WAR! (Patreon)

[X] Plan: CPUMoon Proof-of-Concept edited by Aliya

-[X] Endeavor Upgrade

-- [X] Khimera Security Squad

--[X] AutoPrinter: - 1 Autovessel Influence

--[X] Grav Siphons

--[X] Combat Scanner

-[X] Ship Assignement

--[X] TKK Valiant

---[X] Flying Saucer Antipiracy Ops

--[X] TKK Spirit of Toxel

---[X] Invader Diplomatic Mission

-- [X] TKK Endeavor-B

---[X] Abductor Diplomatic Mission

-- [X] TKK Discovery

---[X] Sandscorn Coffin Fleet Delivery

-- [X] TKK Accomplishment

---[X] Temple Comet, Vaulket

--[X] TKK Delivery and TKK Emissary

----[X] Broken Edge Monitoring

-[X] Expansion Projects (137 +3 Assembly+ 9 from Forntier Society and Admiralty/137)

--[X] Construct Resistance Class Ship (0/60 --> 60/60) -3 Nuclear, -2 Network

--[X] Tacchis Arctic Servers (0/25 --> 25/25) +1 Network; +ACD

--[X] Waters of Sandscorn (0/25 --> 25/25) +5 Khimer

--[X] Sandscorn Gigadrill (0/25 --> 25/25) +5 Khimer

--[X]Orbital Defense Arrays (0/10-->10/10) -1 NK

--[X] Meeklak Q-Bit Factories: (0/25 --> 4/25)

-[X] Culture Projects (80+1Assembly/80)

--[X] Mechanābhārata Rebirth (0/30 --> 30/30) -1 Warp; +CUL, +1 Auton, +1 AVI, +1 FAI

--[X] Orbital Pioneer Agri-Ships (7/15 --> 15/15) +1 Warp; +EXP

--[X] Brightway Musicals (0/25 --> 25/25) -1 Warp; +3 EXP

-- [X] Virus Buster Corp 0/15 --> 15/15 -- -1 Network

--[X] Nukalympics (9/10 -- > 10/10) -1 NK

--[X] DazzleCubes (0/15--> 2/15)

-[X] Faith Projects (93+ Points from Artists to finish Cursite Grimoires, which should be 103 over all/93)

-- [X] Exorcising the Wither 0/25 --> 25/25 -- +FTH

--[X] Cursite Gem Grimoires (0/25 --> 25/25) +1 Warp -1 NK

--[X] Logic-Cage (0/25 --> 25/25)

--[X] Devil Fiddles (0/25 --> 25/25) + FTH

--[X] .ARCHON (QUESTBRO) (7/15 --> 10/15)

-[X] Academy Projects (78+1 Assembly/78)

--[X] Navigator Executable (0/25 --> 25/25) +ACD

--[X] Reactive Code (2/10 --> 10/10) +ACD

--[X] Sacred Code (0/25 --> 6/25)

--[X] Devil Garden (0/25 --> 25/25) -3 Bio; +1 Art; +CUL

--[X] Universal Genekey (0/15 --> 15/15) -1 Biodata

- [X] Resource Management

--[X] Artifacts: 2-->3

--[X] Biodata: 10 --> 6

-- [X] Intel: 0

-- [X] Living Metal: 3

--[X] Network: 4 --> 1

--[X] Nuclear Material: 10 --> 4

--[X] Warp: 0

((((()))))

WAR! Hoo! Ha!

What is it good for?

ABSOLUTELY! Nothin'!

((((()))))

Stardate 4305.1008, Captain Zorph Donzorpho

It seems that XCOM aren’t the only band of raiders lurking in the darkness of space. While surveying the Vaul-Ket system- one of a number of such scans this vessel has been ordered to do- and we found ourselves under attack.

Their ships somehow dropped out of warp without our detecting, blindsiding us. Their craft from what we observed were conical, fin tailed structures armed with what appear to be the same sort of pin-needle rail-guns that have been documented in use by the Eldar, though these appeared to be machine manufactured, and equipped with a powerful micro-reactor that seem designed to discharge into speared systems.

They attempted to disable our perpetunite engines before boarding and sending down landing craft to attack ground teams.

We managed to drive them off, though not without casualties: one hundred ensigns, twenty officers, three frontier guard units, and several security Machina. The funerals for each are being held tonight; may their souls float gently through the river of time into the vastness of dream.

The enemy attempted to use advanced cloaking technology and what can only be described as terror tactics to sow fear: singular ambushes, traps, sabotage, shock and awe, psychological warfare. While terrifying, these were ultimately ineffective and indeed counterproductive. Our tricorders had trouble penetrating their cloaks, but once we managed to calibrate our scanners and activate our turrets and BlokBots…

They lacked heavy armor. They lacked numbers. Once their ability to hide was removed they found themselves outmatched. The few we’ve taken prisoner seem to be incredulous about this: from what I gather, they aren’t used to fighting peer opponents and had expected us to be easy prey.

They call themselves the Ravvanak, apparently, which translates roughly to ‘Glorious One’. They apparently hunt sapient species for sport, turning the remains of their kills into taxidermy as a means of elevating their soft social status in the eyes of their peers, looting the planets they attack in the process to maintain their economic status.

Or at least their upper-class do: the ones we captured all claim to be incredibly wealthy, and have repeatedly attempted in order to obtain their freedom to bribe us or else threaten us with either their families, their government, or some organization called the Toothgrin Kabal.

The Ravvanak, it appears, are a collection of rich, murderous alien trophy hunters.

Physiologically they are a bipedial reptilian race with digitigrade legs, surprisingly high regenerative ability (several of our prisoners had, prior, been in the morgue), and the ability to mask their heat signature. Psychologically…

Well. Tartustus is going to need some additional cells.

Vaul-Ket is now at 1/??? Scan Level! It can be scanned again in three turns!

Vaulmire is 70% swamp, 10% arctic, with the remainder being a mix of humid biomes. It has several bogs filled with semi-submerged ruins that carbon date several tens of thousands of years old that contain both aeldari and what appear to be nurglish iconography.

Kubaito is barely life sustaining, containing a variety of simple bacteria and algaes in its shallow oceans to produce air, and constantly bombarded with radiation and heat storms that have reduced one of its deserts to radioactive glass. Hundreds of structures have been located, numerous with incongrous styles of architecture.

The Temple-Comet is thirty miles in diameter, comprised of ice, glass, basalt, and wraithbone. Scans indicate high levels of warp contamination. Yr Albain has requested its stabilization.

Kaldrath has a crust poor in heavy metals that can be used in reactors, but has conversely a great deal of molten ore of various precious: platinum, palladium, gold, rhodium, silver, and copper.

The Directorate has encountered the Ravvanak, an organization of alien pirates.

Ravvanak Reputation: -100

((((()))))

Stardate 4310.1201, Lt. Wumpo, Science Log

Our mission thus far has consisted of re-supplying the Coffin Fleet and performing repairs. Damage in the wake of the assault was significant, but nothing permanent: their ships apparently don’t utilize much stealth metal, so there was little we couldn’t manufacture as replacement parts.

The ships are cramped: extremely. They clearly aren’t designed for occupation by vertebrates: beyond a handful of maintenance hatches and extremely cramped tunnels, most of the ship had a dearth of passages larger than a foot in size.

Suitable for the Pilotformes, perhaps, at least: the creatures from what I can observe are almost like plants, consisting of biological vines growing from a central neural structure. Little to no control how they grow, they interact with the world via growing into and interfacing with machines: according to the ones I talked to, they don’t even have sensory organs, simply connect with the vehicle they inhabit and using its optics and sensors.

When not in combat, traditionally to save calories they remain at the minimum possible size, using a system of rails and remotely piloted robots to transport their neural cores across the ship as needed to perform maintenance, as they lack their own means of locomotion: due to the inability to ship in nutrients, however, they’ve been forced to remain in stasis to ration their reserves.

