Me, Myself, and Chaos

The blade of the assailant punched through the outer layer of Franklin's armor with unnatural ease, its chaos-infused edge hungering for the Primarch's flesh. It should have plunged deeper, should have tasted the blood of a demigod. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

In that crucial moment, Eldrad Ulthran's psychic might manifested as a shimmering barrier, halting the sword's advance mere millimeters from Franklin's skin. The Farseer's intervention bought precious seconds, allowing Franklin to recover from his shock and parry the blade with a swift, fluid motion.

The clash of metal on metal rang out across the daemon-infested battlefield of Austeria Extremis, a Knight World teetering on the brink of damnation. Reality itself shuddered, torn asunder by the violence of the Warp Storm that raged overhead. In this maelstrom of madness, two versions of the same man faced each other—a tableau of "what is" versus "what could have been."

The assailant, a dark mirror of Franklin, sneered. His armor, adorned with the eight-pointed star of Chaos Undivided, exuded malevolence. A mocking laugh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of countless atrocities.

"The Aeldari," Chaos Franklin said, his voice a distorted echo of Franklin's own. "I knew you'd be here. Always meddling, always trying to defy fate." He gestured at the war-torn landscape. "This planet stands as testament to your failures. You ensured the very destiny you sought to prevent."

He smirked, eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. "I fell to the Gods, yes, but I must thank you for it. The power they granted me... gave me the strength to lay waste to every Craftworld. Your interference brought about the doom you feared."

Eldrad remained silent, his ancient gaze betraying no emotion. He knew well the double-edged nature of defying fate—sometimes averting disaster, sometimes magnifying it. Yet, the souls saved, the Craftworlds preserved, these were the reasons he continued to walk this precarious path. Against a being of pure Chaos, however, he knew words would be useless.

Franklin, meanwhile, was slowly emerging from his shock. The absurdity of facing a corrupted version of himself had momentarily overwhelmed even his legendary composure. He noted the differences between them.

Where Franklin stood resplendent in his Mechsuit, its colors echoing the patriotic hues of Old Terra's American flag, his counterpart wore blackened power armor, the eight-pointed star on his breastplate drinking in the light around it. Most striking was the lack of Franklin's iconic brown hair—Chaos Franklin was completely bald, as if corruption had stripped away this last piece of his humanity.

Noticing Franklin's prolonged silence, Chaos Franklin sneered again. "Even you find yourself in awe of such a handsome face. But make no mistake, 'brother.' I am the original, You? You're nothing but a pale imitation, a cosmic joke."

At this, Franklin's trademark grin slowly spread across his face. In a rapid-fire delivery that caught even his Chaos self off-guard, he quipped, "Imitationsayswhat?"

Chaos Franklin blinked, momentarily baffled by the childish taunt. "What?" he blurted out reflexively.

"Gottem," Franklin declared triumphantly, his grin widening.

For a moment, the titanic clash of destinies paused, the sheer audacity of Franklin's juvenile humor creating a surreal bubble of normalcy in the midst of cosmic horror.

The Chaos Franklin's eyes narrowed. "Jokes, even now? Some things never change, it seems. But make no mistake, 'brother,' this is what becomes of us when we embrace our true potential. When we cast aside the shackles of the False Emperor and see the galaxy for what it truly is."

Franklin turned to Eldrad Ulthran, his face set with determination. "I appreciate the assist, Space Elf, but I've got this from here, This dance is for me alone."

Eldrad's eyes lingered on the powerful artifact, a flicker of something—concern? hope?—passing across his ageless features. Without a word, the Farseer inclined his head and retreated, leaving the two versions of Franklin to face each other on the chaotic battlefield.

The air crackled with tension, heavy with the scent of ozone and the coppery tang of spilt blood. Reality itself seemed to warp around them, the Warp Storm overhead casting an otherworldly light on the scene. Two titans, mirror images twisted by fate and choice, stood poised for confrontation.

Chaos Franklin cut an imposing figure, his corrupted Power Armor seeping with dark energies that seemed to devour the very light around him. The eight-pointed star on his chest pulsed with unholy power, and his eyes gleamed with the madness of the Warp. He exuded an aura of raw, unrestrained might—a force of nature given form.

In stark contrast, Franklin—stood tall in his resplendent Mechsuit. The colors of an ancient Terran nation, vibrant even amidst the grime of battle, proclaimed his allegiance to ideals long thought lost to the grim darkness of the far future. The Deathsword at his hip thrummed with energy, its presence a counterpoint to the corruption facing him.

Franklin's eyes swept over his counterpart's armor, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed in your fashion choices," he quipped, gesturing at the Chaos-warped Power Armor. "Don't tell me the Cluster didn't have any better STCs than the Mechanicum's hand-me-downs? Last I checked, we were always ahead of the curve."

