The Primarch of Liberty

Franklin's glowing red nose pulsed urgently as he passed another impossible bookshelf. This one appeared to be constructed entirely out of rejected manuscripts bound together with hope and coffee stains. He was about to move on when a particularly outrageous book cover caught his superhuman eye.

"By the Emperor's perfectly maintained manicure..." Franklin muttered, reaching for the book.

The cover featured what could only be described as the most over-the-top Space Marine illustration he'd ever seen. The warrior was impossibly muscular (even by Astartes standards), straddling a motorcycle that appeared to be made of pure lightning and screaming souls, while somehow managing to dual-wield chainswords IN THE WARP. Behind him, what looked suspiciously like an explosion in the shape of an eagle was giving a thumbs up.

"What in the Emperor's name is a Warhammer? I know it's a Weapon..." Franklin muttered, picking up the book cautiously, half-expecting it to burst into flames or summon a daemon.Flipping the cover open, he found the first chapter: "Making Your Character Relatable."

"Step 1: Make them an invincible gigachad," Franklin read aloud. He blinked, looking down at his own towering, perfectly sculpted physique. "Well, that's oddly specific, every Primarch is."

"Step 2: Give them a hot goth girlfriend," he continued, pausing as a particular Dark Eldar Archon came to mind. "That's just asking for trouble"

The steps continued, and Franklin couldn't help but chuckle as he read: "Step 3: There is no step 3, you've already won." He closed the book shut then and there, but a niggling curiosity kept him going. The text alternated between absurdity and startling insight:

"Remember: You can bend the lore, but never break it. The setting is awesome—James Workshop just doesn't know what to do with it half the time."

Franklin's smirk faded. "James Workshop? That name keeps coming back, And why do they sound like an Imperial functionary who's somehow both incompetent and brilliant?"

Chapter 2 delved into more specifics: "Developing Side Characters and Subplots."

"Step 1: Make them quirky but not too quirky. The meme potential must remain high."

Franklin recalled his Primeborn Captains "Quirky? They're professionals. Mostly."

"Step 2: Give them wildly impractical but cool weapons," the book added.

At this, Franklin laughed outright. His Legion's arsenal included everything and then some. "I think we might be guilty as charged."

Chapter 3 raised his hackles a bit: "How to Handle Lore."

"Step 1: Stick to the canon but don't be afraid to interpret it differently, You can bend the lore, but never break it. The setting is awesome—James Workshop just doesn't always know what to do with it.

"Step 2: Absolutely no female Space Marines. James Workshop was slick with the Custodes thing, but bad writing made them fall off"

"If you want badass women, use Sisters of Battle, Inquisitors, or Dark Eldar. They're way cooler anyway."

Franklin paused at the passage, furrowing his brow. "Female Space Marines?" he muttered aloud, shutting the book for a moment. He began pacing, his mind firing on all cylinders.

"No, that wouldn't work—genetically, it's not viable," he mused, scratching his chin. "The geneseed was designed specifically for the male biological structure. It interacts with the hormonal balance, skeletal density, and musculature that males have evolved for combat efficiency. Using females would be... well, biologically inefficient."

He frowned deeper, crossing his arms. "It's not a matter of exclusion or bias—this is bio-engineering 101. Even the Custodians, who are crafted through bio-alchemy, remain male for the same reason. Their transformation process reshapes every cell, every fiber of their being, and it's fine-tuned for peak performance in a male body. If Dear Old Dad ever attempted a female Custodian, she wouldn't just be functional; she'd probably end up resembling some kind of Terran goddess—a literal embodiment of perfection. But that's not the point; it's a matter of practicality, not aesthetics."

Franklin shrugged off the notion. "This isn't about ideology or fairness—it's about optimization. Both Space Marines and Custodians are war constructs, not egalitarian experiments." He waved the thought away with a dismissive hand.

Still, something about the whole argument nagged at him. "Why would anyone think this was a good idea? Inefficiency in either case wouldn't just be a design flaw; it'd be a betrayal of the Emperor's intent. No wonder the notion never made it past the drawing board. It's... nonsense and utterly stupid" he muttered.

"Let's see what other absurdities this thing has to offer," Franklin said, cracking a smirk as he resumed reading.

