Fuck Designs I want Guns

The void above Chemos sparkled with the gleaming forms of countless vessels, their running lights twinkling like artificial stars against the darkness. Most prominent among them was the Pride of the Emperor, Fulgrim's newly-christened flagship, its golden flanks catching the system's distant sunlight. The orbital rings of Chemos formed perfect halos around the recovering industrial world, a testament to its renewed vigor under the Phoenix's rule.

Franklin Valorian's massive frame cast a long shadow across the podium's crystalline surface. At fifteen feet tall, he towered over even his fellow Primarch, though not by the margin he did over the perfectly-formed ranks of the Emperor's Children assembled below. Sixty thousand warriors in purple and gold armor stood in formation, their discipline absolute, their pride evident in every rigid stance.

"You know," Franklin said, his usually booming voice softened to a conversational tone that only Fulgrim could hear, "when I first found you here, I wasn't sure what to make of this world. A planet of perfectionists who'd worked themselves to the bone, led by a demigod who demanded excellence in all things." He smiled, the expression warming his stern features. "Reminded me a bit too much of myself, if I'm honest."

Fulgrim's perfect features quirked into a slight smile. "As I recall, brother, your first words to me were 'By the Emperor's shorts, your people are survivors, but you really need to learn how to relax.'"

"And you've gotten better at it! Marginally." Franklin's laugh boomed across the assembly field, causing a ripple of movement through the assembled Astartes below. "At least now you only spend sixteen hours a day practicing sword forms instead of twenty."

"Thanks to your... unique training methods." Fulgrim's voice carried a mix of fondness and exasperation. "I still maintain that taking me to that establishment on Nova Libertas—"

"The karaoke bar," Franklin interrupted, grinning. "You can say it, brother. And admit it – learning to embrace imperfection in song helped your swordsmanship."

"It did," Fulgrim conceded, his pale features coloring slightly at the memory. "Though I maintain that your rendition of 'My Way' was far from perfect."

"That was the point!" Franklin clapped a massive hand on Fulgrim's shoulder, nearly staggering even his superhuman brother. "Perfect is the enemy of good enough. Sometimes you need to let go of the ideal to achieve the possible."

A comfortable silence fell between them, both brothers watching the assembled Legion below. The Emperor's Children had changed under Franklin's tutelage, their pursuit of perfection tempered now with pragmatism, their rigid discipline balanced with calculated flexibility.

"I've learned more from you than I expected," Fulgrim said finally, his voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability. "When Father assigned you to oversee my Legion's integration into the Crusade, I thought—"

"That I was going to be an overbearing taskmaster?" Franklin's eyes twinkled. "That the infamous Liberator was going to crush your Legion's spirit of perfection under his boot?"

"Something like that," Fulgrim admitted. "Instead, you taught us that true perfection includes knowing when to bend, when to adapt, when to..." He paused, searching for the right words.

"When to sing badly in public?" Franklin suggested helpfully.

Fulgrim actually laughed, the sound crystal-clear and genuine. "Yes, brother. Even that."

Franklin's expression grew serious, though warmth remained in his eyes. "You're ready, Fulgrim. Your Legion is ready. You've maintained your pursuit of excellence while learning to adapt, to innovate, to sometimes choose effectiveness over aesthetics. The Great Crusade needs that balance."

He turned to fully face his brother, placing both hands on Fulgrim's shoulders. "But never lose that drive for perfection entirely. It's what makes you unique among us. Just remember what I taught you about tempering it with wisdom."

"I will," Fulgrim promised, his voice firm. "Though I doubt I'll ever match your combat record."

"Ha! Now that's the kind of imperfect thinking I like to hear!" Franklin pulled his brother into a crushing embrace, lifting the slightly smaller Primarch clear off his feet. "Give them hell out there, little brother. Show the galaxy what the Perfect Prince can do when he's not afraid to get his hands dirty."

As they separated, Franklin's grin returned full force. "And remember – if you ever need a karaoke partner, just send word. I'll bring the classics collection."

"Emperor protect us all," Fulgrim muttered, but he was smiling.

