From the comfort of his fellow convicts prodding and harassing him over his rather upsetting first introduction to the Legion, Phrike tumbled to his feet as best as he could. The gravity of the situation and the danger of the great beyond paled in comparison to the very earthly condition he was in: nausea, inescapable nausea from his gut punch. He bundled his kit in one arm as he wiggled his lower-half into his dungarees, half-zipped for now until he could set his kit. Upper half exposed showing a lifeitme of shiv scars, deranged bite marks, burns from cattleprods touching exposed skin as well as all the pin-prick tattoos done painstakingly in the darkness.
Pain drifted and the gravity of the situation hit him once he fell into his cradle in the transporter. The safety cage rolled down over him, locking him in place for re-entry and it all hit him at once. For the first time in a long time, fear and paranoid was outweighed by something vastly more optimistic. He had never left his world before, never known anything other than the mindnumbingly featureless, windswept features of Redemption.
He may not have committed a crime to get there, but he finally felt out on parole. In a long time since, he smiled heartedly, even as the transporter screeched through the atmosphere and terrified most.
No matter what happened now, from dying on atmospheric entry to being shot up on some other world, they could never, ever suck the soul from his spirit on the planet of his birth. He would never die on Redemption, like his parents, his friends, the countless people who prayed to an uncaring God-Emperor in the cramped cells set up as makeshift hospitals. He would die a freeman, if not in law or name, than in his own heart.
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From the get-go, the territorial nature of the convicts set in. Once they took a locker and a bed, they set to making it their own and marking it off. Phrike, like most of them, worried about theft and intimidation, especially in this new environment that he hadn't spent his whole life figuring out and playing to his advantage.
Kit on his bunk, he finally zipped it over his razor thin frame, hiding his malnourished frame as he set to packing his bag and setting his equipment up. He had never seen a carbine before, at least not this close and not in the hands of an Arbites who had expertly planted a beam through the chest of an inmate. He tried every combination he could to get it to work: hovering the battery over the rifle, pushing it against it, rubbing it, putting it in upside down, embarassingly for a man who did combat medicine with little to no supplies and quite well, he finally got it after some time. It gave a resounding thwack and resonated with killing power.
His skill was with the blade and the mind, not the rifle.
Almost nervous, he set hooked it over his shoulder, afraid it'd be stolen as his flak was. Next was his helmet, too tight to fit onto his skull and with a strap that had once been chewed on by some sort of vermin, but it would do. He left everything with his bag in his locker, save for his Monoknife, which he hooked around his waist. You'd have to be warped in the skull to live among convicts of this caliber with no protection.
From his bunk across, he spotted Octavia and stood up.
"I didn't get my name called." He mused as he walked up, but more to no one in particular. Without waiting for a response, he looked at the Madman next to her. In the darkness of the ship, a situation he was used to living in the fettid tunnels of Redemption, he could just barely see the crooked expression on the man's face as his eyes re-adjusted. "You have to be more quiet. They'll push your button and then that's it."