When he reopened it, the next chapter caught him off-guard:

Chapter 4: "Never Abandon Your Fic."

" Step 1: Under no circumstances should you let your fic rot in the Warp. Take a long hiatus, and when you return, pretend it was all part of your 'grand, multi-year narrative arc.'"

"If your fans start rioting, drop an out-of-context teaser chapter that solves nothing but reignites speculation."

Step 2: Dump all your half-baked ideas onto an Abominable Intelligence and watch it self-delete.

"If even the Men of Iron can't make sense of your plot threads, you're probably onto something great."

Franklin couldn't help but laugh out loud. "So, you either go missing for decades or overload an AI? Sounds about right for this galaxy."

Chapter 5: Engaging the Fandom Without Losing Your Sanity

Rule 1: Never ask for constructive criticism.

"The fandom will either worship your fic like it's the Lectitio Divinitatus or flame you harder than an Exterminatus. There's no middle ground."

Rule 2: Always reply with lore-bending answers.

"If someone questions your choices, say, 'It's based on pre-M28 archival fragments, which are notoriously unreliable.' Works every time."

Rule 3: Tease spinoffs you'll never write.

"Drop hints about a 'secret lost chapter' or a 'collaboration with Cegorach's Harlequins.' Fans will lose their minds while you sit back and laugh."

The book also included scrawled advice from past readers:

"For every chapter you write, sacrifice a bag of Doritos to the Omnissiah. It helps."

At one point, a section titled "What Not to Do" was crossed out entirely and replaced with:

"There are no rules. Just don't make the Tyranids talk. That's cursed."

Franklin sat back, stunned. The final chapter concluded with "Closing Thoughts:"

"Warhammer is a labor of love and madness. Your job as a writer is not to make sense of it but to make it entertaining. Remember, in the grim darkness of the far future, there's always room for a laugh. Just don't let James Workshop find out."

Franklin closed the book, exhaling deeply. "So this... Warhammer. It's a universe where everything is ridiculous and grim, but somehow, it works?" He looked at his surroundings—the towering, endless shelves of the Black Library, the whispered secrets of the Aeldari. "Why does this feel so familiar, like someone has been watching my life and writing it down?"

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Franklin's luminous nose led him through another impossible turn in the Black Library, honking with increasing urgency until it practically strobed like a disco ball. He came to an abrupt halt in front of a section that made his enhanced transhuman brain do a double-take.

"'Roboute X Yvraine Section'?" Franklin read aloud, his voice a mixture of disbelief and morbid curiosity. "What in the name of sweet liberty is this?"

The shelves before him were adorned with hearts made of wraithbone and ultramarines insignia twisted into romantic symbols. The books themselves seemed to pulse with an embarrassing energy, their titles written in flowing script that somehow managed to be both Gothic and Aeldari at the same time.

"'A Tale of Blue and Gold: When Logistics Meet Love'?" Franklin picked up one tome, his face a picture of growing horror. "'The Avenging Son's Eternal Flame'? 'Five Hundred Worlds of Love'? By the Emperor's perfectly maintained abs, what is this?"

He flipped open one of the books, immediately regretting his decision:

"Roboute's hearts skipped a beat as Yvraine's graceful form materialized from the webway portal. 'Your organizational skills are... most impressive,' she whispered, examining his latest spreadsheet..."

"NOPE!" Franklin slammed the book shut. "That's enough of that. Though I have to admit, that's exactly how Roboute would flirt. Nothing gets him going like a well-organized logistics report."

His attention was drawn to a wall of fan art. Some pieces were respectfully done portraits showing Guilliman and this mysterious Yvraine in noble poses. Others... well, Franklin wished he could unsee certain interpretations of how power armor might interface with Aeldari spirit-linked garments.

"Sweet mercy," Franklin muttered, "there's even a holo-drama series? 'The Theoretical and the Practical: A Love Story'? Who is writing these? Who has time for this? We're fighting a galaxy-spanning war, and someone's sitting around writing romantic fanfiction about my brother?"

He picked up another book, this one titled "Administrative Guidelines to the Heart."

