The Primarch of Liberty

The delegation chamber aboard Sweet Liberty maintained its cathedral-like grandeur even as it became an execution ground. The Neo-Atlan representatives, proud even in defeat, stood tall before the three Primarchs. Their silver-skinned forms, usually imposing at seven feet, seemed diminutive before the transhuman sons of the Emperor.

"You understand your position?" Guilliman began diplomatically. "Your empire has been reduced to a single solar system. Your fleets are decimated. Your options are limited."

The lead delegate, a towering figure even by their species' standards, stepped forward. "We understand all too well, Lord Guilliman. Which is why we propose terms for our surrender."

"Proceed," Dorn stated flatly.

"We offer our surrender," the lead delegate announced, his voice carrying that distinctive Neo-Atlan resonance. "But we require autonomy within the Imperial framework. Our people will not bow to human rule."

"That is impossible," Dorn stated flatly, his expression unchanged. "Compliance is non-negotiable."

We cannot abandon our sovereignty!" The delegate's voice rose. "Our people are proud warriors, stronger than any baseline human! We will not bow to-"

"It seems they cannot mansplain, manipulate or manhandle their way out of this one," Dorn observed with characteristic bluntness.

Franklin's grin widened as he raised Last Word. "Manslaughter it is then," Franklin replied cheerfully, drawing The Last Word in one fluid motion. The delegates didn't even have time to register surprise before the master-crafted weapon barked once, twice, three times.

As the bodies hit the floor, Franklin was already at the command throne, keying in targeting coordinates. "Sweet Liberty, initiate planetary cleansing protocol. All seven remaining worlds."

"Franklin," Roboute spoke up, watching his brother work. "What happened to diplomacy?"

Franklin holstered Last Word with a theatrical spin. "Oh Bobby, diplomacy is for compliant xenos. These guys? They made their choice. Better to start with a clean slate than try to clean up a mess later. It's like remodeling a house - sometimes it's easier to demolish and rebuild than try to fix what's broken."

Through the chamber's viewing ports, lances of light began striking the Neo-Atlan worlds. Continents cracked, atmospheres burned away, oceans boiled. The extinction of a species, conducted with mechanical precision.

"Your metaphor about house remodeling is incorrect," Dorn commented, watching the destruction. "This is more akin to removing dangerous vermin. It is necessary and efficient."

"See?" Franklin gestured at Dorn. "He gets it! Though I think my metaphor was perfectly fine, thank you very much."

Guilliman observed the systematic destruction with calculated detachment. "The resources required to maintain oversight of a potentially rebellious xenos empire would be substantial. This is... more efficient."

"That's my Bobby, always thinking about the logistics," Franklin grinned. "But yes, exactly. Why waste time and resources trying to keep them in line when we can just..." he gestured to another world breaking apart under Sweet Liberty's guns, "...start fresh?"

"Your tendency toward permanent solutions is noted," Dorn stated. "It is effective."

"Was that approval? From Rogal Dorn? I need to record this moment."

"It was a statement of fact."

The last Neo-Atlan world was beginning to crack apart when Franklin turned to his brothers. "So, who's up for dinner? I'm thinking we try this new recipe my chef came up with. He calls it 'Victory Roast' - get it? Because we just won? Also Libertan Vintage anyone?"

"Alcohol does not affect our metabolism," Dorn stated.

"That's quitter talk. I've got some special stuff that'll put hair on your chest. Well, more hair. Well, any hair, in your case, Rogal."

Guilliman watched his brothers' interaction with carefully hidden amusement. Franklin's irreverence somehow balanced perfectly with Dorn's stoicism, while his own analytical nature served as a bridge between them. Together, they had just ended a potentially significant threat to the Imperium's expansion, and here they were, discussing drinks"

"The extinction of a species should perhaps command more gravity," Guilliman observed.

Franklin shrugged. "They chose extinction when they chose defiance. Besides, Bobby, if we got solemn every time we had to delete some xenos, we'd never have any fun. Right, Rogal?"

"Fun is irrelevant to our duty."

"See? Rogal gets it. He just gets it in the most Rogal way possible."

As the last Neo-Atlan world cracked under Sweet Liberty's barrage, Franklin raised an imaginary glass. "To efficiency! Speaking of which, this means I win our bet, Bobby. Told you I could wrap this up in under a month."

"I made no such bet," Guilliman replied.

"Really? Huh. Want to make it retroactive?"

"No."

"Your face is no."

"That makes no sense, brother."

"Your face makes no sense."

Dorn looked between them. "Both of your faces make biological sense."

