Chapter Text
Time is very much a relative thing.
For Keith, the past six months depends entirely on how much he thought back on what he’d done. Five minutes ago, it had felt like they had gone by in a flash. If he had the choice, he would have it remain so, but with Zarkon’s massive ship looming ahead of them, it was hard to keep recent events out of mind.
His first mission as a ranking officer: subjugate a small cluster of star systems that had been proving difficult for the empire for the past several decades, and turn the area into a new outpost for trade.
Zarkon’s direct orders had been simple enough.
Break them. Make them regret ever daring to defy the Galra empire. Be sure they never consider making trouble again.
Keith hadn’t wanted to do it. He had tried to come in easy, by Galra standards, at first. Just give up. Let the empire build the outpost. Accept the trade route and behave, give up x amount of prisoners, and nobody has to get hurt. That stance had lasted all of two weeks before he started feeling pressure from both sides.
The rebels had lived for millennia defying the empire. The past lifetime fighting it outright. These were people confident in an alliance spanning a dozen stars and as many civilizations; they were never going to simply give in and accept a higher power.
His crew knew this. Sendak, his second in command, knew this. Keith knew it too, and his hopes for anything otherwise quickly diminished with every failed diplomatic effort. It had vanished completely when his crew started speaking in hushed whispers in the hall. Hisses of dissent lingering in the hallways when his back was turned. When Sendak never stepped up to stop them.
“Coward”
“Bitch”
“Omega”
Keith realized that he would very quickly find himself on the wrong side of a blaster, if not a full on mutiny, if he didn’t start swinging the emperor's hammer.
He had almost given the first planet, home of the largest civilization and most of the rebellion's leaders, a twenty-four hour notice. But Sendak, instead of offering an opinion, had thrown a sly glance to the grunts snickering at the entrance to the room. The message was clear enough in his blood-thirsty sneer. Keith didn’t have twenty-four hours to wait. The time for mercy and patience was far over, both for these rebels and for himself.
He hadn’t realized the planet was mostly hollow until the ion cannon punched completely through the surface. Keith stood on the bridge of his ship trying desperately to hide his horror as the planet crumbled inward under its own gravity. The molten hot core had flared and spit under millions of tons of rock, mountains, plants and animals and people . Keith had been entranced watching the white hot core bubble and swallow down everything it had once nurtured. Everyone around him was cheering and whooping as an entire civilization collapsed into flames.
Every Galra in his fleet nearly frothed at that first taste of blood. There was no controlling them, but his mission was simply to break and conquer. As long as they left enough earth to build an outpost on and enough prisoners to run it, he could win back their favor and fulfill his mission at the same time.
He had been given two years to accomplish this. Six months in, and the call for Keith to return to Zarkon’s ship came in just as they were breaking ground on the outpost. Any kind of resistance had been quieted months ago, but Keith had felt a bittersweet kind of worry when he’d left Sendak to run the remainder of building as he took a smaller ship and headed back on his own. Sendak liked the whip more than the reigns and Keith felt like he was turning his back on too many people he’d already horrifically failed to protect.
The destruction of the first planet had created a domino effect that left the rebellion in waste and a dozen civilizations lost forever. How many people had he killed? How many families had he torn apart? How much precious knowledge and history ripped up like common trash?
He doesn’t know the answers to any of these, and he supposes he never will. All he knows is that anguish sounds astonishingly similar no matter who it comes from. He’s galaxies away, but he can still hear it crystal clear as his ship comes to a halt in one of the massive hangars.
A druid is there to greet him by the time he’s stepping down to the hangar floor. He certainly hadn’t been there when he’d landed, so he must have teleported in while Keith was shutting down the ship. The druid is somewhat small (though “small” for a druid still totally dwarfs him) and seems to fidget a bit more for a druid than Keith remembers in the months he’s been gone.
“Commander Keith, it’s an honor to meet you,” he greets. His voice hisses behind his mask, but Keith immediately realizes the odd size and movement is because the druid is young and overexcited. He twitches long, spindly fingers together that, like all of his kind, look somewhat malnourished. The beaked mask shifts under the druid’s hood to look directly at him and Keith’s stomach turns at the intensity of contact.
