Chapter Text
The room bursts into a flurry of motion.
The firierodu crosses the room and, in a flash, has Sho’o’s arm and is yanking him to his feet. They do not bother with the cuffs, though their other hand joins the first as they shove him forward. “Start the vehicle,” the firierodu calls to the elerack, who races on ahead of them. When the elerack slams into the doors, shoving them open, the harsh light of the sun spills into the room. Sho’o grits his teeth, doing his best to prepare himself for the assault on his eyes as he and the firierodu near the exit. The moment that they cross the threshold, Sho’o is blinded. Oddly, his sense of touch seems to be amplified at the moment, setting his skin on fire. He can feel, with uncomfortable intimacy, the firierodu’s claws digging mercilessly into his skin, the humidity in the stagnant air. Sharp edges of the rocks below his feet, heavy vibrations in the air, the-
Sho’o hooks his nails under one of the scales on the inside of his left forearm and pulls. Pain bursts through the haze that is beginning to take over his mind. He shoves down the hiss that is clawing its way up his throat, instead relishing in his newly cleared vision. Sho’o gently releases the scale that fell victim to his urgency and attempts to press it back into place, ignoring the thin trail of blood leaking from beneath. Eyes sharp once more, Sho’o does his best to scan his surroundings without moving his head. He does not want to alert the firierodu to his intentions. He does not have much time left; they are nearing the vehicle faster than he would like. The first place that Sho’o looks is, evidently, the correct site to lend his attention.
The clouds swirl and part to make way for ships that are beginning to breach the atmosphere. The ships are streamlined in a way that pirate ships tend not to be, sparking hope in his racing heart. He is shoved into the cage before he can manage to find some sort of emblem or logo. Sho’o was raised pragmatically; he knows better than to assume anything, especially if the assumption has no evidence to back it up. There is no guarantee that these attackers are allies. The fact that the design was familiar means little. It would be wise to hold on to a fair amount of suspicion.
“Let’s move,” the firierodu yells as they slam the cage door shut, banging on the metal separating the cage from the cabin. The vehicle takes off without delay, tossing the two of them to the side harshly. Sho’o hisses as his arm is slammed into the metal bars. A throbbing ache sets in, adding to the stinging skin under his scale, as the vehicle rights itself. The drive is unpleasant, to say the least. He and the firierodu are tossed from side to side as the driver dodges whatever blocks the vehicle’s path. Sho’o desperately clings onto the bars in an attempt to hopefully minimize injury.
The view beyond the bars race past, too fast to make out much more than blurred images. Noise bombards them from every direction. Wordless yells, unintelligible commands, the distinct sound of phasers. Things his father has made him all too familiar with. His experience prevents his environment from completely overwhelming him, and he hates that he can attribute his survival so far, in its entirety, to the man he has spent his entire life despising.
Tremors snake up through the vehicle from the ground, and Sho’o braces himself. He has a feeling he knows what will soon follow. The elerack slams hard on the brakes, but the abrupt halt seems to be the wrong decision. The world goes sideways.
Sho’o squeezes his eyes shut as both he and the firierodu do their best not to be slammed into the roof of the cage - or anywhere else, for that matter. The firierodu lets loose a series of - he is assuming to be - curses in the native firierodu language once the vehicle stops rolling. Sho’o heaves for the breath he was holding, grimacing as pain lashes across his body. He will have a lot more scales to pull than just the ones on his shoulder once he gets through this. If, he reminds himself dully. If I get through this.
The firierodu kicks at the door of the cage, which seems to have loosened from the damage. It takes a few valiant attempts before the door crumbles in on itself from one side, opening a decently sized hole in the twisted metal. Sho’o watches as the firierodu slowly drags themself out of the hole. He has no intentions of following.
The firierodu turns back to him, a rather un-intimidating snarl distorting their face. “Either get out of the cage with some dignity, or be electrocuted and dragged out by force. Your call, little prince.”
Not, it seems, that he has much choice in the matter.
Sho’o ignores the painful bruising as best he can as he crawls out of the cage. The firierodu latches onto his arm the moment he clears the distorted metal hole, and he is dragged unceremoniously into a run towards the looming pirate ship above them. Sho’o looks back in a desperate attempt to see who the attackers are. And, perhaps, hoping that it is the PAC Corps coming for him.
One of the assailants catches sight of him. Their red scales refract light across what has become a battlefield. The Vu’merr is not close enough to hear, but Sho’o watches as they, along with two more Vu’merr, break off and attempt to chase after himself and the firierodu. Rapidly, and perhaps a touch frantically, he darts his gaze all over as he intentionally slows down his captor. His eyes finally catch sight of a ship’s emblem, and he stumbles. The firierodu yanks him back up with a growl, and Sho’o… obeys. He feels as though someone has just punched him in the gut.
