(On the Hunt) Chapter 39

Pride: On the Hunt

Chapter 39

Privileges of Rank

Their third fight had been against Drules again; more disgraced soldiers. Apparently the Ninth figured there was no reason to court-martial troops who misbehaved when the gladiatorial arena was an option. Those of the 686 who'd been through the Alliance's disciplinary system—and that was plenty of them—were gaining a whole new appreciation for the JAG.

This group hadn't worked together very well at all, but they'd seized the initiative early and might have overrun the team had it not been for Keith singling out and dispatching their leader. He'd recognized their weakness correctly. Without a leader the Drule cohesion had completely disintegrated, each gladiator worrying about themselves and their own battle, leaving them vulnerable to divide-and-conquer tactics. It had still been rough, but they'd escaped with cuts and bruises and muscle strains rather than, well… worse.

After checking everyone over and chasing the Drule medics away, Jace had gone over to the spot in the corner where his discarded jacket was shielding their escape supplies. It was a couple of sad little piles. Sifting through what the others were bringing over he shook his head in frustration. "The wood-to-salt ratio in this fucking arena could learn a few things from giant donut dude's barbecue recipes."

"Oh don't say barbecue, Doc." Cam was fumbling with his shirt, trying to work what he'd brought free—it would've been easier if one of the damn enemies hadn't stomped on his hand out there. He hurt. Badly. "Now I want some."

"We'll have a big BBQ when this is over," Hunk promised. "With all the salt Doc could want!"

Lance smirked, eyeing Jace. "Are you admitting Hunk's recipes are good?" Even Sven couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow waiting for that answer.

The medic rolled his eyes. "I'm saying this is a time when ridiculous amounts of salt would actually be helpful."

Vince snorted, but the broader point was sound. Usable salt was proving harder to retrieve than they'd hoped. "We do need more."

"How much would you say we need?"

"More."

"What he said. Ain't exactly a standard equation for salt-to-water-to-BOOM that I know of. This is usually a thing you do in your backyard to freak out your parents, not practical demolition."

Sven eyed Hunk and quirked the other eyebrow. "Are you speaking from experience there?"

"Maybe. …Totally."

"How much more, though? One more fight? Two?" Lance made a face. "I swear I put more into my pockets than comes out."

"Depends how much we get outta those fights." The big engineer was looking at the piles with a little bit of worry as well. They weren't building supplies as fast as any of them had hoped. But they still didn't have any other ideas.

Finally managing to work his own contribution free of his shirt, Cam handed it over and grimaced. "Thought for sure that one with the huge sword was going to skewer me trying to get this…"

Daniel looked over at him and shook his head. "You're such a dweeb."

Blink. "A dweeb? What's that even mean?"

"Probably what mechka means," Vince suggested dryly; Pidge looked up in confusion.

"I've told you what mechka means. I've never even heard of a dweeb?"

Sigh. "It's more the implication… never mind."

"Dude, it's an insult," Daniel said indignantly. He would've explained further, but trailed off for a moment as he realized he was not actually sure of the definition. It wasn't part of his usual repertoire, it had just felt right at the moment. "I think it means you do stupid shit."

"Know what else means you do stupid shit?" Jace asked, covering up their wood and salt and turning back to the others. "'Explorer Team building a molten salt bomb'… actually just those first two words are enough."

"No, that qualifies under fucking badass," Lance corrected, then turned to Daniel and shook his head. "Honestly, kid, I expect more from you than dweeb. I know you're better at insults than that, you need to step up your game."

Oh. Great. More expectations. "Well, when I'm no longer a Drule arena slave I'll make sure to get right on that."

"We know you will." Cam reached over and ruffled his hair. "Takes one to know one, whatever it means. I learned from the best. Right?"

Daniel stared at him blankly, and it slowly became a glare as he fully comprehended what had just happened. "Did you just ruffle my hair, fanboy?" Being implicitly called a dweeb, fine, whatever; he'd been called way worse. Touching the hair was not okay.

Grin. "I can do it again."

"I don't think that's a good plan, Cam."

"Cam, leave Daniel's hair alone."

Lance's admonishment was not as effective as Keith's; their comms officer straightened up a little. "I didn't mean anything by it, sir. Sorry, Daniel." It didn't stop Daniel from glaring daggers at him.

"Are you two going to fight?" Pidge asked. "We could use another practice session, but people are still bleeding." He'd been told that meant it wasn't the time.

