The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 23: Dakka 2



Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, stood at the threshold of what could only be described as an Orkish fever dream come to life. The massive chamber before him, clearly a repurposed void ship, had been transformed into a grotesque arena of scrap and mayhem.

At the center of this mechanical madhouse stood the piece de resistance - a colossal, cobbled-together monstrosity that might have once been an Imperial Titan. Atop this scrapheap colossus sat the unmistakable form of the Mekboss, his body fused with the machine in a nightmarish union of flesh and steel.

"Well, I'll be," Franklin muttered, his eyes wide. "Looks like we've stumbled into a Build-A- Bear workshop from hell."

The Mekboss, a green-skinned giant with more cybernetic parts than original Ork, leered down at Franklin. Half his face was replaced with whirring gears and blinking lights, while his arms terminated in an array of tools and weapons that would make a Tech-Priest weep.

"I am Groknik da Teksmasha!" the Mekboss bellowed, his voice amplified by vox-casters throughout the chamber. "An' dis 'ere is me greatest creation - da Mega-Gargant-Stompa- Titan!"

Around Groknik, a coterie of Meknobs stood connected to their own, slightly less impressive war machines. One, with a comically oversized head full of blinking lights, was wired into what looked like a Dreadnought with far too many arms. Another, sporting a massive exhaust pipe for a mohawk, was melded with a walker that seemed to be constantly on the verge of falling apart.

Franklin, never one to be outdone in the realm of excessive firepower, decided to fight fire with fire... or in this case, Orkish with Orkish. He cleared his throat and bellowed back in his best attempt at the greenskin tongue.

"Oi! You call dat a proppa setup? Lookz like you'z just glued yerself to da first big shooty fing you found!"

Groknik's mechanical eye whirred as it focused on Franklin. "Wot? A 'umie dat speakz proppa? 'Ow's dat possible?"

Franklin grinned, warming to his role. "I ain't just any 'umie, you overgrown scrapheap! I'z Franklin da Dakka-bringer, an' I'z 'ere to show you gitz what real firepower looks like!" This proclamation set off a cacophony of confused mutterings among the Orks. One of the Meknobs, the one with multiple arms, scratched several of his heads simultaneously. "Boss," he stage-whispered to Groknik, "I fink dis 'umie might be even more Orky dan us!" Groknik's face contorted into what might have been a scowl, if it wasn't half-obscured by mechanical bits. "Dat's impossible! No one's more Orky dan me! I'z got da biggest... da shootiest... DA TITAN!"

Franklin, seeing an opportunity, pressed his advantage. "Oh yeah? Den why don't you come down 'ere an' prove it? Or is you too scared to face me wit' out yer fancy walker?"

Groknik's mechanical eye spun rapidly, a clear sign of agitation. "Me? Scared? I'll show you scared, you puny 'umie!"

But then, demonstrating a rare flash of Orkish cunning, Groknik paused. "Wait a zoggin' minute. You'z tryin' to trick me! Well, I ain't fallin' for it. I'z gonna stay right 'ere an' blast you to bits!"

Franklin, momentarily impressed by this display of rudimentary tactical thinking, quickly regrouped. "Oh, so you'z a yella-bellied git, den? Can't fight unless you'z got yer big stompy legs? I bet you can't even throw a proppa punch no more!"

As this exchange of insults continued, Franklin's team was quietly preparing for the inevitable throwdown. The Secret Service agents melted into the shadows, taking up strategic positions around the chamber. Denzel moving with the silence of a predator, crept closer to the nearest Meknob, his hyperphase swords at the ready.

"Yer so slow, a Squig could outrun ya!"

"I've seen grots wit' more style dan you!"

"Dat Titan prob'ly runs on squig-power, ya cheap git!"

Each insult seemed to enrage Groknik further, steam literally shooting from his ears (or what passed for ears in his current state).

"You fink you'z so clever, don't ya? Well, I'z got more smarts in me little finger than you'z got in yer whole stupid 'ead!"

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Your little finger? You mean that rusty bolt hanging off your left hand? Hate to break it to ya, but that ain't a finger - that's just poor maintenance."

A collective gasp went up from the assembled Orks. Even in the heat of battle, they recognized a sick burn when they heard one.

The chamber echoed with the guffaws of lesser Orks, quickly silenced by Groknik's furious glare. The Mekboss's remaining organic eye twitched violently as he struggled to come up with a comeback.

As Groknik sputtered and raged, his Meknobs shifted uncomfortably in their mechanized suits. One of them, the one with the exhaust pipe mohawk, leaned over to his neighbor and whispered (or tried to - volume control wasn't an Orkish strong suit).

"Oi, Skrumsnik, you fink maybe da boss is losing dis one?"

