The Primarch of Liberty

A small fleet was dispatched to scout ahead and locate the world of Nuceria, following the star chart provided by Franklin. 3rd Captain Henry Cavill of the Minutemen was selected to lead this crucial mission.

Among the ranks of the Liberty Eagles, few possess the necessary skills and tactical acumen to undertake such an operation. Typically, this responsibility would have fallen to either 1st Captain Washington or 2nd Captain Steven Armstrong. However, Gene-Father Franklin determined that if he had been sent back in time from ten thousand years in the future to avert the Horus Heresy—especially with the assassination of Erebus off the table—then it was only fitting to leverage his knowledge to find the Broken Primarchs. Locating Angron on Nuceria was integral to this mission, and Captain Cavill was resolute in his commitment to this task.

To aid in this task, the Liberty Eagles cooperated with the War Hounds. This partnership not only aimed to fulfill the mission but also served to put the War Hounds in the Eagles' debt—a strategic advantage, should the need arise. Yet, beyond this, it was well known that the Liberty Eagles were often in the Emperor's company whenever a Primarch was found, it had happened with Leman Russ, Ferrus Manus and then to Fulgrim. As a result, many Astartes Legions had begun reaching out to the Eagles, hoping to cooperate, perhaps with a quiet hope that they too might be present when their Primarch was finally discovered.

3rd Captain Cavill POV:

The void stretched endlessly before us as our small fleet approached Nuceria. Standing at the observation deck of the Minuteman's Pride, I couldn't help but feel the weight of ten thousand years on my shoulders. And now here I was, Father had given me one specific mission: finding the broken gladiator who would become my uncle.

"Captain Cavill," Lieutenant Marcus's voice came through the vox. "Captain Khârn's shuttle is requesting permission to dock."

I smiled. The World Eaters—no, the War Hounds as they were still called—had no idea what awaited their Legion. "Grant them clearance. Have them meet me in the briefing chamber."

The corridors of our battlecruiser hummed with the quiet efficiency that characterized Liberty Eagles operations. 

Khârn was waiting in the briefing chamber, his Mark II Crusade armor bearing the white and blue of the War Hounds. Even without the blood-red armor he would later don, he cut an impressive figure. It was strange seeing him like this—before the Nails, before the rage. In my timeline, he had been both hero and villain, warrior and betrayer. But here, now, he was simply a captain serving his Legion.

"Brother-Captain," I greeted him, clasping his forearm in the warrior's grip. "Welcome aboard the Minuteman's Pride."

"Brother-Captain Cavill," he returned the greeting. "Your invitation was... unexpected. Though the War Hounds appreciate the Liberty Eagles' continued interest in our operations."

If you only knew, I thought. "We have intelligence about this system that requires verification. Given your Legion's expertise in close-quarters operations, you were the natural choice for this mission."

I activated the hololithic display, showing Nuceria's surface. "Our target is a city-state called Desh'ea. We'll be conducting a covert reconnaissance mission." I paused, watching his reaction. "Which is why I've brought something special for your team."

The Automata wheeled in the sealed containers bearing our Legion's mark—the eagle clutching lightning bolts in one talon and broken chains in the other. "These are Exo-Armor Model X, Lictor Pattern. Specifically designed for maximum stealth."

Khârn studied the Exo-armor in Warhound Colors with professional interest. "These look... different from standard pattern power armor."

"They are. Would you like a demonstration?"

At his nod, I began the ritual of donning the armor. Unlike the crude power armor of this era, our Exo-Armor responded to neural impulses, practically flowing onto the wearer. I could see the surprise in Khârn's eyes as the armor sealed itself around me without the need for tech-priests or servitors.

"By the Emperor," one of Khârn's sergeants whispered.

"The armor incorporates several STCs we recovered from our home system," I explained, knowing I was feeding them a carefully crafted cover story. "Including some rather interesting stealth capabilities."

