If the Telon Reach lay this close to the Sol System, there was no chance it would escape destruction at the Emperor's hands.
To preserve this plasma technology, we needed the last known Krork in the galaxy, the one who had settled within this system. More importantly, he actually understood how his race's insane invention worked.
We knew what awaited the galaxy.
In the future, Orks armed with Red Plasma would become unimaginably effective weapons against the Ruinous Powers, the Necrons, and even the Tyranids. The plasma annihilated its targets so completely that it left behind not even ashes for the Great Devourer to consume.
We Harlequins harbored no naïve hope that the degenerated creations of the Old Ones could permanently defeat any of those enemies.
Those forces were equally vast.
Equally endless.
The eternal war that consumed this universe would never truly end.
But...
In typical Aeldari fashion, we could always convince someone else to fight it for us.
Far better that another fungal Ork died than an Aeldari...
Or even a human.
The Orks enjoyed it, after all.
Unlike many of our future enemies, the Black Library's archives also contained an impressive collection of weapons of mass destruction designed specifically to exterminate Orks.
My gaze drifted toward a nearby Gretchin, one of the goblin-like creatures that infested every Ork settlement, and an Ork mechanic.
A Mekboy, if I remembered correctly.
I listened to their conversation in a heavily distorted, yet still recognizable, dialect of Orkish, a language the Aeldari understood remarkably well. Our races had once fought alongside one another, after all. The language had absorbed words from countless civilizations over millions of years, yet its meaning remained surprisingly easy to follow.
"Gonna blow up?" the Gretchin asked in a tone that sounded more like a statement than a question.
"Oh yeah!" the Mekboy replied confidently while enthusiastically screwing one incomprehensible component into another equally incomprehensible component.
I stared at the pair.
"Let's... walk around this area..." I suggested, slowly backing away with a thoroughly disturbed expression.
Killing Mockery's eyes widened just as much as mine.
Without a word, she retreated alongside me.
We still weren't wearing our masks.
Trying to frighten Orks was fundamentally pointless, and without them we could fully appreciate the astonishing range of emotions displayed by the local greenskin population.
A population that somehow continued to surprise two increasingly unfortunate servants of the Laughing God.
"WOT'VE YA DONE, YA STUPID BOYZ?!"
One particularly massive Ork, apparently half cyborg, bellowed loud enough to shake nearby scrap walls.
"WOT'VE YA DONE?! DIS... DIS... SABOTAGE!"
Two much smaller Gretchin simply stared back at their furious boss with perfectly calm, toothy grins.
As though they hadn't just painted an entire war machine...
Purple.
A color that somehow caused even our own eyes to slide away from it.
On an actual battlefield, spotting the thing would undoubtedly become far more difficult.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Then, right before our eyes, one of the Gretchin enthusiastically asked,
"But if ya paint it red first, den purple after... does da war machine go fasta an' stay sneaky?"
"I'Z GONNA SMACK YA FER DAT! STOP BEIN' CLEVER!"
Without the slightest hesitation, the Ork punched the unfortunate Gretchin in the head with enough force to splatter its brains across the ground.
"Hmm... but dat's actually interestin'..."
"But 'ow'z anyone gonna know it's a red war machine den?" another Ork objected while lumbering over.
He was nearly as large as the first and, judging by the alarming amount of brain apparently missing from his skull, considerably more insane.
By greenskin standards, of course.
Ironically, the more insane an Ork became, the more reasonable he often appeared compared to almost every other species in the galaxy.
This one even seemed marginally more logical than the rest.
I exchanged a glance with Killing Mockery.
The same thought was reflected in her eyes.
It really was nice being perfectly synchronized with your partner.
"AN' YOU'LL BE CALLED DULL-BOY!"
The furious Ork's roar interrupted our silent contemplation.
Since the area looked moments away from erupting into what the greenskins would proudly describe as a Proper Big Smackin', we quietly decided to continue toward the local spaceport.
Calling it a spaceport was, admittedly, rather generous.
It was essentially a gigantic landing pad welded together from countless sheets of scrap metal.
Uneven.
Hideous.
