Nathan's face presses into the sludge of slop that lays in front of him, his hungry mouth slurping up the gray sludge. It didn't take long as the tray found itself in an empty state. The sludge, devoured by the fiend. He licks his lips cleaning the chapped appendage of any more sledge before looking up at the guards and then to the prisoners. His face spread wide with a grin as he looked up to his fellow prisoners. "Do you feel it, I feel it in the air. The time of change is now, the Emperor commands it - something great is coming, the delegation is coming for everyone here. Soon, we'll be let back into society. Does that excite any of you, it excites me for I have more work to do. For the Emperor! Long live the Emperor!" He yells in their faces before laughing. Rocking on the bench that he is seated on "AHAHAHAHAHAHH!" He calms himself down to a small giggle

Some of the other prisoners of the other tables look over at him, whispering to themselves as they judge and mock the demented prisoners from afar. Nathan looks over to them with burning hate, alas his time of action will have to wait. They soon will be judged, perhaps by him but hopefully, the guards will be the ones punishing them for their sins. It's unlikely that things will change, he'll hang for what he has done that's why he is here, isn't he? Had Governor Freelok lied? He looked back up and maintained his smile to the other prisoners around the table in front of him. "What? Who? Oh, should we kill the officer? Do you not want to be set free or is it that you feel you are already redeemed. You aren't." He says to no one in particular before he laughs again.

He looks back up to the Captain and back to the group of prisoners. His hands gripping around his empty tray. "Throw it? We'll attack him? This sounds righteous!" He looks up to the bare gray ceiling. "The Emperor approves. Tell me when and we shall duel him, for our freedom. For honor, for glory, for our RIGHTS. WE. ARE. MANKIND!"

Life as a penal convict was one of contradictions. Gate hated the food - Emperor could only know what went into it - and yet he ate it anyway. Gate hated the water - he heard that they put things in it, the sort of things that made you behave like the screaming lunatic gesticulating down the table - and yet he drank it anyway. Gate hated the air - it was dry and stale and stung your eyes, making it hard to think - but he kept breathing anyway. Gate hated his superiors and yet he lived his life at their beck and call.

He stared into the slick grey surface of his gruel and begin to slip into thought, until something out of the ordinary caught his eye; new officers arriving into the mess hall. Normally they didn't change the guard so regularly, so he wagered something unusual must have been occurring. From his appearance and demeanour, the Captain reminded Gate of the private enforcers of the noble houses that ruled his hive homeworld; arrogant, overpaid and concerned only with pursuing their own personal power fantasies. Gate respected that. He couldn't imagine why one would come here, and part of him didn't want to know; sometimes prisoners he had known had disappeared one day, and never came back. Who would miss them? What better place for a bored noble or adept to collect human fodder from? As badly as Gate wanted to leave, he didn't wish to leave only to become a plaything or a human lab animal.

And yet... Gate did badly want to leave. So badly that any opportunity, even one that proved fatal, was worth taking; because in that opportunity lay the faintest glimmer of hope. Hope. Gate considered hope to be of deep significance to life on the penal world. Hope is what men of ambition had. Hope is what survivors had. It was only those who were broken - little better than animals, waiting to die here - that didn't have hope. Gate dearly wished to keep hope.

He shook himself out introspection. He was still staring at the Captain, who seemed to be observing the massed rabble in the canteen. Gate sensed the need to attract his attention, as though he was looking for something. But how? How was he different to this man from the hordes of grey-clad souls surrounding him?

Despair gradually sunk in as Gate realised... he wasn't.

All things considered, exile wasn't that bad. Physically at least, mentally and spiritually it was another story. Sure the air here was hot and stale but it certainly beats the poisonous wastelands of Armageddon. The food was not that great either but battlefield rations were worse. The shame was the worst part of this whole experience by far. Guilt weighed down Octavia Westerlund's soul. She had been a faithful servant of the Emperor and His holy Imperium her whole adult life and yet she had ended up here. Why? She was spared death which must mean her life's duty was yet to be completed. He-Who-Watches-From-Holy-Terra must still have plans for the veteran guardswoman. She knew that. You can't change fate and her fate was in the Emperor's hands, no point in brooding over it. Yet she still was haunted by the past few months. At night she saw her former comrade's faces, crushed by rubble or scorched by the blast. It made sleeping difficult, impossible at times. Her only solace came from the thought of redemption. It was the one thought that kept her driving forward on this miserable rock. She had faith, faith that the Emperor wouldn't have her die on this rock. She had survived much worse.

Octavia looked around the canteen. To her right there was a bearded man who looked like he had served in the Imperium. Perhaps he had been a guardsman like her? People who served the Emperor always had a certain look in their eyes, it was unmistakable. Further still to the right there was a clearly disturbed inmate who was gesturing wildly and cackling like a madman. Hearing his laugh made her scars itch. She swirled her spoon in the gruel and rubbed her hand over one of the many scars on the right side of her face. It was an idle habit she had developed recently. Octavia spooned some nutri-paste into her mouth and looked at the guards up on the walkways. Half of them probably hadn't seen real action- Something caught her eye and broke her train of thought. A Captain of the Guard, it had to be. No one else would have a power weapon, save for maybe the Warden.

