Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The room simmered with nervous energy.  Keith flicked his ear in annoyance.  What difference did it make which arena they fought in?  The other prisoners were kidding themselves if they thought being in the ring with the rumored Champion had any impact on their fate.  All of them were going to die on blood-choked sand: some were just going to die sooner than others.  Still, changing arenas did bring new challenges.  Would the ring be the same size?  Same shape?  Were there any new rules to learn?  There was also the matter of the cells--depending on how quickly this arena went through prison fodder, they might be using a large, joint cell instead of the smaller ones Keith was used to.  More bodies meant more enemies.  He would be on full alert for the foreseeable future. 

“They say the Champion is a barbarian from the outer reaches,” a fruvian whispered loudly to its neighbor.  It was fishing for more information, hoping someone would jump in on the conversation.  “They say he’s so bloodthirsty, he attacked his own companions for a chance to fight first.”

A jostry snorted, unimpressed.  “All the champions are bloodthirsty.  There’s nothing special about that.”

The fruvian wrung its four hands.  “Yes, but this one is undefeated,” it pressed.

“Everyone who wins their first fight could be called ‘undefeated’--until their second.  Everyone loses eventually,” the jostry shrugged.  “This isn’t the first champion and it won’t be the last.”  It eyed the fruvian over before smiling unkindly.  “Don’t worry, little one.  Champions only fight the strongest contestants.  I’m sure you’ll die long before you need to face him.”

The fruvian squeaked and ducked away.  Keith wasn't fooled by the display of meekness.  He’d been on the same ship with the fruvian for several movements and had seen it slit more than its share of throats.  Larger, confident creatures like the jostry were its favored target and between the two aliens, Keith knew which one was more likely to survive the night.  

Keith suppressed a sigh and balanced on the balls of his feet.  He hated waiting.  They’d been docked for at least a varga now and still no sign of when they’d be moved.  It wasn't that he was eager to leave the shuttle or to meet a new round of fellow prisoners, but waiting was boring.  Keith liked action.  Of course, a lack of patience was what had gotten him into this mess.  He’d been on a mission and instructed to wait for a signal before sneaking into a Galra base to sabotage it and, if there was time, steal several codes.  Instead, Keith had seen an early opportunity and taken it.  He’d been caught almost immediately.  It was just one more layer of proof that Kolivan had been right about him: he was still a kit with too much to learn and not enough experience to see him through tight spots.  

This was a hell of a tight spot.

Keith’s only bit of luck was that the Galra guards who captured him had thought he was a regular thief, not a member of a secret rebellion, and instead of torture and interrogation Keith’s fate was to fight and eventually die in the arena.  He didn’t mind it much these days.  Once he’d proven himself a worthwhile fighter, he’d moved up the ranks from cheap entertainment of the mass slayings of unskilled prisoners and now faced only battle-hardened warriors.  It still turned his stomach to think of his first fights--civilians, mostly children and women, who had stolen out of poverty-driven desperation.  They had died while crying for mercy, and the only thing Keith could offer them was a quick death.  Keith had no taste for killing, but he did what he needed to in order to complete his missions and he didn’t feel guilty about it.  He would survive as long as he could and when he died, it would be with his honor intact.

The door whirred open.  “Get up, maggots,” a guard said roughly, a hint of a sneer on his face.  “You lucky lot are heading to cell block 19-329.” 

Keith suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.  As if anyone on the shuttle had a fucking clue what that was supposed to mean.  Likely, the guard was trying intimidate the prisoners.  Idiotic.  Half the prisoners could kill him before he hit the floor if they so chose, not that anyone here was stupid enough to try it.  But still.  Posturing?  Ridiculous. 

The guard marched them down hallways and several elevators.  Keith counted the turns and floors they passed.  He didn’t harbor any hopes of escape, but old habits are hard to break.  Ten left turns, six right, twenty-one block length hallways, and thirteen floors in total.  Slightly interesting information, but ultimately useless.

They entered the room that was, presumably, cell block 19-329.  Keith scanned the room to assess the area and find the highest threats.  As he’d feared, it was a mass cell.  There were folding bunks in alcoves and an area with bolted tables, no doubt meant for meals.  The meal area was disgustingly close to the holes meant for urine, feces, and whatever other forms of excrement the prisoners might exude.  No privacy whatsoever, but also no furniture that could be used as weapons.  In some ways, it was safer than the last group of cells he’d been in.  There was more room to move, for example.  More fellow prisoners, though.  That probably meant gangs or at least alliances.  He’d need to be mindful of how he addressed everyone and mindful of small weapons that could be hidden in the bunks.  

Evaluation of the room complete, Keith turned his focus to the room’s occupants.  The usual species, the usual glares.  But wait--there, in the far corner--was that...a human?  Keith had never seen one in person, but he had memorized the picture of his father that his mother had brought back with her from Earth--her only souvenir aside from the kit growing in her belly.  Yes, this man possessed the same features, the same tone of skin.  He was the correct size and proportions.  His hair was quite a bit longer than Keith’s fathers, but people could have different hair lengths, presumably.  Yes--this was almost definitely a human.

And, in a moment of idiocy, Keith approached him, a single question on his mind.

~*~*~

Shiro blinked and let his eyes slowly refocus.  He was zoning out a lot more recently.  Not that there was anything to look at--the terrifying newness of each alien species he encountered had long since faded away.  Still, he paid attention whenever a new group of prisoners shuffled in.  Might as well have an idea about who he was going to be living with.  How long had it been since the last delivery of fresh bodies?  Maybe two weeks.  He’d stopped counting days ages ago.  Days had stopped mattering ages ago. 

A glance at the group revealed nothing out of the ordinary.  The usual species, the usual preemptive posturing.  Except--a slender alien with Galra ears, lavender skin, a long braid, and a serious expression was making his way directly toward him.  Shiro changed his stance slightly.  It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to make an example the minute the cell doors closed. 

The alien walked up to him, stopped at a safe difference, and looked him dead in the eyes.

“Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you,” the serious alien said.  “What’s the rest?”

Shiro’s jaw dropped.  Had he...had he just been... rickrolled ?!

The alien waited expectantly for a moment before his ears sagged.  “You don’t know the song?” he said, disappointed.  “Are you not human?”

Shiro’s eye twitched.  “I’m human,” he said.  It was the first time someone had known his species.  It was also the first time he’d been fucking rickrolled.  What the hell was going on?

The alien squared up its shoulders and tried again.  “The song.  Do you know it?”

Shiro nodded dumbly.  

The ears perked up.

“Then do you know the rest of the lyrics?”

“Uh, not all of them,” Shiro said, baffled, “but the rest of the chorus is ‘Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you’.”

The alien mouthed the words, obviously memorizing them, before nodding.  “Thank you,” it said simply, and walked away.

Shocked into action, Shiro grabbed the alien’s arm.  It whirled around with a hiss, claws raised and fangs bared.  Shiro immediately dropped his hands in apologetic surrender and backed a step away.

“Sorry,” he said, “but what was that about?”

The alien searched his face suspiciously for a moment before relaxing and dropping its arms again.  “My mother went to Earth once.  She liked that song but could never remember it.”  It shrugged.  “Thanks,” it repeated, and once again walked away.

What the hell.  What the actual fucking hell just happened?!

~*~*~

Keith hummed quietly as he settled himself against a table and waited.  He needed to determine which bunks were free and see what he could learn about his new cellmates.  In the meantime, he was immensely satisfied with the acquisition of the song lyrics.  The odds of him ever seeing his mother to relay the lyrics were slim to none (and perhaps were so low they dipped into the negative percentages), but he could hardly pass up the opportunity once he saw it.  

“That may have been the first time I’ve seen you start a conversation,” the fruvian said, popping up at Keith’s elbow.  

Keith shrugged.  There wasn't usually anything worth saying.

“So what did you learn about him?” the small alien persisted.

Keith frowned.  “About him?  Nothing.”

“But you talked to the Champion,” the alien stressed.  “Why did you talk to him?  Were you trying to make friends?”

No.  No way.  There was no fucking way Keith had just barged up to the fucking Champion and asked him for goddamn song lyrics.

Keith turned slowly, eyes wide, to stare at the far alcove.  The human was staring back.  Oh shit.   The man was alone in the corner--the one furthest from the door and furthest from the stench of the excrement pits--and none of the cell’s inhabitants came anywhere near him.  A cold sweat enveloped Keith’s body. 