"There'll be no more fighting outside of our standard slave duties," the gunner answered with a pious look. "But there can be dramatic retellings of the time Cam flirted so bad he got shot…"

"You wouldn't."

"Boys. Enough."

Nobody was listening to Keith anymore. "Really? I wouldn't? I wouldn't?" Daniel turned to the others for backup. "Lance, does that sound like something I'm capable of?"

Like that was even a question. "I think you're capable of anything, kid."

"We can still do charades," Hunk offered, trying to cut this off before it went too far.

All it got him was a glower from Flynn, who wasn't entirely convinced Cam and Daniel's bickering was worse than charades. "Someone hit Hunk for me."

"You're sitting right next to him," Pidge pointed out.

"…Yes, but I don't want to do it." Hunk snickered at that; Lance smacked him lightly, and it turned into a pout.

Hunk was not the only person pouting at Lance; Daniel had been giving him a mildly disgruntled look through that whole exchange. Finally he muttered, "Is me threatening my friend with emotional and social torture really the time for you to go all weird and M-wordy on me?"

"Wait, what?" What the hell had he said that was mentor-y now? "I just meant you're unpredictable and a smartass!"

"That is literally the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"M-word?" Keith echoed, looking between them. "What M-word?"

Daniel pointed accusingly at him. "You don't get to mention the M-word!" The accusing finger moved to Lance. "I thought you were going to talk to him!"

Their pilot scowled back at him. "I hadn't found the time, what with being captured and made a gladiator slave and all, but fucking fine. Keith, this is all your fault."

"…What did I do?"

Jace motioned Hunk over to himself and Sven. "Giant donut dude, you smuggle any popcorn in?"

"I wish, dude. I wish."

"What if he says that sentence again and I'm forced to impale myself on a sword from the shame?" Daniel demanded; he'd entirely forgotten anyone else was even in the room. "That won't help with the whole gladiator slave thing!"

"What are you—"

"—Keith, let's get something straight here." Lance glared. "I'm not a fucking mentor and we do not ever say the M-word. Got it?"

Blinking, eyes darting back and forth between the two, Keith slowly realized what was going on. It was all he could do to hold down a chuckle. "Sorry, just called it like I see it."

It didn't make Lance any less indignant. "See it? You look at me and see that?"

"Not in the regular usage of the word?" Shrug. "But for an Explorer Team? Yeah."

"No." He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. "And never fucking tell Daniel you're proud of him, that's just going to make him do something stupid like mercury spillage again…"

He hadn't lowered his voice nearly enough, and Daniel jumped in. "Yeah, that! This time it'll be way more idiotic than trying to destroy Cam's stupid bird with what I thought was rocket fuel."

On the other side of the cell, Jace had gone over and taken a couple of their newest round of rations, ripped them into popcorn-sized pieces, and distributed even quantities to Sven and Hunk. It seemed like the proper thing to do.

"…Why would saying I'm—" Keith cut that off at the look on Lance's face. "—why would saying that make him do something like that?"

"Have you met him?!"

"Obviously. And he's improved since that first meeting…" Pausing, Keith lowered his own voice and muttered, "Slightly."

Daniel sulked. "Why do you like to hurt me?"

"See? It's the wrong way to handle him…" Lance trailed off as Keith raised an eyebrow and he realized exactly what he was saying. "But me knowing that in no way makes me an M-word! Fucking fuck…"

"No, definitely not, flyboy." Flynn smirked. "Who could ever imagine that? You've certainly never talked about setting up play dates for him, either."

"…YOU WHAT?"

"Play dates?"

"You nearly agreed to that play date," Lance shot back with a look of mild betrayal.

"You tried to set me up on a play date?" Daniel's annoyance gave way to a sudden strike of confusion. "Wait, with who?"

"You don't want to know."

"It was a bizarre lapse of my usual pristine judgment."

Hunk made some more pseudo-popcorn and passed it out to Jace and Sven.

Scowling, Daniel shook his head and glared up at the ceiling—he couldn't glare at everyone in the cell at once, it got the point across. "Just… I don't… haven't I been through enough emotional trauma without you people adding to it?"

"We're an Explorer Team, Daniel." Cam was still trying to figure out how in the world they'd gone down this moon rabbit hole; he supposed what he'd just said explained that, too. "I think trauma in all forms is what we're going to get."

"This is trauma?" Pidge muttered under his breath; Vince shrugged and answered equally quietly.

