"Boys, boys." Phrike interjected rapidly, nervously pacing himself between the two opposing figures in tension. He was previously occupied with the impromptu lesson, having found himself enthralled and trying to commit to memory all that he could, useless even with all the arguing if he couldn't find himself able to point the right end, the right way, with the right amount of control. "You need to keep this argument out of here."

With one last glance back at the surrounding Arbites, he moved even closer to their bunks, looking them both in the eye. "Argue all you want. For His Throne or your own selfish needs, it doesn't matter," he began, shuffling his rifle over his shoulder and attempting to appear to preoccupied with the group to cast glances around the hangar, "You've all got these useless collars on - we've all got these on. Our intentions, our actions, the battlefield... it all means nothing if we die under the hands of the Arbites, our head thrown into a thousand different chunks across the walls."

He shrugged, tossing his rifle once more over his shoulder with the sling and resting his other hand on the hilt of his dagger. 

"We'll all die, that is known. But I'd rather it be tomorrow or the day after, the more distance away from this planet and with the opportunity to defend myself, as opposed to dying on that rock or in here." He found his words whistling away on careless ears as the argument died down around him.

"I'm Phrike, by the way." He introduced himself, having to pull his sleeves up over his hands as they fell too long. "You might remember me from Redemption, been there my whole life... I was the cutman."