He had fucked up.  

~*~*~

The slender alien with the Galra ears was calm and collected, observing the room with a critical eye.  It was intelligent, a survivor.  It also knew Rick Astley.  It was easily the most shocking thing that had happened to Shiro in space to date, and space had not been short on shocking things.  

A frulian (or fruitvian?  Shiro was not good at remembering species’ names) scurried over and talked to the slender alien.  A few exchanges later and the alien turned to stare back at him.  Well.  Someone just learned he was the Champion.  

The slender alien flattened its ears and ducked its head, looking away.  Shiro considered telling it not to worry--he didn’t attack anyone in the cells that didn’t come at him first--but then decided it wasn't worth the bother.  He wasn't planning on sparking up a friendship.  It was better to let the faces go unmemorized.  They would be replaced soon enough anyway.

~*~*~

The jostry died in the night.  Keith was not surprised.  The fruvian was smart to do it the first quintant--less chance of it being blamed on a fellow newbie.  When the guards came by with breakfast they grumbled at the mess and demanded to know who was responsible.  Keith happened to catch the fruvian’s eye and gave it the tiniest shrug.  The little creature blinked twice at him and nodded slightly.  It was nearest thing he’d had to a friendly interaction in a long time. 

After that the fruvian took to hanging around him.  It was annoying, but having someone else to watch his back was not a bad thing and for all its prattling the creature was fairly clever.  Keith learned (without asking) that its name was Frell, that it had been caught selling contraband material, and that it had smuggled in no less than seven knives.  Well, more accurately it had seven bone-like structures that it could remove from its body and use to puncture things.  When it offered one to him, Keith wasn't sure if he should refuse.  Was it not important to the creature’s overall physiology?  And wasn't holding onto its bone kind of disgusting?  Still, a weapon was a weapon, and in the end Keith did sleep better having it hidden up his sleeve.  

Several quintants passed and the Champion made no move to talk to him, for which Keith was immensely grateful.  The less attention he attracted, the better.  He could tell Frell was disappointed, though.  The creature had no doubt been hoping to form an alliance of some kind, but it looked like the Champion had no companions whatsoever.  He was vacant, most of the time, and when he did interact with anyone it was almost polite.  How had he gained his reputation as a bloodthirsty, ruthless killer?  Keith wondered when he would be able to see him fight, and his question was answered almost immediately.

The door to the cell opened and everyone looked up.

“On your feet, shit stains,” a guard announced.  “Today is a fighting day.”

~*~*~

“Do we get to use any weapons?” Frell asked the guard as the elevator rose slowly.

(Eight floors, Keith counted.)

“There’s a room with stuff,” the guard said.  “You can pick a few things.”

Frell nodded happily.  He hopped from foot to foot, brimming with energy.  Keith had gathered that Frell enjoyed the arena. 

“I’m not caged up when I’m there,” he had explained once, and Keith echoed the feeling.  There was a brief freedom in the fight.  All that mattered was you and your opponent--nothing else.

“We’re lucky the Champion’s in our group,” Frell said, interrupting Keith’s thoughts.  

Keith nodded but frowned.  Apparently, the Galra had learned that they lost fewer prisoners to in-fighting if the prisoners never had to worry about facing each other in the ring, so cellmates only fought fought prisoners from different blocks.  It meant they’d never face the Champion in the arena, but it seemed unwise to mention this when the person in question was mere feet away, riding the same elevator.  But, if the Champion heard, he gave no notice of it and Frell prattled blissfully on.

“Ooo!  What a trove!”  Frelled cried the moment the elevator door opened to reveal a room filled with weapons.  He darted forward but was shoved aside by larger prisoners. They took their time with their selections before stepping back and letting the newer or smaller prisoners take what was left.  

Keith approached the selection of swords with a grimace.  Most were not the right weight for someone of his size, and he tried swinging and thrusting with all of them before settling on something passable.  Shields were the only armor offered and, unfortunately, they had all been claimed.  He’d just have to be extra careful.

“No shield for you?” Frell noted, twirling a knife.  “Pity.  I saw one of your fights on our old ship, you know.  Good work.”

Keith winced at the compliment.  He knew exactly which fight Frell was referring to.  He’d been disarmed mid-fight and ended up decapitating his foe with the edge of his severed shield.  It had taken multiple blows to fully cut his way through and end the other creature’s misery, and he’d lost more than a few nights’ sleep over the images.

“Bloody work,” Keith mumbled.  

Frell nodded.  “They like that, you know.  Bigger places like this, they want a show.  If you get them rooting for you--get guards betting on you--you last longer.”

“Or betting against you,” Keith frowned.  Success had its own price. 

“Very true,” Frell nodded.  

A nearby prisoner chuckled and eyed Keith over slowly.  “Don’t worry.  Pretty little thing like you?  You’ll have a lot of...fans.”

Keith’s skin crawled.  Maybe he didn’t want to win, not at this arena.  

The prisoner gave him a mock salute and, apparently first up, walked to the arena entrance and was let out into the ring.  

Keith didn’t know whether or not he was happy that the prisoner didn’t make it back in.  

~*~*~

As a general rule, Shiro didn’t pay much attention to fights he wasn't in, other than watching one or two directly prior to his own as a way to feel out the crowd.  It was for that reason he knew the little fruitmain creature had won its match.  It had started poorly with the small creature only barely dodging each blow.  However, as the fight wore on, Shiro realized that the fruitmain was still dodging by the exact same margin: it was wearing out its opponent on purpose, goading it on to exert itself to the point of exhaustion while always staying just that tiny bit out of range.  Clever creature. 

Suddenly, the fruitmain leapt up its foe’s arm to sink its dagger deep behind an eye before flitting away.  From there the end was swift--several more pointed blows and the fight was over. 

The audience was undecided.  Most had been cheering for the fruitmain’s death and were frustrated to have missed their kill, but many liked a good turnaround.  If the little alien wanted to win the audience as well as the fight, he would need to be more obvious about his ploy in the future.  Still, it was not a bad first win.  Shiro would probably see the odd creature for several more weeks at least.

With the fruitmain’s fight completed, the rickroller now waited at the door to be released.  Shiro watched the slender alien relax its shoulders and shake out its arms.  It was a practiced fighter and, if Shiro had to guess, had been trained at some point.  It was also rather young, so far as Shiro could tell.  How had it ended up here? 

The door opened and the young fighter walked--no, strode--out into the ring.  It was poised, focused, and let its opponent make the first move.  Smart.  It was feeling out any weaknesses.  

Left leg, Shiro thought to himself, especially the knee .  

The young fighter had noticed, too, judging by the way it kept attacking from the right, forcing the other alien to keep its weight on its bad leg.  It was a good strategy, but the rickroller could stand to learn from its friend.  Stay out of range; make them come to you.  The young alien might be strong and it might be fast, but there was no way it had the stamina of its larger opponent, and if it was hoping to wear it out until the weak leg failed, the rickroller needed to--

The crowd roared approval when the larger alien landed a heavy blow, knocking the rickroller off its feet.  Luckily, the slender alien had been knocked far enough away to have time to scramble up before the next blow could be delivered.  

Shiro winced in sympathy as he watched the young alien clutch its side.  He’d thought he’d heard ribs crack when the weapon connected and it looked like he was right.  The crowd cheered again as a second hit caught the young alien, this time on its hip.  That was that.  The poor thing had depended mainly on speed and with an injured hip, the fight was all but over.

Shiro shook his head and turned away.  It was just as well he’d never spoken to the rickroller again.  Making friends got you nowhere in this world.

The crowd burst into wild applause and Shiro squared up and headed to the door.  It was time for his fight.  Only… was that the young alien walking to the recovery room?  Huh.  It had won.  Shiro regretted not having seen the last of fight.  Perhaps the injuries had been intended to lure the larger alien closer or had enticed it into over-extending its reach…?  It’s what Shiro would have done. 

Shiro pushed away his wonderings and cleared his mind of thoughts.  It was his fight now.  It was time to survive.

