Sitting on a large metal chair bolted to the floor of the command center of the Fang, Logan Grimnar was depressed. Elbow on his knee and hand propped under his chin, he sighed dejectedly as he stared grimly at the screens before him.

On one screen, he could witness Sky Claws flying about in the air of a gargantuan training room within the fortress. Most of them ended up crashing into walls or each other while laughing madly. He didn't know whether it was because they liked doing it or because they were idiots. Probably both.

Another screen depicted a vast toundra somewhere around the Fang. Swift Claws made the most daring stunts in the snow while trying the twin-linked bolters built in their bikes. He saw one of them zoom off into the horizon until he became nothing but a dot before an explosion occurred where he had disappeared. There was absolutely nothing he could actually have run into that could possibly ruin his engine, but somehow he had managed to do it anyway.

Logan sighed once more as he rubbed the bridged of his nose. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but he really didn't see the point of flying about or driving around like a lunatic. Russ had never needed a jump pack or a bike. Real men fought on foot. Or in tanks. Big, nasty tanks. He liked those.

Besides, going so fast held the risk of zooming past an enemy without even noticing him. How embarassing was that?

But it wasn't actually the Blood Claws that dispirited him. Well, not the most.

His eyes drifted to a third screen. There, Thunderwolves ran about in the snow, their riders shooting gleefully around them, under the watchful gaze of an audience consisting of Blood Claws, Grey Hunters and, to his dismay, even Wolf Guards. All of them were cheering the riders on, not even minding when a bolt ended up hitting them.

What was his Chapter coming to?

Sure, they were called Space Wolves. That much was obvious. They even had the fangs to deserve the name. And they did spend a lot of time in space. But they didn't ride wolves. They killed them. Wrestled with them in the snow, crushed their windpipes with their bare hands, skinned their bodies to make capes, bedside rugs, or cool trinkets and stuff. Or plushies to give to the kids they saved from times to times. Riding wolves was just ridiculous. After all, Salamanders didn't ride the overgrown, fire-spitting lizards they were named after into battle, did they?

Though it would be awesome if they did, he had to admit.

Did Leman Russ ride a wolf? No. He didn't need a wolf. Or a bike or a jump pack for that matter. He would just kick your ass into the next century, then live through the current century kicking more ass, and kick your ass harder when he found you again. After he beat the crap of Morkai, did he ride him around? No. He grabbed both its throats and said "listen you double-headed son of a bitch, you're gonna keep the gates of death and you're gonna like it," then punched it some more for good measure.

He really wished he had been alive when the Primarch was around. Torching Prospero must have been a hoot.

All of this was Canis' fault, Logan thought darkly as a Thunderwolf skidded into the crowd of Space Wolves, sending power-armored bodies in the air.

None of his Space Marines had ever thought about riding a wolf before he turned up. Stupid Jorek. Stupid Harald. Now all the kids wanted to do it. They wanted to ride wolves more than they wanted to become Wolf Guards. Wrong didn't even start to describe the issue. He really hated the guy. Leman Russ had been raised by wolves too; but he left them to join the ranks of mankind. Did Canis think he was too cool for that?

And he didn't even drink booze! He didn't drink and he dared to call himself a Space Wolf?

No, Logan realized. He didn't. If asked, he'd call actually himself a wolf.

And then sniff his butt or something.

Freak.

At this rate, the Blood Claws would next want to ride Wulfens.

Logan's face showed a hint of sadness. The Canis Helix was a harsh master. Turning into a Wulfen was the worst thing that could happen to a Space Wolf. He felt really sorry for them.

They couldn't even enjoy booze anymore.

Poor things.

The High King of Fenris shed a tear for the fallen.

Then he promptly slapped himself. Tears were for pussies. Pussies like Ultramarines or Blood Angels.

He needed to kick some ass. Kicking ass always made him feel better. It also made his enemies feel worse. That made him feel better too.

The main screen suddenly buzzed to life and a huge, stern face stared him down.

"Cruiser Morituri to Space Wolf Command. Prepare yourself for an investigation in the name of the Holy Inquisition."

Logan Grimnar smirked.

He could always count on his friends of the Ordo Hereticus to cheer him up.