The First Bodyguard of the Warband
"Bang!"
A deafening crash reverberated through the training hall.
Two massive figures in power armor slammed into each other, ceramite grinding like colliding slabs of iron. Terracotta tiles cracked beneath their boots.
This was the advanced combat cage aboard the Macragge's Glory. The air reeked of engine oil and overheated servos, thick with the raw, Astartes intensity of battle practice.
Today's session pitted two elite forces against one another: veterans of the First Company's Unyielding Guard, under Company Commander Agman, and the Primarch's own Honor Guard.
On most days, they were brothers.
Here, they were rivals.
"Huff…"
Sergeant Varo stepped back, disengaging his helm. Sweat dampened his brow, but his expression remained spirited.
Opposite him, First Company veteran Gallus lowered his training hammer and exhaled heavily.
"Ten-minute break," announced the overseeing Techmarine flatly.
The tension eased. Ultramarines inspected armor seals and drank high-energy electrolyte mixtures fit only for Astartes physiology.
Varo, however, did not reach for a drink.
Instead, he slowly withdrew a small container from a waist compartment typically reserved for sacred relics.
It was a transparent stasis box.
Normally, such devices preserved priceless artifacts—drafts penned by the Primarch himself, ancient philosophical treatises, relic fragments of the Chapter's history.
Inside this one…
…lay a shriveled biscuit.
Irregular in shape. Charred at the edges. Embedded with suspicious granules.
Beside it rested a crumpled, brightly colored candy wrapper that had clearly been flattened after being hastily balled up.
Varo took out a silk cloth and began polishing the box with reverence, as though soothing the nonexistent machine spirit within.
Conversation nearby faded.
Eyes turned.
"Brother Varo," Gallus said at last, removing his Terminator helm and revealing a scar-slashed face. "What… is that? Some new xenos specimen?"
Varo paused.
He looked up at the gathered warriors. His gaze carried solemnity… superiority… and an infuriating expression that said: You would not understand.
He sighed deeply and, whether intentional or not, activated full-voxel broadcast.
"Brothers… It has been some time since I recounted the words of concern spoken to me by Lady Irene, the Holy One."
Silence fell.
Even the servitors adjusting training drones seemed to pause.
"That day," Varo continued dramatically, "she stood before the dark muzzles of the Inquisition. Inquisitor Herman held a writ from Holy Terra. A Sister Silent stood beside him. It was a sacred trial of faith."
His tone rose with theatrical weight.
"And in that perilous moment, she did not ask if she herself would be harmed… nor if she would be taken away…"
He lifted his head, eyes shining.
"She turned to the Primarch and asked, 'Will Sergeant Varo be injured?'"
A beat.
"Alas…"
He shook his head, smiling far too widely.
"This care is both honor and burden. Why me? Why must I, Varo, bear the favor of the Emperor's chosen?"
Crack.
Gallus crushed his reinforced polymer drinking flask in his hand.
Around the hall, power armor joints creaked as fists tightened.
Space Marines could face Tyranid swarms without flinching. They could endure amputation in silence.
But this—
This was intolerable.
Everyone aboard knew Irene was not merely the Primarch's "sister," but the living symbol of the God-Emperor's will. A casual greeting from her was worth recording in one's service log.
And Varo had received concern.
"What's in the box?" another veteran demanded, voice tight.
Varo flicked it casually.
"These are 'Courage Cookies.' Made by the Saintess herself—well… personally instructed and then personally gifted to me."
He coughed lightly.
"She said they symbolized her recognition of my protection at Hera Fortress."
(They were inedible.)
"And this candy wrapper," he added wistfully, "was from a tactical ration she shared with me during our inspection of Magna City. She said it was very sweet, like—"
"Enough!"
Gallus surged to his feet, armor rumbling.
"You shameless braggart! You were merely on duty rotation! Had the First Company stood there, she would have trusted us more!"
Varo returned the box to his belt with care.
"Brother Gallus. Luck is also strength. Besides, she once said I am like her 'First Baturu.'"
