The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 36: A Bad day to be a Bug



The sky above the beleaguered world burned with the fury of orbital bombardment as the Sweet Liberty and Battlefleet Liberty engaged the Tyranid bio-ships. Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, stood in his drop pod, the Deathsword humming with

anticipation in his grip.

"Ready or not, here we come," Franklin muttered, a grin spreading across his face as the pod plummeted towards the planet's surface.

The moment the drop pod's doors blew open, Franklin stepped out onto the ravaged landscape. The air around him shimmered with intense heat, causing nearby Tyranid

organisms to shrivel and melt.Termigants foolish enough to approach him burst into flames, their chitinous armor no match for the Primarch's aura.

As Franklin strode forward, the ground beneath his feet liquefied, leaving a trail of molten earth in his wake. Tyranid spores in the air combusted, creating a halo of fire around him.

The Shadow in the Warp, which had crippled psykers across the planet, seemed to have little effect on the Primarch. Franklin stood tall, a god of war incarnate, ready to face the xenos horde.

"Well," Franklin mused aloud, his voice carrying over the din of battle, "looks like we've got ourselves a bit of a pest problem."

"BLOOD! BATTLE! SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!" Khaine's voice boomed in Franklin's mind, the shard of the Eldar god of war within the Deathsword pulsing with eager bloodlust.

Franklin rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Oh, pipe down, you overgrown letter opener. We're not just charging in like some frothing Khornate berserker."

"COWARD! WEAKLING! FACE THEM HEAD-ON!" Khaine raged, causing the Deathsword to vibrate in Franklin's grip.

"Listen here, you melodramatic butter knife," Franklin growled, decapitating a charging Carnifex with a casual swing it's remains smoldering to nothingness, "I'm not about to get kited around this hellscape just because you've got an itch for violence. We're doing this smart."

As Franklin spoke, the earth beneath his feet began to melt, creating a pool of molten rock that spread outward, consuming smaller Tyranid organisms and forcing larger ones to retreat. The Primarch strode forward, each step leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

"Franklin rolled his eyes, parrying a Warrior's scything talons with a casual flick of his wrist. "You know, for an ancient god of war, you're not very big on strategy, are you?"

"STRATEGY?" Khaine scoffed. "WHAT NEED HAVE WE FOR STRATEGY WHEN WE CAN SIMPLY ANNIHILATE ALL BEFORE US?"

Franklin sidestepped a spray of bio-acid, watching with amusement as it melted the ground where he had stood moments before. "See, that's exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed. Or gods shattered into a million pieces, in your case."

"INSOLENT MORTAL!" Khaine roared. "I AM THE GOD OF WAR! MY TACTICS ARE BEYOND YOUR COMPREHENSION!"

"Oh really?" Franklin raised an eyebrow, casually incinerating a Screamer Killer that had lumbered too close. "Because from where I'm standing, your 'tactics' seem to boil down to 'charge headlong into the enemy and hope for the best'."

As if to prove Franklin's point, a massive swarm of Gargoyles descended from the sky, their shrieks filling the air. Khaine's presence surged within the Deathsword, urging Franklin to meet them head-on.

"YESSSS! BATTLE! BLOOD! CHARGE, MORTAL! SHOW THEM THE FURY OF KHAINE!"

"It's not fear, it's common sense," Franklin muttered, scanning the battlefield. His eyes lit up as he eyes the incoming swarm. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to show you how a real tactician handles this situation with overwhelming firepower."

Franklin charged his Deathsword until it began to glow like the sun and swung, a Massive slash of Fire was sent towards the Gargoyles annihilating if not lethally injuring those further up.

Franklin emerged from the other side of the hab-block, dusting off his hands. "And that, my dear Khaine, is how you deal with flying enemies in an urban environment."

"HMPH," Khaine grumbled. "AN INTERESTING TRICK. BUT LACKLUSTER AND THE PORTION OF THE CITY MISSING!."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Franklin replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I forgot the part where getting yourself turned into a sword was such a brilliant tactical move."

