The God-Emperor of Mankind
It was such a rare sight, for a mere human to take on a band of Orks, that Orkumundyl was briefly stunned by the event.
The Stormboys were tough and sturdy, each one of them a good match for a peak-human warrior of the Guardian's caliber, each one equipped with a weapon kindly comparable to a ghetto pistol and a rusty shortsword, but their reactions and raw adrenaline didn't quite compare to the Guardian's skill and experience. With careful positioning to avoid bullets and slashes, using the Orks themselves as cover, he managed to take down one after another; the Stormboys were swift and made swifter by their ability to activate the rockets on their backs to leap away or towards him in an offensive dash, but even so, one of them went down after a brief flurry of blows, thrown to the ground with a moan of dull pain.
The Mekboys, on the other hand, were too shocked, much like their boss, and the gretchins didn't even count as lifeforms in the Orks' eyes.
"Fire, ya gits!" Orkumundyl gave the order in a literal bark, as a Stormboy went soaring past him, the lesser Ork's eyes upturned in a dazed, gormless expression.
The Mekboys raised their allotment of weapons, each one of them wielding something else. A shoota, a boomstikk, a big shoota, and a twin-linked kustom shoota.
Here are some facts about Ork tactics. One-oh-one level stuff, the sort of thing that an Imperial commissar-to-be or officer-in-training would learn early on in the Schola Progenium, early in the warfare programs and common threat assessment.
Number one: Orks do not respect accuracy as a warfare concept whatsoever. Their snipers aren't really snipers, and their crosshairs are basically stale decorations.
Number two: Orks respect dakka.
What is dakka? Easy. Dakka is the Ork word for 'superior firepower.' The Ork doctrine of ranged warfare can be summarized with this maxim: "Why bother aiming at a target one kilometer away with one bullet, when an idiotically disproportionate spray of two hundred bullets per minute is going to do the trick?"
This maxim, of course, affected Ork culture, and by affecting Ork culture, it affected Ork engineering. Ork weapons were fundamentally different from human weapons: roughshod, ugly, basic, primitive, and scrap-assembled.
But one other - arguably positive - trait that could be appended to them was the ranged weapons' utter optimization for dakka. Even a basic shoota could be assumed to have a fire-rate of a little less two-thousand rounds per minute, nearly twice of the usual assault rifle. Something else, like a big shoota - the John Browning of Ork armament - would be utterly incomprehensible. The only failing of Ork shootas was, naturally, their high spread, high recoil, below-average ability to penetrate armor, and slightly low muzzle velocity.
The four Mekboys opened fire, and in moments, the street was filled with a hail of deadly projectiles. The bullets sang in a disharmonious, deafening staccato, whipping across the air and leaving behind red-black smoke trails in the air, which lingered for seconds after, as if the vile propellant of the bullets was made of petroleum and black powder. The smoke was only dispelled by the passing of even more bullets, which created even more smoke, which refused to subside, and quickly filled the battlefield with the nasty smell of burnt rubber, flesh, and diesel.
The three remaining Stormboys screamed, as one of their rockets was pierced, causing a leakage that sent the poor Ork corkscrewing through the air uncontrollably until his rocket burned out its fuel and caused him to drop into someone's apartment, through the window, head-first. The other two had sufficient reaction times to pull back and jump back behind their comrades, but some of them were grazed or singed by the shots of their comrades.
Anyone not taking cover was sure to be hit, and dodging wasn't an option when almost every square meter of the street had pure dakka in it. One of the Mekboys ran out of ammunition in short order and began to reload, running for the cover their crashed ship provided, while two others realized they were in the street, and took cover behind Orkumundyl, whose armor was thick and Orky enough to act as natural cover.
In the meantime, Orkumundyl reached into his utility belt and primed a Stikkbomb. The device beeped once in his hand, emitting a red flash, before beeping once again with another red flash. The beeps and flashes began to increase, as he raised the bomb into the air and let out the Orks' signature war-cry: "WAAAAAAAAAGH!"
Every other Ork mirrored his cry, filled with renewed zeal and focus, before Orkumundyl tossed the unstable, yellow paint-coated explosive across the street, roughly in the direction of the Guardian and the other humans.