Chapter 33: On the Pirate Ship
"No," Angron replied with hollow finality, methodically destroying the flower's petals. "I desire only solitude. Damn the Great Crusade, and damn the Emperor's glory."
Francis studied his brother with growing confusion. "Then why did you agree to rebellion before? Was it just hatred for our Father?"
This wasn't the Angron he thought he understood.
"Back then, bloodlust consumed all rational thought," Angron turned to meet his gaze, seeming puzzled by the question. "I didn't care who my victims were, only that there were throats to cut."
"If you had stood before me then, even killing Horus wouldn't have been beyond consideration."
The casual admission sent ice through Francis's veins. He hadn't expected this complication, which made his plans much more complex.
"What do you want now, brother?"
"To rot away," Angron declared with devastating simplicity. "Treat me as decomposing matter. I'll just decay here until death claims me."
With that, he collapsed on the chamber floor, abandoning all purpose.
Francis stared in dismay. This was not working like he wanted.
Moving quickly, he lunged forward and wrenched the metal rod from Angron's skull.
"Give it back!"
"Return it immediately!"
The transformation was instant and violent. Angron exploded from his torpor with berserker fury, grappling desperately with Francis. They rolled across the floor in brutal combat until Angron successfully reclaimed his artificial salvation.
The moment the device reconnected, Angron's entire frame shuddered with relief.
"Better... much better..."
He sagged against the wall, letting Francis kick him repeatedly without fighting back. The behaviour resembled nothing more than an addict's euphoria.
Whatever emotion the device currently provided, it clearly delivered transcendent pleasure.
"Angron," Francis spoke with grave concern, "have you become completely enslaved to the Butcher's Nails?"
His brother remained silent, just watching with vacant eyes.
Only when Francis turned to leave did Angron speak, his words barely audible. "I will stand with you all, Francis. I just... haven't experienced such feelings in many years."
Francis remained silent for a few moments before he spoke, "Good. If you ever want your father resurrected, come find me."
"Both he and I believe in your potential."
Angron's fingers trembled at this declaration.
Francis understood with crystal clarity that the Nails had to be removed entirely. If Angron fell not to slaughter but to some other compulsion, the consequences would be catastrophic.
As Francis left, another figure approached the chamber. Khârn, veteran sergeant of the World Eaters, had come with reports. Discovering his Primarch collapsed in such a degraded state struck like lightning through his hearts.
The sight filled him with complex emotions, pain, betrayal, and desperate confusion.
Rather than approach, Khârn withdrew silently, bitter words escaping his lips.
"You despised the Butcher's Nails, yet you condemn us to endure their torment!"
"Now you've found relief, but what about your sons!"
The familiar agony of the implants assaulted his consciousness once more, accompanied by an emotion he couldn't name, something like resentment.
Throughout the World Eaters Legion, similar scenes played out. Warriors who had witnessed their Primarch's apparent liberation while they remained trapped in endless rage felt their loyalty strain to breaking.
They watched the Soul Drinkers with growing envy. Daily, Francis's gene-sons laughed and joked with their Primarch, their faces bright with genuine happiness.
Francis himself experienced the greatest satisfaction.
The Enslaver specimens provided an unprecedented opportunity. These creatures existed partially in both material reality and the Warp, a unique evolutionary adaptation.
Opening the bio-containment vessel revealed several severed tentacles, pale flesh tinged with pink, resembling pickled octopus prepared in vinegar.
The first taste defied all expectations. Rather than sourness, the flesh carried spicy, tingling sensations, like teppanyaki squid prepared with exotic seasonings.
Soon, genetic information flowed through his enhanced consciousness:
"Enslaver"
"Parasitizes unprotected psykers, devours daemonic entities"
"Native to Warp-space"
"Primary Ability: Mind Control"
Francis could no longer suppress his satisfaction. In his experience, the most concise descriptions often indicated the most potent capabilities.
"Hehehe..."
Three days later, they departed for Isstvan III as scheduled.
Aboard the Heracla Fenrir, Francis stood on the raised dais before his assembled Legion. Though the Soul Drinkers numbered only thousands, fewer than their brother Legions, they represented concentrated excellence. Every warrior bore the marks of elite training, their morale burning bright as they awaited their Primarch's address.
"My sons! Listen carefully to my words."
"What follows concerns the survival of every soul present. While death in the Emperor's service brings honor, only through life can we create lasting value."