As he spoke, a massive shadow fell over him. Franklin looked up to see a Hierophant Bio-

Titan looming overhead, its massive form blotting out the sun.

"Now that's more like it!" Franklin grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Ready for some real action, you glorified butter knife?"

"FINALLY! A WORTHY FOE!" Khaine roared in approval.

Franklin crouched, the air around him shimmering with heat and psychic energy. With a mighty leap, he launched himself at the Bio-Titan, the Deathsword leaving a trail of fire in its

wake.

"You know," Franklin quipped as he sliced through one of the Hierophant's massive limbs, "for a god of war, you're awfully picky about your battles."

"SILENCE, MORTAL! FOCUS ON THE FIGHT!" Khaine snapped back.

Franklin rolled his eyes as he dodged a spray of corrosive bio-plasma. "I am focused. I'm just a better multitasker than you. Must be all that time I spent actually winning wars instead of getting shattered into pieces."

The Hierophant roared in pain and fury as Franklin continued his assault, each strike of the Deathsword leaving deep, burning gashes in its chitinous armor.

"See? This is how you fight a war," Franklin said, leaping onto the Bio-Titan's back.

"Strategy, adaptability, and a healthy dose of witty banter."

"BANTER IS FOR WEAKLINGS! ROAR YOUR DEFIANCE!" Khaine insisted.

Franklin sighed dramatically as he plunged the Deathsword into the Hierophant's head. "You really need to work on your people skills. No wonder the Eldar don't invite you to parties

anymore.

As the massive creature collapsed, Franklin rode its falling body to the ground, landing with a graceful flourish. All around him, the Tyranid forces were in disarray, caught between the Primarch's devastating assault and the swarms of nanobots reclaiming the atmosphere.

"And that, my excitable friend," Franklin said, patting the Deathsword, "is how you win a battle without getting kited around like a novice."

"IT... WAS ADEQUATE," Khaine grudgingly admitted.

As the last echoes of the fallen Hierophant's death throes faded away, Franklin chuckled, the sound carrying across the war-torn landscape. With a thought, he dialed down the intense heat emanating from his body, the air around him cooling to merely sweltering levels.

"Alright, you chitinous bastards," Franklin grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischievous excitement. "Let's see how you like a taste of good old-fashioned firepower."

"WHAT TRICKERY IS THIS?" Khaine's voice boomed in his mind, a mix of curiosity and indignation. "WHERE IS THE GLORY OF CLOSE COMBAT?"

"Oh, hush, you oversized letter opener," Franklin muttered. "Sometimes, the most elegant solution is simply more dakka."

With a series of clicks and whirs, Franklin's mechsuit began to transform. Panels slid open, revealing an arsenal that would make even the most trigger-happy Ork Mek drool with envy. Multiple smart missile launchers emerged from his shoulders, while his arms reconfigured

into his signature quad cannons.

"Now this," Franklin grinned, "is what I call a party."

The Primarch's first salvo was nothing short of spectacular. Smart missiles streaked across the battlefield, each one finding its mark with unerring accuracy. Tyranid warriors exploded in showers of ichor and chitin, while smaller gaunts were reduced to fine mist.

"DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA! FREEDOM!" Franklin roared, his voice filled with childlike glee as his quad cannons spun up, spewing forth a hail of hypervelocity rounds. The air itself seemed to ignite as the barrage tore through the Tyranid swarms, leaving nothing but shredded biomass in its wake.

"THIS... THIS IS NOT WAR!" Khaine protested weakly, though there was a hint of admiration

in his tone.

"Oh, but it is," Franklin laughed, switching one arm to a plasma cannon and vaporizing a charging Carnifex. "This is war in the 30th millennium, my melodramatic friend. Overwhelming firepower, pinpoint accuracy, and just a touch of style."

As he spoke, Franklin's right shoulder launcher, reconfigured into a disintegration cannon.

