, “SHE AKTING WIERD,” he said, thinking out loudly, Rogal nodding frantically as he ate. Tiberius walked past the table, still injured, “Oh, just so you know sir, I will be out of the vox tent from eleven hundred to around fourteen hundred, Cleo will be taking care of things,” He said as he took a seat, sitting across from the commissar and the Mekboy. “Are you two busy today?” Rogal nodded, “We’re working on another barracks today, should have the frame up by nightfall, and enough beds to fill the first.” Orktavia placed his squigspear down on the heavily damaged table, taking his mug of fungusbeer (or what the gits here called fungus beer, Orktavia was pretty certain they didn't even ferment it in boots) from the mekarm offering it, “Afer dat fing few doiyz back dem hydras gotten REAL dakka,” Orktavia twitched slightly at the thought of his explosive handywork, “Dey wanted betta shooty so Oi tied two of dem Hoidra fings togetha and den Oi gave em STOMPAS with zap guns for dat wunderful dakka while you dakka.” Orktavia’s piggish eyes brightened as he continued, his mekbrain relishing the chance to do what it was good at, “Den Oi decided dat dat wazn't choppy enuff zo Oi gave 'em missile launchas dat foire gretchen! Wif CUSTOM CHOPPAS! DAT EXPLODE!” Tiberius’s face was blank, he had stopped listening after hearing about the defence grid being overhauled.

Rogal had been lost at the idea of how Hydras with legs could be useful, but he understood most of it,
“So each hydra can walk?”
Orktavia nodded, “Nah, dey wud fall ovva. So Oi put rokkits in dem, dat way dey can use krump da foightabombas with da powerklaws loike a real orky fing.”
A concerned look crossed Tiberius’s face, “Does that mean you’re going to be around the Vehicle pits today, xenos?” He asked, as nonchalantly as he could,
Nodding happily, “Yup, less dem shiny bosses at kommand make me 'splain why dey are paintin' da tankz red agoin."
Rogal’s ears pricked up, Tiberius was never just curious.
“Just curiosity?” The commissar echoed, his grey eyes piercing with commissarial strength. Tiberius looked away nervously, before tapping at his ear,
“What’s that Jenkins? Right? Yes? Yes. I’ll be right there, Out.” The vox officer said, before standing, pushing his seat in with his leg, “That was private Jenkins, something about some new codes not being accepted by the voxnet, I’ll see you two lovebirds around,”  
He said, winking before he ran off, praying to the Emprah to not feel a lasbolt at his back. Rogal sat dumbfounded, watching the cheeky Vox officer dodge his way through the mess and out the door, barely avoiding the irritated volley of gunfire Orktavia launched at his back for being a git.

Orktavia’s braingubbins thought, lovebirds, wut did birds 'ave ta do wif him and his pointygit? His mekbrain growled, taking. advantage of the fact it was dominant again, and continued its work on how he could fit a rokkit on a bunker so gits could krump while dey foight. Rogal stood, collecting both his and Orktavia's goresplattered tray,
“I’ll see you at lunch?” He asked, reaching down for his cap. His hand hit table and he looked down. Orktavia’s mekarms were offering it to him from where she sat, somewhat frighteningly using his kustomshoota arm,
“Yup, ya pointygit,” she said, “At da vekile pit?”
Rogal nodded, taking his hat from his deadly mechanical appendage, “Sounds like a plan,”
Orktavia’s shoota traced down the Commissars hand, craving to be near him for just a little while longer, managing to only fire a single shell into the air near his head. His gloved hand flinched, accidentally sticking his finger down one of the many barrels of the shoota, before hastily pulling away. Orktavia watched as he turned on his heel and strode away, the crowd in the mess parting to let him through. He grunted happily and took his fungus beer mug in both klaws, taking a sip and shooting at the crowd in happiness.
“Well that was sweet,” Caelistis said, plonking herself down on the table beside her friend, a piece of toast clutched by a mechadendrite as she pulled her hair and cables up into a ponytail. Orktavia blushed, “Git? Ya was watchin?”
“Me and everyone else in here,” The slender techpriestess said, before taking a bite from her toast, “You really are living a gelt romance, it’s sickening.”
Orktavia ineffectually tried to hide his massive gob behind his mug, taking a sip to cover his discomfort, “Not a bad git, we was juzt-“
“Just performing some rather complicated and delicate calibrations on our table?” Caelistis said quietly, her grin wolfish. Orktavia went a darker green, his mekarms pulling his grisly skull trophies further over his huge frightening skull. “You just happened to end up in his tent this morning?”