It is his royal family emblem.
These assailants are his father’s soldiers.
He does not know how to feel about that.
Sho’o knows, logically, that he should be glad. Grateful. Overjoyed, even. These are allies; people who have come to save him and his class from the pirates’ clutches. If they are able to reach him, to board the ship, everyone will be safe. He will not be forced to fight another battle to the death. He and the people he cares about will be safe.
Yes, he should be glad. He is glad. It is just… he has spent so many years desiring freedom from his gilded cage. Running his fingers along the miniscule cracks in the invisible walls of his family name, hoping to find a way out. An escape from his father’s cold, cold eyes and far colder fists. A Vu’merr should never be as cold as his father has always been. So he does not want to acknowledge the part of him that feels relieved. He does not want to accept that he has any urge to go back to that hell hole. He hates that anything that is associated with his father could make him rejoice. Yet, here he is, digging his heels into the ground and reaching up with his free hand to rake his nails along the firierodu’s arms.
Because despite his pain, despite his hatred, despite the respite that these past few revolutions have become, a gilded cage is easier to ignore than a septic one. And, most importantly, his classmates and teachers will be in no cage at all. He is unsure if he could live with himself, were he to throw away this chance and watch one of them die.
“Fuck!” the firierodu cries when Sho’o’s nails gouge deeply enough into their arm to leave a bloody streak. “Oh, you just wait,” they growl. Their voice is gravely and low. Plates slide out of the skin on their arm to cover it before Sho’o can do more damage. When they turn to face him, their eyes promise revenge. “When I’m done with you, little prince, they won’t be able to recognize-”
Before the firierodu can finish their threat, Sho’o rears back as a spray of red blood cascades toward his face. It takes him a moment, but when he finally wipes his scales clean and opens his eyes to look, the firierodu lies motionless on the ground, a pool of blood spreading thickly across the stones. Sho’o is frozen in place as he watches the viscous fluid flow around his feet, seeping beneath the scales and coating his skin.
Sho’o sucks in a breath, dragging himself forcefully back to the present. He turns on his heels, preparing to make a break for it. Worse comes to worse, they can come back for the others, but this is his chance. He does not want to return to his father, but his father is better than this, if only by a short margin. He manages to make two strides before, suddenly, the cuffs on his wrists and ankles all snap together harshly, sending him tumbling to the ground ungracefully. He hears a low swoosh from behind, and rolls onto his back. He knows what is coming.
The sa’terr reaches him first, and he does his best to kick his feet out at them. They jump back before quickly closing back in, but he has bought himself time. That is all he needs. Just a few more ticks, and the vu’merr can reach him. The oriri’vry arrives next, as the sa’terr is hauling him from the ground. He is squirming in the sa’terr’s grip, preventing them from getting a good grip on him, and he does not get a chance to see the oriri’vry’s coloring. He regrets it a moment later, when he feels skin brush his scales followed by the sensation of floating. The oriri’vry has made it that much easier for Sho’o to be dragged away, and now he can do little to stop it. In the air, anchored to the sa’terr by his arm, he twists himself around.
The vu’merr are close now. So close.
Close enough that, were Sho’o not bound, he might be able to reach out and touch them.
Close enough that Sho’o can see their eyes widen in horror ticks before the ship’s hatch slides shut in his face.
---------------------
His stay in the room they shoved him into was short lived. Once it seems the pirates have made their escape successfully, they come back to escort him back to the cells. Sho’o barely registers any of it. He can not bear to. He only feels numb.
He was so close to freedom, and yet they failed. His father’s soldiers failed. The words ring through his head, but they make no sense. They are an impossibility. His father has always boasted of the might and skill of their warriors; he has always claimed them to be the finest warriors in the galaxy. And yet they failed. Their mission must have been to return him to his father in one piece, and they failed.
Sho’o barely registers the movement of the cell door, nor the eyes of the terrans, his classmates, and his teachers locked on him as he calmly enters. Idly, he wonders what kind of image he must make. They cleaned off the most prominent evidence of his fight, but the firierodu’s blood still clings to his scales and his injuries are plain as day. He doubts he will ever truly cleanse the blood from his feet. It does not matter. His father’s soldiers failed.
The room descends into silence as Sho’o stands there, staring at the floor.
