It was the dead of night, long after the enlightening conversation Christian had. Most prisoners, if they weren't doing something, were already fast asleep.
The prison alarm blared, waking everyone up. A few men with rifles moved swiftly to certain cells, apprehending the inmates inside of them. One of these cells was Christian's cell. One of the men grabbed him by the arm and put handcuffs on him. Still dazed, Christian had no idea what was going on. At least ten other people were in a similar situation to him, being lead out of the prison.
Occupying his mind wasn't the certain enslavement ahead of him, it was the old man. How was he going to fare, now that nobody was there to hear his stories? And wasn't his name George Lim-something? At least, Christian was positive that the old man's first name was George.
With the prison door sliding open, every inmate was part of a single file line. Marching through the halls half-sleeping, they finally arrived at a hangar. The hangar was huge, storing dozens of transport ships. All of the ships had electronic signs over them, letting clueless visitors know where they were going, with the benefit of being able to quickly change if the ship redirected.
As Christian's line got closer to the ship headed for MP-17, they merged with other lines heading the same way. Eventually there was around a hundred people marching their way towards the unknown, and from above they looked miniscule compared to the entire hangar.
When they got aboard, they all stood on designated standing spots. They were cargo, human livestock. The animals were all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some were skinny, like Christian, others weren't human, like the person next to Christian. Anyone interrupting the mass transportation of goods was shot dead. One poor soul took too much time and set an example for the rest.
The guards moved to the front of the ship, allowing people in the back to whisper amongst themselves. A tall, humanoid prisoner with green skin looked over his shoulder to Christian, "Where are they sending us to?"
Christian shrugged, staring forward, "Didn't it say MP-17 before we entered?"
"It did, but what does that mean?"
"Either way," Christian sighed, "there's no chance that it's good for us."
Lightly nodding in agreement, the green skinned man seemed to leave it at that.
There were some windows, but they were few and far between. The door to the cockpit had a small window in the middle, that very faintly allowed you to see the miraculous hues of the galaxy. And even though the ship was moving at a speed incomprehensible to humans, in an incomprehensibly sized universe, the pilot drove forward.
Time dragged on for Christian and the rest. There was no countdown, no timer, just a skewed mental clock in every prisoner's head that was wildly off. In what felt like weeks, but was actually only a day or two, the shipment of fresh meat arrived at MP-17's hangar. Everyone was required to line up again, and nobody hesitated lest they end up dead.
Marching through the hangar, past a few hallways, the line finally met its first obstacle: screening. It seemed like the screening room could only handle three people at a time, and while the screening room was always free for three more people shortly after, nobody knew if the previous three had passed or failed the screening. When it was eventually Christian's turn, the secrets were laid bare. The screening room's walls were spotlessly white with six compartments integrated into the roof. Coming out of the compartments were flying drones. Two for each person. The first drone was delegated to scanning the upper body, subsequently the second drone scanned the lower body.
When everyone in Christian's batch was scanned, the doors seamlessly opened to reveal a wide courtyard bordering an enormous, metallic wall. A few guards were posted near the exit of the screening room, making sure everyone lined up again. So Christian, not seeing any way to escape, gave in to authority.