"'Chapter One: The Codex Amorous'... okay, that's actually pretty funny. 'While the Codex Astartes does not support this action, the heart has its own protocols...' By Liberty's light, this is simultaneously the worst and best thing I've ever read."

Franklin's tactical mind couldn't help but analyze the situation. "So, Yvraine... Emissary of Ynnead, the Aeldari God of Death. Interesting parallel there – she's got her death god, I've got my war god. Though obviously, I'm way cooler. Khaine at least knows how to party. Death gods tend to be a bit of a downer at social events."

He chuckled, imagining the family dynamics. "Oh man, the family gatherings must be interesting. Roboute probably tries to establish proper seating arrangements while she's teaching him Aeldari meditation techniques. Actually... that might explain a lot about future-Roboute's stress management."

A nearby Harlequin materialized, holding up a card: "SHIPPING SECTION POPULAR WITH BOTH HUMANS AND AELDARI. BESTSELLER IN COMMORRAGH!"

"Even the Dark Eldar are reading this?" Franklin shook his head in amazement. "I guess romance really is universal. Though I'm slightly concerned about what they consider 'romantic.'"

He noticed a small note attached to one of the shelves: "All proceeds go to funding joint Human-Aeldari cooperation initiatives and spreadsheet optimization research."

"Of course," Franklin snorted. "Leave it to Roboute to monetize his own romance for the good of infrastructure development. That's my brother – even his love life has to be efficiently managed and properly budgeted."

The Harlequin flashed another card: "WANT TO SEE THE FANFICTION SECTION ABOUT YOU?"

"THERE'S A WHAT NOW?" Franklin's voice cracked in a most unprimarch-like manner.

The Harlequin's shoulders shook with silent laughter as they vanished, leaving Franklin with the horrifying knowledge that somewhere in this library, there might be shipping stories about him too.

"Note to self," he muttered, "never tell Roboute about this. He'd probably try to regulate the fanfiction industry and create a standardized template for romantic narratives. Although... that might actually improve some of these writing styles."

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Franklin's glowing nose led him to a section that could only be described as aggressively green. The shelves were crude, seemingly bolted together with random pieces of metal, and covered in crude glyphs that somehow managed to look both philosophical and violent at the same time. A sign, written in what appeared to be red paint (or possibly blood), proclaimed: "FINKIN' REAL HARD ABOUT KRUMPIN': DA ORK FILOZOFY SEKSHUN."

"Oh, this should be good," Franklin chuckled, ran his fingers over the first volume in front of him. The spine was adorned with a crude engraving that read, "Compiled by Various Weirdboyz Who Fought Good and Thought Better." His laughter bubbled up uncontrollably as he flipped the cover open.

"'Da real WAAAGH! ain't 'ere, it's ova dere, in da Big Green Place in da sky where Gork an' Mork live!'" Franklin read aloud, his voice shifting to match the exaggerated orkish accent. He couldn't help but smile at the attempt to parallel Plato's Cave allegory. "If Plato only knew, eh?"

The next page illustrated crude drawings of Orks stuck in dark caves, staring at shadows on the walls. Arrows and labels provided commentary like, "DIS GIT FINKIN' HE SEES DA REAL FIGHT" and "BUT DA REAL FIGHT IS BEHIND 'IM, YA ZOG!"

He laughed out loud. "Magnus would either stroke out or write a dissertation on this!" Franklin rubbed his eyes, his mind swirling with the hilarity of it all. Gork and Mork as orkish gods of enlightenment—what a concept!

The next book was bound with jagged metal plates, stamped with the title: "BEYOND GOOD AN' EVIL (CUZ BOTH IS GOOD FOR FIGHTIN')".

"'Gork an' Mork? Nah, zog dat. WE'RE da real gods, boyz!'" Franklin read, his grin stretching wider. "It's like they've reinvented Ork existentialism. In the WAAAGH! we kill the WAAAGH! to bring life to da real WAAAGH!"

It was a bizarre, but surprisingly deep perspective. Orks weren't just existing; they were fighting to exist, to impose their will on the galaxy with violence. There was no need for the moral struggles of good versus evil. As Nietzork wrote, the only thing that mattered was fighting.