The corrupted Franklin's face twisted in a snarl. "The Cluster? That haven of weakness and indecision? It burned in the fires of civil war, a fitting pyre for the falsehoods of unity and cooperation."

Franklin's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise coloring his features. "Wait, seriously? You didn't manage to unify the Cluster?" He shook his head, a mix of disbelief and pity in his eyes. "Man, talk about dropping the ball. So, what, no friends to watch your back? No brothers-in-arms to share a drink with after kicking some xenos ass?"

"Friends?" Chaos Franklin spat the word like a curse. "A Primarch has no need for such trivialities. We are demigods of war, engineered for conquest. In embracing the truth of Chaos, I found true freedom."

As his corrupted counterpart spoke, Franklin's mind raced. The implications of this revelation were staggering. If this version of himself had failed to unify the Cluster, then he had never met Denzel, his right hand and best friend. Steven Armstrong, his indomitable left hand, would be absent too. And John Ezra, the ever-vigilant head of his Secret Service...

A chill ran down Franklin's spine as another thought struck him. Vladimir, his Chief Librarian, would likely have been gunned down by distrustful Cluster folk without Franklin's unifying presence. The Techno-Seers, the Federal Bureau of Incantations, all of it—gone, never realized.

Everything good he had accomplished, every friendship forged and alliance struck, his counterpart had failed to achieve. The weight of this realization settled on Franklin's shoulders, not as a burden, but as a affirmation of his choices.

His eyes fell on his doppelganger's bald pate, gleaming in the ethereal light of the Warp Storm. A mischievous glint entered Franklin's eye as he reached into a compartment of his Mechsuit and pulled out a comb. With exaggerated care, he ran it through his own silky smooth hair, never breaking eye contact with his increasingly annoyed counterpart.

"So, this is what becomes of me if I fall," Franklin mused, tucking the comb away with a flourish. "I have to say, baldness doesn't suit us. Must be all that Warp radiation, huh? Remind me to pack some sunscreen if I ever decide to take a dip in the Empyrean."

Chaos Franklin's face contorted with rage, the corruption on his armor seeming to writhe in sympathy with his anger. "You mock what you don't understand, you fool! The power I wield, the truths I've seen—they would shatter your pitiful mind!"

Franklin held up his hands in a placating gesture, though the smirk never left his face. "Whoa there, Baldy McEvilpants. No need to pop a blood vessel. Though I guess with all that Chaos juice flowing through you, that might actually be an improvement to your complexion."

"Enough!" Chaos Franklin roared, his corrupted blade materializing in his hand in a flash of sickly Warp fire. "I will show you the true meaning of power, the futility of your pathetic ideals of liberty and friendship!"

Franklin's hand fell to the Deathsword at his hip, his expression sobering even as a glint of humor remained in his eyes. "See, that's where you're wrong, bizarro me. Liberty, friendship, unity—they're not weaknesses. They're the source of true strength."

He drew the Deathsword, its blade igniting with the divine fire of Khaine. The weapon sang in his grip, a symphony of righteous fury that stood in stark opposition to the discordant screech of Chaos energies surrounding his corrupted self.

"You sacrificed everything that made us who we are," Franklin continued, settling into a fighting stance. "You threw away our ideals, our friendships, our very identity in pursuit of power. And what did it get you? A balding head and a bad attitude."

Chaos Franklin stood, his corrupted blade held in a fighting stance, power radiating from every pore of his twisted form. The battlefield of Austeria Extremis warped around him, reality bending to his will—or so he believed. He glared at his counterpart, this... lesser version of himself, with contempt burning in his Warp-touched eyes.

"You fool," he snarled, his voice a symphony of hatred and disdain. "I have transcended mortality. I have become more than Franklin Valorian ever was, ever could be!" As he spoke, the silhouettes of the Ruinous Powers flickered at the edges of reality, vague yet undeniably present. Their whispers filled his mind, a constant chorus of dark promises and insidious truths.

"The power of the Gods flows through me," Chaos Franklin continued, feeling the raw energy of the Warp coursing through his veins. "Reality ebbs and flows at my whim. And you?" He sneered at his uncorrupted self. "You are weak. You have always been weak."

But as his gaze fell upon the sword in his counterpart's hand, something changed. A flicker of recognition, then disbelief, then a surge of rage so potent it threatened to overwhelm even his Chaos-addled mind. The 5th Crone Sword. It was impossible. It should be impossible.

As if blessed by Tzeentch himself, understanding flooded Chaos Franklin's consciousness. That sword... it was never meant to be there. It should have been locked away in Slaanesh's palace, a trophy of the Prince of Pleasure. And yet, there it was, clutched in the hands of this alternate self.

The realization hit him like a Titan's fist. No matter how a god is shattered, no matter how its essence is dispersed, a true deity always remains beyond the grasp of fate and destiny. And the shard within that sword, coupled with a Primarch's inherent ability to defy destiny...