Skrumsnik, his oversized head wobbling precariously, shrugged his mechanical shoulders. "Dunno, Zoggit. But dat big 'umie sure knows how to sling da insults. Kinda makes ya wonder if 'e might actually be an Ork in disguise, ya know?"

Franklin, overhearing this exchange, decided to capitalize on the confusion. "That's right, boyz! I might be an Ork, I might be a 'umie, or I might be somethin' else entirely. But one thing's for sure - I'z got more dakka than all of ya put together!"

This proclamation sent a ripple of uncertainty through the Orkish ranks. Some of them began eyeing Franklin with a mixture of fear and admiration. After all, in the Orkish mind, more dakka equaled more respect.

Groknik, sensing he was losing control of the situation, decided to fall back on the one tactic all Orks understood - unbridled violence. "Enough yappin'!" he roared. "It'z time for fightin'!

WAAAGH!"

"Well, folks," he drawled to his team over the comms, "looks like we're in for one heck of a hoedown. Remember, aim for the blinking lights and anything that looks important. And whatever you do, don't let 'em think we're having too much fun!"

With a wink to Denzel, who was now poised to decapitate the nearest Meknob, Franklin raised his voice one last time: "Alright, you lousy excuse for a scrapyard! You want dakka? I'll give you dakka! FOR THE EMPEROR, AND FOR LIBERTY!"

The cavernous arena erupted into a cacophony of explosions and battle cries as Franklin, squared off against Groknik da Teksmasha and his Frankensteinian Titan. The air crackled with energy as Franklin's first salvo of smart missiles streaked towards the Ork Mekboss.

"Oi, Groknik!" Franklin bellowed in perfect Orkish. "Hope you've got insurance on that scrap heap of yours!"

The missiles impacted against a shimmering barrier of energy, dissipating in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics. Groknik's laughter boomed through the vox-casters.

"Ha! You call dat dakka? I'z seen grots with more firepower!"

Franklin's eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation. "Well, I'll be," he muttered. "Looks like our green friend's figured out how to work a void shield. Time to up the ante."

As Franklin engaged the Titan, his team sprang into action. The Secret Service agents, moving with practiced precision, began laying down suppressing fire on the hordes of Orks flooding into the arena. Energy weapons sizzled through the air, dropping greenskins left and right. Denzel, true to his word, had already decapitated the nearest Meknob the one with the Mohawk. His hyperphase swords sang as they carved through Orkish flesh and scrap metal alike. "My lord," he voxed to Franklin, "we've got the rear covered. Feel free to focus on the

big ugly."

"Much obliged, Denzel," Franklin replied, Shedding his heavier weapons, he activated the boosters on his mechsuit. He shot into the air, narrowly avoiding a massive plasma beam that scorched the ground where he'd been standing. "Looks like our friend here is piloting a Direwolf Scout Titan. Heavy hitter, but nothing we can't handle."

As Franklin weaved and bobbed around the Titan's attacks, he couldn't help but marvel at the Orkish modifications. Groknik had somehow jury-rigged additional weapons onto the already formidable war machine. Missile pods sprouted from its shoulders like metallic mushrooms, and what looked suspiciously like a giant cannon from a scrapped battleship was welded to its

back.

"Gotta hand it to ya, Groknik," Franklin called out as he jetted past the Titan's grasping arms. "You've got a real talent for making ugly things even uglier!"

Groknik's response was a barrage of rockets that turned a significant portion of the arena floor into a cratered mess. "Stop movin', ya grot-faced git!"

Franklin laughed as he used his suit's boosters to dance around the explosions. "What's the

matter, big guy? Having trouble hitting a moving target? Maybe you should've installed some

targeting systems instead of all those blinky lights!"

As the battle raged on, Franklin's mind raced, formulating a plan. He needed to overload

those void shields, and he knew just how to do it. With a series of deft maneuvers, he

positioned himself behind the Titan.

With a thought, Franklin activated his pocket dimension. An array of weapons materialized

around him, each more devastating than the last.

Smart missiles? Check.

Plasma cannons? You betcha.

Railguns? Of course.

Heavy rotary cannons? Wouldn't leave home without 'em.

And nestled in the center of this Freedom Bouquet was a mini-nuke, because sometimes democracy needs to be delivered with a bit more... emphasis.

"Hey, Groknik!" Franklin shouted, his voice barely audible over the whine of charging weapons. "Remember when I said I had more dakka than you? Well, buddy, class is in

session!" With a thought, Franklin unleashed hell. The air itself seemed to ignite as a storm of ordnance erupted from his position. Missiles corkscrewed through the air, plasma bolts seared across the void, railgun slugs pierced the atmosphere with sonic booms, and the rotary cannons filled any remaining space with a wall of hypervelocity rounds.

