#and i dwelled on it for a good thirty minutes before i finally said bobbie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

larkwinters-a · 7 years ago

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On good days, he didn’t dream.

On bad days, phantom blood poured between his fingers and pooled at his feet, running down from whatever dream injury had been inflicted on him -- typically, the one that had happened the week before or the day before or the hour before. On bad days, he woke up, a scream in his hoarse throat, and the cold chill of the cell running through his body. On bad days, he slept very little.

On really bad days, he didn’t sleep at all and listened to the sounds of sobbing from the adjacent cells.

Last night had been a bad day and he had gotten a little over three hours sleep, which was more than the previous night. Or day. He didn’t know anymore. They didn’t tell him what time it was and it was impossible to tell. His (new) cell came with a small rectangle window, a thirty inch by ten inch reinforced piece of glass that allowed him to see out into space. It was vast, it was dark, and most importantly, it was empty.

When he had been applying for the Garrison, all of those years ago, the application had asked for his aspirations, for his dreams. He had dreamed of space, of exploring the greatest unknown in their universe. He had conferred with his mother, asked her to check over his answer, but she had been no help; she had gushed for ten minutes straight over how proud she was of him. In the end, he had submitted it with no proofread. And it had worked. He’d been asked in for an interview, where he had explained his passions to a dispassionate colonel and a month later, he got his acceptance letter. A month after that, he was a fresh eyed, young cadet on his way to fulfilling his dreams.

And they had been fulfilled. He had gone to Kerberos with a team to gather intel. He had been the pilot for that mission, a career high for him and he hadn’t even graduated yet.

And now, he never would.

The cell was cold. It was a small, square room, and the only life in it was him. The only thing in it was him. There was a poor excuse for a blanket shoved into the corner. He had forgone using it for it’s intended purpose. It was now a makeshift pillow because freezing was better than laying his head on solid concrete -- or stone? marble, perhaps. He didn’t feel the cold that much, anyway. There was always something more pressing to focus on.

Right now, it was the sounds of rattling sentries outside. They were walking down the hallway, identifying which prisoner would be eating that day. There was a process to it and it was far simpler than one would expect; if you got food, they were prepping you to fight. Lark knew what it was, he could see the pattern in their tactic. Emancipate their prisons, so that they would be so relieved that they were getting food, they wouldn’t realise the implication. Lark had heard cheers, soft cries of joy as trays were shoved into cells. They were so overjoyed at finally finally getting food, that they didn’t realise they would be fighting the next night. Or that night.

Lark was one of the lucky ones. Which, here, means he wasn’t lucky at all. He had eaten two days before and the next day, he had been thrown into the arena. He had had food at least three times in this week -- maybe it was a week, he didn’t know the time anymore -- and it all meant he had to fight. Sometimes, he tried not to eat, he tried to refuse, but they had answers for any fighter who went against them. His options were limited.

They became even more limited when he heard the sliding of the grate. He turned his head and watched as the tray was shoved into his cell. A plastic packet of water was there. In a sealed container, there was some bright blue substance. It almost glowed in the darkness of the cell. Lark looked at them both, knowing he would eventually cave and take the water, he always did, but today felt like a day of defiance. He turned away from the food, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the wall. He drew in a shaky move.

Then, in his head and only in his head, he heard it. It was his conscience disguised in a familiar voice he couldn’t quite recognise. It was deep yet still light. It carried an air of softness to it, despite the inflection. She was chiding, yet caring.

You have to eat, she said.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He could remember it, a late night cramming session in the library with nothing but energy drinks and chips to aid him. She had told him he couldn’t survive on that, and that he had to get some proper nutrition. He’d agreed because it was but -- but who was she?

“C’mon Bee,” he spoke slowly, his voice raspy from not being used. “They’re gonna kill me anyway.”

Don’t speak like that, she scolded him. Survive.

He couldn’t argue with her -- faded memories told him that he could try all he wanted but it would be to no avail, she would win no matter how hard he tried --, so he moved, shifting across the floor. His ribs ached, bruised from the previous fight, and his chest felt hollow. Everything he did felt pointless and it felt like the last time he would do it. At first, he had treated each breath, each day, each moment specially, like it was his last and he had to make them count. Now, he was jaded, he was empty. There was no reason to try and make them worth something when he was worth nothing.

He sat down in front of the tray, legs crossed and with shaking hands, he reached out and picked up the water packet. He ripped a corner off and drank.

It tasted nothing like Earth water. It felt different, colder, as it ran down his throat. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until he had had some -- or maybe, a delusion thought entered his head, they were drugging the water to make him think he needed it so he’d be reliant on them. But that was stupid, he already was reliant on them without any added extras.

The them he was referring to where the Galra. An alien species who had ambushed the Kerberos mission without warning. Their large ship had loomed over the small moon and it hadn’t stood a chance. Lark and his team had been captured, dragged on board, and put in front of their leader. Lark had tried to bargain, to gain them their freedom back, but it just had ended up with a sharp hit to his head. It would have been the first of many.

Now, Lark had lost track of time. He didn’t know how long ago that had been or what had come of his team. He hadn’t seen Luke since that day and the last time he had seen Bobbi, he was attacking her, he was purposefully injuring her to save her life. She hadn’t known; she must have assumed he had become nothing but the bloodthirsty monster they had painted him to be. He hoped she had managed to make it, that she still didn’t think of him that. But he had given up long ago that he could be viewed as anything but a monster.

He threw the now empty water packet aside and turned his attention to the blue goop. It didn’t look appetising in the least but he knew it was better than nothing. He reached out, his long fingers just barely grasping the container, when the cell door slammed open.

Without thinking and out of pure instinct, Lark jumped to his feet, his fists held up in a fight stance. He was waiting for his competitor to hit him first. They didn’t.

Sendak stepped into the cell. His large, foreboding body took up a large part of it and Lark back up until his back was pressed against the furthest wall. He had lost his dignity a long time ago, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was scared of him.

His pointed ears were an inch or so away from brushing the top of the cell and his large form blocked any and all light from coming into the cell. Lark dropped his hands to his sides, Sendak’s one augmented eye stared deep into him. He felt vulnerable, like the alien could see his every fear and weakness -- which would have been bullshit because Lark had purposefully buried all of his fears and weaknesses so they wouldn’t be used against him.