"To some." He was personally still hoping for that coma dream.

"You know," Daniel was now glaring fully at Cam, "sometimes when you talk, I imagine you going through a woodchipper, and I get happy enough on the inside to not call you names."

"We're already doing okay with wood chips," Jace objected.

There was a time Cam might have been legitimately upset by that, but by now he was pretty sure it was an expression of endearment. Weird, Daniel-y endearment, but endearment nonetheless. "I suppose I've had that coming for awhile, huh?"

"Yeah. Since day one. When you got pissed at me for opening a door."

"Disrespectfully opening a door," Cam retorted, then shrugged. "Though since we're all apparently bringing up our past sins here… Pidge, I'm sorry about the peanut butter thing."

Pidge stared blankly; he wasn't the only one. Daniel snorted. "I've committed no sins… at least none I feel bad about." Minus killing some Drules, he supposed, but there was no need to bring that up again.

"Okay, that's quite enough." Keith exhaled slowly. It was good for morale to be up; this conversation track just didn't seem necessarily suited to keeping it there.

Flynn nodded in agreement. "Maybe this is not the time to start bringing up every minor confessional we have."

"Are any of us even fucking Catholic?" Lance asked, looking around the cell. Several shrugs answered him. "See, we don't need to confess sins."

"We didn't even steal that part of Catholicism on Dathreil, and we stole fucking Latin."

"The most fussy part, of course."

"Obviously."

Footsteps echoed outside, silencing them. They'd barely gotten back from their last fight, it couldn't be time for a new one already… it had just become reflex. If guards were near, they shut up. It was a good habit to get into, for the times they were discussing something consequential.

The door opened; a different guard than usual was standing there. She tossed a roll of something brown and drab into the cell. "Warriors, I bring you greetings and congratulations in the name of the arena master. Your prowess in battle has earned you the right to bear a name and standard into your combats." She indicated the roll. "You may design your banner as you see fit, but know that any insults will be yours to defend in battle. Blood and glory to you, gladiators."

As the guard vanished, the team just stared blankly at the door for what seemed like a very long time. All that they'd just been talking about faded away in the face of whatever the hell they'd just heard.

"…So, uh, raise your hand if you foresaw getting arts and crafts assignments in the alien slave dungeon," Daniel finally snarked.

"Earned us the right?" Vince repeated blankly. "Did they tell us there were reward tiers in the slave arena?"

Hunk shrugged. "Maybe at ten wins we get a free burger?"

"I'd love a burger."

"Same."

"Fuck yes."

"Not here you wouldn't, pretty willing to bet."

Keith shook his head but didn't stop the chatter this time; morale was still worth it. He went to unroll the bundle instead. It was a large square of coarse brown cloth, with three pouches of thick pigment wrapped up inside of it. Nothing remotely usable as a weapon, of course; even the fabric was too rough and brittle to be of much use in any escape plan. No surprise.

Daniel hadn't been wrong. It looked pretty much like they'd been assigned an arts and crafts project.

Well, what the hell? "I can't believe I'm asking this, but does anyone have ideas for a team name?" He shrugged helplessly. "Better to play along than invite any suspicion we don't have to."

"I've got one," Jace muttered derisively. "Call us the Honey Badgers, because we don't give a fuck."

"Dude, that meme last went around like five years ago."

"Like the bitchy blue space elves know or care?"

"Yeah, point."

"Have we considered not playing along might be the best way to play along?" Flynn asked, frowning. "What if they expect us to tell them where they can shove their banner?"

"I volunteer," three people offered at once.

Keith frowned. It was a fair point, but looking back, he was pretty certain he'd seen a banner on the opposite gate in their last battle. "They don't really seem like they're big on reverse psychology. I don't know if overthinking ourselves in circles helps us, either." He picked up one pigment and frowned at it. It was a deep blood red, and he frankly didn't trust it to be anything but all natural.

"Just paint a big middle finger on it and call it a day," Lance suggested. "They said we can defend our insults, let's give them the fucking insult."

While the rest of them were debating, Cam had moved over to the cloth and picked up the black pigment, tossing it thoughtfully between his hands. "Guys, I've got the perfect name. And the perfect symbol to tell these bastards exactly what we think of their arena."

That earned him several raised eyebrows, then Flynn shrugged. "If you've actually got something you want to do, no objections."

Slowly the others murmured in agreement, and Keith nodded. "Have at it, Starr."

