Chapter 51: Initial Treatment
The murderous fury radiating from Angron was palpable. Francis forced himself to take several deep breaths, centering his consciousness within this greenskin form. He dropped into a running stance.
"Three... two... one!"
Francis exploded forward, covering the distance in heartbeats. At the last moment, he launched himself into the air, his oversized greenskin foot rocketing straight toward Angron's face.
The Red Angel felt the telltale rush of wind. A familiar sensation. Francis was coming.
He turned, expecting an embrace, but found himself staring directly at an enormous Ork foot.
The impact was spectacular. The massive foot connected with Angron's features with enough force to deform even a Primarch's face. He let out a violent shriek that echoed across the battlefield.
"Aaaahhhhhhh!"
The Lord of the Red Sands flew backward from his throne, crashing onto the deck hard enough to dent it. He lay sprawled, one hand clutching his cheek. "What in the Warp are you doing? Did I do anything to provoke you?"
Francis landed beside him, but before Angron could rise, he was already moving. Another kick came, this one aimed at the Primarch's ribs.
Angron rolled with the impact, the Nails screaming in his skull, demanding blood. But Francis was relentless. He hauled Angron up by the collar only to drive a knee forward. Punch after punch followed, each strike controlled but forceful as he was beating a drum.
"I'm afraid you're going down the wrong path, brother!"
Again and again. Francis didn't stop. He drove Angron backward across the deck, his oversized fists connecting in steady succession. Not to kill—to exhaust. To overwhelm the rage itself with sheer, sustained physical demand.
Angron tried to fight back, tried to channel the fury into retaliation, but Francis anticipated every move. This wasn't a duel. It was a relentless beatdown.
The Nails screamed louder. Kill! KILL! But there was no opening. No moment to strike. Only impact after impact, pressure without pause.
Then, gradually, something shifted.
The fury began to fracture under the weight of exhaustion. The Nails, usually fed by Angron's violence, found no satisfaction in endless, unavoidable defeat. The electrochemical reward cycle stuttered. Faltered.
Angron stopped fighting back. His arms dropped. His breathing came heavy, ragged.
Francis eased off, his strikes becoming lighter, then ceasing entirely. He grabbed Angron by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.
"Oh." Angron's voice was hoarse, raw. "I'm fine. I was just angry they attacked me."
Francis relaxed his grip, breathing hard himself. Then, as if remembering something, his eyes lit up. He began gathering scrap metal and electronic refuse from the deck, assembling components that had no right to work together into something resembling a crude storage device.
When he placed his hand upon the finished box, his consciousness transferred something into it through whatever strange Orkoid methodology this body possessed. The process took just over a minute.
When Francis pressed the box into Angron's hand, the Primarch turned it over with a puzzled expression. "This is...?"
"Well, didn't I just kick you? By mistake, of course." Francis waved a hand dismissively. "Consider this compensation. There are all sorts of good things stored inside."
Angron activated the device, and titles began scrolling across its crude display. Francis continued cheerfully, "Things like 'The Overbearing CEO Fell in Love with Me,' 'After Severing Ties, They Regretted It For Life,' and 'Husband-Chasing Crematorium'—basically, stories with very dramatic emotional ups and downs. Real rollercoaster stuff."
He threw an arm around Angron's shoulders, steering him toward the Conqueror while he rambled. The World Eaters followed behind, weapons lowered but ready. "You see, fighting and killing all the time gets boring, doesn't it? Life is meant to be enjoyed, brother!"
"When all this crusading is done, you should get yourself a proper estate. Raise some small animals—Gretchin are hilarious if you can stand them. Plant some flowers, maybe. I heard Catachan has some truly rare specimens. Can you imagine? The Lord of the Red Sands turned a master gardener."
Angron's eyes had lit up when those story titles first appeared. Now he nodded along eagerly. "My Brother Francis is the best in the Imperium!" Then his expression faltered. "But what if the Emperor sends his Custodes to drag us to the front lines again?"