Unlike the Gruntformes, the Pilotformes are apparently immortal: a boon for the Khimer, considering that they apparently lack all means of creating new Pilotformes to operate their fleet. Psychologically…

For most of the Khimer, the fall of their civilization is ancient history. Most of the Coffin Fleet has spent the intervening years in stasis, however: for most of them, the Apocalypse is recent history, effectively. They seem to be possessed of great nostalgia for their creators, and an equally great sorrow for their civilizations passing. Most seem to be possessed of a sort of existential anxiety, as well: the Psyocracy lacks the means to make more Pilotformes, meaning that unless the process is recreated, they will likely be the last generation of their sub-species and sub-culture, albeit one that will likely take millenia to die off.

I also found myself meeting with the Coffin Fleets….representative? Leader? Patron?

Their equivalent to the War-Brain, Sleeper-Neuron. Apparently, the Generals were made to task: where the War-Brain resembles a…Well, giant winged be-clawed brain creature, the Sleeper-Neuron appears to be a synaptic psychic fungal superorganism with a distributed consciousness located throughout the coffin-fleet, though they’ve admitted that most of their body is located planetside. Their tissue apparently serves as a form of wetware in the Coffin Fleets computer systems.

Whereas the War-Brain seems primarily interested in working to restore the planets biosphere and preparing industrially for the potential of attack, Sleeper-Neuron has expressed interest in the reverse, going on the offensive: between the two of them, they’re the war-hawk, apparently. They want to recreate the Coffin-Fleet and expand the Khimers naval capacity such that they can begin patrolling the region, both for XCOM and other hostiles. Sleeper-Neuron was…very INTERESTED in hearing about Directorate and Auton naval technology, to say the least, and has even dispatched to join with us an envoy to travel to Iron Shores.

Learned about Khimer Subfaction: Coffin Fleet

The Coffin Fleets political aims revolve around remilitarization and re-armament and upgrade of Khimer naval capacity and the expansion of their ability to patrol the sector for pirates and other hostiles as well as improving the Psyocracy’s strategic-diplomatic standing.

They are opposed to ???. You have one pip of starting influence with them.

((((()))))

Stardate 4314, Mid-Fall (Teklian Calendar), 1500 hrs

Captain Pikyaard idly scrolled down his data-pad as he sat on the bridge, taking the time permitted by their stakeout to work on finishing some paperwork, using a stylus to mark down information and check boxes.

One might think that the life of a starship captain was one of infinite adventure, but in Pikyaards experience it was 90% of the time deeply boring and largely just bureaucracy and waiting. Sometimes both!

And right now, it was ESPECIALLY so: the mission of their ship, the Delivery, was to do monitoring duty alongside the Emissary. This meant, essentially, doing nothing BUT sitting and waiting. He had a few members of the Science Team working with the Xeno-obervation outpost, but no major or serious deployments. After all, he had to be prepared at every moment for the possibility of activity. Thus, getting caught up with paperwork.

“Transfer request…approve. Complaint about another crew member- send this to the counselor, see what he reviews. Request to perform an experiment using collected biosamples from Green Giant…denied, we don’t want a repeat of what happened a few decades ago, best to leave them alone…” He muttered, filling box after box, the forms switching to the various as-of-yet incomplete requisition forms and budgetary tasks. The wonders of technology: once he was finished with one piece of paperwork, computers ensured there was always another to follow.

Little did he know what was going to transpire that day.

((((()))))

Down below, Frankz rode on the train, grunting. The Ork watched, a bit bored, as the scenery outside the window passed by, occasionally lifting up his Cuppa and taking a drink of the steaming brew, savoring the flavor of of the bitter-brewed beverage.

It wuz gettin’ harda and harda to get a good Cuppa these days, the Ork thought morosely. Setting his mug down, he opened ‘iz newsie, reading it carefully: it wuz local, state owned. The Journo found it useful when lookin’ for a skoop t’ see what th’ gits what actually lived there knew.

…Problem wuz, the local newsies were all state owned. SAVAGE AND KOWARDLY REPUBLIC OF GORKISTAN PERFORMS UNORKY BOMBIN’ OF MORKISTAN HARBOUR, HELD OFF BY ‘EROIK EFFORTS OF LOCAL DEFENDAS!

The problem wiff bein’ state owned is that th’ average state lied. ‘E was pretty sure th’ bombin’ was just one of Gorkistans dirigibuls goin’ kerboom again. But Morkistan wuz lookin’ for an excuse t’ get into a skrap what wouldn’t get em dog piled by their neighbors, so a bommin’ it wuz.

‘Course, they couldn’t JUST invade: there were roolz. Sure, most weren’t worth the wipin’ paper they were writ with, but some of the more praktical realities of internashunal diplomucy meant that a few were. Morkistan would probably be launching its boms, but only after they manage t’ convince their neighbors Gorkistan had it comin’.

‘Course, that wasn’t why ‘e was here. Two kuntries out in d’ boonies goin’ to war weren’t news, it was tuesday: it’d be over by zogsmas or whenever Liverpool started actin’ up, chances were, and then th’ region’d go back to the slow boil it usually is.

Nah, ‘e was ‘ere for a much more important story.

A short distance away, the ork heard a racket. Leaning, he looked out of his booth, down the car: a couple gitz were arguing. One of them were dressed in a hat: big one, layered, wif bells, made out of some really itchy lookin’ fabric. Git had a fancy striped suit: purple then yella, and a great big money sack on his back. They were currently animatedly yellin’ words at another git what was yellin’, one dressed in a grey Zong suit, upper left pocket havin’ a green/yella swatch hanging for it. Only gitz what dressed like that belonged, usually, to the DRGG.

The former was yellin’ about how the latter wasn’t orky, about how kapital and akkumulation were natural parts of ork-dom, an’ yellin’ about ‘ow the DRGG kept sendin’ its steemtanks to run over th’ little guy t’ build a farm on em. The latter was yellin’ about how kollectivizm had scientifik bakin’, how the former was regressive an’ reactionary, an’ kept sending its bulldozers to FLATTEN the little guy and build a factory on top of ‘im.

“An’ that factory would ‘elp create jobz and bring wealf!” The Korpo yelled, swingin’ his fists like a windmill. “Once da git pulled ‘imself out of the ground by ‘is bootstraps, ‘ed at least ‘ave a job waitin’ for him! Wealf ‘e could use t’ buy a steembuggy, or a nice shoota, or a fancy hat!”

“What point is a zoggin’ ‘at when ‘e doesn’t own th’ means of produkshun?” The Kollectivist bellowed, doing angry power-squats instead a’ punching his opponent: everybody knew dat in a words-battle, da first git t’ throw a punch lost, and orks wasn’t made fer losing. “An’ howz a git supposed t’ pull himself up by th’ bootstrapz? What duz that even bleedin’ mean? Who da zog even puts strapz on bootz?”

“Innovators, dats who!” The Korpo responded proudly. “Gitz what aren’t afraid t’ take a risk and walk away wif all da teef! Sides, wif th’ money they make, dey can invest in der own factory some day!”

“An’ bulldoze the gits already there: so da cycle continues, assumin’ they can some’ow skrape togetha enuff without starvin’ or runnin’ out a dakka.” The Kollectivist drawled. “Meanwhile, none of our boyz need to go ‘ungry or Dakkaless because our factories are own’d by da people-”

The Korpo threw ‘is hands in the air. “Oh, da PEOPLES factory!” They said, sarcasm heavy on their breath. “What about da re-education kamps? Dey da peoples kamps? Oh, what about da mines where you send gitz what made dear leader mad? Dey da peoples either? What about the tanks you used t’ invade Orkistan Seven?” He said, putting extra emphasis on the word tank, causing the Kollecto’s face to turn an angy shade of purple. “Dey da peoples tanks?”

“Dat wuz police action taken t’ protekt proletarian interests!” The Kollecto roared, power squating faster and faster, a sure sign of frustration, their eye twitching. “An’ kompletely justified unda da Roolz!"