His armour was orange, a stark contrast from the other Galra soldiers, and the light that radiated around his shoulders was like an ominous glow. It was announcing his presence in the worst way possible. The yellow eye stared at him without a pupil.

“Well, Atlas,” he sneered, a small growl following his words. “You know what this means.”

“I fought yesterday.” Lark shook his head.

Sendak raised on furry eyebrow and the soldiers behind him let out small, evil laughs. This, they must have been thinking, is our so called Champion.

“You’re funny, Atlas,” Sendak said. “We haven’t had many humans here, but you are a great little fighter.”

The little here wasn’t an exaggeration; Sendak must have been almost two feet taller than him, towering over Lark in a way he wasn’t used to. He had learned fairly quickly here that his unique height back on earth was small to a lot of aliens. He’d been called little before and small and tiny and if his life wasn’t a constant life and death situation, he might have found it ironic, or funny.

“You’re fighting today, Atlas,” Sendak concluding and then he grinned, his smile showing off his sharp teeth. “And we have something special planned for you.”

The breath that left Lark then was shaky but he didn’t get the chance to dwell on it. Sendak’s new arm, the one given to him by the witch Haggar some time ago, clapped it’s metal digits around his arm and pulled. Lark had no choice but to be swayed by the momentum, to be had walked and half dragged out of the cell and then down the hallway. His heart raised in his chest, and as every walk down this hallway usually did, he felt it cause his fight or flight kick in. The adrenaline ran through his body lightening fast and it made the choice of flight, as it always did. Lark looked for an exit.

Don’t, Bee whispered to him. It’s not worth it.

Lark wasn’t sure if she was right this time, if she was just saying that to calm him down. Really, it didn’t matter what she could say to him, no amount of reassuring words could make him feel any less like he was about to die. He spent everyday knowing he would, he had given up hope that he would make it off this ship. He had, once, entertained the thought of what they would do once he did; would he be treated like the other prisoners or would there be an elaborate celebration for their Champion? He didn’t know and he was thankful that he wouldn’t find out.

Sendak guided (dragged) him down the maze of hallways and stairs until they reached the familiar door that lead to the area just outside of the arena -- the green room, if you will -- and Lark knew he had minutes to prepare himself for whatever fight they were putting him in. Even here, behind the layers of metal and concrete, he could hear the deafening roar of the crowd. They were waiting for a fight, they were waiting for him.

Pressing his hand against the square locking mechanism, it recognised the Galra in Sendak and the door slid open. Lark had seen this before, he had deduced that this was why there was no Galra fighters or prisoners, their genetic make up meant they could easily escape or flee. It was one of the things that had crushed his hopes for escape too, he couldn’t get out because his DNA make up with human. Although, with the sentries that patrolled the hallways, it would have been hard to sneak out without getting caught -- but despite that, Lark had been starting to map out their patterns. Even if they were robots, controlled by an AI somewhere else of the ship, they had a pattern to them and he would find it out. Once he did, he would have been able to zip and weave his way through the corridors until he found an escape pod. That meant, however, that he would need to find a way out of his cell first.

It was familiar territory, walking down the staircase that brought them into the hypogeum. It was used daily, because the Galra needed daily entertainment when they weren’t slaughtering planets, and because of that, Lark could smell the sweat and blood from the previous fighters. Because of that, he knew they didn’t make it.

Here, the roar of the crowd was even louder but over it, Lark could hear the sounds of clashes, of something hitting something -- or someone -- and the cheers were in reaction to it. He wouldn’t be the first to fight, he never was anymore, he was firmly planted in the middle, the climax of the show, before some stragglers were thrown in to be killed in retaliation for his win. Lark was well aware of the death toll he had; both of the people he had killed himself and of the people who had been killed because of him. The blood stained his hands, it buried itself deep into the imperfections of his skin. He saw it every time he dreamed, a callous reminder of the boy he had become.

To his right, there was a table. It was used to house weapons when they felt like a more grand show or, perhaps strangely enough, when they knew their fighter wouldn’t stand a chance against their opponent and thus, would need a weapon in order to survive for more than three seconds. Lark had witnessed the latter first hand; it hadn’t been nice.

Sendak’s hand released his arm and Lark could tell it would bruise. “Pick a weapon, Atlas.”

Lark looked at him, gaze steely and jaw tightly shut. He didn’t move. It was a dangerous act of defiance.

Sendak’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “I’d hate to see you die, Atlas. Especially if I’m not the one to do it”

A cold chill ran down Lark’s spine. There was something in the way Sendak spoke that said he wouldn’t like to see him die but he wanted to be the one to do it. Lark wasn’t stupid, he could see the glint on Sendak’s eye. He was jealous. He wanted the Champion title and he wanted to be celebrated the way Lark was but on a much grander scale. He wanted the pseudo adoration and the cheers and the special attention from Haggar. Lark didn’t express to him that he had never wanted it in the first place, this wasn’t a special and rare gift in Lark’s eyes. Sendak could have it if he wanted it.

Without further urging, Lark drifted over to the table. He could remember glimpses of lessons, of combat training, of sparring sessions, but none of them had made him as proficient in weaponry as the fighting did. He had never used so many different weapons before. They lay out before him, beckoning to him, and the darkest part of his mind knew exactly what he could do with each and every one. He picked up the sword.

The handle was silver, dirtied and scratched, but still silver. There was a metal lining along the blunt edge. It was the same off silver, that had been ruined from multiple uses and engraved on it where various Galra markings Lark couldn’t read nor did he want to. The blade itself was translucent, opulent even. The metal shone in the dull lighting. Lark considered turning on Sendak but it’d be no use, even if he defeated him, he would need to find his way out of the ship and they would find him before he’d even made it four feet. He would know, it had happened before.

“We had a story,” Sendak said then, upon seeing what weapon Lark had grasped. “Of a fearless Galra knight who slew any and all monsters who came his way. The old king abdicated to give him the throne that he so rightfully deserved and the empire thrived. Each king that came from his bloodline gave the Galra nothing but prosperity. From then on, we modelled our weapons after the ones he used. That way, we would always have a part of the great king when we went into battle. That way, we wouldn’t lose.”

