Plans and Manipulations

Aboard the Imperator Somnium, 831.30M

Fulgrim poured a splash of Fenrisian ale into Leman's horn, his movements as precise as always. The contrast was stark: one brother pristine in every sense, the other a shaggy figure clad in wolf pelts. Yet here they were, sharing a drink, a moment neither had expected.

Leman smirked, raising his horn. "To Franklin. The madman who thought sticking the Wolf King and the Phoenician in the same room was a good idea."

Fulgrim's lips curled into a faint smile as he lifted his chalice. "Indeed. Though I suspect he enjoys the chaos of such meetings. I can already hear him laughing about this in that insufferably casual way of his."

The brothers drank, silence settling comfortably between them. Leman leaned back in his chair, his piercing eyes studying Fulgrim. "You're not quite what I pictured, you know."

Fulgrim arched a brow. "Oh? Let me guess. You imagined me preening in front of a mirror, bemoaning the slightest smudge on my armor?"

"Well... yeah." Leman's grin widened. "I heard all the stories. Fulgrim the Perfect. Fulgrim the Artist. The brother who'd probably faint if he got a speck of mud on his boots."

Fulgrim chuckled, a sound warmer than Leman expected. "And I heard tales of the untamed savage, more beast than man, who solved problems by tearing them apart with his bare hands. It seems we both believed the exaggerations."

Leman barked a laugh, clapping Fulgrim on the shoulder. "Aye, that's fair. But Franklin's had his fun knocking some sense into us, hasn't he?"

Fulgrim nodded, his expression softening. "He has a way of... re-framing things. At first, I thought his methods crude, even disrespectful. But over time, I realized there was brilliance in his chaos."

"Ha! Chaos is one word for it." Leman drained his horn in a single pull, slamming it onto the table. "But aye, he's got his ways. Like that ridiculous 'dance' of his."

Fulgrim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't remind me. He had the audacity to perform that absurd routine during a sparring session. Humming some nonsensical tune, weaving like a drunkard."

"And then?" Leman prompted, his grin full of mischief.

Fulgrim sighed. "And then I found myself on the floor, utterly defeated. I'm still trying to understand how he did it."

Leman roared with laughter. "He got me the same way! Damn near broke my pride that day. But you know what? That's the brilliance of him. He doesn't just teach; he shows us a different way of thinking."

Fulgrim swirled the wine in his chalice, his gaze distant. "He once told me that perfection isn't about flawless execution but about achieving the best possible outcome. It was... humbling, to say the least."

Leman leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "He told me something similar. Showed me a vision of what could be if I let my pride blind me. It wasn't a pretty sight."

A shadow crossed Fulgrim's face. "He showed me my potential too. My pursuit of perfection, unchecked, leading to ruin. It was a sobering lesson."

Leman nodded slowly. "Aye, Franklin has a knack for holding up a mirror to our worst fears. But he doesn't just leave us there. He shows us how to rise above them."

"Indeed," Fulgrim murmured, raising his chalice once more. "To Franklin, then. The brother who reminds us that even perfectionists and barbarians can find common ground."

Leman raised his horn, his grin softer now. "To Franklin. And to brothers who can share a drink without trying to kill each other."

Russ leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Speaking of brothers, what do you make of our next destination?"

"Nuceria," Fulgrim pronounced carefully. "Home to our soon to be rediscovered brother Angron, if the navigational charts are correct."

"Angron," Russ tested the name. "Sounds like a warrior's name."

"Most of our names sound like warrior's names, brother," Fulgrim pointed out. "Though this one... it carries a certain weight. Like thunder before a storm."

"Franklin knows something," Russ said, his keen eyes flickering to where their brother stood with the Emperor. "He's been more serious since we entered this sector. No jokes, no pranks."

Fulgrim nodded slowly. "I noticed. Even his Legion's behavior has changed. Their usual revelry has been replaced with... preparation. The Liberty Eagles are arming for war, not a reunion."

"What kind of brother do you think we'll find?" Russ wondered, refilling his horn. "Another warrior-scholar like Franklin? A diplomat like Horus?"

"I have yet to meet our Brother Horus, but neither," Fulgrim said with certainty. "The reports from Nuceria speak of gladiatorial arenas and brutal governance. If our brother was raised there..." He left the thought unfinished.

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"So," Franklin began, his towering frame casually leaning against the observation window, "good news and bad news about our angry little brother, Father. Which would you prefer first?"

The Emperor's golden eyes fixed upon his son with that characteristic stern patience that had weathered millennia. "The situation, Franklin. Without the theatrics."

