The transport's docking arm locked into the port of Dawn station with a heavy metallic clunk. The airtight hatch hissed, signaling that the passage was opening.
Beyond the hatch lay neither the expected deathly silence nor a battlefield, but a suffocating display of "normality."
Hundreds of mortal soldiers stood in immaculate ranks as though awaiting inspection, dressed in uniforms washed snowy white and pressed smooth, each holding a well-maintained lasgun.
Their faces were clean, their eyes focused, their posture erect. There was not a trace of the panic that came from surviving battle or facing danger.
Behind them, the port operated in perfect order: automated transport vehicles glided silently along designated tracks, workers chanted as they loaded and unloaded supplies, and farther away, soldiers even gathered in twos and threes to chat. Their occasional glances toward the Space Marines held all the awe and curiosity expected of Mortals.
The station simulated daytime, with dazzling sunlight pouring through enormous Observation Windows to illuminate spotless decks and gleaming equipment.
Everything looked far too normal, as normal as a model outpost in an Imperial propaganda poster.
Lucius, Chelast, and their handpicked combat squad descended the transport's Slope. Their heavy armoured boots struck the polished metal floor with dull, echoing thuds.
They kept their Helmets on, their Sensors arrays silently scanning every aspect of their surroundings.
Lucius's hawklike gaze swept over every face and every corner.
Chelast paid closer attention to the subtleties of the environment. His posture seemed relaxed, but every muscle fibre was poised to act.
This excessive, rigid normality was like a carefully woven veil, trying to conceal what lay beneath.
It was precisely this perfection that sent a chill creeping up Lucius's spine.
A station housing a hundred thousand people had just experienced a bizarre communications blackout and a surge