The Titan's void shields lit up like a Christmas tree, struggling to repel the onslaught. Groknik's voice, for once, was tinged with something other than bravado. Was that... concern?

"Oi! Dat's not fair! You can't have dat much dakka!"

"Sorry, pal," Franklin retorted as he shed his heavy ordinance back into the pocket dimension. "I don't remember agreeing to any rules. Now, let's see how you like a little close-quarters

freedom!"

Using the last of his suit's energy, Franklin engaged his boosters, rocketing upwards towards

the Titan's head where Groknik was fused to his creation. As he ascended, he couldn't resist a

few more jabs in Orkish.

"Ey, Groknik! Your Titan fights like it was put together by a squad of drunk grots! I've seen scrapyards with better organization!"

Groknik, his remaining organic eye wide with a mixture of rage and disbelief, frantically worked the Titan's controls. "Stay still, ya gun-happy grot! I'z gonna squish you like a bug!"

But Franklin was too quick, too agile. He landed on the Titan's shoulder with a resounding clang, mere feet away from the apoplectic Mekboss.

"Well, well, well," Franklin drawled, cracking his knuckles. "Looks like it's time for some face-to-face diplomacy. Any last words before I introduce you to the Liberator's way of conflict resolution?"

Groknik, in a moment of unexpected clarity, realized he might have miscalculated. His

cybernetic eye whirred as it focused on Franklin. "Uh... can we talk about dis? Maybe make a

deal?"

Franklin pretended to consider this for a moment. "A deal, huh? Well, I do have a proposition

for you. How about you hand over all those fancy STCs you've got squirreled away, and in return, I'll only kick your green backside halfway across this sector instead of all the way back to whatever junkyard you crawled out of. Sound fair?"

The Mekboss's face contorted in a mix of confusion and indignation. "But... but dat's not a

fair deal at all!"

"Welcome to high-stakes negotiations, pal," Franklin grinned, his fist already cocked back. "Now, let's seal this deal the old-fashioned way!"

What followed was a flurry of blows that would have made even the most battle-hardened Ork

Warboss wince. Franklin's augmented strength, combined with his precision targeting, methodically dismantled Groknik's cybernetic enhancements.

With each punch, Franklin couldn't resist adding insult to injury, peppering his assault with a

barrage of Orkish taunts.

"This is for calling my dakka weak!" CLANG "This is for that ugly paint job on your Titan!" CRUNCH

"And this? This is just because I felt like it!" BOOM

As the last of Groknik's cybernetic attachments sparked and fizzled, the Mekboss slumped in his command throne, thoroughly trounced. The massive Titan, now without its master's guidance, stood motionless, like a grotesque statue commemorating Orkish folly.

As Franklin finished detaching the thoroughly defeated Groknik from his cybernetic throne, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. With the fluid grace of a man who had practiced this move far too many times, he casually produced a melta bomb from seemingly nowhere. (He

got one prepared).

"Hey, Groknik," Franklin called out, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "Got a parting gift for ya. Consider it a souvenir of our little tête-à-tête."

The Mekboss, still dazed from the beating he'd received, could only blink in confusion as

Franklin placed the melta bomb directly in front of him. The device beeped ominously, its countdown beginning.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Franklin continued, taking a step back, "I've got a date with

gravity." With that, the Primarch of Liberty spread his arms wide and allowed himself to fall backward off the Titan's massive head. As he plummeted towards the ground, Franklin's enhanced senses took in every detail of the scene unfolding above him.

Groknik's one good eye widened in realization, a comical "Zog me" escaping his battered lips

just as the melta bomb detonated. The explosion was spectacular, a miniature sun blooming

atop the Titan's head. The war machine, already unstable from the loss of its pilot's control, began to teeter backward.

Franklin, still in free fall, couldn't resist one last quip. "Looks like your Titan's falling for me, Groknik! Too bad I'm already taken... by Lady Liberty!"

As the ground rushed up to meet him, Franklin prepared for his landing. With precision timing that would make even the most acrobatic Eldar jealous, he touched down in a perfect

superhero pose - one knee and fist to the ground, head bowed. (He would feel this tomorrow) The impact cratered the floor beneath him, sending a shockwave rippling outward. Debris

rained down around him, but not a single piece dared to mar his immaculate armor. Behind him, the Titan continued its inexorable fall. The behemoth of scrap and stolen

technology crashed to the ground with an earth-shattering boom, the sound of twisting metal and exploding ammunition filling the air. And through it all, Franklin Valorian didn't so much as flinch.

As the dust began to settle, Franklin slowly raised his head. With deliberate, almost languid movements, he reached into a hidden compartment in his armor and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. These weren't just any sunglasses - they were mirrored aviators, because when

you're about to deliver a one-liner, you go all out.