Franklin stepped back, his voice rising to address the assembled Legion. "Emperor's Children! You stand ready to join the Great Crusade in full! Remember your pursuit of perfection, but remember also the lessons of adaptation! Your Primarch will lead you to glory!"

The response was thunderous, sixty thousand voices raised in a perfect chorus of acclaim. As Franklin watched Fulgrim descend to join his sons, he felt pride swell in his chest. The Phoenix was ready to soar on his own wings now, and the galaxy would be better for it.

"Go make Father proud, brother," he murmured, though Fulgrim was now too far to hear. "And try to have some fun while you're at it."

--------------------------

Angron had seen many things in his life. Gladiatorial arenas soaked in blood. Armies of thousands falling before his axes. The Emperor of Mankind Himself. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight of two of his fellow Primarchs, supposedly among humanity's greatest warriors, arguing about whether they could hit the moon with a spear while completely plastered on Libertan moonshine.

The party had started normally enough. Well, as normally as any gathering involving the Liberty Eagles, Space Wolves, and World Eaters could be. The drinking contest had been Franklin's idea, naturally. Three hundred Space Marines from each Legion, their respective Primarchs serving as team captains. The World Eaters had dropped out early – they were still new to this whole "drinking for pleasure" thing – but had stayed to watch the spectacle unfold.

"That's not fair counting!" Leman slurred, jabbing a finger at the scoreboard. "Your boys're using those fancy liver implants!"

Franklin, swaying slightly despite his massive frame, grinned. "Standard... standard issue, brother! Can't help it if my boys come pre-equipped for party warfare!"

Around them, unconscious Astartes littered the ground like ceremonial decorations. Even with their enhanced physiology, it turned out that mixing Fenrisian ale, Libertan moonshine, and something the Liberty Eagles called "Party Fuel" was enough to knock out even the Emperor's finest. The few still conscious were either recording the event for posterity or trying to remember how to walk in a straight line.

Angron watched from his seat, nursing what was only his third drink of the night. He was still getting used to the concept of drinking for enjoyment rather than necessity, but he had to admit, watching his brothers make fools of themselves had a certain... therapeutic quality.

"I bet," Leman announced suddenly, grabbing his spear, "I bet I can hit the moon with Gungir! Right now!"

"Impossible!" Franklin declared, then hiccupped. "The moon's like... really far away. Like, really, really far."

"How much you willing to bet, brother?" Leman's eyes gleamed with drunken cunning.

"If you can hit it... I'll give you enough Amasec and Libertan Beer to fill the Fang's main hall!"

"Done!" The Wolf King snarled, gripping his spear. "Watch and learn how a TRUE warrior throws!"

"If I win," Franklin's face split into what he probably thought was a sly grin, "I get to change all your passwords to 'Good Boy'!"

A collective "Oooooh" rose from the conscious Astartes. Even Angron couldn't suppress a chuckle. Leman's eye twitched, but the alcohol had clearly dampened his usual reaction to canine references.

"Deal!" Leman roared and Hurled the Spear. The spear's trajectory was... less than stellar. It reached perhaps a few kilometers up before gravity remembered it existed and began its return journey. A passed-out Space Wolf had to be quickly dragged out of its landing zone.

Franklin's laughter echoed across the courtyard. "WHO'S A GOOD BOY?" he bellowed, slapping his knee and nearly falling over. "Who's a good boy who can't throw his stick? YOU ARE!"

Leman's face darkened. "Like to see you do better, you overgrown eagle!"

"Watch... watch and learn, puppy!" Franklin stumbled over to retrieve the spear, taking only two tries to pick it up. "This... this is how you throw a stick!"

Angron's eyes narrowed as he noticed the familiar shimmer of psychic energy beginning to coalesce around his brother. "Oh, you warp-touched bastard," he muttered, but there was genuine amusement in his voice.

Franklin drew back the spear, and suddenly it blazed with golden fire. The flames took the shape of wings along its shaft, and with a throw that probably broke several laws of physics (and definitely broke some of reality's), he launched it moonward.