“Proletarian- You krumped them back to the stone age! Da DRGG LITTRALLY de-induztrialized them! ‘Ow the zog does that ‘elp proletarian interests?!” The Korpo responded, incredulous.

“By ‘elpin’ th’ citizens transition t’ a modern politikal system instead of just servin’ a warboss! Reezorces that woulda ‘elped prop up an ob-so-leet an’ reakshunery form of government could be uzed for ‘elpin the people instead!” Kollecto argued.

Yeah, probably time t’ step in before the whole train was in th’ middle of a brawl: Frankz loved a good scrap (who didn’t?) but if dat happen, da train’d stop, an’ he’d have to wait until it was done t’ get moving again. An’ in ‘is experience…

“At least dey ain’t Liverpool,” He commented, causing both of them to pause, the Kollecto scratchin’ at the back of ‘is head.

“Yeah, I guess,” They muttered, sitting back down. “Ain’t nobody worse than Liverpool.”

“Finally, somefin’ dat makes sense! Y’know, I ‘ad a mate that once visited them fer some bizniz deel: said they’ve been tryin’ to breed rats what taste like weezlemeat,” The Korpo said, sitting back down. “What kinda nutjob wants to eat screwflesh?”

“Liverpool,” The Kollecto said with contempt. “Warbosses is one fing: you can talk to a Bossist. Them Liverpoolians though, everything that comes out of their mouth is just…” The pair of them shuddered in unison.

(((()))

“Captain, we’re detectin’ irregularities on the scanners: looks like some git is gonna drop out of Warp soon,” Came the voice of Pikyaards science officer, Lt. Zobbert, who tapped at his display. “Estimated time twenty seven seconds.”

Pikyaard lowered his tablet. “Alert all departs, I want the crew on standby for potential altercations and tell Captain Nug to do the same,” He said, tapping his digits together. “And give me a visual in that direction.”

“Bringing up a visual now…”

A moment later, the viewscreen flickered to life, revealing a vast starlit darkness: as they watch, a multicolored bubble emerged, popping to reveal two massive ships. They resembled, almost, the space station: bicameral, hemispherical structures split vertically, connected via a sort of spindle-core in the middle.

“Well then, it seems we’ve met our mystery aliens,” Pikyaard muttered. “Hail them.”

“Hailing now,” Said his Comms Officer, Commander BET-99, interfacing with his workstation. “Hmm. They aren’t responding to comms.”

Briefly, Pikyaard considered the possibility the ships might be hostile, only for the notion to be dispelled a moment later.

“Aaaaand we’re being passed,” The security officer, MCR-2001 said, and Pikyaard watched, confused, as the relatively slow vessel cruised past them. “According to our scans, they seem to be heading towards Green Giant,” The Muse confirmed.

Pikyaard frowned. “Start following: don’t power the weapons yet, but be on standby to do so. Commander BET, begin broadcasting the following on all possible frequencies: attention unknown vessels, this is Captain Pikyaard of the TKK Delivery. You are approaching a pre-space flight civilization, please respond to our hails and confirm your intentions.”

Nothing.The ships were passing by the asteroid belt closest to Green Giant now, and Pikyaard felt a spike of worry in his gut: why weren’t they responding?

“I repeat, please respond and confirm your intentions,” Pikyaard said, watching as the ships drew closer and closer to Green Giant. Nothing. “Number One, send the order to engineering: start powering the weapons up,” He said. “Unknown vessels, if you don’t respond, we will fire a warning shot.”

More time passed with no response, and Pikyaard felt his heartrate rise as he steeled himself to make a decision.

“Helmsman, fire a warning shot from out laser batteries: low yield,” Pikyaard said, noting that the ships were getting too close to the primitive world for comfort. A moment later, a lance arc’d from the Delivery, hitting one of the ships, the shot failing to penetrate their shields. “Unknown vessels, please halt your approach to Green Giant.”

One of them paused, stopping immediately without slowing, the vessel hovering in the void. “We’re being hailed,” BET confirmed.

“Put them on screen,” The Captain ordered, and a moment on the holo-screen appeared the visage of a bipedial alien. Its head lacked lips, instead having a curved and serrated beak instead, two nostril holes on a keratin just slightly below the aliens forward facing, slit-pupil-d eyes. Its body was covered in a thick dark green layer of scales with patches of black feathers hear and there hanging loosely on bulging muscles: structurally the creature had the standard biped limb arrangement. Two arms, two legs, each covered in what looked almost like studded leather armor, and on its crown was a patch of multicolor feathers growing from its scalp. Most of its face seemed to be underneath a mask carved from some unknown white plastic material.

The creature glared at him. “Greetings, my name is Captain Pikyaa-”

“I do not care what you call yourself, Rat. You will explain to me first why you fired on our vessel, then you will explain why you defile our hunting grounds, and THEN you will explain to me why our sister-sphere is detecting signs of Industry on an Ork Planet.”

…Well, it wasn’t the worst first contact so far, even if it wasn’t ideal. “You wouldn’t respond to our repeated hails, firstly,” Pikyaard said, steeling himself. “And we don’t as of yet know your current intentions: were we in each others shoes, I think you would agree that a warning shot is a fairly restrained response.”

The alien narrowed their eyes, saying nothing but giving a grunt of acknowledgement, conceding the point.

“As for the second question, it was not our intent to offend or trespass, merely study: this was one of the first lifebearing worlds our people discovered outside our home system, and we’ve been trying to make contact for a long time.”

“And yet from where I sit, it appears as if your attempts to study have produced the conditions to potentially allow a rogue waaagh to terrorize the sector!”

Pikyaard raised an eyebrow, noting how absurd the idea of the Green Giant inhabitants becoming a sector-wide menace was: they didn’t have a united planetary government, let alone the organizational or technological sophistication becoming a menace in a reasonable timeframe would actually require. “The situation on Green Giant is the result of a mechanical failure followed shortly by a moral failure by some rogue researchers some decades back: the situation is currently being monitored.”

“You speak like someone who has never dealt with Orks before,” The Alien said, voice a gravelly growl. “Or else you would know that the Gmork-kin can go from steam engines to space flight in a handful of decades if left unculled, and you would not have allowed to progress past the stone age!”

What.

“Uh, did ‘e just imply whot I fink ‘e was implyin’?” One of the ensigns assigned to the science station muttered just barely loud enough for Pikyaard to hear over the deafening silence of a bridge in shock.

“Surely you aren’t implying the correct response to an already heinous upheaval of their culture was to commit genocide,” Pikyaard said, flatly, giving a signal to his Number One: get the weapons online, and get Nug on the line. The alien stared at him for a moment, tilting its head.

“You are very naive. YES. YES the correct response is genocide: the alternative is loosing a band of raiders on the galaxy to pillage their way across the stars until they’re destroyed by their foes.”

Well.

“Allow me to make this clear: if you attempt to ‘cull’ these people, it WILL be met with immediate and overwhelming force,” Pikyaard responded bluntly, causing the alien to blink in surprise. “Pikyaard to Nug, please intercept the other vessel,” He said upon Number One signing back to confirm the other captain was listening in.

“You would attempt to protect the Gmork-kin?! Are you insane?” The alien said, clearly angry.

“My people do not believe genocide is EVER an acceptable behavior for an advanced civilization to engage in, regardless of target, and rest assured that THAT principle is one we will fight for,” Pikyaard said, voice steely, before leaning forward. “Now, I urge you to reconsider your stance: this situation doesn’t call for or need to end in violence. We can surely resolve this peace-”

“There will be no peace while you willingly coddle a nascent waagh,” The Alien growled. “I will not budge from this. If you wish to fight for the Gmork-kin, you are welcome to try and fail!” The screen went black as the alien hit a button, ending the communication.

“Captain, it looks like the ship has continued moving: Nug says they’re trying to slow the other one down, but it isn’t stopping, and their torpedoes keep getting shot down! It’s going to make landfall!” Pikyaard cursed as he began formulating a plan.