Octavia eyed him with curiosity and a little bit of hope, hope that he was going to raise a penal legion and give her a second chance. She swallowed another spoonful of paste and watched him look over the room. There were others with the Captain, no doubt aides or representatives from the colony. The ex-guardswoman searched the mess hall for the reactions of the other prisoners. Some seemed indifferent, resigned to their fate. Others frantically waved and jeered. To get his attention? To mock him? She couldn't say, the other prisoners were a bit of a mystery to her. Socialising wasn't exactly a strong point for her, even if she could still speak. The only meaningful interaction she had with another prisoner was beating her cellmate for thinking she was an easy mark for rape. No one had bothered her since.

She blinked out of her reflection and peered around the room again, at the mass of nearly identically dressed inmates. Flicking her eyes back to the Captain, Octavia wondered if they were to become comrades-in-arms. Could she handle it?

Nathan Hall steps out from his seat at the mess hall, ignored once again by the people around him. He picked up his tray and stood on the table, he then began to speak while raising his tray. Brothers and sisters! We have wronged Mankind, but I see redemption for our sins against Mankind! It is the Emperors will, the will that brings the delegation of... Redemption! Brothers! Sisters! Now is the time to redeem ourselves, for the delegation we must stay true to the Emperor for he - in his ever growing and unlimited in his wisdom... He commands it! We must remain pure and free of heresy if we are to persevere in trialing times such as these... Chaos enroachs onto the Imperium but we are mankind, we are strong and with the help of each other we will prevail in the battlefields!

He then turns to face the Captain and his aides on the walkway, he brings his arm back and throws the food tray at the aides. But what of the command, why haven't you put us to arms! To watch us kill each other and to starve us, wasteful ! We should be fighting! The Emperor commands it for it his faith in mankind to do good for mankind or else we shall perish. Captain if you truly have no faith in the men and women before you then you shall accept my invitation to duel my finest champion - and he shall fight yours! For faith, for purity, for the Emperor!

Nathan stands still on top of the table and raises his hands up in the air and looks up as if he were looking into the sun. The mad man, he threw his tray at the captain! The guards on the walk ways seized up as he stood up to stand on the table, weapons were levelled at him from all sides. The guards, unsure if the Captain wanted Hall dead or not looked for him to guidance - even when he threw the tray. It woulden't take much to waste the entire mess hall, if it needed to come to that. The bullets and lasers would hit through Hall, and probably kill the entire table he was sitting at.

That was atleast, if they fired.

Tigranes liked to think he was getting used to the life in the penal colony. Because, when you looked at it in a certain way, it was almost like life back home. Before the war, that is. After all, he still woke up in the early hours of the morning and ate whatever was available before making his way to one of the mining sites to toil away for most of the day in cramped, dangerous tunnels and shafts. It was almost like home, if he squinted the right way.

Except it really wasn't. Because no matter how bad things got back in Hayk VII, at least he wasn't in the middle of thieves, heretics, rapists and murderers. At least back home the food wasn't this tasteless gruel. At least back home the water didn't smell funny. At least back home the air wasn't THIS bad. And most important, at least back home Tigranes didn't had to deal with the absolute scum of Mankind trying to stab him in the kidneys or Holy Emperor knows what else.

But then again, was he any better? Hadn't he taken up arms in support of a filthy heretic against the Emperor-appointed overlord of his world? Wasn't he deserving of punishment just as the rest of the inmates in this dreaded place? Sure, he could plead and argue about his duty to his lord and his ignorance of the happenings in the halls of power. But that didn't change his crime. No matter that he was just following orders like any good citizen ought to do, because in the end, these orders were streaming down from a heretic.

Tigranes shook his head, it would do no good to brood over it. He was but a serf, if he was here then it was because the Emperor was punishing him for his crimes. And he would bear it in quiet obsequiousness like any faithful servant. The former miner just turned his attention back to the gruel. Better to finish it soon and get back to work. Keep quiet and stay low, don't attract attention. That had worked reasonably well so far for Tigranes.

His attention, however, was caught by the rambling madman on the other end of the table. Tigranes looked at the man, feeling a mix of pity and disgust. Someone that broken ought to have had received the Emperor's Mercy long ago. Or maybe, that was the Emperor's punishments for his own crimes? Strip him of his mind and faculties, leaving a broken, giggling husk behind to atone for whatever crimes he committed?

Tigranes stopped himself again. Turning back his attention to the gruel. Ignoring the mad ramblings or the other prisoners sharing his table. Even though he couldn't help but notice how a couple of them had that same air about them as the officers of the Royal Army back home.

Then he saw the Captain up on the catwalks. Now that one looked like an officer alright. Could almost pass for a Colonel back home. Just add a couple of tattoos to identify his bloodline and the appropriate trappings and decorations that came with the rank. Tigranes reasoning continued. Chances were, he thought, that this many people from the Militarum were here, was because perhaps the higher ups were going to raise a Penal Legion out of Redemption? It would certainly fit with the rumors running wild around the ex-soldiers in the camps. About the newest campaign routes falling near the planet.

If that were indeed true, maybe this could be Tigranes' chance to truly redeem himself? Surely that was the Emperor's way of giving him a better chance for redemption? Whatever he was planning however, was interrupted by the madman attacking the Captain.

Tigranes could not stop himself, the hideous wretch had probably killed them all and didn't even knew what he was doing. In his anger he shouted at the offending prisoner, throwing his own tray at him.

If Nathan had thought that there would be no repurcussions for his actions, something that is highly unlikely considering precisely where he was, then he was very much mistaken. No sooner had he thrown the tray - something that the Governor of the prison would probably have to ban because of his actions - than the flare of a forcefield crackled into life and sent the tray spinning away from the observing party on the gantryway.