Franklin threw his hands up in delight. "And there it is! The perfect Rogal response. This is why I love working with you guys. Come on, let's get those drinks. We can call it a tactical victory celebration if it makes you feel better, Bobby."

As they left the chamber, the last light of the Neo-Atlan empire faded behind them. Another threat to humanity's dominion had been ended, sealed with The Last Word and written in the language of extinction. Just another day's work for three sons of the Emperor, each carrying out their father's will in their own distinctive way.

"Brother," Dorn spoke as they walked, "why do you call him Bobby?"

Franklin chuckled, his ever-present smirk growing wider. "Oh, Rogal, it's simple. You see, our dear brother's full name is Roboute Guilliman. So first, you take the Ro and the Boute, shorten it to Bobby. Then you add the 'G' for Guilliman. Voila! Bobby G."

Guilliman, walking just ahead, let out an exasperated sigh. "Franklin, must you—"

Dorn interrupted, his face utterly deadpan. "I see. By this logic, I should henceforth be known as Ro-Do. Truly, this is the height of nomenclatural efficiency. I must inform the Emperor at once."

Franklin burst into laughter while Guilliman pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "It's going to be a long celebration..."

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

Within the depths of the Imperial Palace, the Master of Mankind sat upon a Crystalline throne of the Reality Engine, His attention divided between the swirling calculations of the Webway Project displayed on countless holographic screens and His son's report. Franklin Valorian stood at ease, his massive frame making even the spacious chamber feel somewhat cramped. The golden light of ancient archaeotech illuminators cast their discussion in warm hues.

"Approximately four hundred Ork empires have been eliminated, Father," Franklin reported, his voice carrying the practiced tone of military briefings. "Their territories have been secured and—" He paused as the Emperor's penetrating gaze fixed upon him, accompanied by a reproachful psychic gesture that manifested as a light 'thwack' to the back of his head.

"Ow," Franklin muttered, more from principle than pain. "Right. About that one Prime-Ork I may have... accidentally... let slip away." He cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. "Which is precisely why I've been so thorough in crushing every emerging Ork empire. Can't have another Great WAAAGH! situation, can we?" He offered a winning smile that did nothing to diminish his father's stern look.

Moving swiftly on, Franklin's expression brightened. "The Primaris program is proceeding exceptionally well. The Luna Wolves have been particularly enthusiastic—Horus has already had his First Company and trusted captains undergo the transformation. Other Legions are following suit, sending their veterans and chosen officers back to Terra for the procedure."

The Emperor nodded, His fingers dancing over holographic controls as He made minute adjustments to complex calculations. Franklin recognized it as His way of multitasking—keeping the Webway Project progressing while still engaging in their conversation.

"Now, about the galaxy at large," Franklin continued, his tone becoming more animated.

The Emperor's hands stilled. "The galaxy?" He asked, one eyebrow raising slightly.

"Yes, Father. The galaxy." Franklin's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "I've been analyzing the historical data. The Federation of Mankind once held approximately three million worlds before the Age of Strife and the Men of Iron Rebellion scattered everything to the void. But that's just the beginning." He began pacing, gesturing expansively. "The galaxy is ancient, and humanity has barely scratched its surface. We're not even occupying one percent of it! Future projections suggest the Imperium could claim up to a million worlds, but consider this: we're looking at somewhere between one hundred to four hundred billion stars, twenty to one hundred and twenty billion systems, and five to eighty billion potentially life-sustaining planets!"

The Emperor watched His son's enthusiasm with a mixture of amusement and patience. Franklin continued, his voice rising with excitement, "Unfortunately, many of these worlds likely harbor xenos empires now. Even after the Great Crusade, Father, we'll have so much work ahead to truly grip the Galaxy in mankind's hands. And after that..." His eyes sparkled. "After that, we aim for the Universe itself!"

"Focus on the present task," the Emperor interjected gently. "The future will arrive in its own time."

Franklin nodded, though his excitement didn't fully diminish. "Of course, Father. Though it's a shame we couldn't reach Peak Humanity in the original timeline. We would have if..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "If Horus hadn't gone and..." He made air quotes with his fingers, "'Heresy-ed' all over the Imperium."

The Emperor's psychic presence flickered with both amusement and concern at Franklin's peculiar phrasing.

"Though technically," Franklin continued, warming to his subject, "we shouldn't even call it the Horus Heresy. Heresy implies religious conviction, which makes it more of a Horus Apostasy. Speaking of which," he gestured emphatically, "I totally understand why you banned religion, Pops. It really does make everyone go kuku in the noggin."

The Emperor's expression remained neutral, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement at his son's colorful commentary. "Focus on the present, Franklin. Your primary task remains helping me guide your brothers away from potential corruption."

