[The second week arrives, and vast stretches of crops bloom across the fields, their yellow petals opening to catch the sun's warmth.]
[You stand among the clusters of flowering plants, their sweet scent carried on the breeze. A satisfied smile tugs at your lips as you survey the sea of gold stretching toward the horizon.]
[Your gaze shifts upward. Countless bee-sized constructs pour from the bellies of massive Adeptus chanicus machines, their tallic bodies glinting in the afternoon light. They move with chanical precision, tireless workers that never rest, never sleep. Day and night, they traverse the wilderness, gathering pollen and spreading it from flower to flower.]
[The harvest will be good this year. You nod to yourself, ready to return to the factory.]
[Footsteps crunch on the dirt path behind you. You turn to find Zoya approaching, a mischievous glint in her eyes.]
[Over the following days, you gain an unexpected reward: Zoya becos your teacher.]
[She teaches you how to pilot a hoverbike, though the lessons prove more difficult than you anticipated.]
[The controls seem to have a mind of their own. The bike lurches left when you want right, accelerates when you an to slow. More than once, you crash directly into the crop fields, sending up explosions of yellow petals and clouds of golden pollen that coat your hair and shoulders.]
[Zoya laughs each ti, the sound bright and unrestrained. She's tucked a yellow flower behind her ear, and it bobs as she doubles over with amusent.]
["You ride like a Gretchin!" she calls out between fits of laughter, her accent making the orkish word sound almost musical.]
[It's a reference to one of her grandfather Wade's bedti stories, a tale about a Gretchin who dread of becoming a great tech-master despite being bullied by the larger Orks.]
[You pick yourself up from the flower bed, brushing pollen from your clothes with exaggerated dignity. The stuff clings to everything, making you look like you've been dusted in gold.]
[Instead of protesting her mockery, you decide to lean into it. You bounce on your feet, hunching your shoulders and letting your arms dangle, perfectly mimicking the peculiar gait of a Gretchin. Then you puff out your chest and swagger forward like one of the brutish Orks who tornt them.]
[Your impression must be spot-on, because Zoya's laughter intensifies. Even you can't help but grin, the expression feeling foreign but welco on your usually stoic face.]
[By the third week, the pollinated crops race through their fruiting cycle. What should take months happens in re days and nights, another miracle of Imperial agricultural science.]
[You've completed your scheduled patrol and now lie sprawled on the factory roof, letting the night air cool your skin. The tal beneath you still radiates the day's heat. Overhead, stars pierce the darkness in countless thousands.]
[You're waiting for Zoya. She promised to bring an elaborate dinner, sothing special she's been planning for days.]
[Then you see them.]
[Your eyes narrow. Among the familiar constellations, two bright vortexes swirl where none existed before. They pulse with colors that shouldn't be, colors that make your eyes water if you stare too long.]
[Unease coils in your gut. You slide down from the roof, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud.]
[You find Old Man Wade in his usual spot, shoulders bent over so piece of machinery, his muscular fra still impressive despite his age. Grease stains his weathered hands.]
[You voice your concerns, gesturing upward toward the anomalies in the sky.]
[Wade straightens, joints popping. He follows your pointing finger, squinting at the heavens. Then he turns to look at you, really look at you, before rolling his eyes with obvious exasperation.]
["That's just a supernova explosion," he says, his tone patient but tinged with amusent. "The death of the ancient Karakul twin stars. Boy, I've got no problem with you wanting to court my granddaughter, but you've still got to listen to the Empire's broadcast ssages on ti. Can't go wooing a girl if you don't know what's happening in the galaxy."]
[He claps you on the shoulder, his chanical prosthesis cold even through your shirt, then returns to his work.]
[You want to protest, to explain that sothing feels wrong, but the words die in your throat. Perhaps Wade is right. Perhaps you're seeing threats where none exist.]
[Still, the unease doesn't leave you.]
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