The spear screamed through the atmosphere, its psychically-enhanced flight leaving a trail of fire across the night sky. It struck the moon with such force that a visible crack appeared on its surface, visible even from the planet's surface.

There was a moment of perfect silence.

Then Franklin turned to Leman, swaying triumphantly. "WHO'S! A! GOOD! BOY!"

"YOU USED YOUR FUCKING PSYKER POWERS!" Leman roared, finally realizing what had happened. "That's... that's cheating!"

"Nope!" Franklin popped the 'p' sound with drunken glee. "Never said we couldn't use our abilities! And now..." He pulled out a data-slate, fingers moving with surprising dexterity for someone so drunk. "Let's see... changing 'FenrisianKing' to 'GoodBoy'... 'WolfLord' to 'GoodBoy'... 'NotAFurry' to 'GoodBoy'..."

Leman lunged for the slate but missed spectacularly, face-planting into a decorative bush. "I'll kill you!" came his muffled threat

From his throne, Angron finally lost his composure. His laughter started as a low rumble before building into a full-throated roar that caused several unconscious Astartes to stir. "Brother," he called to Leman, "you should have known better than to make a throwing contest with our resident psyker!"

Leman slumped to his knees, staring at the cracked moon. "My passwords... all of them..."

"Don't worry!" Franklin attempted to pat his brother's head and mostly got his shoulder. "I'll make them easy to remember! Who's! A! Good! Boy!"

The next morning, every single password-protected system in the Space Wolves' fleet responded to only one phrase: "Who's a good boy?"

Leman's howl of rage could be heard across three star systems.

-------------------------

The Innovation Hub pulsed with ancient energy, a symphony of Golden Age machinery sparking in rhythm with Dr. Elara Chen's swift movements across a web of holographic screens. At her side, Magos Biceps Maximalis, a towering presence of gleaming chrome muscles, monitored the intricate operation.

"FASCINATING!" Biceps boomed, flexing his pectorals with such force that nearby drones and servo-skulls veered out of his path. "THE NEURAL ENGRAMS ARE ALIGNING PERFECTLY!" Each exclamation was punctuated by another enthusiastic flex.

Dr. Chen sighed but couldn't suppress a faint smile. "Yes, the temporal data stream is stabilizing. We're integrating ten thousand years of memories and experience into a newly-formed consciousness matrix."

In front of them sat the centerpiece of their operation: a brain suspended in transparent housing, flashing with Independence Sector enhancements as synthetic neurons fired in near-primarch patterns of complexity.

"Query: Can you confirm this procedure will lead to my… original creation?" A digitized voice echoed from within the suspended brain.

"ABSOLUTELY!" Biceps proclaimed, striking a pose that would have put ancient Terran bodybuilders to shame. "YOUR FUTURE CONSCIOUSNESS IS BEING RECONSTRUCTED INTO THIS PERFECTED FORM!"

Dr. Chen leaned in, her voice calm and meticulous. "The process relies on quantum entanglement to stabilize a closed temporal loop. We're recreating your future personality and memories in a present consciousness matrix—"

"WITH THE STRENGTH OF MY MAGNIFICENT BICEPS!" the Magos interjected with a flourish.

"—using quantum filters," Chen continued, unfazed. "This approach enables self-sustaining paradox, as you essentially become your own predecessor."

As if to punctuate her statement, the transparent housing pulsed with an ethereal light. Additional components assembled around the brain, gradually taking shape to form the distinctive body of Belisarius Cawl. After a moment, his optical units flickered to life.

"Curious," Cawl murmured, studying his new hands. "I recall perishing… and yet here I am, within my own past. These memories, however, feel… incomplete."

"WELCOME TO EXISTENCE 2.0, BROTHER!" Biceps roared, offering a triumphant fist bump, which Cawl carefully sidestepped.

"Query: Why do I recall Dr. Chen's demise at the Siege of Terra?" Cawl tilted his head, scrutinizing her.

Chen's face remained neutral, though a shadow of emotion crossed her eyes. "Because that event might yet occur. Temporal mechanics are… complicated."

