Siege or Fortify?

Mount Telephus loomed high over the Olympian landscape, its jagged peaks clawing at the skies like ancient guardians. The crisp air carried the faint hum of machinery from distant forges and the murmur of life thriving within this fortress-world. Franklin Valorian stood beside the Emperor, surveying the rugged terrain.

"Olympia certainly has no shortage of stone and mountains," Franklin observed, his deep voice carrying a touch of wry humor. "Flatlands seem to be an endangered species here. Makes me wonder: where are they growing their crops? Underground farms with artificial sunlight, perhaps? Oh! wait it could be terraced fields, I've seen quite a few possible locations around us"

The Emperor, clad in radiant golden armor that seemed to pulse with the light of a distant star, turned his gaze toward his son. His expression, though often inscrutable, softened with a hint of amusement. "Your curiosity is never-ending, Franklin."

"Keeps life interesting," Franklin replied, kicking a loose rock off the precipice. He watched it tumble down the sheer cliff, disappearing into the abyss below. "But seriously, why are we here? Couldn't we just meet Perty in Lochos or wherever he's holding court?"

The Emperor's golden eyes flickered with a knowing light. "Spectacle," he said simply.

Franklin raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin forming on his face. "No shit," he muttered. His foot nudged another rock, sending it careening downward.

Before he could voice another quip, a booming voice echoed across the mountain range, amplified by the natural acoustics of the Olympian peaks. "FATHER!"

The sound reverberated like the strike of a great bell, sending a flock of avian creatures scattering from the cliffs. Franklin straightened, his smirk fading into an expression of curiosity. "I'm guessing that's Perty," he said, tilting his head toward the distant sound.

The Emperor nodded, a faint smile gracing his otherwise stoic visage. "Indeed."

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

Once more, Perturabo climbed. His life up to the point faded into inconsequentiality. His works of art and science, his time at Lokos, his conquests of most of Olympia, they all seemed unimportant. They were activities undertaken to wile away a long vigil, until this sole matter of importance could be adressed. Finally, after years of waiting, his Father had come.

Perturabo climbed hand over hand, rapidly and without due care, ripping his skin on the razored rocks of mount Telephus. It's pristine snows, untouched by human tread, gleamed above. But they could not outshine the figure that stood at the top of the cliff. Perturabo stared into his brilliance, weeping for the glory. His tears froze upon his skin, coating them in ice that cracked when his cheeks moved.

"Father!", he cried.

The glowing figure said nothing, but awaited him silently below the peak of the mountain. Though his view should often have been obscured by the overhanging crags of the unclimbable peak, Perturabo could see his Father no matter where he was. He did not care how; he could see his father. He was certain that it was him. More certain than he had ever been of anything in his life. From the moment the lights came down from sky two nights ago and settled upon Telephus, he was sure that his true maker had arrived. Others said the Black Judges had come for their tithe, or that the Gods had returned to judge the world, but Perturabo knew with unshakeable certainty who it was.

Father.

He had left the palace at Locos the same day, without provisions, and taken an aircraft for Telephus. There was nowhere for the light flitter to land, so he had crashed it down at the base of the towering mountain and set out on foot. Through terraced fields, then sparse forests, on to the prickly meadow that grew beyond the treeline and finally onto bare rock. Almost eight thousand meters and he had not stopped. He looked up upwards. The star maelstrom was gone. For the first time, Perturabo was free of its scrutiny.

He was not at peace, not yet. His heart thundered with nervous energy. His mind crowded itself with a hundred different possible outcomes of this meeting. Anxiety turned most of them bad. He feared he would not be recognized, or that he would be deemed unworthy, or that he would find his father cruel. Or that he had been wrong, and it was not his father after all.

Positive possibilities dwindled under the weight of his paranoia, inherent to him but honed by years of life among the Olympians. He had lost count of how many plots he had foiled against his life. There was a chance this miracle was but the latest. His need to know sped him on. Infused with a frantic, almost destructive energy, he climbed at a speed that would have burst a mortal heart, passing far into air that would have starved the lungs of a normal human being.

Telephus was so high that altitude sickness and a lack of oxygen afflicted even him, and he ascended in a state close to delirium, taunted by the mocking words of unseen beings.