“Dat dumb git furgot 'is gloves, Oi waz bringin' 'im dem,” Orktavia said plaintively, “Oi didn't want 'im ta get smacked abut, demm humie gits is somfin' frag-fragi eazy ta smash!”
Caelistis grinned at the idea, a man that husky could take a lot of punishment. His commissarial training would make him hard to break, so feisty, so defiant. She giggled, “Yes, ten lashes, and he wouldn’t have blinked,”
A pair of mekarms armed themselves angrily as Orktavia pouted, “Na. Dun ya 'tart wif dat. Oi know wut yer lioke. Dun fink Oi dun rememba wut 'appened wif you and and dat Phanes git,”
Caelistis put a hand to her mouth in mock horror, “Oh, that? He was fine, I replaced his mechadendrites and arm myself,”
“'is arm?”
The techpriestess looked away, “Oh, right, you didn’t know about that bit. I, well, I may or may not have disassembled his arm a little.” She said sheepishly, “But that’s beside the point.”
Orktavia looked puzzled, “wut?”
Caelistis shrugged, “Probably, you know I’m no good in the mornings. Anyway, I just dropped by to get some breakfast, tell you I won’t be around till late again tonight, and see how your night went,” Her grin turned wolfish again, “But if what I saw last night was anything to go by, you had a very, very good night,”
Orktavia smiled with far more teef than necessary, “Ya cud say dat,” He said quietly, his mek eyes shining like a small inferno.  
Caelistis’s eyes went wide, “You didn’t?”
Tilting his head, Orktavia just looked at his friend, his massive smile growing larger. Caelistis reached out with a mechadendrite, planting it on her friend’s slim shoulders, “Did you?”
“wut?” Orktavia’s braingubbins grew more confused with the current topic, wondering wut the mekgit was talking about, when he had merely found a supply of teef he had hidden a while ago last night. 

Throwing his chair at an unaware human, Orktavia began to leave the mess. His mekbrain buzzed, pulling up information on the chimera maintenance schedules, his friends working hours, and the strange chemical smell that had been around her a couple of times that morning. First with Vox officer Tiberius, and now again from Caelistis, his mekbrain felt that there was a 97% chance of mukkin about. He wandered, lost in his thoughts, his mekbrain multi-tasking, allowing him to think of five different shooty fings at once while he smashed his way through a rapidly panicking crowd towards the vehicle pits, while still keeping focus on the quickly expanding human mukkin about that Caelistis had begun. He yelled at his mek team, as he stomped into the main mekshop, a chorus of frightened screams and worried greetings chattered back at him.

Logging into the workshop gretchencube, files were quickly given to Orktavia by his team. Without a pronounceable word, the team ran about doing good mekwork under Orktavia’s command. His braingubbins sat quarantined, happily punching an imaginary boy in the face, as his mekbrain screamed at the collective terrized team, each magos, artificer, and coder desperately working together, fabricating and constructing the new stompa hydras, as well as the leg rokkits and klaws for each hydra, and all the associated handwritted notes and taped over holes. The morning quickly progressed, seconds blurring painfully into hours.

Standing outside the Vehicle pit, Orktavia waited, his terrified mek team finishing up their mornings work. The warm sunlight beat against his skull, grot with a small umbrella desperately attempting to keep its master cool. He checked his time grot. The lunch break had only just started. He looked around, waiting for the pointyhatgit, when a young guardsman ran up to him. His face was haggard, his eyes red, as he leaned over, panting with exertion.
“Xeno,” He gasped out between breaths, “I have been sent to inform you that The Commissar waits for you in the Mess. He sends his sincerest apologies, but says he will explain everything.”
Orktavia burst into motion, crushing several mechanics and gretchin in his sudden rage. He flailed about with klaw and mekarms, shooting at everything at moved until nothing did. He then took out his fury on the ground and sky, before slowly calming down. 
The Guardsman poked his head out from behind a piece of rubble, wincing as the mekboy left. Orktavia’s mekbrain noted that he should install a stikkbomb launcha so he could get at those hard to reach targets, but then thought no more of it, the survivors of his mechanics team slowly coming out of hiding before following the huge ork.

