Arriving at the survivors' quarantine zone.
After basic disinfection and preliminary screening, the survivors were guided one by one into the quarantine modules.
The stark contrast between this place and the chaos and filth of the fire station was like stepping into another world.
The quarantine zone was designed in a honeycomb structure. Each room was strictly separated by alloy walls and energy barriers, with the transparent doors glowing cold white—chilling yet oddly comforting.
Soon, each survivor was assigned their own space.
With humane consideration, young children were allowed to stay with their mothers to avoid the trauma and stress of separation.
Those without family were housed alone under round-the-clock monitoring and observation.
Upon entering their rooms, nearly every survivor froze in place.
The space was so clean it bordered on sterile.
The floors were made of a soft metallic composite, polished to a mirror-like sheen. Lights were embedded seamlessly into the walls, casting a warm, non-intrusive glow, like sunlight.
Each bed was neatly made with crisp white linens, carrying a faint scent of freshly laundered fabric.
In one corner stood a compact holographic terminal, with neatly arranged snacks, bottled drinks, and even a small fridge on the desk.
"This... this is really for us?"
A weary middle-aged woman gently ran her fingers over the bedding, disbelief and long-lost comfort mingling in her gaze.
For those who had lived in ruins and shadows, it all seemed dreamlike.
Even the clean scent of the sheets was enough to make some of them tremble.
Children, on the other hand, adapted with surprising speed.
Two young kids, under the watchful eyes of their mother, quickly began exploring the terminal.
After reading the English manual, they somehow figured out how to operate the holographic interface.
With a few taps, a game console sprang to life.
Lively music filled the room, and the children's laughter followed.
They jumped, waved their holographic controllers, and bright virtual worlds bloomed around their tiny forms.
Compared to their trembling, terrified states just hours ago, they now showed the innocence and energy of true childhood.
Through the observation windows, technicians from the Bio Division watched silently.
Their faces remained expressionless, but their hands busily recorded and analyzed, confirming that the children's immune and psychological states were recovering.
After all, seeing these young lives smile again was, in its own way, a victory against both plague and fear.
In contrast to the children's innocence were the adults who had fought back.
Three firefighters and one police officer had once stared at the Glory warriors with distrust and hostility. Now, they were in an entirely different state.
After thorough decontamination and examination, they'd changed into the base's standard light gray leisurewear.
In their spacious single rooms, some reclined on soft sofas, sipping chilled beer fresh from their fridges.
Droplets clung to the glass, and in the cool air, the sight was especially tempting.
One unshaven firefighter exhaled deeply, leaned back, and raised his bottle toward the holographic TV.
"I never thought I'd drink something cold again in my life."
In the other rooms, the other firefighters shared similar expressions.
If they hadn't seen it with their own eyes, they wouldn't have believed it. This didn't feel like a warfront base—it felt like a futuristic retreat center.
Holo-TVs hovered in front of them, cycling through channels.
Interplanetary news, cultural entertainment, even live sports events.
Though awkward at first, one police officer eventually found a combat sport channel.
He watched armored warriors collide on-screen, fists and energy shields crashing in a spectacle of raw power. He held his breath instinctively.
"This helps me unwind."
He grinned, taking a slow sip, letting the cold roll down his throat.
In just two hours, their mental states had begun to shift.
From terrified and ready to flee, they now felt something unfamiliar: relaxation.
This place didn't just offer food, clean water, and safety—it also provided comfort and entertainment.
But even so, they hadn't forgotten: all of this "luxury" rested on the Empire's strict, merciless discipline.
Monitoring devices, routine inspections, and layered energy walls reminded them of their status: "suspected infected."
Only once the observation period ended would they be officially recognized as "human."
The rooms were kept at the most comfortable temperature. Outside chaos and stench were sealed away.
For those who had hovered on the edge of the apocalypse, this place was paradise.
Still, they couldn't imagine where Leroia and the Glory warriors were now, nor comprehend the vast machinery of the base beyond.
To them, everything still felt wrapped in mystery—as if they'd stumbled into the future. All they could do now was wait, behind the walls of the quarantine zone, for their final "verdict."
Cut to: The Bio Division's infected quarantine zone.
In stark contrast to the survivors' comfortable quarters, this area was cold, oppressive—a glimpse of hell.
Thick alloy walls and energy barriers sealed each tiny room completely, barely large enough for a single person to curl up inside.
There were no beds, no baths—not even basic sanitation.
The space deliberately stripped away human dignity, leaving only cruelty and containment.
Through the monitors, the "infected" could be seen writhing in their cells, grotesque and frenzied.
"I'm gonna rip you bastards apart!!!"
"I'll bite off your f***ing heads!"
