"WAAAAAAAAGH!"

The battlefield shook from the celebratory cry of a hundred orks, raising their choppas, shootas and megaklaws in the air as Warboss Thundadeff held the head of the boss git who dared to claim "Mork was betta than Gork". And, as Gork would have it, was squatting on prime land the rising Warboss saw first. An insufferable insult to propa Orky culture, and Warboss and his boyz were mean and green enough to correct him. Of course, such correction did not come easy or cheap: A thousand boyz of his lay shot, chopped or blasted to bits in the intense melee that came before, but that was nothing but more proof that the fight had been a proppa scrap, and they managed to claim at least half that many from the dug in runts who defended the scrap-factory. And no Mork or Gork fearing ork would complain about a measly thing like excessive casualties. Especially when most were smaller, runtier orks, gretchin and an occasional Nob of the Warboss not cunning enough to let some smaller runt eat the lead directed at them.

"ALRIGHT YE GITS. NOW LETS GET LOOTIN!"

Another Waagh! rose through the crowd of boyz, as they followed to do the second most favored past-time of the green barbarians. As guns, gear and teeth were pillaged from both their own and enemies dead, one young git got close to a fallen ork Nob. Barely more than a runt, armored only in a loincloth, a scrapheap choppa and a dented scrap bucket helmet. Previously just a bucket some misbegotten grot had the misfortune of carrying in hand-reach of him before his first fight, ancestral wisdom coursing through his orky veins at least had made him aware enough to protect one of the few places every ork knew he would not survive without. And now, surviving his first fight in a mob of cannon-fodder, he gazed upon his prize: An orks corpse twice as tall as he was, dekked out in flashy bits, gud ´Ard armor, a kuzdom shoota and a chain-choppa still gripped in the former elites gigantic paw as rest of its bottom half was was decorating in various pieces the battlefield around them.

As the young runt gazed down at his former Nob that got them into the scrap, a strange trance came over him as he stared glazed-eyed at the impossible prize before him: That Shoota could be the start of making him the shootiest ork there ever was, with imaginings of him shooting a gun loud and big enough to tear through gits with ease and deafen everyone else. That Chain-choppa could make him the choppiest ork ever is, delighting his life in glorious close and crimson carnage as a dedicated melee-git. That dead´ard armor, too big for him now but not for long would make him duff enuff to laugh off gits that came toward him with anything other than Gorks own wrathful fist. And the shiny bits and thingamajigs could be pawned off for enough teef to be a proper flashy git, having enuff trade-cunning to always have the best equipment for any fight.

But in his mind, also rumbled an ancestral reminder: Choose only one path, lest you join the madboyz. But that was fine as well, the madlads were gud propper lucky even without blue paint on, even if they were crazier than squigs in a mushroom-brew barrel. And so the young runt stood, dazed in having to make the first choice of his short life. Fighting wasn't a choice, it was a calling, joining up with the nearest group of orks with the meanest git around was an instinct. Not stepping on the mine that blew their Nob up was cunning, even if he intended to instead get some other runt but their Nob to stomp on it first. But this was a choice, a monumental one. One that would lock him in a path of life for the rest of his joyful existence. And stuck in that daze, he did not notice the flat end of a power-choppa colliding with his improvised helmet, sending him flying off in an arch.

"SOD OFF, ye git! Dis ones mine to loot!"

The runt flew through the air, briefly wondering if he should become a flyboy instead as his broken teeth trailed out of his dented helmet in a row behind him. This was pretty fun as well, discounting the damn hard hurt his nogging was feeling, before crashing disgracefully into another pile of dead green bodies. Grunting, the git placed his hand down to push himself up, noticing something squishy beneath his green hand. Looking down, he saw another of the young runts he went into the war with, dead with his guts split open and a nasty looking dent straight through his nogging. 

The ork stopped however, his hand still elbow-deep in another gits squishy bits as he looked at the runt. No... not dead. Not yet, just with no guts and his nogging popped to zog. And as he looked, something clicked in his mind: this git can live to have another go if he just... fixed him up proppa. 

His actions guided by instinct, the runt looked over his first patient again with clear, beady red eyes: This lad needs their squishy tube in the stomach put together again and sewn up. Maybe a bit of blood from the boyz, some grog and a proper beating for being almost dead and he was would be right as rain. Probably a bit stupid from that dent to his... mushy, thinky bits, but even stupid gits can become damn good Orks if Mork likes em. 

Taking the dented bucket off his head, he looked around and found another crude choppa laying nearby, probably the gits own. And another dead git nearby, this one missing most of his head from a lucky shot, or from stupidity not to get something to protect his nogging like he should. Wielding the mostly blunt blade, the inspired ork cut carefully(by ork standards) into the stomach of the truly dead git, exposing a fully intact, if slightly nicked squishy tube of its own. The budding runt was about to try and cut it with the oversized blade, before noticing that he would have a hard time doing so. He needed a... smaller, pointier choppa for it.

Looking around, his beady eyes landed upon a gretchin, busy hacking away with their piddly little knives at another dead orks wrist holding a shoota.

"OI! GROT! COMERE!"