An instant seems to drag on for several seconds. Keith thinks about a rumor from somewhere in his childhood. If a druid makes eye contact with you, never, ever, be the one to break it. It’s their way of testing your will, and if you fail, they take a little part of your soul as their prize. Nonsense probably, but Keith is too wary of magic to test it.
“Have you heard the news? We’re all very impressed with your performance. Lord Zarkon himself watched that first planet collapse. Beautiful!” It’s an over the top show of praise meant to catch him off guard. He’s supposed to look down first in humility, break that eye contact making the fur raise on the back of his neck. Keith stands firm, doesn’t even blink until the mask tips almost unnaturally inside his hood, curious. The druid gives up then. He doesn’t move, but Keith can feel their eye contact break like a hair thin wire.
“Thank you. Nothing could be better than receiving the Emperor's favor,” Keith does the polite thing then and lightly bows his head before he moves past the druid towards the hangar exit. The druid makes an impatient sound and follows him closely, hanging around in his blind spot. Keith thinks that, if he weren’t so tired from his long trip, he’d teach this errand boy not to antagonize trained soldiers.
“You’ve certainly impressed him,” the druid starts, his hissing voice echoing off the hulls of the ships they pass. “He’s requested that us druids prepare a very nice gift to reward your excellent show of true Galra values.” Keith nearly wrinkles his nose at the thought. Galra values always left him feeling icky and beyond that, the druids were incapable of putting together anything good. He would much rather pass on anything a magician has to give him, but rejecting anything from Zarkon was an instant death sentence.
“Really?” Keith says, feigning interest. “What would that be?” They exit the hangar and Keith acknowledges the salutes of two grunts with a wave of his hand.
“That’s a secret~” Great, he wanted to be coy. Keith doesn’t have the time or patience to play this game so, without anyone to report to, he simply heads towards the barracks. He’ll log his arrival through the console in his rooms. He rattles off his to do list in the back of his mind. A long, hot shower. A nice meal delivered to him. Going to bed early.
“I only came to give you instructions. Don’t eat anything tonight. No alcohol. Only water. Be awake and clear-headed two hours before the morning wake-up call. Have your sword with you when we come for you.” Keith stops at the elevator leading to the barracks and pointedly glares at the druid’s nose, his ears pulled back a little in his irritation.
“What am I fasting for?” Keith growls. He’s more irritated that food is marked off his list than he is by the fact he can’t sleep in tomorrow. “What kind of gift do I need my sword for? You know what that sounds like, right?” The druid shakes his head, his mask waving a little too smoothly, and Keith can almost see him grinning behind it. He likes Keith’s irritation and it rubs him the wrong way. The druid seems to realize it and takes a step back, just out of Keith’s short reach.
“We won’t ask you to put yourself in danger. I promise. You need your sword for one simple thing. It will only take a few seconds and you’ll be free to take your gift and go on your merry way. Just... “ the druid pauses, steepling his fingers and now he seems to have a smidge of worry about him, like he knows he’s pushing Keith a bit too far. Keith narrows his glare on him.
“Just?”
“Please take my advice seriously. We really have been working very hard on your reward. It would be a shame if you killed it.”
True to their words, the druids are knocking on his door two hours before morning wake-up call. Keith’s head is pounding. He stands in the middle of his living room glaring down the door. This is all their fault that he feels so awful. They’re the ones who denied him dinner last night and breakfast this morning, kept him tossing and turning all night thinking of their schemes.
They knock again, but Keith still doesn’t move. Instead of answering them he inspects his sword. He runs his fingers down the long black blade, double checks that the binding around the handle is nice and tight. He has a few different swords to choose from. It would probably be safest to use the short one he gets standard issue as a Galra soldier, but well, the druids keep insisting that this is a very nice gift, so Keith’s decided to take a bit of a risk and take a family heirloom with him this morning. He needs this, he thinks, rubbing his thumb over the covered hilt. This sword in particular always grounds him.
He crosses the room and opens the door. Two druids stand there, one with his hand up to knock a third time. They don’t react with surprise at Keith’s sudden appearance, or even much at all. Neither one of them are the energetic newbie from yesterday.
“Good morning, Commander Keith,” one of them says. “Please follow us. He’s been anxious this morning.” They both turn and start down the hall towards the elevators without waiting for his reply. Keith is far too tired to insist on their respect and just follows them after he locks the door behind him.
