Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was always the smallest things in life that meant the most: snacks, naps, extra sleep, morning sun, the perfect temperature. Yes, those flashes of good in a universe of questionable intentions made life worth living. Virgil would argue that the small things kept one sane. If you couldn’t focus on the good fish in a sea of dark waters, you would drown, and as tempting as that could be, Virgil wasn’t prepared to go down at the tender age of fifteen without a fight.

What else could he do?

The guards-- some small, feathered primates-- tossed a bar of presumably nutritious sludge in his cage. As per usual, it didn’t come without some form of humiliation and taunting at the expense of the “big bad” human, but it came all the same. As per usual, the “food” tasted neither good nor bad. It was everything necessary to sustain a human, and not much besides.

At this point, food in hand and complete silence, it was easy for Virgil to pretend that he had some semblance of “good” in his little cage. The alternative was… unsavory. Of course, the side of him that still had concerns with the outside world would never let him forget what shortly followed snacks.

An hour later, different guards returned. These were a different species-- no feathers to pluck and too big to throw. No, these were proper guards. These posed an actual threat in numbers, although Virgil knew from prior experimentation that he could reliably take down two at a time. However, those prior experiments worked both ways in learning, and they figured out their current setup after the first few times: six guards total: Two behind, one on each flank, one in front (in case he darted), and one in direct contact with him at all times.

Weapons out, they dragged Virgil, who went without resistance, into the hallway, immediately slinging restraints, a blindfold, and muzzle (no one wants human diseases) on him. The point of contact kept one hand wrapped around his tranq collar as they jerked him down the familiar path to the arena.

They stopped, the point of contact and restraints leaving as rapidly as the initial handling.

“Blindfold off,” someone barked in Common. Metal clanged shut on metal somewhere behind Virgil.

He’d learnt that particular phrase from prior experiences too… not that he knew much else.

Virgil obeyed, wearily examining the familiar surroundings. Yeah, try to find the good in this. The box ascended. As traces of fresh, if not a bit bloody air filtered in, so did the usual screams and jeers. He could taste the excitement and blood lust in the air, to say nothing of the reek of money. This whole situation was nothing new, yet it always found a way to get more miserable every time.

Who will it be today, he thought, stretching in the elevator. Perhaps a bear-like Rova or armored Whoff. If nothing else, he hoped it would be a Bickani-- they didn’t have pain receptors. Unwelcome memories came with the crowd’s excitement, and with them the telltale hyperventilating of a panic attack.

There would be more death.

Virgil could do nothing about it except extend his ledger.

Well, he could also die, but if a poor fight was put up, they’d both die anyways.

“Terrans and Marinos, Arbor-folk and Subterrestrians, thank you for joining us for this year’s special event: the Human Massacre.”

Wait, Virgil didn’t understand Common in general, but he knew “human” and “massacre,” and they were not usually said like that. His breath quickened.

Perhaps some war-machine alien bigger and badder than a human would have the joy of pummeling him into the salted ground then.

“You probably deserve it,” his mind sniped. “How many others have you beat in the past year.”

Virgil almost answered his inner thoughts, knowing the answer was “far too many," then promptly ignored them in favor of trying to slow his heart, which was going at illegal speeds. He chuckled, depressed. He could cry later. There would always be time to panic.

The crowd cheered again.
For now, he needed to focus-- life or death.

The elevator had stopped a long time ago. The audience had climaxed its anticipation as the announcer finished monologuing. The doors opened.

Virgil leapt out, running counter clockwise at a staggering gallop. His reflective, white, thin tracksuit always gave him the disadvantage of being easy to spot. The brutal footsteps kicked up storms of sand-- irritating for Virgil, blinding for everyone else. Same as his first match, the lights were still blaring, and the gravity was too light. Despite the sand storm, his feet couldn’t feel heavy enough no matter how hard he stepped.

“Where is he?” Virgil dropped to the ground, silent and predatory. Everyone expected a tall human.

There was no towering beast, no coiled serpent or armored raptor. Was it underground? Could it be invisible? That wasn’t a possibility, to the extent of Virgil’s knowledge, so maybe camouflage? He scanned the ground.

“Oh,” he choked.

Looks could be deceiving, but this was laughable at best. It was cowering-- shaking, even. This scrawny chicken-thing looked more like one of the parrots specially-bred for pet shows back on Earth. It’s blindingly iridescent feathers were just… obviously not built for combat. They weren’t sharp or armored, its talons were too long for combat, probably more geared towards climbing. Who made this decision?

Virgil was entirely for giving respect where respect was due, but in terms of combat prowess, this one acted more like Virgil did during his first match. Something in his stomach lurched.

The bird had pressed itself against the unyielding metal gate, seemingly unaware of the opponent behind it.

The audience waited with bated breath.

“Hey.” Virgil approached it, on guard, but relatively nonthreatening.

It turned, then screamed a horrifying trill.

Virgil could hear it whisper under its breath in fragmented Common. “Human-- food-- fight-- die.” Its feathers flared.

He couldn’t blame it, granted that humans were the intergalactic boogeyman, but this was hard enough without a guilt trip. His previous opponents were battle-hardened, brutish species. They knew no Common nor native language and would have killed Virgil given a chance. The bird attempting to scale the smooth glass walls? Virgil couldn’t deal with that. It spoke. It was harmless. He wrung his hands. Virgil didn’t kill, and he only injured in self defense. The past year had undoubtedly loosened his morals, but the basic human desire for peace? Virgil doubted anyone could wring that out of him.

“No fight,” Virgil called. “No fight; Human good.”

The bird glared at him, probably suspiciously, and backed away some more. It flapped pitifully, and Virgil could see where its flight feathers had been plucked-- no wonder it was so terrified.

“I-” Virgil hadn’t realized how quiet the audience had grown. He wrung his hands, sure everyone could hear him. “You no fight, I no fight, yes?”

Closing the distance between them minutely, the bird’s head lifted in the universal sign of acceptance, although it still looked ready to run or die-- whichever came first.

Virgil reciprocated. He jerked-- the bird jumped back-- the air was different, the audience was too quiet. Something pricked his neck.

“Oh, the collar,” was the last thing Virgil thought before hitting the dirt.

Chapter Text

Curse alarm clocks and morning light. For that matter, curse mornings altogether. Virgil rolled over, bringing one hand to his face and the other to slap the snooze button, only for the clock slapped him back.

Dirty fabric hit the wall as Virgil thrashed awake. Everything was too bright; there was no morning sun, no alarm clock. Same as always, there was a cage and fake, constant brightness.

Static filled Virgil’s head, seeming to pour out of his ears. The light was too bright and everything was too loud, the smell of grime and metal too strong, and the situation was too heavy. Breaths rolled out uncooperatively, adding a new bad smell to the cage and clogging his head further.

“Breath,” Virgil heard himself say, and then he was squished in his corner, forcing himself to reign everything in.

All was well, he’d survived the match.

A frantic chitter broke his thoughts.

Virgil crouched, ready to fight. He snarled-- a scare tactic he’d picked up from the guards-- and followed up with a feral hiss-- a habit from back home. He knew his teeth were exposed, knew his shoulders were pulled taut to enlarge his silhouette. It all should buy him a minute while his blurry eyes focused.

He widened his base-- something soft was underfoot. He looked-- a blue feather. Oh, Virgil knew what had happened. Breaths slowed as his fists lowered an inch.

The bird was in the cage with him, a human. Poor thing looked terrified and probably felt even more so, all ruffled feathers and cornered crouching. Of course, only a human was capable of producing such terror. He’d been made to fight this… bird. Virgil swallowed the old ration bar fighting its way back up. No, he’d refused; he’d kept his morals.

“HUMAN,” something with a too-smooth voice growled.

Virgil spun, frightening the bird again, to face the door. A something stood in the doorway. How he knew, he couldn’t tell, but Virgil knew that this was the boss of this whole operation. Perhaps it was just the “human instincts” everyone constantly talked about, telling him that this… thing was the reason for the past year. This bipedal animal with grass-green eyes and a tawny, striped mane. It looked soft and thick; some folk back on Earth would think it’s pretty-- try to capture it. But within his cage, Virgil begged his clamouring heartbeat to stop, although whether it was racing from anger or fear he didn’t know.

The thing’s heavy boots clanked right up to the red line of safety feet outside the cage-- the point where his arms couldn’t reach any farther through the bars. Virgil wondered if his legs would reach that far. Would have tried it too if not for the already-terrified bird.

The boss pulled what might have passed for a human grin in another world. Virgil might have bought it too if not for the way the boss flashed too much teeth and the mane flared in what could only be something bad.

“Human, you will kill the Amygdam.” Flawless common.

Ah, so that’s what species it was.

Virgil snarled right back; if they were going to treat him like an animal, that’s what they’d get. “No.”

“Yes, you will, monster.”

The only indication to brace himself, which Virgil might have missed if not for his hypersensitivity to motion, was a shift of some limb to a cordless remote, then everything was on fire for a split second. The collar burnt against his skin; Virgil clawed at it, would have gone harder if not for the fact that he couldn’t move his wrists. It felt like he’d stuck every limb in a supercharged wall outlet.

“Kill it.”

This time, no response was given before a second electric shock gouged his skin, hard enough to send his legs spasming. Virgil probably screamed, the bird certainly was, but between everything feeling excruciating and numb at the same time, he didn’t recall.

It roared, its mane shaking with it, “I own you, human, kill it!”

Virgil glanced at the bird, ignoring the disgusting look of success on the boss’s face. Virgil’s sense of self preservation was very strong and it would probably rear its ugly head in the near future, but for now, it was on the back burner. Hopefully this will be worth it.

Turning to the boss, he deceivingly nodded-- clear submission-- then crouched, and projectile vomited through the bars.

The effect was immediate for both parties: Virgil knelt, drooling in a foul-smelling effort to rid himself of the taste without collapsing (his arms were numb). The boss screamed, roared, and slipped, only to find himself rolling in more hydrochloric acid. He’d be pleased to learn later that that monster retained permanent facial disfigurement and ocular damage-- the kind no one recovered from.

Later, Virgil would also have a laugh so loud everyone thought the human was committing self-asphyxiation.

For now though, Virgil rolled over (away from the barf residue, mind you) and passed out.

Upon waking again, memory was more immediate; everything was more immediate. He could taste burning flesh and smell cool metal and the lights were still too bright, but Virgil was in euphoria. Sure, everything hurt like hell, this was actual hell, and he’d probably die soon to find out if Hell-hell actually existed, but the sheer thought of potentially melting that sentient cockroach’s genitals off left Virgil with a bone-deep chortle, which reminded him that his bones were actually really painful at the moment… probably from the electric shocks.

Oh! The human body was an atrocity and Virgil was living for it.

“Are you… good?” A small chitter made him look up.

It took a second to realize that it was still hunched on the opposite end of the cage-- which had been cleaned. “Yes, good.” How was he supposed to go about this? “You?”

It practically melted under Virgil’s gaze. “Yes, yes.” It shrunk down on itself. “Thank you.”