~*~*~

Keith groaned as he tried to shimmy out of his torn prison garb.  He and the other winners from cell block 19-329 were in a recovery room attached to the arena, receiving minimal amounts of first aid.  An attendant examined his rapidly bruising ribs and hip, scanned the area for broken bones, and concluded the matter by dabbing a salve on the most tender areas and offering to bandage his ribcage for pressure.  The majority of healing would happen during the prisoners’ rest between fights, thanks to the nutrients packed into their tasteless meals.  Only major injuries received real treatment--everything else had to be suffered through.  

“Lucky for you that malnant was using a blunt weapon,” Frell said, hopping onto the edge of the exam table.  

“Yay for me,” Keith grumbled.  He’d been stupid and he knew it.  He really needed to stop trying to end fights early.  

Frell handed him a fresh set of clothes and Keith grimaced as he tugged the suit into place.  A whistle from the other side of the room made him snap up his head and growl.  His body was injured, not on display.  

Frell patted Keith’s arm and motioned to the windows on the arena side of the room.  “Ignore them.  Let’s watch the Champion.”

Keith nodded and hobbled to an open space and stared out.  The fight was already underway and Keith had to say he was impressed.  The withdrawn man from the cell was gone and in his place stood a true warrior.  Every fiber of his being was alive and razor-focused and he moved with deadly grace.  He was power and fury barely but perfectly contained and Keith was as entranced as the audience was with the masterful performance.

When the head of his rival rolled free, the human stood slowly and looked out at the crowd.  It screamed his praise, and he...walked away.  Keith watched as the man seemed to disappear back inside himself, his shoulders hunching and his arms subtly beginning to cover himself.  Not only was the Champion not acknowledging the crowd’s affection--he was hiding from it.  Keith wasn't sure how the human had gotten the reputation of “bloodthirsty”, not when everything he saw spoke only of a warrior who loathed to fight.  It was confusing and fascinating.  There was a lot more to this person than he’d originally realized.

The human was halfway to the recovery room when a side door opened and a guard beckoned to him.  The Champion paused. 

“Looks like a fan has him today,” one of the prisoners said.

Keith watched the Champion’s face go utterly blank before the man followed the guard through the side door and was gone.

~*~*~

The death of a few of their cellmates came with a small reward: Keith and Frell were able to move to newly-free bunks, putting them further away from the shit pits.  There was a general shuffling of bunks before the prisoners bedded down, tired from their fights and uninterested in antagonizing each other to pass the time.  Keith noted that no one grieved for their fallen companions.  He also noted that no one touched the Champion’s area. 

“Wonder how long he’ll be gone,” Frell said, glancing at the empty alcove.

“A few vargas,” one of the prisoners grunted.  “No fan keeps anyone overnight.”

“Lucky bastard,” another prisoner said before spitting on the ground.  “Bet they feed him real food.”

“Bet he fucks them until they can’t see straight,” a third prison said.  “Wish I had rich fans.”

“With your ugly mug?” the first prisoner laughed.  “Your fans would send you a bag for your head and put the rest of us out of our misery.”

The teasing that followed was almost but not quite good-natured and Keith tuned it out.  His side and hip ached and the only comfort to be had was in sleep.  He slipped into blissful oblivion to the sound of Frell swapping jokes with their neighbor.

~*~*~

Keith woke up to a sharp, throbbing pain and groaned.  Right.  He’d fucked up his fight.  He took a deep breath and rolled off the bunk, grunting when his feet hit the ground.  Fuck his side, and fuck his hip, and fuck bare feet on cold floors, and fuck everything. 

He hobbled to the shit pits and relieved himself.  

(Fuck shit pits.)

Keith shook the last drops of piss from his cock and tucked it away.  The only thing good about living nearer the pits had been the shorter commute, he thought wryly as he began to limp back to his new bunk.  His hip twinged painfully and Keith gasped.  Fuck walking.  He collapsed on the nearest table and clenched his jaw, willing the wave of pain to pass.

The cell door opened and to Keith’s surprise the Champion walked in, his posture stiff with hidden injuries.  His jaw and eye were bruised and his hairline oozed dark blood.  What the hell?  Keith didn’t think the man had gotten injured during his fight.  Was this the work of a “fan”? 

Keith must have been staring because the Champion paused and looked at him.

“Good evening, Rick,” the Champion said, and he nodded to Keith before continuing his stiff and heavy walk to his bunk.  He lay down, back to the room, and fell asleep instantly.

Rick?  Was that a nickname or an insult or both?  

Keith had no answers--and he sure as hell wasn't going to wake up the Champion to find out more--so he eased off the table and resumed his journey to his bunk.  Whatever had just happened, it didn’t matter.  It wasn't his business anyway.

~*~*~

“Presents,” a guard called out as he strolled into the cell the next morning, pushing a cart covered mostly with food.  “Stay back until I call your number or the whole lot goes in the pit.” 

The cell grumbled to life as the prisoners stirred, groaning with each freshly remembered injury.  Frell poked Keith probably harder than was necessary until the boy sat up, protesting.

“It’s not like I have fans already,” Keith yawned, batting away his excited companion.  Farewell, sleep.  It was nice to know you.

“You do, though!” Frell insisted.  “89-0071-34?  Isn’t that you?” 

It took a moment for Keith to remember--he was usually called “Half” or “Runt”--but the 34 sounded familiar, and he had been picked up in district 89.  He had not slept well enough to think back that far.  

“Half-runt!” the guard called again, sounding irritated.  “Are you 89-0071-34?”

Half-runt?  Yup.  That was him.  He limped forward and was given a loaf of purple bread.  

“There’s not much they’re allowed to give prisoners--and they have to bribe the guards to make sure the gifts arrive--but food and medicine are the most common items,” Frell informed him proudly, as if he hadn’t learned this two ticks earlier.  “Guards for popular cells make a lot of money.”

“Are we popular?” Keith asked, sniffing the loaf suspiciously.  

“Of course,” Frell scoffed.  “We have the Champion.” 

Seemed like the guards could take better care of them, then.  On the other hand, guards probably got threatened and killed for positions if there was that much money to be made.  Plus, there would be bribes for letting certain prisoners win or lose.  There was an entire world of politics on the other side of the bars, and Keith could barely negotiate his way as it was.  Shit.

“Any chance you can digest Jipweed?” Keith sighed, offering the loaf to Frell.  

“Someone tried to poison you?” Frell asked curiously, examining the bread.  

Keith shrugged.  Jipweed was toxic to Galra but not to dozens of other species.  Keith’s genetic make up would be a mystery to anyone who saw him, so the spice might have been a harmless addition.  Still, most people would assume he was half-Galra, based on his ears if nothing else… Yeah, someone tried to poison him.  What a great start to the day.

“Eat it or barter with it or throw it in the pits.  I don’t care,” Keith said to Frell when the little alien tried to hand back the loaf.  The creature’s face lit up immediately and Keith knew it was planning to barter. 

Keith hummed as he sat on the bunk, waiting for Frell to return.  He was not surprised that the majority of the gifts were for the Champion, and he was also not surprised that the Champion declined the gifts without so much as looking at them.  That sent the cell into a free-for-all as prisoner scrambled to grab the unclaimed the food and supplies and Keith tucked himself as far back on his bunk as possible to avoid getting involved in the fray.  Frell rejoined him moments later, victorious.

“Fish!” it cried happily, and Keith had to agree that was a huge step up from poisoned bread.  Hell, how long had it been since he’d had anything but mealy gruel?  Fish was heaven.

“You’re purring,” Frell said, munching on its portion of the feast.

“Shut up,” Keith replied, still purring, and they watched as the rest of the fighting died out, eating together in friendly silence.

~*~*~

Shiro watched the chaos with dead eyes.

“I hear you got a gift.  Did you like it?”

“It was food.  I ate it.”

“Did you like how it tasted?  Did it taste better than me?”

“Shit tastes better than you.”

“Show me.  Prove to me that you would rather eat shit than suck my cock.”

He winced as he rolled over, pulled his thin blanket a little higher, and fell back asleep.

~*~*~

Life fell into a pattern.  At least once every five quintants, there was an arena fight.  The winners received treatment and the following day were given whatever gifts they might have earned.  Sometimes Keith got gifts, sometimes Frell did.  The Champion always got more gifts than the rest of the cell combined, and he always declined them.  This usually meant Frell snagged a few scraps and the little creature was either generous enough to share or simply valued Keith’s alliance enough to help feed him, so overall Keith was doing better now than he had been in the previous arena.  

It was still boring.

