The heavy alloy gate slowly slid open under Old Cripple's complex gaze, accompanied by the grating sound of metal friction and the sharp squeal of sluggish hydraulics.
Beyond the gate, instead of the expected crowded pipe-nest, there was an unexpectedly vast space.
D-7's abandoned maintenance bay was revealed before the Battle Sister Squad: under the towering ceiling, sparse emergency lights cast pale beams, illuminating the dust-covered alloy floor, the rust-stained remnants of a massive maintenance gantry, and mountains of discarded parts piled in corners, covered by thick grey dust covers.
The air was filled with a mixed scent of congealed machine oil, old iron, and lingering industrial cleaner, distinctly different from the foul, decaying smell of the pipe district below.
Emptiness and deathly silence formed the main theme, with only the low resonant hum of distant pipes and the faint groans of metal expanding and contracting intermittently reaching them.
However, this cold industrial wasteland scene was already dotted with sparse, humble yet tenacious traces of human survival—these were the temporary "homes" built with scavenged junk by the Mutant settlements forcibly relocated here, in their despair.
Beside scattered giant metal skeletons, in the shadows of abandoned gantries, and at the edges of mountains of dust covers, crooked tarpaulins or recycled thick insulation materials were precariously propped up, forming pitifully crude shelters.
The supports were casually picked-up rusted metal pipes, remnants of overturned tool racks, and even some large, discarded cable spools.
On the ground lay containers fashioned from oil drums or damaged engine covers, some rough bedding hastily cobbled together from scrap, and a few small, low-quality fuel stoves emitting choking smoke—evidently their desperate attempts at warmth.
Captain Figgsin's silver Power Armor boots stepped onto the cold metal floor, her crisp footsteps echoing particularly abruptly and harshly in this vast space, which was already beginning to be encroached upon by primitive survival.
Her Battle Sister Squad followed closely in a tight formation, their Bolter muzzles steadily sweeping across this area, which was both desolate and teeming with chaotic life.
Two Battle Sisters' auspexes hummed, red light sweeping over the massive rusted maintenance platform skeleton, exposed thick cable bundles, and the oil-soaked shelter roofs reflecting faint light under the emergency lamps.
Shoulder-mounted spotlights pierced the shadows in the corners, illuminating the solidified weld marks on the large mechanical sections half-hidden under dust covers, and also illuminating a pair of terrified eyes that abruptly recoiled from a gap in a shelter.
The air seemed colder and drier than outside, yet subtly mixed with the smell of low-quality fuel from burning trash and the combined scent of human and animal sweat.
Those Mutant residents, who might have been curled up in the shadows of the corners, were now scattered everywhere like moss forcibly peeled from decaying branches.
They either cowered beside scattered discarded toolboxes, or next to maintenance carts pushed into corners, or retreated timidly back to the entrances of their rickety, oil-stained shelters, all without exception nervously looking at these silver-glowing intruders radiating cold hostility and absolute order.
A child wrapped in rags, curled up in the corner of a tin shack, began to sob, startled by the sudden oppressive presence, and their crying was amplified in the vast, echoing bay, making it sound even more desolate and piercing.
The sound startled others, leading to a suppressed murmur of reprimands and panicked shuffling, interspersed with someone in a distant shelter area accidentally kicking a discarded metal part, which clattered across the metal floor, like an alarm bell striking everyone's heart.
Fear, like an icy mist, permeated and spread, rapidly seeping into every crevice of the crude shelters, firmly gripping all the mutated hearts confined within.
This new cage, designated "D-7" by the Imperium, was already shrouded in despair and vigilance.
Figgsin's cold voice resonated through her Power Armor's vox-caster: "In the name of the Emperor and the authority of Governor Rostov! Xenos contamination has not been fully eradicated, and order is just beginning to be rebuilt! Mutants in this area, immediately form lines and gather! Submit to basic mutation verification and faith screening!
This is the first step of Inquisitor Alex's policy—your mutations are a heavy burden bestowed by the Emperor, which must be atoned for with faith and obedience! Otherwise, only the fires of purification can cleanse the filth!"
Her voice struck every Mutant resident's heart like cold legal clauses.
Words like "atonement," "service," and "purification" pierced through the thin veil of hope—of "medicine," "work," and "safety"—that Old Cripple and others had heard from low-level officials, like red-hot brands.
A stir went through the crowd.
A young man with grey skin, several bone spurs, and two atrophied extra arms growing on his back, seeing the Battle Sisters' cold, emotionless eyes and their Bolters ready to fire, the long-accumulated, deeply rooted fear in his blood instantly overwhelmed his reason.
Fear reminded him of the purification fires from a few weeks ago: roaring bolters, blinding Chainsword flashes, all-consuming flames…
He abruptly pushed away the person next to him, letting out an inarticulate roar, instinctively wanting to turn and rush deeper into the darker, more intricate pipe maze!
"Potential threat! Mark!" Figgsin's voice was utterly devoid of emotion.
The two Battle Sisters behind her moved like lightning. The multi-limbed Mutant had only run a few steps when a powerful beam of light accurately struck him, followed by a strong Battle Sister charging out like an arrow from a bowstring, her Power Armor's servo-systems humming at high frequency, and its hydraulic joints instantly unleashing powerful thrust!
An armored iron fist clamped down with absolute force on the mutant's twisted, struggling body, and the Power Armor's enhanced limb strength pressed him firmly onto the cold metal floor with a heavy, muffled thud.
The muzzle of the other Battle Sister's Bolter simultaneously pressed against his extra, twitching mutated limbs, the preheating hum of the gun chamber sounding like a death sentence.
"Uncontrolled mutation! Possible Chaos contamination!" Figgsin's voice delivered a cold judgment, her gaze not lingering on the multi-limbed man for a second, but sweeping like a searchlight across the entire settlement, which was stunned into silence by this scene: "According to New Earth Island's temporary security regulations: immediate isolation, to be judged after the depth of contamination is determined!"
Her command was clear and unambiguous.
Two fully armed guards, carrying shotguns, immediately stepped forward, roughly dragging the limp, still whimpering multi-limbed man, and swiftly pulled him towards a pre-built temporary quarantine area outside the gate, enclosed by heavy iron bars.
Several figures with terrified eyes were already cowering in that area.
Figgsin's gaze slowly swept over the silent crowd. Old Cripple's cloudy eyes were filled with anger and helplessness, while mothers holding their children buried their heads deeply into their children's necks, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.
Figgsin's thumb unconsciously stroked the engravings on the stock of the Bolter named "fiona" on her back.
The cold, hard metallic touch was the only remaining warm comfort in her heart, and it also reminded her of the heavy burden on her shoulders and the constant threat lurking in the shadows.
The will of the Imperium had descended upon this dark place, and whether accepted or not, the "rebirth" of Sector D-7 had begun—accompanied by absolute control and an icy distance like frost, as well as deep vigilance against anything "non-human."
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