That made it vaguely worth it to Virgil. This whole thing may plague his nightmares for years to come (if he lived that long), but he’d done something vaguely good.

“Welcome.” This time, there was no eye contact.

Now, neither was sure what to do. Virgil hadn’t been any good with talking back on earth (thanks, anxiety), and after who-knows-how-long in space, he doubted there’d be much improvement.

He did know, however, that this little bird wouldn’t initiate anything themselves.

“Time?” He softened his voice as much as possible, not hard considering that he couldn’t feel his tongue.

“Eep! Er…” the pile of sheets rustled as it lowered itself. “Half cycle.”

“Thanks,” Virgil said. He hadn’t known that word until the bird said it-- no one in a fighting ring used manners with a human.

The floor Virgil’s face had smashed against was cool, constant, and puddling with stale drool that smelled almost as rancid as his mouth. Virgil forced himself up, ignoring his numb limbs-- he’d faced worse neurotoxins-- and yawned as he stretched out, cracking all his vertebrae. His neck snapped side to side as he rotated it. So good.

Virgil didn’t even consider his mistake until--

“Sorry! Sorry!” The bird had flattened itself against the far wall even more (how was that even possible?).

Guilt welled up (or more barf). Virgil extended his throat-- a sign of submission-- then tried to explain with his 30-word vocabulary that “yes, humans like to crack their joints because it feels good”. It came out closer to “No, no! Sorry! Good-- good for human.”

He paused, then patted a hand on his chest. “Virgil; I am Virgil.”

It met his eyes briefly before averting to the floor again. “I am Patton.”

“Patton.” The word felt thick in his mouth (although that could just be from the shocks). “Patton speaks Common?” Virgil didn’t know the word for “speaks,” instead moving his hand in a poor imitation of a beak or mouth.

“Yes, I speak Common,” Patton answered in full Common.

“I no speak Common. Help?” He’d learnt “help” from some opponents.

Patton seemed frozen in time for a moment before bouncing on their feet with as much energy as they’d had running for their life. “Yes! Now?”

They signaled “now” with a vague gesture to their current space.

“Please.”

Turns out, before all of this nonsense, Patton was an actual teacher. Like, an actual certified professional for teaching languages. Now Virgil only had more questions about how he’d ever gotten here of all places.

Also, for whatever reason they were starting with emotion words, which Virgil barely grasped in English. He’d give Patton this though: he was damn good at charades.

How he’d managed to convey pride and envy simultaneously with body language alone would forever be a mystery.

Eventually though, they were interrupted.

The door opened with its usual clamor. A guard (the small feathered kind) entered, and slid in one portion of nutritious sludge before bolting. No taunting today?

Virgil approached the food-- only one serving. He supposed they meant for their “savage human” to kill off any possible competition come mealtime.

Dreadfully conscious of his body language and jerky movements, Virgil pulled the food to himself, observing how Patton was very pointedly not even looking at the food, although his serrated beak indicated that he would need oral sustenance.

Virgil sighed. “Is half good?” He mimicked dividing the sludge down the middle.

“Excuse me?”

“Half for you; half for me. Yes?”

“No! No! All for you!” The poor thing was positively trembling.

Virgil sighed again; he doubted he’d get a clear answer out of someone obviously terrified of him-- especially if Patton thought the truth would be provoking. He’d been trying to convey his good intentions for the past few hours to no avail. The reaction was entirely understandable; Virgil knew if someone sat him down to teach the monster under his bed English, he’d probably be much worse. However, being a human was getting real tiring real fast.

Virgil carefully divided the sludge in half, making sure to keep his movements visible and predictable, paused, then added a bit more to Patton’s portion because it must be burning calories like crazy from sheer fear responses, if nothing else. Hopefully Patton’d eat it. He scooped half the portion onto the disposable napkin that always came with the tray before sliding the rest away from him.

“Yours.”

Patton gave him a strange look-- one of the few times he’d looked directly at the human so far. For a moment Virgil was scared he’d reject the food or worse, waste it. Patton lowered his head. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

It didn’t take long for sleep to come after eating. Virgil could hear Patton pecking away whenever he looked away, then stop whenever he attempted to observe. Virgil curled up in the corner closest to him, and hoped when he woke up (for the third time), his bones would stop aching.

Chapter Text

On the good side (always start with the good side), Virgil could feel his limbs again. Yay. On the burning-in-the-fires-of-Hell side, everything still hurt. The collar flexed and stretched along with Virgil, rubbing against what were probably electrical burns.

A sense of satisfaction rose when Virgil noticed Patton had fallen asleep, then fell when he realized the poor thing looked scared even unconscious, not that he could blame it, considering his own nightmares and atrocious circadian rhythm. Small victories, he supposed, before standing.

He had to keep moving.

Most sapient creatures in the universe would argue that humans would never need to train-- that they were born and died with natural strength great enough to snap bones and run marathons-- while any human knew the opposite was true: humans were born small and easily killable and oftentimes died in the same state. Virgil had learnt over the past year that human strength didn’t come from their genetics and natural strength, but rather how much they could develop those muscles throughout their lifetime.

He’d admit that his personal development was prompted by the kind of death-fear that leaves hardened veterans awake at night, but it was development that made his fight-or-flight reactions worth something more than emotions. If fear was what it took to keep him alive, so be it.

Matches were approximately once a week, maybe twice; food was delivered three times a “day,” in five-hour intervals, then nothing for at least eight hours. Made sense they’d mimic Earth times for their champion money maker, Virgil reasoned with a snort.

This schedule left him to train five days, rest on the sixth, then fight the seventh. Virgil faced the punching bag (received after his eighth victory) and dropped into a split.

Virgil took savage satisfaction in the way his joints inverted and contorted inhumanly. His poor mother would certainly have a heart attack at the way his back folded backwards. Say what you want, but the smooth roll of his shoulders, bounce of his foot arches, and gentle stretch to his neck kept him occupied in this small, drab cell.

Shoving out of a tight back bend, Virgil dropped forward, then stretched back to a standing position. Another bounce, then he struck the bag. The wrappings held firm around his knuckles as he struck again, again, and again; he bounced with its swing-- rotating around it randomly. Back when he’d first started this, he’d lost his balance more than once. Sure, he knew how to use a punching bag-- he’d learnt back home-- but that did nothing without practice.

Sweat had slicked the floor by the time he finished, leaving it shiny, odorous, and slippery-- no longer good for cardio. Virgil automatically dropped into pushups, breaked, then finished his calisthenics routine until he was standing utterly breathless. Endorphins were flooding in from the movement-- the kind he didn’t get from sport fights. Those just left him with pockets of guilt and overpowering pessimism. Nowadays, endorphins didn’t really come from much else, partially because there wasn’t much else to do.

Endorphins were also exceptionally good at staving off panic attacks.

Like clockwork, a guard walked in on the panting human.

Virgil knew this guard never did anything; they were just around for observation, not that that was any less comfortable.

As the guard stood sentry, a jet of water was released from some faucet in the ceiling. Virgil mostly stripped (he still had some dignity), knowing what was expected of him, and hopped in. The water was always cold, and always too strong. On the days Virgil didn’t exercise, this was never fun, but with the sweat and heat pouring off his skin, cold water was acceptable.

Today, though, something was off. Virgil was well aware that since Patton arrived, he hadn’t been eating nearly enough, but the shivers and vague lethargy had come sooner than expected. He’d expected for the first week or so to be uncomfortable-- very reasonable for someone who’d halved their calories-- but this was more than he’d bargained for. No doubt he’d shed some weight too.

Virgil didn’t mind what happened to his body, but he hoped his captors wouldn’t notice. For that matter, he hoped Patton wouldn't.

When the water turned off unceremoniously, Virgil shook like the dog he felt like.

The bad showers he had now were better than the period of time in the beginning he hadn’t showered at all. As a matter of fact, in the beginning, Virgil’s conditions were nowhere near as nice as they were now: smaller cage, no showers, less food, no punching bag. That changed as word of mouth brought more and more guests to watch a human. Things improved as he moved up the ranks.

He remembered the guards’ words the day he was moved to a larger cage: “win more, get more,” spoken in choppy English through a boxy translator.

A shiver rippled through him, not from the cold this time.

Patton woke up at the first meal.

Like before, they did the same song and dance of offering and refusing food. Not that Virgil would ever take no as an answer, but Patton accepted the plate slid at him more readily this time. Progress.

No words were had over breakfast and it stayed that way for a while, but after eating, Patton broke the silence by shyly asking if Virgil would like to learn some more.

Virgil was only too glad to accept.

Like the last time, they stopped with the next meal and continued after.

Luck seemed to have returned from her year-long vacay, because Virgil couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. The usual guards had been switched out for less provocative ones, he had company, he had something to learn; Virgil felt pretty good.

Granted that besides learning and moving the cage didn’t offer much in the way of stimulation, Virgil picked up Common at breakneck speeds-- according to Patton anyways. The small bird seemed absolutely enthralled with his deathworlder-student’s intellect. Although they stayed a decent distance away at all times, Patton couldn’t hide his obvious mooning over the human capacity for pattern recognition. Uncountable days passed like this. Although their isolation was foreboding in too many ways, Virgil had learnt not to look a gift horse in the mouth when the horse had venom-filled fangs.

“Patton,” Virgil asked one day, trying to fit as much nutrient paste in his mouth as possible, “Why are you here?”

A distinct chittering that Virgil had come to associate with unease filled the air. Under normal circumstances, Virgil would have backed off this question the moment things got tense, but this was something tied to survival.

The Amygdam scratched the floor. “I was a linguist travelling with a small research team around here. Amygdams are… small and not strong. They,” he gestured to the security camera, ”were doing something big and needed someone like me to show your strength.” The floor must have been very interesting from how hard Patton was staring at it.

Virgil nodded. So Patton was meant to be cannon fodder for a human. Virgil hummed. “Is the... “ he mimicked Patton’s floor-scratching “... a sign of nervousness?”

Patton nodded back-- a sign Virgil had taught him.

Virgil inclined his head. “I am a child from Earth.” The word for “earth” was harsh with consonants. “Humans are strong… we are good for fighting money,” He tacked on the last bit after a sigh. How unfortunate it had been to find that gold-lust extended beyond Humans.

Virgil looked up. Patton was full-on staring at him in a way that could be interpreted as predatory. Virgil shuffled back a bit, unsure how to handle this new brand of Patton.

“A child?!” Patton whispered loudly.

He nodded.

Suddenly, Patton folded in on himself, sobbing and screaming all at once in clicks and whistles too high and fast for human ears, more devastated than he’d shown this whole time.

“Patton,” Virgil called, stepping back. Oh gosh he hoped the guards didn't come in. “Everything’s okay. You are here; you are safe.”

“But you’re not!” he squawked.

The sudden volume was surprising. Virgil could feel himself flinch, only causing Patton to cry harder.

“All good. I am a human. We are strong.”

“No, still a child!” Patton composed himself briefly before relapsing harder than ever. “Children are to be safe.” More sobs. “Your age?”