He can not seem to bring himself to look up, to explain to these people that their only hope for rescue is lost. “To’roki?” Sho’o flinches at the name before becoming very still. His father always taught him not to flinch away. Flinching is a display of fear, and fear is a weakness. The voice that bleeds through his ears belongs to Ya’ada-sensei. It is soft and chirping, as always. It holds no anger. No blame. That might be the worst part. “To’roki, do you want to tell us what happened?”
No. No, he would rather not. So he doesn’t.
Sho’o convinces his body to move forward despite the aches and pains plaguing his bones. His movements are stiff as he makes his way to his preferred corner, sitting down gently, barely suppressing the wince as the bars catch on a broken scale on his back. He tends to his shoulder first, the easiest place for him to reach. Each scale removed sends a sharp pain across his skin, but he refuses to show weakness.
Sho’o ignores the heavy eyes on him as he tends to his wounds, falling into a familiar rhythm. He has always plucked his own scales. The only one allowed to tend to the ones he could not reach was his brother. However, his brother is not here right now, so he will simply make do with what he can. Sho’o is a professional in that sense.
He has moved on to his legs when, suddenly, a pair of hands reach out for a scale he’s been avoiding, the jagged edge digging into his skin. “Here, allow me to assist!” Out of reflex, he swings his arm, intending to scratch the intruder’s eyes out, but they are pulled back before he makes contact.
“Are you stupid or something!?” Bak’go screeches as he shoves Iida to the side none too gently. “You don’t just touch someone’s scales without their fucking permission, four eyes!”
“Bak’go, that is no way to treat your fellow classmate,” Iida exclaims. He pulls away from Bak’go with several successive clicks. Sho’o elects to return to preening his damaged scales. “I was simply offering my help.”
“You weren’t offering, you were fucking forcing,” Bak’go growls angrily. The cell becomes blissfully silent once more as Sho’o finishes the first leg. He is unaware of Bak’go crouching in front of him until he speaks, jarring him out of the trance he was falling into. “Listen, I know a thing or two about broken scales.” Sho’o stares blankly at Bak’go as he picks at a rather healthy scale, tempted to rip it off. “I have gentle hands.”
That gets a reaction, Sho’o’s eyes narrowing dubiously. He does not respond, he does not have to. Bak’go snarls, taking a deep breath and locking eyes with Sho’o. “Trust me. I’m not your damned family, and I know I’m not you-”
“Bak’go,” Ya’ada-sensei hisses. Bak’go continues as if uninterrupted.
“-but I’m better than nothing.”
Sho’o waits for the punchline to the joke that he has yet to catch on to, but it never seems to come. Bak’go stares at him, impatiently and uncomfortably, waiting to be given permission. Somehow, Sho’o knows that if he refuses, Bak’go will leave him be. Perhaps that is precisely why he dips his head slowly, granting permission for Bak’go to assist in removing his scales.
Bak’go seems thrown off by his acceptance, which in better circumstances would be amusing, but moves behind him to reach his back nonetheless. Sho’o instinctively tenses before Bak’go can place a hand on him. “Relax, or this’ll fucking hurt.”
Sho’o slowly allows the tension to seep out of him, waiting for that first harsh tug. His father made his opinion of assisting Sho’o in removing scales very clear: the activity was far below him. In the past, Sho’o has, in extreme cases, turned to his siblings for help. But his father allowed him to interact with only one: Touya, whose dislike for Sho’o sharpened his movements and shook his hands. Sho’o is anything but a slow learner, and he was quick to stop seeking out his eldest brother.
On rare occasions, N’tsuo or Fu’umi would seek him out, begging to help. He is unsure of how they knew when he was most in need, but one of them always appeared. Every time they came to his assistance Sho’o would offer them thanks before sending them on their way after only a few pulled scales. A neglectful father and a mother in mental decline never made very successful parents; N’tsuo and Fu’umi never learned the proper way to remove damaged scales, and, unlike him, they were never forced to practice on themselves.
Needless to say, he is rather confused by Bak’go’s declaration. No amount of relaxing will remove the pain of this treatment. Is Bak’go’s species different? He is shocked when Bak’go thrusts a single scale in front of his face, nearly twisted in a full spiral. He did not feel so much as the brush of Bak’go’s fingers on his raw skin. Sho’o reaches up and haltingly plucks the scale from Bak’go’s hand. Then, in the most pompous tone imaginable, Bak’go boasts, “Told you I have gentle fucking hands.”
Sho’o wracks his brain, but he comes just short of finding a response. Instead, he attempts to watch Bak’go’s technique out of the corner of his eye. It is a mesmerising process, with each scale sliding easily from their slots on his body. If he chooses to focus on a spot that he can see, he is able to detect a mild tingle just as Bak’go removes the damaged scale, but it is barely there.
