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Poole did not have the fanciest room aboard the Magnitude, but to be fair, Poole was not her fanciest member. There were no decorative posters or lights, no desks or chairs, nor any sort of semblance of his personality outside of his most bare needs. In a way, this too fit Poole. He was more a man of function than form, and his room [i]functioned[/i]. It functioned so well, Poole spent days at a time holed away in his room, as if trapped in a cycle of exercising, eating, and then sleeping. Lynnette once told him that was common in ex-cons, though he hadn't been able to tell by her tone if that meant it was something he should stop. Regardless, Poole, and his room, were functional for the purposes they served, form be damned. Of the four walls Poole had, one wall was decorated with a wooden crucifix about the height one would place a painting or clock, and nowhere else. Not a crucifix in the sense of having a little Jesus hanging out on it, Poole had voiced a distaste for those seemingly every time he encountered them, but a simple lowercase T made of two thin planks. Other than his crucifix, the only "decoration" that could be found was Poole's robotic canary, which tweeted peacefully on a small pipe jutting out of the ceiling. It would fly around the room once every thirty minutes, and then return to its perch to tweet until bedtime.

He had a single bed -- a mattress and wire frame which creaked tremendously when fitting his oversized bulk -- and a mini fridge with the foods that amounted to Poole's five food groups; potato salad, egg salad, chicken salad, Spar-Letta soda, and rye bread. He wasn't a man of steak and lobster. He was a man of cold salad, and with the money he made that wasn't stored away, he made [i]darn[/i] sure he had salad. This moment, he was not eating any kind of mayonnaise-based salad, but was wrapped up in his pre-mission prayers, or at least the excercise-infused bible study Poole had. He called them contemplations, which he claimed was like a more serious prayer. He invited the crew to join him every time he performed them, and every time, they declined. By now, it had become almost like a jingle. [i]Want to join me for a prayer, guys? No thanks![/i]

This was fine to Poole. In a way, he preferred the solitude. Twenty years could acclimate you to anything, including sitting in a dark room by yourself. 

[color=DC0904]"Blessed is the Lord, my rock."[/color]

If he had a slow day, such as this, Poole's pre-prayer bible readings were broken into chin-up reps, with a tiny paper bible propped between his chin-up bar and the ceiling. He wondered for a moment if he had always been a man of so many scheduled pre-activity activities, or if that was another quirk he picked up in the slammer.

[color=DC0904]"Who trains my hands for battle,"[/color]

Poole did two more chin ups, grunting with exertion, giving his bird a look-over. He enjoyed Bird's presence -- It kept him from getting lonely, without having to be fed or pooping on his floor. That, and he didn't have to cage it up at night. That was always something that didn't sit right with Poole, even before incarceration.

[i]Why do we buy flying pets to put them in cages?[/i] he thought to himself, pulling himself up another three times. 

[color=DC0904]"And my fingers for war."[/color]

Poole pulled himself up twice more, keeping a steadfast watch on Bird.

[color=DC0904]"He is my loving ally, and my fortress."[/color]

He grunted once more, dropping to the floor for a moment's rest, sitting on the bed to catch his rest, before lying down and shutting his eyes. In actuality, he had memorized this passage years ago -- being one of six he enjoyed reading to prepare for missions -- and only used the Good Book as a focal point for chin-ups.

[color=DC0904]"He is my stronghold and my deliverer. My shield, in whom I take refuge."[/color] Poole quietly said to himself, closing his eyes and clasping his two hands together over his stomach. He caught his breath for another few moments, before rolling to his side and standing up with a heave. He placed two giant hands together in contrition, shutting his eyes thoughtfully in prayer. He didn't pray out loud, that was another rule of his. As he had explained to his crewmates when asked on the subject, God was kind of like Professor X.

He continued his prayer for another few moments, encompassing his request for safety and courage on his mission, better luck than his opponent on the draw, the starving kids to be fed, and so on. When he was done, he opened his eyes and hands, rolling his shoulders back in forth as if starting his day anew. He had everything he needed for the mission already; His wrist-bow, which he carried with him everywhere but the shower these days, and [i]Jesus[/i].

As if by clockwork, he heard the familiar buzz his communications earpiece made right before receiving transmissions. His room had no windows, and yet he knew they were at the A.L.C, and that the captain would be telling him to get to the airlock. Sort of like Professor X. It was either the healthy breakfast he had that morning, or that prayer session, but something about what was in the air had [i]good day[/i] written all over it. To Poole, that hitman could consider himself as good as incarcerated by now.