Virgil grimaced. “Fifteen, last I checked.”

“You’re just a baby!” Patton was now rocking back on forth in a way that could not be good for any species’ back.

“No, I’m almost big-- three years.” Virgil couldn’t help being slightly offended. He was nearly a full-fledged adult, thank you very much. “Your age?”

Patton whistled something vaguely converted to 50 earth years. “Young,” he commented.

“Hm.”

Now he felt a little bad; No matter Patton was so unsettled. If 50 was considered a young Amygdam, 15 was nothing. This, of course, begged the question of how old Amygdams lived, but that could wait until after Patton wasn’t wailing louder than a baby in a rave.

That day, there were no more lessons. Everything chugged on the next, but neither were anxious to bring up the age gap. However, Virgil noticed a new croon mixed with Patton’s usual chirps.

Chapter Text

“Patton, why is everything so… good?” Virgil asked, already feeling stupid.

For the past hour, he’d been lying on the floor trying to drown out all the prying intrusive thoughts of his last panic attack.

The questions had been buzzing around his mind like particularly loud flies that flew through his ears and kept him awake at night. Why had the guards been leaving them alone? Why hadn’t he fought anyone in weeks? Things were too good now to be good in the long run. It was terrifying.

Patton, all power to him, had been sprawled across the floor alongside Virgil, nearly touching. He’d apparently subscribed to the notion that if the deathworlder wanted to hurt him, it would have been done by this point.

“Good?” Patton replied, his eyes dilated like a curious cat.

“Yeah, good. There’s no fighting-- no pain.”

Not that Virgil was averse to a pain-free life, but this long without some variety of death threat in an illegal fighting ring could really grind on his nerves.

“Maybe they’re scared of you?”

Virgil snorted. “They haven’t been in the past.”

“Yes, but…” Patton trailed off like he always did when he feared upsetting the human.

“Go on, I promise I won’t be offended.”

“... but you hurt their leader.”

Oh, true. Patton had had a front-row seat to that barf-show. Virgil felt bad for exposing him to the screams and corroding flesh of the boss as a hasty second impression… not that his first impression was much better. He didn’t doubt Patton would hold it against him nor could he blame him.

“Maybe, and I’m sorry if I scared you.” he averted his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m so very sorry if I scared you doing that; I was trying to protect you. However, I’ve been here longer than you have and they just don’t leave anyone alone, not even a human. They aren’t scared of me.” His common broke towards the end. “I-” Virgil coughed, his face flushing hot and cold at the same time. “They’ve controlled me this entire time; they know I can’t truly hurt them if they try, but they haven’t killed me yet either, which is what always happens to the ones they don’t want.” His lungs squeezed. “They want something and I don’t know what.” The last part switched to English, choking and falling out all at once with his erratic sobbing.

“Virgil, it’s okay. You’re right that something bad is probably coming, but we’ll figure it out together. Hey, look at me.” He hesitantly lay one blue wing across Virgil’s shoulder. He shivered. “You don’t scare me. You have been brave and selfless, and you’ve gone through more than any adult or child should, I don’t doubt you can hang in there a little bit more.”

Another ripple of sobs tore through Virgil-- much like the electric shocks.

“But can I?!” It’s been weeks since anything’s happened, my panic attacks have been dialed up to 100, and I’m probably the worst human to deal with any of this. I can’t fix anything, so I just ignore it, and I’m not a violent enough human to escape. I’m too scared for a human.”

If Patton had to infer the English filler words, he kept it to himself. “Perhaps you’re scared for a human, but to me, you’re the bravest being I’ve ever met, both inside and out. It’s okay to have panic attacks now; you’ve had more time to process things.” His feathers ruffled in a rare sign of righteous Amygdam anger. “You’re young-- too young-- and you’re doing your best. That’s going to be enough to get us out.”

Virgil curled up, sobbing, softer, the unspoken question of “What if we don’t get out” hot on his tongue.

Patton huffed, then inched himself over until he was parallel against Virgil’s arm. “Rest, humanling.”

Knees curled to his chest, Virgil fell asleep to the Amygdam sleep croon.

Within the next week-- don’t ask Virgil exact days-- they were discussing culture. Patton was having a breakthrough with Virgil’s rough explanation of makeup and eyebags, bouncing excessively perched atop his knee. According to the Amygdam, it was a common occurrence for chicks to go through the avian equivalent of an emo phase. Adolescents would dye their feathers in “death white” and gather to call out to released spirits in sacred ground (sounds like a seance). All that to “embrace the void’s inevitability,” as Patton put it. Patton had been explaining his “emo phase” feather styles when the door slammed open.

At once, Virgil’s feet found the floor.

Somewhere behind him, he heard Patton hit the tile-- An Amygdam defense mechanism to “play dead,” he remembered.

His eyes had automatically snapped to the door, leaving them defenseless when the brightest light he’d seen in a long time slithered in.

Whatever it was, It was too bright for details-- too bright to truly focus-- and Virgil had never been a fan of strong lights to begin with. The fists that had been coiled to strike shot up to guard his eyes.

“What the fuck,” Virgil hissed.

He could practically smell his own fear. No doubt his blood pressure had shot off into space. Oh gosh he hoped this snake couldn’t smell pheromones.

The glowing snake huffed. “Take it.”

Virgil hadn’t processed the statement when, bless his human reflexes, he launched himself at just the right moment to avoid a barrage of (presumably) tranquilizer darts. One knee buckled beneath him as he fell too harshly, like when he’d jumped out of a tree in the fifth grade and landed funnily. His head snapped to Patton, who thank the universe was fine. Virgil didn’t see the remote come out. The shrill preparatory hum of electricity shot shivers down his spine though.

“Not this again,” Virgil thought before his other knee crashed down with the brutal electric shock that rippled down his neck. It was nothing compared to the previous ones, but it was just enough that Virgil couldn’t resist as the guards staked his head to the floor as if he were a misbehaving snake on television. It was no use fighting back as they hauled Patton’s limp body away. His head was trapped; he couldn’t breathe right like this; his limbs would not cooperate. The only thing holding Virgil from hysterics was the knowledge that Patton hadn’t been hurt yet.

Then, just as quickly as they’d entered, Virgil found himself released, upright, and hyperventilating.

Patton was taken away. Virgil couldn’t do anything about it. This snake was going to kill him or worse-- sacrifice him to the ring.

“Human,” it began. It spoke like the last one-- all “human” this and “human” that. To them, Virgil was only a money machine.

All at once, his breath dropped from far, far too much to none at all. Virgil wasn’t sure what was worse as black spots filled his eyes.

No, focus. Patton was taken away, yes, but Virgil needed to engage to get him back. He planted his hands on the floor, grounding himself with its coolness. Breath: In, two, three, four… Patton had been taken. Focus on the snake.

He went until everything no longer looked like a two-pixel camera, although he’d apparently chugged a gatorade of sheer adrenaline judging from his everything else.

The fucknut in the room hissed again. “Human, listen.”

Virgil snapped up, not bothering to hide his deathworlder intimidation like he had for Patton. This thing wanted him to listen? It better know it had Virgil’s full attention. He flipped all switches; Virgil glared unblinkingly, trusting his pupils to be fully dilated and predatory, his lips pulled into a downturned snarl, his frame rigid and coiled. Even an alien could read this.

No one back on Earth would ever consider Virgil even remotely intimidating. Yeah, surprise surprise, he’d always been a sapient catastrophe. To an alien, though, pulling all stops did the trick. He opened his mouth wide, wider until his jaw split into a full-tooth hinged-jaw yawn. Aliens hated those. The snake recoiled as Virgil’s gaze, straining against the light, met its form. Sadistic satisfaction traveled down Virgil in a full-form shiver. It deserved a lot more for taking Patton.

Virgil’s voice came out raspy and deep. “What?”

“Human.” it flicked its three tongues. “We let you stay with the Amygdam knowing how humans packbond easily. I am the ring’s second-in-line, and I have made the call not to kill it. That being said, if you wish to keep your friend alive, you are going to do exactly as we say.”

Goosebumps rose.

“Packbond?” Virgil whispered.

“Starting today, you will have two fights per Terran Week. If you put up a poor fight or disobey orders, the Amygdam dies. We just got another human last week. Tomorrow, you will fight him. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Good.” Its muscular neck arched towards the door. “If all goes well, you’ll see the Amygdam again-- just as proof he’s alive.”

The snake-fuck strolled (slithered?) out, just in time for another collapse. This time, Virgil was breathing too much, and it showed in his trembling limbs and double vision.

Chapter Text

Virgil bit his lip in a futile effort to retract the jab he’d given his bruised leg. He would have clenched his fists, but scabbing crescent nail-marks still lined his palms from a past panic attack, and Virgil had maintained just enough good sense to not reopen the wounds. Really, he’d spent the past who-knows-how-many hours rooting himself back in the land of the living and the first thing he’d done was poke the pain spot.

Thanks, brain.

The finger-shaped bruises weren’t even from the guards or some showdown. No, he’d come out of that shitshow unscathed, then proceeded to ruin it with a panic attack. Human physiology could be impressively counterproductive.

“Graaaa.” Virgil groaned as he pressed his knees down, forcing the muscles in his calf to release for the first time in hours, then tried to stand-- bad idea, horrible idea. Virgil hissed long and hard. The world spun and seized around him like a carousel with a LSD humidifier. Was this how Patton felt when he passed out? He threw the thought out in favor of staying vaguely upright.

It took some deep breathing, but eventually, the world sobered up.

Something dripped down Virgil’s leg. He looked to the red stains on his clothes, then to his palms, where a couple old scabs had apparently broken after all. Ignoring the irony taste, Virgil ran his tongue across the wounds in a way no medical professional would condone.

Eh, professional medical advice has never stopped me in the past.

Patton hadn’t noticed his disregard for good advice yet, but since he was “just a baby,” in Patton’s words, there would undoubtedly be some form of lecturing/Amygdam parenting in place if he ever did.

Virgil snorted at the thought. Patton was, for all intents and purposes, an intergalactic mom-friend. He’d never replace his OG mom-friend, Thomas Sanders, but he could get pretty damn close.

He missed Thomas. Virgil leaned against the wall, smiling sadly. Like with Patton, their relationship had started with unnecessary intimidation (thank you, highschool rumours), but had segwayed into something closer after noticing Virgil’s utter lack of functionality (or age, in Patton’s case). For Thomas, that had meant knowing Virgil for approximately one week before unleashing his true colors as a chronic hufflepuff and starting to fuss over every nick and bruise. To quote the mom-friend himself, “I’m just worried for my soon-to-be “best friend in the whole universe.”

“Him and Patton would get on like a house on fire,” he mused aloud.

There was no reason for Patton to worry, of course-- Virgil wasn’t functioning per se, but he could self-sustain. It was just a matter of convincing literally anyone who knew him.

Speaking of functioning, Virgil still hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall, which he should probably do. It wasn’t like someone with human social standards would walk in to berate him for not moving, but he really did prefer to sleep with the blanket.