And probably violating every engineering principle ever conceived.
It was also enormous.
Several sports stadiums could have fit inside it without difficulty.
Numerous transport vessels rested upon the platform.
They were much smaller than the ships Orks usually preferred, but the technological lunatics inhabiting this system built whatever happened to capture their imagination.
Even more surprisingly, their machines suffered noticeably fewer catastrophic malfunctions than the average greenskin invention.
Years of practice, apparently.
Otherwise...
I wouldn't have willingly approached one of their creations within a kilometer.
Preferably ten.
The prospect of being struck by an unexpectedly fast piece of red machinery held very little appeal.
Killing Mockery tugged gently on my sleeve before pointing with her eyes toward a group of Orks lumbering toward one of the local transport ships.
"Hmm..."
I quietly listened to their conversation.
"Little flyin' thing's takin' off soon!" barked a particularly large, heavily augmented Ork.
"Move faster, boyz! Or no teef fer ya!"
That incentive proved remarkably effective.
A heartbeat later, we were hurrying after them.
The real problem appeared when we attempted to slip aboard unnoticed behind the descendants of the Krorks, who currently embodied the phrase packed like sardines with astonishing accuracy.
As a result...
We were forced to recalibrate our camouflage fields.
And quite literally...
Press ourselves together.
Pinned tightly against Killing Mockery, I experienced a rather unusual sensation.
One I'd assumed decades of Harlequin training had permanently erased.
Embarrassment.
It wasn't exactly a useful emotion for someone expected to spend every waking day tormenting the galaxy through absurdly convoluted schemes that somehow managed to be both hilarious and spectacularly effective.
The Aeldari woman's chest rested firmly against my light cloth armor.
Unlike heavier forms of protection, the fabric transmitted every sensation with remarkable clarity.
Her holo-suit wasn't exactly rigid in that particular area, either.
Apparently...
I was the only one feeling embarrassed.
My partner looked thoroughly entertained by both my expression and our unavoidable predicament.
No.
I wasn't about to let her have all the fun.
A moment later, I subtly adjusted my camouflage field, synchronizing it more closely with hers.
Then...
Quite deliberately...
I slipped my arms around her waist and rested my hands upon her backside.
I wasn't squeezing.
But her reaction proved immensely satisfying.
Aeldari women, it turned out, were perfectly capable of making those legendary anime eyes.
Good to know.
In response, I adopted precisely the same smug expression she'd worn barely ten seconds earlier.
When you stopped to think about it...
The entire situation was ridiculous.
Barely a meter away stood more than twenty fungal killing machines descended from the Krorks.
Meanwhile, we were practically cuddling in the middle of an infiltration mission.
The more fanatical citizens of the future Imperium would probably scream that Aeldari lust had doomed the galaxy.
Heh.
We remained like that throughout the entire flight.
Once the vessel reached altitude, we finally donned our masks, whose internal systems contained ample oxygen reserves.
Orks were so absurdly resilient that they rarely bothered maintaining proper atmospheric conditions aboard their ships or stations.
There was oxygen.
Not much.
Enough that even they wouldn't immediately suffocate.
Not enough that we'd remain combat effective for long if fighting became necessary.
A violent jolt signaled our arrival on Gorro and nearly sent us crashing into the nearest Ork.
Fortunately, the greenskins remained steady on their feet.
Our anti-gravity belts handled the rest.
Configured in reverse, the devices actually pressed us downward rather than lifting us into the air.
They had never been designed for such a purpose.
It was simply another example of Harlequin ingenuity.
Not wishing to place unnecessary strain on the belts, we settled for an almost silent landing rather than a completely silent one.
Exchanging broad, toothy grins behind our masks, we calmly continued toward our destination.
Toward a sprawling industrial complex where something was constantly clanging, screeching, exploding, collapsing, or simply breaking apart.
The endless shouting of Orks and Gretchin somehow managed to be even louder.
In an environment like this...
Even a Titan could probably walk through unnoticed.
Compared to that, what chance did anyone have of spotting two stealth-specialized Aeldari equipped with the finest infiltration technology their civilization had ever created?