The world dissolved around Phrike in a lazily shifting fog of war that floated across the makeshift battleground, clogging his nostrils and making his eyes water from the residual vapours from the burning wrecks and explosions. He clutched his knife in one hand, chest rising rapidly as he began to hyperventilate, his world becoming a tunnel.

As if by the hand of some cosmic God and with the resounding claxons bringing an end to the conflict, save for a few sporadic bursts of lasfire, he crawled to his feet. His mind never left that tunnel, dragging his way into the rough formation that made up Eighth Squad. In a flurry of activity, he felt shoulders, hands and elbows shove him around as they attempted to get into some sort of respectable form before one of the prowling, white-clad Arbites took the better end of a shock maul to their skulls.

"Inmate!" He raised his head from the hunch it was in, just in time to see the half-face reflection in the helmet of an Arbites. "Where is your service weapon?"

"I-..." Came the start of what would have been a sentence, had he not been cut off by the crack of a fist that sent him sprawling out of the loose formation of inmates. None looked his way, used to this occurance, and the assembly of Imperial Regiments didn't seem too phased to the abuse he sustained. 

There was no resistance on his part, no fighting back. He curled into a ball as fists were rained upon him, a semi-circle of other Arbites keeping a close eye on the action and the other convicts. Before the eyes of those who cared, you could see the socket of his eyeball break, his lip crack and split, maybe even a tooth or five come loose and hit the ground.

For what seemed like forever, but in actuality was maybe even a minute or two, the assault continued until one Arbites came around with a resounding swing of his maul, striking him across the skull. Even amongst the commotion of the assault and the formations, the [i]crunch[/i] of his skull caving in was harrowing, the kind of sound you remember for the rest of your life. 

He fell limp, and the life drained from his body, as the group of Arbites scattered, pushing the body over onto the side to bleed out, lifeless and still sans a few spasms - no repercussions, no ordeal. Maybe in a few minutes a servitor or a serf would come and collect the body to be recycled, his sparse equipment to be dispersed among the inmates.

Phrike, the only member of Eight Squad born on the prison colony of Redemption, had done what few had ever done; he escaped Redemption, dying free and amongst a great cosmic expanse that he had wished he could of explored had the hands of fate not cut his thread to early.