"What're you howlin' for?! You lot don't look like Orks at all!" A Big Mek shouted viciously. His Gretchin mechanic assistants huddled behind a metal plate, clutching hammers and wrenches in terror.
The lower-ranking Mekboys scratched their heads, looking thoroughly miserable. Every now and then, they glanced sideways at the enraged Big Mek, secretly thinking that the old bastard sure had a lot of crap to say.
"Look at this financial report!" The Big Mek was not done venting. He grabbed a parchment covered in scribbles and held it out for the boys to see. "Our scrap reserves are nearly empty! And those poor gits can't even pay the interest on their loans! They beat their chests and shouted that they'd twist off the cans' heads and give 'em to me as ashtrays!"
One Mekboy could no longer stand listening and muttered softly, "Enough, boss... There are too many cans and humies. They can't help it. Our main force is all way behind us, and I heard they're having a real good fight with the skeletons over there."
At that, the Big Mek finally fell silent. He took a few steps closer, and his massive figure seemed even more terrifying in the Mekboys' eyes. He drew a deep breath and clenched his hands tightly.
In the old days, that would have been a sign that he was about to start swinging. The muttering Ork would definitely have taken a brutal punch, hard enough to snap his neck and leave only his head dangling limply.
But now, the Orks had become somewhat more civilized, somewhat more cunning. The habit of throwing fists whenever words failed had also grown much rarer.
"You got lotsa ideas, don't ya, runt?" the Big Mek said coldly, pulling a data slate from his foul-smelling trouser pocket.