“Your trainee yesterday was trying to play funny,” Keith says. He catches up to them near the elevator when one of them is already pressing the button to go down. “Who’s he ?” The elevator opens and all three step inside. Keith fights off the urge to shove himself in the corner as his instincts bristle at being closed in with the two druids.
“Lord Zarkon has seen fit to give you a personal slave,” the left one says after they share a look. “For your exceptional show bringing those rebels to heel.”
“He chose one of the gladiators,” the other chimes in as they elevator gains speed and Keith’s stomach lifts under his ribs. “They call him Champion. Do you know him?” The druid looks over his shoulder, but towards the floor. Keith realizes he’s looking at his sword, likely wondering why he isn’t using the standard issue.
“No, I don’t,” Keith growls. He grits his teeth, his head pounding and ears aching as they drop down towards the labs the druids haunt. He’s heard of a Champion, but he very much doubts he’ll recognize him when he sees him. Gladiator work and the Arena in general left a sour taste in his mouth. There wasn’t any joy in watching unfair fights and outright slaughter for entertainment’s sake.
He tried to imagine what a gladiator nicknamed Champion would look like. Probably some huge, hulking thing capable of ripping apart the usual masses of prisoners without a second thought. Aggressive to a fault, ugly as sin, and probably holding onto a long, long list of grudges. Keith’s headache starts creeping down the back of his neck as a realizes how much of a pain this will likely be. One of the druids make a curious sound.
“Hm, Lord Zarkon seemed to think you would be a fan.” The elevator eases to a stop and the doors open up on a long, dark hallway. Dread creeps around in Keith’s chest as he follows the two out. They walk on and on, down several more flights of stairs and Keith is sure they have to be in some of the deeper basement levels. Much further down and Keith thinks they’ll drop out of the bottom of the ship.
They come to stop at a large black door marked over in ethereal lettering. Runes. Markings the druids use to channel and direct their magic. They seem to pulse and dance just above the surface. Keith can’t quite stand to look at them without feeling nauseous.
One druid breaks off to go further down the hall where a few more stand huddled together in conversation. They hiss at each other just too low for Keith to make out their words, even when he swivels his ears to try and catch as much as he can. After a couple minutes the conversation breaks apart and a different druid comes back, this one a bit out of breath.
“They’ve got him ready. Somehow, he’s gotten it in his head that this is an execution. Lyac’s in the medical bay and we’ve had to give him a sedative. We should get this over with quickly before what little good it did starts to wear off,” the druid explains. Keith heaves a tired sigh. On top of everything, it seems he’s been handed a wild one. He steps up and motions to the door with his sword.
“I agree. Let’s get this over with before he decides to bust more heads. I want to go home,” Keith says. The druids look between each other like they want to say something about that, but they ultimately decide against it and push open the door.
Inside, the room swims even more intensely with the magic pulsing of the runes painted on the floor and up the walls. The only place it seems to thin out is on an identical door on the other side of the room. It’s enough to catch Keith at the door, to make him pause and swallow back the nausea rising up in the back of his throat. He didn’t think he was particularly sensitive to magic, so the room must be thick with it. The druids go ahead of him and stand to either side of the door, their backs nearly pressed to the wall. One points to a low stone altar in the center of the room.
Keith enters and it feels like he’s walked into a wall of water. Everything in the room shimmers as if baking hot and his ears ring faintly in time with the pulsing in the air. He goes to touch the altar but the druid speaks up to stop him.
“Standing right there is fine. That’s for Champion,” he says. A beat after he says so, the door opposite them slides open.
He’s much, much smaller than Keith expects, but it still takes three druids to control him even though they dwarf him in size and he’s apparently been sedated. One each grip his arms so tight their claws draw blood and a third nearly presses flat to Champion’s back as he fights to keep him from backing out of the room. Champion pants hard around the cloth gag fitted over his mouth like a bit and all his muscles bulge as he fights the druids’ guidance. His pale skin stripped with scars and even more of the druid’s strange markings, some of them starting to run under the sheen of sweat.