Cam nodded and crouched over the banner, squeezing the pigment out. From the faint smell of smoke and dirt that emanated from it, Keith guessed it was coal-based. He made a mental note to save some; that might actually help their plan after all. Whatever Cam was drawing, he finished it up remarkably quickly, then stood and held up the banner. "Here we go."

It was immediately apparent why it had been so quick; he'd left most of the cloth blank. There was only a team name in bold, jagged letters.

THIS SPACE FOR RENT.

The team exchanged looks of mixed amusement and disbelief… and finally, Hunk burst into laughter. It spread through the cell until even Pidge and Jace were snickering, and Keith nodded with a grin of his own.

"It'll do."

*****

Based on the feeding schedule—without a window, it was hard to tell time in any other objective fashion—it was the next day when their usual guard arrived again. They could see some of the armed guards arrayed behind him this time; it looked like there were extras. Cam shifted behind Keith, just a little. "Thought today was our day off?"

"Gettin' all kinds of company these days, yeah?" Hunk frowned at the door.

"Great."

"Yay."

"Are we fighting again?" Sven was the only one to actually address the guard, who shook his head.

"You have earned time away from your cell, gladiators. If you wish to remain, so be it. Else we will take you to either the arena to watch other battles, or the slave recreation yard for some time. You need not all make the same choice."

It felt like they'd all done a lot of blank staring lately, and yet the guard had managed to invite more. Finally Hunk whispered, "There really are reward tiers."

Neither choice sounded especially attractive, but both sounded potentially useful. They needed information. Keith looked around at the others for a few moments, then back to the guard. "Can we discuss it?"

"You have five minutes."

"You bring us such joy," Lance said, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the others. "Would be nice to see different walls."

"If we can get out of here for a little bit I'd say we should," Flynn agreed.

Jace snorted and crossed his arms. "Whatever passes for fresh air in this place while we're not in mortal danger would be a great idea."

"Alright." Keith waved the group in closer. Splitting up felt intuitively wrong, yet he didn't feel unsafe considering it. Clearly the Drules thought highly enough of their gladiators; it was doubtful this was a trick. And splitting up would give them more information than only taking one option. "So, fights or rec yard. Who wants to go where?"

"I vote rec yard." Daniel had no interest in seeing any other fights. He didn't even want to see their own.

"I'll go with the kid."

"I'm going too, then. In case he aggravates that leg."

The kid gave Jace a look of disapproval that didn't really last. "I'm not gonna… well, I might. Okay, good idea."

"I'll go to the arena." Keith looked at Sven, who caught the invitation and nodded his acceptance. "We can analyze the fights. Flynn, you and Pidge to the yard? Get a good look around?"

Pidge nodded also, and Flynn cracked a wry grin. "That works…" Turning to Lance, he whispered under his breath, "Fuck. We're going to have that play date."

Their pilot's eyes widened, and he grinned back. "Shut the fuck up." Mercifully nobody else seemed to hear it this time.

Cam stepped closer to Keith. "I'm with the commander."

"I'll go to the arena, I guess." Vince didn't feel like he'd be much use either place, but he definitely didn't want to stay in the cell alone, and he'd be better at studying enemy combat tactics than running around in some prison yard.

Lacking any strong preference either way, Hunk decided to stick with the nervous kid. "I'm in for the arena too. People behind us might not appreciate it, but eh."

"Alright." Keith turned back to the guard, who'd probably heard the whole thing, but wasn't saying so. He wondered if that was a sign of respect, too. "Half of us will go to the arena to watch, the other half would like to go to this recreation yard."

"Very well." One of the armed guards stepped up, and he motioned to her. "Kurile will lead those who have chosen the yard. I will take the rest of you to the arena. Come."

As they left the cell, Pidge looked up at Flynn and whispered. "Sir, what exactly is a 'play date'?"

"Pidge… just forget you ever heard that."

"Yessir."

*****

The arena stands were accessed through a whole new labyrinth of corridors. They passed a few Drules—spectators? They didn't seem to be slaves—who saluted as they went by, which just made everything seem that much more surreal. The guard led them through a reinforced door and they found themselves in a small VIP box of sorts, with their 'banner' hanging on the wall.

"Really?" Vince murmured.

Cam snickered. "That's so freaking funny." Sven couldn't help a smile too; it was pretty funny, and they had to take what humor they could get in this situation.