Huh, maybe Patton was right to treat him like a baby.

Either way, sleep was good and refreshingly easy. All things considered, Virgil should really get some. Blacking out from a panic attack probably didn’t count as a full REM cycle.

Thomas would be so proud of him, sleeping like a functioning human.

When consciousness returned, it was to the jerk-thought of “Where’s Patton,” shortly followed by the realization “with the guards.”

“Ugh,” Virgil complained to the walls as he rolled over, clawing at his eyes and cursing the chances that brought him into sentience as well as the fucking glowing snake that might kick him out of it.

There was a strange numbness to the whole situation-- like all of yesterday’s anxiety had been drained into a void, leaving another slightly less empty void where his emotions should be. It kind of felt like the one time he’d taken allergy meds, painkillers, and way too much caffeine while sick, then disassociated through the school day until something wore off five hours later.

The obvious realizations of “I’m going to see another human, oh wow!” and “somehow these fuckers managed to get another human,” all sat in his head, but knowing wasn’t processing.

Virgil didn’t really process anything until the customary six guards walked in, then reality hit him: for the first time in too long, he’d see another human. Maybe they could team up, or even rebel?

No-- he shoved the theory out, as soon as it came-- he was not leaving Patton to the wolves. A human the ring wouldn’t kill-- they were too valuable. Even if his opponent lost the match, they’d live to rule the warm-up fights, if not get sold off for top dollars. Amygdams, on the other hand… Virgil pushed the thought out of his mind as the guards pushed him out of the cage.

It probably didn’t make much of a difference because even without Patton in the equation, Virgil could distinctly recall humans at large not liking him. He couldn’t even make small talk with cashiers, let alone befriend an opponent in combat.

These scenarios, of course, all hinged on the fact of who’d have the upper hand. Virgil would admit that relative to the average human, he was a good fighter-- trained boxer and all that jazz-- but there was simply no way to know.

The elevator rumbled under Virgil’s feet. The scent of violence drifted in as the guards’ chatter faded. Restraints off and collar hidden, Virgil opened himself to the ring. The doors swung open with a particularly loud announcement, then he was out. Adrenaline sprinted through Virgil’s bloodstream as he zig-zagged spontaneously across the field. This time, he kicked up less dust, ensuring that the horribly dusty air stayed a small step below weaponized-- no reason to blind them both.

Steadily winding toward the opposite gate, Virgil could identify the crouched silhouette of his opponent. He squinted. Even without kicking stuff up, the air was still murky. Patton once explained that intergalactic fighting rings were generally kept hazy at the ground level to draw out fights and make them more brutal. It certainly made visuals harder. Virgil dropped in the dirt, rolling around until the distinct gleam of his suit was fully drowned out in a sea of dust.

“Hey!”

Virgil startled. He gestured to himself (Who? Me?) then recalled that literally no one else understood english. However, after a beat, no response came.

“I’ve heard you’ve been kept busy fighting mindless animals. Rest assured that I am not one of them. As I’m sure you have noticed, I too am human. It would be in both our best interests to talk.” A pause. One leg rose, and Virgil nearly bolted, but it stepped forwards and away from him.

So they’d been talking to an invisible enemy then.

The man(?) stopped and tilted his head. “Hola, mucho gusto. Podemos conversar… Bonjour, Ravi de vous rencontrer…”

Fragments of yelled greetings in an impressive amount of foreign Earth languages reached his ears despite the distance and cheers.

For a guy admitting his lack of fighting prowess in a ring, he was concerningly relaxed. He certainly showed no fear of making himself a target, gesturing boldly with a voice to match.

Color Virgil confused.

“Whoever’s out there, I know you’re also human and as such, I don’t care to fight you. That being said, we are by no means stuck in a cage with no option but to interact with each other or face the wrath of our unethical alien captors, so feel free to stay hidden and never talk to me.” He lazily surveyed the field, although his eyes never hovered over Virgil. “Come now, the cage isn’t that large; I know you can hear me. Assuming you don’t want a part in this any more than I do, I suggest we combine forces, so we can both get home.”

Virgil tensed as his shoulders heaved with an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t doubt my ability to think up an escape-- it’s the execution I can’t do alone. You, on the other hand, seem to have the opposite problem: physical capability with no plan.” A beat passed. “That being said, the fact that I’m still standing proves that you are both a. Cognizant; b. willing to hear me out.” He threw his head back, laughing deeply. A vague memory popped into Virgil’s head reminding him of the way politicians back home used to speak during debates.

For all his bravado, though, the deathly pallor of his skin gave away any facade perfect posture and an award-winning grin could provide.

Virgil, still in the sand, shuffled around until he faced the man’s left.

The man sighed again, this time raising a hand for the follow-up yawn like this was all a show he’d seen before. Something akin to Spanish-- perhaps another romance language-- started up in the same manner as the introductions, the spiel growing louder and more aggressive as he reached the germanic languages and returned to English.

“I’m sure we-”

A knee embedded itself in the man’s stomach, cutting his well-meant speech off with a grating hack.

Virgil, to his credit, didn’t flinch when spit hit his face mere inches from his eye. Instead, wrist braced, his fist found home sinking into the man’s ear.

A clumsy-- yet confident-- return fist flew at Virgil’s chest with just enough brute force to elicit a sharp hiss, not that he could hear himself under the audience’s racket.

Virgil caught a kick coming at his side. Foot leveraged in a tripping position, he spun the man around and fell with him, grinding his face into the dirt with both of their body weights. Virgil grappled with the man’s body, struggling to keep balance as the man’s torso bucked and twisted underneath him.

Virgil groaned. “Stay still you ass!”

The bucking stopped momentarily while the man’s eyes blew wide. “You do speak English!”

“No shit!”

“Let’s just talk-”

Leg under, leg back, Virgil caught the man’s bicep. As anyone untrained would do, he flipped on his back, thinking himself victorious.

Predictable. Virgil arched into a tight arm lock. He could feel elbow tendons and joints threatening to snap. “Stay down,'' he barked.

Kudos to the man, he went limp almost instantly. Definitely not a fighter.

“Listen to me: They’re always watching us. We have to act vicious.” Oh gosh, it felt good to talk to someone in English.

The man nodded, all the while glaring suspiciously at Virgil and the arena at large.

Virgil loosened his grip minutely, allowing the other to thrash out, yelling nonsense as he cast snake-eyes around the arena.

The man nodded, which Virgil took as a cue that his instructions were being followed.

Up close and at a standstill for the first time , Virgil could absorb his opponent for the first time.

Upfront, he was intimidatingly tall, and significantly older than Virgil. Tall as in well over six foot and probably graduated. In another life, Virgil might have been scared of this guy. He probably would be in this life too, if not for the fact that he’d just finished pummeling his face into the dust, all the while getting a first-hand feel for the guy’s nonexistent muscle mass. Ironically, Virgil was fairly certain he’d scared him. Color had come back to his face since the beginning of the match, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that the guy was just pale as hell by default. His skin was smooth and flawless, so any chances of regular brutal physical activity were infinitesimal-- unlike Virgil, who’d entered the ring with enough calluses to substitute gloves and plenty of scars from his personal nonsense. That was just his default as a boxer. Speaking of boxing, this guy’s stance was truly atrocious. Virgil’s heart sank as he realized that his fellow human wouldn’t last a week.

“Hey,” Virgil called over the roaring crowd. “I don’t want to hurt you, so I’m going to pretend to choke you and you’re going to play dead, okay?”

The man balked, before obviously fighting back composure. “Why?!”

“It’s called ‘I could actually knock you out but I’d rather not hurt you.’” He winced at his own brutality.

“And you don’t have to; let’s talk this-”

“No, sorry, but they have something over me.” Thoughts of Patton flashed behind his eyes. “They won’t hurt you if you lose, if that’s any consolation.” Virgil could have sworn the man’s eyes lit up at that.

“Surely you can’t leave whatever-”

“No,” Virgil affirmed, harsher this time. “It’s personal.”

In yet another bold, confusing gesture, his fists raised to eye level, his knees bending defensively.

“Fair enough,” he quipped, “come at me.”

Virgil did, throwing dust, trading punches (lighter than before) and hissing like the animal the audience wanted. The man lunged at him, only for Virgil to leap aside, catching him in a full-bodyweight choke. The man’s body was tense with held breath, then after a few seconds of struggling, it went limp. Virgil released it, lowering it carefully. It was a good act, but it was easy enough for any human to tell the guy was still conscious.

“Sorry again,” Virgil whispered, “I’m not usually this violent, but they have leverage on me.”

“No hard feelings, you could have hurt me a lot more. Seems like neither of us have a choice.” He laughed like before. “You’re stronger than you look.”

Virgil snorted, stepping away as armed guards approached.

They hauled both humans off-stage at once, yelling orders over the crowd’s jeers.

A guard bound him roughly-- always the crowd pleaser-- and dragged their deathworlder back through the main entrance, spitting insults all the way. Through the lift, down to wherever captives stayed, into cool, excessively sterile air, and into a familiar room, where the customary hum and scrape of electronic locks let Virgil know he was back in his cage. His body held steady, unthreatening, as the binds and guard’s hands dropped away.

“Click.”

Virgil opened his eyes to a room he never thought he’d be happy to see.

“Virgil!”

He barely managed to brace himself for the 20 pounds of Patton that wrapped around his leg in a distinctly human hug.

Chapter Text

“Enough! I promise I’m fine. You were the one in the ring anyways!”

Virgil retracted his hands for the millionth time, knowing Patton was right. “Okay, sorry.”

Patton huffed, settling deeper on Virgil’s stomach and the human in question had surrendered himself as a mattress a long time ago. “It’s fine, I just want to know how you’re doing, Mr. ‘I just fought a human twice my size.’”

“He was only a foot taller,” Virgil mumbled, “barely any muscle mass. He just talked the whole match.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Okay…” Patton gave him an unconvinced expression. “Really! I won without hurting him and now you’re here.” Hot blood ran to Virgil’s face.

Patton’s expression didn’t change.

“Everything’s okay, promise.”

“Mentally?” Patton asked, flaring the v-shaped feather ridge along his back for emphasis.

Virgil briefly contemplated whether to lie before remembering that Patton knew him better than that. “Feeling guilty for fighting but happy you’re okay.”

His head lowered onto Virgil’s chest and the Amygdam exhaled. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Something rose in Virgil’s chest, making his eyes questionably moist. Probably just the sand he’d rolled in.

“Question about aliens, Pat.”

“Hm?”

“What is ‘packbonding’?”

“Er…”

Virgil could feel the Amygdam’s feet flex open and closed nervously.

“It’s something you do?” He phrased it like a question.

Virgil’s eyebrows pinched. “What?”

“It’s when someone develops a strong emotional attachment to someone else, making them their ‘pack’ or family.” Patton looked at him confused. “It’s something humans do, right?”

“Oh!” Virgil realized. “We call that ‘friendship.’”

“Why do you ask?” His feathers vibrated with curiosity.