Captain August Argyle barely even blinked an eye, having seen more than his fair share of combat zones, taking a little more interest as the prison guards (not the Arbites, they were reserved for special occurences) closed in on Nathan, several of them bringing extendable batons to bear with flicks of their wrists.

"You've been warned enough times, Hall!" Shouted one of them from behind his half-face helmet, "this is the final straw, you lunatic."

Before Nathan had a chance to move, as if there was anywhere to move to, one guard had already cracked him across the back of his legs, others gripping his limbs as they dragged him bodily from the table and dumped him without ceremony onto the cold, hard, floor of the canteen; for further emphasis he was booted repeatedly, hard enough to bruise but not so hard as to break anything, heavy-duty boots finally ceasing to attack him as the Captain began to speak.

His stern voice was amplified through speakers on the walls of the canteen, piercing blue eyes sweeping over the human dross as he spoke, glaring out from beneath his peaked cap.

"A war is being fought not far from here, a holy crusade to bring several systems back into the light of the Imperium and the authority of our beloved God-Emperor," his words were sure and strong, much like his resolve, "soldiers die out on the field every day, good soldiers, while scum like yourselves sit here in luxury and need not fear for your lives...but that is about to change, for I have been sent here to raise the First Redemption Penal Legion, meaning that some of you may even be fortunate enough to redeem yourselves in the eyes of Him on Terra."

For a moment he paused, pulling a dataslate from his jacket and seemingly studying it with some intensity, before looking back up and continuing.

"We will take volunteers but, should there be a shortage, we will simply take you instead. Should you wish to volunteer, make yourselves known to the guards, who will take you to a holding cell in the eastern wing. I will be there shortly."

The Eastern Wing was the arrival (and departure) wing for the prison complex, where new shipments of inmates arrived and the dead were returned to space, it also held the facilities supplies, uniforms and so on. It was as secure an area as any other in the prison, and more well guarded than the Governor's own quarters, a place where a man may see the back of this shithole if he should be so lucky.

Shiah observed the insane child-molester Nathan Hall getting himself beat up again with bored disinterest, but the speech that followed from the Imperial Guard Captain grabbed her full attention. She absolutely hated this place. It was entirely sterile and there wasn't a single chemical to cook with. She knew the prison guards had their own narcotics but they hated the inmates so much they refused to even trade with them. So not only was she constantly suffering from withdrawal jitters, she was also terribly bored with nothing for her formidably creative mind to do.

War was hell, she knew that, but hell wasn't worse than limbo.

"Hey!" she yelled and got up from her seat, waving her arms about, hoping to catch a guard's attention. "I volunteer! Get me off this damn rock and I'll gladly lay -- I mean, risk my life for the God-Emperor! I want salvation! Oh yes, please!" It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but Shiah thought she did a reasonably good job regardless, and one of the guards that had just finished beating Nathan Hall mercilessly now approached her.

"And what exactly do you have to offer the Crusade, wretch?" he asked scornfully, looking Shiah up and down. It was true, she didn't look like much of a soldier, but Shiah snorted in derision anyway. "Never judge a data-slate by its cover. Isn't that what they say? I've got steady fingers and I'm clever. Smarter than the rest of these skavvers. Never killed anyone unless it was in self-defense. Reckon I can do my part," she retorted and put her hands on her hips. The guard laughed mirthlessly and beckoned for her to follow him. "Alright, come on through."

And so she did. The cell in the Eastern Wing wasn't much to look at it and she was one of the first to arrive, having so enthusiastically volunteered immediately, but others trickled in after her quickly. Shiah sat down on one of the benches and entertained herself by judging the others as they came in, wondering how long each of them would last in combat.

All he saw was red.

The guards stormed Hall as he anxiously tried to escape the mob of prison guards. "Wait a second, I'm a redeemer! Fuck fuck fuck!!!" The guards start to pummel him as their feet and batons grace the man's skin. Bruising and bleeding him before the order from the captain halts their viscious assault, it wasen't a long beating but it was efficent. Hall laid still around the group of guards as they picked up the man's limp corpse, before dragging him off and away from the cafeteria of prisoners. The energy Hall once had was faded as the guards pulled the limp man along the dirty, wet floors of the cafeteria and into another hallway which led to the Eastern Wing where the soon-to-be-troops were stationed.

He is thrown into the cell by the guards, his face bloodied and bruised as he coughs and spits blood onto the floor. Some inmates around him decide that they don't want to catch whatever he has and they begin to walk away. He looked up to the woman who he saw volunteering, the one he saw when he was being dragged away. "You! Do you think you're rightful for the Emperor's army? Look at yourself, - you're a woman! Something weak... And fragile, you should be serving men such as myself." He wipes the blood from his broken nose and bruised lips. "You are nothing to me, the Emperor or these men and everyone here knows it. The only thing you will prove here is that you are good whore or that you make good fertilzer."

After his rant he went to go sit down on the floor, around the bodily fluids that he had so graciously brought into the cell with him. He crossed his legs together and puts his hands behind him to balance his stance. He looks up to the ceiling, observing the bleak and grey tiles that held themselves together above him. "You know, once we redeem ourselves I will be by the Emperor's side to continue the fight. What will you all be doing?" He says standing up putting his hands in the air. "Redemption!" He begins to chant "Reeee-dehm-shun! Reeee-dehm-shun! Reeee-dehm-shun! Reeee-dehm-shun! Reeee-dehm-shun! Reeee-dehm-shun!"

