Who's Got the Bigger Titan?

Consciousness returned to Fulgrim like a tide washing over sand, bringing with it the unfamiliar sensation of defeat. His head throbbed where Franklin's strike had landed, but it was his pride that bore the deeper wound. As his vision cleared, he found Franklin standing over him, patient and unperturbed, as if they were merely engaged in a training exercise rather than a duel between demigods.

"Impossible," Fulgrim muttered, rising to his feet. "A momentary lapse. Nothing more." But even as the words left his lips, doubt crept in like a shadow at sunset.

Franklin's response was a knowing smirk and a beckoning gesture. "Again, brother?"

Their blades met in a shower of sparks. Fulgrim's technique was flawless – each thrust, parry, and riposte executed with mathematical precision. Yet somehow, within seconds, his sword went spinning across the training cage floor.

"Pick it up," Franklin said, casually kicking the blade back toward him. The words carried neither mockery nor malice, yet they cut deeper than any blade.

Fulgrim retrieved his weapon, his movements still graceful but tinged with a new hesitancy. Again their blades crossed, and again Fulgrim found himself disarmed.

"Pick it up."

The pattern repeated, each iteration crushing another layer of Fulgrim's carefully constructed self-image. His legendary speed seemed sluggish against Franklin's efficiency. His perfect form crumbled before Franklin's pragmatic brutality.

"Pick it up, Fulgrim."

The words became a mantra, each repetition stripping away another layer of certainty. Fulgrim's movements grew increasingly desperate, his technique deteriorating as frustration overwhelmed his disciplined mind.

"Pick it up."

Where once there had been fluid grace, now there was only mechanical repetition. The sword felt foreign in his hands, as if it were rejecting his touch.

"Pick it up."

Rage finally broke through Fulgrim's composure. With a roar that shook the training cage, he charged forward, abandoning all pretense of technique. His blade whistled through the air in a killing arc – only to be met with casual precision by Franklin's parry.

"Pick it up." 

Fulgrim's next attack lasted less than a heartbeat before Franklin's backhand sent him sprawling. The impact wasn't just physical; it shattered something fundamental within the Primarch of the Emperor's Children.

"Pick it up, Fulgrim." Franklin's voice carried a note of finality. "Stand up! Face me again!"

His hands trembling, Fulgrim grasped the sword one final time. He gathered every lesson learned on Chemos, every victory, every moment of triumph. His eyes studied Franklin's seemingly open stance, now recognizing it as the trap it had always been. When he lunged, it was with everything he had left.

The disarm was almost gentle. The backhand that followed was not. As Fulgrim crashed to the floor, something broke inside him – not with a crash, but with a whimper.

"I-I am flawed..." The words escaped him like a dying breath, carrying with them the weight of a lifetime of certainty crumbling to dust.

His mind raced through memories of Chemos – each perfect victory, each flawless performance now tainted with doubt. He had unified a world, bested countless champions, risen to heights none could match. Yet here, on the galactic stage, he had fallen. First to the Prime Ork, and now to a brother who was supposed to be his equal.

Panic clawed at his throat as the implications crashed over him. Every duel, every triumph that had formed the foundation of his identity began to crumble. They were Primarchs, cast from the same mold, forged by the same hand. How could the gap between them be so vast?

Franklin watched the war playing out behind Fulgrim's eyes, recognizing the moment when teaching could become torment – or transformation. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of hard-won wisdom.

"The perfect being," Franklin began, a hint of bitter amusement in his tone. "Hehe, There is no such thing as perfect in this world. That may sound cliché, but it's the truth. You, my brother, admire perfection and seeks to obtain it. But, what's the point of achieving perfection? There is none. Nothing. Not a single thing."

He looked at Fulgrim, his presence no longer overwhelming but supportive. "I do not believe in perfection! If something is perfect, then there is nothing left. There is no room for imagination. No place left for a person to gain additional knowledge or abilities. Do you know what that means?"

Fulgrim stared at him, transfixed by words that seemed to shake the very foundations of his worldview.

"For Warriors such as ourselves, perfection only brings stagnation. It is our job to rise above things more powerful than anything before us, that is what makes a Primarch, but never to obtain perfection. In short, the moment that foolishness you ingrained in your mind, in your life, in your actions, you had already lost. You can only defeat yourself, Fulgrim."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth. Fulgrim looked down at his hands – hands that had wielded a blade with supposed perfection, hands that now trembled with the weight of revelation.

"Then what..." Fulgrim's voice cracked. "What am I supposed to be?"

Franklin's response was gentle but firm. "Better than you were yesterday. Not perfect. Not flawless. Just better. The moment you stop trying to be perfect is the moment you can start becoming stronger."

The stillness of the training cage was shattered by the urgent buzz of Franklin's personal vox. A bridge officer's voice cut through the heavy atmosphere: "Lord Valorian, long-range augurs detect a massive Ork fleet translating into realspace. Estimated arrival: thirty minutes."

Franklin's expression shifted instantly from philosophical mentor to warrior-king. Yet as he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at his broken brother still kneeling on the deck. Fulgrim remained there, a statue of doubt and self-recrimination, the discarded sword lying before him like an accusation.