The minescule gremlin jerked up in surprise from his butchery, looking around fearfully as its honed instincts warned it of any attention by the big lugs usually ends with recreational kicking at best, and serving as lunch at worst. Seeing a runt direct its mean beady eyes at him only confirmed its foul fate. Half-ready to bolt away and hope he would lose interest(not likely, Orks love a good chase), the miniature greenskin stopped as he noticed the ork messing about with the dead in a way that not indicated recreational sadism or cannibalism. And some misbegotten instinct in the little green man hinted this might be different.

"R-right away boss!"

The long-nosed little gremlin scampered toward the mean looking runt crouched over another one. Once in range, the ork put his gore-covered hand that could easily squish his skull out before him.

"Give me the tiny choppa!"

The Gretchin balked at the shout, and quickly gave his only means of mildly irritating someone away. Instantly, the ork took the dull knife, and cut out two ends of the squishy-tube from one ork, before wandering over to the next one. There, he cut out the tube as well, but tossed it aside carelessly on top of other corpses surrounding them. The new squishy tube was quickly and messily pulled over the disconnected ends of the previous organs... and slid out  and disconnected with a pop again.

"GROT! Find me some... nails or tiny stabby bits or sumfin...."

The little green goblin skittered off in fright, frantically looking through the massacre site for anything fitting the description, as the ork contemplated on how to get the tubes to stay connected. A moment later, the grot returned, carrying for him a humongous broken stick covered in sharp nails and bits of green skin. Nodding absent-mindedly at the grot, the greenskins quickly snapped off a few thinner looking nails from the weapon and handed it back to the little man. 

"Get rest of dose nails out of that stikk and bring em to me. And ´Ere, fill this buckit with blood from the dead boyz."

"Uh... How boss?"

"By askin´ them nicely of course... TAKE THE ZOGGING CHOPPA AND GET ME BLOOD, GROT!"

As the gretching squealed in fright and ran away with the bucket, the Ork could only sigh in exasperation, holding his forehead with a gore-splattered hand as the git forgot to first get him nails from the broken weapon.

"Oh for the love of Mork... YOU THERE, GROT. NO, NOT YOU, YOU NUMBSCULL, THE OTHER GROT. COME HERE AND TAKE THESE NAILS OUT OF THIS STIKK."

As the second gretchin scampered around to the orders of an annoyed runt, the budding butcher finished his surjery. The rusting nails that were first snapped off were pushed through where the squishy tubes overlapped, and bent with his fingers to form a closed circle. Should hold all the stuff in place till the body fixed itself, although his beady eyes did pick up how the nails had ripped a bit the squishy-tubes walls. Not gud, but will hold for now. As he finished connecting the lower part of the tube as well, both grotz finished their tasks, returning with a mangled bucket full of bright-red blood, and a fistfull of rusting, dirty nails. Taking the bucket of blood first, the ork took a gulp of it.

"Ah... refreshin." And promptly poured rest of it into the exposed hollow of the operated orks stomach. He handed the empty bucket back to the grot, and took the nails from the second.

"Yous go gets more blood. We need... two more buckits. Bring three, im thirsty. And you, new grot, go find more nails. Smaller, the betta."

The gretchin scampered off quickly, the ork began to patch the other up. Bringing his patients exposed stomach together, one rusty, bent nail at the time. Another bucket of blood was brought, dumped into the cavity. Another patch of nails was brought by the shaking hands of the little geenskin, another few inches sown back together. Another new idea on how to do this better next time came to his mind from ancient instinct, but that was for the next wounded ork to experience. Dropping just buckets of blood in there with the squishy bits was not gud, but will hold for now, and if the boy is tuff enuff, he will be up soon enough, if a bit bloated and rotting from all that for a bit. But he will shrug it of in a week, his instincts told him. Orks were tuff that way. 

With the last bit of the orks stomach nailed back together with the improvised stapling, the young runt looked at his handiwork with pride. One more thing to do to get the concussed git up and running again.

*SLAP*

"OI!.. AARGH, MY SOGGING... FING IN DERE!"

His instincts guided his hand true. A solution to a concussion, was just a different concussion that knocks the nogging back in its place. Instantly, the now awakened ork curled up on his stomach.

"Oh, walk it off you panzee. Yous as good as fixed. There is still some lootin to do you lazy runt."

"IS...Argh... Is... alive? Zog me, I saw... Gork and Mork... They told me-"

"Yeah yeah, chug this down and lets get lootin, we dont have much time left till the ova boyz get all the good bits first."

Handing him the last bucket of blood, the recovering ork looked at it funny, before looking at his green companion.

"Waits... Yous Buckit? Zog me, I didnt recognize you at first"

"Waits... Yous... Spearboy?"

"No you git! Im Stikkkilla"

"Roight roight. Now chug that blood down, Stikk. Should get some fight inta you to not get your teef kicked in by some grot."

The recovering ork laughed, before wincing as the nailed skin teared a bit from the movement. Chugging the blood-bucket down in one go, Buckit laughed in memory. Stikkkilla always had a way of chugging an entire barrel of grog down in one go, a trait that earned him many-a-beatings from the rest of the lads once they found out. Handing the bucket back to the budding butcher, the ork grinned as he rose up, hunched over with his hand over his stomach, probably worried, rightfully, that some unfortunate strain might tear the hacksaw surgery back open. 

"Youz know Buckit... Yous should be called Bluddbuckit now."

"Hah! I like the sound of dat! Now where did those two grotz go?... OI, WHERES MY CHOPPA!"