Chapter 9: 11th Primarch is Weird?
"It is I, Francis Krick!" The Primarch laughed at his guardians' startled reactions. "Your surprise is understandable. A Primarch's abilities go far beyond what mortals can understand."
The Soul Drinkers stared in awe at their gene-father's weird bio skills.
The Custodian Guard insisted Francis stay in his original form for hours before they believed no mutation remained.
This delay helped Francis's research. His experiments proved enough biological matter kept his shape-changing abilities going for a long time—a discovery with serious tactical uses.
Once they worked out the infiltration plan, Francis headed toward the Ork settlement with the squig bounding alongside him.
"So your name is just 'Squig,'" Francis said, watching the creature respond to his familiar voice.
The beast circled him frantically, its tail wagging like a primitive rotor.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
Squig caught a scent and bolted eastward.
Francis followed at a steady pace. The tracker rushes ahead while the hunter follows calmly.
A pitiful yelp echoed ahead. "Owww!"
Francis quickened his pace and found Squig writhing on the forest floor, trapped in the jaws of a massive, tadpole-like creature covered in razor teeth.
Francis grinned as he watched Squig's situation. The beast had fallen victim to a Face-eater Squig, a predatory cousin nearly identical to its edible relatives when sleeping.
Squig had chosen poorly.
Francis grabbed the creature's upper and lower jaws, then pried them apart with superhuman strength, freeing his companion's injured limb.
As the Face-eater prepared to lunge again, Francis knocked it unconscious with a casual slap and tied it up with makeshift bindings.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
Within moments, Squig recovered enough to discover a shallow pool full of loaf-shaped creatures.
"Remarkable, little one," Francis said with genuine appreciation. "You've found quite the feast."
Francis embraced his Orkish persona completely. He plunged into the pool and gathered the edible squigs with greenskin enthusiasm, even butchering one fresh for his companion.
Francis settled Squig on his shoulder and walked toward the camp, whistling an old Fenrisian tune. "There are worse fates than being an Ork."
The campfire painted dancing shadows across the crude settlement as the Orks lounged around their evening activities. Some shared their day's spoils, others maintained their brutal weapons, their guttural laughter mixing with bestial roars.
When they spotted 'Stig' returning with armloads of fresh meat, enthusiastic cheers erupted.
"Stigz, you're brilliantz!"
"Look! Stig brought back a Face-eater! Hahaha!"
"Let's have ourselves a competition!"
A circle of Orks formed around the captive predator, eagerly debating who could eat it before losing their face to its snapping jaws.
Meanwhile, tiny Gretchin swarmed Francis's feet, taking the edible squigs from him before scurrying off to prepare the evening feast.
Deep in the forest shadows, tension mounted among Francis's hidden guardians.
"Are you certain the Primarch remains... uncompromised?" The Custodian's voice carried barely restrained aggression. "He hunts and celebrates alongside these alien filth."
"You don't understand our gene-father's strategic wisdom," a Soul Drinker replied with absolute conviction. "Didn't the Primarch explain his reasoning?"
"Killing scattered Ork bands is easy. But what if this entire world is full of greenskins? Though we fear no battle, what if our ship is discovered and torn apart while we fight?"
"What if we fail to complete the Emperor's sacred mission?"
The Soul Drinker repeated Francis's earlier words with religious certainty.
"For the Emperor!" At the mention of their beloved sovereign, the Custodians' eyes blazed with faith, though they found the Primarch and his legions' behavior ridiculous; they remained silent.
After a pause, one custodian pointed toward the camp again. "There, your Primarch fights that xeno in combat. We don't need to intervene, right?"
The Soul Drinkers followed his gesture and saw their disguised Primarch locked in combat with an Ork much larger than himself.
"Holy Throne! They dare treat our Primarch like that!" The Silent One raised his weapons—bombs enough to burn hundreds of meters to ash. "Brothers, we charge, with explosion ON my m—!"
The Custodians held them back with spears blocking the Astartes' path. "All for the Emperor! Right?"