"You know, Fulgrim," Franklin's voice carried a new edge, dropping the gentle teacher's tone for something harder, more practical. "Right now, you remind me of those fancy porcelain vases your Legion's so fond of. Beautiful, perfect – and absolutely useless once they're cracked."

Fulgrim's head snapped up, a flicker of his old pride warring with his newfound uncertainty.

"Oh yes, you're broken. Shattered, even." Franklin continued, his words deliberate and sharp. "But here's the thing about being broken – it gives you a choice. A real choice, maybe the first genuine one you've had since you were found on Chemos."

The deck vibrated subtly as the Etna's weapon systems began powering up, preparing for the coming battle. Franklin's Mechsuit auto-sealed with metallic clicks, but his eyes remained fixed on Fulgrim.

"You can sit here, wallowing in your own sadness and broken pride like a pompous bitch," he said, each word landing like a blow, "mourning your lost 'perfection' while the galaxy moves on without you. That's one option. Nice and easy. Very dramatic. Completely worthless."

Fulgrim's hands clenched, his knuckles white against the deck plating. The air grew thick with tension as Franklin continued, his voice taking on an almost casual tone that belied the weight of his words.

"Or," he said, "you can do something far more interesting. You can rise from those ashes like a phoenix. Not perfect—thank your own strength for that—but better. Stronger. Real."

Another vox chime echoed through the chamber. "Twenty-five minutes to contact, Lord Valorian."

Franklin turned fully toward the exit, his massive frame silhouetted against the doorway. "The choice is yours, brother. But make it quick. The galaxy won't wait for you to finish your existential crisis."

He paused one final time, looking over his shoulder. "Oh, and Fulgrim? If you decide to stop being a statue, there's an Ork Waagh coming that could use a good stabbing. Might be educational – they don't care much for perfect form, but they're remarkably good at teaching reality."

With that, Franklin strode out, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he headed for the bridge. Behind him, he left silence, a discarded sword, and a Primarch at a crossroads.

The training cage's lights cast harsh shadows across Fulgrim's features as he stared at the space his brother had occupied. The sword lay before him, no longer a symbol of perfection but a question waiting to be answered. In the distance, the muffled sound of battle stations being called echoed through the mighty vessel.

Twenty-five minutes. Time enough to wallow in defeat or time enough to begin again. Time enough to cling to broken ideals of perfection or time enough to embrace the freedom of imperfection.

The choice, as Franklin had said, was his.

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

The void above the capital world blazed with the aftermath of battle. Wreckage from the defending Ork fleet drifted listlessly through space, testament to Battlefleet Liberty's overwhelming firepower. Yet contrary to all known Ork behavior, the newly arrived massive Ork fleet held position, making no aggressive moves.

On the bridge of the Etna, a junior communications officer cleared his throat nervously. "Lord Valorian... we're receiving a transmission from the surface. It's... well, it's properly formatted and everything."

Franklin leaned forward in his command throne, brown eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's hear it."

The message was clear, concise, and most shockingly of all, properly punctuated. Gorblasta the Mightee formally requested the presence of "Da Dakkabringer" for a meeting on the planet's surface. Long-range augurs showed the massive Prime-Ork standing alone in a clearing, apparently completely unconcerned about his vulnerable position.

"This has to be a trap," Denzel Washington said, hand resting on the hilt of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi. "No Ork just stands around waiting for a chat."

Steven Armstrong folded his augmetic arms across his chest. "We've got a clear shot. One good barrage from the Etna's main batteries and-"

Franklin's laughter cut him off. "You're both thinking like it's a normal Ork WAAAGH! This is a Prime-Ork we're dealing with. Of course he knows diplomacy." He stood, stretching his fifteen-foot frame. "Besides, where's your sense of adventure?"

"My sense of adventure doesn't usually involve walking into obvious traps," Denzel muttered, but he was already smiling, knowing there was no talking his Primarch out of this.

"Stand down all weapons," Franklin ordered. "Let's not be rude to our hosts. I'll take the Gate of Liberty down - everyone hold position until the fun starts."

The massive teleportation device hummed to life, its portal connecting to one of the six Monoliths on the surface. Franklin stepped through, emerging onto the battlefield with casual confidence. In the distance, Gorblasta's twenty-three-foot frame dominated the landscape, his black and white checkered power armor gleaming in the sunlight.

As Franklin approached, he could appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into the Prime-Ork's armor. It wasn't the usual ramshackle Orkish construction - every plate was perfectly fitted, every joint moved with precision, and the weapons systems integrated seamlessly into the whole.

"Da Dakkabringer!" Gorblasta's voice boomed across the clearing, somehow managing to convey both religious awe and competitive challenge. "You finally came! Been waiting for dis moment, I has!"

"Heard you were looking for me," Franklin replied casually, coming to a stop at a respectful distance. "Got to say, the diplomatic approach is a new one for your kind."

Gorblasta's massive face split in a grin that showed perfectly maintained bionic teeth. "New times require new methods. Besides, proper dakka requires proper protocol, yes?"

