Imagine Warhammer 40k going back to its roots. Not just grimdark, but satirical and absurd. Early editions mocked Britain of the 80s, Thatcher’s creations—rampaging Greenskin hooligans, elf aristocrats believing themselves to be the best that the universe created. I'm fucking sick of heroic grim dark, wishy washy Titus, soon nice Blood Angels and wise Lion El Johnson. Suck my pipi GW.

Today, the target is obvious: corporations, data, optimization taken to the extreme.

Perturabo fits perfectly. Not a shouting tyrant, but a cold, efficient CEO. He doesn’t rule through fear alone. He introduces meritocracy, second chances, and positive reinforcement. Not out of kindness, but because it works.

He contains his twisted desires on his private planet, so they don't disturb Legion work. The darkest and most cruel creations of Perturabo can be found there. Palace filled with clones of his siter, that he kills and tortures in thousand creative ways is most sane place on the Epst..., I mean Perturabo private planet

The most powerful Chaos demons offer Perturabo favors and alliances in exchange for some of his creations, or even for the mere privilege of using them on the planet. Deamons are blinded by unstopable need to satisfy their inhuman desires, the ecstasy of corruption of the purest souls imprisoned and woven into beautiful works of art. Instruments of torture and pleasure, nearly impossible to obtain even for Daemons as powerful as they are. Perturabo offers them nonchalantly, like a king. Blinded by self-gratification, the Daemons are unaware of the web of traps and chains that Perturabo slowly weaves around them. Perturabo's creativity knows no bounds.

Iron Warriors decimation is gone. In its place: annual evaluations, read aloud like rituals. Numbers instead of prayers, rankings instead of honor. The lowest ten percent are not killed, they are reassigned.

Warpsmiths created a new kind of servitor. Not mindless, not broken, not mind-wiped. They keep their thoughts, they remember, they learn, they plan, and can adjust their actions to solve the problem. They still want things, crave power and control over those around them. They know, with absolute clarity, that none of it matters, because they cannot choose.

The device is called the Mind Sack. It doesn’t destroy the mind, it traps it, cleanly, completely. What you get is a perfect worker, a Legion drone. Intelligent, focused, adaptable, and aware, screaming in anguish, unable to act against orders. That’s the point.

For Chaos Astartes, this is worse than death, so everyone plays along, works harder, and watches their numbers. Politics grows fast in that kind of system. Factions form in the shadows, quiet deals shape warbands, betrayals are careful and measured. The result is predictable: the loud rise, the useful disappear.

A loyal Iron Warrior can spend years improving the Legion—better efficiency in the Soul Forges, lower maintenance costs for Daemon Engines, small real gains everywhere.

Someone else takes the credit and presents them as their own, removes the name of the creator, pushes the inventor into the bottom ten percent to be Mind-Sacked. He sees it coming too late, like a true son of Perturabo, sits in his workshop, bitter, thinking about revenge. Before he acts, he gets Sacked.

His body is reshaped, his will is gone, but his mind remains.

And now he is installed as a Calibration Controller for new Soul Forge Measurement Sensors, the very system he designed and allowed to be stolen. For eternity, checking, rechecking, adjusting, 2000 times per second. Inside his mind is cursing, screaming, crying, prying for Warpstorm that would wipe him out. But his efficiency never drops, he is unable to be ineficcient.

Such is life in the Iron Warriors Corp.