Grett frowned at the lack of high caliber weaponry. He knew it was a long shot to hope for a stash of shootas on an Inquisitorial ship but a man can dream. The Ork Hunter took a suit of flak armor from the shelf and pulled on only the greaves and the magazine belt. He carelessly tossed the rest of the armor aside as he slipped the knife into a sheath on the belt and set to work hording mags for his lasgun. His regiment often forgos much of their flak armor due to its utter uselessness against the sheer stopping power of most Ork weapons and to starve off dehydration, by far the deadliest killer out in The Green.

Just as the veteran soldier was done grabbing his equipment, he spied the wonderous shape of a flamer. His eyes sparkled with the memories of his time on an Ork Firesweep Team as he let the lasgun hang by its strap on his shoulder. He snatched up one of the glorious promethium spewers and felt right at home with the familiar weight of the fuel tank on his back. He laughed a hearty and malicious laugh as he opened the fuel lines. With a manic grin, he pointed the nozzle to the door and waited only just long enough for a crack to appear in the door just wide enough for a stream of burning fury to reach the enemy before depressing the trigger with a giddy laugh, the pain his thumb all but forgotten.