With a thought, he unleashed a beam of pure annihilation, carving a swath through the Tyranid ranks. Where the beam touched, nothing remained - not even ash.

"You see," Franklin continued, his tone conversational despite the carnage he was unleashing, "the key is variety. Keep them guessing, never let them adapt."

As if to emphasize his point, Franklin's arm shifted once more, this time into a massive grav cannon. With a gesture, he shot a lumbering Tyrannofex, the massive creature crushed by its

own weight.

From the distance, John Ezra and the Secret Service watched in awe as their Primarch unleashed destruction on a scale they had never before witnessed. Seeing that Franklin had dialed down his heat aura, they knew it was time to join the fray.

"Alright, boys," John called out, his voice filled with determination. "Let's show these xenos scum why you don't mess with the Liberty Eagles!"

The Secret Service moved in perfect synchronization, their own advanced weaponry adding to the symphony of destruction Franklin had begun. Ion beams, plasma bolts, and hypervelocity rounds and missles crisscrossed and rained on the battlefield, cutting down Tyranids with overwhelming firepower, who needs a scalpel when you can use a sledgehammer.

Franklin grinned as he saw his honor guard joining the fight. "Ah, John! So good of you to join us. I was beginning to think you'd miss all the fun!"

John chuckled as he blasted a Lictor with his plasma cannons. "Wouldn't dream of it, my lord. Though I must say, you seemed to have things well in hand."

"Oh, you know me," Franklin quipped, unleashing another barrage of smart missiles. "I never like to hog all the glory. There's plenty of xenos to go around!"

The combined firepower of Franklin and his Secret Service was devastating. Multiple Tyranid Primes attempts to coordinate flanking maneuvers were thwarted before they could even begin, they themselves were picked off with ruthless efficiency, efficiency being massive craters formed previously where the primes were standing on.

The skies of the embattled planet were filled with the screech of dropships and the roar of engines as the Liberty Eagles and their Guardsmen allies descended upon the Tyranid- infested world. As the ships touched down, ramps slammed onto the ground, disgorging wave

after wave of humanity's finest warriors.

Denzel Washington, First Captain of the Liberty Eagles, emerged at the head of his battalion, his sleek exo-suit gleaming in the alien sun. In each hand, he wielded dual hyperphase swords, the blades humming with barely contained energy. Beside him, Steven Armstrong, the Second Captain, stomped forward in his bulkier exo-suit, massive power fists crackling

with destructive potential.

"Liberty Eagles!" he roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Show these xenos scum the meaning of overwhelming firepower!"

As if in answer, the air was filled with the sizzling reports of disintegration rifles. Beams of focused energy lanced out, reducing entire swathes of the Tyranid vanguard to ash. Termigaunts and Hormagaunts simply ceased to exist, their bodies atomized in an instant. Nearby, Steven Armstrong, the Second Captain, stood like a colossus in his reinforced exo- suit. His power fists crackled with energy as he waded into the fray. "For the Emperor and for Liberty!" he bellowed, each swing of his massive fists turning Tyranid warriors into pulp. The Liberty Guardsmen, far from being overshadowed by their Astartes brethren, proved their worth a hundredfold. Clad in their own advanced exo-suits, they moved with a grace and power that belied their mortal origins. Their disintegration rifles sang a constant death knell

for the xenos horde.

A group of Guardsmen found themselves surrounded by a pack of Genestealers. The xenos' claws scrabbled ineffectually against the Guardsmen's force fields, each impact resulting in a flash of light but no damage. With practiced ease, the Guardsmen switched to close-quarters

combat modes.

Power blades extended from their gauntlets, and in a whirlwind of motion, they reduced the Genestealers to twitching pieces.

"Hah!" one Guardsman laughed, his visor retracting to reveal a face flushed with victory.

"And here I thought these bugs would be a challenge!"

His jubilation was short-lived as a massive form burst from the ground - a Thornback its

body bristling with bio-weapons and Chitin thorns. The Guardsmen scattered, their rifles blazing, but the monster's thick hide seemed to shrug off the energy beams.