((((()))))

It wuz an impressive sight, thought Frankz as he stepped off the train, staring at the distant monument, the reason ‘e had come ‘ere in the first place: th’ Challenga Spez Rokkit, part of Morkistans spez pro-gram. The massive, if incomplete, edifice was assembled out of a combination of wood girders held together wif various adhesives, its hull made out of some shiny metal. And surroundin’ it, Morkinaut City, th’ metropolis o’ tomorrow!

“Right, that’s a zoggin’ sight for th’ ages,” The Korpo said as they stepped besides Frankz, staring in glee at the massive rokkit in progress. “Wonder ‘ow much Jee Dee Pee it brings in?”

“As alweyz, th’ korporatist mindset redooces everythin’ to ‘ow much money it might make,” The Kollecto jeered as they joined the group, staring appraisingly at the sight. “Gotta admit tho, the applikashuns are gonna be right interestin if it works’: put a bomm in th’ front, an’ you’d ‘ave a right good shooty-bomm.”

“‘An leave it to the Kollecto t’ ask ‘ow somefin can be turned into a weapon,” The Korpo rolled ‘is eyes.

“Why’s it made of wood?” Frankz muttered.

“Price, probably,” The Korpo nodded. “Wood is cheap, yeah? Even in kuntries what still use teef: afta all, if you want wood you can jus go chop a tree. Very price effective: its what we use to build our rails.”

“Your trains regoolarly derail,” The Kollecto said dryly. “I don’t fink Morkistan is gonna cheep out on da fing it built an entire city around.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared. “‘Specially since they’re usin’ aloominum for the hull, an’ thats pretty pricey already: at dat point, steel ain’t that expenzive in comparison.”

“I’m gonna go ahead an’ assume boffa you are here for da same reason I am,” Frankz commented dryly.

“T’ see th’ big rokkit and talk to the git whats in charge of buildin’ it? Yeah, guess so.” The Korpo said, the Kollecto nodding. “So who’re you, den?”

“Frankz. Journo,” He said, offering only his first name. ‘E didn’t know these gitz, and ‘e hadn’t survived this long in ‘is field wiffout learnin’ t’ be a bit cagey. A lotta powerful jerkz ‘ad a real ish-you wif blokes that told th’ troof. “I’d luv t’ chat, but daylights bein’ burned,” He said, beginning to walk off the train platform.

Morkinaut City was, he observed, the city of tommorow. It bustled with boyz and grotts, each dressed in denim work clothes, commuting to or away from their place of business, all on the side o’ the street on concrete sidewalk stones: in the street, which was paved with some sort o’ black substance that ‘e vaguely remembered wuz called arsefault, steem-trucks and trolleys-on-rails moved, each packed with either material or boys, wood, aloominum, drums of some sweetish smelling substance, buckets of a thick grey sludge, an’ boxes and crates of stuff. Above, cords spanned across the rooftops, long black cables coated in some rubbery substance, thousands stretching every which way, covering the sky in what almost looked like a web: to compensate for the loss of light, the building all ‘ad bulbs installed, large glowing ones that kept the street lookin’ daylight.

The buildings themselves were largely bloks, big cinderbricks painted a dull red. Some were pubs, wif big thick glaz windows: inside Frankz could see grots and boyz alike ‘avin a pint and gettin’ into skraps. For a lot of Morkistans issues, it at least believed in racial ekwality fer grotts more den most of its neighbors.

He ducked as a grot got tossed out of the window, shattering it. Landing on the street with a thud, the grot scrambled up, raisin’ a cutta before giving a yell and charging back in to join the friendly pub brawl.

Part of it wuz th’ fact that if’y really pissed them off, a Morkistani Grot was willin’ to try an’ rip out your liver, ‘e noted. Other buildings were sleepin’ bloks, multistory dwelling quarters that tired boyz wandered into after their shift t’ rest. A lot were factories, big’n wide fings with stacks that belched puffs of smoke and smog into the air, giving the sky a bit of a haze.

There were over fings too: Stovie Houzes where gits got themselves food, workshops that seemed t’ be built wif giant wheels on the side that some squig kept turnin’ by running on its inside, an other stuff that Frankz didn’t really get the point of what ‘ad pipes and what not running from it into the ground.

Evenchully ‘e found his target o’ interest: Da Orkenzie Buildin’, the biggest Mek Workshop in Morkistan, a big ramshackle building, three stories high, the brickwork erratic and irregular, producing a strange twisting appearance for the structure. It had no doors: instead, the front entryway was an arch.

Entering, ‘e was greeted by a room that was lit up by one of them big mekanikal bulbs, bathing it in a dull yellow light. The interior walls weren’t brick: only the exterior. Instead, the inside used wood, at least fer the lobby. Sitting behind a desk was a grott in a denim suit, with a small metal badge on ‘is chest that said Chazz: behind ‘im was a big set of holes connected to a strange network tubes that stretched into the ceiling, wall, and floors, ones that occasionally rattled as something travelled through them quickly. “Welkom t’ th’ Orkenzie Buildin’, d’you got a reason to be here or are you just lookin’ to take a krap?”

“Da former,” Frankz said, noddin. Chazz pulled out a piece of paper and one of dem writin’ stikkz.

“Alright, bizniz or are you a lookie-loo?”

“Lookie-loo, I’m ‘ere t’ ask Orkenzie about ‘is rokkit,”

“Oi, is you the journo?” Chazz asked, writing Frankz answers down. “Yeah, Dok said you’d be by: you’ll find da pulleys down da ‘alls, ‘e’s on the second floor, left cord for up, right cord for down.” He finished writing, folding the paper up and placing it into a can before opening up the cover of one of the tubes, shoving the can in, and closing it. A moment later, a hissing noise could be heard and the tube began rattling and shaking. Frankz gave a nod, walking down the corridor, looking for an available pulley, all of them on different floors until he reached the halls end to find one sitting, unoccupied. Stepping inside the caged platform, he reached to one of the cords by the side and yanking it, causing the cage to start rising, hoisted into the air by a strong cord and a complex mechanism of devices. One floor. Two floor. Three floor.

He stopped, continuing out and into the lair of the notorious Dok Orkenzie. In the center, a giant effigy to the god Tek, ‘e ‘oo governed progress, construkted with a smaller effigy t’ Gork an Mork (Or Mork and Gork) to either side, each made outta clockwork, each resemblin’ a big ork.

Around em, you had all sorts o’ devices and doodads here an’ there: some big old mixtures of kemikuls that had strange glows and created noxious vapours, strange balls that arced with lightning, tables full of engines and mechanisms, and in the corner ‘e could even see what looked like a smithy for doin’ metallurgy.

An’ workin in this lab were the Meks, all o’ ‘oom shuffled about doin’ experiments or workin’ equipment, each o’ them in rubbery jumpsoots painted blue, green, yella, grey, wearin’ hats made o’ metal t’ help ground the lightning comin’ from the machinery and big glassy goggles to keep the fumes out of their eyes. Most of em were boyz, but a ‘andful of grots could be seen workin’ as assistants an’ henchgitz. Continuin’ ‘is stride, Frankz reached a corner of the lab where ‘e spotted the Korpo and Kollecto, who ‘ad some’ow arrived before ‘im, talkin’ to the bloke of the hour, Dok Orkenzie. Git had a beard: one of th’ ones made out of iron shavings, the sort that required gettin’ a magnetic tattoo made. It wuz short and stubbly and an auburn color that usually required mixin’ in some rusted dust with the mix. Their rubber jumpsoot was black painted, and covered with a white labcoat. Adjusting ‘is goggles, the mek seemed to be in the middle of explaining something.

“-So we used wood and aluminum because they’re the lightest materials we can find while still bein’ struktural: been workin’ on makin’ all sorts o’ flame retardant adhesives and magnetik nails t’ keep the whole thing ‘eld together. Even works as a sealant! Good for keepin’ water out, even if we still ‘aven’t figured out a way to stop space from gettin’ in and ruinin’ all the air.”

“Ooooh,” “Aaaah,”

“An’ ‘ow long before you’re ready fer the test flight?” The Kollecto asked, peering at the formulas written down on the slate before him.