Cawl's newly integrated mechadendrites twitched as he considered. "It appears I am here because I will be, and will be because I am here. A perpetual loop of cause and effect. Intriguing. Though I do sense unaccounted modifications in my neural patterns."

"MY MOST OUTSTANDING WORK!" Biceps declared, flexing a deltoid that caused a dataslate to display his genetic enhancements. "BEHOLD THE PRECISION!"

"We've integrated hybrid technology," Chen explained. "Independence Sector neural enhancements with your future configurations. Your brain now processes at capacities far exceeding standard Custodians—though with certain gaps."

Cawl's optic units narrowed. "Gaps… purposeful?"

Chen nodded. "A full transfer was deemed too risky. You retain core personality traits, key memories, and critical knowledge but not everything."

"LIKE A SCULPTED MASTERPIECE, ONLY SHOWING WHAT'S NECESSARY!" Biceps interjected, flexing both his arms and form in a display that momentarily recalibrated nearby machinery.

Their discussion moved to a row of nutrient tanks where Franklin's chosen captains floated, their bodies undergoing transformation, Denzel, Steven, John, Vladimir and Henry.

"The Primeborn differ dramatically from the standard Primaris," Cawl noted, observing the genetic data. "I see my designs incorporated."

"Yes, the Primeborn are the pinnacle of what we can achieve without invoking full Primarch creation," Chen explained. "The Immortis Gland was the key."

"SEE FOR YOURSELF!" Biceps activated a display with a dramatic lat spread. "THE IMMORTIS GLAND ENABLES VIRTUALLY LIMITLESS CELLULAR REGENERATION!"

Chen continued. "We reverse-engineered the gland from Franklin's biology. The Primeborn receive its complete form, while standard Primaris only receive the Magnificat—a less powerful variant that still provides considerable enhancements."

Cawl observed the tanks closely. "Approximately 85% of Primarch attributes… without the risk of attracting Warp entities. And the genetic limiters?"

"Franklin's orders," Chen confirmed. "He insisted on preventing his soul from ever transferring to these bodies, at the miniscule chance that he might die. Even the Emperor approved of this restriction."

"BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY!" Biceps added, flexing in such a way that the entire laboratory seemed to recalibrate.

"I understand the distinctions," Cawl mused, his mechadendrites extending. "So, the Primeborn receive: full Immortis Gland capabilities, enhanced neural architecture near Primarch thresholds, maximized efficiency exceeding Astartes by three hundred percent, cellular regeneration bordering on true immortality, and physical prowess at 85% of Primarch benchmarks."

"AND THEY LOOK ABSOLUTELY GLORIOUS!" Biceps exclaimed, flexing while somehow operating three control panels.

"Whereas standard Primaris receive the Magnificat," Cawl added, "a modest yet significant upgrade over baseline Astartes. You've clearly integrated aspects of my future work."

Chen nodded, slightly humbled. "Your future self's contributions were invaluable, though we adapted them for current tech levels."

"Won't this induce a temporal paradox?" Cawl asked. "If my future designs are used now, what is their origin?"

"THE LOOP IS THE ESSENCE!" Biceps declared. "LIKE A PERFECTLY EXECUTED CURL!"

Chen managed a small smile. "The time loop sustains itself. Your future designs exist because we're creating them now, setting in motion their eventual creation."

They turned back to the nutrient tanks, where the captains floated. "You both know your eventual fates," Cawl murmured. "Does it not disturb you?"

Chen's face remained steady. "Death is inevitable. Knowing when and how… simply helps us plan."

"DEATH IS THE FINAL PUMP!" Biceps declared, though a note of solemnity tempered his words. "WE PASS ON SO OTHERS MAY FLEX!"

"Your legacy will echo through the millennia," Cawl said softly. "Even in degraded form, the Primaris Project will serve humanity countless times. It is… curious to assist in something I thought I'd originated."

Chen's smile grew, though her gaze was distant. "Time has a strange way of moving. The true Primeborn knowledge will likely be lost. The Magnificat was always meant as a legacy version."

"LIKE PERFECTION PASSING INTO LEGEND!" Biceps struck a pose that balanced pride and sorrow.