This was the largest arena in the Empire--the one visited on occasion by Zarkon himself!--and it was the highest achievement a prisoner or gladiator could hope for, but what was the point?  Keith didn’t want to live like this.  If a reeking cell and a bloody ring were all the more his future could hold, shouldn’t he just let himself die?  But, that was not honorable. 

(But how honorable could it be to live out his days as someone else’s plaything?)

The Champion, Keith noticed, did not always visit a “fan”, but every visit meant fresh injuries for the tired warrior.  It made sense, in a way, why someone would purchase time with the Champion only to abuse him--a pathetic chance to prove yourself mightier than the best gladiator by taking a whip to his back.  Still, Keith would have expected the Champion to have kinder suitors.  For a non-Galra he was very good looking: broad, muscular, tall.  He was smaller than many Galra, of course, but his features were pleasing.  Surely half the audience would want him in their bed…!   His sadistic “fan” must be extremely wealthy or powerful if they were able to keep the Champion for their exclusive use.  Keith couldn’t help but pity him, even as his awe grew with every fight he witnessed.   The man was a god of battle somehow saddled with defeat.  It was a tragedy, but one that Keith kept his distance from.

Friendship brought no joy in a place like this, and what would a man like the Champion want with Keith anyway?  Besides, being allies with Frell was more than enough trouble.  Let the Champion take care of himself.

~*~*~

“Why are you so loose back here?  Who touches you when I’m gone?”

There wasn't a correct answer, but silence was always the worst option.

“I tried to make it easier.”

The laughter that followed was dark and full of venom.

“If you wanted me to treat you nice, you never should have bit my cock.”

When it was over, spit hit his face.

“Whore.”

Shiro couldn’t have said if there was more blood or cum when cleaned himself off, and either way he no longer cared.

~*~*~

Keith would have died if he hadn’t gone first.  He knew it in his gut as his heart went numb with shock.  Frell was dead.  No matter how fast you are, someone will always be faster, Keith reminded himself.  It was simply a matter of time.  For Frell, for Keith, for all of them, and Keith had gotten fucking attached to the little creature, and watching the fruvian’s blood seep into the sand was an exercise in torture.  A hand twitched.  Shit shit shit Frell was still alive and the revna was ripping into its back, swallowing mouthfuls and eating Frell alive and--

Keith vomited.  He heaved bile until his stomach clenched on nothing and still his gut churned with nausea.  

“Please die please die please die please die,” he chanted under his breath.  

“He’s fucking dead now, so get the fuck away from the window,” another prisoner hissed, kicking Keith to the side.  “You reek and you’re taking up space.”

Keith stumbled away and sank onto one of the cots.

“You need to shower,” an attendant said, pinching their nose.  “Go over there.”

Right.  The blood.  

Keith stared down at his arms.  He was coated in it, but none of it was his.  He didn’t even know what kind of creature he’d killed, but he’d sure made a fucking mess with it.   Shit.

The water was freezing.  Keith shivered as he scrubbed and the tingling cold sharpened his mind and brought him back to the present.  He did stink.  He smelled like, like--

“Looking lovely over there,” a prisoner whistled.  “Just how wet are you?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” someone else laughed.  “He killed a nebru hog.”

Keith’s blood ran colder than the water.  He might not have seen a nebru hog before, but he sure as hell knew of them.  Their glands produced a powerful pheromone that many species used to initiate mating with unwilling partners and Keith was completely saturated in it.  He scrubbed harder.

A few more prisoners gathered to watch and even two guards joined in.  Shaking, Keith turned off the water and yanked on a new set of clothes. He knew he still reeked of the nebru hog, but he was far too vulnerable naked.  

He found the nearest corner and stood with his back to the wall, fangs and claws ready.  He was going to survive this.  He would make damn sure of it.

~*~*~

The side door didn’t open, and despite his determination not to care what happened anymore, Shiro sighed in relief.  Some days he was more than tired than others, and it had taken longer than usual to win. 

The recovery room was nearly empty by the time he entered it and after a short stay at the first aid station, he was cleared to return to the cell.  Thank god.  He was beyond ready to crawl in his bunk and forget he’d ever existed.

And so, of fucking course, there was a commotion when he got back to the cell.

Half the cellmates were crowded in a semicircle, trapping one prisoner in a corner.  Shiro had a mind to break it up just so he could get to sleep, but it might be faster to let it play out.  He evaluated the participants.

Rick.  It was Rick in the corner.  His ears were back, eyes wild, and fangs bared.  That kid was always so careful to stay out of the way--what the hell could he have done to attract so much attention?  

Shiro scanned the crowd.  No fruit man.  So, the kid was alone.  Dammit. 

“What’s going on, Rick?” Shiro said in a loud voice.  

Realizing who was speaking, crowd parted, and he strode forward to stand next to the terrified boy.  He shrank down even as he glowered up at Shiro, ears pressing back even further.  If the boy hadn’t been so frightened, it would have been cute.  

“He reeks like a bitch in heat,” someone offered with laughing howl.

“I killed a nebru hog,” Rick hissed back.

Shiro had no idea what the significance of that was, but apparently it was bad news for Rick.  “We all stink,” Shiro shrugged, trying to diffuse the tension.  Judging by the cackling of the crowd, he’d failed.  

Rick studied his face, frowning.  “You can’t smell it,” he said, still frowning.  

“The hog or whatever?  No, I can’t,” Shiro said, shrugging again.  He really couldn’t. 

“More for the rest of us,” one of the crowd said, elbowing their neighbor.  

Now it was Shiro’s turn to study Rick.  The crowd was more curious than dangerous, from what Shiro could tell, but the boy was actually shaking from fear.  He’d seen him stand firm in the arena against foes far larger than himself--was this just inflated worry because he no longer had his ally?   Shiro glanced back to the crowd, this time looking lower than their faces.  Several bulges--a lot of bulges, actually.  The kid definitely was in real danger.  

Before he could let himself think better of it, Shiro jerked his head toward his bunk.

“Follow me,” he said.  

Trembling, Rick did.  

“Top bunk,” Shiro said, unlatching it and pulling it open.

When the boy hesitated, Shiro lifted him up, noting with satisfaction that the kid didn’t try to scratch him when he scrambled to safety.

“Half of them would have to stretch to reach,” he explained.  Eyes wide, Rick nodded.   “Wake me up if you need to,” Shiro added, and without bothering to check what the crowd was doing, he curled up in his own bunk and went to sleep.

~*~*~

A new batch of prisoners arrived a few vargas later and Keith, knowing he still stank of nebru hog, remained on the top bunk and watched with despair and fury as his own bunk was claimed by a new arrival.  He tried not to cry when they found the bone shank Frell had given him.

~*~*~

“I tried to be nice to you.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“It’s your fault if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You feel amazing on my cock.  Look at how much I spread you.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Shiro roared, striking out at the hand that had reached for him.  

A prisoner crumpled to the ground, dead.  Shiro didn’t recognize it.  He glanced around.  A new batch had arrived while he was asleep.

“I told you all: that’s the Champion,” one of the veteran prisoners said mildly.

God fucking damn the newbies.  

Shiro thumped the metal bottom of the bunk above him.  “Hey, Rick.  You still alive up there?”

“Yes,” Rick said quietly.

“Listen up, shits, because I’m only going to say this once: anyone who touches him is dead,” Shiro snarled.  He stared down the scant few who dared make eye contact until the entire room was silent.

“Good night, Rick,” he grumbled, rolled over, and fell back asleep.

~*~*~

Keith had absolutely no idea how he’d won the Champion’s good favor, but he was grateful.  He also wasn't going to fucking risk it by buddying up to the man.  Any and all conversations they had, the Champion started.

“So why was your mother on Earth anyway?” the Champion asked one day.  

At the human’s invitation, Keith had sat down on the bunk next to him, and he was more than a little nervous about it.  

“I don’t know.  She never told me,” Keith said, which was mostly true.   He knew she was there on a mission, but he had no idea what it was or even if she’d finished it.

The Champion frowned.  “Was she Galra?”

“Yes,” Keith admitted hesitantly.  The Galra couldn’t be high on the Champion’s list of acceptable people.  

The Champion continued to frown.  “When was this?  How old are you?”

Now it was Keith’s turn to frown.  “I don’t know what it would translate to for you.  I don’t know how Earth measures time.”