"Through survival, you'll bring glory to the Imperium! Do you understand?"
Francis's voice echoed through the assembly hall, and the Soul Drinkers responded with thunderous acclaim:
"For the Emperor!"
"For the Primarch!"
As Francis gestured for silence, the chamber gradually stilled.
"Our mission requires infiltration among traitors. You must remember, abandon our traditional battle cries!"
"Don't speak 'For the Emperor' or 'For the Imperium' during this operation."
Confusion rippled through the assembled warriors. "Then what words shall we cry, my lord?"
Seeing their puzzled expressions, Francis recognised their innocence. They needed proper preparation for the deception ahead.
"In battle, you'll cry... 'Slay the False Emperor! Humanity belongs to Chaos!'"
"Come, we must practice until the words flow naturally."
"Slay the False Emperor! Humanity belongs to Chaos!"
The proclamation sent visible shivers through his gene-sons, though they understood the necessity of their masquerade. Offering silent prayers to the Emperor, they gritted their teeth and complied:
"Slay the False Emperor! Humanity belongs to Chaos!"
"Slay the False Emperor! Humanity belongs to Chaos!"
The chorus of thousands echoed throughout the Heracla Fenrir's corridors.
Space Wolves warriors charged toward the assembly hall with chainswords roaring, only to find their path blocked by Leman Russ himself.
"My lord!" they cried in anguish. "Listen! They speak blasphemy against the Emperor! They are traitors!"
"Has our Primarch also betrayed the Golden Throne?"
"Speak, Father! The Imperium's honour demands answers! Have you been corrupted?"
The Space Wolves pressed closer, their weapons active, disbelief and fury warring in their eyes.
Leman Russ covered his face in weary resignation.
"They haven't turned traitor," he explained with strained patience. "This is an infiltration operation; they're masquerading as rebels."
"As for their cries about the 'False Emperor' and Chaos... these entities are entirely different from our Imperium."
"The Emperor remains the Emperor. The 'False Emperor' is a separate entity entirely."
Having delivered this explanation, Leman Russ collapsed into his command throne like a deflated balloon.
He had never encountered such tortured logic. How Francis could shout such words with conviction was beyond his understanding. 'Sigh, Francis gave me more headaches than the entire crusade ever did''
On the other side, Space Wolves contemplated their father's words.
The Emperor is the Emperor?
The False Emperor is the False Emperor?
The Space Wolves exchanged confused glances, processing this word analogy for long moments before one spoke:
"So... if they maintain loyalty! And they just want to infiltrate rebel forces. Why not simply inform the Emperor directly?"
Hearing this familiar question, Leman Russ drew a deep breath and repeated Francis's earlier reasoning.
For reasons beyond comprehension, even the Warp seemed to respond with unusual energy fluctuations.
Time flowed like a loosed arrow, swift, unstoppable, and carrying the weight of destiny.
Five days later, near Isstvan III...
Francis, Angron, Leman Russ, and their respective Legions met up aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
"Ah, my dear Francis!" Horus approached with warmth, his smile carrying traces of his former charisma. "I am Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium, former master of the Luna Wolves, now lord of the Sons of Horus Legion."
"Too long have we been apart, brother."
The Warmaster clasped Francis's hand with apparent genuine pleasure before acknowledging Leman Russ with a respectful nod.
Francis returned the greeting, though in truth, he remembered nothing of their previous interactions.
"Having delivered your requested reinforcements, I must continue our Father's work," Leman Russ announced with practised casualness. "I cannot remain aboard for long."
The Wolf King departed with unseemly haste, leading his Space Wolves back to the Heracla Fenrir.
Click.
As the docking umbilical sealed, the Space Wolves' vessel vanished from its position with suspicious speed.
Even Leman Russ's own warriors sensed something wrong in their rapid withdrawal.
"Enter the Warp immediately," the Wolf King commanded. "Await the Navigator's signal to proceed to Isstvan III's dark side. Deploy all anti-gas equipment without delay."
"Clear additional space, we'll soon be getting many refugees."
The Space Wolves executed their orders without question, though unease lingered in their movements.
Leman Russ gripped the Spear of Russ with white-knuckled intensity, perspiration beading his palms. Even now, when he knew the truth, He still hoped Francis's predictions would prove false.
Meanwhile, aboard the Vengeful Spirit...
Horus guided Francis toward a dimly lit chamber, away from prying eyes and listening ears.
[End of Chapter]