Keith watches silently as the druids wrestle Champion to the center of the room. It’s fascinating, how his muscle moves under his skin, how he tries to twist and pull at the thick cuffs the bind his wrists and rattles the thick chains around his hips and neck that keep them close to his body and makes it impossible for him to jerk down and out of their grip without choking himself. If he hadn’t been so sickened by hunger and the magic in the room he would have been more interested. Instead, when Champion’s fighting against the druid’s efforts to make him sit on the altar, Keith reaches out, hooks his fingers in the chain at the slave’s throat, and twists it viciously.
Champion heaves when a link digs into the side of his neck. He goes still, chokes around the gag and finally lets the druids make him kneel on the altar. Keith gives him slack and his chest heaves like an exhausted work animal. Even the druids are visibly panting under their robes.
“I’m not interested in playing around with you,” Keith growls. Champion stills, listening, but his eyes, dark, gray, exotic white sclera, flare with rage. Keith realizes that, in this moment, Champion feels no fear. Keith refuses to back down. “I have nothing to do with you. I’m here because I have to be, just like you. So stay still so I don’t end up killing you on accident,” Keith warns. Amazingly, Shiro stays where he is when Keith untangles his fingers from his makeshift collar, but he’s still tense and stiff. The druids holding his arms clearly don’t trust him enough to loosen their grip any.
The one at his back straightens up and come around by Keith as he produces a thick tipped marker from his sleeve. He leans in besides Keith and starts to feel around the left side of Champion’s chest. The slave balks, leans back on his haunches, but one holding his arm grips the back of his neck and holds him still while the other rubs a spot just off center of Champion’s chest with his thumb. He marks it with a heavy spot with the marker and steps back. Next, he motions to Keith’s sword.
“Straight in and straight back out. You don’t have to go terribly deep; just get through his heart. Be careful not to waver though, or you’ll kill him,” the druid explains. Champion groans in agony and bucks back, tries to stand. One of the druids holding him is quick to follow Keith’s example and grabs a handful of the chain at the back of his neck, holding him down where he is. “Naturally. If he flinches too much, he’ll end up killing himself as well,” the druid adds. It’s obviously a jab at the struggling prisoner, and Keith is somewhat relieved to see that he’s smart enough to realize his chances are better if he plays along. Champion settles down then and stills besides for some shivering. He might be anxious, or maybe he’s simply exhausted, but Keith appreciates his decision to make himself an easy target.
“I wouldn’t worry too much. I’m very good with a sword,” Keith says. His head is pounding, and his eyes water in irritation for the magic in the room, but he can manage this much. Either way, it’s no skin off his nose if Champion dies; he can go home and sleep either way. He steps back to a comfortable reach, lines up the tip of his sword to the center of the mark on his chest. Champion lets out all the air in his chest and holds it.
Champion looks him in the eye when Keith steps forward and his sword sinks into his flesh like butter. The tip catches on something, likely a rib, but he pushes through it with a bit of pressure simply because he doesn’t feel like he has the time to think if he should or not. Champion stiffens and nearly falls back. The druids hold him steady as he flinches, makes this strangled moan behind the gag when Keith pulls his sword back and out. Near the whole length is covered in vibrant red blood that falls in fat droplets to the floor.
More, much more, wells up from the wound, dribbling down Champion’s front to soak into the jumpsuit bunched around his hips. Keith frowns as Champion’s eyes roll back and he sags in the druids’ hold.
‘I shouldn’t have pushed that extra bit,’ Keith thinks. A strange kind of disappointment washes over him as he flicks some of the blood off his sword to the floor. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Anything will die when you run a weapon through a vital organ. Maybe he’s more disappointed in himself for falling for this strange trick of Zarkon’s. Maybe the Emperor just wanted him to handle a troublesome execution.
“Very good,” the druid beside him, the one with the marker, remarks. He holds something out to him. A rough cloth. Keith takes it and starts cleaning his sword. “I didn’t think you would run him all the way through, but I do know you have a reputation for being very good with swords. I really shouldn’t be surprised.”
Keith wrinkles his nose in disgust, nearly asks the druid if he thinks all this is funny. But the druids at the altar are tugging out the gag in Champion’s mouth and pushing him onto his side as he gasps and coughs. Where he’d been hemorrhaging seconds ago is now just a small, pink line of a scar about the width of Keith’s blade. He’d pierced Champion’s heart and he’d lived.