“Fair enough,” the Champion nodded, thankfully not angered by Keith’s answer.

They sat in silence for a while as the Champion contemplated this and Keith tried to guess what the Champion wanted.  

“There weren’t any Galra on Earth when I was captured,” the Champion said finally.  

“I don’t think Earth has been conquered,” Keith said, wondering if that was what the Champion was getting at.  “I’ve never seen any humans in the arena--other than you, I mean.  Usually a lot of new slaves end up here.”

There was definitely relief in the Champion’s face at Keith’s words.  “That’s true,” he said softly.  “I haven’t seen other humans.”  He thought a moment before turning to study Keith.  “Unless you’re part human.”

“Um, probably?” Keith said.  Put on the spot, he suddenly couldn’t remember if his mother had said his father was human or just from Earth.  How many intelligent species lived there?  Oh right--the picture.  Keith smacked his forehead.  “Yes, yes my dad was human.  I think.  I saw a picture and he looked like you--same kind of face,” Keith said, gesturing vaguely.

“Two eyes, two ears, and a mouth?” the Champion guessed with something very close to a smile.

For some reason, Keith blushed.  He must look like an idiot, not even knowing his own species.  He was so fucking stupid.

“Well, do you want to know about Earth?” the Champion asked, now definitely smiling.  

“I dunno.  Is it interesting?” Keith asked.  He was curious, but he had no clue what to ask about.  What do people care about with planets--the plant life?  The weather?

“I think so,” the Champion said, “but I am pretty biased.  Do you like your home planet?”

“I don’t have one,” Keith said.  “I was born in space and, well, we moved around a lot.”  From secret base to secret base with my secret organization.  

“Oh,” the Champion said, looking disappointed.  “Well, Earth is nice.  The sky is blue and the oceans are big and the sunsets are amazing.”

Keith had the impression he was about to say more, but the Champion shut his mouth and his eyebrows creased.  He looked sad.

“That does sound nice,” Keith offered.  What the hell do you say to someone who was lonely for a place?

“Well,” the Champion said, shaking his head as if to clear it, “if you ever go there, stay out of sight.  Humans scare easy.”

Now that was bullshit.

“Really,” Keith said flatly, crossing his arms.  “Humans scare easy.”

“Yes…?” the Champion said, puzzled.

“A race of you scares easy.”

The Champion snorted a laugh.  “Okay, I can see why you’d think that, but most humans don’t know there are any kind of aliens at all.  You would terrify them, trust me.”

It still sounded like bullshit, but Keith had heard before that Champion came from a primitive planet, so maybe.  

(Maybe.)

“So listen,” the Champion said, licking his lips, “you’re too fast for your footwork to be that sloppy.”

“What?” Keith asked, puzzled by the sudden change of topic and surprised that the Champion had apparently watched his fights.

“You’re relying on speed but you’re losing half your advantage to sloppy footwork.”

“Okay,” Keith said slowly, “so how do I fix that?”

The Champion glanced around, looking pained.  “They don’t like it if we help each other train,” he said.  

“Alright, well, thanks for telling me I fucking suck, I guess,” Keith said lightly.  He’d meant it as a joke and thankfully the Champion laughed. 

“Just remember: patience yields focus,” the human smiled.  

“Patience.  Patience during the two ticks before the fight starts,” Keith deadpanned.  “Excellent.  Thanks.”

“Patience all the time, you punk,” the Champion smiled again.  “You always need to be patient.”

Wow, Kolivan would fucking like you, Keith thought.  “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.  

Fighting tips from the Champion?  Huh.  Who would have guessed.

~*~*~

He was back.  Shiro knew it on instinct.  It had been two, three weeks now, maybe, and he was back.  Shiro didn’t even blink when the side door opened. 

~*~*~

“Heard you made a friend while I was gone,” the large Galra sneered when Shiro entered his room.  He cupped a hand to Shiro’s face.  “Strip.” 

Shiro shucked off his clothes, sticky with sweat and grime.  He considered folding them, just for something to do with his hands so they wouldn’t shake.  

“Am I not allowed to have a friend?” he said calmly.  

“Just wondering if you missed me,” the Galra said.  He eyed Shiro over.  “Turn.”

Shiro turned and closed his eyes.  Claws ghosted down his back. 

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did you touch him?”

“No.”

“Not at all?” the Galra wondered.  Clawed fingers framed the outline of Shiro’s ass and two sharp thumbs gripped in to spread him.

“I gave him a boost to the top bunk once.  I guess I touched his armpits then.”

The Galra chuckled and let go.  “But he’s still your friend.”

“Am I not allowed to have a friend?” Shiro repeated.

“Of course you’re allowed to have a friend,” the Galra said.  “Bend over.  No.  On the table.”

Shiro walked to the table and bent forward, weight on his elbows.  A massive hand hit the center of his back, pressing him flat.

“I miss when you used to fight me,” the Galra said with something like a sigh.  “You’re practically useless to me now.”

Shiro bit his cheek and stayed silent.  The hand moved down his back again and then closed around a hip.  

“I saw your friend fight today.  He has potential.” 

Lips touched his shoulder in a mock-kiss and then fangs buried deep.  Shiro grunted but didn’t cry out. 

“I don’t know if I should be jealous, but at least you’ll be interesting for me again, won’t you?  Spread,” the Galra demanded, shoving a knee between Shiro’s legs. 

“Didn’t realize I was boring you,” Shiro said, gasping when the fangs punctured him again.  

“Maybe I should have you fight him in the ring.  No, you’re too heroic at heart, aren’t you?  Already pushed one friend out of the way,” the Galra mused, “you’d just fall on your sword again.  We can’t have that--I’m not done with you yet.” 

A too long tongue swiped across the fresh wounds on his shoulder.

“What will it take so you leave him alone?” Shiro asked.  He dreaded the answer but was sick of the half-banter as he danced around the topic. 

“You don’t want me to meet him?  You don’t want him to watch how you play with me?  You don’t want me to watch you play with him?” 

Claws dug into his hair and yanked his head back so hard Shiro choked.  

“Then don’t block it out today,” the Galra growled.  

It was hours before Shiro stopped screaming.

~*~*~

The Champion took a long time to come back, but it made sense.  It had been longer than usual since the side door had opened, after all, and the Champion’s fan probably had some pent up feelings to take out on him.  Keith dreaded seeing him, knowing he would be in especially bad shape, and even though he steeled himself for the Champion’s arrival, he felt sick when the cell door opened at last and the human stumbled in.  

He wasn't even trying to hide his pain today.

Keith slipped off the top bunk and looped the Champion’s arm over his shoulder before the man could fall.  He blinked down at Keith, unseeing. 

“Rick…,” he said finally.

“Come,” Keith said quietly, guiding him to his bunk.  

The Champion cried out when he sat down and fell to his side with a gasp, breathing hard.  “Don’t touch me,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Okay,” Keith said, backing up.  

The Champion shook his head.  “It's not that.”  He closed his eyes.  “It’s him.  He doesn’t like it.”

Keith’s stomach curled dangerously.  “Who doesn’t like what?” he asked, keeping his voice low so their cellmates wouldn’t overhear.  

“Sendak,” was all the human said.  He hugged himself as he curled on his side.  

Keith’s breath hitched.  He knew the name from his time with the Blades--it was Zarkon’s cruelest general, and it meant there was absolutely nothing he could do for this man.  

Knowing it was not nearly enough, Keith spread the Champion’s blanket over him and then added his own.  He crawled back onto his bunk and lay still, listening to the man below him. 

The Champion’s breathing stayed ragged all night, and Keith took comfort in knowing that if the man didn’t sleep, then at least it meant he didn’t dream.

(But then again, what nightmare could be worse than this?)

~*~*~

Maybe he should just tell Rick off.  He could scream at him in front of everyone, accuse him of something or just say he was tired of him.  He was pretty sure Rick would understand, and even if he didn’t, well…  But on the other hand, what would happen to someone the Champion had rejected?  What would the other prisoners do to him?  It was Shiro’s fault either way and he should have fucking known better.

“Gifts,” the guard called out.  “Stand back and wait or it goes in the shit pits.”

Morning already.

Rick’s legs appeared over the edge of the bunk and Shiro had a sudden urge to tickle his feet.  It was such a childish impulse that Shiro very nearly laughed out loud and a bittersweet wave of nostalgia washed over him as he remembered early days at the Garrison, pranking his roommates in the dormitory.

