Chapter Text
They keep him semi-conscious during the surgery to make sure his nerves respond to the attachment of the cybernetic arm, and it's nothing but red hot agony and the taste of bile at the back of his throat. Once it is over he passes out, falling into blissful darkness, no sedatives needed.
It lasts for days, barely interrupted by short hazy fragments of wakefulness and the sensation of careful hands on him as they wipe the sweat from his brow. He longs to lean into them, savor the cool touch, but through his half-lidded eyes he catches sight of purple skin and shies away instead.
On the fourth day, the fever goes down and Shiro wakes with a line of fire searing along his shoulder where the bionic limb is joint to his scarred flesh.
He vaguely recalls the exultant roars of Champion! Champion! throughout the stadium, his opponent dead at his feet, while his right arm hung off him in shreds. They must have taken him right into surgery then, he thinks, unwilling to lose their beast and the masses' favor. He just wishes they would have let him die.
He keeps his eyes shut for a long moment before he finally forces them open, blearily sits up in his bed.
It's not actually his bed, though, much too broad and more comfortable than the narrow bunk in the cell he had inhabited before. Accommodation for a recovering patient or a reward for the new hero?
“Master,” a voice says, sounding slightly mechanic, slightly stiff, “You are awake?”
Shiro turns his head.
Off to the side by the door of this unfamiliar room kneels an even less familiar Galran.
In fact, he is the smallest Galran Shiro has ever seen, but then again, the Galrans he usually sees are all military personnel. This one does definitely not fit that category, too lithe and slender to match his comrades' bulk.
“I will call a druid,” the Galran informs him without waiting for an answer and smoothly stands up to push one of the buttons on the palette next to the door.
Shiro swallows, his throat dry, his tongue thick in his mouth, and it's too hard to speak just now. He watches as the Galran pushes another button and the room turns unpleasantly bright around them.
Shiro hisses quietly, lifts his arm to shield his eyes, hisses more loudly when it aggravates the fresh wound. The Galran glances over his shoulder, but doesn't apologize, doesn't show sympathy. But then again, he is Galran.
In that moment, the door slides open. A guard steps in, steps aside to make room for a slightly smaller druid. They both completely ignore the other Galran who kneels back down once more but now with a tense anticipation to his posture, like waiting to jump up at any second, to serve or to fight or anything at all.
But then a shadow falls over Shiro and he is distracted by the businesslike expression of the druid in front of him.
A druid, not a doctor, he thinks and clenches his jaw. They hadn't wanted to heal him. He was nothing but an investment to them. He had won the tournament, literally single-handedly towards the end. They simply wanted even more victories out of him, and the new arm would ensure that.
The druid isn't unnecessarily rough with him now, nothing compared to the blazing pain of the surgery, but his bedside manner is still terrible, at least by human standards. He does not ask how Shiro feels, just examines the seams between skin and steel, holds a pencil-like device to it to measure the neural connectivity.
In the end, he gives a satisfied grunt and nods to himself.
“When will he be able to fight again?” the guard asks as the healer makes some annotations on his electronic clipboard.
“In about two weeks he should be able to use his arm normally and without any undue amounts of pain. Then the rehabilitation can begin. Depending on his process he might be able to resume his training in about two months.”
The guard nods and then the healer is already turning on his heel and leaving again without another word.
Shiro fights down the nausea. He does not want to return to the arena. He had thought that if he won, if he survived, that would be the end of it. That he might even be granted freedom. But that had been naive. The Galrans wouldn't possibly give him a chance to return to Earth and warn his fellow humans of just what was coming for them.
“Are you hungry?” the guard asks in that moment and Shiro looks up at him.
He knows this guard. He is one of the nicer ones, the one who had often wished Shiro good luck before a fight or given him some extra rations. Shiro could appreciate the small niceties when there were little others to be had.
He gives a slow, careful nod, still not quite capable of speaking after what he had endured.
“You there,” the Galran addresses the boy by the door, “You heard him.”
Immediately the boy jumps up and scampers out of the room, doubtlessly to go hunt down some meal.
Shiro takes a deep breath, licks his chapped lips.
“Where am I?” he asks hoarsely. It's still the same old battleship, he knows, but this must definitely be a different bay. This room cannot possibly be back where the rest of the prisoners were kept.
“Level 3,” the guard answers casually, “You got upgraded.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As the new champion you'll be allowed more amenities and liberties.”
“Liberties,” Shiro cocks an eyebrow, “Does that mean I'll be allowed to return to my planet?”
The Galran sends him a bleak grin, “'fraid not. And best not talk that way. Your victory in the arena has indirectly sworn you to the Galran Empire. Don't let anyone assume you'd wanna leave.”
“Because no one might expect that of a prisoner,” Shiro huffs, “So what are these amenities then? Decent food?”
As if on cue, the Galran boy returns, bearing a laden tray and setting it down on the bedside table, before quickly and quietly returning to his corner.
“That, too,” the guard nods, “You'll be allowed to walk around more freely, though mostly to see yourself to the training facilities. Some credits to spend in the entertainment bay. This room here. And, well, him, of course.”
And he jerks his chin over to the silent boy.
Shiro frowns, “... him?”
“A slave,” the guard explains, “For, uh, whatever.”
He follows it up with a vague gesture before rubbing the back of his neck.
