The Primarch of Liberty
Chapter 94: Plans and Manipulations

Chapter 94: Plans and Manipulations

Aboard the Imperator Somnium, 831.30M

Fulgrim and Leman met over a drink for the first time. Until now, all they knew of each other came from Imperium military records-data points and brief descriptions that painted a vague picture of each other's reputations. Fulgrim knew of Leman as a fierce, untamed warrior, a so-called "barbarian" with a reputation for brutal efficiency. Meanwhile, Leman had heard of Fulgrim's obsession with perfection, viewing him as someone who prized elegance and form over practical strength.

Yet as they spoke, both Primarchs realized there was far more to the other than these simplified labels. With Franklin's influence shaping each of them in unexpected ways, their shared bond as students of his unique philosophy softened their initial judgments. From that foundation, the conversation naturally began to flow, each Primarch curious to discover who his brother truly was beyond the records.

The crystal decanter clinked against Leman's tankard as Fulgrim poured a measure of Fenrisian ale. His movements were precise, controlled-everything about the Phoenician spoke of practiced perfection. Yet there was something different about him now, a subtle change that Leman had noticed from the moment they'd been introduced.

"Strange, isn't it?" Fulgrim mused, swirling the wine in his chalice. "That we should replace ourselves here, sharing drinks like old war-brothers." His voice carried its usual melodious quality, but lacked the cutting edge that often accompanied it.

Leman grunted in agreement, taking a long pull from his ale. "Aye, and we have our brother Franklin to thank for that. Never thought I'd see the day when the Phoenician would willingly share space with the 'barbaric' Wolf King." His tone was teasing, but not cruel.

"I deserved that," Fulgrim admitted, surprising himself with his candor. "Franklin has a way of... adjusting one's perspective. Though I maintain there's nothing wrong with appreciating civilization's finer points."

"Our brother manages to be simultaneously the most precise warrior I've ever encountered and yet..." He paused, searching for the right words.

"And yet he fights like he's at a feast hall?" Leman offered with a knowing grin. "Aye, that's our Franklin. Never seen anyone smile so much while delivering such a thorough thrashing."

Fulgrim's perfect features tightened for a moment before relaxing into a rueful smile. "Indeed. Though I must admit, I initially found his methods... unorthodox."

"Ha! That's putting it mildly." Leman took a long drink. "Tell me, did he use that ridiculous 'dance' technique on you too?"

The Phoenician's face colored slightly. "The one where he starts humming that absurd tune and moving like a court jester? Yes. I found it deeply offensive at first. To think, a warrior of his caliber, a son of the Emperor, behaving like some common..."

"...Until he had you flat on your back, wondering how in the Warp he got past your guard?" Leman finished.

Fulgrim's lips pressed into a thin line, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "I wouldn't say flat on my back, brother. Though I will concede he... exceeded my expectations."

"He has a gift for such metaphors. Fulgrim noted. "With my Legion, he spoke of the artist's journey. How even the greatest masterpiece begins with rough sketches and mistakes." A shadow crossed his perfect features. "He showed me reports... potential futures where our pursuit of perfection led us down darker paths."

"Dark futures?" Russ's expression grew serious. "Aye, he showed me something similar. A future where the Vlka Fenryka burnt a planet of space wizards he called it, although I doubt I would do such a thing without reason" He growled softly. "That's not what Father made us for."

"You're not quite what I expected, brother." Leman observed, taking a long drink from his own horn. "The Franklin I know would have had you loosening that collar months ago, yet here you sit - still every inch the perfectionist, but..." He gestured vaguely with his drink. "But not quite so insufferable?" Fulgrim's lips quirked in a small smile. "You can say it, Leman. I'm well aware of how I was perceived." He set down his glass with precise movements. "Franklin taught me something valuable about perfection. Something I suspect you already knew, though you express it... differently."

Leman leaned forward, genuinely curious. "Oh? And what wisdom did our gleaming eagle share?"

"That perfection isn't about appearance or protocol or even skill - though he has those in abundance. It's about pursuing excellence." Fulgrim's eyes drifted to where Franklin stood with their father. "He showed me his Legion's training grounds. Do you know what I saw? Astartes wrestling in the mud with their mortal allies. Ceremonial armor bearing proud battle-scars. Tactical protocols being questioned and improved by the rankest initiate."

