The Detention Cell was cramped, simple, and could even have been called austere.
There was only a metal bunk fixed to the wall, a table of the same material, a chair, and a one-way observation window that occupied an entire wall.
There were no unnecessary decorations, no personal belongings, only the constant, slightly pallid light from the ceiling, cast evenly into every corner.
A faint smell of metal and cleaning agents hung in the air, cold and devoid of feeling.
Biberus sat on the edge of the bunk, wearing only a thin white robe in place of the ornate armour that had once symbolized his authority and duties.
His head was bowed, his hands clasped on his knees, his fingertips rubbing together unconsciously.
Stripped of every outward badge of office, he looked less like a Legion commander who ruled over tens of thousands of troops and more like an exhausted ordinary warrior lost in thought.
The room was frighteningly quiet, with only his own steady breathing and the exceedingly faint hum of the ship's circulation systems somewhere in the distance.
Just then, a figure appeared silently beyond the observation window.
Biberus raised his head.
It was Craston. The commander of the 3rd Company stood outside the window in full Power Armour, its black and sand-coloured paintwork looking especially sombre beneath the pallid lights.
He wore no helmet. His short black hair was immaculate, his face calm and unreadable, like a deep, ancient well.
His equally black eyes studied Biberus calmly through the thick transparent material, lingering for a moment on the glaring white robe he wore.
Their eyes met for several seconds. Neither spoke first.
Finally, Craston broke the silence from outside the window. His voice was slightly distorted by the communicator, but retained its distinctive flat, uninflected tone:
"You