“Well, at da moment we’re still workin’ on propulsion. We fink we’re gonna use a two stage system: some hot air balloons t’ get to the upper atmosphere, and then we blow up a bunch of dynamite to get the rest of the way,” The Mek noted. “Bottom of the rokkits been reinforced: steel beams supporting a big drum of rubber lined koncrete: dats where the explosives is gonna go.”

“I wanna know ‘ow you intend t’ make money off dis: it looks great fer bringin’ in tourists, but I need more den just tourist dollars if Gmorkia is gonna consider the returns worth it,” The Korpo commented, causing the Kollecto to roll their eyes.

The Mek cleared their throat, giving a dry lick of their stubble lined lips. “Well, we’z thinkin’ about putin’ some nets on it, fer one: lotsa junk in space that can be used fer material, an’ accordion’ to screwlore a lotta space junk has rare metalz. Besides that, they could be used fer shipping, explorashun, an’ otha profitable venchurs.”

Each of the two rivals began muttering to themselves, and Frankz took the opportunity to interject. “Nice work, Dok,” He said casually. “I’m the Journo that kontakted you, Frankz W-”

“Ah, Sir Frankz!” He said with delight. “Boyz, gimme a moment, I’ve been waitin’ for this git to arrive for awhile: feel free to explore th’ lab and ask th’ krew questions!” He said, stepping away. “Walk wif me.”

The pair of them walked a short distance, just out of polite earshot. “Gotta admit, I’m impressed Dok: in a handful o’ years you’ve really built dis town,” Frankz commented.

“Wouldn’ta been ab le t’ do it wiffout Morkistan shellin’ out for it,” the scientist grumbled, cheerful demeanor dropping. “An’ even then, wiffout more investment, wiffout more people workin, it’ll take decades more if we’z lucky.”

Ah. That explains the two gitz.”Tryin’ t’ angle for more bakkin, den?” Frankz queried, to which Orkenzie gave a grunt as they approached the window, which overlooked much of the growing city, and giving the pair a good look at the growing rokkit.

“Da DRGG gotz more engineerz and smartyboyz than you can shake a stikk at dat could be put to figurin’ out ‘ow we’re gonna do this succezfully, an’ the USG ‘as enough money and resourzes dat dey could afford t’ pay t’ build a rokkit with th’ tek we got an’ brute force th’ problem. If we get em onboard, we might be able t’ fire our first rokkit in five yeerz, an’ in a decade, we might be able t’ do our first mishun t’ the moon.” He stared out the window, a pensive look on his face, goggles facing the Challanga. Somefin in Frankz gut told him there wuz more, though.

“Why you doin’ this, anyways?” Frankz asked, deciding to take a chance: ‘is gut had never taken him wrong before. The Mek was silent for a moment, before sighing.

“Every year, a git makes a bigger an’ bigger bomm, an comes up wif ways to shoot it further and further. Places like Liverpool get bigga an’ build more machines, and places like the Antiwaaagh expand their nukulur programm. Fakt of the matta is, we mighta fought da first git war with shootas and choppas, but we’ll be fightin’ git war two wiff tanks and bomms. I dunno what we’ll be fightin’ git war three with, but I figure y’ can only escalate so far before stuff starts t’ break, an’ between you an me I don’t wanna get t’ the point where the stuff that breaks is our planet.”

…Yeah, that was fair dinkum: Frankz would rather not have th’ planet break either. “Howz a rokkit gonna ‘elp stop the world from kersplodin, though?”

The Ork grunted, raising his goggles to reveal his eyes, rubbing them clean. “Problem is, after da weasels came, nobody can agree to nuffin’: sure, lots a gitz got more voice now than back when we used to be stuck under Da Bosses, but now all dem voices is goin’ in every which direction, an’ gettin’ madder and madder even while th’ bomms get bigga an’ bigga. What I fink we need is somefin’ to yoonify us, help bring all dem voices togetha: somefin’ stronga dan any warboss.” The Ork leaned forward, a grin on their face. “A KAUZ.”

Ah yes. The central pillar of Tekkist ideology: the Kauz. Somefin’ bigga dan any waaagh, a Kauz was the thing that drove Tekkists, an idea, philosophy, or goal determined by each Tekkist as the way they wanted to contribute to the advancement of society in the name of Tek. For some, this was developin’ better technologee. For others, it wuz through spreadin’ ideology or mootool aid. For a lot, it meant shootin’ gitz what were holdin’ society back. And for this Mek, apparently the Kauz was Rokkits. “An’ if we can get da USG an’ DRGG workin’ togetha fer common Kauz, they’ll bring each ov da nashuns in their orbit wif em: get em t’ normalize relashunz, an’ bit by bit we’ll be able t’ build a koalishun to ‘elp reach th’ stars an’ krump Liverpool fer the final time.”

“Good luck wif dat,” Frankz muttered, hearing in the distance the two starting to argue again. “Deez bozos don’t seem like th’ kinds that could get along even if they were both gettin’ shot at.”

The Mek grunted. “That’s why I kontakted you: th’ name Frankz West ‘as a lot of pull in the global Journo industry. You’re the bloke that convinced em to do th’ news blitz on Liverpool, back before the Git War. If you get them on board, an’ all the big newsies and Journos, start convincin’ gitz the Kauz is in their best interests…”

“They’ll try t’ get the people in charge t’ sign up.” Frankz West said, nodding. “Not gunna lie Dok, ‘alf tempted. But we’d have t’ get-”

A noise like thunder interrupted them, and Frankz turned, watching, his jaw dropping, as a giant sphere descended from the sky, crashing into the city and releasing giant hordes of strange flyin’ craft. A moment later, the sound of klaxons echoed in the air: sign of attack. Frankz grinned, drawing out ‘is flash-kamera, purchased from his brief tour in da territory of da Children of Tek. “Everybody to battle stashuns!” Orkenzie roared, running to a wall and grabbing a shoota. “West, get yourself some dakka! We’re fortifyin’ up!”

“Nah! I’m gonna see what dat fing is! Dis might be da story of the centuree!” He said, grabbing a shoota from the wall, a Boomstick Klassic, checking to make sure it was loaded.

“You sure about dat? You don’t know what you’re walkin’ into!”

“I’ll be fine,” He responded, walking back to the window, bashing it out before starting his krawl up it. He paused for a brief moment before looking back at the Mek. “I’ve covered waaaghs, y’know!” Frankz West said with a grin before jumping out the window.

((((()))))

“Fire the torpedoes! Detonate them just outside their firing range, try to cage them in!” Pikyaard ordered. “We need to stop their advance!”

“Captain, the Emissary is reporting a massive invasion force emerging from the vessel that made impact: they seem to be going after every industrial center they can!”

Pikyaard cursed. Here was hoping Captain Nug was up to the task of defending the world.

“Captain, we’ve managed to block a direct approach: they’re trying to circle around!”

“Don’t let them! Every angle needs to be blocked off!”

((((()))))

Frankz held up his kamera, taking pictures: it was a komplete warzone. A buncha beakieboyz had landed in the street an’ seemed to be stuck in a fire-fight with the Morkinauts, the workers having shoved together a bunch of trukks together to create a barricade, one which was covered in an increasing number of boyz climbed up it to fire over, only to find themselves shot an’ replaced. Behind th’ barricade, ‘e saw th Morkinauts assemblin’ mortars and cannons.

The enemy looked scrawny at first sight, but they seemed t’ be usin’ arrows that punched right through a git, while their armor which seemed to be made out of some sorta white glossy substance kept lettin’ them survive hits from shootas as they advanced, the hits barely stallin’ em unless they smacked one of the joints, an’ even gettin’ an arm blown off barely slowed the gits down, they just pulled out a big choppa.

Meanwhile, dey kept gettin’ closer and closer to the barricade, the Morkinauts doing their best to slow them down: a few brave nutjobs would jump down off the barricade, hoistin’ crowbars and wrenches to use as melee weapon: the problem wuz th’ beakieboyz were quick. Even if a blow woulda pulped em, it didn’t matter if the Morkinauts couldn’t hit them.