"Aye," Leman grinned, "sounds like him. Man can plan a campaign that would make even the most hardened General, then spend hours teaching Auxilia how to properly roast marshmallows."

"Exactly." Fulgrim reached for his glass again, but paused, examining his own reflection in its faceted surface. "I used to think such things beneath us. Imperfect. Messy. But Franklin showed me that true perfection lies in outcome, not appearance. His Legion achieves excellence not through rigid doctrine, but through innovation, adaptation, and..." he grimaced good-naturedly, "what he calls 'vibing with the mission.""

Leman's booming laugh echoed across the deck. "Now that sounds like our brother! But you're still you, Fulgrim. I notice you haven't started speaking in his peculiar idioms."

"Emperor forbid," Fulgrim shuddered, though his eyes danced with amusement. "No, that's another lesson he taught me. About authenticity. About replaceing my own path to excellence rather than mimicking others. Even him." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "You know, he spoke of you often during our discussions."

"Did he now?" Leman's eyebrows rose. "And what did our philosophical eagle have to say about this old wolf?"

"That you understood something fundamental that I needed to learn. That beneath your... theatrical barbarism," Fulgrim's tone was gently teasing, "you never lost sight of what truly matters. Victory. Brotherhood. Purpose. You wear your pelts and speak your rough words, but your Legion's effectiveness is unquestionable. You found your own path to excellence." "Huh." Leman took another drink, looking thoughtful. "Never thought I'd see the day when Fulgrim the Perfectionist would be praising my 'theatrical barbarism.""

"Yes, well," Fulgrim adjusted his already immaculate collar, "let's not get carried away. I still think you could benefit from a proper comb."

Both Primarchs shared a moment of genuine laughter, a sound that drew brief glances from their father and Franklin across the deck.

"You know what the best part is?" Leman said after their mirth subsided. "Franklin probably planned this whole thing. Getting us to share drinks, share thoughts. Probably calculated the exact amount of time it would take for us to replace common ground."

Fulgrim nodded, a knowing smile playing across his features. "Almost certainly. Though I suspect he'd say something absurd like 'I just created the vibe, bros, you did the rest."" "Now that's disturbing," Leman grimaced. "Never try to speak like him again, brother. It doesn't suit you."

"Agreed." Fulgrim raised his glass. "To replaceing our own paths to excellence?"

"To that," Leman touched his horn to Fulgrim's glass, "and to the brother clever enough to

help us see it."

Russ leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Speaking of brothers, what do you make of our next

destination?"

"Nuceria," Fulgrim pronounced carefully. "Home to our soon to be rediscovered brother

Angron, if the navigational charts are correct."

"Angron," Russ tested the name. "Sounds like a warrior's name."

"Most of our names sound like warrior's names, brother," Fulgrim pointed out. "Though this one... it carries a certain weight. Like thunder before a storm."

"Franklin knows something," Russ said, his keen eyes flickering to where their brother stood with the Emperor. "He's been more serious since we entered this sector. No jokes, no pranks." Fulgrim nodded slowly. "I noticed. Even his Legion's behavior has changed. Their usual revelry has been replaced with... preparation. The Liberty Eagles are arming for war, not a

reunion."

"What kind of brother do you think we'll replace?" Russ wondered, refilling his horn. "Another warrior-scholar like Franklin? A diplomat like Horus?"

"I have yet to meet our Brother Horus, but neither," Fulgrim said with certainty. "The reports from Nuceria speak of gladiatorial arenas and brutal governance. If our brother was raised there..." He left the thought unfinished.

"So," Franklin began, his towering frame casually leaning against the observation window, "good news and bad news about our angry little brother, Father. Which would you prefer

first?"

The Emperor's golden eyes fixed upon his son with that characteristic stern patience that had weathered millennia. "The situation, Franklin. Without the theatrics."

"You're no fun sometimes, you know that?" Franklin grinned, but straightened slightly.

"Good news: Angron hasn't been turned into a walking anatomy lesson in anger management yet. The Butcher's Nails aren't in his head."

The Emperor's aura flickered briefly with relief, though his face remained impassive. "And

the bad news?"

"He's pulling a Spartacus down there. Complete with the 'I am Spartacus' moment and

everything. Won't leave without his gladiator brothers and sisters." Franklin pulled out a data-slate, projecting a holographic map of Nuceria's capital. "Also, he kind of really, really hates aristocrats. Like, a lot. Which, you know, might be a tiny problem considering..." He gestured vaguely at the Emperor's resplendent form.

