The Gambit

The battlefield trembled as two colossal figures engaged in a dance of death. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, stood tall and proud, wielding the 5th Crone Sword with practiced ease. Opposite him, a twisted mirror image snarled with rage - Chaos Franklin, corrupted by the dark powers of the Warp.

As their blades met for the first time, a shockwave rippled across the war-torn landscape. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the combatants in harsh flashes. It was as if reality itself strained under the weight of their conflict - a true God of War facing off against a Daemon Prince of unimaginable power.

Franklin's movements were a blur, his attacks flowing with a grace that belied his massive frame. Each strike of the Crone Sword sang with barely contained energy, leaving trails of ethereal light in its wake. In contrast, Chaos Franklin's corrupted blade pulsed with malevolent intent, dripping with a miasma of Warp energy.

"You're no longer the eagle that soars high," Franklin taunted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "What replaced that noble bird is nothing but a chimera - an amalgamation of beasts, each more twisted than the last!"

Their weapons clashed again and again, each impact sending tremors through the ground. Franklin's expertise was evident; every movement was calculated, every stance perfect. Chaos Franklin, for all his unholy might, found himself struggling to keep pace.

In a blindingly fast exchange, Franklin saw an opening. The Crone Sword flashed horizontally, finding a gap in his opponent's defense. The blade bit deep into Chaos Franklin's corrupted power armor, drawing a howl of pain and disbelief from the Daemon Prince.

Chaos Franklin staggered back, his hand flying to the wound on his torso. Shock and rage warred on his twisted features. "How?!" he bellowed, his voice a cacophony of inhuman tones. "WHY? I AM SUPPOSED TO BE THE ORIGINAL!"

As they circled each other, Chaos Franklin's eyes narrowed. Through the blessings of Tzeentch, he began to analyze his opponent's fighting style. It was familiar, yet alien - a perfect fusion of Primarch might and something far, far older. The shadow of an ancient god seemed to overlay Franklin's form, and realization dawned.

"Khaine..." Chaos Franklin hissed, his gaze fixed on the Crone Sword. "That damned blade. You've made a pact with the Eldar God of War and Murder!"

Franklin grinned, twirling the Deathsword with casual grace. "What's wrong?" he called out mockingly. "Any Primarch should be able to dodge my strikes. They can be heard or felt through destiny, after all." His smile turned cruel. "Oh, wait. You're no longer a Primarch, are you?"

As they bantered, a voice resonated within Franklin's mind - the essence of Khaine, bound within the Crone Sword.

"The corrupted blade houses a Greater Daemon," Khaine's voice echoed. "Each time our weapons meet, I engage it in combat on the spiritual plane."

Franklin's mental voice carried a hint of amusement. "Are you losing, old friend? Should I be worried?"

A scoff from the God of War. "Look closely at your opponent's weapon."

Focusing his enhanced senses, Franklin observed the corrupted blade. With each clash, hairline fractures appeared along its length, only to heal moments later in a disturbing display of unnatural regeneration.

"The daemon within struggles," Khaine explained. "It cannot long withstand my assaults. Press your advantage in the physical realm, and victory shall be ours."

Franklin's grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Well then," he said aloud, readying his stance once more. "Shall we continue this dance, my corrupted self? I'm eager to see just how far the gifts of Chaos can take you."

Chaos Franklin snarled, the blessings of the four great powers surging through his twisted form. "I am might incarnate!" he roared. "Khorne's strength flows through my veins. Tzeentch's wisdom guides my blade. Nurgle's endurance makes me unbreakable. And Slaanesh... Slaanesh has gifted me with the drive for absolute perfection!"

"Perfection?" Franklin laughed, the sound rich with genuine mirth. "Oh, my poor, deluded twin. You've confused corruption with advancement. Let me show you what true perfection looks like!"

Their duel had raged for what felt like hours, but only a few minutes had passed, each combatant pushing themselves to the very limits of their superhuman abilities.

Franklin's Crone Sword, imbued with the essence of Khaine, met his counterpart's corrupted blade in a shower of sparks. The impact sent tremors through both warriors' arms, a testament to the raw power behind each strike. For a moment, they stood there, weapons crossed, faces mere inches apart.

"Feeling the strain, brother?" Chaos Franklin sneered, his voice a horrific blend of Franklin's familiar tones and something utterly alien. "The gifts of the Dark Gods flow through me. I grow stronger with each passing moment!"