“Pull!”

A whistling noise filled the air as th’ first mortar round hit the beakies with enough accuracy t’ send th’ feathery arseholes t’ kingdom come, the smell of fried poultry fillin’ the air and making Frankz stomach grumble, the Journo takin’ pictures with ‘is flash cam.

Still, the Beakieboyz didn’t miss a beat, one o’ da bigger ones pullin’ out what looked like a krossbow, firin’ it into the air, the missile arcing through the air with perfect accuracy to hit the Mortar, exploding with the force of a small bomm, detonatin’ the mortar and the gitz what had been manning it. This was followed by more explosions as the bigger beakie kept firing their bommbolts, ignitin’ barrels, detonating vehicles, blastin’ grouped up gitz to smitheroons, an’ generally muckin’ up the defense twice as much as the mortars messed up the beakie gitz offense.

“Ah, Zog Dis,” Frankz muttered, jumpin’ down and landin’ on top of the beakie git, aiming ‘is boomstick at the back of the gitz ‘ead an’ pullin the trigger, causing it to be afflicted with a case of the kersplodes, quickly ejectin’ the empty shell an’ puttin’ one in the back of the next closest ones leg. He roared, barely avoidin’ the choppa of the next git, lettin’ it slide past him, the Ork respondin’ with a kick to the aliens center of mass, which the critter barely avoided by shifting to the side…

Lettin’ Frankz grab ‘em by the feather and yank em backward, firing his boomstick into the aliens wrist, the buckshot causing its hand to separate from its arm in a spray of gore, Frankz discharging another spent shell as they spun the alien to face its friends, his gun pressed into the now dis-armed (or dis’anded, p’raps) aliens neck. “Greetin’s gents! Per’haps we can dizkuzz this like civilized gitz, lest you wanna see your mates ‘ead no longer bein’ on speakin’ terms with his body. An’ for you get any fancy idea ‘bout tryin’ to snipe me wiff yer arrears, note that I got my soot rigged with dynamite an’ a deadgitz rig from Liverpool: I die, yer friend ‘ere goes kablooey.” He lied, arm wrapped around the struggling aliens neck.

This gave the aliens pause, th’ one with th’ fanciest armor raising their hand, causin’ all their arrows to point at Frankz. “A hostage…” The git hissed. “This is usually far simpler: your kind does not usually go for such tactics.”

“Brotha, I’m wun of a kind,” Frankz said, stalling. If ‘e could buy enough time for the Morkinauts, they might be able to pull something off. “Now, th’ fact th’ git I just shot only pulled out th’ explosive bolts after the Morkinauts blew some of yours up an, more pertinently, th’ fact I’m still talkin’ means you gitz got that kamraderie, yeah? Now, if you wanna see…” He turned his head, looking into his captives extremely angry glare. “Whacher name again?”

“I am Cocha Shacoh of the Orkblood Kindred, Son of Cocha Ghodan and Shacoh D-”

“Yer NAME, not yer dang lifestory. Anyways, if you gitz don’t want Cocka-”

“Cocha-”

“Cohca to suddenly ‘ave an emergency neckectormy, I’d advise you walk away niiiiiiiiice and easy.”

“What is this?” The leader hissed, their aim not wavering as they narrowed their eye. “Since when do your kind take hostages with the intent of ENDING a battle?”

“Since twenty sekondz ago, we all ‘ad a vote over it, you just missed it, you wuz declared a piece of !@#$ in absentee-a,” He said, causing the lead alien to pause, and let out a laugh.

“You are sharp witted, ork! Most of your kind are mere brutes, content to roar and yell!” The alien complimented. “I will take pride in adding your head to my collection!”

“Yeah yeah, get in line,” Frankz said, hearing a distant noise. Sounded like…engines?

Oh.

OH.

‘Ere we go! “So, since I’m not konvincen you t’ walk away, it appearz we’re at an impact.”

“Impasse.”

“Ain’t that whot I said?” Frankz asked, taking a few slow steps backward. “Look, I’m just sayin’, you’re the gitz that started this fight,” He noted. “But you can still walk away. If you don’t, your friend ‘ere is gonna get thirty nine’d, eiver from my boomstick, or from bloodloss.”

“Why should we trust you to not simply kill them once we’re out of eyeshot?” A different alien growled, and Frankz frowned.

“Are you kiddin’ me? You’re the maniacs that attack uz, and you’re worried about me bein’ the git to backstab you?” Frankz said, incredulous. “Look, regardless of anythin, yer mate Cock-o here is bleedin’ a lot o’ birdie juice: enuff ‘es startin to look a little pale around the, uh…” He stared at his captives neck, noting the trio of slits. “Gills. Th’ more time you spend dickering, the more bird juice he bleeds ou-”

A whirring noise filled the air, and Frankz was barely fast enough to block the arrow from hitting his face. Unfortunately for Cock-o, Frankz blocked it with the one thing he had on hand: his hostage. The alien coughed up blood, the projectile sticking from their chest. “Oops,” Frankz said.

He immediately followed this up by usin’ the git as a livin’ fastball, chukkin im at big alien, knocking the alien over into a pile before usin’ a special technique honed by years of journalism spent in warzones, seedy backwater Orkistans, and coverin’ the greatest civil roights movements of the era.

‘E turned on ‘is heel with a single smooth and began running as fast as ‘is legs would take ‘im even as reached int’ is suit and pulled a drawcord. The thing about dynamite in his suit had been a lie, but somefin Frankz did have up his sleeve?

Dye bombs. A red haze began to emanate from his suit, making the already quik ork quicker ‘as his soot was slowly krimsonified. Glancing at a passing reflection, the Ork barely avoided an arrow by leaning out of the way: ‘e had managed to piss th’ birdboyz off enough they were chasin’ him down. They were in for a rude awakenin’: Journo’s were pursuit predators! Frankz could run all day, though ‘e didn’t need to.

All ‘e had to do was reach the sound of the engines.

“Oi, run run as fast ‘as you kan, can’t catch me, I’m the- Dang, howzat rhyme go? Somefin’ about bread,” Frankz muttered as he vaulted a bench, usin’ the ancient journalist art of kour-par (or was it pour-kar?) to avoid the rubble.

“Stop running you coward!”

“Stikks and stones can break my bones but the words of jerks can wipe my big green-”

Down the street came barrelling a firetrukk, siren blaring. Frankz was barely able to throw himself out of the way as the machine tilted, turned, and began tumbling length-wise down the street, a few of the beekieboyz that weren’t quick enough to duck or dodged getting smeared: as good as their armor was, it wasn’t “survive several tons of steel hitting you at speed” good.

Once the thing ‘ad slid to a stop, a buncha Morkinaut Firefightas began climbing out, swingin’ breaching axes and firing bakpak fed rifles that seemed to be shootin’ globs of sticky substance, adhering the aliens to the street, buildin’s, an’ even each other, each of em dressed in yellow an’ red painted armored jumpsuits an’ wearin ‘ats with faceplates. “Geddim wif th’ gloo gunz, boyz!” Da Firefighta Chief said, climbing t’ the top, holdin’ a hose even as a grot began turnin’ the wheel on the trukk, causin’ the hose to shoot water from its cannon, blasting the aliens off their feet if they weren’t already glood down. “Dis is what ya get fer messin’ with Morkinaut Cities finest!” Da Chief bellowed. “An’ don’t worry about havin’ the gloo wash away: itz non-water sol-you-ble!” He roared, arrow after arrow landing and embedding themselves in the firefighta’s armor, the thick padding and metal plates intended to help disperse and insulate from heat doubling as protection from the barrage of arrows Da Chief’s showboating was attractin’.

“Aim fer the joints! The armor’s tough enough to take a beatin’, but the joints are soft!” Frankz roared as ‘e ducked another arrow.