"You believe he will resist my authority?"

"Father, no offense, but you literally look like every slavery-supporting aristocrat's final

form. You're going to trigger every single one of his trauma responses just by existing in his

general vicinity."

The Emperor's eyebrow raised fractionally. "You have a solution in mind." "Don't I always?" Franklin's grin widened. "See, what our brother needs isn't just a father

figure. He needs a savior. A real holo drama worthy moment. Which is why I've already

dispatched the Green Berets to start some trouble."

"Explain."

"Picture this," Franklin swept his arm dramatically across the view of stars. "Angron and his gladiator army, fighting for freedom, slowly being pushed back by overwhelming odds. The evil High Riders closing in from all sides. Hope fading. And then!" He paused for effect. "The skies open up, golden light everywhere - you do the golden light thing so well, Father - and down comes humanity's savior to rescue them all. Very theatrical. Very epic. The kind of thing

that makes people write songs."

The Emperor's expression remained neutral, but there was a glimmer of something like amusement in his eyes. "You intend to orchestrate their defeat?"

"Not defeat - strategic disadvantage," Franklin corrected, waving a finger. "The Green Berets are already infiltrating every major city-state. We're going to shepherd this whole situation like the world's most violent sheep dog competition. Push them exactly where we want them,

when we want them there."

"And afterwards?"

"Well," Franklin's expression turned predatory, "once Angron's safely with his Legion and

feeling all warm and fuzzy about his new family, we let him do what he does best. Turn him loose on the High Riders. Let him have his revenge, but as a Primarch, not a slave. Very therapeutic. Plus, it'll make great propaganda - 'The Emperor's Justice,' and all that." The Emperor was silent for a moment, considering. "You've thought this through."

"I mean, I also considered just dropping a bunch of banana peels outside the High Riders' palaces and letting physics sort it out, but Malcador said that would be 'unprofessional' and 'not fitting for Imperial dignity."" Franklin shrugged. "Party pooper, that one."

"Franklin." The Emperor's tone carried a warning.

"Sorry, sorry. Serious face." Franklin straightened up fully, adopting an exaggerated grimace

that looked completely out of place on his features. "Most noble Father, I have devised a strategic implementation of specialized forces to facilitate the optimal extraction and integration of our brother Primarch, while simultaneously ensuring the liberation of his compatriots and the elimination of corrupt local governance."

The Emperor's lips twitched slightly. "Better. Though perhaps with less sarcasm next time."

"Aw, but then how would you know it was really me?" Franklin's grin returned. "Besides, someone has to keep things light around here. Have you seen Fulgrim lately? I had to throw him through three walls before he'd admit that perfect form isn't always perfect. THREE

WALLS, Father. Do you know how much paperwork that generated?"

"The walls, or teaching Fulgrim humility?" "Both!" Franklin threw up his hands. "Though I have to admit, watching him try to maintain

his dignity while covered in debris was pretty priceless. Almost as good as that time I

convinced Leman to try zero-g wrestling."

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "I recall the Apothecarion reports."

"Worth it though." Franklin's expression softened slightly. "That's what Angron needs too. A

chance to be more than his trauma. To learn how to laugh again."

The Emperor studied his son for a long moment. "Very well. Proceed with your plan. But

Franklin?"

"Yes, Father?"

"Try to keep the property damage to a minimum this time."

"Father, please," Franklin pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "When have I ever

been anything but the very soul of restraint?"

The Emperor's silence was eloquent.

"Okay, fair point," Franklin conceded. "But in my defense, Leman started that one. Who

brings a giant Fenrisian Kraken to a duel anyway?"

The Emperor turned to leave, but not before Franklin caught the slight shake of his head - the

closest thing to a laugh he'd seen from his father in weeks. As the Master of Mankind's golden

form retreated from the observation deck, Franklin turned back to the stars, his grin fading into something more contemplative.

In the shadows of Nuceria's opulent city-states, death moved with practiced precision. The

Green Berets of the Liberty Eagles, in their Exo-Armor Lictor Pattern, that bent light around their forms, infiltrated the palatial compounds of the High Riders with mechanical efficiency. Each team was accompanied by a Technoseers of the FBI, their psychic hoods pulsing with subtle energy as they walked unseen through gilded halls.

