D-7 Abandoned Maintenance Bay, this sleeping steel behemoth, was being integrated into a new structure and order under the infusion of the Imperial will.
The previously scattered and rusted remnants of maintenance cranes and old components covered with grey dust covers were systematically organized and tidied.
Some areas were forcefully cleared, creating relatively open spaces.
The floor, stained with oil for many years, had been high-pressure washed, yet dark stains remained like stubborn scars, and the air was a mix of cheap detergent, aged engine oil, and the unique scent of Mutants settlements.
However, a preliminary structure, distinct from pure chaos and shaped by coercive force, was taking shape.
In the most open area at the center of the bay, a platform roughly welded from discarded maintenance trolley trays stood tall.
Above the platform, a large, old canvas bearing the Imperial Aquila was draped—this had been found by several Mutants in a scrap heap and voluntarily hung up, symbolizing their effort to understand and integrate into this new order.
On the cold metal walls, Imperial maxims were spray-painted: "Doubt is Treason," "Purity is Strength"—these sacred precepts declared that this place had been brought under the Emperor's order and the light of faith, serving as both discipline and guidance.
Sister Figgsin stood before the platform, Her silver Power Armor reflecting a solemn, icon-like luster under the pale light of the incandescent bulbs used for ceiling illumination.
Her figure stood before a makeshift Imperial holy emblem stand, temporarily erected to symbolize Imperial authority—it was merely a metal box covered with a coarse burlap cloth printed with the Aquila.
Her posture was not that of a gentle preacher, but of an officer burdened with the sacred duty of oversight and order-building, Her gaze calm and focused, scrutinizing the crowd below, which had gradually gathered by command and showed clear signs of unease.
The loudspeaker carried Her voice throughout the cold steel dome, clear and steady, bearing the unquestionable authority of a servant of the Emperor: "In the name of His Majesty the Saint, in this land of shadows, let the pillar of order be erected!"
Her voice was like quenched steel, firm and clear, devoid of fanaticism, only responsibility.
"All residents of Sector D-7, effective immediately, must gather here punctually at three sacred hours daily—05:00 for the Dawn Prayer, 12:00 for the Midday Prayer, and 19:00 for the Dusk Prayer—to collectively recite the 'Basic Creed Prayer.'"
Her gaze swept over the crowd again, still sharp, precisely assessing the neatness of the ranks and the overall solemn atmosphere, shifting the object of Her scrutiny from individuals to a measurement of overall "orderliness" and "piety."
"This is an act to cleanse idleness and consolidate the will of faith. You must prove your resolve to the Golden Throne with your voices!" Her tone was steady and powerful, emphasizing the necessity of the action.
"Any absentee shall have their daily food ration considered a dereliction of their duty and reduced according to law; repeated absentees shall undergo an assessment of their faith purity and receive guidance—this is the enforcement of Imperial law, and also a necessary path for you to integrate into the proper order."
Her voice rose slightly in the last sentence, like the hammer blow of an iron law: "Order and duty shall be forged from this!"
Unease and restraint permeated the crowd below; heavy breathing and suppressed cries of children were clearly audible, but it was no longer an empty silence.
People began to adapt to this rhythm ingrained into their lives, some even showing an acceptance of the established routine.
The smell of low-quality fuel and the scent of shanties intertwined in the air, but they were no longer the sole dominant notes.
A bestowed, predictable framework of ritualized life began to replace chaos.
The prayer ended, the last collective echoes still reverberating in the air, followed by a brief silence.
Immediately after, the crowd's gaze did not immediately turn to the distribution point.
After a moment of silence, the crowd began to move slowly under the whispered guidance of the guards.
Some went to the newly established food distribution point at the side of the platform—where grey-white standard energy bars with faint Aquila reliefs were stacked, checked against a roster and distributed, providing the quantitative rations necessary for life.
Another group lined up at the Adeptus Arbites officials, according to the registration roster, to receive monthly mutation-suppressing medication—this was the most tangible survival guarantee provided by policy.
The rules for medication distribution were clear.
The staff, under the silent but omnipresent supervision of Figgsin and Her Battle Sisters squad, strictly verified the roster and handed out small bottles of medication.
The hands reaching out from below varied in form, but all held the medicine bottles with a careful reverence.
Old Cripple silently received his bottle of medication to suppress bone tumor deterioration in the queue, gripping it tightly, a glimmer of relief flashing in his cloudy eyes, before he hobbled away.
Just as people were dispersing, carrying the fatigue of completing routine tasks, a minor incident occurred.
A nearly blind old woman, her skin cracked like dry tree bark, was carefully supported by a similarly thin and small granddaughter with fine scales on her face, attempting to move with the flow of people.
In the confusion, the old woman's trembling, fumbling hand inadvertently touched the side of Figgsin's leg armor—where a finely forged ceramite bore an engraved rose relief, its lines rigid yet exceptionally delicate.
The cold, hard touch made the old woman's fingers halt.
Her cloudy, lightless eyes vaguely "looked" in Figgsin's direction, her cracked lips moving, emitting a faint, hoarse sound, filled with confusion and instinctive awe: "My Lord… this… this cold… steel flower… it's bleeding… no, is it red light? Is it fire? Is it… the mark of Holy Fire?"
In that instant, the air in the entire bay seemed to solidify!
Figgsin's body instantly tensed!
Her armored fingers instinctively and tightly gripped the hilt of Her Bolter at Her waist in less than a thousandth of a second!
Her pupils behind the helmet's optical sensors abruptly contracted, and a strong sense of intense vigilance against unnecessary contact, stemming from the core of the Battle Sisters creed, surged forth like ice water poured over Her.
The Battle Sisters squad members behind Her instantly entered a state of high alert, the hum of their auspexes suddenly rising.
All eyes focused in horror on the withered hand that had touched the "angel's" armor and Figgsin's body, taut as a drawn bow.
Just at this suffocating tipping point, Figgsin's hand, tightly gripping the gun hilt, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, loosened its grip.
Her ceramite-covered chest rose and fell deeply, as She forcibly suppressed the instinctive vigilance stemming from Her training and creed.
Her voice, transmitted through the loudspeaker, carried an unprecedented, forcibly suppressed sense of hesitation, yet it clearly broke the frozen silence: "…This is a symbol of the Emperor's power and will."
Her voice was deliberately raised, carrying an unmistakable tone of instruction, directed both at the old woman and, more so, as if reminding Herself to adhere to Her current duty and the Inquisitor's teachings: "Your perception is mistaken. Remember His Majesty the Saint's maxim."
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