“Oi, you gitz heard th’ guy!” Da Chief roared, taking one hand off their hose to draw their fire axe and bury it in one poor beakie gitz skull, the breaching axe cracking the armor like a wall-nut. Well, Frankz mused, not everybody could be Da Chief. “Go for the joints!”

“No!” The leader Beakie said, dragging themselves from the ground in front of the firetrukk, their eyes a rictus of anger, their white armor blackened by gore, dirt, and soot from the burnin’ buildings surrounding them. “This ends now!” They held out their arm, causing a panel on their armored forearm to pop open revealing a strange doohicky with a lot of buttons that the alien started pressing.

A moment later, from the swarm of alien vehicles flying over them, one descended: a twin-turbined craft designed to resemble a forward facing half-sphere covered in guns, as it descended Frankz watched as small shapes dropped: reinforcements.

“Oh zog me ru-” The Chief exploded, taken apart by one hit of the gunships weapons, big ol’ cannons that left a zoggin’ crater where the chief used to be. His krew, even with the knowledge of where to hit the aliens, never stood a chance: they found themselves buried under a tide of arrows, choppas, and splosive bolts, even while the leader stood, grinning in a way that combined with the way their eye twitched looked more angry than happy as they began to stalk forward.

“Ah krap baskets,” Frankz muttered, turning an’ running again. There wen’t that plan.

(((()))

The alien craft moved, attempting to find a hole in the nuclear net of perpetunite reactions surrounding them, the titanic craft attempting to probe the openings left, only to find itself locked in, unable to advance.

“How long do we think it will last?” Pikyaard asked, looking at the display. After all, no matter how long the blast took, a bomb was still a temporary thing, its release of energy finite.

“We should have a few hours,” Their science officer noted. “But that took most of our arsenal: we only have a few missiles left.”

“Sir, while we haven’t been able to land any hits with our torpedoes, I believe it may be possible to land a boarding party aboard the ship. With a low yield bomb they might be able to take out the crafts defences,” MCR noted.

“Very well, make it so.”

((((()))))

DNKY punched through the hull into the craft, metal screaming around them as their own vehicle breached, coming to a stop. Detaching from the craft, the Pilot-Machina cocked their shotgun even as the rest of the breaching team emerged: a collection of Hunteks, Hobbgrots, Officers, and Machina.

“OUR TARGET IS FIFTEEN KLICKS THAT WAY. I AM DETECTING SEVERAL HUNDRED BAD GUYS BETWEEN WHERE WE NEED TO PLANT THIS BOMB AND US. LOCK AND LOAD,” The Machina commanded, and the team began moving forward.

They immediately found themselves under attack by the aliens, who seemed to be using compound bows, crossbows utilizing micro-explosive tips, and thorned hatchet weapons, their weapons impacting the machinas shields, DNKY responding by firing an electrified net from his shotgun. “EAT ELECTRONS!”

((((()))))

Frankz was, to put it simply, skrewed. Sure, ‘e had led th’ gitz on a merry chase, but he was at the end of the line, brought low by the bane of journos everywhere: dead end alleys when y’ didn’t have a way out.

“Now, kan’t we talk dis out like civilized gitz?” Frankz asked, branshing his (now empty) boomstick as he tried to figure out a way out. Problem there was three brick walls surrounding him, and the only way out had a bunch a gitz approachin’ like a pack o’ goonz out for blood.

“I will admit Ork, you have been a wily hunt indeed,” The lead beakie said, eye twitching, armor blackened, burned, and cracked where it still exist, bare skin marred by cuts and bruises and patches of ripped off skin. “I will take great pride in taking your head: I will display it proudly among my collection.”

“Quit sayin’ dat!” Frankz said. “What kinda psykotik brags about takin’ gitz headz? Who da zog even ARE you people?” He said, exasperatedly.

The git paused. “Very well. You have earned that much, I suppose. When you go to your gods Gork and Mork, tell him them was Ghal Bavak of the Orkblood Kindr-”

“Gork and Mork aren’t my gods.”

“What,” The alien said, stopping.

“Look, I’m jus’ sayin, I got nothin agains’ gmorkists, I just- Well, when y’think about it, ‘ow much evidence do we ‘ave that Gork and Mork actually EXIST?”

A long, pregnant pause echoed through the alley. Wordlessly, the alien raised their crossbow and fired.

Frankz only found themselves saved by SOMEFIN impactin’ in front of them, kickin’ up a ton of dust and knocking the missile off target, causin’ it to harmlessly explode against a wall. A moment later, an orange and purple blur shot out, an’ Frankz had t’ blink at the sight of some orange gitz fist sendin’ the surprised alien sprawling.

“Oi, ‘owdy!” Came the voice of the individual standing atop the sprawled out aliens body, a creature that looked like a slightly tall grot in some kinda black an’ purple uniform, except ‘is skin were a orange instead of green. “My name is Kaptain Nug, of the TKK Emissary. Now, before we get t’ th’ party, would any of you gitz like t’ talk this ou-”

Quicker than Frankz could blink, they were holding an arrow, having caught it with ease. “Take that as a no, then. Alright, I ken respect that,” The oddgrot said with a grin. “Straight t’ bizniz.” With a twist of their wrist, they sent the arrow flying, flicking it flying into one of the aliens eyes.

In the sky, something exploded.

((((()))))

Pikyaard watched from the viewscreen as the explosion rippled across the hull of the sphere, a distant kra-kra-kra-koom heard. “Captain, Boarding Party reports that they were successful in planting and detonating the bomb: shields are offline and so are a big chuck of their macro-cannons, and the Emissary is reporting that the enemy are beginning to retreat groundside.”

“Very well. Hail them. Perhaps now that we’ve crippled one craft and have the other on the run, they’ll be amenable to diplomacy,” Pikyaard said, and a moment later, the alien admiral was once more on the screen, expression inscrutable.

“Call to gloat?” The alien said calmly. “You have won, it seems.”

“So it seems,” Pikyaard agreed. “But I’m not here to play sore winner. I’m here to convince you to leave this world and its people in peace.”

“And what would you do if we didn’t?” The Alien asked, eyes narrowing. “What if we told you that if you wished to stop us from culling the orks to the last, you would have to kill us all?”

“I would disable your ships engines and leave you stranded in the void of space until you could be escorted safely back to the Directorate for detainment,” Pikyaard responded without hesitation. “I do not wish hostilities between your people and I: we have no quarrel, but do not mistake a desire for peace as softness.”

The alien made a clicking noise. “Your naivety will be your doom,” The alien said bluntly. “Very well: if you will permit us to retreat safely, I shall promise my kindred to leave this system alone until your coddling eventually blows up. But know this: you have made an enemy not just of the Orkblood kindred, but every Kroot in the sector.”

“...If that’s the cost, so be it,” Pikyaard said. “Gather your people and leave. End transmission.”

Green Giant has suffered a massive attack by two Kroot Warspheres, an unknown alien race. In defending its inhabitants, the Directorate has earned the ire of the Orkblood Kroot Kindred, and is now at war with them.

In the process, Green Giant has suffered surprisingly moderate damage, though in the wake several factions on its surface have decided to collaborate with the planets burgeoning space program.

Orkblood Kroot Reputation: -50 (War)

Green Giant Reputation: 5 (Problem Gitz)

((((()))))

Stardate 4314, Mid-Fall (Teklian Calendar), 1700 hrs, Flying Saucer System

Wurf sat in his office, rubbing his temples as he listened to the soothing sound of heavy metal jazz bagpipes to relax after a stressful day.

His assignment had consisted largely of babysitting duty for Directorate Diplomats: after the absolute disaster that first kontakt had been, the Fleet had decided that establishing positive relations was critical to the Directorates diplomatic goals. This meant volunteering to help anti-piracy operations as well as conducting two independent but simultaneous ambassadorial missions both to gather information and normalize opinions.

Not really a whole lot fer a big stick like him to do but go over information and help out where he could while maintaining the spirit of the Prime Directive: asteroid haulin’, ship repair, helpin’ out a bit with infrastructure. That an’ going over intelligence and analyst work an’ reviewin’ reports, which sadly had proven the LESSER stress, an’ normally Wurf hated paperwork!

