The Eagle and the Praetorian

The golden halls of the Phalanx echoed with two sets of footsteps - one measured and precise, the other casual and almost bouncing. Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, walked alongside his recently discovered brother, Franklin Valorian. The Emperor had, in his characteristic fashion, left the introductions to Franklin while attending to other matters.

"So, brother," Franklin gestured broadly, a grin playing across his face, "Impressive fleet you've got here. Must be quite the logistics operation keeping it all running."

"Yes." Dorn's response was as flat as the walls surrounding them. "The Imperial Fists maintain precise resource allocation protocols. Each vessel receives exactly what is required, when it is required."

Franklin's eyes twinkled. "Oh? Do tell me more about your logistics system."

"The system operates on a quaternary redundancy model with distributed supply chains across seventeen major nodes—"

"Actually," Franklin interrupted, barely containing his mirth, "that's pretty solid. I was expecting to have to give you some pointers, but you've got this handled. The Emperor wasn't kidding about you."

Dorn's face remained impassive. "The Emperor speaks highly of you as well."

"Well of course he does!" Franklin struck a pose, channeling his inner peacock. "I mean, have you seen this face? This charm? This wit?"

"I am currently observing all of those things, yes."

Franklin's laughter echoed through the corridor. "You know what, Rogal? I like you. You're like a fortress of deadpan humor."

"I am not humorous. I am fortified."

This only made Franklin laugh harder. They approached a viewport, and Dorn's attention turned to the massive vessel floating alongside the Phalanx.

"Your flagship," Dorn stated. "The Sweet Liberty. Its construction materials interest me."

"Oh, you mean my baby?" Franklin's chest puffed up with pride. "She's a beauty, isn't she? Made of Tyranimite-Auramite alloy, Blackstone, and Adamantium."

Dorn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Tyranimite-Auramite is not a documented alloy, neither is Blackstone"

"It is now! See, funny thing happened when we fed some Auramite to a Tyranid..."

"Why would you feed construction materials to a xenos?"

"For science, obviously!" Franklin waved his hands dramatically. "The real question is, why wouldn't you?"

"There are approximately three hundred and seventy-two reasons why not to—"

"That was rhetorical, brother."

"Rhetoric does not change facts."

Franklin's grin widened. "And what powers this magnificent vessel, you ask?"

"I did not ask that."

"But you're thinking it!"

"I am thinking about the structural integrity of—"

"It's top secret," Franklin whispered conspiratorially, wiggling his eyebrows.

Dorn stared at him. "Then why did you bring it up?"

"To tease you, obviously!"

"Teasing serves no tactical purpose."

Franklin doubled over laughing. "Oh, Emperor's teeth, you're perfect. Never change, Rogal. Never change."

"I do not intend to change. I am fortified against change."

"What about small renovations? Maybe add a humor wing to that fortress of yours?"

"A fortress does not require a humor wing. It requires walls."

Franklin wiped tears from his eyes. "Okay, okay, serious question time: what do you think about theoretical fortress designs using non-Euclidean geometry?"

"That is not a serious question. Non-Euclidean geometry would compromise structural integrity."

"What if I told you I have a working example?"

"You do not."

"But what if I did?"

"But you do not."

"But hypothetically..."

"Hypotheticals do not build fortresses. Stone builds fortresses."

Franklin's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "What about metaphorical fortresses?"

"Metaphors do not stop bullets."

"They stop emotional bullets!"

"Emotions do not fire projectiles."

By this point, Franklin was practically crying with laughter, while Dorn continued to stand ram-rod straight, his face a study in stoic perplexity.

"Brother," Dorn said after a moment, "I notice you appear to be experiencing some form of respiratory distress. Shall I summon an Apothecary?"

This sent Franklin into another fit of hysterics. "No, no, I'm good! Just... fortifying my diaphragm!"

"That is not how biology works."

"It's called a joke, Rogal."

"No, it is called incorrect anatomical terminology."