Lark clicked his tongue. Her voice was in his head again, telling him not to say anything, to keep his mouth shut, but there was another part of her, who told him that authority figures like this needed to be brought down a few pegs. That just because they had the power didn’t mean they could get away with everything they tried. He turned around then, his eyebrow risen. Sendak said nothing, waiting to hear how his story had, perhaps, inspired the Champion.

“That’s...” Lark paused for a moment. “Bullshit.”

The look of contempt on Sendak’s face with worth it. The look on his face, how it twisted into anger and annoyance and almost a hint of pain, was worth it. To see the proud alien so wracked with anger over his dumb little story being torn down by the person he hated the most was worth it.

His retaliation, however, wasn’t words of anger, it wasn’t empty threats to kill Lark the first chance he got. Balling his natural hand into a fist, he reared it back and punched Lark in the face. The sound reverberated off of the walls of the small room, despite the sounds just outside, and the pain was sharp and painful. And nothing he wasn’t used to at this point. He regained his senses quickly enough, conditioned to do after spending months of battling for his life, and Lark straightened up to his full height. He was livid, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. A cut sat on his cheek from where Sendak’s fist had grazed him too harshly. A small trickle of blood leaked out of it.

“You should respect our lore, Atlas,” Sendark sneered. He shook his fist, as though the punch had hurt him more than it had hurt Lark. “You shouldn’t spit in the face of your empire.”

“This isn’t my empire.” Lark spat. “And if you touch me again, I’ll kill you.”

Sendak laughed, a humourless sound that was grating to the ears. “Watch your mouth, Atlas. I’d hate for your promises to die on your tongue.”

He took a step forward, his footstep loud, but he was stopped where he was when the door slid open once more. Both of them looked at the newcomer, another Galra soldier. This time, it was the doctor, Ulaz. Lark had been sent to him a handful of times before, when his injuries had been too minor to be healed with magic. Now, there was blood on his hands, some smeared on his cheek, and he looked between Sendak and Lark. For a moment, his yellow gaze settled on Lark, there was something calculating in his expression. Lark didn’t like it one bit; the Galra were particular, they all had their reasons for being interested in prisoners; from bets to experiments to free labour. Lark was victim to two of the three and he didn’t plan on ticking the third box. He was exhausted as it was.

“Do you think it wise to threaten Emperor Zarkon’s favourite?” Ulaz asked Sendak.

“What are you doing here?” Sendak asked.

Ulaz raised a furry eyebrow. “Body arrival. The fighter has perished.”

Lark’s gaze flickered to the floor and then, to the door. He was next up, whatever was out there would be his opponent next. He could hear the cheering in it’s favour, the way the Galra audience were soaking up everything that happened. They always did, they found enjoyment in the blood that was spilled on the arena floor. It was always cleaned before the first fight the next day. Lark would rather have had that be his job -- he had considered injuring himself to get out of it and he had tried, he had purposefully gotten himself hurt, he had his arm broken, his leg wounded, his shoulder torn open, but all that happened was that he was sent to Haggar and she fixed him up. They wouldn’t let him stop fighting; he would be fighting until the day he died.

Which might have been today.

“You’re up, Atlas.” Sendak said. There was something in his grin, something evil and slimy and Lark wasn’t sure if he should have been scared or angry. “Try to win, for me.”

Lark let out a sharp breath; he was scared and angry. He always was.

Sendak shoved him towards the door and Lark kept his hand tight around the sword’s handle and took in a deep breath. The door slid open agonisingly slowly, releasing the light inch by inch before it was fully open. The arena lights were blinding, bright and white as they always were. Lark couldn’t hear the crowd cheering over the rush of blood in his ears, over the frantic beating of his heart. He moved out into the arena, greeted to an applause that was reserved for their Champion. It made him feel sick.

As he came into view, his face projected onto screens for those in the back rows to see, their cheers turned into chanting; the word Champion was repeated so many times, it became incoherent nonsense in a matter of moments.

And being in the arena right now, Lark knew where to look.

Directly in front of him, there was a podium that was cordoned off from the rest of the crowd. It was a VIP section, saved for only the highest ranking of Galra. There was two unnamed Galra there, a male and female, who were sitting close and whispering to each other. The female let out a soft laugh -- or Lark presumed it was soft -- and the male grinned wickedly. At the very front, however, sitting in his way too large and extravagant chair, was the emperor of the Galra empire.

Zarkon sat with his elbows on each of the armrests, his hands clasped in front of him. His mouth remained a straight line. He was still as terrifying as the day Lark had first saw him. He never cheered, never smiled, never reacted, but he was here to see his Champion, the figure that had been crafted through fights and experiments from the witch as his side. Haggar was a shapeless striking of black, her cloak obscuring everything but her glowing yellow eyes. But Lark didn’t need to see her features, to know that she had two red lines marking her face and a curtain of white hair that fell to the middle of her back. She might even have been considered beautiful in Galra terms. The mere sight of her made Lark anxious, and after everything she had done to him, there was a reason for it too.

“The Galra empire presents,” a smooth voice boomed, “Your Champion.”

The crowd roared, cheering and applauding and Lark lifted his chin ever so slightly. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear; they had already taken so much from him.

Once more, the chanting started again, the moniker becoming just another thing to be heard in his nightmares. They didn’t know his real name, they didn’t care for his real, and he wouldn’t give it to them, even if they asked. It had been months since he had been last referred to as the name given to him by his mother. It was, effectively, dead now. There was no one here to call him Lark Winters.

Except for Haggar. She knew his name, something she had forced out of him. Something she referred to him as, with faux softness and pity, when she found new and fun ways to torment him. He heard her voice sneer the word in his dreams. He had never been so afraid of being called by his birth name.

“And today’s reigning winner,” the presenter said once more. “Zuclie!”

The gate across from him shot open and an alien creature came thundering out. She was lean, her body was curved and she almost looked human. Claws protruded from her hands and feet, a tail with a sharp point at its end whipped around her long, thin legs. She must have been around six feet tall. Her eyes were crimson red, matching the blood smeared over her paper white skin. She had some visible injuries; lacerations criss-crossed over her arms and legs, there was a particularly nasty looking injury on her right rib cage and her face was decorated in an array of bruises and cuts. Lark looked at her and through the anger in her eyes, through the defensive stance she took, he saw it; fear. She was terrified of dying here, she wanted to go back to her family, to her home planet.

