Chapter Text
Matt’s leg hurt.
His heart was hurting worse.
He chose to focus on the former because otherwise he was going to completely break down and he could not afford to do that right now because these Galrans didn’t just hate weakness they despised it and if he showed them anymore they’d probably throw him right back into the arena he’d just been saved from.
And that would mean that Shiro’s sacrifice had been for nothing.
Matt’s breath hitched in his chest.
Shiro.
Shiro had…
For him.
“This is my fight!”
To an outsider it looked like Shiro had just attacked him with no provocation, had gone mad. But Matt knew. Shiro knew.
They both knew that Matt would not have lived past a minute out there, not against the monster the Galrans had unleashed today.
But…
But would Shiro?
God, was Shiro already dead?
Had Matt just inadvertently killed his best friend?
His chest ached more.
Matt bit his lip and tried to focus back on his leg.
His leg that wasn’t quite gushing blood but it was definitely bleeding a lot; what the Galran called pants saturated and the material ripped from nearly his knee to his ankle where Shiro had struck him.
“I want blood!”
He’d sure got it.
Matt pressed his hands more to the wound, pitifully trying to stop the blood flow that way as the guards here had done nothing except drag him back into the waiting room and throw him in one of the many cages where the competitors (re: prisoners) were to wait before their matches.
His hands made a disturbing squelching noise as he pushed down and Matt swallowed thickly as blood bubbled up between his fingers at the pressure and black spots danced in his vision.
He wondered if he passed out if they’d just…
Just shoot him and call it whatever loss their sick game system had.
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time they’d pulled a body instead of a person out of the cages.
But, Matt comforted himself, the strike hadn’t hit any artery and his heart pulsed again at how quick Shiro had been — to sacrifice himself, to strike Matt in a way that it looked far worse than it was but would still be bad enough to be pulled out of this match as against Myzax because the crowd wanted to see a fight, not an immediate slaughter — but…
But if it meant Shiro was the one who was going to die instead…
Matt squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could hold the dark thought from escaping.
Based on the fact that the main arena door into the waiting room hadn’t opened it meant Shiro was still alive and if he strained his ears he thought he could hear booing. But that was to be expected; Shiro would dodge and evade for at least a little while and he never let the crowd’s screams for blood rush him into acting sooner than he intended.
If…
If they had to kill, Shiro had swallowed and looked at Matt with heavy charcoal eyes, then they would make it quick. No one, no matter who they were, would suffer.
But Myzax… he was the monster of the arena, the coined ‘Galactic Gladiator,’ and he was not someone Shiro could beat as he was with a single cudgel-like blade.
But…
But he had to.
He had to.
He—
A shadow fell across Matt’s cell and he was almost grateful for the interruption of the guard as he was doing an absolutely fucking terrible job of not thinking about the thing he told himself not to think about.
He was less grateful for the blaster aimed at him and the low growl of, “Up.”
Matt bit back the immediate retort as he’d seen what happened when injured prisoners didn’t move quick enough for the guards and instead gave a short, curt nod.
He would not die here.
He could not die here.
So Matt moved blood covered hands to the sandy ground and pushed himself up, balancing all of his weight on his right leg and wobbled there, wincing as the permanent cuffs around his wrists gave a static-inducing zing to pull them together — and only sheer will kept him upright as he lost his already precarious balance — and an energy cord emerged from them to the guard’s glove.
And to Matt’s utter relief he was pulled out of his cage towards where he knew the on-site arena infirmary was rather than towards the arena doors, which would mean that Shiro had…
Walk, Matt scolded himself.
Focus on walking.
Walking that was very painful and harder than it looked as the Galran was moving far quicker than Matt was capable of doing but he didn’t dare fall.
“Slave number twenty-six thousand and forty-seven,” the guard introduced Matt to the doctor — or at least Matt assumed given that she was wearing a coat and was standing behind the exam table.
“Also known as Matt,” Matt chimed in helpfully.
It was one of the first things he’d learned here: don’t show fear, don’t give them control. The Galra thrived on both.
But Matt had not learned how to deactivate the shock feature on their cuffs and he barely managed to swallow down the scream as the guard activated it without even a glance.
“He hasn’t even been in the arena yet,” the doctor scowled, yellow eyes narrowed at Matt as though he was the reason that was so as he hunched over, panting and trembling and still trying very hard not to fall over.
Although Matt supposed he was.
“The other human went beserk,” the guard said, shaking his head, and Matt bit his tongue against both the retort for if the Galra knew it had been mercy that had brought Shiro to attack him they would just kill him here because there was no room in their world for things like compassion and kindness and to listen.
This was information.
Information was critical.
“Wanted to fight Myzax himself,” the guard continued.
He sounded…
Impressed?
Matt filed it away.
The doctor snorted, the opposite. “Foolish. No one can take down the Galactic Gladiator. But,” and Matt saw her lip curl. “At least the broad shouldered peach—"and is that how they described them as humans? What was Matt then, skinny stick peach? He was offended, “— will put up a fight. This one,” and Matt felt her glare back on him as much as he felt her hands clamping down on his shoulders and he was easily lifted onto the table, “wouldn’t last a minute.”
“It’d be at least two minutes,” Matt inputted, trying to put as much affront into his tone as possible.
He bit his tongue as the shock ran through his body, hunching over on the table and maybe, maybe, he should stop talking now.
“What’s this one’s kill count?” the doctor asked as she grabbed a knife and Matt’s heart momentarily stopped before she shoved it under the tear in his pants and while that fucking hurt she wasn’t ampuating his leg and he could breathe again.
