The warm glow of the Rostov Sub-Sector's star generously penetrated the New Earth Island Airport's massive observation windows, casting dancing golden light spots across the cold, smooth metal deck, as if the Emperor's benevolent gaze had descended.
For D-7 District—this Mutants community that was gradually finding its place under the Imperial order's protection—three months were like a refining crucible, quietly reshaping its internal resilience and sense of belonging.
The sacred bells of the Emperor Ascending Day rang throughout the airport, a unique celebration woven from order, new hope, and Sister Figgsin's limited approval, blooming with a different kind of vitality in this once-silent industrial space.
In the air, the familiar warmth of burning fuel rods, lit by residents to dispel the chill from deep within the pipes, emanated a metallic aftertaste, like the low murmur of D-7 District's resilient life.
However, today, a new, comforting fragrance blended in—the warm, enticingly charred aroma of baked holiday coarse grain biscuits.
These were extra rations specially distributed by the Imperial administration to celebrate Emperor Ascending Day; though not abundant, they were like holiday kindling, igniting long-lost anticipation and satisfaction in the community, their scent happily permeating the pipes and shanties.
The narrow passages of the shanty area shed their drabness, becoming vibrant display corridors. Residents spontaneously decorated their homes with scrap materials.
Discarded insulation fabric scraps were carefully cut and flattened, becoming "canvases."
The colored copper cores and plastic sheaths of discarded cables were stripped, torn into strips, and then twisted into brilliant colored ropes.
Children excitedly helped sort materials, discussing color schemes.
Residents fastened the "canvases" to both sides of the passages, gathering around to meticulously sew and collage the colored ropes into Double-Headed Eagle patterns using bone needles or metal wires.
Though the patterns were crude, they were full of heart—the copper-outlined eagle wings were majestic, and the blue plastic-filled wings symbolized loyalty.
They varied in style, collectively expressing a budding identification with the holiday and the Empire.
Under the specially brightened emergency lights, these "holiday decorations" came alive: the simple fabric background highlighted the vibrant colored ropes; copper wires reflected light like dancing stars, and plastic strips emitted a soft matte glow, weaving a unique industrial wasteland aesthetic.
They were no longer humble proof, but a unique tribute offered by residents to the Empire and the holiday, crafted from scrap materials, skillful hands, and a spirit of cooperation, a blossoming of D-7 District's resilient soul.
In the passages, residents paused to admire and exchange techniques, rare smiles and holiday warmth quietly flowing through the steel space.
These "holiday decorations" shone with a unique luster under the emergency lights, which had been brightened a few degrees; they were no longer humble proof, but a creative tribute offered by community members' own hands to the Empire and the holiday.
The footsteps of the patrol guards also seemed to carry a hint of holiday solemnity.
The soft light of the high-mounted searchlights swept across, like a protective gaze, ensuring this hard-won celebration blossomed peacefully within order.
Sister Figgsin's silver-white figure, like a guardian angel of the holiday, appeared punctually in the main passage of D-7 District. The sound of her Power Armor treading on the metal floor today sounded more like the steady and reliable drumbeat of a celebration.
As she patrolled to an area where relatively clean, discarded engine parts were stacked, a vibrant small figure, encouraged by the surrounding gazes, bounced out from behind a pile of colorful insulation cotton like a nimble small beast.
It was a little boy with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, two small horns on his forehead gently swaying as he ran.
He ran to Figgsin with innocent excitement, without the slightest hesitation, raising his tightly clenched small fist high, then solemnly opening his palm.
In his palm lay a "holy relic" shining with a warm copper glow—it was made from a small section of carefully polished copper sleeve from a discarded hydraulic piston rod, with a smooth, rounded Double-Headed Eagle outline and clearly visible, intricate feather patterns on its wings.
Evidently, it was a masterpiece carved by the little boy, using his fingers—perhaps exceptionally nimble due to mutation—and a small file he had picked up, spending countless patient moments after work, bit by bit.
The metal surface was covered with fine, childlike scratches, yet it glowed with extra warmth and brightness from repeated, cherished caresses.
Figgsin's steady footsteps halted, her armored head slightly bowed.
Her cold eye lenses seemed to soften with an almost imperceptible gleam, focusing intently on the "holy relic" that embodied the child's heart and the community's hope, as well as the boy's slightly reddened face from pride and anticipation. The surrounding air was filled with warm expectation.
After a moment, Figgsin nodded very slightly but unmistakably.
There were no words, but that silent acknowledgment poured down like sunlight.
A Battle Sisters behind her stepped forward, her ceramite-armored hand reaching out, her action no longer a routine collection, but carrying a solemn significance, steadily and carefully taking the copper emblem that carried the child's body warmth and holiday joy.
She held it in her palm for a moment, as if feeling its weight, before putting it away.
A brilliant smile bloomed on the little boy's face, and he ran back to his companions joyfully, as if he had received the highest award, eliciting a small, good-natured cheer.
The holiday atmosphere reached its climax around the central altar.
The Aquila Altar, symbolizing D-7 District's rebirth and unity, was shining with a new brass luster.
Residents lined up in tidier queues than usual, with holiday ease on their faces, to receive their portion of holiday coarse grain biscuits, symbolizing the Empire's care.
On the outskirts of the altar, near bundles of neatly coiled recycled cables, several young people were excitedly conversing, their gazes occasionally turning reverently towards Figgsin, who was conducting holiday security patrols nearby.
Among them, the youth known as "Little Wrench," whose extra agile finger on his left hand was now trembling slightly with excitement.
He had personally witnessed Figgsin descending like a divine soldier to protect their home in B-7 Pipe, and that power and majesty were deeply etched in his heart.
Now, under the encouraging and supportive gazes of his companions, a pure courage and sense of closeness welled up within him.
As Figgsin's reassuring silver-white figure approached again, "Little Wrench" took a deep breath, his eyes firm, and with infinite trust in his protector, he quickly and clearly extended his finger—
He very carefully and gently touched the cold rose bas-relief on the grip of Figgsin's Bolter at her waist, that rose symbolizing power and protection.
The touch was firm and reliable, like touching a foundational stone of protection.
Figgsin's steps remained steady, her ceramite-covered body moving like a rock, as if silently assenting to this closeness born of trust.
Her armored helmet nodded ever so slightly, but this time with a clear turning motion, towards the youth. The red light of her helmet's eye lenses seemed to gently sweep across the youth's face, shining with excitement.
There was no reprimand, only the low, reassuring hum of the Power Armor's servo systems, like the most comforting background music of the holiday.
The youth withdrew his hand, his face radiating immense joy and pride.
He excitedly exchanged glances with his companions, as if he had completed a sacred ritual, his heart filled with the warmth and strength of being acknowledged.
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