But that couldn’t be a factor in their fight; he wanted to survive too, he wanted to go home too.

“Fight!” The presenter yelled.

Lark heard alarm bells ring in his head and she launched herself at him. Clawed hands extended in front of her, she shot at him quickly, but he deftly stepped to the side, narrowly missing her attack. She tumbled onto the ground but recovered quickly and crouched on the ground, she looked livid. Lark flipped his sword, the blade pointing behind him. It was a defence tactic. He held out his left hand.

“Don’t fight me!” he said. “Don’t let them win!”

She let out a scream and lunged at him once more. This time, he wasn’t so quick is escaping her attack and her claws tore across his forearm. Two bright red lines were left in her wake, blood poured out and they stung, for a lack of a better word. Agony spread up to his shoulder and he wince, in response. The ache was nothing knew to him, what with the decoration of scars he had now. He knew that the two on his arm would scar too.

“Die!” she growled at him and once more, she came at him.

Lark lifted the sword smoothly and swiftly. Her claws clashed with the metal and it must have hurt, because she let out a scream. Falling back, Lark realised that her claws were part of her bone structure, he could see the bone press tensely across her skin. He deduced that her species were hunters of some sort, a species that survived in a hostile environment and they had been evolved for survival. His heart hurt for her; she had spent her life hunting and now, she would be spending her last few moments fighting for survival.

Slowly, she rose to her full height, her arms extended at both of her sides, her hands curled up to show him her bloody claws. She wanted him dead because she knew it was the only way for her to stay alive and he didn’t blame her. How could he when he had been doing the exact same thing?

They stared at each other, red on hazel, and moved in a unison, never letting the other get too close. Fight or flight told Lark he needed to run, to get out of there, because he was nothing but a small human in a world that was far too big for him. He didn’t listen. Zuclie came in for a strike.

He was too quick for her, however. He ducked under her stretched out arms and with her back to him, he brought the sword down sharp and fast. It struck her on the back, her skin split open across her middle back and shoulder blade. She screamed in agony and Lark only let the guilt bite at him for half a second; he could feel guilty for this later, when his life wasn’t on the line.

To his shock, however, she stayed down, on the floor of the arena. She stayed on her hands and knees, panting harshly. Blood dripped down into a puddle on the ground and something else joined it. It was her tears. She was silently sobbing as she crouched on the ground and Lark, despite all of his facade, felt his heart break. He moved forward a step, the sword dropping to his side as he did. Her eyes were squeezed shut and this close, Lark saw that she had a pale red birthmark on her left eye.

“Hey,” he breathed out, and she managed to hear him over the crowd’s booing. “Hey, listen to me, listen to me --”

Her head turned and she looked at him. Her red eyes had turned to a soft brown. They were dark, the pretty sort of dark that he could remember getting lost in many times, that he promised a future to. Her nose was slightly upturned too, her eyes a distinct shape he could almost recognise. Her skin had grown more tan now, somehow. She didn’t look white anymore, her bone structure had changed too. Perhaps it had been the fear that had made her look so ferocious.

“We don’t have to do this,” he told her. “We don’t have to fight.”

“They’ll kill us.” she whispered back, her voice broken with pain.

“You’re a good fighter,” Lark said. “They won’t kill you. They didn’t kill me.”

She licked her lips, they were a soft pink. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Lark said. “I’ve survived this long.”

“Because you are the Champion,” she said. Her voice grew more familiar, a deep yet airy lilt to it. It made him feel slightly warm inside, like he was back home. “And they want their Champion alive,”

Perhaps it was her change in appearance that made him more susceptible to convincing her, that made him more eager to keep her alive. There was just something so familiar and soft about her, something he hadn’t felt in such a long time. It almost felt like love.

“Zuclie,” he said. “We can beat their game.”

“Champion,” she said. “You’re good at fighting,”

Lark squinted as the crowd continued to boo -- they were missing their action.

“But you’re not good at protecting your mind.” she concluded. “You are too soft.”

“What?” Lark asked. “What do you --”

Suddenly, she lunged. Her hand shot out and wrapped around his throat. Her fingers pressed tightly against his throat, she was attempting to crush his windpipe, and her other hand caught his wrist. Her fingertips dug into his skin and then, her claws began to extrude. They pierced his skin, slowly drawing in deeper and the pain was unlike anything he felt before. The sword slid from his grasp, just as she pressed a knee to his chest. She was going to kill him.

“What’s her name?” Zuclie asked, her voice sickly sweet. Her curly black hair began to change in shades, turning into a soft brown. A familiar shade he could remember running his fingers through. “What did you call her?”

Lark didn’t answer for two reasons. 1) He would never have told this creature or anyone her name and 2) he couldn’t.

However, all hope wasn’t lost. Her monologue was the perfect distraction. She may have restrained one of his hands but he had a perfectly good right arm. His fingers curled into a fist as black spots danced across his vision.

“It’s such a shame,” her voice was a near perfect mimic now. “To have to look into her eyes before I kill you. Are you ready to die, Champion?”

“Not this time.” Lark bit out.

The look of surprise on her features wasn’t something he swelled on as he swiftly punched her. She fell off of him, her claws still in his arm, but he moved before she could. He landed around punch, flattening her on her back and then he ripped his arm free of her claw. He didn’t linger on the pain, he used it as fuel to keep going. She flipped up onto her knees, into a defensive crouch stance. Her lips curled up in a snarl.

“You --” she began.

He didn’t wait for the rest, he twisted and sharply kicked her in the face. A half strangled scream left her as she flopped over onto the ground. Lark bounced where he stood, willing her to get up again. And she did.

Slowly, she rose into a standing position, her claws out and now, both were bloody. There was an ugly bruise on her temple from where his foot hit her face and her features had turned back to her own. They were plain and empty. There was no life behind them and suddenly, Lark understood why that was. Her species mimicked other’s faces. They dove into the minds of their prey and found someone that would render them vulnerable. She had done that to him, twisting her features into the beautiful face buried deep in his mind. She had used that to make him soft for her and he had fallen for it. And now, he was angry.

