Amongst the ruinous remnants of the buildings fronting the main street, a group of fifteen to twenty figures with numerous smaller shadows duplicating their every step, could be discerned picking their way in a broken line through the rubble on the wide footway and intermittently diving for cover whenever a stray shell came remotely near their position. Presently, they stopped under the shelter of a large awning adorning a former hotel.

"Khor!" said a large, rather brutish-looking fellow who stood at the head of the long column. A suggestion of leadership was hinted at both by his proud, military stance and the multitude of medals and decorations adorning his clothes. He raised an immense hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and ran his fingers through the fine blue locks which adorned the apex of his cranium. "Dis sun is gettin' kinda 'ot ain it? An' we still ain't got no where near where we wanna be! Letz stop at dat place over da road an' rest for a bit, eh?"

He turned around, expecting to meet faces of grateful approval. Instead, all he saw was the huge, commanding frame of Foxgrot Smegglhof, the Bloodaxe Kaptin. Smegglhof stood for a full minute wearing a critical grin with a suggestion of sarcasm on his features and then finally spoke in deep, rough and mocking tones.

"Wot yer mean is dat ya got us lost an' letz stop a while 'til ya find out were we is an' den we'll bugga orf again. Ain' it?"

Gritpic Shnozbukit, smarting from the embarrassment and battered pride inflicted by his counterpart's verbal taunts, drew himself up to his full height and propelled a savage, piercing glare at Smegglehof, who took a steading step backwards in surprise.

"Lissen yer runt, I duz know were da Gork we is, I jus' bin..." this after considering his phraseology for a moment, "...takin' da longa way. So jus shuddup 'til we get der awright?"

"Oi! Just cos you is da zoggin Snakebite Nob, dat don't mean you can just go roun' sayin all dat kinda junk! We is friggin lost an' if we don't do nuffink bout dat we is gonna be out 'ere all day! An 'bout yor callin me one of dose!" He pointed at the nearest Gretchin and bashed it in the back of the head to emphasize his point." 'Bout calling me one a dose, you is looking ta git da crap smashed outa ya if ya don't watchit!"

Throughout the altercation, the rest of the patrol, consisting of six Bloodaxe kommandos, twelve Snakebites and numerous Gretchin, had formed a rough circle around the two opponents and had watched intently, expecting some sort of a brawl to erupt. This it did and the two chiefs fell on each other in a fierce struggle of brute strength and low cunning, punching, kicking, headbutting and biting one another relentlessly. Immediately, the crowd of on-lookers, momentarily forgeting their position in the middle of a hostile battlefield, started cheering and rooting for their respective squad leaders.

The conflict endured for several minutes until it was rudely interrupted by a hail of smallarms fire which arced down from the upper levels of a building across the street in a torrent of orange tracers. The Orks dived for cover behind any available wall or door that presented itself, seemingly more disappointed over the interruption of the fight than concerned about the barrage of gunfire whizzing over their heads. A few of the Gretchin, however, being not so quick to react, were hit by a volley of fire and soon several rather unsightly accumulations of green blood and mangled flesh and innards littered the ground.

Apparently unconcerned by the total vapourisation of at least a quarter of his Gretchin complement, Smegglehof crouched behind a sizeable section of upright wall directing his Orks into the best positions in which to lay down a suppressing, retaliatory fire. Additionally, the Painboy attempted to treat the Kaptin's newly-received wounds and pick away the bit's of Shnozbukit that were still between his teeth and under his nails. Meanwhile, Shnozbukit himself was busy, trying in vain to convince his troops to accompany him on a frontal charge towards the enemy position.

"Aw, c'mon ya cowards! Get up orf ya flat butts an' let's go! Look at Bob over there, he ain't sittin' in a corner like da resta ya!"

He pointed to a solitary Ork leaning over a hastily-made wooden barracade and, reaching up, patted him proudly on the back whilst making sure he himself remained safely behind the wall.

"Uh, Boss? Bob's dead," offered a grovelling Ork emerging from the mob of assembled Snakebites.

"Wot! Dat's rot! He's just fine.Look at 'im! I've never seen 'im better!"

At this point the Runtherd stepped forward to offer a quick solution to the argument. "If dat's da case, then 'ow do ya explain da fact dat 'is 'ead is lyin' next ta 'is feet?"

Shnozbukit gazed down and stared in dumfounded amazement at the sight which presented itself to him. Bob's head had indeed been severed and the Nob now started wondering how he had failed to register it before. He had always tended to overlook such minor details.