Every day Wurf thanked the Mojo ‘e had his training sims or he’d ‘ave already put a gun to his head, honestly. Because it turned out that two space farin’ powers that had been stuck in a foreva war that had only recently ended and had otherwise wholly negative interactions with alien life were, to put it simply, DIFFICULT.

So very, very difficult. Wurf was, thankfully, a very patient grot by nature: y’didn’t last this long as a career kap’n without training that particular skill (as well as the ability to turn down promotion: as shiny as an admirals badge might have been, gettin’ a desk job felt like a partikular kind of hell for the captain).

The H’kek took everything as an insult or an attack, an’ unfortunately their fight or flight reflex had been permanently wired to fight: once you got em kalm they weren’t so bad, but you had to watch everything you said unless you wanted em to explode at you. Of th’ two, they had the more reasonable leaders at least: higher your position was, th’ better medication you got allocated, apparently.

Still meant that they had five reports a day of fights breaking out.

From what ‘e observed of their society, they apparently ‘ad a council democracy: ‘e hadn’t met wif any of them (they apparently were kept in secret bunkers during the entirety of their term in order to minimize the odds of assassination), but supposedly dis council had exactly twenty one members, five for each major H’kek territory and a final minority representative fer th’ few H’kann that lived in H’kek territory.

The extra seat ‘ad been a kondition of the Treaty of Verbex, th’ deal that permitted a peace between the two: in exchange, the H’kann had agreed t’ cease assassination attempts on the H’kek government.

Real mess dat was. H’kann weren’t much better, ‘cept instead of bein’ angry, they were friggen paranoid an’ kept tryin’ to steal technology. They assumed everythin’ you said ‘ad five layers of deception baked in, and kept tryin’ to weasel you: the average git wasn’t so bad once you got t’ know em, but the leaders were just th’ worst to talk to.

They seemed to be governed by some form o’...merit-o-krazy: they ‘ad a test every few years, an’ whoever scored highest replaced th’ oldest servin’ member of their leadership. Apparently, th’ kompetition t’ score th’ highest selected fer a government that was, ah, more on th’ neurotic side.

Two ‘ouses, united in their mutual fear, kontempt, an’ weirdness, which made a bit more sense once ‘e ‘ad a komplete history.

See, turned out the H’kek held all th’ worlds on the inner ring. Th’ habitable or easily tekliaformed worlds, or else th’ molten worlds what made up fer it with material. This surplus, they used to, well, INVADE the outer ring: the H’kann held gas giants, moons, exoplanets, most of which relied on complex machinery or mechanical aides to sustain H’kann population centers. Retaliatory, fer robbin’ resources, strategic reasons, the reasons the H’kek invaded were a lot, but they almost always ended with a wrecked city, miserable months or years of occupation, an’ a lot of dead people.

This was in response to and in turn caused the H’kann’s own raids and military operations, which used WMD’s, mind controlled government officials and sleeper agents, economic warfare, drone warfare, an’ mass kidnapping, all with th’ intent of sowin’ terror and sabotagin’ the H’keks capacity to sustain themselves.

From what ‘e gathered, they ‘ad been fightin’ since day one: th’ histories goin’ back that far were fuzzy, but apparently both ‘ad been dumped on th’ same barely habitable rock an’ forced to duke it out over th’ little amount of sustainable territ’ry. A war that had lasted almost a thousand years.

Once more, what a zoggin’ mess. The Hobbgrot sighed, pressing a button on his desk, causin’ the drinkmaker on it to start brewin’, filterin’ boiling water through a mixture of ground mushrooms ‘e had found made a drink that gave him both the energy and serenity he had needed t’ get through the day. Once it ‘ad been brewed, y’ added a shot of th’ hardest liquor you could fine (though Hobbgrot Brandy worked th’ best he ‘ad found) and some spices, an’ you had a drink that made even the lousiest day manageable.

‘E was still workin’ on the name: recaf was takin’ by the humies, koffee had been proposed then dismissed when ‘e had shared the recipe with Gran’ Uncle Stizlak, and Wurfenbrau had been rejected after realizin’ it shared a name with a type o’ ‘emroid kream. Currently, ‘e wuz mullin over ‘rakta’ somefin, but he’s hadn’t settled yet.

A beeping noise came from over the intercom, and the Captain perked up. Dat was th’ beeps what meant that ‘e was needed on th’ bridge. Quickly, the Hobbgrot stood up, walkin’ to the door of his roomand pressin’ the button, revealing th’ bridge.

“I wuz needed?” He said, walking to his chair and sitting down. It was, in ‘is experience, a lot simpler t’ do ‘iz job when his bed was a short walk from the kaptains chair. Sure, he didn’t get a lot of time interactin’ with people that weren’t on the command deck unless he wuz off duty an’ visiting the kanteen, but it meant that at a moments notice he could go from paperwork to bridgework.

“Sorry t’ interrupt yer down-time Captain,” Came the voice of his Navigator, Lt. Commander Kynzyg said, the Tekkets accent having a slight grottish lilt. “Scanners are pickin’ up somethin’ in the warp: we think it’s movement, approachin’ from th’ south, both west and east, though it’s weird.”

Wurf grunted. “Av y’ already informed the H’k?” He asked. “An’ whats the ETA?”

“Already done: they’ve begun preparing for a potential attack by moving their civilians and scrambling their fleet. Captain MEKZ and Hykmun have already been alerted and are likewise.”

Wurf nodded. “Alright, I want all ‘ands here t’ get ready as well.”

“Already did it Keptin!” Came the voice of his chief security officer on duty, Officer Whamdinger, the Grot giving a brisk nod to the captain.

“Mrrr,” Wurf growled positively. “What’s the ETA for arrival?”

“No idea,” came the voice of the officer manning the science console. “These readings are…extremely weird: it could be thirty seconds, it could be thirty minutes.” Lt. Peris said, looking over the scanner readouts. “Frankly, if it wasn’t for the Parliament of Sight I’m not sure we would have detected them at all.”

Either way, it wasn’t a lot of time to prepare.

An unknown force is approaching.

The following forces are available:

The TKK Endeavor B

The TKK Spirit of Toxel

The TKK Valiant

2 Khimera Squadrons

1 Super Battlebot League

3 BlokBot Compliments

1 Huntek Attache

Further, both the H’kek and H’kann possess five small ships each to defend their territory, though each are significantly undergunned compared to Endeavors.

Please assign your forces.

Available Combat Zones:

Systems Edge. Owners: Neutral Zone. According to both factions of H’k, the edge of the system is considered uncontested territory. Containing of clouds of space debris and a few dark planets that were uninhabited except for monitoring stations, this was the most likely location an attack would come from.

Outer Rim. Owners: H’kann. Various small gas giants and the only habitable world of the H’kann, Chuggati’s Pastures, a tekliaformed planetoid that relies on a large space station to provide light and warmpth that produces 15% of the H’kanns food. Moderately inhabited.

Inner Rim. Owner: H’kann. A quartet of large gas giants that serve as the largest population and industrial centers of H’kann society. It was also where the capital world of the H’kann was located, Kanns Krown. Moderately inhabited.

Demilitarized Planet. Owner: N/A. This world, known only as the Demilitarized Planet, was considered the official boarder between both space nations. A brown dwarf, the Demilitarized Planet was the most heavily fortified location in the system for this precise reason, even if little of those fortifications were on the planet itself.

Outer Core. Owner: H’kek. The Outer Core served as the political heart of the H’kek, hosting most of the systems habitable worlds, both natural and terraformed, like Homeworld, the…creatively named homeworld of the H’kek, which produced most of the food and medicine used by the H’kek. Heavily populated.

Inner Core. Owner: H’kek. This region of the system consisted of a trio of molten worlds that were used as manufacturing centers for the H’kek, such as Kanns Docks, which served as the primary shipyard of the H’kek. Moderately populated.