She moved towards him and he ducked her swipe but grabbed her arm. He yanked her forward and she landed into his fist. It dazed her long enough that he could grab the sword again and use it to deflect her next attack. For a few moments, they were a clashing of sword on claws, as he expertly deflected each of her hits now. And each time he did, she grew more angry.

An irritated scream left her throat and she bypassed the sword altogether. She reached beyond it and punched him in the jaw, once and then twice. He retaliated with a sharp jab to her chin with his elbow. She took a step back and he used that to his advantage. Swiping up with the sword, he felt it collide with something, which forced him to tug, until it broke free and the momentum caused him to stumble slightly. When he looked up, he saw the damage he had caused.

Both himself and Zuclie stared down at the ground where her claws had clattered to it, looking long and sharp like the spines of a porcupine. When he looked back at her, he saw the utter horror and anger in her eyes. He had pushed her beyond the limit and it showed.

She launched her self at him, knocking them both over onto the ground again and she hit him repeatedly, her fists smacking against him in a fury of blows. Her remaining claws scratched his face and Lark knew that if he didn’t act quick, hers would be the last face he saw. He knew he had to act quick and he did. He also acted without thinking.

He brought the sword up and it disappeared into her side, burying deep across her chest and a sound like strangled screech left her. She fell off of him, gasping for her and life and scrambled backwards. Lark pulled himself up, using the back of his hand to wipe away the blood from his face. Zuclie tore the sword from her body and it fell to the ground. She was bleeding profusely now, blood raining down her side and Lark got to his feet.

Her red eyes fixed on him, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to say something. With how wide her eyes where, Lark realised what was happening. She was staring up at her killer. He moved then.

He fell to his knees beside her, his hand moving to the wound on her side and although he knew it would do nothing for her, he pressed his hand to it. Her hands reached up to grab onto him, her fingers burying into the black fabric of his sleeve. Her gasps were strained, raspy. Some blood trickled down her chin. Tears filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’m so sorry.”

She registered his words, her eyes showing him that she understood, before the light left them. She went limp in his arms, hers fell onto her stomach and at her side. Lark squeezed his eyes closed.

The amphitheatre broke into a thunderous noise. They were celebrating his victory and her death. It was sick, how they thought lives of those unlike them were worth less. His whole body trembled and he wanted to kill them all, every single person in the crowd.

Lark opened his eyes when he heard the sound of sentries coming forward. They were here to collect her body and they did, callously dragging it out of the door on the far end of the arena. She would be disposed of and her family would never find out what happened to her. They would spend the rest of their lives wondering where she was and if she was okay and she would never come home. Because of him.

The thought hit him like a truck, slamming into his rib cage and lungs and his ears started ringing, his head filled with noise. Bile rose in his throat, he leaned over, and puked.

“Our Champion proves worthy of the title!” A voice boomed. “If you bet on our new fighter, you now know not to think of him as incapable.”

Lark scrubbed the mixture of tears and blood from his face before he got up. He could feel the energy sap out of him, leaving him drained and tired. He wanted to have a good night, where he could fall over onto the floor and sleep without any nightmares. He would have taken as little as an hour of that sleep.

His problem, however, was that he still, somehow, managed to get his hopes up.

When he reached the door that would allow him to be dragged back to his cell, it opened to reveal two or three sentries blocking his path. Lark sucked in a deep breath. This had never happened before.

“Get out of my way.” he said.

“We are under strict orders from Commander Sendak.” The lead sentry said. “You are not to leave the arena.”

“What?” Lark asked. “No. No, let me past.”

“We cannot do that.” The sentry said and on cue, they all shifted their guns.

“No, no, no,” Lark shook his head. “I won, I’m allowed to leave. I won.”

The sentries didn’t move and Lark felt fear crash into him then. They had something planned for him, he could almost remember Sendak telling him they had something new in store. His stomach churned. He couldn’t fight again. He was hurt and exhausted, both mentally and physically. He wasn’t fighting again.

He moved then, his mind set on getting past the sentries but they were prepared for that. They moved forward, their guns falling to their sides and they grabbed him, pulling him into the arena again. Dumping him like he was nothing but trash, they returned to their post and the door slid shut, sealing after it had. Lark wanted to cry when he realised what they had done; they’d set him up for the heartbreak. The bastards.

He rose to his feet and looked around the crowd. They didn’t seem to care about the change in rules and continued cheering. Lark looked around, desperately, for some way out. Tears stung his eyes when he realised he was trapped, like a caged animal in the zoo. There was a reason he had always hated those places.

The cheering turned instantly when a familiar voice filled the room.

“Champion,” Zarkon said. “You have proven yourself worthy of the title, yet again.”

“You can’t make me fight again.” Lark said. “I won.”

Zarkon’s laugh was thick and rough. “Win again.”

“No!” Lark’s voice broke. “No, this isn’t fair! I won! You can’t make me fight again.”

“The Galra isn’t fair, boy.” Zarkon sneered. “Not for weak minded creatures like you.”

A small piece of hope Lark didn’t realise he had died then. It crumbled to dust when he heard the door open once more, the hiss being followed by a rapturous applause. The crowd were in a frenzy now, cheering and whooping. Lark turned to see who his new opponent was.

No! Bee screamed in his mind.

Sendak stepped forward and Lark went still with fear. He was paralysed with it. Sendak grinned a knowing grin all while eating up the applause that was for him. The crowd had changed their allegiance quickly, switching to support one of their own. Lark didn’t stand a chance.

“So, Atlas,” Sendak said. “Are you ready to kill me now?”

Lark took in a shaky breath and it was the last relatively calm thing he got to do.

Sendak’s metal fist slammed into his side and sent him skidding across the ground, causing him to hit the floor of the arena a couple off time. The only good thing about it was how it broke Lark out of his paralysis. Pain exploded across his rib cage, a few of his ribs were, no doubt, broken. Shakily, he attempted to get to his feet. Sendak moved faster, however. He punched Lark again, with his normal hand this time, and Lark fell over. One hand going to protect his damaged ribs.

Sendak grabbed a fistful of his white hair, yanking his head up. “This,” he laughed. “Is no way for a Champion to act.”

Fight or flight caused him to act and Lark slammed a foot into Sendak’s solar plexus. He fell away, actually winded by the assault, and Lark had enough time to jump to his feet. He moved backwards, putting as much space between himself and Sendak as possible. This, however, only made the alien smirk, a cruel smile.

