[Friday December 13 2075; Mechanicals' territory northern boundary; Orting, Puyallup]
Scrapheap wiped the ashen rain from his goggles, keeping his eyes trained on the three gangers sporting Dire Wolves colors approaching the gate of the junkyard he was crouched inside of. The defense call had come in half an hour ago, and the maimed ork was far past tired of feeling the chill seep into his bones even through the insulation of his armored long coat. A thought brought up the dedicated comms channel his 'link was hooked into.
< Any others comin', Eyes? >
< None that I can see, boss. They shot out the two working lights at the ends of the block, but that's all. >
< Good, dis should be quick, den. Burner, Slag: gimme covering cross fire if they do anythin' dumb. >
Scrapheap barely waited for the acknowledging answers of the other two members of the team he was leading before racking the slide of the shotgun gripped in his hands and stepping out from behind the stack of flattened sedans he had been watching from. "Dis is Mechanicals turf, get da fuck out!"
To their credit, only one of the three go-gangers started at his appearance; the other two reached for pistols at their sides. The sharp crack of automatic rifles sounded before either of them could clear the weapons from their makeshift holsters; one dropped to the ground dead, the other fell clutching the ruin of his arm. The remaining ganger threw his hands in the air, and even through the rain Scrapheap could smell the tang of urine.
"Throw your gun on da ground, slowly, an' I won't blast ya. Twitch, an' yer dead, scan?" The ganger complied, tossing it to the side several meters from him. "Now, go back an' tell Howler dat she don't want war wif da Mechanicals."
A shudder ran through to boy at the mention of the gang boss' name, and a mask of defiance slipped over his face. "You can't hold this turf forever, trog. We're gonna take it, and it's gonna be s–" The roar of the Remington cut him off, and he slid bonelessly to the ground. Scrapheap glared at the corpse for a second, then stomped over to the ganger holding his arm and moaning.
"Yer boy dere didn't lissen, so now it's yer job. You hear me?"
"Go...go fuck yourse–" The ganger screamed, then vomited on himself as Scrapheap wound up and kicked him where the bullets had shattered the bones in his forearm.
"Last chance, shit-for-brains. You gonna take da message back, or 'm I gonna cut yer heart out and feed it to ya?" The ganger nodded, tears flowing down his ash-smeared face. "Good. Get runnin', den." The ork stepped back, holding the badly wounded ganger squarely in the sights of his shotgun. He kept him there until he tottered out of sight several blocks down.
< Eyes, anythin'? >
< Nope, he's still going...wait. He just fell over. Don't think that message is getting through, boss. >
< Sorry, Scrap. The rain screwed up my aim, I was trying to hit his hand. >
< Meh, Howler'll get it either way. An' stop wif da damn trick shots, Burner, dis ain't no fuckin' trid. Dumptruck's gonna have yer ass an' mine fer breakfast if ya keep it up, neh? >
< Yeah, boss, I get you. We takin' their bikes as salvage? >
< Yup. If yer dumb enough to fuck wit' us, yer gear's ours fer da takin' after. Eyes, send a call to Scavenge Control, tell 'em to bring a truck around. We'll ride back wif 'em, no way I'm walkin' in dis shit. Keep an eye out tho', we're still on da clock. >
It took twenty minutes for the flatbed to roll up through the back of the junkyard, and another half an hour to get the twenty-year-old Rapiers up onto it and secured, with an uneventful ride back. By the time Scrapheap tromped into the canteen he was more than ready for a hot meal.