An hour later, Keith is still looking for the appetite that had been plaguing him earlier when two sentries show up at his door, an unconscious Champion hanging between them. As he’d expected, the druids put only the minimal effort into cleaning him up. He’s not the bloody mess he was downstairs, but it’s still dried in little flecks on his skin and the jumpsuit is stained and ruined where it’s still at his hips. They both linger silently as if Keith is somehow going to tell them no thanks, I’ve changed my mind on him.
“I’ve made a place for him in my bedroom. Will you please put him in there?” Keith says, pointing to the bedroom door.
What he’s got set up is just a couple of blankets and a pillow in the floor beside his bed. The sentries set him down and leave Keith be. They show themselves out, lock the front door behind them, and the apartment is quiet.
Keith kneels beside Champion and watches the slow rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. Now that he’s not distracted by that gross feeling magic and that bloody ritual, Champion seems like a totally different person. Where he was defiant earlier, he just looks exhausted now. Once burning expression now soft and open as he sleeps. He doesn’t follow the gladiator matches, but Keith doesn’t doubt that Champion is a name he’s earned. His skin is striped through with scars; long cuts, pinpoint punctures, burns and tears. There’s very few clear patches on him. He’s lost an arm at some point. Normally an injury like that was a death sentence but, Keith thinks as he reaches out and gently touches the warm metal of Champion’s cybernetic arm, he must have been popular enough to warrant saving.
Most of the scars are an older pale white. Some are a newer soft pink. He’s wounded too, in a couple places, a set of claw like marks on his side, the arc of pointed teeth in the meat of his shoulder. But these have had enough time to get well on the way to healing. He’s been in the Arena recently; Keith would say a couple of weeks. That thought makes the bright pink scar near the center of his chest seem that much more unnatural. Keith had run him through hardly an hour ago. He’d killed him, but Champion hadn’t died. Instead he’d stopped bleeding, the wound had not only closed but healed and scarred over before his eyes. Keith, watching Champion’s eyelids flutter, reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers over the fresh scar. Smooth, almost soft, warm and, underneath, a strong, steady heartbeat.
He’ll probably wake up soon and Keith doesn’t know how he’s going to react. Keith has heard a fair share about gladiators from his peers, even more from Ulaz. They had been trained for violence and had very little trust to give. Keith can’t expect him to be exactly overjoyed when he wakes up and finds himself trapped in an apartment with the Galra who just stuck his sword through him. Keith grimaces and decides he doesn’t want to be right in his face when he finally wakes up. He stands and leaves the room. He closes the door, wonders if Champion knows how to open them, then locks it for good measure. He’ll...figure that out later. Right now he needs some advice on how to tackle this responsibility Zarkon’s seen fit to dump in his lap.
He has a datapad in the living room. Keith curls up on the couch with it, one eye on the bedroom door and one ear cocked towards it, listening for signs that Champion’s woken up. Of all the things Zarkon could have gifted him, a bonded slave was pretty low on Keith’s list. A promotion? A raise? He would happily take those. He really could use an extended vacation. Six months of brutalizing people deserved a little bit more than the week of leave he’d gotten.
He was going to spend it with a jumpy gladiator hanging around his apartment. What was he going to do with a slave? He didn’t think he was all that important. Any work he had, he preferred to do himself. He didn’t need protecting. He wasn’t interested in the Arena or the Nest. At best Champion would be a stranger constantly in his personal space. At worst he’d get in the way and make trouble for him.
Ulaz would be able to point him in the right direction here, at the very least. He was one of the doctors assigned to the gladiators. If he didn’t know Champion personally, he could at least tell Keith what to expect now that he’d locked one in his bedroom. Ulaz worked with them every day so Keith trusted his advice on handling them. He scrolls through to Ulaz’s private contact and sends a message first to gauge how busy he is.
‘I’m back. Get back to me if you have the time. I’ve got a mild emergency.’ Keith types. He sends it off, looks to the bedroom door. No sound from inside yet, so he must still be out. He’s thinking about trying to contact Thace as well and let him know he’s back when Ulaz calls him.
“I’m glad to hear you’re back with us,” Ulaz says. Keith sighs and rests the datapad on the table beside him. “It’s been too long.”