With practiced coolness, Franklin slid the sunglasses onto his face, just as the Titan's reactor

went critical. The resulting explosion lit up the entire chamber, turning night into day and

shadow into searing light.

But Franklin didn't look. Because cool guys don't look at explosions. (Thankfully his energy shielding is till up and running, otherwise there would be no Flashy Primarch Left)

As the fireball bloomed behind him, Franklin simply stood, brushed some imaginary dust off

his shoulder, and spoke into his vox-comm.

"Denzel, my man. Operation 'Extreme Makeover: Ork Edition' is complete. How're we looking

on those STCS?"

Denzel's voice crackled back, a mix of exasperation and amusement evident in his tone. "Secured, my lord. Though I must ask - was the dramatic exit really necessary?" Franklin grinned, adjusting his sunglasses. "My friend, when you're in the business of delivering freedom, style is always necessary. Now, let's blow this popsicle stand."

As the Liberty Eagles prepared for exfiltration, Franklin took one last look at the smoldering remains of Groknik's Titan. He raised an imaginary toast to his fallen foe.

"Here's to you, Groknik. May your next scrapheap be a little less explode-y." With that, Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, strode out of the chamber, leaving behind a trail of destruction, and the undeniable proof that in the grim darkness of the far future, there is not only war - there's also style.

As Franklin Valorian sauntered away from the smoldering wreckage of Groknik's Titan, the

adrenaline of battle began to ebb, allowing a moment of self-reflection. His normally resplendent armor, now reduced to little more than a skin-tight power suit, hummed softly against his superhuman frame.

"Well," Franklin mused to himself, running a hand through his hair, "that was one heck of a wardrobe malfunction. Guess I really did give 'em the shirt off my back... and the pauldrons, and the gauntlets, and pretty much everything else."

He glanced down at his streamlined form, the sleek power armor now more akin to a second

skin than the usual bulky Astartes....Primarch plating, It was proof to both the intensity of the battle and the sheer amount of firepower he had unleashed.

As he made his way through the winding corridors of the Space Hulk towards the extraction

point, Franklin couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret. Without access to his pocket

dimension, his usual arsenal was frustratingly out of reach.

"Note to self," he muttered, "maybe don't go full Fourth of July on the first date. A

gentleman always saves something for the second encounter."

The lack of heavy firepower made Franklin acutely aware of every shadow and corner. The Space Hulk, while significantly quieter after the battle, still echoed with distant sounds of skittering and clanking - reminders that on a vessel this size, danger could lurk around any

bend.

"You know," Franklin spoke into his vox, a hint of sheepishness in his voice, "I'm starting to think I might have overdone it a bit back there. Any chance one of you boys could toss a bolter my way when you see me? Feeling a bit underdressed for this party." Denzel's voice crackled back, a mixture of amusement and exasperation evident in his tone.

"My lord, with all due respect, this is why we have operational guidelines about resource management." "Aw, come on, Denzel," Franklin retorted, his swagger undiminished despite his predicament. "Where's the fun in following guidelines? Besides, you can't deny the results.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

One Mekboss thoroughly trounced, one Titan turned into scrap, and a whole heap of STCS ready for analysis."

As if on cue, a group of Ork stragglers rounded the corner ahead, their beady eyes widening at

the sight of the nearly-naked Primarch.

Franklin, never one to let a little thing like being unarmed dampen his spirits, grinned widely.

"Well, boys, looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way. I may be out ammo but not out of options"

The Orks, more confused than anything by the sight of a grinning, under-armored giant, hesitated just long enough for Franklin to close the distance. What followed was less a fight and more a slapstick comedy routine, with Franklin using his bare hands (and occasionally an Ork as an improvised weapon) to dismantle the group, he was still a Primarch after all. As the last Ork fell, it's head bashed in, Franklin dusted off his hands. "And that, gentlemen, is

how we do things in the Liberty Eagles. No frills, no fuss, just good old-fashioned ass-

kicking."

Finally reaching the extraction point, Franklin was greeted by the sight of his men, their armor still intact and weapons at the ready. Denzel, true to form, held out a bolter for his

Primarch, an eyebrow raised in silent judgment.

Franklin accepted the weapon with a gracious nod. "Much obliged, Denzel. Though I gotta

say, I'm starting to see the appeal of the more... minimalist approach to armor. Really lets you

feel the breeze, you know?"

Denzel, to his credit, managed to keep a straight face. "Indeed, my lord. Though perhaps next

time we could aim for a middle ground between 'walking artillery platform' and 'underwear model'?"

As the Liberty Eagles boarded their extraction craft, Franklin couldn't help but laugh. "Where's the fun in that, Denzel? Besides, think of the recruitment posters we could make.

'Join the Liberty Eagles: Where Even the Primarchs Fight in Their Skivvies!""