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 [i]officer[/i].

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.