Francis scoffed, waving off the concern. "What's there to be afraid of? Haven't you heard the old saying, 'listen to orders but not declarations'? Besides, maintaining planetary stability helps the war effort. Doesn't it? How can the Emperor be so shallow as not to see that?"
The more Angron listened, the more feasible this future seemed. Something that might actually resemble peace.
"So we've been fighting for so long without figuring this out?" Angron mused. "Wouldn't it be better just to go home early and start living, don't you think?"
"Exactly! Brother, you're absolutely right!"
Angron slapped his armored thigh with enough force to crack ceramite, enthusiastically agreeing with his newfound biological brother. Francis had shown him more genuine affection than the Emperor had displayed in all their years together.
Before long, Angron was thoroughly convinced and began making his way aboard the Conqueror. However, not all the World Eaters had followed. Nearly half remained on the battlefield, hesitant and uncertain.
That was when Horus and Mortarion approached.
"Where exactly do you think you're going?" The Warmaster's voice cut across the space like a blade. He dragged Worldbreaker along the ground, the massive maul leaving a furrow in the earth. His other hand gripped an enormous Ork head by what remained of its neck. "All of you stay right here."
Horus hurled the severed head at Francis's feet. It landed with a wet thud.
Things did not unfold as the Warmaster expected.
The Ork head's eyes suddenly snapped open. Upon seeing Francis, it shouted with genuine excitement, "Boss! Boss! Look, I tricked that gullible git! I'm not actually dead!"
Everyone paused.
"But, uh, I am definitely about to die for real now."
Another pause, more desperate.
"Boss, tell da boyz I wasn't a coward, yeah?"
Horus stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he was witnessing.
Mortarion's scythe lowered slightly.
Just as the Ork head was about to expire, Francis snatched it up and attached it to a nearby headless Ork body still twitching with residual vitality.
The greenskin physiology adapted instantly. Two heads now shared one body. The original head turned to regard its new companion with undisguised delight. "Oi! A proper tough git! This way we can Waaagh twice at the same time!"
"That's dead kunnin', that is! Waaaaaaagh~" The two-headed Ork immediately began enthusiastically arguing with itself.
The surrounding Orks circled closer with increased fervor. The roar rose like a wave. "Waaaaaaagh!!!"
Both Primarchs frowned, countless questions swirling through their transhuman minds. For a long moment, neither knew where to begin.
While they stood bewildered, Francis used the time to craft more items. He gathered junk from the ground—broken armor plating, shattered weapons, fried circuitry—and piled it together with the confidence of an Ork Mekboy.
Then he proceeded to twist it, lick certain components, and finally soak the assemblage in something unidentifiable and probably toxic.
"Mission accomplished."
When Francis produced three square boxes, both Horus and Mortarion immediately tensed. "Have you finally revealed your true intentions, xeno?" Horus demanded, his voice dripping with contempt at the word.
"Uh, no. I told you already, I'm Francis, your brother." He held up the boxes placatingly. "I made something for you. Gifts, actually. I guarantee they will win back the Emperor's favor, or at least improve your standing. How about it?"
Francis moved to throw one box to Horus, but the Warmaster raised Worldbreaker threateningly.
"Just show it! Don't play any tricks!" Horus's demeanor had shifted entirely. His gaze was sharp as a blade. "I won't believe anything until I see it with my own eyes."
"You said it, not me. I'm activating it now."
Francis made a show of clearing his throat. "Ahem. All right then, since the dawn of humanity, song has been the most effective measure to touch the strings of the heart. And as such, my brothers, I present to you a song from a 'Father to his sons, fighting in the Warp and beyond.'"
Horus nodded curtly, though suspicious of the so-called heart-touching song.
Francis activated the device, and a melodious tune emerged from the crude box, filling the air with unexpected beauty. The words spoke of sacrifice and duty, of love that endured despite distance and pain, of a father's pride in sons who would never hear these words spoken aloud.
Thunk.
Horus lowered Worldbreaker slowly, as if the weapon had become too heavy. His eyes reddened despite his transhuman control.