"We're creating something greater than ourselves," Chen murmured, watching the captains in the tanks. "Even if we don't survive, our work will."

"And I will remember," Cawl whispered. "Fragments may survive, but they will carry forward through the ages."

The three stood in contemplative silence, their work both momentous and fragile, poised between the known and the unknown. In the tanks, the next phase of humanity's evolution took form, bearing the weight of millennia.

------------------------------

The observation deck of Forge World Prime's primary orbital station offered a view that would have struck any mortal observer dumb with awe. Through its armored viewing ports, the massive form of Planet Palomar was being systematically deconstructed, its very substance feeding into what would become the most ambitious vessel ever constructed by human hands.

Franklin Valorian stood with his arms crossed, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the deck. His expression was somewhere between a grimace and fascination as he watched another segment of Palomar feed into the construction arrays. Beside him, Dr. Marcus Hawthorne, surrounded by a swarm of hovering drones that buzzed about like mechanical insects, manipulated a series of holographic displays with practiced ease.

"Doctor," Franklin said, his voice carrying a note of barely contained distress, "please tell me there's been some mistake. Why does my ship look like it's ready to conduct mass?"

Marcus adjusted his augmetic glasses, the lenses whirring as they focused. "My lord, I assure you the design is optimal for—"

"Optimal?" Franklin gestured at the hologram. "It looks like someone took a cathedral, strapped engines to it, and decided to wage holy war across the stars!"

"Well," Marcus coughed, "technically speaking..."

The drones around him rearranged themselves, projecting a larger, more detailed hologram. Two ships hung in the air between them: one was the current Gothic design of Sweet Liberty, its spires and buttresses reaching for the heavens like a prayer made manifest in adamantium and ceramite. The other was a sleeker design, all organic curves and flowing lines.

"These were our two most viable designs," Marcus explained, his drones highlighting various sections as he spoke. "The organic design is aesthetically pleasing, yes, but—"

"But what?" Franklin interrupted, hope in his voice. "It looks perfect! Like something that should be carrying the Liberator across the stars!"

Marcus sighed, and with a gesture, both ships began to transform, their outer hulls becoming transparent to reveal their internal systems.

"My lord, let me explain exactly what we're trying to contain here." The drones created additional displays, showing power readings and technical specifications. "The Zero Point Energy core we're installing isn't just powerful – it's basically equivalent to a few suns that could power an entire sector. The cooling systems alone require more space than most capital ships."

Franklin waved a hand dismissively. "So we need some big radiators, what's the—"

"Then there's the temporal weapons array," Marcus continued, highlighting a massive section of the ship. "The Temporal Weapons array alone require dedicated power conduits the size of battle cruisers. The disintegration cannons need specialized containment fields that can't be compromised by any hull flexing. The overlapping Quantum shields require architectural supports that can handle the stress of reality literally bending around the ship."

As Marcus spoke, more and more systems appeared in the hologram, each more impressive and demanding than the last. "The Multiple manufactorums, the Numerous Torpedo and Missile Bays, the Black Hole Cannons, the Inertialess Drives... My lord, we're basically trying to build a mobile fortress that can tell physics to sit down and shut up."

Franklin ran a hand through his hair, looking between the two designs. "But why does that mean it has to look like... that?"

Marcus gestured, and the sleek design began to show stress points and structural weaknesses. "The Gothic architecture isn't just for show. Those flying buttresses? They're actually necessary to channel the zero-point energy without tearing the ship apart. The spires? They're containment arrays for the temporal weapons. The 'decorative' arches? Point Defense Systems."

Franklin watched as the sleek design literally began to break apart under the simulated stresses of its own weapons. "So you're telling me..."

"Yes, my lord. Form follows function. If we want to mount all of your," Marcus coughed diplomatically, "'toys,' we need an architecture that can handle forces that would make the Fabricator General himself...faint in bliss"

There was a long moment of silence as Franklin stared at the Gothic design, his expression slowly shifting from resignation to something else. Something that made Marcus slightly nervous.

"My lord?"