Then, a blur of motion caught their eye. Denzel Washington appeared as if from nowhere, his hyperphase swords leaving trails of light in the air. With a series of blindingly fast strikes, he severed the Carnifex's limbs before plunging both blades into its skull.

As the massive creature collapsed, Denzel turned to the awestruck Guardsmen. "Keep moving, men! The day is far from won!"

Across the battlefield, similar scenes played out. The Liberty Eagles and their Guardsmen

formed an impenetrable wall of firepower, their advanced technology and superior training allowing them to hold back the tide of xenos flesh.

But the Tyranids were far from defeated. As the battle raged on, the Hive Mind began to adapt. The creatures became bulkier, their hides thickening to resist the disintegration beams. Some developed camouflage abilities, blending into the war-torn landscape. Steven Armstrong found himself facing off against a newly evolved Tyranid Prime. Its body

was a mass of armor plates and redundant organs, shrugging off blows that would have felled its predecessors.

"So, you've learned some new tricks," Armstrong growled, his power fists leaving dents in the creature's hide. "Let's see how you handle this!"

With a roar of effort, he grabbed the Prime's head and squeezed. For a moment, nothing

happened. Then, with a sickening crunch, the creature's skull gave way under the immense pressure.

As Armstrong tossed aside the creature's corpse, he noticed something disturbing. Smaller

Tyranids were swarming over the bodies of the fallen, both xenos and human alike, attempting to drag them away.

"Not on my watch," he snarled, triggering his suit's incineration protocols. A wave of

purifying flame washed over the battlefield, reducing corpses to ash and denying the Tyranids their biomass.

Days passed, and still the battle raged on. The Liberty Eagles and their Guardsmen fought tirelessly, their advanced gear allowing them to operate far beyond normal human limits. But the Tyranids were endless, each defeat seemingly spawning two more to take its place. As the battle wore on, the cost became clear. Despite their advanced technology and superior

training, the Liberty Eagles and their Guardsmen were not invincible. Here and there, a force field would flicker and fail, a moment's distraction would prove fatal. And each time an Eagle

or Guardsman fell, their brothers would fight all the harder to ensure their sacrifice was not in

vain.

"Purge the fallen!" became a common cry, as the defenders turned their weapons on their own dead, denying the Tyranids even this small victory.

On the sixth day, the Hive Mind made its most dramatic adaptation yet. The Tyranid forces

suddenly shifted tactics, abandoning ranged combat entirely. Instead, they came in waves of heavily armored monstrosities, interspersed with blindingly fast hunter-killers.

"Clever girls," he muttered, his exo-suit's systems working overtime to track the stealthy

predators. "But not clever enough."

With a thought, he activated his suit's area denial system. A sphere of crackling energy

expanded outward, shorting out the Lictors' camouflage and leaving them exposed. In a blur of motion, Denzel reduced them to twitching pieces. Across the battlefield, Liberty Guardsmen fought with a ferocity that belied their mortal

nature. Their exo-suits, while not as advanced as those of the Astartes, still granted them strength and speed far beyond that of their transhuman nature. A squad of Guardsmen found themselves surrounded by a swarm of Termagants, the smaller Tyranid creatures attempting to overwhelm them with sheer numbers.

The squad leader, her disintegration rifle temporarily overwhelmed by the press of bodies, drew a monomolecular blade from her belt. With a quick activation, the blade hummed to life, its edge sharp enough to split atoms.

"For the Emperor and for Liberty!" she cried, swinging the blade in a wide arc. Termagants

fell in droves, their bodies literally falling apart as the blade passed through them. Her squadmates followed suit, their own blades flashing in the alien light as they carved a bloody path through the xenos horde.

In the skies above, Liberty Eagle gunships and fighters engaged in deadly duels with Tyranid flying creatures. Harriers and Gargoyles swarmed around the human aircraft, only to be cut down by pinpoint laser fire and smart missiles. Occasionally, a larger form would emerge

from the clouds - a Harpy or a Hive Crone - only to be met with a barrage of firepower that turned the sky into a storm of explosions and disintegrating biomass.