"C'mon Boss!" Continued the Runtherd. "Da boyz don' wanna charge 'em, an' I'm sure dat da runtz'll feel da same way!"

Shnozbukit sat heavily and sulked. "Da runtz! Who gives a zog wot dey fink?" He decided to plead his case a last time.

"Lissen ta me. Dem over da street is only gonna be Imperial Guard or Scouts an' I'm sure we could..."

"Gork's butt-cheeks dem is only scouts." The interruption came from Smegglehof, who had finished deploying his troops. "Dem is Space Marines an' a few a da boyz is sayin' dat dey saw a Terminator or two."

Shnozbukit snarled at the interruption but inwardly welcomed it as a chance to divert attention from his abortive plan to charge. It seemed like it wasn't going anywhere fast, and this hindrance saved him from further embarrasing himself in front of his men.

"Yeah. Trust a zoggin' Bloodaxe to say all dat sorta stuff!" He said this in a similar sarcastic tone to that which Smegglehof had used towards him earlier. The boyz sniggered in unison. "I say dey is only scouts."

"An' I say dey is Terminators!" Smegglehof answered.

An expectant hush came over the crowd at the appearance of this challenge. The chances were that the fight would erupt again, inspite of the heavy curtain of self-propelled shells falling down around them.

Fearing that his colleagues' minds (such as they were) were getting somewhat off the present subject, the Snakebite Runtherd stepped in between the two foes.

" 'Scuse me sirs," said he hesitantly. "Maybe it would be good ta send a few boyz an' da runts aroun' ta have a look."

This suggestion was instantly met with jeers from the crowd of assembled Orks, but it was obvious that the two leaders realised the sense which it conveyed, for they both stood and called for silence. When this had been achieved, Shnozbukit spoke first.

"Wot Ron over dere is sayin' is right." Instantly the Snakebites changed tactics and mumbled comments of agreement and compliments towards Ron from within the crowd. "Wotz more I is gonna go also jus' ta prove ta dis idiot dat dere is no Terminators."

Shnozbukit, narrowly escaping a wild swing of Smegglehof's boltgun aimed at his head, started off, nominating the members of his party as he went. Meanwhile, Smegglehof had decided that he too would tag along, just to see the Snakebite get himself blown away.

After inching their way from cover to cover, the Snakebites soon found themselves facing a door in the building from whence the bombardment had come. Eying the entrance suspiciously for a moment, Gritpic spotted several Gretchin cowering with fear behind him. A malicious, yet practical idea sprouted in his cunning mind.

"Oi, you three!" The Gretchin started whining and tried to run away. They were held back, however by the Runtherd. Shnozbukit continued. "Yeah. You an' you an' you get in der an' make a tactical reconnaissance of da place."He smiled at his use of such a complicated phrase.

The Grechin stood looking at each other with dumbfounded expressions. What in the world was a 'tactercil reconersince'? However, the ferociously impatient glare provided by Shnozbukit and the encouragement of the Runtherd's grabba stik against their heads assured them of the intention, if not the entire meaning. They scampered into the complex, desperately clutching their autoguns and disappeared into the shadows. The whole group waited in expectant silence for any sign of progress, and sure enough, it eventually came.

Before long, a horrifyed, high-pitched cry came from within, followed by a short burst of fire from a massive-sounding gun. Instantly, the pitter-patter of tiny feet running at rapid pace could be distinctly heard approaching the front entrance. A second volley of gunfire eminated and there came flying out the door a mass of bloody flesh and rags which was barely distinguishable as the remnants of a Gretchin. This landed with a heavy thud on the ground in front of the bewildered Orks who stood in a huddled group, mouths gaping. It was the two leaders, Smegglehof and Shnozbukit, who regained their composure first and ventured to stick their heads around the doorway and see what they could see.

The reaction was both instantaneous and violent. As the Space Marine in massive Terminator armour emerged from the darkness, the Orks emitted terrified exclamations of stupefaction and, in the same swift movement, threw themselves into a run at top speed away from the building and down the street, shouting and urging for the boyz to do the same. At this instant, at least four other Terminators emerged and commenced a massive barrage with an awesome array of weaponary.

As Shnozbukit ran down the street with Smegglehof in close pursuit, rounds flying over his head and boyz dropping all around, he observed in an ironic half-laugh, "Dose was Terminators!!!"

He turned to his relatively hostile adversary whose face expressed his thoughts as well as if he had stated them.