By Terra. This song. For the Luna Wolves, for the Sons of Horus, he had poured countless years and immeasurable effort. And never once had the Emperor acknowledged it with anything approaching this simple, honest emotion.
"Hmm, sniff hmm ~" Angron couldn't contain his tears either. The song brought back memories of his adoptive father, the arena on Nuceria, the desperate rebellion, and everything he had lost and could never reclaim.
Mortarion also shifted his weight uncomfortably, as if the sweetness of the song made him uneasy. The tension between his hatred and longing for his fathers was written into his very being.
Nearby, the Orks were having their own discussion in loud whispers.
"Wot's a father? Can ya eat it?"
"Prolly not tasty, considerin'. Look, they're all cryin', it must be so bad it makes ya weep!"
"Roight brutal, that! Boss is truly da boss. So ruthless!"
The Orks muttered amongst themselves, their eyes full of admiration. Boss is too strong! He could make even these humie boss-gits cry!
Even the Warp itself seemed to respond, emitting strange fluctuations that those with psychic sensitivity could feel.
Francis noticed something shimmering in the air—golden text visible only to him. His smile widened.
"It seems my gift also moved the Emperor," Francis nodded with satisfaction. "Sure enough, this family would fall apart without me holding it together!"
He tossed the box gently to Horus. The Warmaster caught it with both hands, cradling it carefully, his earlier hostility completely forgotten.
Francis turned to Mortarion next. "Horus, I know we're not close. We've barely spoken, really. But as an older brother, at least in this form, I still want to give you a gift."
With Horus's example before him, Mortarion relaxed somewhat, though his perpetual frown remained. "Even if you try that emotional manipulation, it's no use. I don't fall for such things."
"Haha, it's not that serious. I'm just giving it to you casually, no strings attached." Francis held up another box.
"Inside are just some short films with titles like 'Son Harms Father Through Ignorance,' 'Don't Ride On Other People's Ships Uninvited,' and 'You're Strong, But Your Son Is Being Blackmailed.' I don't mean anything specific by it. I just think the themes might resonate with you, that's all."
Mortarion was thoroughly confused, unable to parse the meaning.
"Oh, and this one is for Fulgrim. Can you pass it on for me?" Francis threw another box toward Mortarion before the Death Lord could refuse the first one.
Mortarion reflexively caught both boxes, even more bewildered. "Why are you giving it to me? Aren't you afraid I'll lose it deliberately or keep it for myself?"
"No!" Francis's voice carried absolute sincerity. "I trust you completely! Even if you really did lose it or keep it, I'd still think there must be a good reason for it. You're not the one to do things without a cause, brother."
Looking into Francis's sincere eyes, or what passed for eyes in that Ork face, something stirred in Mortarion's twin hearts. It was an unfamiliar sensation—warm and uncomfortable in equal measure.
"Hmph! I'll throw them away immediately!" The Death Lord snorted, turning away.
He secretly glanced at Francis from the corner of his eye, finding the Ork-Primarch's expression completely unchanged, still that same earnest, trusting look.
Strange emotions were brewing within him, feelings he had no name for.
Francis genuinely didn't care about Mortarion's threats. Inside that second box were some extremely explicit short films, decidedly questionable in content and very tailored explicitly to Fulgrim's particular tastes. Whether they reached the Third Primarch or not was irrelevant. If they didn't, Francis could always make another batch when they met again.
All the necessary tasks were completed. Francis had done what he came to do.
The scene suddenly fell silent as the absurdity of the situation caught up with everyone present.
A xenos that was a Primarch, and that Primarch was supposedly not xeno. There were apparently gifts that moved even the Warmaster's heart. The Red Angel, mad incarnate, was convinced to take up gardening.
'By Emperor/False Emperor, what is happening?'
And somewhere in the Warp, perhaps, the Emperor Himself had noticed this strange afternoon on this forgettable world, wishing He should have chained Francis as Valdor had suggested.
The Great Crusade, meanwhile, would continue, but something fundamental had shifted in this moment. Whether for good or ill remained to be seen.
[End of Chapter]