If the opponents of the Liberty Eagles cannot deny them weapons and air superiority, they're

in for one hell of a time. The forecast? Cloudy with a chance of missiles and the occasional napalm. This is exactly the situation the Tyranids find themselves in. Unable to deny the Liberty Eagles their dominance, the Hivemind may be adaptive in its approach, but when your opponent has all the guns, it's like bringing a knife-not just to a gunfight, but to a warzone. With their

orbital fleet teetering on the edge of annihilation, it's only a matter of time before the Tyranids are overwhelmed, Oh the Irony.

Day 7 of the Tyranid Invasion, Helican Sector

The battlefield was a tableau of destruction, the once-verdant worlds now a scarred wasteland of melted rock and chitinous corpses. For six days, the Liberty Eagles had waged an unrelenting war against the Tyranid swarm, their advanced technology and overwhelming firepower gradually pushing back the xenos tide.

At the heart of this maelstrom stood Franklin. The air around him shimmered with intense

heat, creating a barrier that no Tyranid bio-form could penetrate without being reduced to ash. His Deathsword, housing the shard of Khaine, gleamed with an otherworldly light as it cleaved through wave after wave of xenos monstrosities.

"You know," Franklin mused aloud, bisecting a broodlord with a casual swing as it's remains

reduced to ashes, "I'm starting to think these bugs might be running out of tricks." "DO NOT GROW COMPLACENT, MORTAL," Khaine's voice boomed in his mind. "THE GREATEST CHALLENGES OFTEN COME WHEN VICTORY SEEMS ASSURED."

Franklin rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Always the optimist, aren't you? And here I thought we were bonding over all this carnage."

In the distance, John Ezra and the Secret Service moved in perfect synchronization, their Mechsuits unleashing a torrent of firepower that shredded through the Tyranid forces. The xenos had tried repeatedly to overwhelm the elite guard, but each attempt had been met with

devastating counterattacks.

John Ezra's voice crackled through the vox. "My lord, we're holding the line. The Tyranids are

losing ground on all fronts. Victory appears imminent." Franklin nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Excellent work. Keep up the pressure. I want these bugs off my planets by dinnertime."

As Franklin continued to coordinate the assault, wading through the Tyranid hordes unscathed, the Hive Mind was frantically adapting, evolving, searching for a way to counter this unstoppable force. And finally, after days of failures, it spawned something new-a

creature born of desperation and genius.

From the depths of the Tyranid swarm emerged a monstrous Hive Tyrant, its hide a shimmering ice-blue, emanating waves of freezing cold that rivaled Franklin's intense heat. Surrounded by a cadre of heavily armored Tyrant Guard, the beast fixed its gaze on the Primarch, a primal hunger evident in its alien eyes.

Franklin's eyes widened slightly as he beheld the new threat. "Well, well," he murmured,

"looks like the bugs have been holding out on us. Khaine, my melodramatic friend, I believe that honor duel you've been clamoring for has finally arrived."

"AT LAST!" Khaine roared with bloodthirsty glee. "A WORTHY CHALLENGER! LET US SEND

THIS ABOMINATION BACK TO THE VOID!"

The ice-blue Hive Tyrant charged forward with astonishing speed, its Tyrant Guard moving

to engage the Secret Service. John Ezra's voice crackled over the vox once more. "My lord,

we'll handle the escort. The big one's all yours!"

Franklin grinned, his eyes alight with the thrill of battle. "Much obliged, John. Try not to have

too much fun without me."

As the Primarch strode forward to meet his challenger, the very air seemed to crackle withn/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

tension. Heat waves collided with icy mists, creating a swirling vortex of elemental fury

around the two combatants.

"Bring it, bitch!" Franklin taunted, his voice dripping with confidence as he faced the Tyrant. He knew full well it couldn't understand him, but that didn't stop him from delivering his

challenge.