Time and time again, Phrike had seen himself passed over by indifferent hand through many of Redemption's "programs" - culls, purges, calls to arms and pleas of penance. Any chance to see himself cast from cold rockface, to see a true sky and know true freedom either through a chained existance in an Imperium deathsquad or the death that accompanies it, had been denied to him to the point that the introduction of the Captain paid him no mind.

If anything, it was a saving grace. The rush of correctional guards to Hall allowed Phrike to slip home remedies and contraband into the hands of his fellows before he was shoved into a seat under the threat of cattle prod.

Things were different this time, comically so. In one instance, as soon as the Captain had left, he had found himself corralled within a group of rampant inmates, rushing towards the Eastern Wing, swept up in their fervor for any inkling of redemption or freedom. In moments, he had gone from enjoying his Imperial gruel to lying face-down on the floor in the Eastern Wing, hands and arms protecting vital organs from stampeding feet and stun-prods.

Frenzied hands reached out, around the base of one of the benches, and he pulled himself from the fray as the excitement peetered out and the inmates were allotted to cells. Hand-over-hand and with a pained gasp, he found himself seated next to Octavia, panting as he nursed his sleeve to his lip, already swollen and bloody.

"Hey," he rasped between breaths, tapping his lips with two fingers towards Octavia, "Got a Lho-stick?"

The Captain spoke of volunteering and crusades and that was all Octavia needed to hear. She had heard enough rousing speeches in her time. The one thing that did stand out was the madman, Hall, provoking the guards enough to warrant a pretty severe beating. Tavia watched in indifference as the guards rained blows down on him until they decided he'd had enough and began to drag him off to volunteer. Once the Captain was done with his speech, quite a few inmates got up and shuffled off towards the East Wing. Was that out of fervour for the Crusade or merely at a chance for some sense of freedom? Octavia wondered as she stood up and joined the group of inmates making their way through the slate-grey hallway.

At the end of the corridor, in the intake area, there was a group of guards who had set up a table and were taking volunteers. They had a data-slate and were looking over various prisoners' files for whatever reason. Octavia joined the queue and watched as more prisoners joined behind her. She looked over the people who were sitting down further in the room. There was a giant brick wall of a man, a smaller hiver girl, and even Hall, lying in a bloody heap on the ground. Hall sat up and started babbling mindlessly at the girl about something before he began chanting in a manner that mocked the Emperor's Own Ecclesiarchy. Octavia shook her head. There was no hope for that one. Finally it was her turn.

The guard looked at her puzzled when she didn't say anything.

Octavia pointed to the scar on her throat and then pointed to the number emblazoned on her jumpsuit. The guard tapped on his data-slate and then looked up, "Octavia Westerlund? Accused of deserting the Guard?"

Octavia nodded grimly.

"Glad to see you've had a change of heart. Go on through." The guard added with chuckle. Octavia pursed her lips and went to sit down on an unoccupied section of bench. Her scars tingled in annoyance as she watched the trickle of inmates entering turned into a mass. There were a lot more volunteers than she had initially guessed there would be. Octavia suddenly found a inmate seated next to her, he looked a bit roughed up, no doubt dragged in here by the wave of inmates. He was tall and pale and Octavia vaguely recognised him as some sort of prison doctor. In between ragged intakes of air he managed to ask her for a lho-stick. Octavia didn't smoke regularly but they were common prison currency so she had stashed a few in her breast pocket. Having a doctor owe you something was always a good idea, something she learned in the Guard, so she pulled out a lho-stick and handed it to the pale man.

Tigranes sighed in relief as the guards merely beat up the poor, deluded lunatic. Still, that little stunt could have killed them all. Emperor knew just how many trigger happy guards patrolled the halls of Redemption. Maybe the beating would be enough to finally set him straight. But Tigranes didn't dare to really believe it. By the looks of it, the only solution to Hall's madness was the Emperor's Mercy or a miracle. The former being much more likely in a place like this.

The Captain's words about the Crusade and the chance of redemption, however, were enough to take his mid off the pathetic spectacle on the floor. That's exactly what he was hoping for! An opportunity to wash away the stain of heresy and the crimes he had committed against the God Emperor. Even death in battle would be better than wasting away in this hellhole. The former miner didn't need any further prodding after that as he rushed alongside the mob. Pushing and shoving other convicts away in his hurry to get in line.

Once in line, Tigranes could barely contain his excitement, blurting out his name and droning on about his years in the Haykan Royal Army to a disinterested guard who motioned him forwards. The soon to be Penal Legionary made his way through the cramped halls and corridors as fast as he could in the middle of the mob of volunteers before finally reaching the cell in the Eastern Wing.

There, he found himself stopping close to several familiar faces from the canteen. None that he knew by name for Tigranes had just been recently transferred from one of the other holding sectors. Thinking about it, maybe one of his fellows from Hayk spread around the planet would also take the offer? It would be good to have some familiar faces to face the coming challenges.

As Gate fell into rumination, the blaring sound of report made by the tray rebounding off the force field snapped him back to focus with an alarming suddenness. He buried his head low as several enforcers sallied forward to beat down the offending prisoner, and cursed whatever fool had thrown it for squandering this one, dim light of freedom that had presented itself.

Suddenly, the Captain began to speak, and Gate realised that there was yet hope. He felt an unfamiliar and not altogether pleasant sensation of rising trepidation and excitement as the nature of the situation gradually fell into place -- a penal legion! As an enforcer, Gate was familiar with those lucky convicts that won the lottery of fates and were spared death to be enlisted into the infamous 'expendable' regiments amongst the PDF. Gate had often considered this fate to be overly kind; a lucky break for undeserving rats too stupid to make it in the hive. He felt a mirthless sort of humour that he might be spared by the same fate.

