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Angron didn’t really like anything other than doing lethal violence upon another being, preferably while they were trying to return the favor. He did tolerate a couple other things, but not many. Kharn, for one. Man was good at his job, even if Angron despised that job sometimes. Horus, when he wasn’t being a pompous ass who thought he could just tell Angron to sit and have him do so like a trained mutt. Perturabo, who was a little too obsessed with numbers but who could be trusted to come swinging into a brawl if he was needed.
That was probably why Angron had agreed to this stupid in-person meeting. Perturabo wasn’t Guilliman, who would stand there and let himself be clubbed to death if you scattered a bunch of improperly signed tax documents in front of him; if the Lord of Iron wanted a meeting, there was an actual reason. Yes, that reason might be he needed a kick in the ass to get his head out of the data feed, but Angron was always happy to provide that.
He stalked into the meeting room Perturabo had set aside, glaring at the mostly-utilitarian design of the Iron Blood . Perturabo should just go all out and over-design his damn ships to his heart’s content. It’s not like any of their brothers would have any room to complain if he did, peacocks that they were.
“Angron-”
“Don’t waste my fucking time with pleasantries,” Angron spat, glaring at Perturabo, who was seated at the table in the middle of the room.
He looked a little tired, the kind of tired that lent itself toward mania, and then a crash. Fighting him now would be a short, thrilling, brutal thing. Perturabo huffed, and then reached down beside himself and placed a… box on the table. It was a relatively small thing, just a small dark metal box with a switch on one side and a skull etching on the other.
“I made this for you,” Perturabo said, sounding oddly proud of himself.
“You made me a cube?” Angron asked, almost too bewildered to be mad.
“If I’ve done it right, I’ve made you a signal interceptor. It should, theoretically, interfere with your Nails. It won’t turn them off, but it should be able to reduce the pain.” Perturabo looked at the box with a slight frown. “I haven’t tested it. Not properly. It works as intended on unattached versions of the Nails your sons use, but I don’t know if it will work on yours.”
Angron stared at him, then at the little box, then back at Perturabo.
“You don’t have to use it. You can smash it right now if you want. You just mentioned that the Nails made it hard to travel, due to a lack of proper combat opportunities. This might be able to help,” Perturabo said, and Angron heard parts of his brother’s armor click and whirr oddly.
Angron reached out and grabbed the box, staring at it. It wouldn’t work, Angron knew that, and he did want to smash it, preferably into Perturabo’s nose, but-
He flipped the switch.
Angron almost fell over.
It was like he’d had several important nerves severed, except that he was able to catch himself before he fell and could clearly still move his entire body just fine. He wasn’t free of the pain. His head still hurt, his body still felt rubbed raw, but…
It was numb. Not the sort of numb of a bad head wound, a new, strange numb that left Angron feeling a bit like he was floating. How long had it been since he’d been so… painless? The Nails were quiet, he was still in agony but not-
Angron realized he was still holding the box and flipped the switch again. The familiar, blinding pain returned in an instant, and he snarled, his grip on the box tightening.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled, glaring at Perturabo, who met his gaze evenly.
“I’m supposed to solve problems,” Perturabo said, tilting his head up slightly, “I figured I should offer a solution.”
Angron scoffed.
“Solution?! All this does is let me see how much more I suffer than you! All of you! And what is the price of your pretty collar, exactly? Should I get on my knees for you, Lord Perturabo?”
Perturabo scowled at him, and crossed his arms.
“There is no price. I did this because you were hurting and I wanted to help. Leave the interceptor, destroy it, take it with you, it’s up to you. I can’t stop you regardless,” he growled, although Angron noted bitterly that Perturabo’s armor wasn’t reacting much at all.
Perturabo wasn’t stupid, he knew Angron might attack him, but it wasn’t gearing up the way it would if Angron had actually managed to upset him. Well, fuck him and his calm demeanor.
“As if you know the first thing about helping people. All you’re good for is breaking down protective walls, and even Horus “we’re not just weapons” Lupercal knows it!”
As Perturabo’s Logos snapped and snarled to life, Angron had a moment of regret. Not for pissing Perturabo off, but for using those words against him. He tolerated Perturabo, and generally tried to give him a similar courtesy that he would have given his fellow gladiators; some wounds you didn’t pry into if you wanted to remain allies.
Instead of a satisfying attack, however, Perturabo made an odd gesture with his hands, and Angron yelled furiously as he felt the rush of teleportation activate around him.
And then, he was screaming at his command deck, most of whom dove for cover.
Angron turned and stormed back to his quarters, clawing at his face.
“Couldn’t even do me the fucking courtesy of punching me, just banishes me like a fucking dog, unrepentant asshole-”
Angron sat down on his bed, fuming, and then looked at his hands. He was still holding the box.
He stared at it for a while, still seething, then flipped it on. The numbness flowed over him again, and he sighed, cradling it close to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to it, “What I said wasn’t true. You know that.”
The box hummed in his hands, but didn’t respond. Angron bowed his head, and closed his eyes tightly.
He would have to give it to Kharn. He deserved it more than Angron did.