He reached a broad ledge. Behind him, all of Olympia spread out, the lesser mountains like sycophants crowded around the majesty of mount Telephus. Sparing no look for the view, he ran across the loose rock of the ledge, imprinting it for the first time with human footprints. A cliff of ice reared up ahead. Without stopping, he scrambled upwards, his clawed hands punching holes into the rock face when no handhold existed. The cold burned his flesh, his fingers became numb. Like tools of raw iron isolated from his body, he used them to haul himself upwards. His breath seared his lungs, his limbs trembled with lactic acid buildup even his marvelous body could not purge. Coloured dots danced across his eyes. He reached upwards, throwing his weight after his hand by pushing hard with his feet. He had been climbing too fast and too dangerously. All so he might fulfill his need to see his father. This time, his fingers found nothing to grab onto, and he overbalanced. With an incoherent shout Perturabo fell backwards, finally defeated.

But he did not fall.

An armoured hand grabbed his wrist, and though it was a hand of standard human size, not gargantuan like his own, a great strength was hidden within it.

Perturabo looked up, straight into the face of the shining figure, and he cried out in fear and wonder. His mind was laid bare. A presence as crushing as the collapse of a mountain bore down on him. The light faded. Perturabo was standing upon solid ice over nine thousand meters in the sky, where the air thinned to blackness and stars shone all day long.

The man's face, previously hidden by the light of his majesty, cleared. Features emerged from the radiance, until Perturabo saw his body and face clearly. A man, mighty and godlike in power, but a man for all that, stood before him. His smile was broad in a flawless face.

"My son.", he said.

His lips remained in that sincere expression of pleasure, the like of which Perturabo had never seen on the calculating faces of the Olympians. No words passed his lips, but still he spoke.

"I have found you."

"I..."

Perturabo swayed. The pressure of his father's mind was immense. The much feared star maelstrom was nothing compared to this power. Perturabo's deepest thoughts were dragged out into the light of his soul and read as easily as words on paper. He looked down on the man, then fell to his knees with all humility, a quality which until this moment he had not known in himself.

"Father..."

Kneeling, Perturabo was still taller than the man, but he was left in no doubt that this strange visitor surpassed him in every way.

"I am the Emperor of Terra, and of all mankind.", said the man now speaking aloud. His voice was calm and full of the promise of great things. "You are Perturabo."

"I am! I am.", said Perturabo, "You know me!"

The Emperor laid a hand on his shoulder. Warriors in tall helms and golden armor were arrayed behind the emperor. They watched him closely.

"You are as dauntless as I intended you to be."

The emperor looked out over the world, as if he could see the smallest detail from their lofty vantage.

"You have achieved much."

His smile broadened with delight.

"I see a world of peace, filled with mighty castles and marvelous devices. We have much to talk of. And I can teach you a great deal. I sense the hunger in you for knowledge. I think you and I have many nights of discussion ahead of us."

"Yes!", said Perturabo, "Please!" He was struck near dumb by wonder.

"Will you offer me your allegiance? Will you join with me, and pledge yourself to humanity's service?"

The warriors in gold tensed, their weapons pointed at Perturabo. Ordinarily this insult would have sent him into a towering rage, but Perturabo's arrogance, until then immutable as iron, melted and was swept away, and he answered meekly.

"I want nothing more! I swear that I shall serve you faithfully for all time. This I pledge!"

The emperor looked at him with an expression of infinite wisdom. Deep in his eyes, sorrow lurked. Perturabo wished more than anything to banish that sadness if he could.

"Then rise, my son."

The sadness was hidden away again, so that Perturabo doubted he had ever seen it, and was ashamed he could impute such an emotion to so perfect a being.

"Your road will be hard. But few are worthy of it.", said the emperor, "I have many tasks for you. The indefatigable. The indomitable. The unrelenting. You shall be my Lord of Iron."

Perturabo cried out in unabashed joy. Finally, he felt acceptance without caveat. Love radiated from the emperor for his found son. Perturabo basked in it. For the first time, he felt a sense of true belonging.

"And may it forever be so.", said Perturabo.

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The first time Perturabo laid eyes upon Franklin Valorian was on his return to the City of Lochos. His mind swirled with thoughts of the monumental meeting with his father atop the peak of Telephus. The Emperor had been everything Perturabo had envisioned, a figure of immense power and inscrutable presence. Yet, the initial joy and awe of meeting his creator had begun to fade, leaving behind a brewing storm of questions and uncertainties. Among these was the Emperor's enigmatic decision to assign a brother, one he had never known existed, to guide him through the intricacies of the Imperium's bureaucracy.