He crossed the arena in a matter of seconds and swung. Lark, much to his own surprise, threw his arm up and blocked the hit. The momentary shock was clear on Sendak’s face and Lark used that split second to twist around and hit him in the face. The crowd’s cheering stopped.

It was silent as Lark hit Sendak again, his fist hitting a mixture of bone and fur repeatedly, each fist taking a swing. He didn’t know where the newfound burst of energy came from, perhaps it was a product of his anger and exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep, he just wanted to lay down and shut his eyes. This was bullshit.

He went for another punch but Sendak was too fast. His purple fist closed around Lark’s wrist tightly; it aggravated the wounds there left from Zuclie’s claws. Blood pooled between his fingers and then, he threw Lark onto the ground.

He hit it with a harsh thud and instinctively rolled over onto his opposite side, to keep the weight off of his injured ribs. Sendak advanced on him and then slammed a foot into his chest. He did it again and again and there was a breaking down that only Lark heard; if his ribs hadn’t been broken before, they were now. Lark tasted copper on his tongue and in his throat.

Survive, Bee begged him. Please, just, survive. For me. Please.

Lark groaned softly in response and when Sendak went for another kick, he grabbed his leg. It was heavy but perhaps Lark had just grown weak. Either way, he yanked forward and Sendak crashed to the ground. Lark shifted and then jumped up onto his feet. Sendak stared at him, moving to get onto his own and then, he shifted. The palm of his hand smacked into Lark’s bruised chest and he shoved his back into the nearest wall. His claws dug painfully into Lark’s skin.

“I will have your title,” Sendak said. “I will have your legacy.”

Lark spat blood in his face, it mingled in with his fur. “Take it, you bastard.”

Sendak regarded him with disgust but Lark had no time for his reaction, he used his upper back as leverage and kicked Sendak in the chest. He punched Sendak again and then again and when his momentum was good enough, he kicked him in the chest again. Sendak fell onto his knees, panting. His fur was matted to his head; he was sweating and Lark couldn’t help but think he deserved the fear that caused it. He would deserve whatever fell upon him.

The crowd had been riled up now, fearing for one of their own, and there was shouts, there was booing. They wanted their Champion to fall so they could crown a new one. Sendak continued to pant, out of breath, and Lark punched him in the face, fast and hard. He fell over onto his side. The crowd roared in response.

Lark took a few steps back. His own chest heaved, heavy breaths leaving him and he let the moment settle within him. Sendak remained on the ground.

“Fuck you!” he yelled, voice breaking. “Fuck all of you!”

He stumbled back more, heavy tears spilling down his cheeks. He’d lost count of the injuries he’d sustained and at this point, he didn’t care. He wanted them to throw him in the med bay and leave him alone for a couple of weeks. He’d sleep for them all, nightmares or not.

“Atlas,” The monker was growled, the growl was full of pain.

Lark turned to look at Sendak and they made eye contact for a split second. Sendak’s lips turned into a grin and he raised his left arm. It was cybernetic, made specifcally for him, and it shot out of it’s socket, a line of purple energy keeping it attached to him. The claws were spread out and sharp and Lark didn’t register that he should have moved.

The hand connected with him, the claws tore through the skin and muscle of his arm, and he was thrown to the ground. The arm retracted to Sendak with a metallic clunk and he got to his feet, ready to celebrate his victory, but the crowd didn’t react. It was deathly silent.

Lark had never been in this much pain. His right arm hung limply at his side, blood poured down from his upper arm where three deep gashes sat. The claws his slashed through layers of skin and muscle; his humerus had broken completely.

The sound that left him then was halfway between a sob and a scream. It was the only sound in the arena as tears fell down his cheeks. They weren’t, however, strictly out of pain. He had injured this arm before, a handful of times, and each time it had been healed. The pain was only temporary. His anger was an amalgamation of all of his feelings. The formed one big angry ball of rage and all he truly wanted was for this to be over. So he decided to end it.

No one expected him to move then, least of all Sendak, and he slammed into him at such a rate that they both fell over. Lark regained his senses quickly and with his good hand, he started to punch Sendak. He did it repeated it, his fist becoming bloodied from the amount of times it hit Sendak in the face, the jaw, the nose. He didn’t allow Sendak a chance to breathe, he kept punching.

A few seconds later, although it felt much longer to Lark, the sounds of running footsteps filled the arena. Metal hands grabbed Lark and dragged him off of Sendak. The sentries had come in to put a stop to this; the Galra were unfair. They wouldn’t allow one of their own to become a victim to the arena. Lark struggled against the metal hands secured tightly around his arms, even the injured one.

“I’ll kill you!” His voice was horse and broken and choked with pain. “I’ll kill you!”

Sendak didn’t respond, he got to his feet, blood dripping from his face. “Get him away from me.”

Lark fought against the sentries, he wasn’t done and he wanted to kill Sendak then and there. But he wasn’t allowed to do that. A Galra soldier who wasn’t a robot stepped forward. His hand pushed Lark’s head to the side and he shoved a needle into his neck. The fluid was cold and painful and something Lark recognised. It was a sedative, they were putting him under.

Still, he fought, his heart punding and pushing the sedative through his bloodstream faster. The sentries pulled him out of the arena and the second he was back in the hypogeum, he was unconscious.

🐝

It was the sound of talking that woke him up. He wasn’t fully awake, he as still groggy, what with the sedative still in his system, but it seemed those in the room with him were being cautious. Their words were soft whispers, like they were afraid of being heard and they were being heard.

Lark attempted to lift his head but the light caught his eye and sent a searing pain through his head. He dropped his back down and shut his eyes, simply focusing on listening in to the conversation.

“I have noticed something strange within him,” It was a raspy yet feminine voice. Haggar. “Something you may be interested in, Emperor.”

“You had better not be wasting my time,” Zarkon growled. “I am a busy man, I don’t care for your theories.”

“In my experimentation on him,” Haggar continued. “I have found a link, between him and the weapon you look for.”

“Voltron.” Zarkon simply said.

