"Unhappy" Filon

On the Blackrock, in a private cabin in the War Band's weapon depot. Filon stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist, his upper body bare and droplets still running down his pitch-black skin. He went straight to the iron-framed bed, took the half-read Collection of Old Terra Cold and Hot Jokes from the bookshelf, and opened it.

With his other hand, he reached for the snacks on the table beside him: a purple fruit that grew underground in many layers. It was crisp, juicy, and quite delicious. For some reason, the locals said the fruit was harmful to the eyes and had to be cooked before eating.

The servitor picked up a jug and filled Filon's steel cup to the brim with bloodwine. Unfortunately, their bloodwine stores were running low. Most of the slaves from the lower decks had been taken to the planet's surface. If they wanted a human snack again, they'd have to see what they could arrange at the gang's prison.

It wasn't because their ruler was merciful, or because the Forged Steel Angel felt pity. The boss had never restricted what they could do to mortals. It was simply that those slaves had gone from liabilities to assets. Even the brainless Slaanesh War Band knew that when killing mortals for fun, they should choose between a fighter pilot and an ordinary mortal with no particular skills.

Filon was now aboard a ship with his brothers, sitting on his bed without his armour, eating fruit and reading. It made him very happy.

The Forged Steel Brethren trusted one another. Unlike the Iron Warriors, who were harsh and cruel, they saw one another as brothers, not merely as tools for achieving victory. This was especially true of Filon, who clearly had no blood ties to the rest of them.

Back in the Legion, the recruits from Filon's intake had been called the "Unnecessary Sons," simply because the Legion's veterans thought the latest round of recruits had been completely unnecessary. By then, the Battle of Terra and the Iron Cage were already over, and the Legion was retreating to the Eye of Terror. It was on the way there that the Primarch had ordered the augmentation surgery to begin.

The Legion had used some of its stock of Loyalist gene-seed. In fact, the Iron Warriors had plenty of gene-seed from other Legions, a considerable amount of it acquired on Isstvan V. In that battle, one Child of the Gods had killed another. Brother had turned against brother, and the Iron Warriors had passed the point of no return.

Whatever the reason, the Iron Warriors had put that batch of gene-seed to use. They'd used unnecessary gene-seed at an unnecessary time, when it wasn't needed, and created their batch of "Unnecessary Sons."

The other recruits had it better. The differences weren't that obvious, and though the veterans didn't like them, they could still form their own circles. Filon, on the other hand, was the most disliked among the disliked.

So people started calling him "Unhappy Filon." Even some mortals used the name behind his back. Filon consequently devoted more and more of his time to the main forge and machinery. He naturally became a Tech Sergeant, and then a Voidsmith.

It wasn't until Filon met Rapid Deployment Army Sergeant Peter in the Eye of Terror that things changed. Peter had brought his recruits to Filon, the Voidsmith, to learn how to maintain and repair their equipment.

Unlike other officers, who punished their subordinates cruelly, Peter patiently kept teaching the recruits, hoping they might improve their chances of survival in the wars to come, even by the slightest amount.

Thanks to some sixth sense, Filon felt that Sergeant Peter wasn't very "Iron Warriors." But he liked people like that better. So when Filon learned that Peter was forming a War Band, he was the first to rush over and say, "Count me in."

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

Later, Filon had asked about his augmentation surgery. Why had the Legion used Loyalist gene-seed to create new recruits? Boss Peter had given him his own assessment.

At the time, the Legion, the War Bands, and the Dark Mechanicus had all fled to the Eye of Terror. The ascended Iron Lord had noticed that there was a struggle over territory. Whoever had more warriors and greater strength could find the best places in the Warp.

So after the Legion had established a foothold in realspace through sheer numbers, the Primarch had encouraged the Legion's warriors to kill one another and purge its weak. When more warriors were needed, they'd make them—even if they had to use Loyalist gene-seed. When they weren't, they'd let the Legion tear itself apart, calling it "culling the weak."

It was only after the boss explained it that Filon fully understood: they were just tools. If the Primarch treated his sons' lives as tools, his subordinates would naturally follow suit. It had bred distrust within the Legion. They slept with their weapons and never dared take off their Terminator Power Armour.

As the boss had said, "The father doesn't trust his sons, yet expects the sons to trust one another."

Just as Filon was finishing the purple fruit, the communications device on the wall rang. Filon jerked his chin, and the servitor immediately went to switch on the communicator.

A familiar voice came through the grille:

"Filon."

Filon recognized the boss's voice. "Boss, what do you need?"

"In a couple of days, Anthony and I are taking the ship out. You and Captain Wonaby's Second Squad will stay behind to guard the Homeworld."

"Seriously? You're going out for fun and not taking me?"

"..." Peter sometimes wanted to bring a Thunder Hammer down on Filon's bald, egg-shaped head. Unfortunately, he had neither a Thunder Hammer nor the heart to do it. Among a bunch of dour Iron Warriors, Filon could always be counted on to be the oddball who livened things up.

"I'm going to get gene-seed. You know about our deal with the Dark Mechanicus. I'm worried they'll pass off shoddy goods or drag their feet. You're the most knowledgeable about technology among us, so keep an eye on them. Wonaby will handle everything else."

Understanding how important the matter was, Filon didn't waste time with more questions.

"Sure thing, boss. My brothers and I will keep the place safe."

"Good."

The call ended.

Sitting on the iron-framed bed with one hand propping up his chin, Filon thought it over. The boss was taking the flagship away and wouldn't be back for at least a year or two. Captain Wonaby didn't keep much of an eye on him, so didn't that mean he could do whatever he wanted?

He could explore the Homeworld, try its fine drinks, and sample the local people and animals. Then he could inspect the other two continents, under the pretext of surveying their geography. It sounded like great fun.

Wait! The ship was leaving. He'd have to move his things down to the surface... Actually, no. He also had to survey the site for a Fortress Monastery, inspect the planet's mines, level the land, set up agricultural equipment, and oversee the construction work.

Damn! Now that he thought about it, did that mean he wouldn't have any free time at all?

No, he couldn't waste another moment. Filon snatched the towel from his waist, slapped it straight onto the servitor's face, picked up his cup, and drained the bloodwine in one gulp. Then he strode off toward his Power Armour, his black backside bare.

There was no time to daydream. He still had plenty of work to do.