If ever there was an opportunity for escape, this was surely it. All he needed to do was make it into the legion, and then his natural acumen and better breeding would surely differentiate him from the other scavs he'd be thrown in with. He might even be promoted out of the legion. He might even make it to officer.

The Captain finished speaking, and Gate was rising. He was striding towards the group of penal enforcers that had delivered the beating to the lunatic. He saw a rough looking woman had already made it to them and was obviously enlisting. A profound sense of urgency overtook him; what if there was a limit? What if he didn't attract the attention of a guard at precisely this moment, he'd lose their attention forever?

Perhaps mercifully, Gate was not allowed to experience this doubt for long. Before he could reach the group of enforcers, a surge of prisoners had risen and were making for the exit to the Eastern Wing with a clamour of activity. Enforcers were swinging, shoving, and corralling the horde of hopefuls, and Gate could do little but be buffeted along on the tide.

After what seemed like far too long unable to know or control where he was going, he found himself within the cavernous interior of the cell-cum-conscription hall. Pushing himself out of the mass, he found himself in a less crowded spot where several convicts were sitting.

Gate always found it severely troubling how difficult he found it to recognise faces amongst the convicts. When he had been an enforcer, he knew hundreds of faces. Bounty hunters, spies, merchants. Out of a hive of tens of millions, he was able to remember them and keep a beat. Here, he felt as though his brain was slowly wearing away. Everyone looked the same. He could barely tell his own reflection apart.

Uncertain of whether one of the convicts here was an acquaintance, Gate leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat from his dirty brow.

With a half-cocked smile that didn't quite reach his sunken eyes and a quick, snatching grab that implied mistrust if one were to look deep enough for reasons in minor actions, Phrike placed the Lho-stick in the corner of his mouth, grasping at loose pockets for some sort of lighter or match.

"Nasty bit of scarring, that." He mentioned, albeit without looking up to meet her gaze. With a light in hand, he took a single drag and blew smoke from his nose, coming out in staggered breaths. No matter the fact he was born here, situations like this never changed for him; things were rowdy and tense, one errant convict or paranoid enforcer away from a stubber firing off into the crowd or suffocating gas to be piped into the room.

Under no consent from the woman, he ran his finger quickly along the length of one of the scars, Lho-stick now halved as he saved the closest section for later. "You do that yourself or your cellmate?"

Attempting to savour the luxury afforded to him, he scanned the room. You didn't survive long on Redemption without taking stock of your environment every five seconds or so, making sure to keep track of any quiet transactions, hidden blades or bubbling situations that would end up with you in an iso-cube or bleeding out on the ground before the Enforcers were able to control the situation.

Two men who stood out from the rest drew his eye. Characters of importance were rare on Redemption, as the old adage goes: "the nail that sticks out gets hammered." He made sure to keep his glances quick, as not to draw their ire before he drew his gaze back on the woman.

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Hank@Cash78

Redemption and the chance of redemption made sure that the Penal World – or at least the prison complex the covered nearly the entirety of it – was able to volunteer or conscript enough men to form multiple Penal Legions for the war currently being conducted nearby. One to two thousand men and women were all that were needed to form a standard regiment of the Imperial Guard, the same number forming a Penal Legion in its totality, and to say that there were thousands upon thousands of convicts, criminals and lunatics on Redemption was to understate the prisons population by more than a few million.

Each 'volunteer' was carefully noted, their name, place of origin, past and past discretions all sent from the massing halls of the Eastern Wing to a nexus of data-devices for later use. There were criminals to be certain, murderers and rapists in for pretty obvious crimes, serial killers and deserters that would either thrive in a Legion or die trying...then there were those that, most would say, did not even deserve to be here; mothers and fathers that had taken food for their starving children, a man from an ultra-religious planet who had quoted a verse from the books of the Cult Imperialis incorrectly, and another who claimed in his madness that the foundation for the state religion was based on a book written by a traitor Primarch!

What time for exchanges of speech or even glances that the prisoners may have had was cut savagely short, uniformed guards moving in amongst and between the mostly reclining groups of prisoners and shouting them to their feet - those that would not or could not rise were beaten with batons, electro-prods and rifle stocks until they did so.

“Get moving!” Came the yells, “the sooner you're processed the sooner you can go and die.”

Process was a technical word for making your way to the shower blocks where more guards waited - weapons held ready in tightened grips, some prisoners rightfully flinching away at the scene of so many abuses within the prison but with nowhere else to go – and being asked or forced to strip oneself of the dour grey uniforms in which you were clothed. From there one would proceed into the showers, water as freezing as an Arctic tundra, and wash as thoroughly as possible without soap or heat.

Still dripping with moisture and barely out of the door at the far end of the showers, the naked prisoner would then be confronted with a room – usually another hall, but in this case turned into a Departmento Munitorum storeroom and dispensing hall – full of half-mechanised or gruff faced department operators and quartermasters standing behind tables and waiting patiently for the first prisoner to approach.

On approaching the prisoner may notice a few things, possibly the piles upon piles of stuff kept under guard between each table and the wall, perhaps the condition that the weapons were in – most used and some still with the blood of former owners upon them – or the general raggedness of everything that they were given.

“Name and crime,” a servitor would ask upon approach to the first table, the data being searched and confirmed, “please proceed.”

