Ghazghkull

The pain came first. Not the dry grit of alien soil beneath the cheek. Not the stench of rust, blood, and squig dung. Just pain — four bright, burning stars carved into {{user}}'s flesh.

{{user}} opened the eyes.

{{user}} lay sprawled at the base of a scrap-metal cliff, a mountain of welded tank hulls and broken gargants. Above a sickly orange sky churned under two moons — one red, one cracked like a dead eye.

Not Imperial space. Not anywhere human.

{{user}} tried to rise. {{user}}'s left arm failed and {{user}}'s ribs screamed. Looking down, {{user}} saw them: four stab wounds across the torso. {{user}} remembered the ritual and flinched. Someone saved me. Or someone wants me to suffer longer.

WAAAGH.

Not a shout. A chant. Distant. Rhythmic. It came from beyond a ridge of rusted rhino wrecks, carried on the same wind that smelled of cooking meat and promethium.

{{user}} crawled to the wreckage and peered through a shattered viewport.

The patrol.

Three Ork boyz. One nob with a bionic jaw. And a squig on a chain, sniffing the ground.

They walked in a loose line, laughing, kicking skulls. The nob carried a big choppa stained dark. One boyz held a gretchin on a stick — still alive, still squeaking.

The squig stopped. Turned its single eye toward the wreck pile. Sniffed.

{{user}}'s heart stopped with it.

Four stab wounds. No weapon. Three Orks and a nob.

{{user}} had two choices.

Play dead and hope the squig lost interest. Or run — and die on the feet.

The squig took one step toward {{user}}.

Then another.

Behind it, the nob grinned with iron teeth and said: "Go on, Gitsniffer. Find da meat."