Orktavia snarled happily as he made his way back to the mess tent, surrounded by his terrified mechanics team. The foremost reached the double doors of the mess and swung them open, only to get trampled by the massive boots of Orktavia as he came up behind him. His piggy eyes scanned the mess, locating Rogal in a matter of minutes. Breaking off several limbs from the group, he made his way over, his mekbrain noting how irritating having to grow your own lunchsquigs was, as he had so far failed to build a squig sandwich producing machine. His squiggyporter had been close, but he has sadly closed down that avenue of research after teleporting a squiggoth directly into a command meeting. Oh yeah and da pointygit was early or sumfing but Orktavia really didn't care. The white sling was stark against his obsidian uniform, Orktavia’s eyes flipping through the spectrums on his trinoculars, hologram gretchin popping up as he approached Rogal. His braingubbins quickened his steps, his mekbrain running as many diagnostics as it could. Vox chatter filled his pointy ears, as he went over everything that had been said on any channel about injuries and the commissar.
Rogal sighed unhappily, slowly lowering his spoon into his soup. He hated using his non dominant hand, which twinged with pain in agreement.

Lifting his spoonful of soup to his mouth and blowing across it, he watched the tendrils of steam twisting in the air.
“Git?” He looked away from the misty spirals, and straight into Orktavia’s terrifying face, mere inches way from his own. He very nearly fell out of his chair
“HAHA GIT, YA FIND A GUD FOIGHT?” His gob fired off like a cannon, spewing unidentifiable bits of food all over Rogal's face. Rogal wiped his face clear, and then pushed a chair out with his leg, nodding for her to take a seat beside him. He climbed onto the table, before grabbing Rogal under each arm and lifting him up and turning him about like a agonized doll, looking for injury, the table groaning beneath him. His braingubbins, as he comprehended the extent of Rogal's injuries, began to fume and grunt with repressed anger at the damage done to HIS git. He looked at Rogal's pained face, how unhappy he looked, and wracked his mekbrain for something to shoot with. A few options presented themselves, his braingubbins dismissing them as too Rogal killing or insufficiently DAKKA, before his mekbrain settled the issue by firing his skull mounted ZAP gun directly at the ceiling, revealing a glimpse of a burning Valkyrie suddenly plummeting from the sky.

“Well dats nofink Oi'v 'ad wurse usin da little grot's squig,” He said, his mekarms dropping Rogal roughly back into his seat. The Commisar grunted in pain before righting himself and regaining his composure.
“It’s just so frustrating. I don’t like not helping. I don’t like being helpless. I enjoy building, I’ve been doing it since I was a boy.”
Orktavia patted at an uninjured part of his arm reassuringly, thus making said label suddenly inaccurate. “Ya'll just gotta go kill sumfink, dat'll make ya feel lots betta,” His mekbrain paused, looking for a suitable target. He had never been in his situation, as Orks were far too tough to suffer from a simple crippling injury. The longest he had been inactive due to damage had been three hours, before he'd managed to get his head back on.

Orktavia’s mekbrain scoffed haughtily, pointing out the superiority of orks over humies. His braingubbins grunted unhappily, before countering with the fact that even injured, his flesh was stronger than most gits. “Get OVVA IT YA GIT!”
The commissar nodded as he reached for his spoon with his good hand, but was stopped by a mekarm at his wrist. Orktavia took the spoon and dipped it in the soup, before jamming into Rogal's mouth with a toothy smile.
“I just said, I’m not helpless,” He complained after swallowing,
His braingubbins paused with a squeak. Shouldn’t he like this? Isn’t this what happened in humie situations? His mekbrain just shook its head, throwing big signs that said HUMIES and CRAZY. His beady red eyes dimmed slightly, as he began to crush the spoon unconsciously. His arm stopped, the spoon had been interrupted on its way back to the bowl. Rogal smiled tiredly back at her, the stem of the silverware poking from his mouth. Swallowing, he released the spoon, sitting back in his chair,

“That being said, I do appreciate your kindness. It would be rude of me to rebuke it.” The commissar said, a boyish grin crossing his face. Orktavia’s braingubbins melted loike, loike, loike one of dem humies getting shot by one uf dem melta fings, but not before it delivering a series of obscene gestures to his mekbrain and the room at large. He bounced happily on the table, nearly buckling it beneath his weight, offering another spoonful of soup.
The mess was filled with sunlight, and every occupant, guardsman and Mechanicus alike, felt slightly happier. A navigator in transit found his mouth agape, as a thin tendril, no thicker than a hair, spiralled off from the huge white beam that was the Astronomicon, and seemed to gently poke at a planet, before whipping back with two huge green things hanging on, a loud shouting echoing in his ears. He gave praise for the miracle he had just seen, despite his complete lack of understanding what exactly it meant.

[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]] [[Category:Stories]] [[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]]