“I- uh, the snake thing,” he felt Patton tense up, “The glowing snake said that they left you with me to packbond. It totally worked, but I didn’t know the word.”

Patton chirruped. “Yeah, I’ve packbonded to you too.”

“Hm,” Virgil tilted his head. “Who else?”

“Who else am I packbonded to?”

Virgil nodded.

Patton fluffed his primaries happily. “There’s my Amygdam family-- I don’t think I’ve told you much about them, but I love them a lot. Then there’s Logan and Roman, my crew. I talk about them a lot, as you know.” He trilled, thoroughly embarrassed.

Virgil nodded. Patton did talk about them a lot.

“Uh, then I have other friends-- Remus, for instance. We aren’t super bonded, but he is part of my friend group.”

Virgil nodded and smiled. Then, pulling the Amygdam’s body into a hug tight enough that their cheeks brushed, he whispered: “I have a way to get you to them.”

During the match, it had been all too easy to fool the audience. It hadn’t occurred to Virgil until then, but no one in the ring knew how humans were supposed to act beyond violence and barbarism, partially because that was all they were willing to see. Toss those preconceptions with an accomplice, and you get yourself an act. But, running from a match was one thing, escaping a guarded cell on the other hand...

In, out.

Any motivation to keep Patton alive stemmed from keeping Virgil in check. The ring probably just wanted leverage for the human-on-human fight. Wanted to make sure he wouldn’t back out on fighting one of his own. Now that it was over, they were momentarily together, but there was no telling how long that would last.

Not to mention, this half-baked checklist was the best plan he’d had since arriving.

The time was between events, but that didn’t mean nobody was watching.

Virgil’s foot struck the bars, setting a resounding ring that had Patton tucking his head under his wing. That was the signal-- something to draw the guard’s attention but only Patton would understand.

Virgil took a deep breath and checked to see if Patton was in position. He was-- hunkered against the back wall.

He hit the bars again for good measure. Then, pointedly not looking at the camera and a growl building in his throat, lunged at Patton. Rather, he threw his body just in front of Patton's small figure so that he was completely covered, all the while, thrashing and ripping at air that anyone on the wrong side of the camera would perceive as Patton.

A squirming weight made its way down the front of his tracksuit, and Virgil prayed the sound of his zipper and rustling fabric wouldn’t give them away. They both knew what this would look like: Back to the cameras, any outsider would assume the deathworlder had finally snapped and devoured his defenseless inmate.

Feathers and vaporous, green Amygdam blood were soon strewn around the room.

Virgil glanced around, minding the soft weight of his hidden friend which now clung to his bare torso.

This wouldn’t be enough to get the guards. The ring couldn’t care less for an Amygdam. Money, though, made the world go round and Virgil had attracted most of theirs.

After enough time had passed for the process to seem natural, Virgil snapped his head back at a painful angle, pushing out a hair-raising clamour-- a series of distressed barks, screeches, roars, and anything else he could think of.

Make the guards come to you.

In a fit of acting Thomas would have been proud of, Virgil fell painfully on the ground, arms continuing to flail, throat still pushing out siren-like screeches until his vocal chords protested and enough was enough. The air left his lungs as he pressed his forehead to the frigid tile and played dead.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it still took longer than Virigl would have liked before the door opened with a bang.

With the floor pressed to Virgil’s eyes, there was no way to see what was going on, but there was more than enough noise to follow. The footsteps approached and equally fast Common followed, staying well outside the cage.

Are they not coming in?Virgil forced himself to stay lax against the thundering of his heart.

He was rewarded when there was a knock on the bars, a sliver of tense silence, and then the noises entered the cage.

Immediately, something cold and metallic jabbed Virgil’s shoulder-- hard.

Play dead play dead play dead-

A sharp groan caught in his throat while Patton squeezed against him. The guards didn’t seem to notice though, and soon there were noises all around them-- banging and yelling and prodding enough to wake the devil, as if he were a particularly interesting piece of roadkill.

A harder jab caught his torso, clipping Patton in the process. Claws wormed their way into Virgil’s soft underbelly, but they both held silent.

There-- a breath near his head. He wasted no time. Both legs swept under Virgil as he swung upright and straight into a board-breaking kick dead-set on the nearest guard. It caught two and he caught them both falling in a crushing grip before adrenaline and shock took over to catapult both squirming bodies through at least three more guards.

There was no time to waste on their glassy stares or pooling blood. Although, the guards didn’t share the same sentiments, and their shock worked to Virgil’s advantage as he punched out another two. A sharp rod embedded itself in his thigh. It earned the third guard an automatic kick to the gut before Virgil recognized the pain and pulled it out with barely a wince-- should have watched my back-- then rushed to wedge one guard’s body under the cell door. It caught on the armor as it tried to clamp shut, grinding to a halt. They breathed a sigh of relief together.

Unfortunately, the shock of success held him still just long enough for what felt like a brick wall to latch onto his back, barely missing Patton. Virgil threw back a blind elbow in shock, knocking both himself and the guard to the floor in the process. Patton yelped this time, even with Virgil taking the brunt of the fall.

His feet had just scrambled under him when a second body knocked Virgil back down, this time cracking something. Patton squealed again at the same time a plated limb thwacked against his already-bruised head, forcing a pitiful wheeze out of Virgil’s lungs.

How many of these fuckers are there!?

Everything spun as blood rushed to Virgil’s head and he leaned back to buck like a caged bull in action films. With another shout, the guard fell back, and the opportunity to stomp down proved too good to resist. One arm secured the trembling Patton to his frame.

Listen.

Silence.

Then, a mechanical squeal grew beneath his ears. There was barely enough warning for Virgil to throw Patton away before sheer heat filled every inch of skin where scathing electricity was expected. Even that didn’t register until after Virgil had thrown himself at the last guard. The remote to his collar had gone flying and the guard unsubtly reached for it. Virgil grabbed it, ignoring the spasms in his eyesight and slammed it along with the last guard’s head on metal with a turn. The alarms had gone off at some point.

“Virgil!”

He snapped to attention.

“We have to go-- Now!” Patton hopped leg-to-leg as he gestured sporadically at the door, which lay cracked and unlocked.

He nodded, then, picking up speed, scooped Patton to his chest and darted into the low halls.

“Where are we!?”

“I don’t know!” Virgil cried.

Patton tensed against him. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know!”

Virgil ignored Patton’s terrified look.

“Escape pod?”

Virgil had no clue what those words meant. “Sure.”

Patton wiggled against his chest, extending a wing. “Up the stairs!”

“There are footsteps coming from up there!”

“I believe in you!” Patton nuzzled his head against the tracksuit. “Besides, it’s the only way out.”

“Okay.” He swallowed.

Bare feet slapping against the ground, they scaled the dim steps three or four at a time. Virgil marveled at their smallness.

The alarms were still on, blaring ominously as voices approached. A shadow on the corner wall appeared and Virgil’s arms braced outward in a shoving motion. Whatever had flown at him hit the stairs behind Virgil with a crunch.

It was probably for the best he couldn’t tell what, he realized as he hurled some more.

“Up! Up!” Patton leaned toward their third flight of stairs, ignoring the way his human heaved with effort.

Virgil ignored his breath-- or lack thereof-- continuing to shove and redirect bodies. Although that was becoming a progressively sisyphean task.

Somewhere in the middle of the third flight Virgil realized: he wanted to be back on the first flight-- Barely even a cut despite the fact that he’d been managing at least a dozen attackers in poor lighting on a staircase too small for human feet. Compared to this, that was dandy.

Hell, he’d even settle for the second. It had resulted in more bumps and bruises: a bad ankle from when they’d almost toppled down the flight, a piercing sting like a dozen wasps. Something had managed to send Amygdam feathers flying and received a snapped limb for their efforts. All in all, exceptionally miserable. But, it was tolerably miserable.

Now this flight had to be out to get them. Virgil seethed as a bony protrusion buried itself in his bicep for the fourth time. Wouldn’t it be peak comedy to escape the illegal fighting ring then go and die to an alien infection?

Virgil cackled hysterically with breath he didn’t have to spare. At this point, the only reason he wasn’t a splat on the floor was the fact that the staircase bottlenecked in such a way that only a few guards could face him at a time, and those that did couldn’t maneuver their weapons. These weren’t even the scaly, rugged species used down near the cages and in any other situation, this battle would have ended a long time ago. But as it was, they just kept coming.

His foot snagged on a fallen body and Virgil had to drop to all fours to prevent certain doom. The Amygdam strapped to him did no favors. He jolted back up with a punch and Virgil’s feet plodded along as he fought the tide. One bleeding arm reached down to secure Patton and found his bare torso.

“Patton!?” He screamed. “Patton!”

“Here!”

Virgil ducked a spiny projectile to look down at Patton in the grasps of some armed mammal. Their gazes met, both desperate and goosebumps rose on Virgil.

“Human, stay there!” It leveled one clawed thumb at Patton’s neck ruff, which flared in panic.

The dark staircase went red as Virgil bodily hurled himself down the steps, landing feet-first on the mammal’s head. He ignored the crunch as his bare foot fell through something wet and bony.

One hand pressed Patton securely against his body again. He reared back at the crowds, which fell back on itself like a tsunami, brandishing weapons and lowering their horns.

Too many bodies filled the staircase, consuming too much air and blocking their exit. Footsteps approached from behind-- perhaps guards who had recovered enough from their tumble.

Virgil hunched over his friend, who pressed into his embrace. Even through the haze of blood loss and panic he could tell: They were surrounded, both by guards and personnel. They’d failed and would both pay, but only Virgil would live to regret it. They wouldn’t kill him, but isolation would be worse in its own chilling way.

This was it. Virgil trembled, covered in blood, guts, and snarling ferally as he clenched Patton to his burning chest. The guards on either side of him moved to sandwich them.

Whatever rage had dulled the electric shock earlier had faded into desperation. A current of emotions caught his mind and swept him out of the fight. Like any other current, it pulled everything unsecured out to the open-- desperate anger, paralyzing resignation, resigned mourning for the ball of life trapped with him.

This is it.

It all swirled and condensed in one tide, which tilted his chin up, and let loose a scream that rubbed his vocal chords raw.

Vague awareness of collapsing bodies penetrated him, but everything was still too blurry-- too fuzzy. The scream had lasted only a minute, but by the time his own ears stopped ringing, half the crowd had collapsed, various body fluids leaking, and the other half was too disoriented to pose any real threat.

How? The question was left in the staircase along with the collapsed bodies.

Run now, answers later.

Stepping over limbs and weapons, they finished the third flight.

“Patton,” Virgil untucked Patton’s ruffled head, checking him over. A sigh. He wasn’t injured.

“Virgil?” The Amygdam’s flickering pupils met his own dilated ones. “What was that?”

He paused, touching his neck, only to have his hand return with blood. “I don’t know… I didn’t know that would happen.” A sign came into view on the opposite wall. “We have to go. What’s this say?”

Patton arched his head, still trembling. “Communications… waste disposal… food… records… emergency pods!” He shot up. “Left!”

