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?"