Flipping through the next book, Franklin read the title with a grin: Descartork's Philosophical Revelations: Cogito Ergo WAAAGH!"

"'I fink, which means I fink I wanna punch ya,'" Franklin quoted, unable to hold back his laughter. "Cogito ergo WAAAGH! This is the essence of Ork existentialism. To think, you must punch, and to punch is to truly exist."

The book illustrated Orks punching things with scientific precision: "FACT: IF YA CAN PUNCH IT, IT'S REAL," and, of course, "IF YA CAN'T PUNCH IT, YA AIN'T TRYIN' HARD ENOUGH!"

Franklin snorted. "Magnus would be ecstatic about this. Or horrified. Either way, he'd want to write an entire treatise on it."

Turning the page, Franklin reached for the next book. He squinted at the title, laughing to himself: "Orkstotle's Golden Dakka: Philosophy of Balanced Violence."

"'Da best WAAAGH! 'as lots of choppin' AND lots of shootin'. If ya can't do both, yer doin' it wrong!'" Franklin read aloud, now sitting cross-legged, absorbed in the book. "This is tactical gold. A proper WAAAGH needs balance. Balance of dakka and choppa."

The book included detailed diagrams that showed the correct ratio of shooting to chopping. "DAKKA + CHOPPA = PROPA FIGHT" and "MORE DAKKA × MORE CHOPPA = BEST WAAAGH!"

Franklin scratched his chin thoughtfully. "This belongs in the Liberty Eagles' training manual. It's surprisingly sound advice."

The next title caught his eye, "Sokrateef's Methodology: If an Ork Stompa Explodes, Does It Still Count as a Krumpin'?"

"If an Ork stompa explodes, but no gits is dere to see it, does it still count as a krumpin'?"

Franklin was practically howling with laughter now. "The philosophical implications are staggering! This is like quantum mechanics meets orkish warfare!"

The book included transcripts of Sokrateef's famous debates, which mostly consisted of him asking questions and then headbutting anyone who gave answers he didn't like.

"I love this," Franklin exclaimed. "It's like philosophy... only with more smashing."

Franklin picked up a hefty tome, its cover emblazoned with an image of an Ork smashing a WAAAGH! horn with a massive choppa. Inside, the writings were a strange blend of Orkish fervor and pseudo-Hegelian logic.

"'Da WAAAGH! is like a punchin' fist, it moves through time, and every fight is a step in da process of punchin' harder,'" Franklin read aloud, struggling to stifle his laughter. "I mean, da idea that every fight leads to a greater conflict... that's kind of profound, right?"

He thumbed through the pages, finding lines like, "'Every ork needs to fight 'imself before he can fight anyone else,' and 'If da WAAAGH! ain't been fought, then da WAAAGH! ain't been born!'"

"I never thought I'd see the day Hegel's dialectic gets weaponized into a WAAAGH! primer," Franklin mused, "But this is... this is surprisingly deep. It's basically about eternal conflict. But with more explosions."

The next book he discovered was a surprisingly serene-looking text, titled "The Dao of Dakka and Choppa." Franklin initially thought it was a joke, but once he opened the pages, he was mesmerized by the wisdom it contained.

"'The best Ork fights are da ones where you know when to chop, and when to shoot. Dakka an' Choppa: Da Balance of Da WAAAGH!'" Franklin chuckled, reading the first page, then stared at the rest in awe.

The book described the Ork approach to balance, likening it to the harmonious duality of dakka and choppa. "Too much dakka, and yer enemy will scatter before ya get a proper fight. Too much choppa, and ya won't have enough dakka to finish da job." The text went on to recommend, "'When da fight gets dirty, shoot 'em up, but when da fight gets personal, bring out da choppa.'"

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Franklin's illuminated nose led him into the Chaos section of the Black Library, a vast chamber divided into distinct color-coded areas that would make any interior decorator question their life choices. The purple section seemed to pulse with excess, the sickly green area appeared to be cultivating its own ecosystem, the red corner was literally bleeding knowledge, and the blue section... well, the blue section was doing something different every time Franklin looked at it.

"Right," Franklin muttered, adjusting his glowing nose. "Time to visit the bird brain's book collection."