With a thought, I activated the camouflage systems. The looks on their faces were priceless as I seemingly vanished from sight. Their armor's auspex readings showed nothing—no heat signature, no movement, not even the subtle power emissions that all armor produced.

"Impossible," another War Hound muttered.

"Brother-Captain?" Khârn called out, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

I deactivated the camouflage, reappearing beside him. "Perfect for reconnaissance, wouldn't you agree?"

Khârn's face split into a predatory grin. "I begin to understand why your Legion's combat record is so impressive, Brother-Captain."

"Your team will need to be fitted with these if we're to complete our mission successfully." I gestured to the containers. "They're calibrated for Astartes physiology, though they might take some getting used to."

I watched as Khârn approached one of the suits, his hands running over the smooth tyranimite surface. The armor was a masterpiece of engineering—incorporating technologies that wouldn't be rediscovered for millennia. 

"The neural interface is more... intimate than standard power armor," I warned as Khârn began to don the suit. "You'll feel—"

"Throne!" Khârn gasped as the neural links connected. His eyes widened as the full capabilities of the armor became apparent to him. "It's like... like wearing nothing at all, yet feeling invincible."

"The machine spirit is more evolved than what you're used to," I explained, machine spirit is the term used for the rest of the Astartes Legions who aren't familiar with the ways of the Eagles especially their use of A.I which is considered heretical to the greater Imperium. "It learns from you, anticipates your movements. Given time, it becomes less like wearing armor and more like having a second skin."

I watched as the rest of his team were fitted with the armor, each experiencing the same moment of shock followed by wonder. It was like watching children discover a new toy, though these "children" were among the deadliest warriors in the galaxy.

"Now," I said, bringing up a detailed map of Desh'ea, "our mission. We'll insert via drop pod at these coordinates, using the armor's stealth capabilities to approach the city undetected. Our primary objective is to gather intelligence on the gladiatorial games and their participants."

Khârn studied the map intently. "These games—they're significant?"

"More than you know, Brother-Captain." I met his gaze steadily. "What we find here could change the course of your Legion's future."

"You speak in riddles, Cavill."

I smiled sadly. "The Emperor's work often requires discretion, brother. Trust that all will become clear in time."

As we made final preparations for the drop, I couldn't help but feel the weight of history pressing down on me. Somewhere below, Angron was fighting his doomed rebellion. In another timeline, the Emperor would teleport him away, leaving his brothers and sisters to die. That moment of abandonment would plant the seeds that Lorgar would later exploit, helping to push my uncle into Khorne's waiting arms.

But this time would be different. This time, we had advance warning. This time, we had technology that could turn the tide. This time, we could save not just Angron, but his rebels as well.

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

Kharn POV:

The drop pods' impact barely registered through the sophisticated dampeners of the Exo-Armor. I had to admit, these Liberty Eagles and their technology were something else entirely. The armor moved like a second skin, feeding me information with a clarity that made our Mark II plate feel primitive in comparison.

We moved through Desh'ea's streets like wraiths. Yellow markers indicated civilians going about their daily business, unaware of transhuman killers moving amongst them. Red signatures marked armed guards—pathetically equipped by Astartes standards. But it was the blue markers of my battle-brothers that truly impressed me. The armor tracked their positions with microscopic precision, even predicting their likely movement paths.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Cavill's voice came through the vox, somehow knowing my thoughts. There was something about these Liberty Eagles that didn't sit right—they knew too much, moved too precisely, as if they'd rehearsed this mission a thousand times.

The arena loomed before us, a monument to barbarism masquerading as entertainment. My enhanced hearing picked up the roar of the crowd before we even reached the walls. The armor responded to my thoughts, adhesion systems engaging automatically as we scaled the structure. Like predatory creatures from death worlds, we moved vertically with impossible grace.

Then I saw him.

Even among the press of bodies in the arena below, he stood out like a sun among candles. My gene-father. Our Primarch. Every fiber of my transhuman body resonated with recognition. He stood nearly twice the height of the largest human gladiators, his muscles corded with power that made even the Ogryn opponents look diminutive in comparison.