The Soul Drinkers could only watch helplessly, while the Silent One put back his bombs, lamenting. Why give us bombs if not for explosions?
"Release the squig," Francis commanded, facing the towering Ork who had grabbed his companion.
Unlike common greenskins, this brute wore crude metal plates fashioned into primitive armor, marking him as the camp's leader.
"Stig, I'm da boss 'ere!" the Ork leader chuckled, dangling Squig tauntingly. "If I wants to eat yer squig, I'll eat yer squig!"
The rush of disgusting, foul-smelling air made Francis scratch his nose.
Whoosh!
Ork felt sudden pain from his lower body as Francis's aimed strike found its mark at his weak point.
"RAAAAGH! Dirty sneaky git! Fight me proper if you got da guts!"
Francis reclaimed Squig while continuing his dismantling of the Ork's vulnerable areas. "I am fighting you properly," he replied with clinical detachment.
Agonized screams echoed across the settlement as Francis showed the difference between Primarch and greenskin. When the moment felt right, he mounted his fallen opponent.
"You're da boss now! You're da boss!" the defeated Ork wailed. "Don't eat me!"
Francis bit deeply into his opponent's ear before continuing the ritualistic beating, allowing the Ork to land a meaningless blow on him. Francis didn't stop until the Ork went still. He looked at his body now bloodied, with disgusting Ork blood dripping from him.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The gathered Orks had formed a circle around the combat, and they beat their drums in a primitive rhythm. Their eyes burned with excitement when Francis stood triumphant.
Then they erupted in thunderous celebration.
"BOSS! BOSS!"
"You're our new boss!"
"WAAAAAGH!"
In that moment, Francis felt the terrible power of the Ork collective consciousness ignite within him. He threw back his head and roared, beating his chest with both fists.
"WAAAAAAGH!"
The entire settlement exploded with primal fury and fanatical screams. Every Ork bellowed their war-cry until the very air trembled, as if their collective voice might shake the planet itself.
Under Francis's call, the Orks moved with unprecedented organization.
They surged toward the camp's edge, brandishing crude weapons—axes, spears, chainblades cobbled from scavenged parts. Some climbed aboard ramshackle war machines: towering constructs of scrap metal and Orkish ingenuity that defied every law of physics through sheer belief.
Francis had started a proper Waaagh.
"WAAAAAAGH!"
As the green tide poured forth, the settlement erupted in glorious chaos. Flames reached skyward while explosions punctuated the mob's advance. Orks pushed, roared, and trampled each other in their eagerness to join the great crusade.
"Let's make this the biggest Waaagh ever!" Francis bellowed from atop a massive war machine, raising a captured power maul like a banner of conquest.
"WAAAGH!"
"WAAAGH!"
"WAAAGH!"
They crashed into a neighboring settlement like a green avalanche, where unsuspecting Gretchin had been doing their clumsy evening dances.
The peaceful Orks there had been contentedly eating fungus and singing their simple songs when Francis's horde smashed through their defenses, beat them senseless, and roared their infectious battle-cry.
The beaten Orks looked around in confusion, their minds slowly processing this development. "Waaagh?"
"Stupid gits! How dare you invade my territory!"
An Ork dressed in the crude robes of a Weird Boy stormed from his tent, fury radiating from his scarred features.
Then a war machine appeared directly in front of him, crushed him beneath its wheels, and rolled onward without pause.
The settlement's original inhabitants stood frozen for a heartbeat before their eyes blazed with identical fanaticism.
"WAAAAAAGH!"
More greenskins joined Francis's ever-growing crusade.
Wherever the tide passed, nothing remained standing. Scattered Ork settlements were absorbed completely, their inhabitants helpfully pointing out the locations of rival camps that needed similar 'recruitment.'
Meanwhile, the Soul Drinkers and Custodians watched from their hidden positions, exchanging uncertain glances before swallowing hard.
"You Primarch is... still in control of himself, right?"
"Hmph, of course, he is in control."
"WAGHHHHHHH, " came the roar of Francis.
The Astartes looked at his primarch savagely, shouting, "Yes, he is in control....maybe?"
[End of Chapter]