"You're no fun sometimes, you know that?" Franklin grinned, but straightened slightly. "Good news: Angron hasn't been turned into a walking anatomy lesson in anger management yet. The Butcher's Nails aren't in his head."

The Emperor's aura flickered briefly with relief, though his face remained impassive. "And the bad news?"

"He's pulling a Spartacus down there. Complete with the 'I am Spartacus' moment and everything. Won't leave without his gladiator brothers and sisters." Franklin pulled out a data-slate, projecting a holographic map of Nuceria's capital. "Also, he kind of really, really hates aristocrats. Like, a lot. Which, you know, might be a tiny problem considering..." He gestured vaguely at the Emperor's resplendent form.

"You believe he will resist my authority?"

"Father, no offense, but you literally look like every slavery-supporting aristocrat's final form. You're going to trigger every single one of his trauma responses just by existing in his general vicinity."

The Emperor's eyebrow raised fractionally. "You have a solution in mind."

"Don't I always?" Franklin's grin widened. "See, what our brother needs isn't just a father figure. He needs a savior. A real holo drama worthy moment. Which is why I've already dispatched the Green Berets to start some trouble."

"Explain."

"Picture this," Franklin swept his arm dramatically across the view of stars. "Angron and his gladiator army, fighting for freedom, slowly being pushed back by overwhelming odds. The evil High Riders closing in from all sides. Hope fading. And then!" He paused for effect. "The skies open up, golden light everywhere – you do the golden light thing so well, Father – and down comes humanity's savior to rescue them all. Very theatrical. Very epic. The kind of thing that makes people write songs."

The Emperor's expression remained neutral, but there was a glimmer of something like amusement in his eyes. "You intend to orchestrate their defeat?"

"Not defeat – strategic disadvantage," Franklin corrected, waving a finger. "The Green Berets are already infiltrating every major city-state. We're going to shepherd this whole situation like the world's most violent sheep dog competition. Push them exactly where we want them, when we want them there."

"And afterwards?"

"Well," Franklin's expression turned predatory, "once Angron's safely with his Legion and feeling all warm and fuzzy about his new family, we let him do what he does best. Turn him loose on the High Riders. Let him have his revenge, but as a Primarch, not a slave. Very therapeutic. Plus, it'll make great propaganda – 'The Emperor's Justice,' and all that."

The Emperor was silent for a moment, considering. "You've thought this through."

"I mean, I also considered just dropping a bunch of banana peels outside the High Riders' palaces and letting physics sort it out, but Malcador said that would be 'unprofessional' and 'not fitting for Imperial dignity.'" Franklin shrugged. "Party pooper, that one."

"Franklin." The Emperor's tone carried a warning.

"Sorry, sorry. Serious face." Franklin straightened up fully, adopting an exaggerated grimace that looked completely out of place on his features. "Most noble Father, I have devised a strategic implementation of specialized forces to facilitate the optimal extraction and integration of our brother Primarch, while simultaneously ensuring the liberation of his compatriots and the elimination of corrupt local governance."

The Emperor's lips twitched slightly. "Better. Though perhaps with less sarcasm next time."

"Aw, but then how would you know it was really me?" Franklin's grin returned. "Besides, someone has to keep things light around here. Have you seen Fulgrim lately? I had to throw him through three walls before he'd admit that perfect form isn't always perfect. THREE WALLS, Father. Do you know how much paperwork that generated?"

"The walls, or teaching Fulgrim humility?"

"Both!" Franklin threw up his hands. "Though I have to admit, watching him try to maintain his dignity while covered in debris was pretty priceless. Almost as good as that time I convinced Leman to try zero-g wrestling."

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "I recall the Apothecarion reports."

"Worth it though." Franklin's expression softened slightly. "That's what Angron needs too. A chance to be more than his trauma. To learn how to laugh again."

The Emperor studied his son for a long moment. "Very well. Proceed with your plan. But Franklin?"

"Yes, Father?"

"Try to keep the property damage to a minimum this time."

"Father, please," Franklin pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "When have I ever been anything but the very soul of restraint?"

The Emperor's silence was eloquent.

"Okay, fair point," Franklin conceded. "But in my defense, Leman started that one. Who brings a giant Fenrisian Kraken to a duel anyway?"

The Emperor turned to leave, but not before Franklin caught the slight shake of his head – the closest thing to a laugh he'd seen from his father in weeks. As the Master of Mankind's golden form retreated from the observation deck, Franklin turned back to the stars, his grin fading into something more contemplative.

