Energy, raw and undulating, filled me as the crowd of Orks roared their battle cries. The massive crowd moved with liquid grace across rough, debris strewn floors. Mere moments before, we had reached a fortified tunnel covered in garish blue totems. The few defenders that were awake were slaughtered so fast, the corpses had stopped twitching by the time I made it. Though full of energy, the three miles trek had pushed me near the rear of the horde, thanks to my shorter legs, and despite my best efforts, the battle was already underway when I arrived.

The cave resounded with battle cries and gunfire, so loud you couldn't hear your own voice. Throngs of Orks fought in glorious battle, Choppahs cutting and Shootahs blasting away, all so tantalizingly close. I used my smaller size to slip past lumbering gits, kicking aside any Grot that got in my way, the little goblins screeching and running in all directions, often carrying loot they had stolen in the chaos.

With the greatest of relief, I reached the frenzy. But before I could swing my weapon, a dilemma occurred to me. Who was I supposed to krump? The question answered itself when a Ork covered in blue paint swung a Choppah at me. I blocked with my crude club, which nearly shattered on impact. The Ork raised his other hand, pointing a Shootah at me. He pressed the trigger, and a loud bang nearly deafened me, but the shot went wide. I kicked out at the Orks leg, but he was larger, and the blow only weakened his footing. He ripped his Choppah out of my club, which flew out of my hands. He fired another shot as he swung the blade back at my head, the bullet catching me in the shoulder.

But I was already moving, in and past his guard. I slammed into his midsection, slipped a leg behind his, and threw him to the ground. I was on him in a flash, barely noticing the gash that he left on my left arm. I grabbed his Choppah hand with both of mine, wrestling it away from it. He slapped the side of my head with the Shootah, but the blow only knocked a few teeth loose. Even using both hands, I was barely in control of the weapon, so rather than keep taking blows to the head, I went for my signature move. Rather than fight against the blade, I pulled it toward me. The move was unexpected, and caught the Ork completely off guard, though it probably didn't mind me hurrying my own death.

But as the blade swept toward me, I hunched my head down, letting his fist smash into my face. The blow hurt, but now my teeth were in perfect range. I bit into the hand that held my new blade, severing the fingers at the hand. The blade dropped free and into my waiting hands, and with a triumphant cry, I swung it down at the orks head. Only this Ork wasn't going to go down so easily. It blocked the blade with its pistol, and with my arms no longer working to keep him pinned, he bucked hard, tossing me over his shoulders to sprawl in the dirt. I leapt to my feet just in time to slam the Choppah into the oncoming Ork, who took the blade to the shoulder. It punched my face yet again with its crippled hand, and tried to fire it's damaged Shootah into my chest. The gun’s barrel exploded, sending a bullet deep unto my chest, catching on bone only after punching deep into green flesh.

I leaned in on my blade, and dragged it across the Orks chest, slicing the blade down and across its entire stomach. Blood and viscera painted the floor a garish blue and green, but still, the Ork fought on. It hammered both hands, one still clutching the ruined pistol, across my exposed Beck and back as I hunched low, still pulling the blade through flesh. Knowing the battle was all but won, I let out a victorious roar, just in time to take a load of flaming tar across my back. Skin hissed and bubbled, melting off my back in a slough of green liquid. Instincts sent me to the ground, and beneath the arc of the flamethrower spewing molten death across the crowd, indiscriminate of its target.

I rolled on the filthy floor, a catchy tune of ‘Stop, Drop and Roll’ playing in my head as I squirmed in the dirt, trying to rub off the sticky, burning liquid. The world grew dark and hazy, and it was all I could do to focus on dowsing the fire. Blows started landed on my prone form as I struggled to douse the blazing agony across my back. Though the blows felt weak, the blazing pain of being set on fire was no doubt confusing my pain receptors, and I knew on an instinctive level that my attacker must be taken care of if I wished to live.

Massive bruises started to form from a dozen welts all across my body, and my human soul started to buckle under the pain, even with the pain resistant body of an Ork. I lashed out with my Choppah, swinging wildly at the hazy figure above me. The blade was ripped from my grasp, and all I could do was watch as the Ork, stomach still gaping open, raised the weapon above my head. Three bursts of blood exploded from the Ork, bullets bursting through its chest. The Ork sagged over, pinning me to the ground. I felt like I'd just rolled into a thornbush then set on fire. Though to a human, my wounds would no doubt be deadly, I still felt more than capable of getting back in the fray, even if every inch of me hurt.

I rolled the Ork over and retrieved his weapons. I also grabbed his shirt, ammo belts, and a sack of Ork teeth. At first, I considered finding my savior and sharing the rewards. Then I remembered that my own allies has nearly killed me with a flamethrower. No doubt the Ork hadn't even been aiming at my enemy, so it was clearly my kill. A thought, definitely not one of mine, bubbled into my conscious. It seemed to indicate that the Ork teeth, or teef, as they were properly called, were a form of currency, and should be collected. This seemed like a swell idea, and so I bashed out the teeth of the dead ork, and added them to the small collection.

I put on the a slightly oversized shirt, wrapped the pouch strings around my shoulder and under the shirt, safely out of sight, then took a note of my surroundings. The fringes of the fight were nearly ten feet away, and dozens of corpses were strewn about me. A perpetual swarm of Grots and Gretchins, the smaller and stupider Grot, were busy looting the battlefield, some even taking tools to the mouths of Orks to retrieve their teeth.

A very unorkish thought entered my mind as examined my situation. I WAS heavily injured, and there were so many corpses just /begging/ to be looted. In moments, I was hunched over the largest corpse I could find, grabbing a Grot that was busy slipping a pouch out of the Orks pockets. I took the pouch, and shook the Grot until several more pouches and a small Shootah fell out of the makeshift sack it wore. The human part of me firmly in gear, I made sure to leave the little bugger with nearly a quarter of its loot. Didn't want to leave a hard working Grot without its reward, or they might just stop collecting loot for me.

It was this very thought that would change my life forever. But we are focusing on the now, for now.

I proceeded to liberate some goods from the nearby Grots, and once the buggers learned to steer clear, I had a vast stretch of pickings for myself. I soon amassed a sizable portion of teef, as well as very thick and shiny Choppah, two Shootahs in near mint condition, and a VERY nice hat. It was as close to a bowler hat as could be expected from an Ork, and even had some teef sewn into the brim, along with a blue and yellow stripe along the top. Very stylish. Unfortunately, I was unable to stuff any more goodies under my shirt without appearing obvious. And I had no intentions of getting caught carrying a bag of goodies at my size. I might not know much about the Orks, but I could guess what would happen to me if I strolled down the street with a bag of teef and guns.

And so, as looted as I could hope to be without serious trouble, I ambled back into the fray, making sure to stay well clear of any fights, and shouting as loudly as I can to make it apparent I was very much still a participant. And with that, the raid was over.