Chains clanked and clanged, the noise of which echoed up and down the corridor. The two occupants of corridor shuffled along, one hindered by the source of the clanks and clangs, the other with a bolt pistol to the first's back.
'Faster,' hissed the Commissar, shoving the prisoner and making him stumble. He caught himself, however, and continued walking. Smartly silent, he stared straight ahead. Lace-less boots plodded against the deck and calloused hands held up trousers that were a bit too loose for the thinned prisoner. Ribs showed through his skin, though it had not been as such not just a week before.
Rounding a corner, the prisoner snuck a glance at the Commissar. The trademark stormcoat was buttoned tight and the peaked cap sat almost proudly on his otherwise bald head. His chain-sword was held loosely in his right hand, an insurance policy should the pirsoner escape.
This caused a snort of amusement to escape the prisoner. A sword hilt to the head was his swift reward. A myriad of curses snaked through the prisoner's brain as he tried to block out the sudden pain. Many said curses were colorful remarks about the Commissar's mother.
Down this corridor, the prisoner could actually see other living beings working to keep the troop-ship running. Servitors scuttled along, Engineers moved from place to place, Naval armsmen in their purple armor walked patrols. All made way for the prisoner and his Commissar escort. Some made the aquilla as a ward to fend off whatever evil the prisoner may have partaken in.
Amused by this, the prisoner continued forward, always mindful of the weapon prodding into his back. He had no hopeful thoughts saying that he would be alive much longer. After the 'trial', he would be either shot on the spot or placed in front of a firing squad. Undoubtedly made up partly of some troops from his own regiment.
A couple more turns and they began to pass Guard personnel. They all wore dark blue uniforms-though some had shedded their jackets for the white undershirts-and a white beret. A pin on the front of each beret proudly displayed an eagle with wings swept back like would be right before they snatched their prey. Held in it's talons, however, was a standard issue las-rifle. Tied to the barrel of the las-rifle, a scroll swept back under the eagle. It read: 'For Holy Terra'.
Every Guard they passed glared at the prisoner. A glare of anger that could only be brought on by the betrayel of a dear friend. Some, like the ship's crew, made the sign of the aquilla as he passed. The prisoner, for his part, kept his head held high under the glares of his fellows.
It wasn't long before the Commissar was pushing the prisoner through a door and into a large room. Chairs, tables, and other furniture was assembled to resemble a civillian court-room. Sitting behind the defendant table was a larger man wearing a very dark blue simple dress uniform, his white beret shadowing one eye. Rank tabs of a Colonel sat on his lapel.
The prisoner was led to a seemingly random point before being forced to stand as the Commissar took a seat behind the table opposite of the Colonel's. Another table sat in front of both tables and the prisoner. Behind it was another stern Commissar, his visage all but shouting his displeasure at having to perform this court.
'State you're name, rank, and regiment,' growled the head Commissar.
'Trooper Jvarn Lunk, Veno VI Sixth Regiment.'
'Trooper Lunk, you have been summoned to this court under charges of the following: Murder, Looting, Rape, Desertion, and Treason. Do you have anything you wish to say for this Trooper Lunk?'
Lunk remained silent as he stared past the Commissar at the large aquilla on the back wall. Almost looking satisfied with his silence, the Commissar continued, 'Trooper. For the sake of this hearing, can you please recount the events leading up to your capture for the charges that I have stated.'
Lunk shifted from one foot to the other before replying, 'It was just another day onboard the hauler. Eveyone knew what was coming. Another crazy mission for the Six's Sixth...'