As Perturabo approached the grand halls of Lochos, he caught sight of a stranger speaking animatedly with his sister, Calliphone. The man stood out in every possible way. Clad in a navy blue mech-suit adorned with star-like patterns, his presence radiated confidence and ease. The suit itself was a marvel of technological sophistication, far beyond anything Perturabo had seen on Olympia. Perturabo's analytical mind immediately began dissecting the design, noting the fluid integration of armor plates, energy conduits, and embedded devices whose purposes were not immediately apparent. But what struck him more was the man's demeanor. Unlike the cold, calculating aura Perturabo himself exuded, this brother wore a perpetual smirk, an expression that seemed both self-assured and utterly carefree.

As Perturabo approached, he caught fragments of their conversation.

"…the way you analyze your father's governance is impressive," the stranger said, his voice warm yet calculated. "I've seen many rulers in my time, and you, Calliphone, have the qualities of an excellent leader. If Dammekos weren't so rigid, he'd see it too."

Calliphone gave a rare, genuine smile. "You flatter me, stranger, but my father… well, he believes leadership is a man's burden."

"Then he's blind to potential," the man replied smoothly. "Leadership isn't about gender; it's about talent and worth. If he can't see that, he's doing himself and Lochos a disservice."

Calliphone tilted her head, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. "And what of my brothers?" she asked, testing him.

"Herakon?" Franklin shrugged. "He'd be outmaneuvered by his political opponents within a month. Too trusting, not enough guile. Andos is the opposite—too kind for his own good. A ruler must find balance, and you, Calliphone, have it. The strength to command and the wisdom to adapt."

Perturabo's steps quickened as a surge of irritation sparked within him. This stranger—this brother—had evaluated his family so casually, so thoroughly, and seemed to have won Calliphone's approval with his silver tongue. Perturabo's analytical mind, ever restless, began forming questions. Why had the Emperor entrusted this brother with such important tasks? And why did this man's flippant demeanor conceal an undeniable air of authority?

Perturabo cleared his throat, drawing their attention. Calliphone's expression shifted to one of sibling formality, while the stranger turned with that same irrepressible smirk.

"Ah, you must be Perty," the man said, stepping forward. "Franklin Valorian. Primarch of the Eleventh Legion. And, as of now, your brother, and apparently, your new guide to the labyrinth of Imperial bureaucracy."

Perturabo's golden eyes narrowed as he took in the man before him. "I prefer my full name," he said coldly.

Franklin's smirk didn't waver. "Sure thing, Peter."

The nickname hit like a miscalculated chisel strike, causing Perturabo's jaw to tighten. "It's Perturabo," he corrected, his tone sharper.

Franklin raised his hands in mock surrender. "Got it, Peterturbo. My bad."

Calliphone stifled a laugh, quickly excusing herself from the scene. Perturabo watched her leave, his irritation mounting. Turning back to Franklin, he decided to test this brother's temperament. "You carry yourself as though nothing in the world could trouble you," he said. "Do you truly take your responsibilities so lightly? Or is this an act?"

Franklin leaned casually against a nearby pillar, unperturbed. "Oh, I take my responsibilities very seriously. I just don't see the point in brooding over them. Life's complicated enough without adding unnecessary weight to it."

Perturabo's tone turned sarcastic. "A fascinating philosophy. I'm sure it serves you well when you're called to address matters of great importance."

Franklin's smirk softened into something more thoughtful. "You're testing me. That's fine. I'd probably do the same if our roles were reversed. But let me save us both some time: I'm here because Father trusts me to handle things that matter. And I'm here to help you, whether you like it or not."

Perturabo's eyes flicked to the mech-suit once more, his mind shifting gears. "Your suit. It's... sophisticated. More so than anything I've encountered. Tell me, what's its purpose?"

Franklin straightened, clearly enjoying the shift in topic. "Glad you asked. It's more than just armor. It's a masterpiece of functionality. Three layers of shielding: quantum, void, and conversion. Dimensional storage for weapons and tools. Here, let me show you."

With a swift motion, Franklin activated a control on his suit. A low hum filled the air as a massive rotary cannon materialized, attaching seamlessly to his right arm. The weapon's design was as elegant as it was intimidating, a fusion of form and function that left Perturabo momentarily speechless.

