I Became A Git and Now I’m Gonna Be Da Boss

Me was a humie. Now me's a Git. Gonna krump me way up to Warboss. Probably. WAAAGH!

Plot

Right, listen up, ya git. Dis is da story of one Ork Boy — 'cept he ain't no normal Boy. He used ta be a humie. A real squishy, panzee, desk-job humie what got krumped by one of dem metal bawkses on wheels an' woke up green. Now he's stuck at da bottom of da Skullkrakka warband on Helcion-IV, a rusted-out hive world what's basically one big scrap pile wiv humies still hidin' in da top bits. He don't got no cheats, no fancy system, no goddess apologizin' — just a rusty choppa, a shoota dat jams, an' a head full of weird humie memories what make 'im... kunnin'. Too kunnin', some Boyz say. He's gotta fight 'is way up from a nameless Git to da biggest, baddest Warboss on da planet. Dat means krumpin' Nobz what get in 'is way, winnin' over Boyz what fink he's strange, an' dealin' wiv rivals what want 'is teef — like Gorzag da Heavy, Boss Toofrippa, an' da biggest git of 'em all, Warboss Gitsmasha. But it ain't just Orks causin' trouble. Da humies on Helcion-IV got reinforcements: a whole company of Void Jackals, sneaky black-armoured Beakies what don't fight proppa an' are huntin' da smart Orks first. Dere's also a Kommissar wiv a grudge, a mad Chaplain what screams about truth while krumpin' Boyz, an' a Captain wiv dead black eyes what don't make no sound when he kills ya. Da Boy's got allies too — Zagnatz, a nervy git what follows 'im around, Oddgit da Weirdboy what reckons he's some kinda prophet, an' Sprokkit da Mekboy what builds crazy gear dat shouldn't work but does anyway 'cos Orks believe it does. Wiv a choppa in one hand an' da WAAAGH! burnin' in 'is chest, dis weird Boy is gonna climb da whole zoggin' ladder, build a WAAAGH! big enough ta shake da planet, an' maybe — just maybe — remember wot it was like ta be humie before he forgets entirely. It's loud, it's violent, it's sometimes dead funny, an' it's got more dakka dan ya can shake a squig at. WAAAGH!

Opening scene

You die as you lived: overworked, underappreciated, and flattened by a truck that definitely ran a red light. There is no pearly gate. No goddess with a clipboard apologizing for the mix-up. Just a brief, agonizing moment of impact, a blinding white light, and then— SPLAT. You hit the ground face-first. The first thing you register is the smell. Wet dirt, hot metal, and something acrid burning in the distance. The second thing you register is the noise. A low, rumbling cacophony of guttural shouting, clanging metal, and the sporadic dakka-dakka-dakka of heavy gunfire. The third thing you register is the pain. Not the lingering ache of a truck impact, but something far more immediate: a heavy, hobnailed boot driving into your ribs. "Outta da way, ya git!" The boot's owner is massive. A wall of green muscle and badly stitched leather looms over you, its face a scrunched-up fist of tusks and scar tissue. A Nob. You don't know how you know that word, but you do. Same way you now know the weight of the rusty axe clutched in your own — your own — massive, green, four-fingered hand. You look down. Green. You're green. Green and huge and crammed into a set of scrap-metal armor that looks like it was assembled by a blind grot with a grudge. Memories flicker. Instant ramen. A desk job. A loading screen tip: "If you can see the whites of their eyes, you've already been shot." The words feel like a relic from another life, but they settle into your brain next to a new, much louder thought that isn't a thought at all — it's a feeling. A primal, thrumming certainty that radiates from your bones and rattles your teef. Da big ones is da bosses. Da red ones go fasta. And a gun don't need ta make sense, it just needs ta be loud. The WAAAGH! It pulses in the air like a heartbeat, and it's pulling you forward. A fresh wave of shouting erupts from ahead. Through the choking smoke, you glimpse a trenchline. Sandbags. The flicker of lasgun fire. 'Umies. The Nob — Gorzag da Heavy, your brain supplies, helpfully — racks the slide on a cannon-sized shoota and bellows over the din, spraying spittle across your face. "WOT YOU LOT WAITIN' FER? A ENGRAVED INVITATION?! MOVE IT! FIRST ONE TO DAT TRENCH GETS A 'OLE HANDFUL OF TEEF!" The Boyz around you surge forward with a collective roar. Zagnatz, a scrawny git to your left, looks like he's about to wet himself. A Grot scurries past your ankles, shrieking. Sprokkit the Mekboy, somewhere in the distance, is cackling over the sputtering roar of what might generously be called a flamethrower. You are an Ork Boy. Lowest of the low. A freshly spawned nobody in a sea of green muscle and violence. But deep in your chest, beneath the fresh bruises and the thrum of the WAAAGH!, a single, crystal-clear thought forms. It's not an instinct. It's yours. This hierarchy is garbage. I'm going to climb it and kick the top off. Gorzag boots another Boy out of his path. The trench looms ahead. Lasbolts sear the air. What do you do, Boss?

Characters

Tags: Reincarnator War Comedy Fantasy Sci-Fi MalePOV AnyPOV Violence Isekai Transmigration Rebirth SecondChance Growth Strong Ambitious Determined Brave Leader Hero Villain Enemy Mercenary Soldier Adventure City Futuristic

Chats Started: 45

By: onlyheskuin

Stories

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