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 [i]crack[/i] 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.