They would have liked Rick.

A scab itched and Shiro lifted his hand to scratch it.  The small movement sent a cascade of pain down his body as multiple injuries reminded him of their presence and the moment was shattered.  Right.  He wasn't in the Garrison.  He was in a cell, abused to hell, thousands of light years from home.  What the fuck was he doing?  The feet that dangled above him had cat-pads on the bottom and claws that sprang from the toes.  Rick wasn't human.  Rick wasn't even really his friend.  Why should Shiro add one more drop to his already overflowing cup of misery?   It wasn't worth it.

Rick dropped to the floor and fetched his gift.  Shiro hadn’t been paying much attention, but it seemed like Rick was getting more of those these days.  He wasn't surprised.  A skilled, attractive young fighter?  Shiro gave it a month before the kid was either dead or hailed as the up-and-coming Champion-to-be.   

Rick returned from the gift cart, munching on a strip of meat and fumbling with a package of bandages.  He gave a satisfied grunt when he managed to pull one free. 

“Here,” Rick said, offering the bandage.  “This is for you.  It’s got some kind of painkiller in it, but I don’t know how it will affect a human.  It should at least help with the bleeding.”

“Rick,” Shiro said firmly, holding his hand up to stop the half-Galra from coming closer.  It was a nice gesture, but Shiro thought he’d been clear the night before that they needed to stay at a distance and he had to swallow back his annoyance.  “You know I can’t take that from you.”

Rick paused and bit his lip.  “That was punishment, not payment?” he asked quietly, eyes reassessing Shiro’s wounds.

Fuck, this kid was sharp.  He just didn’t get the full picture.  

“I don’t know,” Shiro said with a sigh, “but it was to me.”

“It was what to you?” Rick frowned.

“It was a punishment to me,” Shiro said repeated.  Please don’t make me spell it out.

Rick’s eyes widened with understanding.  

“Should I...should I go…?” he asked.  “If I stay away, will that help you?”

Help you.  Not help himself--he wanted to know how to help the Champion.   The half-Galra had a fucking heart of gold.  God only knew how a kid like him ended up a top gladiator of an intergalactic empire.  

“I don’t know if anything would help at this point,” Shiro said, realizing the truth of it as he said it.  All either of them could do was wait and see if--or more likely when--Sendak would insist on meeting Shiro’s new friend.  Shiro had “saved” Rick almost as an afterthought and had doomed the poor kid to join him in the sadistic pleasures that the twisted general would require, and Shiro couldn’t think of a single goddamn way to prevent it.  

It was only a matter of time.

He should have just stayed the fuck out of it.  He should have stayed away.

This was hell, and hell had no tolerance for friendship.

~*~*~

There was something dark on the ship and Keith knew it: he could feel it in his bones.  Something foul was making the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and it was something that he couldn’t identify.  Growling low in his throat, he stalked the end of the cell, back and forth. The Champion noticed his agitation and asked wryly how his focus and patience were coming along, and Keith snorted at him before continuing his pacing.  The Champion chuckled and remained where he was, lying on his bunk to rest and hopefully heal. 

Prowling wasn't helping, but there wasn't anything else to do in the cell--aside from fighting other prisoners, of course.  Actually, that was not a terrible idea.  After all, Sendak was getting his information from some where.  

Keith scanned the cell.  Which of his cellmates was the spy?  Generally, prisoners left each alone, but it wasn't like they couldn’t eavesdrop while placidly staring in a different direction.  

“You looking for something to do, kitty?” a large grimral drawled.

Keith had it slammed to the wall in an instant, claws digging meaningfully into its exposed throat.

“You volunteering?” Keith hissed.  

Several aliens turned their heads.  Well, making a scene hadn’t been his intent, but Keith had been hiding and cowering far too much since coming to this new ship.  These people needed to know that he was every bit as much a gladiator as the rest of them.

“Just making small talk,” the grimral said carefully, posture stiff and breathing shallow.  Its skin had started to yellow--its species’ way of apologizing. 

Keith continued to eye it for a moment, just long enough for the room to grow nervous, and then let go.  “I don’t care to talk,” he said. 

The grimral slunk away and the rest of the room resumed its facade of ignoring each other.  Message sent.  Hopefully.

“Please don’t make trouble I’ll need to clean up,” the Champion said with a sigh.  He hadn’t moved and looked bored.  Keith suspected it was his way of letting the other prisoners know he was prepared to back Keith up, but it rankled him anyway.

“You don’t need to do anything for me,” he growled.  His skin was crawling with the itch to fight and maim and hide and cower all at once.  Whatever was on the ship was powerful.

“Noted,” the Champion grunted.  

They didn’t say anything else to each for the rest of the day.

~*~*~

That evening, a pair of robed guards took the Champion away.

~*~*~

It had been two quintants since the Champion had left and Keith knew it was time to stop hoping.  He hoped anyway.  The Champion was too powerful, too valuable for anything to happen to him.  Surely no one had the money or influence to overrule Sendak’s claim…!  Unless, of course, the culprit was Sendak himself.  Keith buried the thought, shoved it down to where he’d left his hopes for freedom or to see his mother again.  

The Champion would be back.  

(There was a fight tomorrow, after all.  The crowd be furious if they were denied their favorite.)

The Champion would be back.

A newbie made the mistake of asking Keith where his “bodyguard” was.  It was the first time he’d killed someone that wasn't related to a mission or self defense.  The guards grumbled about “cleaning up the mess” but didn’t reprimand him otherwise.

“Please don’t make trouble I’ll need to clean up,” the Champion had said.  

Keith slunk back to his bed to stay out of the way while he waited.  

“Patience yields focus,” he whispered to himself and closed his eyes.  The Champion would be back.

And suddenly, as if by magic, he was.

~*~*~

Rick had been waiting.

(Of course Rick had been waiting.)

Eyes wide, ears perked, the half-Galra was off his bunk and halfway across the cell before he saw it: the arm.  

Rick stopped dead.

Without saying a word or breaking his stride, Shiro patted him on the head and went to lay down on his bunk.  

~*~*~

His arm was gone.  The Champion’s arm was gone.  Was it Sendak?  The dark energy?  Someone had cut off the human’s arm and replaced it a robotic one and Keith was dizzy before he remembered to breathe.  Distantly, he knew he needed to stay away from the Champion, but Keith was kneeling at his bunk before he regained control of his conscious thought.  

The Champion shivered and Keith spread his blanket over him--the Champion hadn’t even bothered to pick it up.  As he bent over to arrange the blanket, his ears caught a tiny sliver of a sound from a voice so fragile he might have imagined it.

“I didn’t think I had anything left for them to take.”  

It wasn't fair.  It wasn't fair that cruel things kept happening to this man and it wasn't fair that Keith couldn’t so much as stroke his hair without making things worse.  There was nothing he could do--nothing except stay away.

Furious tears blurred his eyes and Keith sank down onto the floor.  Hints of the dark energy still hovered over the Champion and the stench of it curled in Keith’s gut.  The energy, the robed guards, the senseless removal of an arm...this was the work of the druids.  The human’s hair had even changed--the front strands were now white and Keith had heard rumors that people changed appearances when druids took them.  Keith tucked his knees up to this chin and wrapped his arms around his legs, hugging himself.  It made sense.  He knew a bit about the druids from mission briefings with the Blades. They were led by the witch Haggar and frequently experimented on new species.  A warrior as skilled as the Champion would be a perfect subject. 

Keith shivered and hugged himself closer.  If the Champion did well tomorrow--especially if he used his newly weaponized arm--what would become of him?  Would the druids be satisfied?  Would they take more limbs?

“I didn’t think I had anything left for them to take.”

Keith buried buried his face in his knees to hide a wave of tears.  It wasn't fair.  If the Champion did well, he’d lose more of himself.  If he did poorly, he might be scrapped altogether.  Keith had long suspected some of his more grotesque opponents were failed experiments.  If that happened to the Champion, would Keith have to face him one day, too?   Should Keith warn him not to use his arm--or would that make it worse? 

There was no possible way to make any of this better.  This wasn't a story he wanted to know the end of. 

Keith sat guard in front of the Champion’s bed all night, hoping his presence offered some measure of comfort, never quite able to decide if he should throw his next fight.  

