Talon III, Low Orbit
The space above Talon III had once been an abyss of silence, disturbed only by the distant glimmer of scattered satellites and the occasional flicker of cosmic debris.
Now, that silence was shattered.
With a single flash of light, three warships materialized in the void above Talon III, followed swiftly by the appearance of an orbital shipyard, deployed directly behind them.
Far below, Talon III's inhabitants, sheltered deep beneath the planet's glacial crust in fortified subterranean cities, remained oblivious to the sudden arrival of these voidborne titans.
Once the fleet and orbital facilities were fully operational, the landing operations began.
Ten regiments, accompanied by a single Knight, were teleported to the planet's southern pole.
The remaining ten regiments, with another Knight in their midst, descended upon the northern hemisphere.
Donna and her Knight, Crimson Rose, were stationed in the north.
While she patrolled the frozen wastes, the Legion regiments immediately began fortifying their positions, digging trenches and establishing defensive emplacements amidst the blizzards and howling winds.
At the same time, hundreds of logistical drones and automated construction machines were transported down.
Hovering in coordinated formations, they began assembling an enormous tower-like structure.
These machines carried pre-fabricated components, printing and assembling them on-site.
Once materials ran low, they would teleport back to orbit, reload, and return, continuing their tireless work without pause.
The facility was rising fast, a titanic spire of black alloy, piercing into the storm-laden sky like a blade.
....
Donna, piloting the Crimson Rose, patrolled the frozen battlefield.
Before long, movement in the blinding storm caught her attention, a mass of green shapes emerging from the white void.
"Xenos sighted! Prepare for combat!"
Donna's warning blared over the vox-net, sharp and authoritative.
And at that moment, the battlefield shifted.
Soldiers abandoned their tasks and took positions in half-dug trenches.
Leman Russ battle tanks rolled forward, their armored hulls providing cover for the infantry.
Automated turret batteries encircling the construction site snapped to life, tracking targets with red-lit optics, primed to deliver suppressing fire at the incoming enemy.
Every soldier steadied their breath, pressing their lasguns against their shoulders, aiming down their scopes.
Then, from the white abyss of the snowstorm, a tide of Orks erupted.
"WAAAGGGGHHH!!!"
Thousands of them: Howling, screaming, brandishing rusted cleavers and makeshift blades.
The Orks were grotesque parodies of men: hulking, muscular, with mottled green skin and jagged yellow teeth. Their armor was little more than bolted scrap and dented metal plates, covered in crude glyphs painted in blood and oil.
A green tide, rolling forth like a living wave of violence.
But then, the tension vanished.
The Legion troops relaxed, their initial apprehension giving way to something colder than the surrounding ice: professional detachment.
Some even returned to their previous tasks.
The only response was a single Leman Russ, its turret whirring into position as it glided effortlessly across the ice.
A voice crackled over the vox:
"Knight-Commander, mind if I deal with this rabble?"
"Not at all," Donna replied, her voice calm, almost bored, unwilling to waste her Knight's arsenal on such feeble opposition. There was no honor in slaughtering the weak.
This was not a battle. This was pest control.
Orks that wielded only crude blades were no warriors.
They were nothing but prey.
Honor demanded a worthy fight.
And this was no fight.
The Leman Russ opened fire.
The first shell tore through the horde, detonating amidst the front ranks in a shower of gore and snow.
Then the automated turrets joined in, tracing the enemy with machine precision, bombarding the green tide with relentless firepower.
And the artillery drones on the perimeter unleashed a storm of explosives.
The Orks never reached the trenches.
Within half an hour, the battlefield was silent once more, the Orks reduced to frozen corpses scattered across the snow.
The first Ork wave had been annihilated.
The cold wind howled once more, carrying away the last echoes of battle.
The battlefield fell silent.
....
Two hours passed without another attack.
Then, they returned.
This time, they were different.
Instead of crude, rusted cleavers, they carried muskets.
Instead of a frenzied, howling mob, they marched in tight formation.
"Emperor protect us… are they forming line infantry?"
Donna could hardly believe her eyes.
Across the ice-slick expanse, hundreds of Orks advanced in tight regimental squares, their usual anarchic rabble disciplined into something uncanny and wrong. Each Ork wore cobbled-together uniforms, stitched from torn flak jackets, looted Imperial tunics, and industrial rags, patched with teeth, wires, and bits of plate armor.