Foul screams mixed with torn vocal cords reverberated through the metal walls, an unrelenting stream of filth and rage.
Some slammed against the walls, blood smearing on steel in bone-grinding friction—yet they didn't stop.
Others clawed into their own flesh, tearing themselves apart while grinning maniacally through the agony.
Some even defiled the one-way observation glass, smearing their filth across the walls in perverse, degrading acts.
Their faces were contorted into inhuman snarls, eyes bloodshot and veined with crimson.
They panted, drooled, like beasts unchained—or perhaps, puppets to some darker will.
Outside the observation windows, several Bio Division technicians stood silently.
Dressed in spotless white suits, their expressions were hidden, but their body language betrayed clear revulsion.
One muttered quietly:
"Are these... still human?"
Another said nothing, fingers flying over a datapad, logging every movement and correlating it with behavioral models.
Readouts flashed across the monitors—unstable heart rates, skyrocketing hormone levels, extreme neural responses, complete psychological collapse.
All signs far beyond human norms.
The air filtration system blocked the stench and blood, but just watching was enough to unsettle even hardened scientists.
They weren't Heresy Inquisition or Investigation Bureau agents—they didn't study the Warp or daemons. But even they could see: these infected resembled the "heretics" whispered of in restricted files—if not worse.
"This doesn't look like a regular viral infection."
One senior technician spoke, voice heavy.
"It's more like a mental distortion. As if their wills were torn apart, their souls corrupted... or their deepest desires magnified beyond control."
The others exchanged glances.
Though the Bio Division didn't delve as deeply into the Warp as the Inquisition or Investigators, they knew the rumors—
Tales of daemons devouring human will, turning people into raving beasts. The resemblance was uncanny.
"No wonder..."
Another whispered, "No wonder the Glory Legion commander suspected Warp contamination from the start. If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd never believe a plague alone could drive people this far."
Their voices stayed low, but the air remained tense.
The infected's shrieks continued to echo from the monitors, laced with a frequency so piercing it seemed designed to unnerve.
The techs reduced the volume, leaving only visuals to avoid mental strain.
Data continued to stream into the central database.
Behind the monitors, automatic turrets stood silently in the shadows, gunmetal gleaming under dim light.
They were there for one purpose: if the barriers failed, the infected would be annihilated instantly.
Such cold measures were the essence of Imperial order:
For the innocent—protection and safety.
For those lost beyond reason—eradication, without mercy.
And the infected, still howling in madness, had no idea—
They were no longer considered human.
In the Bio Division's files, they had only one label:
Potential Heretical Specimen.
Not long after—
In the Bio Division's conference hall, cold white light cast a sterile glow across the pristine room.
Energy suppressors lined the walls, and the air carried a faint antiseptic scent. Around the long table, several figures sat in silence.
Leroia, now out of her armor and in a dark-duty uniform, sat with a straight back and steely gaze.
She was like a drawn blade—oppressive even in this "safe" space.
Beside her stood Foros, Captain of the Weepers. His battle-worn face was somber, eyes carrying a sorrow barely restrained.
Around the table sat agents of the Investigation Bureau and Heresy Inquisition, silent and sharp-eyed, awaiting the report.
At the front stood a senior Bio Division officer in white formal uniform.
He was lean, with hawk-like eyes. At the moment, he operated a holographic projector, filling the air with flickering images and data.
Blue-white light illuminated every face.
"Gentlemen."
His voice was steady, with a cutting edge.
"Regarding the recovered infected, the Bio Division has completed preliminary analysis."
He gestured, and a distorted microscopic image appeared.
A complex particulate structure—protein shell encasing spiral genetic material—spun slowly, radiating an eerie symmetry.
"Blood tests confirm this is an unknown virus."
His voice was cold and emotionless—mechanical in tone.
"It uses a specialized protein shell to shield its genetic material, making it extremely resilient.
"Our tests suggest that even outside a host, it can survive for days, possibly longer. Standard sterilization is nearly ineffective."
The atmosphere at the table tightened noticeably.
A Heresy agent narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers in silence.
The projection changed again.
Now it showed infected pathology reports—
Severe vascular dilation and ruptures on the skin, widespread external injuries from self-harm and violence,
Overactive neural systems driving persistent, near-psychotic aggression,
Language ability retained but degraded into filth and threats,
Uncontrollable, indiscriminate violence toward all others, marked by extreme cruelty and sadism.
The officer's voice echoed in the room:
"These infected resemble some historical heretics in behavior. But unlike them, there is no trace of religious zeal or ideological influence. Their violence is purely physiological—caused by neurological disruption from the virus."
The images shifted again—recordings of infected raving, clawing, smashing themselves, or defiling the observation windows.
The grotesque scenes played overhead, and many around the table furrowed their brows.
______
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