"Impressive," Perturabo admitted, his tone begrudging. "But tell me, do you design such marvels yourself?"

Franklin shook his head. "Not entirely. I'm more of an overseer. I gather the brightest minds, give them the resources they need, and let them work their magic. The Independence Sector provides the material support, and I provide the vision."

Perturabo's skepticism lingered. "So you rely on others."

"I rely on teamwork," Franklin corrected. "No one achieves greatness alone, Perty. Not even us."

Perturabo bristled at the nickname but found himself drawn into the conversation despite his reservations. The casual yet confident way Franklin spoke was disarming, and the mention of the Independence Sector piqued his curiosity.

"The Independence Sector," Perturabo said, his tone shifting to one of genuine interest. "I've heard whispers of its preservation of technology from the Dark Age. Tell me more."

Franklin handed Perturabo a sleek data-slate. "This contains everything you'll need to know about the current state of the Imperium, including the Independence Sector. But in short, it's a haven for innovation and progress. We've managed to preserve and advance technologies that were almost lost to time. It's not perfect, but it's a start."

Perturabo accepted the data-slate, his mind already racing with possibilities. For the first time since their meeting, his guarded demeanor began to crack, replaced by a spark of genuine curiosity. As the two continued to talk, their initial tension gave way to a shared appreciation for technology and progress. Though their personalities remained starkly different, a foundation was laid for what could become a unique and complex bond.

By the end of their conversation, Perturabo found himself both irritated and intrigued by this enigmatic brother. Franklin's perpetual smirk and carefree attitude still grated on his nerves, but beneath that exterior lay a mind as sharp as any he had encountered. As Perturabo turned to leave, data-slate in hand, Franklin called after him.

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A few weeks later, Franklin invited Perturabo to a gathering of brothers in the Grand Chamber of Sweet Liberty. Franklin walked beside Perturabo, his casual confidence contrasting with Perturabo's measured steps.

"So, Peter, how are you holding up? Your Legion?" Franklin asked, breaking the silence as they approached the grand doors.

Perturabo's expression tightened at the nickname. "It's Perturabo," he said sternly, casting a side glance at Franklin. "I've told you to use my full name."

Franklin smirked, unfazed. "Sure thing, Peterturbo."

Perturabo sighed heavily, his breath audible, and let out a low grunt. Deciding to move past the inevitable irritation, he added, "My Legion is exemplary. They have proven their mettle time and time again, achieving feats no other could match. Their history speaks for itself."

"That's good," Franklin replied, his tone genuine despite the grin that still lingered on his face. "Exemplary Legions make for exemplary brothers."

As the two entered the chamber, Perturabo was immediately struck by the strong, distinctive aroma of cigars wafting through the air. It was a smell that he associated with luxury and leisure, not exactly the atmosphere he had anticipated. His golden eyes swept the room, taking in the sight of his assembled brothers.

Conversations ceased as the gathered Primarchs turned their attention to the newcomers. Their gazes ranged from curious to calculating, each brother assessing the rediscovered sibling and the ever-charismatic Franklin.

Magnus, seated at the far end with his towering crimson presence unmistakable, was the first to speak. His deep voice carried a mix of amusement and curiosity. "How is it that Franklin is always the one able to find new brothers?" he asked, his single remaining eye glinting with a knowing look.

Dorn, standing stoically near a large holographic display, glanced briefly at Magnus before answering in his typical blunt manner. "Because he's Franklin. He is Father's unofficial liaison. This makes sense." Dorn's tone was matter-of-fact, as if this explanation required no elaboration.

Franklin chuckled, giving Dorn a nod of acknowledgment. "Unofficial or not, I do what needs to be done."

Before Perturabo could process the subtle banter, Sanguinius approached him with a radiant smile, his angelic features exuding warmth and charisma. "I am Sanguinius," he said, extending a hand. "Welcome, brother. It is an honor to finally meet you."

Perturabo shook Sanguinius's hand with a firm grip, noting the sincerity in his words. "Thank you," Perturabo replied curtly, though he appreciated the gesture.

Roboute Guilliman was next, stepping forward with a composed demeanor. "Roboute Guilliman," he introduced himself. "It's good to have you among us, Perturabo. Your reputation precedes you."