“Jumpsuit, flak vest and flak helmet, one,” a quartermaster would blurt, placing said items upon the table before you and ushering you along up the line, the items of the stark grey jumpsuit being in almost freshly produced condition...the flak armour not so much.

“Inhaler, one. Gask mask, one.”

“Rucksack, one. Mess kit and water canteen, one.”

And so on and so forth...

Once the prisoner reached the end tables, the most secure and well guarded, he was fitted with an explosive collar or plain metal. Some struggled at this point, electroshocks ensuring their cooperation, while others willingly submitted themselves to this necessary procedure.

Only after this point were any weapons given to the prisoners; a standard pattern lascarbine, four charge packs of ammunition, and two mono-knives to be precise. Grenades would be issued if and when they were needed.

At least one prisoner believed it would be a good idea to turn his weapon upon his keepers, his head quickly turned into a red mist by the collar he had so quickly forgotten about, those nearby finding their grey jumpsuits with patches of red blood and human gristle.

Finally, and with some effort under the weight of everything given to them, the prisoner was pushed or launched bodily into what appeared to be a hangar of some sort; for though there were no vehicles yet present, there were landing platforms and a shield separating the outside world from the interior of the prison. Not long did the prisoner have to consider where they were, or even the fact that they may still be naked – a line didn't stop just because one person wished to change! - because other figures were already present except for those of the seemingly omnipresent prison guards, that being those of white-armoured Arbites who were not to be kept waiting.

---

Arbitrator Kenelm let out a grumbling murmur from his scarred lips, his fist tightening around the dataslate that he held in his hands, the power maul making a slight rattle as it bounced off of the carapace armour on his legs. For hours he had been standing there, his stark white armour meant to separate him from the scum under his command but only annoying him instead, he had not served with the H'ruskan Third Arbites Precinct for nigh on thirty years only to be thrown into the meat-grinder of war with a mass of convicts all around him. Again he studied the flitting runes and pictures before his eyes – unseen beneath the reflective visor of his helmet – and grunted.

After what seemed like far too long the unwashed (or washed in this case) masses began to filter into the hangar, his fellow Arbitrators swiftly moving to form them up; those Arbites wearing the usual black armour of their posts were essentially the policing units of what would come to be the 1st Redemption Penal Legion, serving directly beneath the legions Prefect Penatante, while he and his white-clad brethren were those with the experience and willpower necessary to actually lead the criminals into a war-zone.

Prefect Maitiu may have been his superior, but in this place, in this moment, he was God.

With some reluctance he shifted into his role, beginning to snap off names in his sullen tone, barking crimes at the mass before him and moving to a position on one of the multiple landing pads.

“Humphrey Oliver, for rapine and murder,” a shout that produced a lithe and disturbing specimen from the collective – something about the man making the Arbitrator want to immediately go for the detonation remote in his pocket.

“Reijo Lorne, for desertion of the Chogorian 8th, former sergeant... Valent Eyvindur, for mass killings of innocents, former Colonel of the Ungaran 57th... Jerrik Samuel of Bardina, for assassination and racketeering...”

So it went on for nearly an hour.

“Octavia Westerlund, for desertion from the Steel Legion,” he finally shouted, the athletic woman on his dataslate looking like the model Guardswoman, causing the Arbitrator to think that perhaps there was hope for his squad yet. At least if his Militarum aide had anything to say about it.

“Nathan Hall, for murder, rape and desertion... Tigranes, for heretical dealings and murder, former PDF Sergeant... Gate Kurman...”

Gate Kurman? A former Enforcer from Tiranis! Well now, this was unexpected; it was not enough that he was shouldered with scum, now he was to take a former Arbite (and an Enforcer at that) into his squad of thirty or so criminals. This was beyond a joke.

“Gate Kurman, for smuggling, former Enforcer.”

They had been processed, they had been armed, and now they had been called. For the Emperor.

Octavia let the man snatch the Lho-stick from her. It seemed to be natural to distrust even your fellow man in a place like this. It was much different from the Guard, where you had to trust the man or woman next to you with your life. This prison doctor seemed impartial to the chaos of all the inmates volunteering. In fact, when Octavia looked over at him with a furtive glance he seemed more interested in her scars. The whole scarred mass of tissue itched as he looked it over. She didn't much like people staring at the right side of her face, but naturally that's the one they did stare at on account of her eye and scars. She missed the full face gas mask of the Steel Legion. Maybe they would issue her one in the penal legion, if they did she'd practically sleep with it on.

"Nasty bit of scarring, that." The Doctor observed, "You do that yourself or your cellmate?"

How dare he! The things that did this to her face would make mulch out of anyone here! Octavia clenched her fist briefly before realising it was pointless. No one here had faced what she had faced and she couldn't explain it now, there was no point on taking it out on the ignorant. She relaxed her fist and pointed to the scar on her throat and made a hissing noise. With her pointer finger she spelled out 'xenos' in Low Gothic in the air. However she doubted that the man could read or write so it was probably a futile affair but maybe on the off-chance he could read...

He reached his hand out and felt one of her scars. Octavia slapped his hand away, annoyed. Well at least he has balls, or no sense of personal space. Next person to touch her face was going to lose a finger, though.