Franklin leaned against the wall, gasping for breath between laughs. "You know what? I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Beauty is irrelevant to friendship. Functionality is what matters."

"Case in point!" Franklin declared, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Now, let me tell you about this absolutely theoretical STC I found for a self-aware fortress..."

"There is no such STC."

"But what if there was?"

"There is not."

"The Emperor has instructed me to request your assistance in restoring the Phalanx to full operational capacity," Dorn stated, changing the subject.

"Of course! I'll bring in my best team. Fair warning though – we use a lot of automatons. They're like really big toasters with attitudes."

"That is acceptable. Though toasters do not have attitudes."

"Oh, you haven't met my toasters then! This one time, my kitchen automaton got into a heated argument with a coffee maker about the optimal temperature for brewing recaff. The toaster won, but only because it made a really strong point about thermal conductivity."

Dorn stared at Franklin for a full thirty seconds. "You are attempting to deceive me with humorous falsehoods."

Franklin burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the halls. "Am I though? AM I?"

"Yes. You are."

"But how can you be sure? Have you ever interviewed a toaster?"

"No. Toasters cannot speak. They are inanimate objects."

"Aha! So you admit you've never tried!"

Dorn's eye twitched ever so slightly. "I do not need to try to know that toasters cannot speak."

"Sounds like something someone who's never had a philosophical debate with their kitchen appliances would say," Franklin said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I am beginning to understand why the Emperor left you to handle this interaction," Dorn said after a moment.

"Oh? Do tell, brother dearest!"

"He knew your irregular behavior would test the limits of my patience and thus strengthen my mental fortitude."

Franklin's cackle echoed through the entire deck. "Or maybe he just thought it would be hilarious to watch you try to process my sense of humor!"

"Humor does not require processing. It requires understanding, which I possess in adequate quantities."

"Sure you do, brother. Sure you do." Franklin patted Dorn's shoulder.

The corridor suddenly came alive with the sound of whirring servos as hundreds of drones and automatons emerged from previously hidden compartments and access panels. Dorn watched impassively as they began their work, though Franklin noticed his eyebrow raise approximately 0.3 millimeters – practically an expression of shock for the stoic Primarch.

"Did you know," Franklin said conversationally as they watched the machines work, "that the Imperial Fists' title was specially chosen by our father? Same with that rather fancy Laurel of Victory in your heraldry. He has quite the eye for dramatic flair, doesn't he?"

"The Emperor's decisions are always purposeful," Dorn responded. Then, after a pause that lasted exactly three seconds, "There appears to be only one human technician present."

"Ah, you noticed! Yes, we work on a rather efficient ratio – one Independence Sector mechanic to about a thousand drones and automatons. Really speeds things up, don't you think?"

As if to prove his point, various systems throughout the Phalanx began coming online, status reports flooding in through nearby monitors. Dorn watched the progress with what Franklin swore was a hint of approval in his otherwise impassive face.

"The Mechanicum will have concerns about this level of automation," Dorn stated.

Franklin waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, brother, the Mechanicum has concerns about everything that isn't theirs. If they had their way, we'd still be hitting rocks together to make fire – but only after saying the proper prayers and burning enough incense to choke a Space Wolf."

"That would be inefficient."

"Was that... was that a joke, Rogal?" Franklin's eyes widened with delight.

"No. It was a statement of fact. Using rocks to make fire when better technology exists would be inefficient."

Franklin threw his head back and howled with laughter. "Oh, you absolute treasure! You know what? I'm going to teach you about humor. Consider it my sacred duty as your brother."

"Humor is unnecessary for the defense of the Imperium."

"And yet here you are, making me laugh harder than a Luna Wolf at an Ork Waagghh!" Franklin wiped away another tear of mirth. "Trust me, brother, by the time I'm done with you, you'll at least understand why people are laughing, even if you never crack a smile yourself."

"I can smile," Dorn protested with his characteristic gravity. "I simply choose not to do so without sufficient tactical reason."

