Reactions and Primarch??
The grand chambers of the Hrafnkel echoed with the thunderous laughter of Leman Russ. Fresh from the victory from the Wheel of Fire Campaign. The newly-gifted Spear of Russ lay against his throne, its surface still crackling with ethereal energies. Around him, his Wolf Guard exchanged uncertain glances as their Primarch's laughter continued to fill the chamber.
"He returns! The mad bastard returns!" Russ roared, slamming his fist against the armrest of his throne. "How long has it been since we shared a drink, brothers? How long since we heard his insufferable jests?"
Bjorn stepped forward, a rare smile crossing his weathered features. "The Liberty Eagles were spotted arriving near Nova Libertas, Lord. Reports indicate they've brought another with them – the newly discovered Primarch, Fulgrim."
Russ's eyes gleamed with interest. "Franklin's taken another under his wing, has he? Ha! Poor bastard probably doesn't know what he's in for." He rose from his throne, towering over his Wolf Guard. "Plot a course for Nova Libertas. I want to see what wisdom our brother has poisoned the new one with."
As the Hrafnkel's engines roared to life, Russ lifted a drinking horn to his lips. "And prepare the feast halls! When Liberty Eagles and Space Wolves meet, the void itself trembles with our revelry!"
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The forges of the Independence Sector outpost on Segmentum Pacificus hummed with an efficiency that both impressed and unsettled Ferrus Manus. He watched as what appeared to be servitors moved with impossible ease, their movements lacking the jerky, artificial motions characteristic of their kind.
A young mechanic approached, tools floating around her in a precise dance of magnetic fields. "Lord Manus," she bowed, a holographic display already projecting from her tablet. "We've completed our preliminary scan of your fleet. Would you like to review the suggested upgrades?"
Ferrus's silver hands flexed unconsciously. The technology here was clearly superior to anything the Mechanicum currently possessed, and yet... "These servitors of yours," he said instead, "they move too smoothly."
The mechanic's smile didn't waver. "Efficiency is paramount, Lord Manus. Our automation protocols ensure optimal performance while maintaining strict control parameters."
"Automation protocols," Ferrus repeated, the words tasting bitter. "A pretty name for abominable intelligence."
"The Emperor has reviewed and approved our systems, Lord Manus," she replied smoothly. "We maintain strict oversight and redundancies. Now, about those upgrades – we've identified several areas where we could improve your void shields' efficiency by at least thirty percent."
Ferrus grunted, his practical nature warring with his instinctive distrust. "Show me the specifications."
As the mechanic began her detailed explanation, Ferrus couldn't help but think of Franklin's perpetual grin. His brother's humor had always grated on him, but there was no denying the results of his methods. The Independence Sector's technological superiority spoke for itself.
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In the strategium of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus Lupercal studied the reports with measured consideration. His eyes narrowed as he read of Franklin's return, memories of their past encounters stirring in his mind.
"Your thoughts, my lord?" Maloghurst inquired, sensing Horus's extended silence.
Horus's fingers traced the edge of the data-slate. "Franklin's return is... fortuitous. His Legion's combat efficiency is beyond question, their technological superiority often proving decisive." He paused, recalling the duel between their sons. "But there's something about him, Mal. Something that sets my teeth on edge."
The Mournival stood ready, watching intently, as Ezekyle Abaddon kept rigidly at attention nearby, the memory of his defeat at Washington's hands still fresh. The duel had been a masterclass in swordsmanship, Washington moving with a grace that seemed impossible for an Astartes. The defeat had taught Abaddon humility, but also ignited a burning desire to prove himself.
"And now he guides Fulgrim," Horus continued, rising from his throne. "Our father's decision to allow this is... interesting. Franklin's methods are unconventional, his beliefs sometimes bordering on the radical. To entrust him with shaping another Primarch's development..."
"The Emperor's trust in him runs deep," Maloghurst observed.
"Indeed." Horus's eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps too deep. Franklin's Independence Sector operates with freedoms none of us enjoy. And now he shapes the development of another brother." He stood, his massive frame casting a shadow across the strategic table. "Arrange a meeting. I would see this new brother for myself, and catch up with my brother Franklin"
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The rhythmic click of ceramite boots echoed through the grand halls of Olympus Mons as Archmagos Koriel Zeth made her way to the latest session of the Martian Parliament. Unlike her peers, whose bodies were more machine than flesh, Zeth cut a striking figure in her masterwork Artificer Exo-Armor. The gray steel plates, inlaid with the traditional cogs of the Mechanicum, gleamed under the ancient lights, while her blood-red hood—a traditional symbol she chose to maintain—billowed softly with each step.
At her breast, carefully concealed beneath layers of adamantium and ceramite, pulsed the Zero-Point Power Core—a gift from Franklin Valorian himself. The device represented everything she stood for: progress, innovation, and the willingness to embrace new horizons. While other Tech-priests hoarded knowledge like misers, Zeth had chosen a different path.