Franklin said nothing, his jaw clenched in concentration. He could feel the truth in his corrupted self's words. Each clash seemed to invigorate Chaos Franklin, the Ruinous Powers channeling their unholy might into their champion. If this continued, Franklin knew he would eventually be overwhelmed by sheer brute force.

With a grunt of effort, Franklin disengaged, leaping back to create distance. His mind raced, analyzing the situation with the cold logic of a warrior. Direct confrontation was no longer viable. He needed to adapt.

Chaos Franklin laughed, a sound that sent chills down the spines of mortal soldiers nearby. "Running away? I expected more from the vaunted Liberator!"

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Franklin replied, a hint of his characteristic humor creeping into his voice. He shifted his stance, the Crone Sword held at an angle across his body. "Let's see how you handle this, shall we?"

Chaos Franklin charged, his corrupted blade leaving trails of sickly green energy in its wake. He brought the weapon down in a mighty overhead strike, intending to cleave Franklin in two. But the Liberator was ready.

Instead of meeting the blow head-on, Franklin sidestepped at the last possible moment. The Crone Sword flashed out, not to strike, but to redirect Chaos Franklin's momentum. The corrupted Primarch stumbled, thrown off balance by the unexpected maneuver.

Franklin pressed his advantage, landing a quick series of cuts along his opponent's flank. Each wound glowed with the purifying fire of Khaine, eliciting howls of pain and rage from Chaos Franklin.

"Stand still and fight me!" Chaos Franklin roared, spinning to face his loyalist counterpart.

Franklin smirked. "Now why would I do that when this is working so well?"

The dance continued. Chaos Franklin, fueled by the raw power of Chaos, launched attack after devastating attack. Each blow carried enough force to shatter mountains, but Franklin refused to meet them directly. Instead, he weaved and dodged, parrying when necessary and striking in the brief windows between his opponent's assaults.

A horizontal slash from Chaos Franklin whistled through the air where Franklin's head had been a split second before. The Liberator ducked under the strike, retaliating with a precise thrust that found a gap in his foe's corrupted armor. Chaos Franklin bellowed in pain and fury, lashing out with a backhand that caught Franklin across the jaw.

The loyalist Primarch tasted blood but grinned through it. "Not bad," he quipped, spitting out a tooth. "But you're still telegraphing your moves. Slaanesh's gift of perfection seems a bit overrated."

Enraged, Chaos Franklin pressed his attack with renewed vigor. His corrupted blade became a blur of motion, raining down blows from every angle. But for every strike that landed, Franklin avoided or deflected three more. The Crone Sword sang in his hands, Khaine's essence guiding his movements with preternatural grace.

As the duel wore on, a change came over Chaos Franklin. His attacks, once precise and calculated, became increasingly wild and uncontrolled. The blessings of the Dark Gods, rather than empowering him, seemed to be consuming him from within.

Franklin noticed the shift and pressed his advantage. He increased the tempo of his own attacks, each strike precisely aimed to exploit the growing gaps in his opponent's defense. The Crone Sword left burning furrows across Chaos Franklin's corrupted form, each wound searing it's Skin.

The clash of titans had reached a fever pitch, the very air crackling with tension and residual warp energy. Chaos Franklin, battered but far from beaten, sought to create distance between himself and his loyalist counterpart. He needed time, space to analyze, to formulate a strategy against this unexpectedly formidable foe.

"Running out of steam, are we?" Franklin's voice carried across the battlefield, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "I thought the 'gifts' of your new patrons were supposed to be limitless."

Chaos Franklin snarled, his once-noble features twisted into a mask of hatred. "Silence! I simply need a moment to--"

His words were cut short by a peculiar sound that cut through the cacophony of battle - a whistle, clear and sharp, like the call of some great predatory bird. Chaos Franklin's head snapped up, his enhanced senses zeroing in on the source of the sound. What he saw made his corrupted blood run cold.

There, silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky, stood Franklin Valorian. But this was not the close-quarters combatant of moments ago. The Primarch's form bristled with weaponry, an arsenal that would make even a Titan princeps pause.

Franklin's laughter echoed across the ruined plains. "Oh brother, how quickly you forget!" he called out, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "First and foremost, the Eagle was always a gunslinger. And you, my corrupted reflection, just made the cardinal mistake of giving me range."

