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

[i]Redemption[/i] 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 [i]Redemption[/i] 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 [i]Cult Imperialis[/i] 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 [i]stuff[/i] 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 [b]any[/b] 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.



[hr]



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 [b]lead[/b] 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.