"Throne of Terra," Brother Varius whispered over the vox. "He's magnificent."

Indeed he was. Fighting alongside him was an older mortal, moving with a grace that spoke of decades of combat experience. The two fought in perfect synchronization, as if they'd practiced this dance of death for years. The Ogryns didn't stand a chance.

My hands tightened on my weapon as I watched my gene-father being forced to perform like some beast for these... these vermin. The targeting system in the new armor helpfully identified optimal killing zones throughout the crowd. One word from me, and my brothers could begin the slaughter these "high-riders" so richly deserved.

"Steady, Brother-Captain," Cavill's voice cut through my rage. "Remember the mission parameters."

Then came the drone, a hovering insult they called "Maggot's Eye," and everything changed.

"Angron the Unbeaten and Oenomaus the Bear of Ull-Chaim have done it again!" The mechanical voice grated against my ears. "And for their Final Test, a Match of Treachery! Angron vs Oenomaus!"

I felt the growl building in my throat, echoed by my brothers. To force a warrior to fight his mentor, his friend—it was an abomination. These "High Riders" were worse than the most degenerate xenos we'd encountered in the Great Crusade.

"No." Angron's voice rang out, Our father's voice was firm, defiant. In that single word, I heard the strength that would lead armies, the will that could unite worlds.

The drone's response made my blood boil: "This is not a request. Refusing the orders of the high born... we have a way of handling this behavior."

What happened next would be forever burned into my memory.

"People of Desh'ea, how shall we deal with this insubordination?"

The crowd's response—"NAILS! NAILS! NAILS!"—was a chant that spoke of old horrors, of repeated atrocities. Before any of us could react, guns appeared from hidden positions. My enhanced vision caught every projectile as they struck my gene-sire, pumping him full of drugs potent enough to fell a Primarch. I saw targeting solutions flash across my visor. Sixteen optimal firing positions. Twenty-three high-value targets. Forty-two seconds to clear the immediate area of hostiles.

"Brother-Captain," one of my Warhounds snarled, "give the word. Give the word and we'll paint this arena red."

"Brother-Captain Khârn." Cavill's voice held an edge of steel I hadn't heard before. "Hold. Position."

"They dare..." The words came out as a growl. "They dare drug a son of the Emperor?"

"And they will pay," Cavill assured me. 

I watched them beat Oenomaus, the old warrior trying to reach his fallen son even as clubs and shock mauls drove him to his knees. The crowd cheered louder. they were lifting our Primarch's unconscious form onto a medicae slab. The old gladiator, Oenomaus, had been beaten into submission but still called out. "You cowards! Face him warrior to warrior! This is beneath even you, High Riders!"

These people deserve to die, I thought. They deserve to die screaming.

Captain Cavill's hand on my shoulder stopped me. "Discretion, Brother-Captain," he said, his voice tight with barely contained rage. "We're too few, and the consequences..."

He was right, damn him. Even with their superior technology, we were but a handful of Astartes. We could kill many, perhaps even enough to free our father, but the cost would be catastrophic. Not just to us, but to the Great Crusade itself.

Our father, the mighty Angron, was being carried away like some prized livestock to whatever torture they had planned. The "nails" they spoke of... something told me this was a pivotal moment, something that would shape not just our Legion's fate, but perhaps the Imperium itself.

"Nova Libertas has been notified," Cavill reported, his tone professional but laden with urgency. "The Primarch is coming. Hours, at most."

Hours. How much damage could these creatures do to our gene-father in hours? What were these "nails" they spoke of? The targeting reticle in my display kept drifting to the High Riders' viewing box. One burst of fire. That's all it would take...

"Brother-Captain," Cavill's voice cut through my murderous thoughts. "We need to move. They're taking him to the central medical facility. We can track him, but we need to stay undetected."