They were off without a thought. This time was a much shorter commute, the pods simply being on the nearest outer wall of the ship.

Virgil looked around at the first spaceship he’d ever seen outside of a cage. Any other time he might have stopped and appreciated the architecture, but the alarms were still blaring, keeping him horribly grounded.

A sharp burn filled his eyes as he rounded a corner. Only the direness of the whole situation kept his eyes open to the white silhouette of a snake-- no, the snake. Breath flew out of him. There were more.

In that moment of pure fight-or-flight, Virgil did something earth-him would be very ashamed of: he threw himself at the giant, glowing, guarded snake alien. Patton had the good sense to dig his claws in farther as he clenched Virgil’s middle, drawing human blood and securing himself for when their bodies crashed together.

It twisted under him, not knowing how to react to an attacking deathworlder. Unfortunately for it, Virgil knew how to fight unfamiliar aliens. His hands clenched its tail in a white-knuckle grip and lifted.

“Human,” It hissed, “On the Amygdam’s life, put me--” It cut itself off with a puppy-like wine as Virgil squeezed.

It had been so proud and tall before-- sitting on the right side of a cage, all protected with guards and the shock collar.

“For fuck’s sake, that’s not my name,” Virgil hissed right back between gasps.

Both feet planted themselves on the snake’s back, stomping down. It went limp.

His head snapped to the guards, which he hadn’t forgotten. The space between them had decreased. At this distance, his swollen eyes could make out the weapons leveled at his head. They were projectiles-- powerful ones at that. They used them in the ring for creatures much larger than Virgil, although they always knocked him out with the collar. Their boss’s life was quite literally in Virgil’s hands, so they hadn’t shot yet, but the rabid expressions fixated on Virgil let him know they all would, given the chance.

Virgil hoisted the snake by the head, eyeing the semi-circle of guards warily. Their small, pinched faces glared right back. The artificial light gleamed off their dark faces so Virgil couldn’t read any other expression.

“Back!” Virgil screamed, teeth to the snake’s neck. “Back!”

To his surprise, they listened, eyeing each other then retreating a few steps as one. He blinked, unsure what to do next.

Patton whispered: “Tell them to get away from the pods.”

“Get away from the pods.”

They obeyed.

Patton, Virgil, and the snake shuffled around, keeping one eye on either side while slowly approaching the pods. The door was to their backs now. “Hang on tight,” Virgil whispered.

“Back!” The small aliens-- they really were Patton-sized-- took another step, a ferocious chitter building among them.

Virgil slid the door open, gripping the snake harder as he switched to one hand.

The phrase “escape pod” had meant nothing to the deathworlder. But, when the door slid open to present a hallway lined with small, navigable ships, Virgil understood why Patton had been so eager for them in the first place.

Patton’s mane shook in excitement and tickled Virgil’s chin. He smiled back.

“Three, two, one.” Virgil switched to English, warning only him and Patton before the snake’s length flew at the guards. No time to check their reaction, Virgil darted down the hallway. Piercing screams drew closer and closer, gaining on them-- Something sandpapery rubbed his bad ankle before Virgil kicked it back instinctually and one scream died out.

Patton hopped down first, crossing the barrier between dock and ship, barely moving in time to avoid Virgil as he followed suit, still kicking small bodies. A ruffled wing slapped some button, then synthetic beeping filled the air. The door sealed.

“Sit!” Patton sprawled across the booth-like seats.

Virgil did not sit and paid the price when the ship’s jarring takeoff sent him to the backseat anyways.

“Sit up here!”

A dismissive wave told Patton he would not be moving again for a very long time

The adrenaline is definitely wearing off.

“We’re out,” Virgil gasped, phrasing it like a question.

Patton gazed out the curved windows in wonder. “We are.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, nothing impeding on their unusual freedom except for the hum of machinery and ringing in their ears. The sight of the colossal fighting ship rapidly shrunk as they approached open space. He turned from the window.

Click

“Here we go!” a white indicator flared up, shortly followed by a holographic screen pressed against some invisible flat surface.

“This is the LightSide of sector 2.4-7, Captain Logan DiIvine Oniell of the Lightside speaking.”

“Logan!”

The sheer excitement of the Amygdam’s squeal nearly sent Virgil through the chair.

“Patton?” Logan returned, softer but just as emotional.

“Yes, Yes! It’s me. Virgil and I escaped the fighting ring.” A joyful croon filled the air. “We’re okay now, but we need pickup.”

“Fighting ring? How- tell me later… Of course-- coordinates? I gather you’ve befriended Virgil?”

Virgil shuffled at his name, rolling from where his head was buried against the furniture to sneak a glance at the screen. Four bulbous eyes shone through the static connection, not paying him any mind. He shoved his eyes back against the cushions. Nope, that was a can of worms for the future.

“Okay, coordinates are through. Yes, Virgil just saved both of us. He’s in the back and may be too tired to talk right now-- he looks all drowsy-- but you’ll like him.”

“Understood. It’s…” Logan’s voice croaked. “I’m glad you found us. We’ll be there in a warp. I’ll get Roman. He’s been working himself up about you.”

“Yes!” The audio faded to static, then silence.

Creak.

Virgil’s eyes shot up involuntarily, first reaching the screen up front. Finding it was off, he swiveled the opposite direction.

That couldn’t be machinery. All the deathworlder’s senses shot back into focus. His eyes trailed the corners and furniture.

He froze. Something was breathing. Not the short, silent Amygdam huffs and not his own erratic heaves.

“Roman?”

“Patton!” A legato voice patched through.

Virgil winced. “Roman” was too loud, blabbering and drawing focus away from the danger at hand. The consideration to alert Patton crossed his mind and was quickly shot down by one look at the Amygdam’s happy reunion.

The circulating air tickled his skin; it brought both coolness and an artificial wind that should not have been possible.

The air stilled.

The cushion shifted.

Before he knew it, his body lunged.

“Virgil?” Patton’s voice called, not scared, but concerned.

Something struggled against Virgil’s grip, kicking and spitting and rubbing its rough body against his torn clothes. The ship rattled when Virgil pounded it against the floor.

One of the giant rat-monkeys which had chased them to the ship met his gaze. Its canines sunk into his hand and it jerked away automatically. “Argh!”

“Patton!? Who’s there? Are you okay?” Roman’s voice demanded.

“Yes! I’m okay. Please pick us up soon. Have to- Oof!”

The Amygdam was sent sprawling to the seat when the rat-monkey tackled it.
“Patton!” Roman shrieked.

“Hey!” Virgil full-body lunged at it, narrowly avoiding the console. He grabbed its head, throwing it like a football against the backseat.

Heavy breaths filled his own ears. This time, they were only accompanied by machinery.

“You okay?” Virgil asked Patton, who still lay spread-eagle on the floor.

“Thanks to you. Are you okay?” The stubborn ‘tell the truth, child’ Amygdam stare fixed on him.

“Yup,” Virgil lied, sitting on the bleeding bite.

Patton’s beak, open to call him out, was the last thing he saw before exhaustion took over and he collapsed.

A warm scaly thing sat in Virgil’s palm.

A guard?

He jerked up-- “Argh!”-- the too-low ceiling collided with his already-traumatized skull. Stars spun in his vision, dancing with the actual stars filling the small ship’s windows.

“Sorry sorry!”

“Hey, Patton,” Virgil groaned, somehow feeling worse than after his worst fights.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Am I…?” His head hit the ceiling again as he jolted rimrod straight. “Are they chasing us?”

That seemed the most likely possibility-- the ring had come back to take them. Everything hurt. Could he even fight anymore? Doubtful, from how he couldn’t even move right now. His body simultaneously felt like he should be in a hospital, running a marathon, and fighting god. It was a horrible feeling.

A soft touch grounded him. “We’re alright. I put the pod under camouflage as soon as we got in. There’s nothing dangerous-- I just wanted to let you know my crew will be here soon to pick us up.”

“Logan and Roman?” His voice trembled as much as his body.

“Mhm.” An extra layer of Amygdam joy filled the air with the names. “Logan and Roman-- my family.”

“Huh, how long have I…”

“It’s been about half a meal-time.”

So about two hours.

Silence filled the ship. Eventually, Virgil’s breath matched the calmness.

A blue light activated above the door.

“They’re here!”

Chapter Text

A metallic, angular wall filled the only window and Virgil’s breath hitched as Patton began to quiver with anticipation.

“That’s our ship, Virgil. That’s the LightSide!”

Virgil nodded jerkily, his head barely staying up. “It’s beautiful.”

Patton trilled in happy agreement, bouncing between controls. Virgil had no clue what he was doing with all those switches, but judging by the smooth transition of their pod as it pressed against the LightSide, it could only be working.

A whole row of indicators lit up, then the pod jerked to a stop, both ships’ doors perfectly aligned.

Eyes wide, Virgil ignored the fuzziness in his head to push up on the couch and gawk at the door. He tried to stand but swiftly leaned back when his breakfast threatened to rebel. Heat flushed Virgil’s face and he pressed his eyes to the cool cushion.

Pop.

“That’s the vacuum seal. Just a minute… yes!”

Patton’s claws clicked to the door rapidly.

“Are they here?” Virgil mumbled into the cushion, before a hard limb planted into his bad shoulder and an embarrassingly high noise escaped him.

“Roman!” Patton yelled in sync with a growl of “Don’t move, human.” by his ear. A sharp edge grazed the back of his neck.

Like a puzzle, things started clicking into place. The owner of the same voice he’d heard over the call-- Roman-- pressed harder, twisting Virgil’s shoulder painfully. “It’s okay, Pat, you’re safe now.” his voice grew harder. “Human, no sudden movements. Get up.”

Virgil blinked slowly. Of course, no one liked humans and Patton’s friends were no exception. He ignored the order directed at him. His body couldn’t take anymore fighting.

“Are you safe, Patton?” He coughed and the sharp edge dug deeper.

“I’m okay!” The annoyed click of Amygdam claws started up. “Let go of me, Logan. Roman, stop that!” He pushed away a violently blue alien that hovered on the edge of Virgil’s vision.

“What? It attacked you on screen!” Roman clicked loudly. The grip on Virgil’s shoulder twisted and he hissed. “Get up!”

Virgil swallowed the burning where Roman gripped too hard. “Can’t-- injured.”

Silence filled the room, letting nervousness rise in him.

A bubbly squeal filled the air-- an Amygdam attention cry. “Roman, please get off of Virgil. He’s the only reason I’m alive right now. There were at least a hundred guards and he just fought off all of them.”

“This is Virgil!?” Logan puzzled.

“Yes.”

“But it’s a deathworlder. Aren’t they feral?” Roman exclaimed.

A cold moment passed, then the pressure released and Virgil sat up to Patton glaring holes through a big furry alien standing menacingly beside him.

Patton hopped over to Virgil, then with a flap of his wings, planted himself squarely by his side, ignoring his friends’ protests. “Virgil,” he declared, “is a friend. He is sentient and means you no harm. He just got injured saving me so we will help him.” He looked Virgil in the eyes. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m hurt… yes.” all eyes turned to him as he tried to process the language. “Everywhere?”