"Well, it gets us out of the cell, right?" Keith moved up to the front of the box and picked out a seat. The arena looked very different from here, for certain…

"…Dude, do these seats actually have cushions?" Hunk had walked up to one and was poking it suspiciously. There were definitely cushions. Most of them were bloodstained to a degree, but they were still soft.

Their guards had taken up a position just inside the door; the leader seemed amused. "Strength comes with privileges, gladiators."

Sven shrugged and dropped into a seat; he'd needed a shower and some laundry for much too long to be worried about a few bloodstains. He was a walking, talking bloodstain. Cam was a bit more skeptical, but swallowed and dropped next to Keith. Vince held out the longest, staring at the cushions, seriously questioning the Drule idea of 'privilege'. But politeness and survival instinct—he was finding an overlap—finally won out, and he sat. Ugh.

Looking around, they could see the occupants of the boxes beside them, each also bearing a banner—rather more ornate ones, of course. On one side a large group of Drules sat in front of a crown and a broken shield. On the other, beneath a snarling beast of some sort, sat a group of muscular humanoids with turquoise-striped maroon skin. They wore furs and fangs, and Cam gave a low whistle; they looked terrifying. "Wow, check out those guys a box over."

"Hmm. They look… intimidating," Sven agreed, as Vince's eyes widened and Hunk gave a low whistle.

The announcer's voice started to boom over the stadium, drawing their attention away from their fellow gladiators; Keith nudged Cam, who nodded. He was getting the hang of the Ninth's dialect. "This fight is more captured pirates—ooh, captured Drule pirates, guess they don't like that?—against a group of uh, 'born slaves trying to rise above their station'." Both sides actually looked to be Drules, which seemed a little surprising; then again, the way things went in this arena, maybe it shouldn't have been.

Whatever the case, they charged each other with full enthusiasm, the pirates seeming especially bloodthirsty. Keith leaned forward, eyes sharpening, taking in the flow of the battle. Hunk gave another low whistle. "They keep that up, they're not gonna have much left real quick, yeah?"

"Yeah." It was an all-or-nothing strategy, overwhelming force with no thought for defense. They'd seen it go poorly in their own last fight. Here it seemed to be working better, at least so far.

"It may work for them," Sven murmured. He was focused on the individual movements, trying to identify anything he could in their fighting styles, memorizing the techniques. There were some commonalities between them and the Drules the team had faced, perhaps a standard martial art among their people. Every bit of information helped.

Though Vince was trying to watch the arena, sort of, his eyes kept being drawn back to the crowds. The bloodier it got, the louder the spectators roared; he didn't get it. He really didn't get it. Only the other gladiators seemed to remain stoic. "Who do you suppose they are?" he asked softly as Hunk caught his eye. "Pirates too?"

The big man shrugged and looked back at their guard. "Yo, Threepio—what is your name, anyway?—you allowed to tell us anything about our lucky fellow gladiators over here?" He gestured around to the other boxes.

Seemingly startled to be addressed, the guard considered that for a few moments. "I am Skalor," he finally answered, stepping forward as the other guards held their weapons tighter. "Those," he motioned to the scary maroon gladiators, "are the Legend-Killers of Ariel. They were undefeated early in last year's gladiatorial season, but fell prey to the dungeon fever and could no longer fight. Usually that would send them to the laborer pits, but the crowds demanded they be given a second chance, and their warriors have eagerly seized it."

"Legend-Killers?" Vince repeated, gulping. Focusing on the crowd was not making him feel any better.

Skalor paid no attention. "On the other side," he gestured to the Drules, "is a unit of the Crown Guard. They failed a test set to them, a simulated assassination attempt against His Majesty, and entered the arena to redeem their terrible shame. They have crushed all foes easily, and been granted the right of execution in each battle."

Cam swore in Russian, as Vince gulped even harder. "I hope we don't have to fight either of them, honestly."

"Every team is probably just as bad, though… I mean, not us, probably. Are we?"

"Still…"

Skalor tilted his head in confusion. "Either of them would be a great and worthy challenge for gladiators of your skill. You should be honored to sit amongst them, as they are to sit beside you."

"Uhhh… yep! Totes honored here, for sure." Hunk grinned. "Thanks, Skeletor."

"Very honored," Sven agreed.

"Honored is not the word I'd use…" Vince kept his voice down.

Cam looked between the other teams again, and couldn't help the curiosity. "What do they say about us?"