"Does it now?" Franklin's eyebrow raised with interest. "And what exactly constitutes 'proper dakka' these days?"

The Prime-Ork's eyes lit up – literally, as targeting systems activated behind his cybernetic implants. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"

What followed could only be described as the most sophisticated dick-measuring contest in Imperial history. Gorblasta raised his right arm, his power armor reconfiguring into a weapons platform that would have made a Titan princeps jealous. With a thunderous roar, he unleashed a barrage that turned a section of jungle into atomized particles.

"Not bad," Franklin nodded appreciatively, reaching into a dimensional pocket. "But how about this?" He withdrew a weapon that seemed to drink in the light around it. With casual ease, he aimed at a distant mountain peak. There was a sound like reality hiccupping, and then the mountain simply ceased to exist.

Gorblasta's laugh boomed across the battlefield. "Now that's proper dakka! But I'm just getting warmed up."

The contest escalated. Gorblasta demonstrated weapon systems that somehow merged Orkish brutality with near-Mechanicum precision. Franklin countered with examples of Independence Sector technology that bordered on the miraculous. Each demonstration was met with genuine appreciation from both parties – a Primarch and a Prime-Ork united in their love of overwhelming firepower.

Finally, Gorblasta's grin widened impossibly further. "You've got lovely toys, Dakkabringer. But let me show you something special." He raised a massive hand, gesturing behind him.

The ground began to shake. From behind the ruined mountain range emerged seven titanic forms that made Franklin whistle in genuine appreciation. Mega Gargants, each one the size of an Imperator Titan, but built with a level of sophistication that defied everything known about Orkish engineering. They moved with purpose and precision, their weapons arrays humming with barely contained power.

"Impressive," Franklin admitted, studying the massive war machines. "You really pulled out all the stops on these beauties."

"Da biggest dakka we could build," Gorblasta declared proudly. "Took years of proper planning. No random bits and pieces. Everything calculated, everything optimized for maximum dakka delivery."

"Well then," Franklin's grin matched the Ork's in intensity. "It would be rude not to respond in kind." He touched a control on his wrist, and behind him, the six monolithic portals began to pulse with energy.

What emerged made even Gorblasta's cybernetic eyes widen. Castigator Titans, lost to history since the Dark Age of Technology, stepped through the portals one by one. Each was a masterpiece of human engineering, their forms combining elegant design with overwhelming destructive capability. 

They moved with a grace that defied their immense size, falling into formation with the precision of a parade drill.

But they were merely the prelude.

The final portal flared brighter than all the others combined. The titan that emerged had to duck to pass through, its massive form dwarfing even its fellow Castigators. This was Ouranos, the Father of Titans, a war machine that stretched the definition of what was possible with human technology.

Its towering humanoid form rose to its full height, a single cyclopean eye blazing with fierce, volatile energy

Every surface bristled with weapons, each one capable of ending battles single-handedly. Its left hand ended in a massive power claw that could have plucked Stormbirds from the sky, while its right clutched a disintegration cannon that made Franklin's earlier demonstration look like a laser pointer.

"Probability of Ork victory: Impossible!" Ouranos's voice shook the ground, its artificial intelligence displaying the characteristic arrogance of its class.

Franklin somehow produced both aviator sunglasses and a cigar, the latter of which he lit with deliberate casualness. "You know, Gorblasta, I usually keep the titans under wraps. Makes things too easy, you understand and I can't wage war when your opponents are already running for the Hills. But for an Ork who appreciates the finer points of dakka?" He took a long draw on the cigar. "Well, I figured you deserved the full show."

Gorblasta stared at the assembled titans, his augmetic systems trying to calculate their combined firepower and repeatedly returning error messages. Finally, he threw back his head and laughed, a sound of pure joy that echoed across the battlefield.

"Now that," he declared, "is proper dakka! Da stories were true – you really do understand!"

"Understand what?" Franklin asked, though his grin suggested he knew exactly what the Prime-Ork meant.

"That there's never enough dakka – but that doesn't mean you stop trying to reach it!" Gorblasta's eyes gleamed with something approaching religious fervor. "Look at this! Your titans, my gargants – this is what happens when you properly pursue the path of dakka!"

The two forces stood facing each other across the battlefield – Seven Mega Gargants representing the pinnacle of sophisticated Orkish engineering, and seven Castigator Titans embodying humanity's mastery over technology. The air crackled with potential energy as targeting systems locked, weapons hummed, and Artificial intelligence stirred in anticipation.

"Well then," Franklin took another puff of his cigar, "shall we see whose dakka reigns supreme?"

Gorblasta's answer was to begin deploying even more weapons from his armor. "Been waiting for this moment since I saw you take down that titan on 'Da Scrapyard.' Time to see if I've brought enough Dakka"

As both leaders prepared for battle, their massive war machines moving into combat formation, one thought was shared by all witnesses: This wouldn't be just another battle. This would be a contest between two beings who had elevated the concept of overwhelming firepower into an art form.

The Battle of the God Engines is on the Horizon.

A/N: What Color is Your Titan?