Chapter Text
“What were you before?” Pink asks one night when he’s just barely older than a smeet. He’s seated on his secondary creator’s lap on their couch in the common area of their family’s quarters. Most quarters only have one room, even on the Resistance’s main flagship, but they get larger because his creators are important (or so they tell him). He gets his own room, his creators’ get theirs across from him, as well as a private cleaning room off to the side.
“Before what?” his Secondary asks, most of his focus on a datapad in his right hand filled with tiny print Pink is too young to understand. Pink has a datapad as well, though his is filled with colorful squiggles that he’s learning are the Irken alphabet. Secondary takes a drink of his slushie, before lowering it so Pink can get a sip too. Pink savors the sweetness, a rare treat; the Resistance doesn’t have much access to these kinds of luxuries.
“Primary said you used to be able to have all the snacks you wanted,” Pink explains. He feels Secondary tense under him, looks up to see his antennae flat against his head.
“He told you that?” Secondary asks, red eyes narrowed.
“Yeah,” Pinks says, “can you go back to being that? I want slushies more often.” Secondary stares down at him for a long time, and Pink begins to squirm, thinking about his words in case he said something wrong. “Please?”
“No, Donut,” Secondary says eventually, tone firm even with the endearment tacked on. “We’re never going back. He shouldn’t have mentioned it to you.” Pink tightens his grip on his datapad, now afraid he’s gotten himself and his Primary into trouble.
“Sorry Secondary,” he murmurs, voice wobbling. His Secondary is silent for a moment before sighing, placing his datapad on the table in front of them.
“Don’t be sorry,” he soothes, holding Pink close. “We had all the snacks we could want, yes,” his Secondary pauses for a moment, as though the words won’t come. Pink waits patiently.
“But it wasn’t fair how we got them,” Secondary settles on finally. “Would it be fair if you stole slush from Bek, or Zim to get more of your own?” Pink thinks about it.
“I guess not,” he says finally, “why? Did you steal stuff?” His eyes widen. “Did you steal snacks ?” His Secondary gives a soft laugh, but it quickly turns into a grimace.
“We stole things a lot more important than snacks,” he murmurs, “we did some bad stuff, Donut.”
“Oh,” Pink says quietly, “really bad stuff?”
“Really bad stuff,” his Secondary nods.
“As bad as what the Irken Empire’s doing?” Pink asks, “that bad?” His Secondary is quiet for a long, long time.
“Yes, Donut,” Secondary says finally, voice cracking a little, “that bad.”
*
The first time Red meets Purple is on the day of Elite initiation. More specifically, he walks into the training hall to see everyone in varying phases of warming up for the sparring tournament that will decide their roles in the Elite force. Everyone except one Irken, who’s sat off to the side munching on a donut. He’s tall, possibly as tall as Red, with bright purple eyes.
Red stares, and finds his feet moving without his say so, until he’s standing in front of the Irken.
“You going to warm up?” Red asks. The Irken turns to look at him, blinks once, before shoving another mouthful of donut into his face.
“Looks hard,” the Irken says with a shrug, and Red stares a moment too long at a bit of icing smeared in the left corner of his mouth.
“It’s only going to get harder,” Red points out, “this is Elite training. You should be getting ready.”
“Well it looks too hard,” the Irken says stubbornly, shoving the rest of the donut in his mouth and crossing his arms.
“... Right,” Red says, and forces himself to walk away.
*
Red warms up with an Irken named Zim, who almost impales him with his PAK legs several times.
“We haven’t even started the matches yet,” Red snaps, ducking to the right of another sharp leg come too close. “It’s too early to be going all out!”
“It is never too early for ZIM!” Zim cries, and Red has to parry another blow to his right with one of his own PAK legs. Another comes from his left, and grazes his cheek, drawing blood. He bounces away, looking at the other Irken incredulously.
“Are you insane?” he hisses, wiping the blood off his cheek. The other Irken grins at him.
“Alright initiates,” a voice calls from the entrance, “line up!” An Irken in the Elite uniform moves from the entrance to the front of the official sparring ring, and the recruits line up obediently in front of him.
“Now, I’m sure you all have been told you’ll get be part of the Elite force,” the Irken says, “but you were lied to.” Murmurs break out among the students. “The initiation is to see who’s got what it takes to be an Elite, and who’s to return to regular military duty in shame. I hope you were paying attention to your rivals around you, because you’ll need every edge you can get in the arena.”
The murmurs grow louder, and some of the initiates begin to shift on their feet. Red glances over at the purple-eyed Irken, and notices he’s started in on a bag of chips. The Irken meets his eyes and grins around a mouthful, waving.
“We’ll be doing good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat, though you’ll all be allowed a close-range weapon pair of your choice. You’ll spar until first blood, anyone who loses within the first three rounds is out. The final winner will get a meeting with the Tallest, so don’t slack off just because you’ve made it past the third round! Lastly, if you’re not sparring, you’re not allowed in the room, they’ll be no more observational advantages! Now listen up, because I'm going to read off the first matches.” The Irken produces a list of names and begins to call them out. The purple-eyed Irken continues to munch, seemingly oblivious.
Red smirks. This is going to be easy.