Without meaning to, Sho’o mumbles, “It doesn’t hurt.”
Bak’go leans to the side to shoot him a scathing look. “It’s not supposed to hurt, dumbass. Has no one ever shown you how to remove a scale?” Sho’o only stares, unsure of how to respond without the, apparently incorrect, response of no, no they haven’t. Bak’go scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course not, your highness, you probably had your maids do it for you, if you ever even needed to. I bet you were pampered your entire fucking life.”
Sho’o frowns but doesn’t disagree. There would be little purpose to an objection. Bak’go would never believe him. They settle back into silence for a moment, and when Sho’o chances another look at Bak’go’s hands, they are significantly easier to see.
With a steadily growing pile of discarded scales at his side, Sho’o speaks up, though he never takes his eyes off of Bak’go’s hands. “When the pirates began the process of returning me to this cell, the planet was attacked by a fleet of my father’s ships. I presume that their orders were to retrieve me. The attempt was nearly successful.”
“Clearly not enough if you ended up back in this shit hole,” Bak’go snipes.
“Clearly,” Sho’o hisses, pulling away from Bak’go abruptly and wincing at the scale crudely tugged by his movement. “That is the reason that I said nearly successful, did I not?” He twists to level Bak’go with an unimpressed, irritated stare. Bak’go is getting under his scales more successfully than usual; he needs to get himself under control.
Bak’go glares back for the few ticks that Sho’o meets his eyes before he takes a deep breath and faces forward once more, granting Bak’go access. “Whatever,” Bak’go grumbles, though he feels the soft tingles resume on his back.
“I was not able to delay the pirates for long enough, and they were successful in dragging me back on board the ship.” Sho’o breathes in sharply as a particularly stubborn scale closest to the wound is slowly pulled from his skin. “I believe that the reason they did not return me to the cell immediately is due to the fact that they were making their escape from the planet and my father’s ships.”
“So we know someone is looking for us, that’s good right?” Ur’aka speaks up hesitantly. “It means we might still have a chance.”
“It’s statistically unlikely, based upon what Az’awa-sensei told us earlier,” Iida says, unenthused and sullen.
“Should we tell them?” Kam’nari doesn’t clarify who “them” is, nor does he make any motion to indicate it. And yet, Sho’o is sure that his classmates and teachers are just as confident in who Kam’nari is referring to as he is. The Terrans are still watching the group; it is best to be cautious of tipping them off as to the current topic of conversation.
“With what vocabulary?” Ya’ada-sensei asks when none of the others respond. “I hate to say it, but we aren’t far enough along with them to really tell them what happened. Any explanation we give them would have critical gaps. It might just make them more stressed.”
“And likely unpredictable,” Iida adds.
A small string of electricity flashes between Kam’nari’s antennae. “They deserve to know. Shouldn’t we at least try?”
To Sho’o’s surprise, it’s Ur’aka who takes a step closer to Kam’nari with another vote against his wishes. “What are we supposed to say? There was a…” her eyes flick to the side as she avoids the word that the Terrans do know. “Battle? They would have so many questions that they can’t ask and we can’t answer.”
“It won’t put them at a disadvantage in any way. They don’t really need to know,” Ya’ada-sensei adds, effectively putting an end to the debate. Kam’nari sits down with his eyes on the ground, evidently upset by the decision. Sho’o agrees with the others, of course. It would do no good to attempt to communicate what has passed with the Terrans. Still, he almost feels… disappointed. Were he on their side of the bars, he would be loath to discover that such a critical event had been kept from him.
Silence falls upon the cells, broken only by the quiet murmuring of the Terrans. It allows for nearly inaudible, though heavy, breathing to become noticeable, and Sho’o looks over at Az’awa-sensei, who has been suspiciously quiet during the conversation. Az’awa-sensei hadn’t even reprimanded him and Bak’go for their sniping previously. In fact, Az’awa-sensei hasn’t said so much as a word since Sho’o’s return.
Sho’o must not be the only one who hears the labored breathing, as Ya’ada-sensei turns to look as well. “Sho’a?” Ya’ada-sensei says, a worried chirp following quickly after.
Az’awa-sensei lays on his uninjured side, head laying flat against the floor, and tails swishing sluggishly behind him. He peels his eyes open slowly, looking up at Ya’ada-sensei, but does not move in any other way. Something itches in Sho’o’s stomach, like a scale left out of place for too long, as Az’awa-sensei continues to lie nearly perfectly still.
Ya’ada-sensei shuffles closer, lowering his muzzle as if to nuzzle at Az’awa-sensei’s neck, only to freeze, feathers rising in alarm before Ya’ada-sensei quickly shakes them back into place. “Sho’a, oh stars, your wound is bleeding again.”