"Archmagos Zeth," a junior Tech-priest called out, hurrying to match her stride. "The Traditionalists are gathering support for their latest motion against collaboration with the Independence Sector's research facilities."
Zeth's lips curved in a subtle smile—another deviation that marked her apart from her peers. "Let them gather," she replied, her voice clear and human, lacking the usual static-laden binary cant. "They cannot stop the flow of progress, no matter how many votes they muster."
She had reason for confidence. Her position was unique within the Mechanicum hierarchy. While officially she remained the Mistress of Magma City, her unofficial title of Archimandrite carried far more weight. Her forge world, built to Independence Sector specifications, stood as a testament to what could be achieved when Mars's traditions were balanced with innovation.
As she approached the parliament chambers, her Akashic Reader—her pride and joy—hummed to life. The device, which even now aided the Emperor in His great works, detected minute fluctuations in the Astronomican. She paused, studying the readings with genuine fascination. The Emperor was diving deep into the Empyrean today, perhaps searching for something only He could perceive.
"My lady," another Tech-priest approached, this one bearing the markings of the Radical Faction. "The latest collaboration reports from the Independence Sector scientists have arrived. Their work on synthetic neutron arrays shows promising results."
"Ensure copies reach all our allied forges," Zeth commanded. "Knowledge shared is knowledge multiplied." The phrase, borrowed from Franklin Valorian himself, had become something of a motto among the Radicals.
Her influence had grown substantially since her first meeting with the Liberator Primarch. Where once she had been merely an innovative but isolated Archmagos, she now stood at the nexus of a growing movement within the Mechanicum. The Radical Faction, though outnumbered seven to one, had become a force that could no longer be ignored.
As she entered the parliament chamber, heads turned—some in respect, others in barely concealed hostility. The traditional red robes of Mars dominated the chamber, but here and there, she could spot the distinctive modifications of her supporters. Each represented a small victory, a mind opened to new possibilities.
"The Omnissiah's blessing, Archmagos," one of the Traditionalists greeted her, the words carrying a subtle bite.
"The blessing of progress and innovation," she returned smoothly, noting how several nearby Tech-priests straightened at her words. They no longer invoked the Emperor as Omnissiah—their devotion was to science itself, to the Imperial Truth that He proclaimed.
Taking her seat, Zeth activated her data-slate, reviewing the latest reports from her forge world. The military forces under her unofficial command in Segmentum Solar had successfully integrated several new Independence Sector innovations. Each success strengthened her position, validated her choices.
She thought back to her first meeting with Franklin Valorian, how he had challenged her perspectives with that characteristic grin of his. "Mars hoards knowledge like a dragon hoards gold," he had said. "But knowledge, unlike gold, grows when shared." Those words had changed her path forever.
Now, as she prepared to face another day of political maneuvering and technological debate, Koriel Zeth knew she stood at the forefront of a revolution. The Mechanicum would change—slowly, perhaps, but inevitably. And when it did, she would ensure it emerged stronger, wiser, and ready to embrace the future that the Independence Sector represented.
The Martian Parliament session was about to begin, and Zeth allowed herself a moment of pride. Let the Traditionalists cling to their rituals and restrictions. The future belonged to those bold enough to seize it.
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A Session of the Martian Parliament, 831.M30
The vast amphitheater of the Martian Parliament hummed with binary cant and data-exchange protocols as Koriel Zeth took the speaker's podium. The tiered seats, filled with hundreds of tech-priests, created a sea of crimson robes broken only by the occasional glint of mechadendrites and optical sensors.
"Honored members of the Martian Parliament," Zeth began, her clear human voice cutting through the mechanical whispers. "I bring word from Nova Libertas."
The chamber's atmosphere shifted perceptibly. Mechadendrites twitched, cooling fans whirred to life as processing cores prepared for increased activity.
"The Liberty Eagles have unveiled their Castigator-class God Machines," she continued, projecting a grainy pict-capture onto the chamber's holocasters. "Seven of these engines defeated forty-seven Ork Mega Gargants. They did so without suffering significant damage."
Archmagos Draykavac rose, his massive frame bristling with augmetics. "And how convenient that the only evidence is this corrupted pict-capture," his voice grated with artificial harmonics. "The Independence Sector mocks us with such claims."
"The evidence is verified by three expedition fleets," Zeth countered smoothly. "But that is not the core of my address today. I bring a message from Primarch Franklin Valorian himself."
The name sent a ripple through the assembly. Fabricator Locum Kane's optical arrays narrowed, while Kelbor-Hal leaned forward almost imperceptibly.
"The Primarch notes our continued encroachment on Independence Sector territory," Zeth's voice hardened. "He reminds us of his patience thus far, and suggests that if these actions continue, he will personally visit Mars to discuss the matter."