"Target acquired in the eastern wing," whispered a Brother-Sergeant through the neural link. "High Rider Cassius of Ventura City. Security detail: eight guards, two cyber-mastiffs." "Acknowledged," replied a Technoseer Team Leader his fingertips dancing with micro-arcs of psychic lightning. "Initiating Protocol Manchurian."

The operation repeated itself across Nuceria's surface. In Delvana, the emerald spires of the Merchant Princes became silent tombs as their masters were "reprogrammed." In the golden towers of Pythus, the ruling council found themselves experiencing simultaneous "epiphanies" about the threat of Angron's rebellion. Each High Rider, each military commander, each influential noble - all carefully selected, all precisely manipulated. The Technoseers worked their subtle art with surgical precision. Unlike crude mind control,

their manipulation was insidious-altering core beliefs, implanting suggestions, restructuring priorities. The High Riders still believed they were acting of their own free will, even as they danced to strings pulled by unseen puppeteers. "Remarkable architecture," noted Technoseer Yulia as she rewired the synapses of a military governor. "Such a shame about the society it houses."

"Focus on the task," her Green Beret escort reminded her. "The timeline is critical." In the command center orbiting Nuceria, holographic displays showed the progress of each

team. Green lights flickered across the planet's surface as targets were "secured." Intelligence officer Elias Thorne watched the pattern emerge with cold satisfaction. "Like dominoes," he murmured. "All falling exactly where we need them."

The news of Desh'ea's burning spread across the planet like wildfire. The Eater of Cities, they

called Angron and his slave army. A monster. A demon. A slave who dared to rise above his station. The carefully orchestrated propaganda machine went into overdrive, each "independent" city-state reaching the same conclusion: this threat must be eliminated. Armies began to mobilize. Tanks rolled out of their hangars. Gunships took to the skies. All

converging on Desh'ea, all responding to the "clear and present danger" their leaders suddenly perceived. None questioned why their normally fractious rulers had achieved such

perfect consensus.

In the ruins of Desh'ea, 31 hours had elapsed and Angron and his gladiator army fought with desperate valor. They had expected resistance, but not this - not the unified might of an entire world bearing down upon them. Yet even as hope seemed to fade, they fought on, for freedom was worth any price.

"Sir," reported a Green Beret operator, "the target is now surrounded on three sides. Estimated force ratio is 100 to 1. Civilian casualties minimal - we've ensured the evacuation

of non-combatants through 'unofficial' channels." Elias Thorne nodded. "Excellent. And the High Riders themselves?"

"All safely ensconced in their command centers, sir. Ready for Phase Two." "Perfect." Thorne opened a secure channel to the Imperator Somnium. "My Lord Franklin, the

stage is set. The tragic hero stands at bay, the villains gather in their towers, and the masses

watch with bated breath." A thin smile crossed his face. "I believe it's time for the Emperor to make his entrance."

In the burning streets of Desh'ea, Angron roared defiance at the encircling armies, unaware that every move, every position, every decision had been carefully orchestrated. The trap was perfect not to destroy him, but to elevate him. To transform a slave's rebellion into a

legend. The Technoseers monitored the psychic atmosphere of the planet, feeling the building tension, the fear, the anticipation. Everything was resonating at exactly the right frequency. When the Emperor would appear, it would not just be a rescue - it would be a moment of

transcendent revelation, burning itself into the psyche of every witness. "All units, standby for Phase Two," Thorne commanded. "Prepare for divine intervention.

And someone make sure those High Riders are recording. After all..." He glanced at a pict- capture of Franklin's knowing smirk. "Every good story needs proper documentation." In the orbital command center, the masters of manipulation watched their work unfold. Below them, armies surged toward a single point, driven by implanted imperatives and manufactured fears. And in their towers, the High Riders watched with satisfaction, never suspecting that their very thoughts had been choreographed for this moment.

The trap was set. The actors were in position. All that remained was for the Emperor to step onto the stage they had so carefully prepared. "Send the signal," Thorne ordered. "It's time for the golden light show."

As the message was transmitted, he allowed himself a small smile. Somewhere up there, he

knew Franklin was probably grinning like a madman at how perfectly it had all come together. Sometimes, Thorne reflected, the greatest victories were the ones no one ever knew you'd

won.