~*~*~

It was fight day, and the side door was open, and Rick had just walked through it.  Shiro willed himself not to vomit.  Not now.  Not before his fight.  He had to keep it together because Rick needed him.  Rick had gone through the door with dignity and maybe maybe maybe he wasn't headed to Sendak.  What the fuck had Shiro been thinking, letting Rick stay the night beside him!  But this wasn't right--this wasn't how Sendak worked.  He always toyed with Shiro more than this.  There should have been weeks of bargaining, taunting, pleading.  God, he should have warned Rick explicitly about what could--what almost certainly would--happen.

“It’s my fight next,” he announced, stepping forward.

“Two in front of you,” the guard corrected.

“It’s my fight next,” Shiro growled, eyes flashing.  Heat surged down his arm and it began to glow.  “My.  Fight.”

The guard’s eyes were pleading as the man backed away.  “There are two more contestants from the other cell block and if the Champion doesn’t go last--”

“Send them all out,” Shiro snapped.  He grabbed the barred door to the ring with his new hand and grinned with manic satisfaction as it melted immediately.  

He strode out into the ring.  The crowd roared its approval.  His name--no, not his name, never his name--echoed across the arena, the cries of “Champion!” falling like hail around him.  Fuck them.  Fuck every last one of them for cheering.  This place reeked of death and misery and they loved it all.  For the briefest moment, Shiro considered launching himself at the wall, seeing if he could make it to the audience and find out just how many of them he could kill before he was put down--but no.  Rick.  Rick needed him.

He turned to the other cage doors.

“Let them out,” he commanded.  

The doors opened and, arm glowing, Shiro sprang forward with a snarl.  His first opponent was dead before they could draw their weapon.  The second creature leapt forward, massive club swinging down.  Shiro’s arm sliced through the club and into the creature’s skull.  He prowled in front of the cage, waiting for the third. 

The crowd was deafening now.  Shiro ignored it in favor of focusing on the door.  There was scrambling and shouting behind it and he could see through the bars that the aliens were arguing.  He grinned.  They could send whoever they wanted--he’d kill them just the same.

A hint of shadow shifted on the wall in front of him and Shiro sprang to the side, narrowly dodging a blast of sizzling energy.  They’d sent his third opponent through a different door.  Clever. 

The creature was three times his size and had whip-like tentacles covered in barbs, each one blazing.  His arm probably wasn't going to do much to that.  Fuck.  And, because he was an idiot, he’d rushed out without a weapon.  “Patience fields focus” indeed. 

Shiro eyed the two corpses to his left.  He’d already destroyed the club, but the first creature had brought a spear.  Perfect.

The creature advanced forward and Shiro had to dodge three more blasts before he made it to the spear.  He lunged to grab it, scooping it up and whirling to throw it in the same motion.  It impaled the beast through the eye and the creature fell, foaming and twitching.

Not willing to repeat his earlier brashness, Shiro waited until the creature stilled and then pulled the spear free before striking three more times to insure the creature was dead.  Once satisfied, Shiro dropped the spear and strode to the side door, pounding on it and until it opened.  His anger had not cooled in the slightest by the time he reached Sendak’s chambers.

“Where is he,” Shiro snarled.

Sendak was naked already, stroking himself as he relaxed on a lounge.  

“Who?”

“You know who,” Shiro glared, striding up to the lounge and staring down at the Galra.

Sendak spread his legs a little wider and adjusted himself, grinning.

“I am not the one attending to your little friend--Rick, I think his name was,” Sendak said mildly.  

Rick.  Sendak knew his name.  It wasn't a surprise, but it disgusted him to his core hear his friend's name fall from Sendak's lips.

“You were so good for me last time--why would you think I had him,” Sendak continued.  “Didn’t you behave?  Do you have something to confess?”

“I have nothing to confess,” Shiro said evenly.  “That’s why I’m angry.”

Sendak shrugged.  “As I said, I don’t have him.”

The fingers on Shiro’s new arm twitched.  

“And does she?” he asked, voice dark and quiet.  Sendak had not interfered with Shiro’s “upgrade”.  Had that been a veiled warning for what else could be done to torment them?

Sendak merely shrugged again.  “I love to see you full of fight again, but talking to you bores me.  Are you getting to say something meaningful or do I need to find something to shut you up with?”

Shiro knew what he wanted.  He did not hesitate.

“What would it take for you to keep him safe?”

Cruel, delighted pity played over Sendak and he stood up, towering over Shiro.  “Do you even have anything left to give?”

Shiro did not move an inch.  “Try me,” he growled.

Sendak grinned as he leaned down, a clawed hand encircling Shiro’s throat.  

“From now on, you will always ask.  For.  More,” he whispered.

Shiro did not leave the room that night.

~*~*~

Rick was waiting for him.  Relief washed over Shiro like a soothing wave to see the half-Galra’s ears perk up happily at seeing him.  He was safe.  Rick was safe. 

“Hi,” Rick said with a smile, hopping off Shiro’s bunk and trotting up to him.  

(That punk seriously had the audacity to wait on Shiro’s bunk.  Good god.)

“What happened to you?  Are you okay?” Shiro asked.  A painful thought crept into his mind: perhaps Sendak had planned even this much, having Rick go through the door for nothing, but then what did it matter either way?  So what if Shiro had traded himself when Rick was safe--just because he’d been safe this time, it was no guarantee for later.  No, Shiro had made the right decision.

Rick looked surprised.  “Of course I am,” he said, blinking before frowning.  “What about you?”

“Not great,” Shiro admitted with a tired smile.  It had been hell, but hell now had nuances and gradations.  Call it an 8/10.

Rick’s frown deepened.  “How well can you walk?”

“I can make it to the shit pits when I need to,” Shiro shrugged, sitting down gingerly on the edge of his bunk.  Being able to do that much was enough; it was all he needed to do for the next several days. 

Rick’s frown deepened further.  “Hold on a moment,” he said before disappearing to his own bunk.  He rummaged under his thin mattress and jumped back down, this time with bandages.  “You need these.”

“Rick…,” Shiro sighed.  “We’ve been over this.”  This really wasn't a conversation he wanted to keep having.  He had bought Rick’s safety for now, but Sendak could only be appeased for so long.  No need to make things head south sooner than necessary.

“Champion,” Rick said sharply, squaring his shoulders and looking almost-but-not-quite intimidating.  “You.  Need.  These.”

Shiro hesitated before accepting the bandages.  He should say no, but god he was so fucking tired.  Sendak might not have been as cruel this time, but it had gone on for so long, and now that he had the relief of knowing Rick was okay, his adrenaline was utterly spent.  He just didn’t have the strength to argue further, and god was there any part of him that didn’t fucking ache to the bone?  Maybe he could claim that he needed the extra healing if he was expected to keep winning.  That might work.  Might.  Only, one small problem--

“I can’t put these where I need them,” he said quietly.  

Rick’s face softened.  “Do you trust me to help you?”

“I do, but…,” Shiro said, still quiet.  He glanced around at their neighbors.  He couldn’t do this without privacy.  He couldn’t.  

Understanding covered Rick’s face and he reached up again to his bunk, this time tucking part of his blanket under his mattress and allowing the rest to hang down, forming a small curtain.  Shiro swallowed back the sudden urge to cry.  Wow.  Just how weak was he now that such a small measure of kindness all but wrecked him?

Blinking hard to clear his eyes, Shiro knelt on his bunk and tried to get out of his clothes.  A whimper escaped his lips before he could bite it back.

“Do you want me to help?” Rick asked quietly.  

No.

“Yes,” Shiro whispered.

Careful hands tugged down his clothes, mindful of how the fresh wounds stuck to the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” Rick murmured.  

A bandage was placed on his back.  Shiro knew the spot--a particularly deep lash wound.  He had asked for twenty before the Galra was satisfied.

“That’s not where I need it,” he whispered hoarsely, ashamed.  

“I have enough,” Rick said, smoothing on another bandage.  

Shiro clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut.  He didn’t want this.  He didn’t want Rick to see what happened to him.  It shouldn’t matter--the kid was smart, he knew what happened--but he didn’t want Rick to know what happened.  

“I’m going to go lower now,” Rick said gently.  

“I know,” Shiro said.

