When the order came from up top, the already frothing masses of Lay Technicians, Enginseers, Transmechanics, Lexmechanics, Acolytes, and more who had either been born from the masses of technicians within Cradle Station or those who could prove a direct link (either directly or through apprenticeships) to the Cult Mechanicum began a storm, a veritable assault, against the DAoT Station floating innocently within the void, unknowing of the prodding, searching, violating mass of writhing humanity and mechadendrites about to enter its holds.
When the first highly fought-for (this is to be taken literally) shuttles landed in one bay or hangar, those within walked into the station awed, humbled, and utterly willing to spend the rest of their insignificant existences in this place in exchange for just one crumb of Knowledge delivered unto them from the height of humanity.
After these early masses left their landing zones, such emotions of religious awe and supplication soon turned into hopeful confusion.
Hopeful confusion turned into baffled and deliberate incognizance, reverend walking paces replaced by quick steps.
Deliberate incognizance turned into worried steps and darting ocular implements as the second groups began to land.
Worried steps turned into runs, faces growing with anger, crushed hopes, and bubbling insanity.
Until...
Until...
Until the third group heard howling throughout the noosphere and through the hallways, galleries, and halls, such utter fury and wrath screamed through that medium of logic and through the air that whatever they believed would be found and encountered...wouldn't be.
The station was empty. Of everything. Every machine, every cogitator, every production line and warehouse.
All things within...had been taken out; even the internals in the walls hadn't been spared if they were of high enough interest to those who had taken all.
No.
Who had stolen everything!
One thing remained on the station: a shrine. Constructed in the command center of the station.
A shrine to the Omnissiah.
Whatever loyalties to Mars, to the Crimson Priesthood, had remained within those old enough to remember still a time before the Candle Keepers or who had been given such reverence to that far-distant world and birthplace of technological miracles, whatever crumb of faithfulness remained...it was shattered. Desecrated. Ripped. Apart. Put into the trash and burned until the ashes were but glass.
When the Imperium had forsaken this system, it had not failed to take everything of worth from this place, and in doing so, it had earned itself a priesthood of those learned in the Lower and Higher Mysteries of the Machine now utterly devoted to tearing out every implant and prosthesis those who had done so possessed.
Even after months of searching nothing turned up, only an Acolyte who suffered a nervous breakdown and began scribbling a mess of technical data onto the floors and walls of the station with their las-pistol. Interestingly enough, said scribbling turned out to be the engine schematics commonly used by the ships of the Candle, except they had an improved fuel efficiency of 0.03%. Yet, before those who were interrogating the Acolyte could start opening their skull, the local Choir freshly arrived crashed that thought and took the Acolyte under their care. Apparently, they had manifested their latent psychic powers and drawn upon them to get something in their collective desperation.
Yet...it wasn't all bad news.
Okay, it was bad news all around, but though there was no highly-coveted STC fragment or archeotech here, the station itself still existed! It was still a massive piece of void infrastructure, and many things could be placed within! Most of the connections still worked for the manufacturing halls, and the local uplift efforts would be massively improved by any industry or infrastructure placed into the skies! In fact, it would be massively cheaper to get the ball of self-sufficiency rolling now!
But what should be put here:
(Update in 9 Hours)
[] (Write-In 3 [Three] Levels of Infrastructure/Industry to gain.)
