One week later...
The nomad vessel—once a modified frigate with patchworks of scavenged tech, and cargo compartments, now echoed with the guttural laughter of Orks and the clang of metal fists pounding makeshift drums. Smoke curled from the ruined decks, mixing with the smell of oil, blood, and something vaguely resembling roasted meat. The walls were painted with crude glyphs, skulls, and squig portraits. Doors once coded to biometric scanners were now held shut with scrap chains and welded plates.
It still drifted through space, engines limping, hull scorched and dented, but life surged within its battered corridors. A new kind of life. Loud, violent, and very green.
The Orks had taken over.
Kael stood on what used to be the bridge, now overrun with graffiti, duct-taped metal plates, and a faint green mist that smelled like gunpowder and foot rot. Screens flickered between surveillance feeds and Ork doodles. Bootlicka now renamed into "Bossboot da Pirate-Krumpa" by other orks had named it the "Smasha Room."
He sipped a mug of space beer, something he saved for himself from the remaining ration of the ship trying not to think about the ork cousine he would eat such squig eyeballs if he failed to acquire more "edible food".
Bossboot crashed through the door moments later, helmet askew, a bone club made from the now dead pirate captain's spine and two pistols dangling from his belt.
"Boss, da garden's alive again. We'z got fightin' squigs now, an' da lil' gobbos keep buildin' catapults outta plumbin' pipes!"
Kael blinked. "Wait, we have goblins now?"
"Yeh. Grotz. Pop outta da dirt like mushrooms, scream 'I ain't cleanin' dat!' and run around bitin' fings. Real cute. Want one?"
"No."
An Ork ecosystem already bloomed in 90% of the ship except certain areas he prohibited.
The hydroponic gardens were unrecognizable. What once grew tomatoe like plants and protein-rich algae now teemed with fungal growths, feral squigs, and molds. Massive mushrooms sprouted from walls and ceilings, some puffing spores with every vibration of heavy Ork feet. The Orks didn't tend the garden—they fought in it, ate it, and fertilized it with violence.
The armories are now home to newly emerged ork mek-boyz cooking up some unknown contraptions made from junk and looted pirate equipment that somehow works no matter how broken it looks.
The med bay became home to Painboyz,
Orks who function as doctors, albeit in a brutal and crude fashion. They somehow emerged with basic medical knowledge hardwired into their brains and one even tried to "reattach" his arm but after knowing that the mek-boyz planed to put ork arms in him hed rather be crippled than have a disproportionate arm that may even get infected. After all ork biology is vastly different.
But if a mechanical substitute was available he may try to take it, remembering a certain human from Warhammer with ork arms his friend told him about.
"AI," Kael muttered, eyes tired but sharp, "status?"
[Primary systems stabilized. Ork biomass increasing exponentially. Structural integrity... questionable.]
"I'll take it," he sighed.
They had been following the ship's map for a week now trying to go to the nearest trading station in space after all orks may live on their own but he sure can't live without supplies fit for human consumption.
"Sigh"
Kael leaned back on his chair, wasn't the same man who died anymore. The clash with the pirates, the crude survival instincts of the Orks, and the weight of command had reshaped him in ways he never imagined. Patience, cunning, and a fierce stubbornness — lessons learned from the most unlikely teachers.
But sometimes, when the chaos paused, he'd catch a flash of doubt — a pang for the family and friends he might never see again. The world he'd left behind, so ordinary and mundane, felt both painfully close and impossibly far.
Still, one truth grounded him: this was his fight now. Not just for survival, but to carve order out of the wild WAAAGH! To lead these brutes with something more than sheer madness — to be more than a ghost in a stolen body.
Kael clenched his fists. A week had changed everything. And this was only the beginning.
However his musings were interrupted by something.
[Alert: Unknown signal detected. Attempting to hail. Identified as "Penitent Spear."]
Kael's stomach dropped.
Bossboot da Pirate-Krumpa frowned. "Wot's a penitent?"
"Someone who regrets things," Kael muttered.
On the screens, a sleek vessel approached pure white hull, golden insignia, and rows of gunports.
Kael set his mug down slowly and turned to Bootlicka.
"Tell the boys to stop playing with the squigs, arm up, and absolutely don't shoot unless I say so."
Bossboot paused, then nodded solemnly.
"Wot if dey shoot first?"
Kael sighed, already regretting everything again.
"Then we do what Orks do best."