Shame flooded him as the cloth descended.  He couldn’t imagine what he looked like--how many scars did he have now?  How much still hadn’t healed?  And Rick had to pull the suit down past his knees so Shiro could spread enough for Rick to fully access the wounded tissues.  

He cried then, silently.  It was just a few tears, hot and hated, that rolled off his cheeks and onto his fists.  Rick warned him before every touch until Shiro whispered--harsher than he meant--that he didn’t need to know.  Why was he doing this?  Why was he letting himself be seen and touched and exposed when all he wanted was to hide?  But the touches were so gentle, were so deliberate and careful and never lingered.  The pain eased with every bandage.  

(And wasn't it okay for him to cling to the one spot of light he had while he still could?)

“Anywhere else?” Rick asked at last.  

“No,” Shiro lied.  Rick didn’t need to see his chest, too.  

(But god, didn’t Rick deserve to see it?  Didn’t Rick deserve to know the fate Shiro had doomed him to one day share?)

If Rick knew he was lying--and he probably did--he didn’t let on.  The clothes were eased back into place.  It was over.

Rick shuffled back to give Shiro his space.  

“Thank you,” Shiro said after a moment.  

“My mother said humans hug.  Is that true?” Rick said, voice very serious.

“Well, yes,” Shiro said, turning around.  Rick was about to hug him, wasn't he?  “But that’s--”

Rick pulled him to his chest for the briefest of hugs and then patted him on the head.  “You did perfect.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Shiro said automatically, baffled.  The kid had just thanked him?

Rick hummed acknowledgement and asked if he could pull his blanket back up now because he wanted to sleep.  Shiro assured him that was fine and the half-Galra crawled up to his bunk after wishing him goodnight.  It was morning now, of course, but Shiro knew Rick had waited up for him.  He swallowed a lump before settling down for his own rest.

Shiro would need to talk him later, when both of them weren’t so tired.  There was no way Rick didn’t understand the essence of what Sendak did, but it was still important to explain what might happen and when.  God, how could he tell that poor kid?  The lump sprang back into his throat.  What if Rick hated him?

Rick’s head suddenly appeared, upside down, over the edge of his bunk, long hair comically hanging behind him like an exclamation point.

“By the way,” he said, “my name is Keith.  You can keep calling me Rick, though.  I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Shiro said, stunned at the sudden offering of personal information.  Keith, huh.  Definitely a human name.  “Um, okay, Keith.”

Keith grinned.  “Oh, and I might need to wake you up later, so please don’t punch me.”

“I absolutely cannot guarantee that,” Shiro warned, trying to joke and probably failing.  

The half-Galra laughed anyway and disappeared.

And somehow, that laugh brought peace.  He’d protected that.  With his blood and his body he had protected something precious and a light grew in his chest.  Reason--that was what his pain had lacked.  There had been no reason behind any of it, but now?  Now he had Rick--or rather, Keith.  He could suffer for Keith if he needed to.

He let the peace seep into him.  The last time he’d felt like this was when he’d taken the fight for Matt.  There had been a purpose back then and he hadn’t regretted it, not even when his reputation isolated him from his fellow prisoners.

Matt.  Shiro wondered what had happened to him and his father.  He hoped they were well.  Surely if they’d died Sendak would have taunted him with it.   

Shiro closed his eyes.  Matt and Sam and Keith were as safe as he could make them, and in an odd way, he had won.  He had taken the power back into his hands because now he chose to give up his body.  Keith was safe, at least for now.  Shiro had won.

His sleep was the deepest it had been for months.

~*~*~

Keith knew what the side door meant for the Champion.  He also knew it meant something entirely different for the other members of their cell: food, medicine, sometimes training, frequently sex.  God only knew what the door would mean for him, but when it opened, Keith had walked through it without hesitating.

He wasn't keen to meet any fan--it was repulsive to think of the people who applauded his imprisonment and what amounted to murder--but a fan who had purchased sex?  Keith was not a whore.  He hadn’t held any romantic notions of his first time, but it sure as hell wasn't going to be with a stranger who was complicit with his current hellish existence.  Still, he didn’t want to attack a “fan” and end up getting killed by a guard.  Perhaps the fan would allow him to beg out of it…? A vision of Sendak flashed through his mind.

If it was Sendak he would kill him or die trying.

Come to think of it, there were dozens of high-ranking targets that frequented the arena.  What if it were one of them?  Even if all they wished was to feed him, he would gladly trade his life to kill them.  He might not be one of the Blades’ assassins, but he could hardly ask for a better opportunity. 

Keith squared his shoulders as he continued his long march to the fan’s quarters.  This had just become a mission.

But what about the Champion?

Where the hell had that thought come from?  Why would anything happen to the Champion if Keith died while killing a fan?  The Champion didn’t need him.  Hell, his life would be infinitely easier without Keith in it.  Keith was all too aware that his presence angered Sendak, and it sickened him to know that he caused the Champion more suffering, however inadvertently.  The Champion was a good man, or at the very least he had been, and he had saved Keith.

And he would be better off if Keith were dead.

Still, Keith wished he could say goodbye or, if nothing else, tell him that he had taken the Champion’s advice about his footwork.

Maybe the fan would be harmless.

Six floors, eight turns, twenty-nine blocks and Keith had arrived.  The door opened.  Keith kept his face neutral as the guards left.

“Hello,” he said calmly, his steady voice hiding his inner shaking.  Was he allowed to react…?  Was the room secure…?

“Keith,” the Galra said, and he opened his arms.

Keith rushed into the embrace with a sob.

“Ulaz,” he cried.

“Hush, hush my young one,” Ulaz said, cradling him closer.  “You’ve done so well.  I’ve seen it all.  I’m sorry I could not contact you sooner.”

“It’s okay,” Keith said, voice muffled by the Galra’s broad chest.  “I knew what would happen when I got caught.  I wasn't expecting anything from anyone.”  He pulled back.  “Does my mother know?”  He hoped not.  He hoped he’d simply been reported dead.  For all practical purposes it was true.

“She’s still undercover, but I can pass a message on for her later.”

“Well, of course tell her I love her, and tell her the rest of the words are ‘Never gonna make you cry you, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you’,” Keith said seriously.

Ulaz blinked.  “A code…?”

Keith shook his head.  “Human song lyrics.”

“Ah, does this mean you have spoken with the Champion?  Have you gained his trust at all?  I had hoped for such.  It was difficult to insure your transfer to his cell, but I suspected your shared nature would prove useful,” Ulaz said, nodding his approval.

“You... planned this?” Keith frowned.  “For how long?”

“Since shortly after you were captured.  We knew you would be able to rise high in the arena.  From there it was a matter of directing which ship you would end up on.  You might not have realized your role in this mission, but it was critical and you have met each of our expectations perfectly,” Ulaz said fondly.  “I only wish I could have spoken to you sooner.”

Keith’s head swarmed with confusion.  How was this a mission?  And why was it critical that he be the one in the arena?  It must have to do with the Champion being human, but why would that matter?

“Keith,” Ulaz said, resting his hands on Keith’s shoulders.  “We don’t have much time.  Sometime within the next 20 vargas there will be a series of explosions due to a faulty generator.  As a result, all cells will open and the sentries for multiple floors will be deactivated.  You need to take the Champion and flee to the coordinates I give you.  There will be a ship with supplies available at the end of the second starboard hanger on the 83rd floor.  You are to take him back to Earth and wait for further instructions.”

“What…?” Keith said faintly.  “Why Earth?  And why the Champion?”

“There is a powerful weapon hidden on that planet.  That is why your mother ended up there.  We need you to bring the Champion there so he can warn the humans of the possibility of a Galra invasion.  With luck, that won’t come to pass.  We are not currently able to remove the weapon, but it is our goal to retrieve it and hide it again before the Galra Empire learns of its location.  I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain more,” he said, pulling Keith back in for a hug. 

After a quick review of the relevant instructions, they exchanged one last hug and Keith headed back to cell 19-329.  His head was spinning with the news.  Tomorrow.  He’d be able to free himself and the Champion tomorrow.  He’d get them both as ready as could and then...well, he’d have to compete with a few hundred prisoners to make it to freedom, but if he was careful--and had just a little luck--then by this time tomorrow, he and the Champion would be well on their way to safety.

When he made it back to 19-329, the Champion’s bunk was empty.   Patience fields focus.  The Champion would be back, and tomorrow they’d be free or die trying.

Tomorrow.