Lark carefully opened his eyes once more. He blinked a few times and then, slowly lifted his head. He was in Haggar’s room once more, he must have been taken to her after the fight and it seemed as though some time had past. His minor injuries had settle against his skin, bruises were starting to form, and most of his wounds had stopped bleeding, leaving cracks of dried blood in their wake. He was bound tightly, metal straps kept him in place. One clamp his injured wrist against the table, another secured the upper part of the same arm down. The same procedure had been applied elsewhere, his ankles and thighs were adorned with the same metal bindings and one lay over his chest, pressing tightly against his injured sternum. The final one kept his waist held down.

Surprisingly enough, his right arm was free but that wasn’t a sign of hope. He couldn’t move it without being in excruciating agony. It hung limply at his side, his fingers twitching ever so slightly.

His breaths sped up, short and fast as they left him, panic gripped his mind and chest and refused to let him breathe. Tears sprung into his eyes. In all of his time with the Galra, his anxiety had never been this high or painful.

However, his panic attack was interrupted with a hand clamped around his jaw, tilting his head back slightly.

It was Zarkon, staring down at him with dangerous yellow eyes. His sharp claws dug into Lark’s skin.

“Where is Voltron?” he asked.

“What?” Lark asked. “I don’t -- I have no idea what that is.”

“I will ask you again.” Zarkon said. “Where are the lions?”

“I don’t know.” Lark said, tears pooling in his eyes. “I don’t know -- I have no idea what Voltron is.”

Zarkon’s grip tightened on his jaw. “Do not test me, Champion. You may have defeated our best figher but that doesn’t mean I will treat you like some hero. You will tell me where the lions are and --”

“I don’t know what Voltron is!” Lark snapped. “I don’t know!”

Zarkon looked at him and then, his hand fell away from Lark’s jaw. The relief last only a moment because he immediately used the same hand to smack Lark.

“I am your emperor.” he growled. “You will not speak to me in such a manner.”

Lark shut his eyes, trying his best to stay calm. He heard the footsteps as Zarkon walked away from him.

“Do what you wish to him.” he said to Haggar. “Just do not kill him -- if he knows anything about the lions whereabouts, I will find a way to get it from him. No matter what it takes.”

The door slid open and Zarkon stalked out of the room. It slid shut and Lark opened his eyes. Zarkon was gone but that didn’t mean he was any calmer. In fact, he was less scared of Zarkon than he was of Haggar, the person he had been left with. She came towards him, lifted a hand to drop the hood of her cloak. Her normally yellow scleras had receded and now, she stared at him with golden pupils.

She clicked her tongue. “Lark.”

He wanted to throw up at how casually she used his name.

“Your arm,” she reached out and took it in her hands. Lark winced loudly. “It has been badly damaged. I had told Sendak to return you to me in one piece. It seemed he wanted you dead.”

Lark didn’t say anything. He clenched his jaw shut.

“And this,” she looked to his arm. “Is of no use to me. I do not want a broken warrior. I do not want you broken in such a manner, but this arm --”

“It needs to heal,” he cut her off. “You have to -- heal it.”

Haggar tilted her head to the side. “Heal it?”

“Please.”

She started to shake her head, slowly. “It’s no use. You’ve injured it twice before. I’m afraid we’re going to have to try something different.”

They wouldn’t leave him with an injured arm like this, they wouldn’t send him back to his cell like this. More importantly, they wouldn’t throw him back in the arena like this. Lark knew that Haggar could easily heal the damage, leaving just the scars as evidence there had ever been an injury in the first place, but if she was refusing to do that now, it meant she had ulterior motives. She had a plan.

“I’m going to have to remove it.” she said, turning away from him.

“No!” he gasped. “No, no, just heal it!”

She waved him off and walked to another part of her room. Lark started to fight, attempting to break free. He wouldn’t let her take his arm.

“I’ve had a new arm crafted for you,” she spoke slowly. “It is some of the finest Galra engineering.”

“No.” he said. “No, no, just -- please heal it.”

She returned then, a case floating behind her. When she reached him, the box was set down on her equipment table and she clicked it open. Inside lay a silver piece of metal. There was seams on it, showing where it had been wielded together. A black patch decorated the elbow, hiding the joint, and the fingers were black too. Lark felt like he was going to throw up but a combination of the sedative and his own exhaustion stopped him from fighting further. The collection of transparent wires inside of the arm -- his new arm -- looked awful.

“It won’t take long.” Haggar said. “I will severe your arm above the injury and the cybernetic arm will fit nicely. It was specially made for you.”

“You can heal this,” he said, dejectedly. “I know you can.”

Haggar turned to look at him. “I can do a lot of things, boy, but healing you is not one of them.”

“You are a monster.” he said.

Haggar turned back to the arm. “So are you.”

Lark’s mouth parted, as though he was going to argue but after today, he knew she was right. After everything he has done in the arena, he couldn’t deny that he had become what they had crafted him into; a monster. The months of fighting and experimentation had all culminated in this. He was no longer a person, just some form of sick entertainment for them. He couldn’t even remember who he used to be and if that person was a good person.

“What do you gain from this?” he asked Haggar. “There has to be something.”

“I am helping my empire.” Haggar said. “By doing this, I help them succeed.”

Lark blinked. Some tears fall. He realised what he was about to do was awful but he had done a lot worse. “He won’t love you, you know? He can’t love you.”

Hagger snapped her gaze to him. Her golden pupils were ablaze with anger, like he had struck a nerve, and she threw her hand up. Sparks of purple energy shot out of her hand and hit him. It was her go to method always and without fail, it always felt like he’d been hit was a thousand volts of electricity. It tore through him and he screamed. It lasted briefly but too long all at the same time.When she retracted her attack, he panted heavily. Somewhere in between, more tears fell.

“I do not care for his feelings towards me.” Haggar said. “Love is a weakness.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Lark groaned, voice hoarse.

“The one you love,” Haggar said, how voice icy. “Do you think she misses you?”

Lark looked up at her. His chest heaving. He didn’t give her the satisfaction of his answer; they both knew the truth. They both knew he didn’t want her to miss him, they both knew he wanted her to have moved on. They both knew he was scared that she hadn’t. Haggar had been in his mind enough times to know.

“Now,” she said. She remained emotionless as always, never once betraying how she felt. “This arm is hardwired to work instantly, it will be grafted onto your arm and you will become one with it. You will be able to use it as easily as you do your left arm. You will be back to fighting in a few days.”