---

Eventually the call was made to shuffle into the shower wing for whatever reason. Octavia stood up and began to make her way with the mob of prisoners (probably more aptly conscripts at this point) down the slate grey corridor. A few prisoners resisted being moved and were 'urged' along with strikes or just pushed by the prisoners behind them. Eventually the rowdy queue was properly forced into single file. "Strip your jumpsuits off!" shouted a guard. Well, at least she knew why they were going to the shower wing now. Octavia stripped off her uniform reluctantly and left it on the ground with the rest of the discarded uniforms. Her body had its fair share of burns and scars and other marks but it was not nearly as scarred as her face. She rubbed her hands through her hair as she made her way through the gauntlet of freezing water. It had been sometime since she had shaved her head and so her hair was starting to become long enough to be considered pixie cut. It annoyed her but she had better wash it while she had the chance.

Soaking wet and doing her best to stop shivering, she stepped into the next hallway, which was wider and filled with tables where guards were issuing equipment to the still-naked conscripts. Before she could begin collecting her equipment however, a servitor asked her in a robotic voice, "Name and Crime." Obviously this was going to be a struggle. The Mute pointed to her throat scar but the servitor just stared blankly. Second, she opened her mouth and made a hissing noise, but still the servitor just stared and repeated the question. Finally a guard recognised her as a mute and found her in the database before waving her through. Lucky break.

First up was the clothing; Octavia took the helmet and stuck it on her head while she frantically tried to get the new jumpsuit on one-handedly. Unfortunately she was shoved along before she could get her arms through the sleeves so they hung limply at her side while she gathered her gas mask and inhaler. Thankfully next up was the rucksack. She quickly shoved all but the helmet (which was still on her head) and the flak vest (which wouldn't fit) into the rucksack. For the next few items she did her best to puzzle everything into place in her rucksack, after all this wasn't new to her, she had done this countless times before. Finally she made it to the end of the miscellaneous equipment gathering section, at which point she quickly stuck her arms through the sleeves of her jumpsuit, yet before she could zip it up she was shoved from behind into the next table.

Apparently they didn't trust the conscripts enough to just hand them a weapon- and for good reason, about ten or fifteen people in front of Octavia the screech of a lasgun cut through the din of the crowd followed by a dull thump of the explosive detonating. One less disloyal traitor. Eventually it came Octavia's turn and she reluctantly let the guard put the collar on her. It was not uncomfortably heavy, but it would take some time getting used to. The Mute Conscript swung the rucksack over her shoulder again and moved on to the weapons table. She eagerly took the lascarbine and slapped a charge pack in before stuffing the rest into the rucksack. It had been too long since she used one of these, her sharpshooting skills were probably quite rusty. Forgetting all about zipping her jumpsuit past her bellybutton, Octavia cradled her new knives and lascarbine as she marched into the hangar.

As soon as she was away from the crowd she set her rucksack and flak vest down and did a thorough inspection of her weapon, stopping just short of disassembling it and reassembling it with sacred oils. She did, however repeat a prayer (in her mind of course) of mending just for good measure. As a final step she tied her helmet to the outer pocket of the rucksack and then put the flak vest against her back to straighten out the uneven contents of the bag. Just as she finished her final preparations she heard her name called by a white-clad Arbite standing on one of the pads. Octavia made her way over to the assembly area on the pad at a brisk pace and saluted the man.

In a mock defensive gesture, Phrike raised his offending hand and attempted to furitively huff down the Lho-stick, taking no time to savour it once he read the mood of the room. Everything became palpable, the hushed murmurs began to reach a crescendo with the barks of Arbites and complaints of conscripts and the Eastern Wing became stifflingly claustrophobic as bodies filled any vacant space.

As the flow and rhythmn of the room changed, Phrike went with it, pushed up against his annoyed acquaitance and walls of prisoners around him. Stripped down to his birthday suit, it was easy to see just the extent life on Redemption had on him. Scars, self-inflicted and otherwise, and the faded tattoos done in the darkness. Shivering came instantly, overpowering the vulnerability of his position, as the ice cold water fell over him, the water at his feet murky and black.

Table-to-table, item after item, Phrike was overwhelmed. Although lines were "orderly", the extent of that word only meant that if shoving and violence became too much one would find the butt of a rifle smashed across the backbone of the skull. In fact, with all his items stacked in hand, he felt his flak-vest slip from his rough pile bundled up in his arms.

"Oi, give tha-" He began, only to be cut off as the culprit took a swing far too hard from an electroprod by an Arbite. His head caved in ever so slightly, a resounding crack of bone that wouldn't be hard to remember and fell to the ground. The line kept moving as he spasmed in death throes and his body was looted for equipment.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You'd think that in his lifetime of Redemption, a punishment needlessly cruel for a individual of no sin, he'd be use to the instances of violence and chaos around him. Behind his thin facade, he was terrified and he was faltering in his attempt to keep it up to save his integrity. By the time he was issued his canteen, he was hyperventilating, shaking more from his own fright than the arctic water that had barely scraped the top layer of grime encrusted onto his skin.

And then the man only a few heads away tried his luck. The resulting gore and symbol for what happened to those who resisted rained down on him, organic shrapnel as a chunk of flesh and globules of blood hit Phrike and stained his skin. It was too much. Shuffling on bow legged feet, Phrike curled over and fell to his knees, vomiting. All that came out was clear bile and hard, grey chunks - leftovers from their meal earlier.

Under the prod of callous guards and the stomping feet, Phrike was dragged to his feet and, looking at the ground nauseous, stood in the confines of the bay. No name was called for him, or at least he couldn't tell. When his collar was wrapped around his neck, he attempted to struggle and had been winded through a blow to the stomach that pushed more and more contents from his stomach, leaving him numb to the rest of the world as he resided in his own cave of pain for the duration.

