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This might have been a moment where TalOS would keep his anger in check. To balance on the razor thin edge that would keep this from growing ever worse. Such were ideas that TalOS himself had, and that those of his cloth would have also recognized.
But that would be to ignore what the vast majority of his brotherhood would do in this situation. When one is faced with a detractor who claims your entire life’s work to be a falsehood and that of ruin, it cannot be looked upon lightly. And it was not just TalOS as the numerous Venerable Machine Spirits that were within his body began calculating battle schemes and algorithms that were basically asking for the destruction of the target.
The thing that set TalOS off though was when his hand brushed upon the dent his ‘brother’ made.
“My Children, those of which I created and raised with my own hands, have their uses.” TalOS said with the rumbling anger of a Titan quaking through each spoken note, “They have their purpose in their service to me, specialized in machine and ranged warfare. Just as results from the field they outperform their host Legion by 33%!”
“You speak blasphemy against our Father.” Countered with terror upon his face, “He has given to you the perfect warriors, and you would spit up it!”
“They are far from perfect.” TalOS fired back with a good amount of mirth coming from the vox caster, “These Astartes, my Sons, suffer from genetic and temporal issues that only I can save them from. I know of at least one other Legion that suffers like they do, so the concept of Astartes is not perfect.”
“You claim them to suffer a flaw? You are simply mistaking a purposeful creation as a curse.” Fulgrim shot back with the hint of illusory, “Our Father is perfect, thus all he does is with purpose.”
“He is not our Father, he is one our Creators. The Head of an entire Cabal of them.” TalOS snapped back, “Forged we were in the depths of Terra, our every cell and soul examined through the magnanimous efforts of a hundred souls. Even we, the Priests of the Cult Mechanicus, do not go into such trials in the creation of our offspring. Thus, like the venerable table that you injured, we were forged. Forged by the hands of not just the Emperor but Mortals like Malcador the Sigillite!”
To those words Fulgrim laughed. It was a sickening laugh that could only come from someone who thought themselves greater than any other person. He looked down upon TalOS with the sternness and mirth to say, “Malcador? Malcador the Sigillite? Ha! He is only a tool and deserves no credit for what the Emperor himself brought to being!”
