Filon's Displeasure

Blackrock, a private cabin in the warband's armory. A towel wrapped around his waist, Filon emerged from the shower, water still dripping down his pitch-black skin, naked from the waist up. He walked straight over to the iron-framed bed, picked up the half-read Collection of Old Terra Cold and Hot Jokes from the bookshelf, and flipped it open.

With his other hand, he reached for a small snack on the table beside him—a layered purple fruit that grew underground, crisp and juicy, quite good. For some reason, the locals claimed this fruit was harmful to the eyes and had to be cooked before eating.

A nearby servitor picked up a flagon and filled Filon's steel cup to the brim with bloodwine. Pity the stock of bloodwine was running low; most of the lower-deck slaves had been taken to the planet's surface. If he wanted to indulge in human flesh again, he'd have to look into the city-state's prisons for a solution.

This wasn't some ruler's mercy or the Forged Steel Angel's compassion, nor had the boss ever restricted what they could do to mortals. It was just that those slaves had gone from negative assets to actual assets—even the brainless wretches of the Slaanesh warband knew whether to kill a fighter pilot or a talentless mortal when they wanted to slaughter for fun.

Right now, Filon was on a ship with his brothers, armor off, sitting on the bed, eating fruit and reading. It made him happy.

Because the Forged Steel Brethren trusted each other. Unlike the harsh cruelty of the Iron Warriors, they saw one another as brothers, not tools to achieve victory. Especially Filon, since it was clear he had no blood ties to his brothers.

Back when he was in the Legion, the recruits of Filon's batch were called the "Unnecessary Sons"—simply because the Legion veterans felt this round of recruitment surgery was completely unnecessary. The Battle of Terra and the Iron Cage were already over, and the Legion as a whole was retreating into the Eye of Terror. Right on the way there, the Primarch ordered this batch of surgery to proceed.

The Legion had tapped into some of the loyalist gene-seed stocks. In truth, the Iron Warriors had plenty of gene-seed from other Legions, a fair chunk of it acquired on Isstvan V. In that battle, one Child of the Gods slew another—brother against brother, kin murdering kin. The Iron Warriors had no path back.

Whatever the reason, the Iron Warriors activated that batch of seed. Under unnecessary circumstances, at an unnecessary time, using unnecessary gene-seed, they created this batch of "Unnecessary Sons."

The other recruits fared alright, at least—the visible differences weren't that stark. Even if the veterans didn't take to them, they could form their own circles. But Filon? He was the least liked among the disliked.

So someone started calling him "Unhappy Filon." Even some mortals used the name behind his back. That drove Filon to pour more energy into forging and machinery. He naturally became a Tech Sergeant, then a Voidsmith.

Until Filon met Rapid Deployment Army Sergeant Peter in the Eye of Terror. Back then, Peter brought new recruits to learn equipment maintenance and repair from him, the Voidsmith.

Unlike other officers who cruelly punished their subordinates, Peter tirelessly repeated his teaching to the recruits, hoping only to raise their survival odds by even a sliver in future wars.

Some sixth sense told Filon this Sergeant Peter wasn't very "Iron Warrior," but he liked that kind of person. So when Filon learned Peter was forming a warband, he was the first to run over and say, "Count me in."

From then on, he was no longer "Unhappy Filon" of the Iron Warriors. He ate and drank heartily, laughed, messed with his brothers, and made himself the Voidsmith of the Forged Steel Brethren—became "Happy Filon."

Later, during their time together, Filon voiced his doubts about his own surgery—why had the Legion used loyalist seed to make new recruits? And Boss Peter gave his own judgment.

Back then, the Legion, warbands, and the Dark Mechanicus all fled headlong into the Eye of Terror. The daemon-ascended Iron Lord had sensed the problem of claiming territory. Whoever had more warriors, whoever was stronger, could find the best spots in the Warp.

So after the Legion used superior numbers to gain a foothold in the Warp, the Primarch encouraged internal slaughter within the Legion, culling the weak. When needed, they'd make recruits even with loyalist seed; when not, they'd let them kill each other, calling it "weeding out the weak."

It was only after the boss explained that Filon fully realized—they were just tools. The Primarch saw his sons' lives as tools, and his subordinates naturally followed suit. That bred internal distrust: sleeping with weapons, never daring to take off Terminator armor.

Just like the boss said: "The father doesn't trust his sons, yet demands the sons trust each other."

Just as Filon was finishing off the purple fruit, the wall communicator buzzed. Filon pursed his lips, and the servitor immediately went to answer it.

A familiar voice came through the comm-grille:

"Filon."

Filon recognized the boss:

"Boss, what's the order?"

"In a couple days, Anthony and I are taking the ship out. You and Captain Wonaby's second squad will stay behind to guard the homeworld."

"Damn, you're going out to play without me?"

"..." On the other end of the comm, Peter sometimes really wanted to smash Filon's bald egg-head with a Thunder Hammer—pity he didn't have one, and even if he did, he couldn't bring himself to. Amid a bunch of dour Iron Warriors, Filon was always that oddball who livened things up.

"I'm going to get gene-seed. You know our deal with the Dark Mechanicus—I'm worried they'll pawn off shoddy goods or slack off. You're the most technical among us, so keep an eye on it. Wonaby will handle the rest."

Understanding the importance, Filon didn't waste words:

"Got it, boss. Me and the brothers will hold down the fort."

"Good."

The comm cut off.

Filon sat on the steel-framed bed, propping his chin on one hand, thinking. The boss was taking the flagship out—at least a year or two before he'd be back. Captain Wonaby didn't really boss him around. That meant he could do whatever he wanted.

He could wander around the homeworld, check things out, taste the local booze, the flavor of the locals and animals. Then go inspect the other two continents, calling it a survey of local geography—sounded like fun.

Wait! The ship was leaving—he'd have to move his stuff to the surface... No, that wasn't right. He also had to scout where to build the Fortress Monastery, survey the planet's mines, level the land, set up agricultural equipment, and inspect the construction.

Damn. Thinking about it carefully, that meant he wouldn't have a moment's rest!

No time to waste. Filon yanked the towel off his waist, smacked it straight into the servitor's face, grabbed the cup, downed the bloodwine in one gulp, and walked toward his Power Armour, black ass bare.

No time to zone out—he still had plenty of work to do.