"As does yours," Perturabo replied, his tone neutral but respectful. Guilliman's reputation as a master planner and statesman had certainly reached his ears.

Magnus rose from his seat and approached, towering over the others. "Magnus the Red," he said with a small smile, extending his massive hand. "I hope you've found your time since rediscovery enlightening, brother."

"It has been... revealing," Perturabo replied carefully, shaking Magnus's hand. He was struck by the sheer presence of his crimson-haired sibling, whose piercing gaze seemed to see far beyond the present moment.

Finally, Dorn stepped forward, his movements precise and deliberate. "Rogal Dorn," he said simply, his tone clipped but not unkind. "You will find that each of us has our place within the Imperium. I trust you will come to understand yours."

Perturabo inclined his head slightly. "I always do."

Magnus's smile widened, and his tone took on a slightly mischievous edge. "Most of our brothers are still out conquering the stars, but you may know their names and faces from the latest family portrait we took. Perhaps Father has already shown it to you?"

Perturabo raised an eyebrow. "A family portrait?"

Magnus nodded, clearly enjoying the moment. "Indeed. A pict-capture for propaganda purposes. Franklin insists it shows the unity and strength of the Primarchs. Since a rediscovered sibling has joined us, I imagine a new pict will soon be organized. Isn't that right, Franklin?"

Franklin leaned against a nearby column, arms crossed and his ever-present smirk in place. "Oh, absolutely. Can't miss an opportunity to immortalize the family dynamic."

Perturabo frowned slightly, unsure how to interpret Magnus's tone. "I assume this is meant to bolster morale among the Imperium's populace?"

"Precisely," Magnus replied smoothly. "A shining image of strength and camaraderie. Never mind that most of us are rarely in the same place at the same time."

Dorn interjected, his tone dry. "It serves its purpose. Appearances matter, even if reality does not always align."

Magnus chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "And here I thought you disliked the theatrics, Dorn."

"I do," Dorn replied, his expression unchanging. "But I understand their necessity."

Franklin clapped Perturabo on the shoulder, drawing his attention back to the present. "Don't worry, Perty. You'll get used to the family dynamic soon enough."

Perturabo's golden eyes flicked toward Franklin, narrowing slightly at the nickname, but he chose not to comment this time.

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Rogal Dorn approached Franklin, Dorn walked with his characteristic posture—stoic, resolute, and precise—his hands clasped behind his back. In his other hand, he carried a meticulously detailed architectural blueprint rolled tightly under his arm. The faint sound of murmured conversations and the distant hum of machinery filled the background, but Dorn's determined steps silenced all as he approached Franklin.

Franklin stood near a broad table, casually inspecting a glowing schematic of the Independence Sector. His perpetual smirk deepened as he sensed Dorn's approach, though he didn't look up immediately. Nearby, Perturabo hovered, idly observing the display, though his sharp gaze betrayed his interest.

Dorn, with a slight bow of his head, addressed Franklin directly. "Brother, I have completed the commissioned design for your Fortress World. Its position and layout will protect not only the planetary surface but the entire solar system it governs. Allow me to present it."

Franklin's smirk grew as he turned, his brown eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Let's see what you've got, Dorn. I've been looking forward to seeing the Master Builder's work in action."

Dorn unrolled the blueprint with practiced precision, spreading it out on the table. The design was immaculate: a series of concentric planetary defense rings, automated orbital platforms, overlapping void shields, and artillery placements that created a near-impenetrable fortress around the planet. Dorn's voice carried a tone of pride as he explained.

"The primary fortress sits at the planetary poles, ensuring protection against orbital assaults," Dorn began, his voice carrying the solemn weight of an immutable truth. "Secondary and tertiary bastions cover every strategic weak point, allowing for overlapping fields of fire. The orbital defense stations operate in perfect unison with surface batteries, creating an inescapable web of destruction for any invader foolish enough to approach."

Franklin leaned forward, smirk widening as he examined the design. "Impressive, Rogal. Truly. A masterclass in meticulous overkill. But…" He straightened, folding his arms in mock contemplation. "No fortress is safe when Sweet Liberty is in the system."

Dorn's expression didn't shift—except for the slight narrowing of his eyes. "A fortress cannot defend against orbital annihilation by a glorified parade ship. That is not the fault of the design but the unholy absurdity of your vessel."

Franklin's grin broadened. "Well said, Dorn. Sweet Liberty does have a certain way of… equalizing things. You know, with giant lasers."