Patton echoed him. “Everywhere?”

Virgil nodded, his unstable vision agreeing with him. “The, uh, spiky guards-”

“Timgogs.”

The other two shuddered.

“They got me a bunch of times. Something around my shoulder is definitely broken, and probably my foot and hand.” He pointed to both, then rubbed his temple. “Concussion, definitely. Um…” Virgil blinked. “Blood loss-- feeling dizzy”

Common was hard enough without a busted lip. In all honesty, there were definitely more injuries than that, but those were the ones with risk of becoming permanent.

Patton made a vague gesture at the hallway, where Logan presumably stood. “Can you help him?”

“I’ll try. Let me grab some equipment.” Many footsteps drew farther.

In one swoop, Patton jumped from the couch to land on Roman’s furry shoulder. He pecked at one of his round ears and the teasing was accepted with a low purr. “Are you sure you’re alright?” The larger alien frisked over Patton’s ruffled feathers.

The Amygdam trilled, his neck ruff flaring. “I promise.”

Virgil’s head tilted away. It felt like he was interrupting something.

Roman hummed. “We saw the human jump on you before it kicked the screen out and assumed the worst.”

“No,” Patton clicked in amusement, “a guard somehow got on the pod and tried to attack me. Virgil saved me again.”

“And where is it now?”

“Ah,” Patton went sheepish, “he threw it at the lunhelm and its head cracked open. It’s gone now, but it was just a Nognun drone, if that’s any comfort.”

“No!”

Virgil flinched at the volume.

“It killed the Nognun by throwing it!?”

“To protect me, yes.”

“Oh, like that makes it any better. You know how hard a Nognun’s skull is? Enough to know that if… that...” Virgil imagined Roman was pointing at him “...can kill one in a single throw, it’s a danger to the whole ship.”

“You’re Patton’s friends; I wouldn’t fight you,” Virgil found himself saying involuntarily. He’d given up on courtesy to stare Roman down, avoiding Patton’s gaze. It was satisfying to watch Roman’s gaze flicker uneasily.

“And how do we know you’re telling the truth, you- you…” he trailed off when Patton shoved a fluffy wing in his face.

Virgil was about to shoot back something sarcastic enough to kill when movement in his peripherals drew his eye and he shot back screaming.

“What?”

Patton’s voice didn’t even register as Virgil’s breath worked against him.

“Virge, it’s just Logan. Can you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. Sorry.” His lungs seized with those words, but the shock was slowly fading.

The same eldritch-horror head peaked around the corner. Virgil’s eyes focused on the couch rather than the too-wide pasty eyes and slimy-looking scales that seemed intent on studying him.

“Should I leave?” Its unnaturally wide mouth opened, exposing flat black teeth.

Patton looked at Virgil. Your call.

“Nope, I’m good, sorry. Just jumpy.”

Roman squinted, his body still caught between jumping Virgil and shielding Patton.

“You sure?”

His eyes squeezed and he nodded. Yup, just ignoring the living nightmare in the room.

Logan approached the couch and only the past months Virgil had spent in the fighting ring kept him from instinctually moving away. Instead, Virgil’s gaze fixated on the large machine being dragged towards him.

“What’s that?”

Logan gave him a funny look. “It’s a kuerpum tomographer/scanner.”

At the risk of sounding stupid, Virgil asked, “What’s it do?”

Roman snorted, but Patton answered. “It’ll tell us what’s broken and measure your vital signs.”

He grunted and Logan pulled it over, never showing Virgil his back.

“This won’t cause any discomfort. I’ll just swipe this bar over the length of your body and it’ll be done.” A horizontal bar on the machine extended to hover over Virgil’s head and he twitched at the sudden movement, Roman flinching with him.

There was a pregnant pause in which Virgil almost nodded off. Then, “How are you still alive?”

Virgil fought a yawn as he watched Logan flip through a screen attached to the scanner.

“For that matter, how are you still conscious?”

“Barely.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Patton asked, voice high and fraught.

“By human standards…” there was a series of taps on the screen “... yes. If it were any other species, he’d be dead, but I set the scanner to compare human vitals, and it seems he’ll fully recover.”

Roman cut in. “Specify human standards.”

“According to the software, the human has lost about 1.5 pints of blood, broken three bones, suffered extreme contusions, hyperextended a joint-- possibly multiple-- and received multiple doses of Yunmar toxins, among other things.” There was a layer of horror and fascination with the next words. “This would have killed an Amygdam dozens of times over.”

His bulging eyes scanned Virgil like he was a frog to dissect. Virgil tiredly blinked back.

“Virgil,” Patton started, cutting off another rant from Roman, “what do you need?”

“Um.” Virgil’s eyes drooped against his will. “Later I’ll have to set my bones, but right now-” He yawned widely and everyone but Patton stepped away. “Need sleep.”

“Wait, ‘set your bones?’” A strange rumbling sound started up as Roman rolled back on his heels.

Virgil chuckled, delirious. “Yeah, just gotta snap’em back together.”

“What!?”

Another laugh bubbled up, shaking him until something ached and wheezing replaced it. “Hey don’t freak out.”

Logan raised a spindly finger to ask for elaboration, but Virgil never got to answer because unconsciousness hit him like a truck.

It felt like his eyes had just closed when the nearby argument shook him awake. Sheets caught his arm as it swung up automatically, ready to strike, then the reality of his situation sunk in. The world came into focus. Voices out of sight became clearer.

“He saved me, Roman. I’m not leaving him.”

“Can we even keep it? Don’t they need fresh blood and space to hunt?”

“Anyone who’s been around Virgil knows those are just stereotypes.” Patton tutted.

“That thing just fought off a dozen guards and all it wants to do is sleep it off-- no treatment or painkillers.”

Awake and functioning Virgil never would have held his silence. But, as it was, he was neither. “First off-” it came out slurred. “I fought at least a hundred. Secondly,” he put up another finger, wincing with the motion, “I do need treatment-- I just couldn’t stay awake long enough.”

“Virgil!”

Virgil felt Patton hop onto the couch-- he hadn’t been moved since the last time-- the Amygdam moved smoothly and carefully to not jostle any injuries. Virgil was very grateful.

“Pat! How’re you feeling?” A grin tugged at his mouth despite the pain.

“Very good. Logan treated me and I rested for a while. You?”

“You were injured?” Virgil frowned, ignoring the question.

“Barely. Just needed to rest and disinfect some scrapes… Really!” Patton huffed when Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Besides, it’s nothing compared to you. Are you feeling any better?

Ah yes, was he? Arms-- check; legs-- check; knees- ow, yup, shoulder.

“Uh, maybe.” his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours.”

“Huh.” He looked around. Excepting the table of what could be assumed to be medical equipment, the pod had stayed give or take the same.

“Logan said you should drink this.”

His stiff neck protested as Virgil arched to see a bowl of water. It was accepted wordlessly and as soon as it hit his throat, all self control went out the window. Virgil didn’t even realize the driblets spilling down his chin until Roman’s disgusted snort drew his attention, although he ignored it.

“Thanks, Pat.”

The Amygdam’s ruff shook happily. “You’re welcome. I know this may be a bit fast, but are you able to walk?”

“Maybe? I can-”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Roman was facing Patton, a worried look in his eye. Right, they’d been arguing about this when he woke up.

Patton, impressively, seemed utterly undeterred by the alien four times his size. “Of course. Virgil’s still hurt and he needs to clean up. We’ll give him the room next to mine.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Virgil, can you walk?” With that question, the argument was closed.

One foot on the ground, the couch sunk under Virgil’s weight as he pushed up and held his breath as blood rushed from his head. There was a second Virgil thought he might stay up. Then, as if it had been shocked again, his ankle seized and he fell back down, provoking some bruises in the process.

At some point, Patton had crouched over his head, looking like a feathery giant. Usually Virgil was the one overhead. “It’s okay,” the Amygdam murmured, concerned. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hey, I don’t have to switch rooms. I know humans can be… unsettling. I definitely can’t walk. I can just stay here.” His chin rubbed his chest as he sunk in on himself, eyes avoiding Roman, who instantly perked up.

“See, Pat, even it’s fine like this.” The bigger alien puffed up.

“Nonsense,” Patton protested. “You not being able to walk is just another reason to get you off of here. Besides, you, Roman, and Logan are all my friends so I’m sure you’ll get along well enough.”

Unlikely, Virgil and Roman thought together. None of them argued further, though.

It took quite a while for the stabbing in his bones to die down to a dull throb. By that time, Patton had called Logan while Roman watched him with a mixed expression. Roman obviously hated him to some degree and although Virgil couldn’t blame him, he hated the expression it put on the alien’s face.

Should have been expected that Patton’s good nature didn’t extend to his friends.

“Logan’s here!” Patton chirped.

“With an idea,” Logan declared. “Patton says you’re unable to walk?”

“Yeah,” he flushed, embarrassed, and Logan grew hesitant.

“Sorry, is the… color change a bad sign.”

Virgil sighed. “Nope, just embarrassed.”

Logan relaxed. “I see. To get straight to the point, would you be okay with us carrying you to the med bay to treat your injuries?”

“Not you too!” Roman cried out, tugging his ears. “We can’t just keep it here?” Something must have shifted because before Roman could say another word, there was an irritated Amygdam squeal, then words Virgil couldn’t hear without focusing.

The idea of being carried hit badly and Virgil’s face fell from red to white. He had kind of hoped the rest of his existence could pass without alien manhandling. In a day or two his foot would probably be good enough to limp around anyways. He could probably just wait things out. A wing nudged his arm and Virgil reciprocated.

Patton crooned. “We have to treat your injuries. You’ve told me even humans can get infections, right? You’re cut up and this couch is very dirty.”

Roman and Logan watched with worried eyes as they argued back and forth, but seemed content to watch Patton verbally duke things out. Ultimately, Patton being Patton, Virgil gave in.

“Do you know how heavy you are?” Logan asked after Patton beckoned him closer. Virgil averted his eyes from the six legs working around him.

“Uh… no?”

“That’s fine. May I attempt to lift one of your appendages to gauge your total weight?”

Virgil blinked as the words clicked. “Sure.”

With that affirmation, Logan stepped forward, reared back on his hind legs, and grasped Virgil’s good ankle. He managed to lift the leg maybe three inches before setting it down with a heave. Roman groaned.

A cart, Roman, and a lot of emotional support eventually got the job done. Success came at a price, though, and Virgil’s head was paying threefold.

“I feel like Phineas Gage.”

“Who?” Patton asked as he rushed around, setting sprays, creams, and high-tech gadgets around Virgil’s cot in the small medbay.

Logan joined them as Virgil answered. “Phineas Gage. He was a human who had a metal rod shoved through his skull by gunpowder. Long story short, he lost about a teacup-full of his brain, but was otherwise fine for many more years.”

The wide cot creaked as Logan leaned up on it. “Humans can survive brain loss?”

“Um…” He locked eyes with Patton, who thankfully caught his drift.

