The sun was setting.
Archon Nicotinair stepped delicately down into the blast crater, avoiding the mud where he could. At the bottom a pair of blue tattooed Orks glared at him.
"Ah, my allies, has it not been good?" The Archon spread his arms wide, "We have despoiled this planet; filled our holds with slaves and loot and crushed all who stood against us."
"And 'oo did da Krushing?" roared the bigger of the two Orks. "Us boyz did al da fightin', you've just buggered around in da rear..."
The smaller Ork slapped a hand against the speaker's chest, silencing the Nob immediately.
“Each to da own,” the little Warboss said quietly. “We’ze had a good time and got us a good deal. And we’ze kept it.” He stared at the Archon.
“Oh! That little spaceship you wanted.” The Archon stretched like a cat in the evening sun. “Well, I must admit you’ve earned it but there have been rather a lot of Orks in the last few slave collections.”
Warboss Proppachoppa shrugged. “Dey weren’t my boyz and hoomies are getting a bit thin on da ground. Gotta make quota.”
“Gotta make quota,” The Archon repeated the words softly. “Your people, while impressively tough, have a limited mental capacity and fail to grasp even the most basic pleasure/pain training.
No, I think that rather then gift you a spaceship I’d rather you die where you stand.”
Instantly the crater was floodlit by a harsh, unnatural light. Raiders swooped out of the night sky; cackling Hellions weaving smoke trails around them.
The Warboss grinned and held up an arm. Huge gouts of flame erupted all around the crater rim and the staccato whine of a hundred shootas filled the air.
As burning bodies tumbled out of the sky around him, the Archon tried desperately to contact his ship. The control room was filled with screams and snarls and. After one last bubbling moan, the radio went dead. He never saw Nob Gurtbig reaching towards his head with a hydraulic fist.
The radio crackled back to life. “We ‘as da ship Boss!”
The diminutive Warboss turned to face his cheering warband, “Let’s get off dis stinkin' rok and go find a real fight. Grab your stuff!”
He turned back to the radio,
“Beam us up ladz."