Chaos Franklin's eyes widened, hatred burning even hotter as the full implications became clear. This version of Franklin Valorian had escaped his ordained fate. He had somehow slipped the noose that should have dragged him into the embrace of Chaos.

His gaze swept across the battlefield of Austeria Extremis, this cursed Knight World where everything had gone so terribly wrong. In his timeline, this world had been the anvil upon which his fate was forged. Here, he had fallen, embracing the power of Chaos in a desperate bid to save himself and his legion. But for this other Franklin, this world seemed to be just another battlefield, not the crucible of damnation it should have been.

The fact that this counterpart had managed to unify the Independence Cluster spoke volumes. Chaos Franklin remembered his own failure, the bitter taste of defeat as he watched worlds burn in civil war, unable to bring them together. It had been that failure that had left him vulnerable, that had opened the door for Chaos to slither into his heart.

But this version... this Franklin had succeeded where he had failed. And in that success, he had taken the first step off the path to damnation. The unification of the Cluster had been the divergence point, the moment when their fates had split asunder.

Yet it was the Crone Sword that truly sealed it. The moment this alternate Franklin had acquired that blade, he had escaped fate entirely. The shard of a shattered god, combined with a Primarch's innate ability to shape destiny... it was a combination potent enough to rewrite the very fabric of reality.

Bitter hatred welled up in Chaos Franklin's chest, threatening to choke him with its intensity. This version of himself stood as a living testament to what he could have been, to the fate he could have avoided. Every ideal upheld, every friendship forged, every victory won by this uncorrupted Franklin was a mockery of his own fall.

And at the center of it all, that damned sword. The key that had unlocked a future he could never have. The Chaos Gods whispered in his mind, urging him to destroy this aberration, to unmake this timeline and drag his other self into darkness. 

Chaos Franklin's grip tightened on his corrupted blade, the weapon screaming for the blood of its wielder's untainted reflection. He could feel the eyes of the Ruinous Powers upon him, waiting to see how he would handle this impossible situation. Would he prove himself worthy of the power they had bestowed upon him? Or would he falter in the face of this cruel reminder of his lost humanity?

"No," he growled, more to himself than to his counterpart. "No, this cannot be. I am the true Franklin Valorian. I am the one who saw through the lies, who embraced true power!" But even as the words left his lips, he could taste their hollowness.

Before him stood living proof of his failures, of the chances he had squandered and the true strength he had cast aside in his hunger for power. This Franklin, with his friends and his ideals and his uncorrupted soul, was everything Chaos Franklin could have been. Should have been.

The hatred in his heart burned hotter than ever, fueled by envy and regret and a soul-deep agony he could scarcely comprehend. He wanted nothing more than to strike this other self down, to prove once and for all that his path—the path of Chaos—was the right one. The only one.

The air crackled with palpable tension as Chaos Franklin's aura blazed with corruption, a maelstrom of dark energies that twisted and warped reality around him. The once-pristine ground of Austeria Extremis began to decay, the earth itself groaning as it transformed into nightmarish versions of its former self. The proud Liberty Spires, symbols of hope and freedom, creaked and groaned under the oppressive weight of the Warp's influence.

Chaos Franklin, his corrupted form pulsing with unholy power, raised his tainted blade. The weapon seemed to drink in the light, leaving only shadows in its wake. He pointed it directly at his uncorrupted counterpart, his voice a thunder of hatred and disdain.

"You dare to stand against me?" he roared, the very air shuddering at the sound. "I am the original! I am the true 11th Primarch! You?" His lips curled in a sneer of pure contempt. "You are nothing but a cheap fucking knock-off!"

The accusation hung in the air, a challenge that seemed to make the very fabric of reality hold its breath. For a moment, silence reigned on the corrupted battlefield.

Then, unexpectedly, Franklin laughed.

It wasn't a nervous chuckle or a forced guffaw. It was a genuine, hearty laugh that rang out across the twisted landscape. As he laughed, an aura of heat began to emanate from him, a stark contrast to the cold corruption of his Chaos-tainted twin.

Chaos Franklin's eyes widened in disbelief. From the Crone Sword at Franklin's hand, he could hear... laughter? Not just any laughter, but the mirth of a god, ancient and powerful, joining in with Franklin's amusement.

Before Chaos Franklin could process this, his uncorrupted self fired back, his voice filled with confidence and a hint of mischief. "Oh no, no, no," Franklin said, shaking his head with a smirk. "I'm not the knock-off. I'm the upgrade."

As he spoke these words, Franklin's eyes blazed with golden fire, a light so pure and intense that Chaos Franklin had to shield his gaze. The silhouette of a powerful, martial figure shimmered in the air around Franklin – unmistakably the form of Khaine, the Aeldari God of War.