“Twelve,” the guard clucked his tongue, “over nearly two deca-phoebs. Not the worst, but nothing for the leaderboards either.”
Matt hid his wince.
Twelve people dead by his hand was still twelve people. Most had been fellow slaves, given the same orders of kill or be killed. Two had been beasts. He’d never gone up against a disgraced Galran although he knew Shiro had, once.
They didn’t talk about their matches. There was nothing they could say to make it better. Matt was just grateful that all this time he and Shiro had been kept in the same cell group, could sit there in shared, pained silence and lean on one another, sometimes more literally than figuratively as while neither had (miraculously) yet to be seriously injured they had bumps and bruises and cuts. They talked about home, about their families, about favorite movies or television shows and vacations they wanted to take and where they’d go and anything that reminded them there was a world outside of the blood and violence.
That…
That no matter what color blood stained their hands they weren’t murderers. They weren’t killers.
They hadn’t wanted this.
They reminded each other of what, of who, they were fighting for.
And now… because Matt had panicked, had let his fear take hold when he’d promised, he’d promised, himself he would be strong so Shiro wouldn’t have to be strong enough for both of them, he’d failed.
He’d failed Shiro.
God.
God, was Shiro…?
Matt came back to a horrible stinging over his leg and he choked on the yelp as the doctor upended what had to be space version of hydrogen peroxide — in a terrifying shade of green — all over his leg.
“— not much of a fan favorite,” the guard was still talking and Matt forced himself to listen to him, to get out of his own head. “The other human wasn’t much either but I bet this beserk version is something to see.”
“I’ll have to check the video recordings later,” the doctor said. “Otherwise XV-C7 always broadcasts the highlight matches and—”
Matt’s brain froze.
What?
What?
The arena matches were broadcast? Like, like sports? What, did they have fucking concessions up there too?
(He bet they did. And leaderboards implied gambling and this was just one big sport to them, wasn’t it? To watch them kill each other?)
Jesus fucking christ.
The arena was just the gift that apparently kept on getting shittier and shittier.
More sharp pain was a welcome reprieve from this newest horror (and seriously, what did that say about him?) and Matt couldn’t entirely hold back the whimper that time as the doctor lifted his leg up, claws digging into already abused flesh, elevating it on a block.
Matt got his first unobstructed view of the wound, which was as non-lethal as he’d assumed but damn, it was a long wound.
Shiro couldn’t have lifted the blade up just a hair sooner?
Matt internally smacked himself for even thinking that.
“He’ll live,” she confirmed, reaching for a roll of bandages. “Not worth the effort of the Druids though to heal it so he’ll be pretty lame out there.” Her fangs pulled back in a smile. “In more ways than one.”
Matt disagreed with half of that statement but bit his tongue to hold it back because he was in enough pain for the moment and with his leg like that he’d probably topple right off the table and with his current luck give himself a concussion.
But she was right. If he went out there now, limping around, he’d die.
And Shiro would never, ever, forgive himself (even if he was doing so beyond the grave and God God God why could he not stop his brain from going that route?).
“Arena’s got enough fodder,” the guard said, so, so carelessly, as though the slaves wanted to be there and put up for slaughter, “I’ll check with the books but no one is going to miss this one.”
Matt’s eyes widened.
Wait.
Wait, what did that mean?
His eyes flicked to the bandages the doctor was holding, to the guard next to him and down to his bound wrists.
Logic said they wouldn’t treat a prisoner to then kill him.
But logic also said the guard’s words were a threat.
And logic further said that even if Matt were to get the guard’s blaster (which he unfortunately knew how to use at this point) he still had the shock cuffs to contend with, plus the doctor (and like almost all the Galrans he’d met she dwarfed him by an easy foot and no doubt had the strength to match) and then assuming he neutralized both of them he still had to exit back through the waiting room where there were more guards, a locked door, and…
And he wasn’t getting out.
Holts didn’t believe in impossibles but they were also more than capable of acknowledging improbables.
And Matt knew resisting now would turn the situation immediately fatal for him whereas if he did nothing…
He might live.
And that had been the whole point of this.
For him to live.
(Live for what? It’s not like he’d ever see his family again.)
Matt squashed the thought as surely as he did his fingers into his lap as the doctor abandoned the roll of bandages and instead went to the far counter, opened a cooler, and removed a vial, shooting a far too flippant, “If you’re sure,” to the guard.
A vial she attached to a syringe.
Matt tensed.
Euthanization?
Or…
Or something else?
“Should keep him under for about fifteen varga,” the doctor said and Matt untensed the barest bit.
A sedative.
They were keeping him alive.
They were taking him out of the arena.
Where?
It’s not like he had much of a choice.
He had less of one as the doctor came back and even though instinct told Matt to pull back, to stop her, he made himself stay still as she roughly grabbed his bound arms, rotated his right up and depressed the syringe.
And…
And nothing happened.
No pain (or lack of it, his leg still felt ached), no sudden wooziness or dizziness (moreso than the shocks had done).
Just…
Nothing.
“Are you sure you gave him the correct dose?” the guard asked and Matt felt a jolt of ice in his stomach at that, at the fact this nothing response wasn’t normal.
The doctor hadn’t even weighed him, hadn’t asked about his biology and had just injected him with something that Matt had no idea what it was and what if it was toxic to humans?
“Give it a moment,” the doctor said although even her eyes were narrowed. “It’s possible that—”
Matt didn’t hear the rest.
He passed out.
Because apparently yes, the dose had been just fine.
Matt knew though what awaited him absolutely wasn’t.