He shrugged lightly.
"You would not understand such… connection."
"Connection?!"
Gallus seized a practice blade.
"If you bear such a burden of care, then as your brother, I must test whether you deserve it!"
Varo drew his own training sword.
"Gladly. Perhaps you require instruction in what 'the chosen one's honor' truly means."
They clashed.
What began as rivalry escalated instantly.
"I'm Fourth Company! I demand a test too!"
"So what if you're Honor Guard?!"
"Hand over the box! It's a sacred relic! It belongs in the Chapter monastery!"
Within seconds, the hall dissolved into chaos. Dozens of superhuman warriors grappled and struck, no lethal force used—but the concussive clang of ceramite and thunder of fists made the scene resemble a battlefield.
Then—
"Stop! What is this disgrace?!"
The voice cut through the uproar like a blade.
Cato Sicarius strode in, feather-crested helm beneath his arm, cloak flowing, hand resting on his sword hilt with practiced authority.
The combat slowed.
Varo, bruised but stubbornly clutching his waist compartment, shouted, "Company Commander! They are jealous! Jealous of the Saint-Carrier Irene's favor! They attempted to seize the relic she bestowed upon me!"
Sicarius frowned.
"Jealousy? An Astartes feels no jealousy. Only the pursuit of glory."
Relief flickered in the hall.
"Varo," Sicarius continued sternly, "as Honor Guard, you must show humility. While the Saintess may display… attention… such matters are not cause for spectacle."
A pause.
Then his chin lifted slightly.
"Moreover… regarding 'understanding' and 'connection'—I, Cato Sicarius, as her chief instructor, as the one who guided her mastery of power, as the one who bestowed her mark of purity—understand her gaze more clearly than you ever could."
Silence.
"Your 'care,' Sergeant, is but a droplet compared to the ocean of responsibility I bear."
Varo stared at him, stunned.
"…Company Commander," he managed, "with respect—when she faced the broccoli incident, her gaze was not reverent. And she baked those cookies herself!"
"How dare you!" Sicarius snapped, memories of that humiliation flashing vividly. "That was a trial! A test of fortitude!"
"I remain unconvinced!"
"Then prove it!"
Sicarius seized a practice blade.
Moments later, the Second Company Captain was fully engaged—attempting to armbar Varo amidst a pile of grappling Terminators.
The situation spiraled beyond recovery.
…
Ten minutes later.
A side door creaked open.
Irene peeked in.
She had come seeking Varo—for snacks, and to avoid another tedious Mechanicus examination.
Instead, she saw chaos.
Blue giants wrestled across the hall. Metal clanged. Voices shouted:
"For glory!"
"Give me the box!"
"I understand her best!"
"Strike him!"
In the center, Sicarius straddled Varo, attempting to pin him while Varo clutched his waist compartment desperately. Terminators tugged at Sicarius's cloak.
"What… is happening?" Irene whispered.
A massive golden hand rested gently on her shoulder.
Martova Corquan stood behind her, halberd humming faintly, red optics observing the spectacle with mechanical disdain.
"Are they killing each other, Uncle Cole?" she asked nervously.
Corquan processed the scene in silence.
"No, madam. No rebellion. No civil war."
He sniffed dismissively.
"This is a uniquely Astartes phenomenon. Excess energy. Misplaced honor."
His optic flicked toward the contested box.
"And… childishness."
"Childish?" Irene blinked.
"Profoundly."
"Should we go in?"
"No." Corquan lifted her effortlessly onto his shoulder. "They will cease once sufficiently injured."
He turned toward the corridor.
"The Primarch awaits on the bridge. We approach Abundance III."
Irene glanced back one last time.
A power boot flew across the hall.
Varo's voice rang out desperately:
"The cookie is mine! It is a gift from the Saint!"
She sighed.
From her pocket, she retrieved a similar cookie and bit into it thoughtfully.
"The adult world," she murmured, chewing, "is very hard to understand."