"Don't," Keith tried to object, but it was too late. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but the guard was answering.

"That you are mighty warriors who slaughtered a full frigate's complement of troops in battlefield conditions. That you have won nearly flawless victories and killed very few, permitting your foes to live with shame and defeat." He looked over at their banner. "That you need no fearsome standard to display your might."

"Is that… good and scary?"

"Cameron."

Skalor just chuckled. "You will see."

"Okay… thanks for the explanation." He blushed and looked at Keith, recoiling a little under the commander's glare. "Sorry, sir."

"That doesn't seem all that bad," Sven mused, turning his attention back to the arena floor. "Doesn't have quite the same intimidation factor as 'Legend-Killers' but I suppose we'll take what we can get."

Hunk nodded. "He does make us sound way more badass than I thought we were."

"I'm still thinking I'm not badass," Vince snorted; Cam looked over at him in surprise.

"Did you just say badass?"

"What's he supposed to say?" Hunk pointed out. "Badbutt?"

"I've just never heard him swear before. Sorry, Vince."

"Yeah, well. Badbutt sounds ridiculous."

Sven side-eyed him. He wasn't really inclined to complain about language under these circumstances—unless it was Jace, who'd be disappointed if he didn't—but he was certain they'd had this conversation before. "I believe we discussed 'hardcore' as an alternative."

…They had, hadn't they? It seemed like forever ago. Vince shook his head. "Yeah, I guess."

They were cut off by the end of the battle, a cheer rising up from the crowd as the last of the slaves fell. The pirates turned to the royal box. One of the Drules there stood, stepping forward, raising their blade; rather than closing it he slashed downward with enthusiasm.

"What does that…" Cam trailed off as the pirates sprang into motion, almost casually disemboweling each slave in turn. "…Oh."

"…And that's more hardcore than anyone needs," Hunk whispered, earning answering nods. Hardcore it might be; it was definitely not badass.

"Way more than anyone needs."

"That girl, the princess…" Keith closed his eyes for a moment. "She's been sparing us this."

"Why, though?"

"I don't know." If he looked over at the royal box he could see her, though not well at this angle. "Though the one time, we kind of locked eyes, and… well, I can't explain it." He'd just known she wouldn't force them to kill, somehow. And she'd granted that reprieve each time.

"Maybe she likes us."

"I'm just going to be happy that she's doing it, whatever the reason."

"Feels like we should send her a gift box."

"We get out of here and I'll send her a whole gift basket…" Sven fell silent as Keith smacked his leg, jerking his head towards the guards, who mercifully seemed fully focused on the executions. "…Not that we have much in the way of gifts to send," he covered quickly.

Hunk chuckled. "A few more wins and maybe they'll start makin' no-banner t-shirts or somethin'. We can send her one. Maybe even autographed."

That got a round of laughs, and Cam looked over at him. "Leave it to you to lighten the mood. Thanks, Hunk."

"What I'm here for, yeah?"

Clinging to what little bit of levity they could get, they watched as several slaves cleaned up the arena and two new groups of gladiators emerged. Maybe, with any luck, this fight would be a little less hardcore.

*****

Following Kurile down the corridors with several other guns pointed at them, the rec yard team did the best they could to track where they were going. It only did so much. Lance was just searching for anything that stood out, but nothing stood out; the architecture down here was all featureless stone blocks. Flynn was counting doors, but what did that matter? All the cross hallways were in the same place. She took them up the third corridor on the right, which sloped up more dramatically than the path to the armory. The cells were definitely underground.

"Don't suppose you want to brag up your architecture while you've got a captive audience?" Jace asked their guide. He didn't expect much out of it, and got what he'd expected: a glare and a threatening wave of her rifle. "'No' would've worked just fucking fine."

"Hey, he has a point. I do love a good building history." Lance tried his most charming smile. Anything they could wring out of her could only help…

"Have a favorite gladiator group?" Daniel asked. Maybe if they pretended it wasn't just the building they wanted to know about she'd ease up.

She did not. Glaring at both of them, too, she waved the gun again and grumbled something in Drakure. Lance wondered if she actually even spoke Common… maybe they should've grabbed Cam. Oh well. "Fine, fine. Even this smile can only do so much."

Thankfully, before too much longer they reached a heavy door. She led them through that, then a second one, and then a third—like a sort of double security airlock or something. The third finally opened into the rec yard: an expanse at least twice the size of the arena floor, covered in dirt and scrubby moss-grass-stuff beneath a cloudy sky.