Chaos Franklin's eyes widened in horrified realization. In his arrogance, in his reliance on the raw power gifted by the Dark Gods, he had forgotten a fundamental truth about his loyalist self. Franklin Valorian, the Eagle of Liberty, was a master of combined arms warfare. And now, with this distance between them, he had inadvertently placed himself squarely in the crosshairs of one of the deadliest marksmen the galaxy had ever known.

Before Chaos Franklin could react, the air itself seemed to ignite. The rotary cannons on Franklin's arms roared to life, their report a deafening, continuous thunder that shook the very ground. Thousands of rounds, each large enough to punch through the armor of a battle tank, erupted from the spinning barrels in a relentless stream of destruction.

The first volley caught Chaos Franklin squarely in the chest, the impacts sending shockwaves through his corrupted form. His warp-enhanced physiology and daemonic gifts struggled to keep pace with the onslaught, flesh and armor alike being torn asunder only to knit back together in grotesque patterns.

As if the hail of high-caliber rounds wasn't enough, the smart missile pods on Franklin's shoulders unleashed their payload. Dozens of missiles streaked through the air, leaving trails of white smoke in their wake. Unlike simple rockets, these were guided munitions of the highest order, each one packed with enough explosives to level a hab-block.

The missiles found their mark with unerring accuracy, detonating against Chaos Franklin in a series of earth-shattering explosions. The corrupted Primarch was engulfed in a maelstrom of fire and shrapnel, his roars of pain and rage lost in the cacophony of destruction.

Yet still, it wasn't over. The plasma cannons, their coils glowing with barely contained stellar fury, added their voice to the symphony of devastation. Bolts of superheated matter, each as bright as a newborn star, lanced out to strike Chaos Franklin. Where they hit, ceramite and flesh alike simply ceased to be, vaporized in an instant.

Through it all, Chaos Franklin endured. The blessings of the Dark Gods, the very corruption that had twisted him from his original purpose, now served as his lifeline. Flesh knitted back together, armor reformed, and bones reset themselves even as they were pulverized. He was a monument to the unnatural resilience granted by Chaos, a demonstration to the horrific power of the Warp.

Gritting teeth that continuously regrew, Chaos Franklin began to advance. Each step was an act of defiance against the laws of physics and biology. The barrage of firepower should have reduced him to nothing more than scattered atoms, yet still he came on, driven by hatred and the dark will of his patrons.

As the smoke began to clear, Chaos Franklin emerged, a nightmarish vision of regeneration and corruption. His armor was in tatters, flesh exposed and reforming in patterns that defied sanity. In his eyes burned the baleful light of the Warp, and around his hands coalesced tendrils of raw psychic might.

But Franklin Valorian stood ready, unperturbed by the survival of his twisted counterpart. In his hand now rested a pistol, an unassuming weapon compared to the battery of guns he had just unleashed. Yet something in Franklin's stance, in the glint of his eye and the quirk of his smile, spoke volumes about the true nature of this final instrument of judgment.

For a brief moment, confusion flickered across Chaos Franklin's face. After such an overwhelming display of firepower, why would his counterpart resort to a single sidearm?

Franklin's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You know, there's an old Terran saying that I've always been fond of," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the din of battle. "It goes something like this: 'The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.'"

As Chaos Franklin summoned the full might of his psychic powers, preparing to unleash a storm of Warp energy that would unmake worlds, Franklin's smirk widened into a full grin.

"The Second Amendment, brother. Don't leave home without it."

Before Chaos Franklin could unleash his psychic assault, before he could even fully comprehend the danger he faced, Franklin pulled the trigger.

The disintegration pistol lived up to its name in spectacular fashion. A beam of pure annihilation lanced out, striking Chaos Franklin square in the face. There was no explosion, no dramatic flash of light. Instead, where the beam touched, matter simply ceased to be.

The acrid smell of ozone and disintegrated matter hung heavy in the air as Franklin Valorian watched the last atoms of his corrupted self scatter to the cosmic winds. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, the tension of battle beginning to ebb from his massive frame. Victory, it seemed, was at hand.

But in that moment of perceived triumph, a voice thundered through his mind, carried on the psychic wavelengths of the Crone Sword:

"BEHIND YOU!" Khaine's warning roared with urgent clarity.

Franklin's transhuman reflexes kicked in, his body already in motion before his conscious mind could fully process the danger. But even for a Primarch, some threats move faster than thought.

