The abandoned maintenance bay of D-7 was submerged in the shadow of a colossal steel structure.
Pale emergency lights barely pierced the gloom beneath the towering dome, outlining the vast, silent silhouettes of rusty remnants of maintenance gantries and piles of discarded machinery covered in grey dust sheets.
The air was cold and dry, with the acrid smell of congealed oil and old iron permeating the lower levels, but more heavily enveloped by the choking smoke of burning low-quality fuel.
Combined with a unique scent belonging to a large number of confined lives—a mixture of sweat, body odor, the burnt smell of crude cooking, and the lingering stench of unremoved waste—it formed the distinct aroma of struggle in this lower level.
Mutants, like tenacious vines clinging to steel ruins, arduously carved out a place to live in this forgotten industrial wreckage.
They utilized every depression and corner: waterproof tarpaulins, insulation panels, and discarded giant cable spools were desperately pieced together, clinging to the underside of massive maintenance platform skeletons, beside mountains of stacked parts, or squeezed into the gaps of thick pipelines, forming crooked shanties.
The ground was no longer a pure metal wasteland, but scattered with crude stoves made from cut-open oil drums, where faint, smoky flames flickered, alongside old containers holding water, and bedding barely made from discarded insulation cotton and rags.
A few such lights flickered in the narrow passages between the shanties, their dim yellow halos illuminating the frightened yet curious eyes of children, huddled beneath their mothers' worn clothes, bearing either obvious or subtle mutated features.
The groaning of metal expanding and contracting in the corners, or the dull resonance from distant pipes, often startled a suppressed stir and murmur, but this space was no longer dead silent; instead, it was filled with an extremely compressed, rough pulse of life.
Heavy breathing, suppressed coughing, low conversations, occasional child's sobs, and the faint clinking of metal utensils.
However, the Empire's order, like a cold steel framework, forcefully embedded itself into this spontaneously growing chaos.
From key vantage points, the beams of powerful searchlights, like the Eye of Judgment, mercilessly swept every corner, dispelling any shadows attempting to gather.
servitor skulls embedded in the walls silently glowed with dark red light in their hollow eye sockets, like sleepless electronic sentinels, coldly recording everything below.
Teams of low-ranking Adeptus Arbites officials from the spaceport and stern-faced guards armed with shotguns had set up simple outposts at the entrance, responsible for registering rosters, distributing mutation-suppressing drugs, and dispatching laborers who had been screened and whose mutations were deemed acceptable.
Their presence constantly reminded everyone that this was not a free sanctuary, but a strictly managed survival zone under the Empire's will.
Sister Figgsin and her squad, like silver-white angels of judgment, descended into this shadow-shrouded area.
They did not intervene in specific management affairs; their duty was limited to supervision—through their absolute presence.
Their figures appeared lean and deadly against the backdrop of the massive industrial wreckage, their Power Armor reflecting a cold metallic sheen under the pale light of the emergency lamps.
The Battle Sisterss dispersed to key positions, the low hum of their auspexes permeating the air, their razor-sharp gazes sweeping over every crude shanty, every terrified face, paying particular attention to individuals with prominent mutated features.
Their very presence was a silent yet unmistakably clear decree: order brooks no blasphemy; transgressors face only purification.
This was the mandatory medicine distribution point.
A low-ranking Adeptus Arbites official stood behind a makeshift metal counter, stammering through the registered names on a data-slate.
Mutants formed a crooked, winding queue, their suppressed breathing and uneasy whispers interweaving to form a dull background noise in the cavernous bay.
Fear made their movements stiff and slow, and shoves and brief commotions occasionally occurred in the line.
Figgsin stood a few meters away on the metal base of a discarded maintenance platform, looking down, her cold gaze covering the entire scene like a scanning array.
She stood silently, her posture like a cold statue.
Her gaze behind the helmet's eye-lenses was as sharp as a hawk's, piercing through the chaos of the queue, precisely locking onto every figure, especially those with significant mutations or suspicious movements.
That gaze itself was like an invisible pressure, heavily weighing on the nerves of every person in line.
Her right hand rested lightly on the grip of the Bolter at her waist, which was emblazoned with the sacred rose motif, in a seemingly relaxed but ready-to-strike-like-lightning posture.
Her arm, covered in ceramite armor, hung naturally, the Power Armor's servo-joints in low-power standby, emitting an almost inaudible subtle hum, indicating the power contained within, capable of instantly transforming into lethal action.
When the queue stalled because of a scaly woman carrying a crying infant, whose movements were slightly slow, Figgsin's ceramite-armored left hand, almost reflexively, swiftly and silently rested on the grip of the rose-emblazoned Bolter at her waist.
Her fingers did not immediately enter the trigger guard but rested loosely on the grip, a Battle Sisters's most natural posture of alert when sensing potential chaos or threat.
This subtle yet tense movement was like dropping a stone into calm water.
The guards, who were constantly observing the Battle Sisters's actions, instantly straightened their backs, their fingers instinctively reaching for the safety catches of their weapons.
And the scaly woman, who had become the focus, stiffened as if struck by an invisible heavy hammer, the crying of the infant in her arms seemingly caught in her throat.
Immense fear seized her, causing her already slow movements to completely halt, leaving only an uncontrollable slight tremor from extreme terror.
"Silence! Maintain queue order!" A Battle Sisters beside Figgsin issued the command through her helmet's loudspeaker, her voice short, clear, and with an undeniable metallic quality, instantly overriding all the clamor in the area.
The command was like a cold whip lashing the crowd.
The queue suddenly contracted, and the pushing stopped instantly.
The scaly woman, as if pushed by an unseen force, stumbled forward with her child, almost rushing to the distribution counter, tightly shielding the infant in her arms.
An old hunched man with difficulty walking, who was behind her in line, was so startled by this sudden oppressive force that he swayed and nearly fell.
Just then, steady, clear footsteps, accompanied by the low hum of Power Armor servo systems, came from the direction of the entrance gate.
All eyes, including Figgsin and her Battle Sisters squad, turned towards the source of the sound.
Alex entered D-7.
He wore his distinctive Inquisitor uniform, with Siddhga following closely, her Void Field causing several Mutants with slightly stronger psychic senses nearby to instinctively cower.
Several high-ranking spaceport officials in dark uniforms followed behind him.
Alex's gaze quickly swept over the entire scene: the crooked shanties, the terrified crowd, the distribution point under the bright lights, the nervous officials, the vigilant guards, finally resting on Figgsin, who stood on high, hand on her weapon's grip.
He did not stop, walking directly towards her.
"Sister Figgsin," Alex's voice was calm, yet carried the undeniable authority of an Inquisitor.
"Inquisitor," Figgsin immediately leaped down from the base, her movements agile.
She faced Alex, her hands quickly crossing over her chest, forming the solemn gesture symbolizing the Imperial Aquila—this was the Battle Sisters's standard Aquila salute.
Her squad members behind her also stood at attention simultaneously, performing the same salute.
Alex slightly raised his hand to indicate that they were excused, his gaze then falling upon the queue below, which had fallen into complete silence due to his arrival.
In the congealed air, only the low hum of the ventilation ducts remained.
His gaze was as sharp as a hawk's, instantly catching a small commotion: a guard roughly shoved away a multi-fingered youth who had clumsily knocked over a data-slate.
The youth retreated in fright, bumping into the person behind him, causing a small area of chaos.
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