"The crowd," I growled. "They cheer for this. They celebrate this degradation."

"And they will answer for it," Cavill promised. There was something in his voice—knowledge, perhaps, or certainty born of information I wasn't privy to. "But right now, we need to focus on the mission. The Primarch—your Primarch—needs us thinking clearly."

I forced myself to focus, to push down the rage. The Exo-armor's systems responded to my elevated heartrate, automatically adjusting its performance parameters. These Liberty Eagles and their technology... there was more to them than they let on.

"War Hounds, form up," I ordered over the squad vox. "We follow. But mark my words, brothers—every face you see, every High Rider who cheers, every guard who raises a hand to our father... remember them. Their time will come."

As we moved through the shadows of Desh'ea, tracking our drugged gene-father, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were witnessing a crucial moment in history. Something about Cavill's urgency, the way he'd immediately contacted his Primarch... he knew something. Something about these "nails," about what they would mean for our Legion.

The Exo-armor's systems kept feeding me data: distance to target, optimal routes, threat assessments. But all I could focus on was the massive figure being carried away by those who would dare enslave a demigod. My gene-father. Our Primarch. Angron.

Hold on, father, I thought. The War Hounds are here. Your sons have found you. And when the Liberty Eagles arrive...

Blood calls for blood. And the High-Riders would learn the price of enslaving a Primarch.

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

The Central Medical Facility of Desh'ea had never witnessed anything like it. Death came not with the expected roar of bolters or the clash of combat, but in absolute silence. The Exo-Armor's advanced systems turned the Emperor's finest warriors into living ghosts.

Through the augmented reality display of the Lictor Pattern armor, the facility transformed into a three-dimensional killing ground. Every guard, every medical servitor, every twisted chirurgeon was marked, categorized, and designated for termination. The efficiency was breathtaking.

Red markers indicated armed opposition—forty-eight guards total, spread across three levels. Yellow markers highlighted medical personnel—twelve in total, including the lead "doctor" who would have performed the neural surgery. Blue markers showed friendly forces, moving like liquid shadow through the corridors.

Squad Primus, led by Brother-Sergeant Varius, broke off to secure Oenomaus. Their movement through the eastern wing was poetry in motion. The armor's enhanced mobility systems allowed them to cling to walls and ceilings, dropping down on unsuspecting guards with lethal precision. No shots fired, no alerts raised—just the wet sound of combat blades finding vital organs through gap-plates in flak armor.

In the western corridor, Brothers Marcus and Darius moved in perfect synchronization. A guard patrol of six men never saw them coming. The Exo-Armor's neural interface allowed for perfect coordination—one brother sweeping low while the other struck high, their titanium-ceramic blades sliding between ribs and severing spines. The guards' bodies were carefully lowered to the ground, the sound of their armor touching the floor dampened by the suit's acoustic suppression field.

Central command post—four guards, all armed with las-rifles. Brother Julius dropped from the ceiling, his armor's active camouflage making him appear as nothing more than a heat shimmer. By the time the guards realized something was wrong, two were already dead, their throats opened with surgical precision. The third managed to reach for his weapon before a tyranimite-clad hand crushed his windpipe. The fourth died never knowing what killed him.

The medical team presented a different challenge. The lead chirurgeon, a twisted individual whose augmetics seemed more suited to torture than healing, was surrounded by servitors and assistance. Squad Secundus dealt with them as efficiently as they had the guards. The servitors were disabled with targeted electromagnetic pulses from the Exo-Armor's integrated weapons systems. The human personnel were eliminated with quick, precise strikes—no blood, no screams, nothing to alert the rest of the facility.

In the primary surgical theatre, where they had taken Angron, Captain Khârn and Captain Cavill led the final assault. The room's defenders never stood a chance. The Exo-Armor's enhanced strength allowed them to literally tear limb from limb those who would dare harm the Primarch. The neural butcher who would have installed the Butcher's Nails died trying to comprehend how his security had been breached so completely.