“I know. I’m glad to be back. It’s…” Keith grimaces as images of the last six months rise to the surface. He shoves them back before they can take hold, glances to the bedroom door again instead. That’s a more pressing matter. “We’ll talk about the trip later. Right now I really need your advice.”
“You did say you had an emergency. Are you okay?” Ulaz asks.
“Zarkon,” Keith starts, his voice tinged with feigned excitement. “Has decided to give me a very special gift.” Ulaz makes a soft sound very much like a muffled ‘oh no’ but Keith continues on. “I had to go all the way to the basement labs this morning and pick him up.”
“Him?”
“Yeah, him. The Great Emperor of the Galra Empire decided to grace me with a bonded slave. So, the whole thing. I got to take a field trip with some druids this morning and stab a recycled gladiator,” Keith explains. His headache is threatening to rise up again just thinking about the mess all this is and rubs at his temple. Ulaz is quiet for several seconds. He must be in his office because Keith hears him typing.
“Oh wow,” Ulaz says finally. “That’s… special.”
“You’re being too kind, as always. It’s a pain in the ass is what it is. I’m...completely lost here. You, you work with the gladiators so, do you have any hints what I should do?” Keith asks.
“Did they bring him up to you yet?”
“Yeah, uh, I have him locked in my bedroom. I know that since he’s bound that he can’t do anything to hurt me but I’m worried he’ll freak out when he wakes up and realizes what’s going on,” Keith says.
“Unlock the door. He’ll want to check the apartment when he wakes up,” Ulaz says. Keith gives the bedroom door a worried look.
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It’s not!” Ulaz chuckles. “They’re always pretty sensitive right after they’re bound. He’ll want to look around and make sure you’re not in any danger. Unlock the door, or he’ll probably try to tear it down himself.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Keith says. He takes the datapad with him as he gets up off the couch and goes to the bedroom door. He presses his thumb into the lock until it clicks open. He thinks about checking inside again, but decides against it. “I stabbed him, and he didn’t die. I feel like I’ve injured a wild ranler and now it’s stuck in my house.” He shivers at the image of that particular animal, all sharp tusks and terrible attitude. “I think I just pissed him off.”
“I’m sure you can handle him,” Ulaz says. “He’s bonded to you. He can’t do anything but sulk, and even then I think he’ll see what kind of person you are pretty quick.”
“Uh, Ulaz, they were calling him ‘Champion’? That doesn’t sound like someone who’s happy to just sulk,” Keith says. He sits on the couch again, but this time on the end farther from the bedroom. He keeps an eye on and one ear turned towards the door.
“Champion?” Ulaz asks. He sounds relieved, like Keith’s found something of his that’s been missing. “Pale? A white forelock? Scar across his nose?”
“Yes? I figured you’d have some idea but it sounds like you know him already,” Keith says. It’s some relief thinking that Champion might not be a complete stranger.
“Of course I do. He’s been around long enough to get a fan base. I’ve been working with him for more than a year now. He’s gotten very popular in the Arena so I was worried when the druids suddenly came for him last week and ordered us to list him as retired. I thought he was gone for good, but they must have been planning to give him to you all along,” Ulaz explains.
“You still have your notes on him then? Can you send them to me?” Keith asks. Lots of prisoners didn’t last very long in the Arena, but those who did, Ulaz and a few of the other doctors started keeping notes on them. For many of the others, it was merely to prevent a popular gladiator from dying too quickly. Keith knew that, for Ulaz, it was partly an anthropological interest and his attempts to be as humane as he was allowed.
“You shouldn’t call him Champion too much, Keith,” Ulaz hums. The datapad lights up and pings as Keith receives a text file. “He doesn’t like it. His name is Shiro.”
“Shiro? That’s a weird name, but at least I can pronounce it,” Keith hums as he opens the copy of Ulaz’s notes. It’s pretty lengthy, so Shiro really must have been around for awhile. Keith starts skimming through it, seeing the blue text of Ulaz’s personal notes besides the official red text of the public notes. Ulaz has had time to add little bit of information to nearly everything and it’s almost become somewhat of a mess. Keith squints at some of the general info.