"Threats?" Draykavac's mechadendrites writhed. "The Primarch dares threaten the sacred soil of Mars?"
"Not a threat," Zeth replied. "A promise. And a choice. The same choice the Emperor once gave us – cooperation or obsolescence."
Fabricator Locum Kane's vox-caster crackled to life. "Our defenses have been substantially improved since the Emperor's arrival. The Primarch would find Mars a harder target."
Draykavac's vocabulator crackled with rage. "You dare compare a Primarch's authority to the Omnissiah's?"
"I compare facts," Zeth countered. "The Independence Sector possesses functional Dark Age Technology. Our recent upgrades to Mars' defenses, impressive as they are, were developed with technology they discarded centuries ago. The Primarch's patience with our aggression stems from respect for Mars' potential, not fear of our capability."
Kelbor Hal's intervention was calculated, his tone neutral. "Perhaps we should consider a more... nuanced approach. The recovery of STCs is sacred duty, but the methods of recovery might be... negotiable."
"Negotiation is capitulation!" Draykavac declared. "We cannot—"
"Cannot?" Zeth projected a new hololithic image—the aftermath of the Ork Empire's destruction. "Seven Castigators, honored members. Seven. They achieved what would have required multiple Titan Legions and countless resources. And they did so without losing a single machine."
"I suggest adaptation," Kelbor-Hal replied smoothly. "The Quest for Knowledge never specified that we must walk its path alone."
Zeth nodded approvingly. "The Independence Sector offers cooperation, not submission. They recognize Mars as equals in technological might, if not currently in innovation. The Primarch himself has expressed admiration for Mars's achievements."
"And yet they hide their technology behind veils of secrecy," Kane interjected. "They speak of cooperation while guarding their archives zealously."
"As do we," Zeth countered. "But where we hoard knowledge, they seek to cultivate it. The Castigators are merely the latest example. They develop, improve, innovate. When was the last time Mars created something truly new?"
The chamber erupted in binary protests and mechanical objections. Zeth waited for the clamor to subside before continuing.
"The Primarch offers us a choice, just as his father did. We can choose cooperation, pooling our knowledge and capabilities for humanity's advancement. Or we can continue our current path, forcing him to demonstrate exactly why the Independence Sector's technology is superior."
Kelbor-Hal's intervention was precisely timed. "The Fabricator-General's position on this matter remains unclear. Perhaps, given the gravity of the situation, we should review our strategic options more thoroughly."
Zeth recognized the political maneuvering but seized the opportunity. "I move for the formation of a special committee to evaluate potential cooperation frameworks with the Independence Sector. Fabricator Locum Kelbor-Hal would be an excellent choice to chair such a committee."
The chamber descended into rapid binary exchanges and data-burst communications. Draykavac and Kane huddled with their supporters, while Kelbor-Hal maintained a calculated neutral posture.
"The motion requires consideration," the current Fabricator-General's representative announced. "We will recess for one solar hour to process this information."
As the assembly began to disperse, Zeth caught Kelbor-Hal's eye. They both knew what this meant – a chance for him to position himself as a moderate voice, potentially swaying enough moderates to support his eventual bid for Fabricator-General.
The game was complex, but the stakes were clear. Mars could choose to embrace the future or risk being left behind. And as Zeth watched the political maneuvering unfold, she knew that Franklin Valorian's shadow loomed large over them all, a reminder that sometimes the best way to preserve tradition was to allow it to evolve.
The recess would determine much – not just about Mars's relationship with the Independence Sector, but about the future of the Mechanicum itself. And in that future, Zeth saw the potential for something greater than either faction alone could achieve.
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2nd Captain Steven Armstrong stood before the tactical display in the Excelsus's command room, his massive frame casting long shadows across the hololithic projections of their target world. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation as he studied each member of his elite kill-team, the Desperado.
"Gentlemen... and lady," Armstrong's voice carried the weight of imminent violence, "our father has given us a mission. The xenos on Carthage VII thought they could slaughter imperial citizens without consequences. They're about to learn how wrong they were."
He enlarged the hololithic display, showing the sprawling alien hive cities that had been built over the corpses of human settlements. "They killed them all - men, women, children. Not for resources, not for territory... but because they could."
Samuel Rodriguez, "Jetstream Sam," leaned against a wall, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. His Exo-Armror gleamed under the dim lights filled with iconography, a reminder of his deadly heritage from Iskandar.
"Beautiful simplicity," Sam mused, his characteristic smirk playing across his features. "They wish to show their strength? Let us show them what true strength means. The strong prey upon the weak - that is the way of things. But they forgot that humanity is anything but weak."
Monsoon stepped forward, his cybernetic enhancements humming with magnetic energy. The former scavenger from Zeus 7 had learned to channel his abilities into devastating combat techniques.