Through it all, the facility's surveillance systems saw nothing. The Exo-Armor's multi-spectrum stealth systems defeated every augur, every pict-recorder, every motion sensor. As far as the facility's cogitators were concerned, the guards and medical team simply ceased to exist, deleted from reality by ghosts in the machine.

The final tally took less than three minutes:

48 guards eliminated

12 medical personnel neutralized

24 servitors disabled

0 alerts raised

0 shots fired

0 survivors

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

The air was thick with tension as Angron's eyes fluttered open, the drug-induced haze slowly lifting. Khârn stood before him, the unfamiliar Exo-Armor gleaming in the arena's harsh light. Angron's muscles tensed, ready to lash out at the first sign of threat.

"Easy, father," Khârn said, his voice low and soothing. "You're safe now."

Angron's gaze narrowed, sweeping over the unfamiliar figures surrounding him. "Father?" he growled, the word alien on his tongue. "What trickery is this?"

"No trickery, Angron," a new voice cut in. The man approaching was taller than even Kharn, his bearing regal yet approachable. "They are your sons" Henry gestured to the Warhounds, "And we are your nephews" He gestured to himself and the Eagles, "We've come to free you from this... degradation."

Angron bristled at the implied insult, his hands clenching into fists. "My sons? Nephews? I know no such thing. Who are you, and why should I trust the word of strangers?"

Khârn stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal the proud, scarred features of a true warrior. "I am Khârn, captain of the Eighth Assault Company. These are my brothers, the War Hounds." He gestured to the others, their features hidden behind the sleek visors of the Exo-Armor. "And you, mighty Angron, are our gene-father—the Primarch of our Legion."

Angron studied him, his expression torn between disbelief and the faintest glimmer of recognition. "Gene-father?" The word seemed to unlock something deep within him, a primal connection that even his harsh life had failed to sever.

"It's true, Angron," the taller man said, his voice calm and reassuring. "I am Henry Cavill, third captain of the Liberty Eagles. We've come to rescue you, and your comrades, from this... place."

As if on cue, the chamber's doors hissed open, admitting a new figure. Angron recognized the weathered features and calloused hands of the old gladiator, Oenomaus. The man moved with a limp, his robes stained with blood, but his eyes were alight with a determined fire.

"Angron," Oenomaus said, his voice rough with emotion. "They speak the truth. These... Astartes have come to rescue us—to free the slaves of Desh'ea."

Angron studied the old man, sensing the sincerity in his words. "You trust them, then?" He gestured to Cavill and Khârn. "Why should I?"

Oenomaus laid a hand on Angron's arm, a gesture that would have been foolhardy for any other man. "Because they are your sons, Angron. Your blood."

The words struck a chord within Angron, resonating with a primal familiarity. He stared at the two Astartes, seeing them anew. The instinctive pull he'd felt, the sense of kinship... it all clicked into place.

Sons," he murmured, the word foreign on his tongue. Unbidden, a memory surfaced—a half-forgotten dream of a golden figure, standing amidst a legion of warriors.

He looked to Oenomaus, seeing the same resolve in the old gladiator's eyes. "You and I, we had a plan. To lead the slaves to freedom." Oenomaus's brow furrowed. "But with the Astartes' aid, we might succeed where we would have failed."

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

Captain Cavill's POV: 

As Angron and Oenomaus laid out the details of their plan to free the slaves of Nuceria, I remained silent, carefully recording every word. My HUD displayed the live feed being transmitted back to father, Franklin, would be monitoring the situation closely.

The weight of this moment pressed down on me. Angron, the 12th Primarch, was finally within our grasp free from the Butcher's nails—but would not leave without his gladiator family in tow. I could sense his unwavering resolve, his determination to see this through and secure the freedom of those he had sworn to protect. It was a far cry from the rage-fueled berserker I had read about in the histories.

Father was already aware of the situation, and his instructions had been clear: "Let my brother rescue his kin. I will do the rest."