This set Franklin off again, and he had to lean against one of the newly-activated control panels for support. "Tactical... tactical smiling! Oh, that's perfect! Please, please tell me you have a pict-capture somewhere of you deploying a strategic smile!"

"Such documentation would be unnecessary."

By the time they reached the main bridge, the Phalanx was humming with renewed energy, its ancient systems restored to full functionality in a fraction of the expected time. Franklin's efficient automation had accomplished in hours what might have taken traditional methods weeks or months.

"Well, brother," Franklin said, spreading his arms wide, "what do you think of your fully operational battle station?"

"It is adequate," Dorn replied, then added after a moment's consideration, "Thank you, brother."

Franklin's face split into a warm smile. "Adequate, he says! From you, that's practically a parade-worthy celebration!" He clapped Dorn on the shoulder. "You know what? I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Just wait until I introduce you to the concept of sarcasm!"

"I am familiar with sarcasm. It is saying one thing while meaning another. I simply find it inefficient."

"Oh, Rogal," Franklin sighed happily, "never, ever change. Promise me that?"

"As I stated before, I have no intention of changing. Your request for a promise is redundant."

Franklin's laughter echoed through the Phalanx's halls once more, a sound that would become increasingly familiar to its crew in the years to come, always followed by Dorn's literal interpretations and deadpan responses. It was, as Franklin would later tell anyone who would listen, the start of one of the most entertaining brotherly relationships in the Imperium's history.

---------------------------

The bridge of the Sweet Liberty hummed with quiet energy as two demigods of war stood contemplating the fortress world displayed on the primary hololith. Rogal Dorn, Master of fortification, studied the layered defenses with the careful eye of someone who had built – and broken – countless such strongholds. Beside him, Franklin Valorian lounged in his command throne, one leg casually thrown over its armrest, a position that would have made any Imperial protocol officer faint.

"The outer void shields are layered in a hexagonal pattern," Dorn observed, his finger tracing the energy grid. "The generator nexus is buried twenty kilometers beneath the primary hive spire. Standard siege protocols would require approximately three months to—"

"Hey, brother?" Franklin interrupted, a grin spreading across his face. "Quick question – you don't need anything from this planet, right? No fancy tech to recover? No strategic value beyond removing it as a threat?"

Dorn turned to face his brother, his expression as unchanging as ever. "Negative. The xenos technology is incompatible with Imperial standards, and their fortress designs are inefficient."

"Perfect!" Franklin's grin widened to almost impossible proportions. He shifted in his throne, now sitting up straight. "Sovereign?"

The ship's AI responded immediately, its voice carrying a hint of anticipated amusement. "Yes, Lord Franklin?"

"You see that planet down there?"

"Indeed I do, my Lord."

Franklin's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I don't want to."

"Roger that, Lord Franklin. Initiating primary weapon systems. All hands, brace for maximum output."

Dorn's eyebrow raised a fraction of a millimeter. "The planetary shield generator cannot be overcome without first—"

"Hold my beer," Franklin interrupted, handing an actual bottle of Independence Sector craft brew to his bewildered brother.

"Why am I holding your beverage? And how will this assist in the siege?"

The Sweet Liberty's massive frame began to vibrate as its weapons charged. City-sized Nova Cannons and Macro-batteries aligned themselves with surgical precision. Franklin spread his arms wide like a conductor before an orchestra.

"Sovereign, if you would do the honors... let's show my brother here how we do things in the Independence Sector!"

"Franklin," Dorn stated with the patience of a man explaining water to a fish, "the planetary shield is rated to withstand—"

The first barrage hit. The supposedly impregnable shield flickered like a candle in a hurricane. The second barrage made it sputter like a dying lumen-globe. The third removed it from existence with all the ceremony of wiping dust from a table.

"—sustained bombardment," Dorn finished, then paused. "I stand corrected."