"Memes, Captain," Monsoon's voice carried its usual philosophical tone. "The DNA of the soul. These xenos believe their way of life superior to humanity's. Their cultural DNA has led them to this moment... to their extinction. Like all memes, they will be tested against a stronger paradigm."
Armstrong nodded, appreciating Monsoon's perspective. The warrior-philosopher's understanding of cultural warfare had proven valuable in previous campaigns.
Sundowner's massive frame shifted, his heavy armor plates grinding against each other. The former underhive killer from Kaelo Prime had never lost his taste for wholesale destruction.
"I'm fucking invincible!" Sundowner declared, earning eye rolls from his teammates. "But seriously, boss, these xenos want to play rough? Let's give them a proper Liberty Eagles welcome. Sometimes you need to kill with kindness... and by kindness, I mean overwhelming firepower."
Mistral, the only non-Astartes among them, moved like a ghost despite her transhuman frame, she may not be a Space Marine but she still underwent Genetic enhancement meant for the Liberty Guard. Her psychic aura rippled subtly, a testament to both her Ixion III heritage and FBI training.
"I sense their arrogance from here," she said, her voice carrying otherworldly harmonics. "They believe themselves apex predators. But they've never faced anything like us. Their minds are... alien, but not incomprehensible. They can feel fear. We will teach them its true meaning."
Armstrong nodded approvingly. Years of fighting alongside these killers had taught him to trust their instincts. Each of them, in their own way, was an artist of death.
"Here's the plan," he activated the tactical overlay. "We're splitting into two teams. Sundowner and Monsoon, you're with me. We'll hit their main command structure - shock and awe, maximum impact. Sam and Mistral, you'll infiltrate their secondary nodes. Sam keeps their elite warriors busy while Mistral works her magic on their central command."
"All while giving war a chance, eh Captain?" Sam quipped, earning a round of dark chuckles from the team.
Armstrong's grin widened. "That's right. War isn't about right and wrong anymore. It's about justice - Imperial justice. These xenos crossed a line when they butchered those colonists. Now they'll learn why the Liberty Eagles are the Emperor's judgment made manifest."
The Desperado stood at attention, each a perfect instrument of war in their own right. Jetstream Sam, the honorable killer whose blade moved faster than thought. Monsoon, the philosophical destroyer who turned battlefields into magnetic meat grinders. Sundowner, the walking apocalypse who reveled in controlled destruction. And Mistral, the phantom killer whose psychic powers could shatter minds and break armies.
"Remember," Armstrong's voice grew serious for a moment. "Father Franklin expects results. We're not just killing xenos here - we're making a statement. The galaxy needs to know that when humanity plants its flag on a world, that world stays human."
He clenched his fist, nanomachines hardening his skin to a metallic sheen. "Load up and prep for Monolith Drop. In twenty-four hours, I want this world cleansed and ready for recolonization. Are we clear?"
"Crystal, boss," Sundowner growled.
"Like a quantum stabilized mirror," Monsoon added.
"Time to let 'er rip!" Sam declared, already heading for the armory.
Mistral simply nodded, her psychic aura flaring briefly with anticipated violence.
As his team dispersed to prepare for the coming slaughter, Armstrong allowed himself a moment of pride. They were monsters, each and every one of them, but they were his monsters. And more importantly, they were the Liberty Eagles' monsters - precisely controlled weapons aimed at humanity's enemies.
The xenos wouldn't know what hit them. After all, you don't fuck with this Captain.
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In the the war room of Etna, Franklin Valorian and Fulgrim stood side by side, engrossed in a complex battle hologram that flickered to life before them. The glowing figures of squads and war machines danced across the display, each movement a test to the meticulous strategy Franklin imparted. Fulgrim, now tempered by his defeat from his brother, adjusted his battle doctrine with a focused intensity, keenly aware of the constraints imposed by dwindling resources in the simulation. Together, they maneuvered the holographic units with fluid precision, reimagining formations and tactics to adapt to the ever-changing landscape of war.
"Consider flanking with the artillery, Fulgrim," Franklin suggested, his voice steady yet authoritative. "If we can draw their fire, we can position our heavier units to exploit any gaps in their defenses."
Fulgrim nodded, a flicker of inspiration igniting in his eyes. "Yes, that would force them to divide their attention. We can create a pincer movement, trapping them before they can regroup."
As they refined their plans, the atmosphere crackled with the intensity of their focus, each moment filled with the weight of impending battles and potential futures. Just as Fulgrim was about to propose a daring tactical adjustment, the heavy doors of the chamber opened, revealing John Ezra. The stark contrast between the tension within and his calm demeanor caught both their attentions.
"Father," John began, his expression grave, "our agents have located Nuceria, but the situation is critical. It may make or break our relationship with Primarch Angron."