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In the shadows of Nuceria's opulent city-states, death moved with practiced precision. The Green Berets of the Liberty Eagles, in their Exo-Armor Lictor Pattern, that bent light around their forms, infiltrated the palatial compounds of the High Riders with mechanical efficiency. Each team was accompanied by a Technoseers of the FBI, their psychic hoods pulsing with subtle energy as they walked unseen through gilded halls.

"Target acquired in the eastern wing," whispered a Brother-Sergeant through the neural link. "High Rider Cassius of Ventura City. Security detail: eight guards, two cyber-mastiffs."

"Acknowledged," replied a Technoseer Team Leader his fingertips dancing with micro-arcs of psychic lightning. "Initiating Protocol Manchurian."

The operation repeated itself across Nuceria's surface. In Delvana, the emerald spires of the Merchant Princes became silent tombs as their masters were "reprogrammed." In the golden towers of Pythus, the ruling council found themselves experiencing simultaneous "epiphanies" about the threat of Angron's rebellion. Each High Rider, each military commander, each influential noble – all carefully selected, all precisely manipulated.

The Technoseers worked their subtle art with surgical precision. Unlike crude mind control, their manipulation was insidious – altering core beliefs, implanting suggestions, restructuring priorities. The High Riders still believed they were acting of their own free will, even as they danced to strings pulled by unseen puppeteers.

"Remarkable architecture," noted Technoseer Yulia as she rewired the synapses of a military governor. "Such a shame about the society it houses."

"Focus on the task," her Green Beret escort reminded her. "The timeline is critical."

In the command center orbiting Nuceria, holographic displays showed the progress of each team. Green lights flickered across the planet's surface as targets were "secured." Intelligence officer Elias Thorne watched the pattern emerge with cold satisfaction.

"Like dominoes," he murmured. "All falling exactly where we need them."

The news of Desh'ea's burning spread across the planet like wildfire. The Eater of Cities, they called Angron and his slave army. A monster. A demon. A slave who dared to rise above his station. The carefully orchestrated propaganda machine went into overdrive, each "independent" city-state reaching the same conclusion: this threat must be eliminated.

Armies began to mobilize. Tanks rolled out of their hangars. Gunships took to the skies. All converging on Desh'ea, all responding to the "clear and present danger" their leaders suddenly perceived. None questioned why their normally fractious rulers had achieved such perfect consensus.

In the ruins of Desh'ea, 31 hours had elapsed and Angron and his gladiator army fought with desperate valor. They had expected resistance, but not this – not the unified might of an entire world bearing down upon them. Yet even as hope seemed to fade, they fought on, for freedom was worth any price.

"Sir," reported a Green Beret operator, "the target is now surrounded on three sides. Estimated force ratio is 100 to 1. Civilian casualties minimal – we've ensured the evacuation of non-combatants through 'unofficial' channels."

Elias Thorne nodded. "Excellent. And the High Riders themselves?"

"All safely ensconced in their command centers, sir. Ready for Phase Two."

"Perfect." Thorne opened a secure channel to the Imperator Somnium. "My Lord Franklin, the stage is set. The tragic hero stands at bay, the villains gather in their towers, and the masses watch with bated breath." A thin smile crossed his face. "I believe it's time for the Emperor to make his entrance."

In the burning streets of Desh'ea, Angron roared defiance at the encircling armies, unaware that every move, every position, every decision had been carefully orchestrated. The trap was perfect – not to destroy him, but to elevate him. To transform a slave's rebellion into a legend.

The Technoseers monitored the psychic atmosphere of the planet, feeling the building tension, the fear, the anticipation. Everything was resonating at exactly the right frequency. When the Emperor would appear, it would not just be a rescue – it would be a moment of transcendent revelation, burning itself into the psyche of every witness.

"All units, standby for Phase Two," Thorne commanded. "Prepare for divine intervention. And someone make sure those High Riders are recording. After all..." He glanced at a pict-capture of Franklin's knowing smirk. "Every good story needs proper documentation."

In the orbital command center, the masters of manipulation watched their work unfold. Below them, armies surged toward a single point, driven by implanted imperatives and manufactured fears. And in their towers, the High Riders watched with satisfaction, never suspecting that their very thoughts had been choreographed for this moment.

The trap was set. The actors were in position. All that remained was for the Emperor to step onto the stage they had so carefully prepared.

"Send the signal," Thorne ordered. "It's time for the golden light show."

As the message was transmitted, he allowed himself a small smile. Somewhere up there, he knew Franklin was probably grinning like a madman at how perfectly it had all come together.

Sometimes, Thorne reflected, the greatest victories were the ones no one ever knew you'd won.