Chapter 2: Grot Among Grots
Tony knew when he was outgunned. And outnumbered. And… well, out-everythinged. Challenging the Ork Boss to a battle of wits while standing ankle-high at his feet seemed less like a daring gambit and more like a Darwin Award waiting to happen. So, for now, he'd play the part. The obedient, slightly pathetic Grot boot-cleaner. It wasn't exactly a role he'd envisioned for himself, but even Tony Stark had to admit: sometimes, discretion was the better part of not being squashed.
The Boss grunted, seemingly satisfied with Tony's lack of resistance. "Get ta work, ya git! And don't even think 'bout tryin' anythin' funny. I got me eye on ya." With that, he lumbered off, leaving Tony to stare at a pair of boots that could generously be described as "mobile scrap heaps."
Right. Operation: Ingratiate and Observe. Phase One: Fake enthusiasm for footwear.
Tony sighed internally, grabbed a handful of greasy rags, and began to "clean." Of course, his definition of cleaning involved less actual scrubbing and more surreptitious observation. As he "worked," he took in his surroundings. The Boss's chamber was a chaotic mess of scrap metal, discarded weapons, and unsettling organic stains. Other Grots scurried around, patching up armor, sharpening crude blades, and generally trying to avoid attracting the Boss's attention.
It was among these downtrodden individuals that Tony saw his first opportunity. An older Grot, his face a roadmap of scars and grime, was struggling to repair a particularly mangled-looking chainsword.
Interesting. Ork weaponry. Crude, but functional. And probably easily improved with a few… minor adjustments.
"Need a hand?" Tony squeaked, surprising himself with the relatively coherent sentence.
The older Grot jumped, nearly dropping the chainsword on his foot. He glared at Tony with suspicion. "Who are you? I ain't never seen ya 'round here before."
"New boot-cleaner," Tony replied, with a shrug that was probably more awkward than nonchalant. "Name's… uh… Stikk. Yeah, Stikk."
The Grot grunted. "Stikk, eh? Well, Stikk, unless you know how ta fix a chainsword, you're just wastin' my time. Dis thing's gotta be ready for da WAAAGH! tomorrow."
"WAAAGH!?" Tony asked, feigning ignorance. "What's a… WAAAGH!?"
The Grot stared at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head. "Yer kiddin', right? Every Ork knows what a WAAAGH! is! It's… well, it's da whole point! It's when we all get together and go smashin' stuff! Biggest, bestest fight you ever seen! More dakka than you can shake a stick at!"
Okay, valuable intel. WAAAGH! = large-scale violence. Good to know.
"So… lots of fighting?" Tony pressed, carefully.
"Lots of fightin'! Lots of loot! Lots of… well, lots of everything good!" The Grot grinned, revealing a set of teeth that looked suspiciously like they'd been stolen from a graveyard. "And if you're lucky, you might even get ta krump some 'umies!"
Humans? In this galaxy? Great. Just great.
Tony filed that information away. "So, this chainsword… what's wrong with it?" he asked, gesturing to the weapon.
The Grot sighed. "Da engine's busted. Keeps sputtin' and stallin'. I tried everything, but I can't get it ta work right."
Tony examined the chainsword more closely. It was a crude, brutal weapon, but even with his limited understanding of Ork technology, he could see several glaring flaws in the design.
Hmm… inefficient fuel intake, faulty ignition system, and a power coupling that looks like it was designed by a blind chimpanzee. I could fix this in my sleep.
But he couldn't exactly reveal his genius just yet. That would raise too many questions. He needed to play it slow, gain their trust, and then… then he could unleash his inner Stark.
"Maybe… maybe I can help," Tony said, carefully. "I used to… uh… tinker with things back where I came from."
The Grot raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Tinkering, eh? Well, go on then, Stikk. Show me what you got. But if you break it even worse, I'm gonna krump you."
Tony grinned, a genuine smile this time.
Alright, let's get tinkering.