“Logan, do you have the developer?”

“I do not. I’ll grab it along with the sterilizers.” And just like that, he disappeared in a flash of blue.

Light blue feathers moved with Patton’s sigh-- something between amused and tired. “Sorry, he’s just excited to see a human. He’ll calm down after a bit.”

Virgil only nodded, then held still as Patton sprayed some mellow-smelling disinfectant into his wounds before patching them up.

Logan returned with the bandages and Patton helped wrap them after some poking around the bones in question.

To quote Logan, “You’re not bleeding out, so judging from the fact that you are both still alive and capable of healing bone, you should be fine,” sans the jargon. Virgil wasn’t too worried. Unlike Roman, Logan seemed reasonably unlikely to poison him while down.

It was quiet on the LightSide, now that everyone had left. In the dimmed medbay, Virgil realized that for the first time since his capture, he was well and truly alone.

Chapter Text

     Despite the calm and dark, despite the soft blankets and the first semblance of safety since everything had gone to hell, sleep would not come.

     It wasn’t that Virgil wasn’t exhausted, but the exhaustion came accompanied with a wired tension running from his scrapes to his bones. The feeling that the day hadn’t ended persisted.

     Virgil rubbed his eyes and sat up, allowing the short blanket to fall from his torso. He wrung his hands-- a habit adopted from Patton-- before rubbing his casts. The blankets slipped to the floor. Virgil sighed and reclined back again.

     It’s safe,  Virgil reminded himself, although the effort proved useless; he knew any such mantra wouldn’t distract him from the awful truth, one that had been growing on him since the others left: his presence on the ship put both Patton and his friends in danger; his absence in the ring could condemn the other human, who would be forced to fight his battles. No, his own safety was not the issue.

     In open space, who could say the ring leaders   wouldn’t pursue the ship? Who  could say if they wouldn’t draw other smugglers? It certainly seemed more likely than not. Virgil supposed that he should ask Logan if they were prepared for that, although his voice of reason informed him that such a small transport ship could never stand against fighters.

     Virgil’s arms hit the ceiling as they stretched with a dull  thunk -- another testament to how out-of-place he was. A giant in Space.

     Logan’s footsteps had been pattering down the echoic hallways for hours now, oftentimes accompanied by Roman’s heavy pace and the clank of what was presumably medical equipment, although Patton had left with a gentle “goodnight” into a nearby bedroom some hours ago.

     Informing two aliens, one a stranger and another who would toss him out the airlock given half a chance, that he, the Deathworlder, might be bait for a fleet of raiders and smugglers did not seem wise. 

     The right-minded course of action for anyone with half a sense of self-preservation would be to not mention the truth that could kill them instantly-- to wait or commadere the ship for his own escape; to use the ship’s resources to get as far as he could, then ditch the crew.

     But it would hurt Patton.  Virgil sat on the thought for a painfully long moment, then slid off the bed. Even knowing a human was dangerous in space.

     For his lack of functioning limbs and a cracked shoulder, the trip to the door-- a half-minute’s walk away-- turned into five minutes of butt-scooching and some pained crab-walking.

     Panting by the doorframe, Virgil parked himself against the wall, limbs throbbing… perhaps he’d overestimated himself.

The original plan had been to search around until he found Logan (hopefully avoiding Roman), but now, he doubted he could even get back in bed.

     His eyes shut in a paltry effort to shift his focus from the pain. Deep breaths.

     “What are you doing out?”

     Roman growled, fully armored and armed with something horribly similar to electric prods, and for a moment, Virgil mistook him for a guard.

     “What are y-”

     “I need to speak with Logan. It’s important.” Virgil interrupted squeakly, ignoring his own rudeness. “Please move that away,” he said through gritted teeth, gesturing at the weapon.

     “Why? So you can attack us?” Roman sneered, waving the prod closer.

     “No, just please move it away.” Shifting, Virgil unconsciously pressed a recovering burn mark against the wall. Memories of cruel guards flashed in place of Roman-- electric spears and shock collars.

     Roman pointed. “Aha! It hasn’t even been a full night and you’re already moving to attack.”

     Virgil’s jaw tightened and he compressed another flinch as the prod waved menacingly in his face.

     “Roman, stop.” 

     Faced with Logan’s disproportionately grotesque features, Virgil really did flinch that time. Hard. Then cursed.

     “Shit, sorry.” Virgil looked up to see Logan had drawn back too, although he had been much quicker to compose himself.

     Roman’s cloven feet scraped the metal floors as he shuffled to conspicuously place himself between the other two.

     “Virgil, are you okay?”

     “Yup, sorry, just surprised.”

     “Surprised or attacking?” Roman flattened his ears in what Virgil read as suspicion.

     His flat teeth grinding exasperatedly, Logan responded before Virgil could: “Roman, stop. Virgil, did you need something?”

     “Er,” Virgil eyed the prod, now pointed away from him, “Yes, I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

     “Of course, what...” a pause. “How did you get out here? Have your limbs healed already?” He scratched the scales around his blowhole.

     “No, they’re still broken. Um… I… shuffled?” Virgil pursed his lips. 

     “Of course,” Logan continued, ignoring Roman’s increasingly confused gaze. “Er, I presume you meant now?”

     “Hey!” Roman interjected, not fond of being ignored. “Explain yourself! What do you mean by ‘shuffled?’”

     “Let’s listen to what Virgil has to tell us first.” Logan inclined his head patiently.

     “No, let’s not.” Roman clipped back.

     Virgil twisted uncomfortably in the shadow of the doorframe and in an instant, Logan and Roman were a foot farther away. The clinical yellow lighting hit Virgil in the movement and he jerked. Logan and Roman did the same, Roman’s more pronounced than Logan’s.

     A beat fell heavily, then, “Virgil, please continue.” Logan rubbed his hands.

     Roman stayed quiet this time.

     By the time his stuttering, uncomposed excuse for an explanation drew to an end, Patton still hadn’t woken. For all his half-panicked rambling, he’d said it as plainly as possible: there was another human. He was being tortured. He’d probably be forced to take Virgil’s job-- cage fighting to the death.  No, Roman, he’d never wanted to fight and neither did this human. Hence, they had to save him . It would have made Virgil nervous if he didn’t feel that way already.

     “We need to go back,” Virgil summarized.

     “No.” Roman slapped his tail for emphasis, hunching his shoulders. “We are absolutely not going back to that- that prison for a human of all things.”

     Logan leaned his long body against Roman’s stout leg, and it seemed to have a grounding effect on both of them. Likewise, Virgil pressed his palms to the impersonal metal floor-- something solid in the void of space.

     “Although I agree with Roman’s conclusion,” Logan began, “I say so because there’s next to no chance of us successfully completing a search and rescue mission with our current resources. However,” he continued, cutting off Roman’s proud look, “we can appeal to the counsel and involve galactic authorities.”

     Virgil looked up. “Absolutely, let’s do that. I didn’t know there were space-police, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked that we go back-- wouldn’t want to bring Patton back for the rest of his life.”

     The hope in his voice must have been too much because Logan averted his eyes, almost subdued.

     “That would seem to be the safest option, but taking that route presents its own unique obstacles: a free-roaming human in the galactic empire with full sapient rights is unheard of. Speaking technically, by harboring you we are either holding contraband, smuggling, or both. While bringing you before the council would undoubtedly draw attention to your friend, it will undoubtedly bring you under extreme scrutiny.” Logan’s face pinched. “Having said that, it wouldn’t be unheard of for a dangerous species to gain sapience rights after proving their goodwill and control, both of which you definitely have.”

     Biting his lip, Virgil thought. 

     “What happens if they take me in?”

Captivity would happen if the council decided they didn’t want a Big Bad Deathworlder roaming their galaxy-- possibly the okay-ish kind of captivity in a  cushy reservation, but possibly the kind as a test subject, Roman had told him with an unbothered voice and content face.

It was almost as unsettling as Logan’s answer-- that he didn’t know. No human had ever been taken in by the council, that Virgil was an unprecedented case.

Did he have the strength to walk back into another cell? For a stranger? Even for Patton?

Even if they somehow pulled this off, would he just be dragging the other human with him to a  legal  torture and imprisonment?

Virgil slapped a hand over his face, groaning.

Something tapped at the door. He’d long since made it back to his bed. “Virgil? Everything alright? Can I come in?”

“Hi Pat. Yeah.”

The door creaked open and not a moment later Patton was at the side of the bed, struggling to clamber on, and Virgil remembered his flight feathers had been clipped. He lowered his arm, letting Patton step up on it. 

Once curled at his side, Patton spoke. “Logan told me what’s going on.”

Virgil felt his lips pull taut.

“I think we should see the council.”

“Logan thought we should too.”

Patton huffed. “He’s always been the smart one of the group.”

Virgil didn’t answer. The silence between them grew-- not uncomfortably-- with time as he searched for the right answer. If there even was a right answer, it didn’t seem easy to find.

“Did Roman tell you the council might hold me in captivity?”

Patton’s face pinched. “I won’t let them.”

“Could you stop them?”

     “No,” a pause, “but they’re obliged to give you sapient rights if you can prove your sentience and goodwill before a court. Besides, I’m not letting them take my family… and you’re a baby.”

“I am not a baby,” Virgil retorted weakly. “I’m 15.”

Patton trilled, amused. “You’re not even an adult by human standards-- a toddler by Amygdam ones. You’re a baby. As such, the council has to give you minor protection.”

“They’re not going to like a human.”

“We´ll make them. Victim blaming is heavily monitored by the federation.”

“As if humans can be victims.”

“We’ll sue the galaxy!” Patton chirped, grinning.

They both laughed gently in place of the threatening uncertainty. Then, Silence.

“Would the federation experiment on us?” The question came out without thought, and he still wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Patton hummed with the ship’s rattling-- something else unstable in his life. Virgil breathed deeply, and the urge to take back his question swelled.

“I doubt it. This type of thing is more up Logan’s ally, but at most I think you’d be placed in a sanctuary or wiped and returned to earth.” Patton’s mane flared at the end, not in the cheery way. “They won’t experiment on you though-- not if we prove you’re sapient.”

Virgil frowned, unwilling to argue something to his benefit, no matter how skeptical he was. There wasn’t much else to say between the two of them. Silence stretched again. 

The shimmering coat of feathers of his closest friend pressed into his arm. Virgil grinned in wonder, glimmering primaries had started to poke through, like flowers from dirt, and although small, they already threw reflections onto the arched walls and fine sheets, painting them in proof of his healing. Patton moved closer, and the reflected light followed, now casting itself along Virgil’s skin, hands, hair, so that they both glowed.

The ship rattled, making the newborn feathers shake and the glowing lights dance across the beams in harmony. Patton warbled, letting Virgil know he was content.

“Your feathers are beautiful,” Virgil whispered a minute later, not sure if Patton was awake.

He wasn’t, and Virgil didn’t speak again, at peace with his friend by his side and the sounds of his friend’s family chatting, teasing, moving in the background, despite the choice to come and all possible outcomes.