A searing pain erupted in Franklin's chest as a blade of corrupted metal burst through his armor, emerging from his sternum in a spray of blood and shattered armor. The world seemed to slow, each heartbeat an eternity as Franklin's gaze traveled down the length of the sword to the hand that wielded it, up an arm of twisted flesh and warped armor, to a face he had thought obliterated mere moments ago.

Chaos Franklin stood there, a rictus grin splitting his features, eyes blazing with unholy glee. "Did you truly believe," he hissed, leaning in close, his fetid breath hot on Franklin's ear, "that I would die so easily? Oh, brother, your weapons are impressive indeed. Atomization is quite the party trick." He twisted the blade, eliciting a grunt of pain from Franklin. "But I am blessed by the Dark Gods themselves. Death? For me, it's merely an inconvenience."

Franklin's mind raced, analyzing the situation even as his body screamed in agony. The corrupted blade pinning him in place radiated wrongness, its very existence an affront to reality. He could feel it trying to work its taint into his flesh, to corrupt his very essence.

With a herculean effort, Franklin gripped the Crone Sword, preparing to bring it to bear against his foe. But Chaos Franklin was ready. With his free hand, he struck out, swatting the Deathsword away with contemptuous ease. The ancient blade clattered to the ground, just out of reach.

A low chuckle emanated from the corrupted Primarch. "Now then, let's see how incorruptible you really are."

Franklin felt it immediately - a presence, vast and alien, pressing against the borders of his mind. The Greater Daemon bound within the corrupted blade, a Keeper of Secrets of Slaanesh, sought entry into his very soul. It was a force of unimaginable power and depravity, a being that had corrupted countless worlds and turned the mightiest of heroes to the service of Chaos.

But it had never faced the will of Franklin Valorian.

As the daemon pressed its assault, it found not the yielding mindscape it had expected, but an immovable wall of pure, adamantine will. Franklin's consciousness stood resolute, a bastion of order against the swirling tides of Chaos.

The pain was indescribable. Every nerve in Franklin's body screamed as the corrupted blade sought to unmake him from within. But pain was a teacher, and Franklin had long ago mastered its lessons. He embraced the agony, used it to sharpen his focus, to fuel his defiance.

In the mindscape of their psychic battle, Franklin stood tall, his form radiating golden light that pushed back the encroaching shadows of the Keeper of Secrets. The daemon's form shifted constantly, a bewildering array of temptations and horrors designed to break the will of any mortal.

Franklin's laughter, rich and genuine, echoed through the psychic realm. "Is this the best you can do?" he taunted, his voice steady despite the physical torment wracking his body. "Half man, half woman, and wholly pathetic. You'll have to do better than that to corrupt this eagle."

The daemon's assault redoubled, waves of pleasure and pain crashing against Franklin's psychic defenses. Visions of power, of entire worlds bowing before him, flashed through his mind. The Keeper of Secrets showed him futures where he ruled the Imperium, where he ascended to godhood, where every desire was fulfilled at the merest thought.

Franklin stood unmoved. "I've seen better illusions in a Hive City carnival," he quipped, even as he felt his physical body weakening from blood loss and the strain of combat.

Franklin In response to the overwhelming sensory and mental assault, his brain fell back on a coping mechanism developed over years of dealing with overstimulation: repetition.

"The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed," Franklin began to recite, his voice steady despite the blood filling his lungs. "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

Chaos Franklin's face contorted in confusion. "What... what are you doing?"

But Franklin continued, undeterred. "The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

The words of the ancient Terran amendments became a mantra, a shield against the corrupting influence of Chaos. With each repetition, Franklin's voice grew stronger, his resolve hardening.

Within his mind, the assault of the Keeper of Secrets began to falter. The daemon, used to manipulating desires and twisting emotions, found itself utterly confounded by the ordered, repetitive thoughts it encountered. Franklin's autistic hyperfocus on the constitutional amendments created a psychic landscape that the creature of Chaos simply couldn't navigate.

"Stop that infernal chanting!" Chaos Franklin roared, twisting the blade again in an attempt to break his counterpart's concentration.

"The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed," Franklin continued, his voice now tinged with a hint of amusement. "You know, I always thought these amendments were a bit wordy, but they're really coming in handy right now."

The battlefield erupted into a frenzy of activity as the Liberty Eagles witnessed their beloved Primarch impaled upon the corrupted blade of his chaotic doppelganger. Rage and desperation fueled their actions as they unleashed a devastating barrage of firepower towards Chaos Franklin.