At the head of each formation, a larger Ork, covered in squigs-hide pelts stitched into the crude mockery of an officer's uniform, brandished a saber of welded scrap and wore a monocle carved from a looted auspex lens.
Behind them, crude scrap-cannons trundled forward, hauled by grots. Smaller, sniveling Orkoid sub-species known for cowardice and servility. These grots moved in chains, cowed into fearful obedience under the lash of their overseers, hulking Orks with burna rods and spiked boots.
And then, the squigs, short for Squiggly Beasts, were feral, often toothy creatures used by Orks for everything from food and weapons to instruments and explosives, began to shriek.
A warped, metallic sound rang across the ice planes.
It took Donna a moment to understand.
The Orks had brought music. War music.
The chorus erupted, a thunderous roar that carried across the frozen wastes.
"WAAAGH!!"
The Orks halted at one thousand meters.
Then, in perfect synchronization, the first rank kneeled, raising their muskets.
The second rank remained standing, their crude firearms aimed forward.
A single, bellowing command rang from the Ork leading the charge, a voice guttural and dripping with parody of an militär officer's authority.
"WAAAGGHHH!!!"
The thunderous volley of black powder muskets erupted, sending lead balls whistling through the storm.
The battlefield was engulfed in black powder smoke.
And then, from the rear lines, the Orkish cannons roared.
Massive iron shot, forged in crude smelteries, hurtled through the storm.
The first impact struck the shield of the Knight, sending rippling distortions across the energy field.
Another round cratered into the Legion trenches.
Explosions rippled across the battlefield: Tank armor dented, trenches splintered, snow kicked into the air.
Donna had seen enough.
With a battle cry, she charged.
The Crimson Rose surged forward, its chainsword revving, the adamantium teeth shrieking for blood.
Her Thunder Gauntlet crackled, wreathed in lightning.
Leman Russ tanks advanced alongside her.
Together, they annihilated the enemy.
The Orks, for all their newfound discipline, could not withstand the might of the First Legion.
....
After this second battle, the Orks did not return.
The northern pole was silent.
For hours, no further attacks came.
As night fell, Soldiers warmed themselves by makeshift fires, consuming their rations, their breath curling into the freezing air.
Donna, however, bound by duty and honor, remained within her Knight, its auspex scanning the darkness, ever vigilant.
And so, as the night grew deep, the soldiers allowed themselves to relax.
They should not have.
....
Beneath the frozen tundra, countless beady red eyes gleamed in the darkness.
A smaller Ork, clad in scrap metal crudely daubed in purple, lay hidden beneath the snow, its jagged breath muffled by the permafrost.
From its pouch, it withdrew a severed Gretchin head.
This was no ordinary Gretchin.
It had been turned into a clock. A clock with technology that should not function and yet, it did.
The Gretchin's tongue flicked out, producing a rhythmic "Lu.lu.lu.lu" sound.
Above, one kilometer in the sky, an Ork bomber squadron banked into formation.
Each aircraft carried Gretchin-made alarm clocks, ticking down in unison.
As their clocks rang out, the pilots howled in glee.
"WAAAAGH!!"
And dived toward the battlefield.
On the ground, a monstrous Ork Warboss, his face hidden behind a slab of welded iron plates and a crude grin painted in blood, tore his own Gretchin alarm clock from his belt and hurled it aside.
Behind him, Ork artillery crews readied their cannons and lobbas.
It was time.
On the frontline, Ork sappers fired squig-flares into the sky.
"BOOM∼!"
The battlefield was bathed in an eerie green glow, illuminating every trench, every fortification of the First Legion.
And then, the Green Tide came.
"WAAAGGGGHHH!!!"
The frozen ground erupted.
From beneath the snow, Orks burst forth in a savage tidal wave, roaring as they charged.
Heavy artillery thundered, shells screaming through the frozen air.
Overhead, the biplane bombers unleashed their deadly payloads, the sky ablaze with fire and destruction.
And behind them, an endless horde of Orks, accompanied by makeshift tanks stitched together from scrap, looted hab modules, and sacred cogitator panels, surged forward.
The battlefield erupted into chaos, a maelstrom of explosions, gunfire, and guttural WAAAGH cries.
This time, it was no skirmish.
The battle had truly begun.