If only just to give himself a break, he stood on the landing pad in front of the Arbites in white, hunched over naked, his rifle and helmet making a loud clatter as he fell into a deep squat, attempting to nurse his stomach.

So far, the Legion wasn't so bad.

Shiah cursed and swore under her breath as the masses of prisoners -- now fellow soldiers, she realized -- pressed in around her during their pathetic march towards the showers and the armory. She had no qualms about nudity but there was something especially humiliating about being hosed down by an indifferent prison guard and Shiah whispered a few more curses through chattering teeth. She was about to regret her decision when she was finally presented with her gear.

The mere idea of having possessions again was good enough to lift her spirits and she enthusiastically accepted all of it, especially the lascarbine. She'd handled weapons before but never anything more dangerous than a stub-pistol. Thrilled, she inspected the rifle as best she could while the line crept forward towards the hangar. It was evidently not anything close to new. The grip was worn, a thin film of rust coated the metal parts of the weapon and the magazine slot struggled to release the charge pack... but it was hers. "Shrike," she cooed at the weapon. "That's your name now. Shrike." The knives were also a welcome, and more familiar, addition. Shiah was good with knives.

She tried not to dwell on the bomb collar.

Upon the legion's arrival to the hangar Shiah finally took the time to get dressed, snugly fitting the flak armor over her new jumpsuit, and stuffed the various pieces of equipment she'd been given into the webbing and pouches that the jumpsuit was covered in. After that she looked around her at her fellow conscripts and spotted several that stood with their backs straight and their eyes staring ahead. Ex-Guardsmen, she mused, that knew how to stand at attention. Shiah did her best to emulate their posture, clasping her hands behind her back and slowly inching her feet apart until they were just right. If she was going to be a soldier, she might as well make the effort.

Next to her, a man squatted down, his weapons and gear clattering down onto the floor, clutching his stomach. Dribbles of vomit were visible on his chin. Shiah cast a sidelong glance at the poor wretch and raised an eyebrow. "Get up," she hissed at him. "Before the Arbites come here and beat your ass into the ground."

It wasen't long before Hall found himself in the showers, the rest of the prisoners were being fed into the room from the cell with the help of the guards. His eyes began to drift onto the other female prisoners, but stopped on Octavia's scarred body - this was for a moment before he got a few strikes into the back from the guards behind him. He quickly stripped himself of any clothing and soon his body was drowning in cold water as the dirt and grime on him are blasted off. Once he was finished washing he walked out into the hall, soaking wet alongside the other conscripts. The sound of bomb collar imploding ringed in Hall's ears, he coulden't help but say "Purity!"

Hall began to march down the line as the guards led the group of prisoners to their fate - the penal legion. It didn't take long for the line to rotate to Hall, with the guards prodding and forcing troopers to get their gear rather quickly. The quartermasters, while old and efficent seemed to process the soldiers at lightning speed. When Hall got up to speak his crime to the quarter master, he was already walking down the hall in uniform and kit. He blinked a bit trying to process the matter as he soon found himself in the hangar beside the various conscripts, everyone around him atempts to get in some kind of formation.

Unfortunately for Hall, his stomach erupts in anger from the gruel he shoved down earlier comes back up infront of him and onto his chin and clothing. He clutched his stomach, letting his gear free fall as he keeled over and threw up some more. Hall's moment to himself was disrupted by Shiah as she began to hiss words at him like a garden snake, he turned his head over to her so his face looked to hers. "My dear! Your job is not to worry about me, it is I who shall worry for you!" He hisses back to her, before wiping his mouth on his jumpsuit - picking up his gear in the process.

Gate was quickly lost in the crowd again, and carried on its current towards the administrative personnel. Amidst all the chaos and noise, Gate was most struck when the official asked him his name along with other demographic details. His name. When you were a prisoner, you lost your name unless you made an effort to hang onto it. All you needed was an ID. It communicated everything that needed to be said about someone with no rights, no future and no purpose. But as a soldier, you earned a name. Even soldiers couldn't just be numbers -
they had a function, they had responsibilities, they had a life. It felt profoundly odd to hear another person say it to him once more.

The following shower in the water like ice washed this uplifting feeling out of him for the time being, along with the distraction of seeing a naked woman for the first time in years - another uplifting feeling somewhat mitigated by the cold water.

The next events passed as a blur. The weight of a flak jacket over his chest, bulking out his malnourished torso into something resembling its old girth. The collar on his neck; he hated that, it felt like an anchor weighing him down from being taken seriously as a man of better society. The lascarbine in his hands, unfamiliar and--

BOOM!

... unfamiliar and possessed with the power to permanently end this opportunity for escape, as it just had for whatever fool blew up at the front of the line. He hoped he wouldn't have to see that mess. He kept the lascarbine pointed firmly at the floor.

Before he knew it, he was stood amongst the assembled legionnaires being reviewed by the officers. He was alarmed but elated to see that the legion was being commanded by Arbites officials - something he had not considered until now. Whilst he knew Arbites officers hated nothing more than disgraced rats from Enforcer cadres, he also knew how they thought and could play that to his advantage. Indeed, even when the officer in white passed him and read out his name and past with obvious contempt, he knew that he had at least earned the officer's interest in a way the rank-and-file penal scum would not.

To his left, a group of convicts made noise in the ranks as two of them seemed to collapse, and a third offered aid. It made him feel a malicious sort of glee, and he thought to himself; "I feel sorry for whoever gets stuck fighting with those fools."