"What the fuck?"

"Okay, wasn't expecting that."

"Oooh, we get to have swamp picnics!" Daniel gave a dramatic little hop; his leg still hurt too much to jump for fake joy any more than that. "Yay!"

As they stepped out into the yard, the door slammed shut behind them, and Lance sighed. He'd been hoping for something a little more like the arena itself. "So much for hoping to grab more salt out here. This feels unhelpful."

"Very much so," Pidge agreed, looking around. They were surrounded by fortified walls, perhaps thirty feet high and dotted with guard stations. There were others in the yard, quite a few in fact—clusters of what were presumably other gladiators, some sparring, others throwing or kicking balls around. "Unfortunate, but we may as well look around anyway, kir sa tye?"

"May as well," Flynn agreed. "Do a lap around the outside, see what we find?"

Doing laps sounded only slightly better to Daniel than fighting, and he was longingly watching a few of the gladiators organizing a game of some sort. It was almost certainly more than one group. "I don't suppose there's any way you'd let me go kick a ball around with those guys?" He was more or less directing the question to their medic.

Jace frowned. "Much as I approve of you wanting to kick them in the balls, I'm not sure it's the best idea right now… wait, that's not what you said."

"You want to kick a ball around with random gladiators?" Lance raised an eyebrow, then reconsidered. It did seem like there was some mingling going on among different groups… which seemed odd in itself, but who knew. "Well, they do expect us to do… whatever a gladiator slave does."

"I just want to do something that's not trying to kill people, and also maybe have some fun?"

"No reason you can't," Jace said with a shrug. "Unless they decide to kick a potential future opponent right in the fucking stitches, anyway. I'll go with you." He looked at the others. "You three go do your lap dance or whatever."

Flynn smacked him.

Lance frowned, but he couldn't really argue the point. The kid could use some fun. Hell, maybe they would even learn something from the other gladiators, stranger things had happened. "Just… keep your eye on him."

"Don't I always keep my eye on you people?" The medic snorted. "Often to my own fucking regret…"

"Yeah, you're fucking annoying that way."

"We appreciate you, Doctor," Pidge offered in what was probably not meant to be a sarcastic tone.

"I appreciate you too, ninjerk, I guess. Come on, let's go play ball, or whatever the hell."

"Yes!" Daniel grinned and turned away, heading for the nearest group with a ball. "I'll be fine, I got a scary doc looking out for me!" Jace shook his head, flipped the others a salute, and followed.

Lance frowned after them. "Why does this freak me out more than fighting?"

"Probably because we understand how fighting works." Flynn took one look at the expression on Pidge's face and cut him off before he could speak. "In theory."

Rolling his eyes and muttering something in Baltan, Pidge turned and started jogging along the wall. "Keep up, you two."

Neither moved. "…Really?"

"He's your kid."

"You have to remind me." Flynn sighed, exasperated. "'Keep up', honestly. His legs are short. Come on." He started jogging after the ninja, leaving Lance blinking in momentary confusion before running to catch up.

"Wait, no one told me this meant actual exercise!"

"We probably need it by now! I haven't had to drag a piece of engine case plating around for what, a week?"

"I do kind of miss the Bolt's boxing bag."

They'd gotten back into Pidge's earshot, and he glanced back at them. "That's what the other gladiators are for."

"Not the same, ninja."

"It's close enough."

Lance gave Flynn a look, and the engineer shrugged. He was not taking responsibility for any of that; nobody had ever called him an M-word.

Daniel and Jace had approached the game that was organizing between several Drules and a few… well… he wasn't sure what the other gladiators were, exactly. They were ghost-white and fuzzy and had four arms, which seemed like it wouldn't be fair in the arena, but then neither had the Kro and their tails. Whatever they were, he smiled brightly at them and the Drules. "Mind if we join in?"

There was a bit of discussion, then one of the fuzzy ones stepped forward and waved them in. "Always room for more."

"Awesome! Which team do you want us on?"

"Better come with us, nobody else here speaks Common." The other gladiator eyed Jace. "What's the angry one's deal?"

"Oh, him?" Daniel smirked. "He's not angry, that's just his face. He looks way worse when he's angry."

"Porra…" Jace shook his head. "I'd love to yell at you for that, but I know better."

It didn't make the kid smirk any less. "See? He's fine. He just doesn't want me getting hurt…" There was definitely an implied question in his words.