"Oh, but we're just getting started!" Franklin practically bounced on his heels as Sweet Liberty's main batteries continued their work. Continent-sized targets were systematically erased by city-block-sized projectiles. Mountains became valleys. Valleys became craters. Craters became deeper craters.

"This level of firepower..." Dorn's voice actually contained a note of something that might, in another person, have been awe. "With Sweet Liberty in your arsenal, there would be no fortress you could not crack."

"Aw, thanks!" Franklin beamed at his brother. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today! Well, except for that one servitor in the Phalanx who complimented my hair, but I think it was malfunctioning."

As they watched the systematic demolition of the planet's surface, Franklin began issuing orders for the next phase. "Begin planetfall preparations! I want terraforming units ready to deploy as soon as the dust settles. And somebody check if we accidentally made any diamonds with all that pressure – might as well get something shiny out of this!"

"Terraforming requires considerable time," Dorn noted. "The standard protocols—"

"Oh, my precious fortification-obsessed brother," Franklin interrupted, throwing an arm around Dorn's rigid shoulders. "You're thinking short-term! Look at this system's layout." He manipulated the tactical display. "Sun's right there, orbital patterns are just so, and with a bit of adjustment here and there... This could be a magnificent mining system! We didn't just bombard that planet – we gave it a head start on its makeover!"

"Only you could justify planetary bombardment as landscaping preparation," Dorn stated.

"I prefer to think of it as 'extreme renovation.' Speaking of which, want to help design the new mountain ranges? I'm thinking something defensible – you love defensible things!"

"Mountains should be positioned according to tactical necessity, not aesthetic preference."

"Why not both?" Franklin's eyes twinkled. "I'm thinking of naming one Mount Dorn – it'll be the most stubbornly immovable mountain in the sector. Nothing but straight vertical cliffs, no gentle slopes allowed!"

"Mountains require geological formations that—"

"Details, details! We're literally rebuilding a planet, brother. I think we can manage one extremely grumpy mountain." Franklin turned to a nearby display. "Sovereign, make a note: Mount Dorn should look permanently disappointed with all the other geological features."

"Noted, Lord Franklin. Shall I also ensure it never shows any signs of erosion?"

"Mountains do erode. This is a natural process that—"

"Not Mount Dorn!" Franklin declared. "Mount Dorn stands eternal, just like its namesake's conviction about proper fortification techniques!"

"You are mocking me."

"Only with the greatest fraternal affection! Now, about those mining operations..." Franklin pulled up another tactical display. "I'm thinking we set up the main processing centers here, here, and... let me guess what you're about to say: 'Those positions leave the facilities tactically vulnerable.'"

"Those positions do leave the facilities tactically vulnerable," Dorn confirmed.

"Ah, but that's why we'll have Mount Dorn overlooking them! Nothing says 'don't even think about it' like a mountain with your face on it. We could even give it glowing eyes!"

"Mountains do not have glowing eyes."

"They do now! Welcome to Franklin's House of Planetary Renovation, where the impossible is merely improbable and the improbable is Tuesday's to-do list!"

As they continued planning, the Sweet Liberty's batteries finally fell silent, leaving behind a planet that bore little resemblance to its former self. Where once stood xenos fortifications now lay the foundation for something new – something that would combine Dorn's precision with Franklin's flair for the dramatic.

"Brother," Dorn said after a long moment of studying the results, "your methods are unorthodox."

"Why, thank you!"

"That was not necessarily a compliment."

"I'm taking it as one anyway!" Franklin beamed. "Now, about those glowing eyes for Mount Dorn..."

"No."

"What about a small fortress at the peak?"

"...acceptable."

Franklin's laughter echoed through the bridge, followed by a stream of increasingly outrageous suggestions for their new mining system, each met with Dorn's steadfast literalism. And somewhere in the tactical display, a planet continued to cool, ready to be reshaped by two brothers who, despite their differences, would create something unique together.

Even if one of them insisted on adding glowing eyes to a mountain.