Franklin's face split into a grin that would have made Leman Russ proud. "Fuck it."

"I... beg your pardon?"

"If we have to go Gothic, let's go GOTHIC. I'm talking full Cathedral of Liberty here. Make it so over-the-top that it might spark another renaissance of religion in Terra and decide to launch a Holy war with every fucking Xenos in the Galaxy."

Hawthorne's augmetic eye cycled through several settings as he processed this change in direction. "My lord?"

Franklin stepped forward, his hands moving through the holograph, manipulating the design with practiced ease. "Look, if Sweet Liberty has to be a floating cathedral, let's make it the most magnificent, most absurd, most absolutely liberating cathedral ever conceived. I want spires that could impale Imperial Destroyers. I want flying buttresses that double as lance batteries. I want gargoyles that are actually weapon hardpoints!"

"You want... to weaponize architectural features?" Hawthorne asked, but his fingers were already moving to implement the changes.

"I want Sagrada Familia meets Imperium meets 'what in the Emperor's name were they thinking?' When xenos see this ship, I want their first thought to be 'what kind of insane species builds something like that?' followed immediately by 'oh shit, it's shooting at us!'"

The hologram evolved under their combined manipulation. The basic Gothic structure remained, but now it grew more elaborate, more audacious. Spires twisted skyward like frozen lightning, each one housing batteries of weapons that could end solar systems. Flying buttresses arced gracefully through space, their surfaces studded with lance arrays and torpedo tubes. "And here," Franklin said, pointing to what looked like a massive rose window at the ship's prow, "this is where we'll mount the main graviton-annihilator cannon. When it fires, it'll look like the eye of an angry god opening to pass judgment."

"And here," Franklin said, pointing to various sections, "we'll have statues. But not just any statues. Each one will be a void-hardened weapons platform. Imagine it – Saint Liberty with actual working flame-throwing hands. The Angel of Democracy carrying a functional Graviton Cannon in her scales of justice."

Hawthorne's organic eye had developed a slight twitch, but his augmetic one was recording everything with enthusiastic efficiency. "The Materials needed will be... substantial."

"That's why we're eating a planet to build it, isn't it? if you need more find a few more planets glass the Xenos on top and drag it over here to make my ship" Franklin grinned. "Oh! And the interior – if we're going full Gothic, let's not half-ass it. I want vaulted ceilings in the corridors. Flying buttresses in the engine room. Make the bridge look like the most ornate cathedral nave ever conceived, but every bit of decoration is either a control system or a backup weapons station whilst the walls tell of the history of Humanity"

"The Mechanicum will have opinions about this," Hawthorne warned, though he was already incorporating the changes.

"The Mechanicum can submit their opinions through the appropriate channels – preferably after witnessing Sweet Liberty delete a sun with its main guns." Franklin paused, considering. "Actually, make sure we have a proper chapel. But instead of an altar, put in a tactical holotable. And the pews should all be command stations."

As they worked, the design grew ever more elaborate, yet somehow more coherent. What had started as a compromise with physical necessity had evolved into a deliberate statement of artistic warfare. Every Gothic flourish concealed a weapons system. Every decorative element served a practical purpose. It was beautiful, terrifying, and absolutely insane – exactly what Franklin had wanted all along.

"If I may say, my lord," Hawthorne said finally, reviewing the completed design, "this is either the most brilliant or the most horrifying thing we've ever conceived."

"Why choose?" Franklin laughed. "It's both. That's what makes it perfect. It's exactly what Liberty should be – overwhelming, slightly ridiculous, but absolutely effective."

"And the xenos?"

Franklin's grin turned predatory. "They'll learn that in the Imperium of Man, even our cathedrals are deadly."

Beyond the viewport, the framework of Sweet Liberty continued to grow, its Gothic spires reaching into the void like the skeletal fingers of a god. Soon, it would be more than just a design – it would be 100 Miles of liberty, democracy, and overwhelming firepower, all wrapped in the most absurdly magnificent package the Independence Sector could conceive.

A.N: Shut up and Triple the Defense Budget RAAAAAAAAA