Az’awa-sensei lets out a soft rumble from deep in his chest. When he speaks his words are heavy with his native accent. “‘S not as bad as it looks, Beloved.”
Ya’ada-sensei’s feathers flare and settle once more. He crouches down next to Az’awa-sensei, tucking his wings in tight to keep from touching the wound and making it worse. “You only call me Beloved when something is wrong.”
“Do I?” Az’awa-sensei hums low and soft, “Interesting.”
“Can I look?” Az’awa peels open one eye at the question before shifting his body just slightly so he’s more stretched out, a quiet whine at the pain caught in his throat.
“The students don’t need to see it,” Az’awa-sensei responds. Ya’ada-sensei drapes a wing over Az’awa-sensei and ducks his head to look through the fur.
“It doesn’t seem to be inflamed, and the bleeding is sluggish,” Ya’ada-sensei says after a moment. “If I had proper medical supplies I might be able to handle it, but-” he cuts himself off with a pained warble.
“But ‘s likely to get worse without it, yeah, I figured.” Az’awa-sensei’s eyes slip closed again. “I’ll survive, Beloved. I always have before.”
“You weren’t held captive those other times, and you had your gear. This is so much worse!”
“Keep your voice down, don’t alarm the Terrans,” Az’awa-sensei grumbles.
“They can go fuck themselves, what about us?” Bak’go moves away from Sho’o at last, having seemingly finished with the damaged scales. One of Bak’go’s hands lands on his shoulder as he stands up, and Sho’o doesn’t bother to remove it. He’s too busy watching their circumstances take a nosedive into a group of extremely sharp rocks. “If we tell the guards, they’ll deal with it, won’t they? You’re one of their best ‘fighters,’ or whatever. They won’t do too shitty of a job.”
“They don’t want him to die, but if they don’t think it’s severe enough right now, they could just get mad at us for bothering them,” Ya’ada-sensei responds. “It’s a pretty big risk, especially because we know he isn’t their best fighter. They’d care more about life threatening wounds on the Terrans.”
“What if, what if, what if, that’s all I’m hearing right now.” Bak’go huffs angrily. “Stop with the ‘what if’s! What if they actually help us?” Bak’go’s hand trembles slightly where it rests against his scales. It reminds Sho’o vaguely of when his brother Touya’s hands shook as he plucked Sho’o’s scales after the first time Endeavor forced them to fight each other. Sho’o lost spectacularly, and afterwards Touya came into his room and demanded Sho’o let him help remove the damaged scales.
“The ‘what if’s are important, Bak’go,” Iida cuts in. For once, he does not raise his voice. “One of those ‘what if’s is what if they make it worse? ‘What if they help us’ may be the best case scenario, but that does not necessarily make it the most likely.”
“So, what, you want to just sit here and wait? For what? For them to take him to a fight? You think he’s likely to fucking survive with a wound that’ll reopen at every fucking jostle?” Bak’go’s lip begins to curl up to display his teeth when the lights suddenly cut out for the night cycle. It startles Sho’o. He hadn’t realized they were having a discussion for so long.
“Guys, maybe we should leave this for tomorrow,” Ur’aka says quietly. “If we don’t want to alert the Terrans to the situation, we shouldn’t stay up talking when we usually don’t. Besides, sensei needs to rest.”
“We can’t just-”
“Bak’go, please,” Az’awa-sensei interrupts. Sho’o can tell, even with his sight removed, that sensei’s exhaustion weighs on his every move. Bak’go’s hand tenses, for the second time, on his shoulder before pulling away.
“Fine. What-fucking-ever.” Bak’go doesn’t go far, sitting down heavily next to Sho’o, close enough that he can feel Bak’go’s heat, though not close enough to touch.
The shift in attitude is glaringly obvious. Does this make them friends? Sho’o is unsure if he has ever had a friend before. He does not have any at this moment. Except for, evidently, Bak’go. That must make Bak’go his best friend. There is no competition. Should he give Bak’go an award? Perhaps once they escape he will find something at the markets to commemorate Bak’go’s achievement.
Despite the satisfaction at gaining a new friend, Sho’o feels the sharp unease settle over the cell like a heavy cloth. “Well, I, for one, prefer being a prisoner to the pirates over my father,” Sho’o jokes, attempting to lighten Bak’go’s mood.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Well, that was rather rude. He thinks Bak’go should have at least given him a cursory laugh. As any good best friend would do. Oh, well. Perhaps Bak’go is still learning, just as he is.
