The silence after the Ork's surrender was louder than a mute man's scream.
Kael stood still, his breath shallow, body aching, mind reeling from what had just happened. His remaining hand trembled, half-expecting the Ork to spring back up and yank out his spine like a Mortal Kombat fatality.
But the hulking brute stayed down, crouched like a kicked squig, occasionally glancing up with the wide-eyed terror of someone who'd seen a god—and lived.
Kael coughed awkwardly. "…Right. Uh. What's your name?"
The Ork blinked. Then squinted like the question had physically offended him.
"Name? I'z… uhh… neva had one. Da uvver boyz just called me 'Oi You' or 'Da Git wiv Da Teef.'"
"…Yeah, I'm not calling you that."
"Wot? Boss, you givin' me a *name*?" the Ork's eyes lit up. "Bosses do dat! Dat's a proppa boss move!"
Kael glanced around at the ruined hallway. Emergency lights pulsed overhead like a dying heartbeat. The stench of scorched metal and blood clung to the air. He still wore the burned, battered armor of a dead man—**Captain Kael Draken**, according to the nameplate.
Naming an Ork wasn't even in the top ten weirdest things happening today.
The Ork dropped to the floor in a dramatic bow, arms outstretched. "You'z da Boss! Wot you call me, I'z dat!"
Kael frowned at the sight of a hulking green monstrosity groveling like a dog. "What a bootlicker."
The Ork perked up. "Bootlicka'? DAT'S a proppa name, Boss! I'z proud ta lick yer boots—'s long as I don't get chomped!"
"…Figured you would be," Kael muttered.
Then a strange chill crept up his spine. His eyes narrowed.
*Wait a second... This Ork…*
He stared at the creature's dumb, eager face. The cleaver. The teef. The crude squig tattoo on its shoulder.
*Isn't this the same damn Ork mini I had on my desk?*
His brain reeled, pulling up the final moments before death—before *this*. He'd been sitting at his desk, spinning a goofy green mini between his fingers. A gift from Jake.
Jake, his roommate. Hardcore Warhammer fan. Insufferable nerd.
"You don't need to play," Jake had said. "Just paint 'em. Orks are chaos incarnate. If they believe it works—it works. Total green nonsense. You'll love it."
Kael hadn't exactly *loved* it. But he'd painted one. Just one.
This one.
*Jake would lose his mind if he knew I reincarnated with his damn mini.*
His thoughts were interrupted as Bootlicka raised his head, still kneeling.
"Boss, wot we'z doin' next, eh? Gotsa get da fightin' started, or we jus' gonna sit 'ere an' rot?"
Kael blinked, pulled from his daze.
Right. Broken ship. Wounded body. One very enthusiastic Ork.
"First, we check the surroundings," he said.
Bootlicka stood up, puffing out his chest. "Yessir, Boss! I'z got da plan!"
"Also, *you* go first."
"Don't worry, Boss! Bootlicka'z gonna krump any git wot even *looks* funny!"
So began the strangest buddy cop journey in the galaxy—an injured man and a hulking Ork limping down a ruined corridor like it was just another Tuesday.
---
The corridor ended at a massive blast door—half-melted, scorched from the outside. Red lights flickered above the frame, displaying jagged letters Kael shouldn't have been able to read... yet somehow could.
Memory that wasn't quite his whispered meaning into his brain.
"PRIMARY COMMAND DECK – ACCESS RESTRICTED."
Kael wiped dried blood off the cracked console.
"Looks like we found the bridge."
Bootlicka stomped up, dragging a sparking pipe like it was a sacred relic. "Dis da place, Boss? Where da shiny buttons an' explody bits iz?"
"Yup. Looks busted, though. Might be able to open it with—"
**BANG!**
Bootlicka punched the panel.
Sparks flew. The door groaned open a few feet, then jammed.
"Fixed it," the Ork declared proudly, ash clinging to his knuckles.
Kael sighed. *Ork engineering: if it don't work, hit it 'til it does.*
They squeezed through the gap. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. The bridge was a battlefield—blood smeared across consoles, slumped corpses still strapped to chairs, monitors flickering with corrupted data. The air stank of ozone, rot, and despair.
Kael gagged.
Bootlicka whistled. "Oi… dis place fancy. All da buttons, all da lighty bits. Dis where you rule da ship, Boss?"
In the center sat a throne-like command chair—ominous and regal. Kael approached slowly. His name still glowed, half-burned, across the console:
**CAPT. DRAKEN**
He sat.
The chair hummed beneath him, systems flickering to life as if recognizing him—not just the body, but the soul.
> \[Authority confirmed]
> \[Welcome, Captain Draken]
"Show ship status," Kael said.
Holographic panels blinked into existence.
* Hull integrity: **23%**
* Engines: **Critical**
* Weapons: **Offline**
* Life support: **Minimal**
* Crew count: **1**
> \[Lower decks breached. Unauthorized personnel detected looting storage rooms.]
> \[Surveillance offline.]
Kael's heart sank.
*Not just a wrecked ship—there were looters. Probably the same bastards who killed the crew.*
"Great," he muttered. "Space pirates."
Before he could think further, a soft chime rang in his ears.
> \[Injuries detected. Apply emergency measures?]
"Yes."
**Click.**
He flinched.
From the chair's arms, slim mechanical arms extended. One jabbed a long needle into his neck before he could flinch away.
"ADMINISTERING EMERGENCY BIO-STIM."
Pain flared, then gave way to a molten rush of something itchy around his body
Kael gasped as shattered ribs snapped into place. Skin knit. Muscle fibers reformed. Even his broken finger straightened out with a satisfying crack. He gripped the chair tighter, teeth clenched.
> \[Stabilization complete. Vital signs nominal.]
> \[Musculoskeletal damage—repaired. Neurological integrity—intact.]
> \[Left arm status: 69%. Further regeneration—impossible.]
> \[Welcome back, Captain.]
Kael slumped back, sweat pouring down his face—but he was whole.
Or close enough.
The pain faded. The fog lifted. And now, memories—real memories—drifted into focus. Captain Draken's life. Fragments of duty logs. Battle orders. Crew names.
And the final ambush.
A pirate ship had disabled them before they could jump to warp. They boarded. Executed the bridge crew. Looted the cargo holds. Then left the ship to rot.
They thought *everyone* was dead.
But they missed one.
Kael stood from the chair, eyes sharp.
No longer a confused corpse wearing someone else's skin. It doesn't matter anymore if he was an earthling or a space nomad.
Now, he was Kael Draken. And with his ork army he will live this new life freely.