Disentigration Bolts, plasma blasts, and missiles streaked across the war-torn landscape, a tempest of destruction aimed at the corrupted Primarch. Yet Chaos Franklin stood unmoved, a sphere of shimmering energy coalescing around him. The psychic shield, a gift from the capricious god Tzeentch, effortlessly deflected the onslaught, each impact sending ripples of iridescent light across its surface.

As the futile assault continued, a change swept over the battlefield. Chaos Franklin felt a familiar pull, a tugging at the very fabric of his being. His gaze darted to the towering spires of Austeria Extremis, their blackstone structures pulsing with a uniform resonance. The Immaterium was calling, its siren song growing stronger with each passing moment.

A snarl of frustration twisted Chaos Franklin's features. Time was running short. His mission, the corruption or destruction of his loyalist counterpart, remained unfinished. The attempt to taint Franklin's soul had failed, thwarted by a will of unprecedented strength. There was only one option left.

With a grunt of effort, Chaos Franklin tightened his grip on the corrupted blade, pulling it closer and by extension, dragging the impaled Franklin towards him. The Liberator's feet scraped across the ground, leaving trails in the blood-soaked earth as he was inexorably drawn towards his twisted mirror image.

"It seems our dance is coming to an end, brother," Chaos Franklin hissed, his face mere inches from Franklin's. The corrupt Primarch's breath was hot and fetid, reeking of decay and broken oaths. "Your corruption would have been a grand prize, but I'll settle for your death. Any last words before I finish what the Dark Gods started?"

Franklin's breathing was ragged, each inhalation a labor that sent fresh waves of agony through his massive frame. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, a stark crimson against his ashen skin. Yet despite the grievous wound, despite the life literally draining from his body, a spark of defiance still burned in his eyes.

With what seemed to be the last reserves of his strength, Franklin lifted his gaze to meet that of his corrupted self. And then, in defiance of all logic and expectation, a grin spread across his face. It was the same roguish smirk that had infuriated enemies and endeared him to allies across a thousand battlefields.

Chaos Franklin's eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his twisted features. "What's this? Still trying to play the hero, Franklin? I'll wipe that smirk off your face soon enough."

A chuckle escaped Franklin's lips, immediately followed by a pained cough that spattered blood across Chaos Franklin's armor. "Oh, I don't think so," Franklin managed to rasp, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned in closer, as if to share a secret with his corrupted self. "In fact, I'd wager I'll be wiping that smirk off your face first."

Confusion replaced the sneer on Chaos Franklin's face. "What are you babbling about, you fool? You're beaten, impaled on my blade. What could you possibly-"

But Franklin wasn't listening. His mind was elsewhere, reaching out with his formidable psychic might. He knew he couldn't recall the Crone Sword - Chaos Franklin would simply swat it away again. No, he needed something else, something unexpected.

In that moment, as life ebbed from his body, Franklin reached into the pocket dimension where he stored his arsenal. With a thought, he summoned a pair of ornate gauntlets. They materialized directly onto his hands, unnoticed by his preoccupied foe.

Chaos Franklin, growing impatient with what he perceived as the ramblings of a dying man, tightened his grip on the corrupted blade. "Enough of this. If you have no last words of substance, then-"

"Oh, but I do," Franklin interrupted, his voice suddenly stronger, filled with a mix of pain and grim amusement. "I have just two words for you, actually."

The corrupted Primarch leaned in, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. "And what might those be?"

Franklin's grin widened, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. With the last of his strength, he grabbed Chaos Franklin's armor with his gauntleted hands, ensuring his foe couldn't pull away. Then, focusing all of his remaining psychic might through the conduit his gauntlets, Franklin spoke his final gambit:

"Testicular Torsion!"

Chaos Franklin's expression twisted from smug satisfaction to confusion as Franklin's words sank in. His grip on the corrupted blade faltered, and for the briefest moment, doubt flickered in his eyes.

Then the pain hit.

A searing, indescribable agony shot through him like wildfire, spreading from the core of his being. It was a pain that transcended the battlefield, cutting through the layers of his corrupted form, bypassing even the protective wards of Chaos itself.

Chaos Franklin's breath hitched. His body convulsed as his knees buckled beneath him, the corrupted blade falling from his grip. His scream, at first choked and disbelieving, erupted from deep within, growing louder and more feral with each passing second.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"