She moved then, coming closer to him and fear shot down his spine and through his every nerve.

“Don’t touch me!” he snapped. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

She paid no heed to his protest and her hands wrapped around his torn apart upper arm. Her fingers became coated in his blood as she ran them up to the point just above the injury, about an inch or so from the top most laceration. Her thumb brushed across the smooth skin, like she was sensing whether that part of his bone was broken. It wasn’t and a small noise of approval left her.

“No,” Lark breathed out. “No, you can heal me, you don’t have to --”

Purple energy glowed beneath her fingers and then, like a knife, it sliced through his arm.

The pain was white hot, it shot through his upper arm and into his shoulder and it sent thousands of alarms blaring in his head. It became too much; he became overwhelmed with the pain, the shock, the absolute horror of what she had just done to him. His scream got stuck in his throat and only came out as a soft breath, he looked down at her and Haggar looked up at him.

He didn’t look down, he couldn’t look down. For a short moment, he was tense and wide awake and aware of what was happening.

A moment later, the pain caused him to pass out.

🐝

It was days later when he woke up again.

When he did, he was still in Haggar’s room. This time, however, he didn’t wake up strapped down. He was on a her bed but Lark knew she didn’t she it; it was merely a decoration ina vain attempt to humanise her to the people she tortured. His left hand was cuffed to the frame, keeping him there, but his right was free. It was this hand that he used to scrub over his eyes, to touch his temple, where a headache had bloomed.

It was this hand that was cold to the touch, this hand that felt slightly heavier than his left. It was this hand’s touch that caused his eyes to snap open. He jerked up and looked down at his new arm.

The palm was a sleek black, it reflected the dull overhead lights, but the thumb was silver. The same sleek silver made up the forearm and upper arm. His whole body trembled but the arm didn’t, it was impervious to his reactions to it. It made smoothly as he turned it over to see the top of the hand. A shaky breath left him but there was nothing in him; he couldn’t cry, couldn’t even bring tears to his eyes. The shock had numbed him that much.

The door opened then and Haggar entered.

“What did you do to me?” he asked her, voice shaky.

“I fixed you.” Haggar said. “I made you better.”

Lark didn’t respond. He looked at her, rendered speechless with shock and then, he looked back down at the arm. It felt like a phantom limb, like it wasn’t his and it wasn’t.

Haggar drew herself closer to him and he spotted this in his peripheral vision. Instinct made him back away, cowering in fear.

“You’re perfect now.” she said. “You now have a part of us. You’re very fortunate.”

“I never wanted this!” he yelled, his hand balling into a fist.

Haggar didn’t respond. She waved a hand and his left hand was released. Lark instantly brought it to his chest and he rubbed the raw skin around his wrist. There was small cuts there from the fight days ago. They had scabbed over.

“You will need another day’s recuperation.” she said. “I have told them you won’t be fighting until you are able to. The new arm will help you fight. You will thank me for it.”

Lark looked at her and shook his head. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“Hm,” she drifted away from him. “Just like you were going to kill Sendak, right?”

That felt almost personal. The insult hurt him more than he wanted it to but he knew what it meant. She was telling he wasn’t strong enough to hurt the people who hurt him and he knew she was right.

His gaze shifted to the ground and he didn’t bother to look up with they were joined by a third party. He half expected it to be Sendak but when he looked up, he saw that it was Zarkon. He moved to his feet, his body rigid. This felt dangerous but only for him.

“I will see to it that you do not fight in the next few days.” Zarkon said as he walked towards Lark. “You will still be our Champion.”

Lark said nothing.

“If you tell me where the lions are,” Zarkon said, almost softly. “Then you will never have to fight again.”

Lark’s breath was soft as he released it. “I don’t know where the lions are.” he said. “I don’t even know what the lions. I can’t help you, even if I wanted to.”

“Pathetic.” Zarkon hissed. “You are pathetic.”

The anger in him then was immeasurable and he almost snapped. He wanted to tell the emperor that it wasn’t his fault he was pathetic, that they had made him like this, the had turned him into the ruins he was now. But he didn’t. He didn’t have the courage to.

Zarkon walked away from him. “Take him back to his cell.” he barked.

Two Galra soldiers entered and marched over to him. There was no point in telling them that he didn’t have the energy to fight them, so he let them grab his arms and pull him out of the room. They had just left when the emperor exited and cleared his throat. Lark shot him a glare.

“Oh, and Lark?” he said and Lark swore he smirked. “Enjoy the arm.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t get the chance to, as the soldiers tugged him down the hallway. Zarkon disappeared into the darkness.

When he finally got back to his cell after days of wanting nothing but it, he was shoved inside by the soldiers who lingered as he breathed in the claustrophobic environment. He was still in captivity but being in his cell was ask much freedom as he would get. He needed the soldiers to leave. They didn’t.

“So, you’re the Champion.” One said. “You’re not what I expected.”

Lark didn’t know which one spoke but he sighed, shutting his eyes. Yeah, he didn’t say, because I’m just a boy from Earth who wanted to be a pilot.

“Shut up,” The second one said. “Did you see him nearly kill Sendak? Imagine how dangerous he is now with that arm.”

The first scoffed. “Yeah, I’m so scared of a Haggar’s broken toy.”

They shut the cell door then and they were gone. Lark finally felt his eyes fill with tears and they fell instantly. Soft sobs left him and despite his qualms with it, he wrapped his arms around himself and crumpled to the floor. He curled up there on the cold stone and he was aware that te prisoners in this cell block could hear him sobbing but he didn’t care.

“B-Bee?” he asked, voice raspy. “Bee, I need you.”

She didn’t respond and Lark shifted down onto his side, his knees lifting up to his chest despite the pain.

It was in that moment, that he remembered her arms, the way they felt around him, how her embrace could help with even the worst of days. And lately, he’d been having a lot of bad days. Lately, he had begun to realise that there was only one person who could have even remotely made him feel better. He was foolish to think that one embrace could wipe away all of his newfound trauma but he knew it would have been easier to deal with, if he had her here with him. If he had her here with him, he would have been stronger than he was.

But she wasn’t here. She was back on earth, far far away from him and he would never see her again.

#self para tag

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