Before Dorn could reply, Perturabo, who had been looming silently behind Franklin, finally spoke. "He's right."

Franklin turned, curious. "Oh? What's your take, Perty?"

Perturabo stepped closer, his voice carrying its usual grim weight as his eyes scanned the blueprint. "It's… adequate. Precise. But boring. Predictable."

Dorn's head snapped up like a turret locking onto a target. "Predictable?"

Perturabo didn't even glance at him. "Symmetry is a weakness. It creates patterns, and patterns are vulnerabilities. Anyone with a shred of ingenuity could exploit this."

Dorn's jaw clenched. "Symmetry ensures stability. Efficiency. Your obsession with asymmetry leads to chaos."

Perturabo smirked faintly, folding his arms. "Chaos? No. Adaptability. Your fortress is a static relic—unprepared for unconventional strategies or surprises. Sweet Liberty aside, it wouldn't take me long to find its weak points."

Dorn's eye twitched ever so slightly. "There are no weak points."

"There are several weak points."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"The angle of these battlements is 0.47 degrees off optimal," Perturabo jabbed a finger at the hololith. "A properly calibrated macro-cannon could exploit this flaw."

Dorn's tone remained steady as a siege wall. "It is not a flaw. It is a kill-box—a geometrically perfect zone of annihilation."

"An annihilation of your own resources, perhaps," Perturabo shot back. "These walls should be 43% thicker. And where are the subterranean facilities? A proper fortress should extend 20 kilometers underground."

"The walls are precisely as thick as they need to be," Dorn replied, voice edged with finality. "Anything more would be excessive."

"Excessive?!" Perturabo's voice rose with incredulity. "There is no such thing as excessive fortification! And these turret placements—octagonal? Octagonal?"

"Octagonal turrets provide superior coverage."

"Hexagonal is better. This is basic geometry, Dorn."

"You wouldn't know superior geometry if it built itself around you."

Franklin chuckled, watching the rising storm with amusement. "You two know you're basically the same person, right? Just two sides of the same siegehammer."

Both Primarchs turned on him with synchronized scowls. "We are nothing alike!" they barked in unison, before immediately glaring at each other for the unintentional agreement.

Franklin held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Don't shoot the messenger. Please, continue."

Perturabo grabbed the hololithic controls and began furiously altering Dorn's design. "Observe, brother. Using superior Iron Warriors methodology—"

Dorn cut him off, voice cold as ceramite. "Your so-called methodology couldn't protect a birdhouse from a determined attack."

"Ha! Your rigidity invites destruction. A fortress should adapt. Transform. It should become a weapon itself!"

"This is why you fail," Dorn retorted. "You overcomplicate what should be simple. The purity of defense lies in its immutability."

"Your fortress is a monument to stagnation!"

"Your fortress is a chaotic heap of inefficiency!"

The argument escalated, their voices echoing through the chamber as other Primarchs began to gather. Magnus the Red smirked as he sipped from a goblet of wine. "Ah, the eternal debate of walls versus spikes. It never gets old."

Sanguinius chuckled, folding his arms. "They're like stormclouds in a thunderstorm. Should we stop them, or just enjoy the show?"

"Let it play out," Guilliman said with a grin. "This is far too entertaining to interrupt."

Franklin leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying the chaos. "This is exactly why I invited you both. You two are hilarious."

"Be silent," both brothers snapped at him, causing Franklin to burst into laughter.

Magnus leaned toward Guilliman, his expression conspiratorial. "Do we start betting now?"

Guilliman shook his head, smiling. "There's no winner here—just endless stubbornness."

Sanguinius nodded solemnly. "True wisdom, brother."

A/N: So due to the recent Circumstances, and well preferences really, by next month I believe the Updates would undoubtedly slow down.

A/N: Why you might ask, a few years ago I worked as a Seafarer and left it to work as a manager in a local Restaurant, and well it's been 2 years since and dealing with people is not my strong suit nor do I want to keep dealing with people my entire life. 

A/N: And now since you my readers have been rather invested in Franklin's journey I would not like to stop writing, nor would I stop writing, but as you know although Technology had been rapidly advancing I still do not know if the ship I'm assigned to has Wifi, if so yes I can continue writing and update it, and if it's not unfortunate but chapter updates are about to be highly unpredictable.