Shiro stares, stupefied. “What.”
“What what?”
“How's that- A slave? I'm a prisoner and you're giving a slave who is one of your own?”
“Well,” the guard pulls a face, “He's a runt, you see. I mean, look at him. He's barely worth anything.”
Shiro's stomach drops. The boy is very pointedly staring at the wall across from him, seemingly ignoring their conversation even though he must be painfully aware of it.
“I don't want a slave,” Shiro stammers, “I- why would you even do this?”
The guard shrugs, “This is your reward and his punishment.”
Shiro tries to ignore the fact that because of the lives he has taken in the arena, he is given another one to play with. Instead he chooses to focus on the latter part of the revelation.
“Punishment?” he asks, “For what?
“He defied a superior,” the guard says, throwing a derisive look at the boy, “So he has to learn obedience. If he displeases you we will find more suitable work for him.”
The Yes is almost on Shiro's tongue at that because he does not want this boy as his... attendant or whatever. Except. Except the guard's words make the boy flinch violently before shrinking in on himself.
Shiro does not even want to imagine what further demotion might mean for the kid.
“No,” he says, though it rolls off his tongue with much hesitance, “He... he'll do.”
“Great,” the guard grins again, “Enjoy your food and take it easy. The people will want see you back in the game as soon as possible.”
Shiro nods and watches as the guard leaves again. Then he turns towards the food. He's mostly gotten used to Galran cuisine, but he still doesn't think he can stomach much of anything at the moment.
There's a bowl with some broth in it, though, and it does at least smell acceptable, so he scoots towards the tray. His body feels heavy and his new foreign hand keeps shaking so he reaches out with his left instead to pick up the spoon. It feels awkward and delicate between his fingers. The last tool he handled was a long curved blade which he used to slit his opponents throat. His left hand begins shaking as well.
In that moment the boy chooses to finally speak up once more.
“Do you require help, master?” he asks and Shiro throws him a look.
“You want to feed me?”
“If you wish it,” the boy says, but he sounds full of spite.
“No, thanks,” Shiro snorts and forces his hand to into stillness by sheer power of will.
He manages to eat most of the broth, with little embarrassment involved, but then his stomach begins to rumble in warning and he decides to not try his luck.
He sets the spoon down again, stares down at his lap. Then he struggles to his feet.
His knees nearly buckle under his weight and a wave of dizziness makes everything tilt sideways, but then he catches himself and crosses the small room with heavy steps.
The kid does not move but still he seems to be melting closer to the wall. His gaze is not outright on Shiro, just suspiciously watching him from underneath lowered lashes when Shiro comes to a halt in front of him.
“Stand up, please,” Shiro says, hoping it does not sound too much like an order.
So the boy stands, even if his shoulder are still hunched inwards, making him appear even smaller.
For a Galran he really must be a runt, Shiro admits, for the boy is several inches shorter than even him who has been called puny and weak by many Galran soldiers before. He's humanoid enough, safe for the most obvious differences such as his lavender skin and unruly purple hair. His eyes, too, gleam violet in the harsh fluorescent lights from above. There's no violence in them, though, just a curbed fire, like embers under ashes.
He's also dressed differently from other Galrans, obviously not given the advantage of armor or even weaponry. Instead, he is wearing a simply off-white tunic, short and cinched around his waist, exposing his long slim limbs.
He's pretty, Shiro admits with a sour taste in his mouth, and suddenly the many implications of the word 'slave' take an even nastier turn.
Shiro bites his tongue.
“What's your name?” he asks, keeping his voice even.
“... Kithnarak,” the boy answers, clearly reluctant to do so, and not for the first time Shiro finds himself faced with the realization that the pronunciation of most alien names is not one of his strengths.
“Kiz- Kith-,” he fumbles around the unwieldy syllables before giving up in vague embarrassment, “… May I call you Keith?”
“You may call me whatever you wish, Master.”
The lines sound rehearsed, like a recording. There is no meaning behind them; the Galran keeps his voice flat and his gaze on the floor.
“It's like a nickname,” Shiro tries to explain, “Like Shiro.”
“Shi...ro?” the boy glances up.
“That's me,” Shiro smiles encouragingly, “Takashi Shirogane. But my friends call me Shiro.”
The word 'friends' immediately has the Galran looking down again.
“You are Master or Champion. I am your slave.”
Shiro's stomach turns.
“No,” he says vehemently. He is sick of inmate numbers and insults and titles. Just this once he wants to remember who he is. “You will call me Shiro, or-”
He stops himself, not wanting to turn it into a threat. He does not want the boy to think that he would throw him back to the wolves, even if he conducts himself incorrectly.
“Just call me Shiro and I will call you Keith,” he finishes, decidedly more mellow now. He feels tired, but in a way that no sleep will ever do away with. “Is there anywhere I could take a shower?”
“There is an adjoining bathroom,” Keith tells him, “I will ready it for you.”
His own bathroom. He hasn't even had that back at the Garrison. And he only had to kill dozens of other poor bastards to gain this luxury.
For a moment he considers rejecting Keith's offer. He can prepare his own damn bathroom. But he is exhausted and he could use a little help.
“Yes,” he nods, “That would be nice.”
“Whatever pleases you,” Keith says and Shiro lets out a little sigh.