PRISONER NUMBER: 117-9875 (Takashi Shirogane. Refers to himself as Shiro.)
SPECIES: X9Y-3-A. SPECIMEN 1/3 (Human. The other two are his friends. Named Matt Holt and Sam Holt [Related?]. Asks about them often. Look into this.)
ORIGIN: X9Y-3 (Earth. Water-rich planet. Shiro is unwilling to say much more, but he’s clearly very attached to his home planet. Questions about human population, civilization and technological advancement seem to make him very suspicious. I can’t tell why.)
AGE: UNKNOWN (24 Earth “years”. Young adult. No reliable estimate for an equivalent in universal time as of now.)
With Ulaz’s thoughts alongside pretty much every entry, even just the basic information stretches on for several pages. Keith starts scrolling through and sees the rest is somewhat of a timeline starting a few months after the basic information was taken down. The name Myzax is the first to show up. Keith faintly recognizes the name as another undefeated gladiator. But, if Shiro’s still here, and also undefeated, then that clearly can’t be the case anymore. He took down a big name like that right out of the gate?
“Do you think you can come over and take a look at him?” Keith asks as he sifts through more of the notes. “Even though I saw that druid magic heal him, I still stuck my sword in him. It’s kind of hard to just sit back like ‘Oh, well, he’s totally fine now,’ and just go on like nothing happened.” Ulaz hesitates.
“I can try to make it this evening, but I don’t know how happy he’ll be to see me,” Ulaz says. “Besides being one of his doctors, the binding is so new I’ll probably just stress him out more than anything.” Keith rolls his eyes.
“He’ll get over it. I don’t want him having a heart attack and keeling over two days from now. I don’t want to have to explain to Zarkon why his precious gift died so fast with me when he’s already made it through the Arena for who knows how long,” Keith sighs.
“It’s your fault then if I lose an eye because you insisted on having company during the honeymoon,” Ulaz says. Keith sinks into the couch and groans.
“Don’t call it that. It sounds gross,” Keith growls.
“That’s exactly what it is though,” Ulaz insists. “They gave you extra time off so you could get used to each other and he can settle down. If you tried to take him out on public now he’d probably have a fit thinking everyone was trying to kill you. And that’s not even getting into environmental hazards. It’s honestly amazing what some of the newly bound slaves can come up with.”
“Yes,” Keith sighs. “They gave me a week off to make buddies with a trained fighter. After I’ve tried to kill him. You know what Ulaz? You’re right. I think we’re destined for greatness.”
“I think you’ll like each other,” Ulaz says. “I think he’s kind, despite his reputation, and he’ll warm up to you quickly-” he’s cut off by a loud thump coming from the bedroom. Keith turns all his attention to the door as footsteps thump from one side of the room to the other. He hears drawers opening, doors whooshing open. He’s had to have found both the closet and the bathroom before he’s found a way out of the bedroom.
“Hey, I’ll talk to you later. I think he’s up,” Keith says. He turns off the datapad and sets it aside just as the bedroom door whips open. Shiro stands in the doorway, still half undressed, still covered in dried blood. His chest heaves and Keith worries that he really is having a heart attack. His eyes flick around the room wildly, all the doors, everything around the room, even the ceiling, before they finally land on Keith.
As they stare at each other, Keith doesn’t feel anything besides a mild kind of fear for Shiro’s immediate reaction, but he knows that Shiro should be feeling some kind of pull towards him. The binding only worked one way. Shiro was supposed to be compelled to protect him, but that didn’t mean that Shiro couldn’t be angry, that he couldn’t hate him. Why wouldn’t he? Keith had hurt him and made him a slave. He was part of the race that had imprisoned him for Keith didn’t even know how long. All the prisoners thought that way. There was no reason Shiro would be any different. Keith tosses around his mind for something to say. A way to break the tension and try to convince Shiro right off the bat that his personal tastes don’t necessarily align with what Shiro’s probably expecting.
“Shiro?” Keith asks. This must be the same Champion Ulaz was thinking of. Surprise crosses Shiro’s face at the sound of his own name. “Do you need help finding the shower?” Keith asks. Shiro’s mouth opens, works around words he can’t quite come up with. His shoulders relax a little and Keith points towards his chest. “You’ve got some blood on you.”