And then, cutting through the cacophony of battle and the whispers of Chaos, came a sound that made Chaos Franklin's corrupted heart skip a beat: the clear, piercing cry of an eagle. It echoed across the battlefield, a call of defiance against the encroaching darkness.

Franklin's smirk widened as he saw the confusion on his corrupted self's face. "Can you hear it?" he asked, his voice tinged with both pity and amusement. "The eagle's cry? No?" He shook his head, tsking softly. "Oh, right. You exchanged your inner warp god to become a shell of warp juice, didn't you?"

Chaos Franklin's face contorted in a mix of rage and bewilderment. "What nonsense are you spewing? Inner warp god? The only gods are the Ruinous Powers, and they have blessed me with—"

"Blessed?" Franklin cut him off with a bark of laughter. "Is that what you call it? Let me guess – dear old dad never told you, did he?" His expression softened for a moment, a flicker of genuine sympathy crossing his features. "Can't say I'm surprised. The Emperor was never big on sharing information."

Chaos Franklin's grip on his corrupted blade tightened, his knuckles white with tension. "Tell me," he growled, "what secret do you think you know?"

Franklin's eyes gleamed with that golden fire as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of a profound truth. "We Primarchs, brother... we're not just gene-crafted superhumans. We're vessels. Each of us carries within us a Warp entity – you could call it a god, though that term might be a bit grandiose."

He tapped the side of his head. "In here, there's more than just our own consciousness. There's a spark of something greater, something that predates the Imperium, maybe even humanity itself. It's what gives us our unique abilities, our connection to the Warp."

Chaos Franklin's face was a mask of disbelief and growing horror. "You lie," he hissed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"Do I?" Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Think about it. How else could we each have such distinct, almost supernatural abilities? How could we command the loyalty of our legions with such ease? We're more than just soldiers or leaders. We're living conduits of Warp energy, shaped and controlled by the Emperor's will."

"You know," Franklin began, his voice carrying easily across the warped battlefield, "I feel like I should point something out to you. That fancy star you're sporting? That corruption you wear like a badge of honor?" He shook his head, letting out a short, humorless laugh. "It's not the upgrade you think it is. At best, it's a sidegrade."

Chaos Franklin's face contorted in rage, but before he could retort, Franklin pressed on.

"You see, the moment you gave up your inner warp god, the moment you let those Ruinous Powers hollow you out and fill you with their essence, you didn't ascend. You didn't become more than you were." Franklin's eyes blazed with that inner golden fire, the echo of the eagle's cry seeming to resound with his words. "You lost something fundamental. You lost the call of destiny."

He gestured at Chaos Franklin's corrupted form. "But you? You traded that birthright for what you thought was power. You let the Ruinous Powers scoop out what made you unique and replace it with their own essence. You didn't evolve, brother. You devolved."

Chaos Franklin roared in denial, dark energies swirling around him in a maelstrom of hatred and rage. "Lies! I have ascended beyond the limitations of my former self! I wield power you cannot even comprehend!"

Franklin stood his ground, unflinching in the face of his counterpart's fury. "Power? Sure, I'll give you that. You've got power in spades. But at what cost? You're not your own being anymore. You're a conduit, a puppet for entities that see you as nothing more than a tool."

Franklin's voice took on a note of genuine sadness. "You gave up the ability to shape your own destiny. You traded the potential to be a force of true change in the galaxy for the illusion of godhood. That's not an upgrade, brother. It's not even really a sidegrade. It's a downgrade masquerading as ascension."

The air between them shimmered with tension, two diametrically opposed forces of nature poised on the brink of collision. Franklin, his form wreathed in the combined power of his innate Primarch abilities and Khaine's divine energy, stood as a beacon of what could have been. Across from him, Chaos Franklin seethed with the dark gifts of the Ruinous Powers, a twisted reflection of potential corrupted.

"So here we stand," Franklin concluded, his voice carrying the weight of this profound truth. "Two versions of the same being. One who embraced his true nature, and one who abandoned it for a false promise of power. The real question is..." He fell into a fighting stance, the Crone Sword blazing with anticipation. "Which one of us truly has the power to shape destiny?"

Chaos Franklin, his corrupted blade dripping with malevolent energy, snarled in response. "Enough talk! Let our blades settle this debate!"

As the two Franklins prepared to clash, the very fabric of reality seemed to hold its breath. This wasn't just a battle between two powerful beings – it was a contest between two fundamentally different philosophies of existence. The path of corruption versus the path of self-realization. The illusion of ascension versus true growth.

With a cry that echoed across dimensions, Franklin and his chaotic counterpart lunged at each other. The Crone Sword met corrupted blade in a clash that sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield. In that moment, as divine fire met chaotic energy, the true nature of power – and the real meaning of destiny – was about to be put to the ultimate test.