"Yes, Father," Franklin replied, though he couldn't resist adding under his breath, "But you have to admit, 'Heresy-ing all over the Imperium' has a certain ring to it. Much better than 'Horus throws galaxy-spanning temper tantrum because Dad won't tell him about his secret webway project.'"

The Emperor stared at his son for a long moment, his expression a perfect mask of paternal suffering. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of millennia: "Franklin."

"Yes, Father?"

"Get out."

"But I haven't finished my report on—"

"Out."

Franklin grinned, bowed with exaggerated formality, and backed toward the door. "As you command, my most magnificent and patient progenitor. Though I must say, your reaction to my perfectly crafted pun seems rather... heretical."

The psychic flick that followed him out the door was considerably less gentle than the first one. "See ya Kitten!"

As the doors closed behind him, Franklin could have sworn he heard a muffled chuckle from within the chamber. The Custodians standing guard maintained their stoic expressions, though one of them seemed to be trying very hard not to smile.

In the following days, several Custodians reported hearing the Emperor muttering something about "should have left that one in his pod" while working on the Webway project.

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

The training cage hummed with residual energy as Franklin Valorian picked himself up from his tenth simulated death of the day. The Ghostly form of Eldanesh flickered and dissipated, leaving the Primarch alone in the chamber—well, physically alone.

"Thirty minutes this time," Franklin mused, rolling his shoulder. "I'm getting better at this without the buffs and power ups."

"You are," Khaine's voice resonated in his mind, carrying an unusual note of excitement. "And speaking of improvement, I have news: my largest shard has awakened."

Franklin paused in the middle of retrieving a towel. "Which Craftworld?"

A divine chuckle echoed through his consciousness. "Not a Craftworld this time. It's in a Crone World—specifically, the Tomb of Eldanesh."

"Your manifestation caused this?" Franklin asked, settling onto a bench.

"Indeed. Like two magnets sensing each other across great distances, Anaris and the Warshard called to one another. My consciousness within your blade stirred its mightiest fragment from slumber."

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "What's the difference between you and your Warshard? Power-wise, I mean."

"Ah," Khaine's presence took on an amused tone. "Think of it as the difference between a Custodian and a Primarch. The regular Avatar shards? They're formidable, certainly—like a well-equipped Custodian or perhaps a company of Space Marines. Or," here his voice took on a distinctly playful tone, "a Named Character."

"A what now?"

"Oh, you know," Khaine's voice carried the divine equivalent of a smirk. "Those special individuals who seem to have destiny's favor. The ones who get their names written down in history books. Characters, if you will, in the great narrative of existence."

Franklin snorted. "Are you suggesting the universe runs on narrative causality?"

"I'm a god, Franklin. I've seen heroes survive impossible odds simply because they had a name worth remembering. Why do you think your brothers all have such dramatic titles? The Wolf King, The Phoenician, The Gorgon...he seems to have a good head on his shoulders" Khaine's presence radiated amusement. "The universe loves a good story."

"So what you're saying is, I should be worried about anyone with a sufficiently dramatic name?"

"Let's just say I've seen enough 'Last Stands' and 'Heroic Sacrifices' to know better than to underestimate anyone with a proper name and a flair for the dramatic."

Franklin shook his head, grinning. "You're absolutely trolling me right now, am I talking to Cegorach?"

"Am I though? Tell me, how many nameless Auxilia have successfully stopped a named hero?"

"Point taken. Now, about this Warshard—where did you say it was again?"

"Ah yes," Khaine's tone sobered slightly. "It's in the Eye of Terror. All the Crone Worlds are. You should expect the Four to manifest their armies."

Franklin's grin widened. "So what you're saying is... field trip?"

"You know," Khaine mused, "for someone about to venture into literal hell to fight four chaos gods for my most powerful fragment, you seem remarkably cheerful."

"Hey, I've got the universe's narrative causality on my side, remember? Franklin Valorian, The Liberator, Primarch of Liberty, wielder of Anaris, on a quest to retrieve the Warshard of Khaine? That's way too many dramatic titles for me to fail."

"...I'm beginning to regret explaining the name thing."

"Too late now. Should I add 'The Namesake' to my list of titles?"

The divine groan that followed echoed through both the material and immaterial planes, causing several nearby Automata to malfunction and a junior Techpriest to question his life choices.

"Just... just go get the Warshard," Khaine muttered. "And try not to narrate your own heroic journey along the way."

"No promises!" Franklin called out cheerfully as he strode from the training cage. "This sounds like the perfect opportunity for some dramatic monologuing!"

The god of war's exasperated sigh was felt by every Eldar psychic in a fifty light-year radius.