*
He settles on a spear, and makes it through the first three rounds without problem. The matches get tougher as he goes, but his height gives him an advantage over many of his opponents, and by the final round he’s tired but overall unharmed.
He gets to the into the ring for the final round, ready for this to be over, and freezes in his tracks.
Across from him stands the purple-eyed Irken, humming off-key as he swings a pair of daggers through the air in sloppy strokes.
“How did you..?” he asks, and the other Irken looks up at him with a bright grin.
“Fancy meeting you here!” he says, “what’s your name, anyway? I’m Purple!” One of his knives slip from his hand and onto the floor and he gives a full-body recoil to avoid it.
“Red,” he says on autopilot, still stunned.
“Huh. Weird name!” Purple says, bending down to pick up his knife.
“Your name is Purple,” Red points out, and Purple shrugs.
Then the instructor enters the ring and blows his whistle, and the match is on. Red shakes himself out of his stupor and, figuring he might as well get this over with, lunges forward. He gets halfway across the ring, when Purple is up on his PAK legs, and elsewhere.
Red freezes, turning just in time to block both blades coming down on him with two of his own PAK legs. He looks up into Purple’s face incredulously, and sees narrowed eyes and a bloodthirsty smirk, a sharp focus in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Good job,” Purple says, PAK legs taking him back across the arena before Red’s spear can land a hit.
“Right back at you,” Red mutters, getting his feet back under him. He begins circling, more cautious now, and Purple follows flawlessly, lunging again a moment later. Red side-steps, thrusting his spear behind him, and grins when he hears Purple grunt from the blunt end’s impact with his back. He turns to see Purple clutching his side.
“Sorry, did that hurt?” Red gloats, and Purple glares, retreating on his PAK legs once more.
“No, but this will,” he hisses, and Red barely has time to react before Purple is up close and personal once more.
*
Their fight lasts longer than any of Red’s previous, and he loses count of the number of close calls on both sides. Finally, though, it ends.
Purple’s PAK legs take him backward, but upon their retraction he stumbles, and Red takes his chance. He lunges, aiming for the legs, when he’s thrown backward by a re-extended PAK leg come up from behind him. He lands flat, and Purple is on him before he can get back on his feet, stabbing the ground right next to Red’s head, just grazing his cheek.
Red pants, staring up in shock at the Irken pinning him, and feels something trickle down his cheek. Purple gives a dark grin before standing up, beginning to hum off-key again, and sheathes his knives. Red raises a shaky hand to his cheek and pulls it away to see bright green blood smeared on his finger; the instructor blows the whistle.
“It seems we have a winner,” the instructor calls, turning to a smaller Irken that has magically appeared beside him. “Call in the rest of the initiates, the matches are over.” The smaller Irken nods and scurries off.
“Good job soldiers,” the instructor says, nodding to both of them. “You both showed some impressive skills. You’ll be excellent additions to the Elites.”
“Thank you, sir!” Purple says brightly, glancing down at Red, who’s still sitting shell-shocked on the mat. “Need some help?” He offers Red a hand, and Red stares at it.
“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing on and wincing as he’s yanked up.
“As the second most promising initiate I’m going to give you some advice, kid,” the instructor says, turning to Red, “never underestimate your opponent.”
“Oh, oh, what about me?” Purple says, waving his arms around excitedly, “what advice do I get?”
“Warm up before you spar,” the instructor says, “you’ll injure yourself if you don’t.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Purple nods, giving a sloppy salute.
*
“You cheated,” Red says afterward, while they wait for the rest of the recruits to file back in. Purple sits next to him, stabbing donut holes from a box and eating them off his knife.
“What do you mean?” Purple asks, the words garbled due to his full mouth.
“This!” Red says, gesturing, “you act like this when really you’re…” he trails off, unable to find the right words. Purple tilts his head, chewing. “That face in the ring was not the face of someone who sits around eating snacks all day,” he finishes. Purple hums and stabs another donut hole, then brings it to Red’s face.
“What?” Red asks, eyebrows furrowed.
“Consolation prize,” Purple explains, “you may have one of my donuts. You’re welcome.” Red stares, mouth agape. Purple takes advantage and shoves the donut in Red’s open mouth, yanking the knife back out before Red can bite down on its sharp edges. Red chews the donut on instinct, and realizes that, yet again, he has no godly clue what is going on; a pattern when Purple is around, it seems.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he points out after he’s swallowed, and Purple shrugs, but when he looks back up the malicious grin is back on Purple's features.
“And you didn’t know until it was too late,” he replies, shoving another donut in his mouth.
Red has… nothing to say to this.
*
(He realizes something.
“Did you fight someone named Zim?” he asks, and Purple glances over again, humming.
“Small? Crazy? Probably defective?” he asks, and Red nods. “Yep, fifth round.”
“And?”
“He refused to use a weapon other than his PAK,” Purple says, “he was ruthless with it though, I think he’s made some self-upgrades on it. If he’d fought anyone but me he’d have made it farther.”
“Isn’t that, like, illegal?” Red asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Tinkering with your PAK?” Purple shrugs.
“We’re training for war,” he points out, “anything goes in war.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Red mutters, but lets it drop.)