I like this a lot. Very nice breakdown of the various adherences to the Codex.I divide the chapters into rules-lawyers, zero-shit-givers, one-shit-givers and unfortunates.
Rules-lawyers, the children of Guilleman and Dorn, may be known because they have shitloads of successor chapters. They are all actually the same Legion. A chapter is Gulleman's smallest sensible deployment of Marines to war, after all. His words on the leadership structure are interpreted as meaning that nobody leads Marines but Marines, and there's deliberately no new rank to replace the Primarch as coordinator between Chapters. The pseudoreligious belief that a Primarch would turn up if needed, the common worship of Dorn/Guilleman, and the respect of younger Chapters for older, serves instead of upper management.
Zero-shit-givers, the children of Russ and the Khan... simply changed their administrative name to 'Chapter' and carried on.
One-shit-givers, the children of e.g Corax and Sanguinius, the majority of Astartes, will stand straight-facedly before a formation of three thousand Marines and flatly tell the Inquisitor who raises an eyebrow that they must have miscounted.
Unfortunates... are the chapters who follow the rules as written without the support structure of being yet another Ultramarine or Fist in a funny hat. They get their butts handed to them a lot, accomplish miracles while incredibly outnumbered and consider other units' tales to be half fabrication.
To be fair, the stories *are* also half fabrication.
Stage one: In the future... there is only war
Stage two: In the future...there is lonely war
Stage three: Space colonization proceeded at a stunning pace. "One million worlds, one million warriors." On each planet of the Empire, there is a fortress, and in each fortress, there is one warrior. Atop the planetary defense parapet, in a small, stone-floored observation room, each Star Marine slumps on a stool, Omega Rifle in his lap, gazing across the rolling hills for the day that he might be needed.
Occasionally a family of colonists will make a quiet trek to the citadel, bringing clean blankets or a freshly-baked pie to their melancholy custodian. Occasionally, the space-radio will bring news of an imminent attack on a distant moon, thousands of light years from here. Sighing, the Star Marine hoists his Omega Rifle onto his shoulder, squints and adjusts a few dials, checks his co-ordinates one last time and squeezes the trigger.
Accelerating at a relativistic speed, his shot will reach the designated invader in a matter of weeks. Together with the co-ordinated gunfire of thousands of other distant Star Marines, it will form a volley that will instantly and decisively thwart the attack... as it has done thousands of times before, and will do thousands of times again. And then the Star Marine will sit back down, yawn, and look longingly back out at the fields surrounding his citadel, far from the children at play in the colony, and further from his brothers and sisters scattered across the endless skies.