The Tzeentch section whispered as he entered, thousands of books murmuring secrets, theories, and what sounded suspiciously like cosmic knock-knock jokes. A Harlequin librarian was calmly dusting the shelves, seemingly unperturbed by the occult cacophony around them. Franklin watched in amusement as a particularly rebellious tome attempted to make a break for freedom, only to be smacked back into place by the librarian's feather duster with the precision of a marksman.

"Ha! Nice shot," Franklin chuckled, earning a silent bow from the librarian who then returned to their duties as if swatting escape-artist books was just another Tuesday at the office.

Following his increasingly excitable nose-compass (which was now honking in what he swore was Morse code), Franklin ventured deeper into the labyrinth of Tzeentchian knowledge. The books here seemed particularly animated, their spines rippling like waves as he passed. Some tried to catch his attention by fluttering their pages seductively, while others slammed themselves shut when he looked their way, playing hard to get.

Finally, his nose blazed like a miniature sun, pointing him toward a particularly ornate tome. Its cover bore golden symbols that seemed to rearrange themselves when he wasn't looking directly at them, forming patterns that made his eyes water and his brain itch.

"'The Book of Curses and Arcane Knowledge'," Franklin read aloud, lifting the heavy volume. "Well, that's surprisingly straightforward for Tzeentch. Which probably means it's a trap."

The moment he opened the book, it began whispering in what could only be described as a cosmic customer service voice – professionally condescending with a hint of ancient malice:

"The curse of the Thousand Sons was never truly a curse, but rather a blessing—unintended, of course, by those meddlesome mortals. But how did they know what they were unleashing?"

Franklin's eye twitched slightly. "Great, a book that talks like a corporate motivational speaker crossed with a fortune cookie."

Undeterred, he continued flipping through pages dense with arcane lore, failed experiments, and what appeared to be Tzeentchian grocery lists. Each page seemed to delight in being as vague and unhelpful as possible, like an ancient text version of a tech support chat bot.

Finally, he reached the last page, his hopes high for some actual answers. Instead, he found:

"The real cure to the Flesh Change is... the friends we made along the way."

Franklin stared at the page, his expression shifting through the five stages of grief in record time. He held the page up to the light, turned it upside down, and even checked for invisible ink.

"You've got to be shitting me," he growled, his voice echoing through the library. Somewhere, a Harlequin held up a "QUIET PLEASE" sign, then quickly ducked behind a shelf as Franklin's glare could have melted ceramite.

The book, perhaps sensing its reader's mounting frustration, began to shudder. A new page materialized, glowing with eldritch energy:

"Sike! Turn this page..."

Franklin slammed the book down on a nearby table hard enough to make several nearby volumes jump in their shelves. His hand began glowing with barely contained power, flames dancing between his fingers.

"Listen here, you literary prankster," he addressed the book directly, "if the next page says anything about 'the journey being the destination' or 'believing in yourself,' I'm going to demonstrate why they call me the Liberator by liberating your pages from their binding."

The book's pages fluttered nervously, like a butterfly realizing it had just taunted a flamer. The flames around Franklin's hand cast dramatic shadows across the pages, making the runes dance in terror.

In what appeared to be a last-ditch effort at self-preservation, the book shuddered one final time and revealed its true message:

"You're opening the wrong book, mortal. The answer to your query lies in the Minor Warp Gods and their interactions when brought into the Materium. Seek them, for they may have the answers that Tzeentch, in his infinite subtlety, has hidden from you, the one to my left."

Franklin's gaze slowly shifted to the left, where an unassuming volume sat innocently on the shelf, its spine marked with symbols that seemed to wink at him.

"You know," Franklin addressed the first book, extinguishing his flames, "you could have just said that from the beginning."

The book's pages ruffled in what might have been a shrug, if books could shrug.

"Of course not," Franklin answered himself, "because that would be too straightforward, and we can't have that in the Tzeentch section, can we?"

A nearby Harlequin silently applauded his deduction, holding up a sign that read: "NOW YOU'RE GETTING IT!"

As Franklin reached for the indicated book, he couldn't help but wonder if Magnus had gone through similar trials in his quest for knowledge. Maybe that's why everything went wrong – not enough patience for Tzeentchian literary criticism.