The fuzzy gladiator laughed. "Nobody's going to hurt you here, Earthling. That's only for the arena. There's a code."

Oh yeah? That was useful. Yet again, it felt like they'd missed some kind of gladiator orientation. Or maybe this was how it always spread. Either way, Daniel nodded happily. "Works for us!"

The game wasn't hard to pick up, really—not unlike soccer, except there were no nets, just multiple scoring lines to kick the ball across for varying amounts of points. Even Jace was enjoying it before long. He'd been decent at soccer growing up, he'd just dropped the hobby because his parents approved… this was not how he'd expected to revisit it.

For his part, Pidge was enjoying the run. Flynn and Lance might've been too, he couldn't tell. But on the far side of the yard he slowed, catching sight of something on the wall. A series of cracks in the weathered stone… they'd all been patched up, but it wasn't perfect. Feigning needing a rest, he stopped and let the other two catch up.

"Ninja is making weird faces," Lance observed, earning a scowl.

"Do I say things about your face?"

"No, because my face is perfect."

Flynn bit back a laugh and decided it was safest not to comment. Besides, he knew damn well Pidge didn't need a rest. "Did you see something?"

Nod. "Did you see the damaged part of the wall back there? I could climb it."

"Climb it?" Lance echoed. "Like Spider-Man?" It got him a blank look that he supposed he ought to have anticipated. "Nevermind."

"It was a valiant attempt, flyboy," Flynn said quietly, earning a skeptical frown; Lance wouldn't have bet on him knowing who Spider-Man was either. In any case, he quickly returned to the point. "Does that help us? The rest of us surely can't."

"I haven't seen a gate in the wall yet. There probably isn't one. But there might be a way to get the rest of you over." Pidge frowned thoughtfully. "A rope? We have a lot of jackets."

"We are not using my jacket as a rope," Lance objected immediately.

"You'd rather stay here?"

…Well, fuck. "Last resort only."

Flynn shook his head. "If we have to use our clothes flyboy can just use his shirt, he sacrificed one sleeve already."

"Oh, you want me shirtless?" Lance laughed. Flynn was absolutely not going to answer that, and he quickly moved on at the momentary awkward silence. "Can we find out what's on the other side?"

"I don't think climbing up right now would be wise."

"…No, don't do that."

"Let's keep moving." Pidge turned and picked up the jogging again. "Maybe we'll find something else." Exchanging shrugs, the other two followed. They were coming closer to where the others were playing, just in time to see Jace take a pass from a Drule gladiator and snap it over to Daniel.

He took off running, splitting two defenders easily and shooting past a third. The ball sailed over the two-point line to the cheers of his teammates, and he grinned. This was actually fun. Well, mostly fun. As long as he didn't think about potentially having to kill his new teammates later, or more immediately the fact that his leg was starting to really ache… ow. After a couple more minutes he came to a decision, approaching Jace and doing his damnedest not to limp.

"So, uh… if I admit something right now, is there any way we can not tell Lance?"

The medic gave him a very judge-y stare, then smirked. "I guess I can keep it from him. I mean, it's not like he's your mentor or anything, right? If he was, that'd be totally different."

Daniel returned the judge-y stare with interest. "I… he's not… know what, I don't wanna tell you anymore." He turned and started walking away, grumbling under his breath. That's what I get for trying to be mature and tell him when I'm hurt… he was so busy pouting about how mature he was being that he failed to pretend not to be limping anymore. "Ow."

"Oh for fuck's sake." Jace had walked after him, rolling his eyes. "I said he's not, I'm trying to back you up here, asshole. And I can see you limping."

He stopped. "Please just come fix me."

"I'm a medic, not a fucking miracle worker, but I'll see what I can do."

"And we're not telling Lance?" He sat down and pulled his pant leg up to let Jace see the wound, which was definitely bleeding a little bit again. "His overprotective stuff is already in high gear, no reason to make it worse."

"See, I thought hovering was my job." It looked like a couple of bandages had loosened; he could fix that easily enough, at least. "Fuck him, I'm not telling him shit."

Daniel laughed. "Thanks."

"Any time."

*****

Romelle had taken a very long shower after the day's gladiatorial games. In fact, that was becoming a bit of a theme; the more vicious the battles became, the more she felt bloodied by proxy. That the combat seemed exhilarating both encouraged and concerned her, and both for largely the same reasons. Was she learning? Adapting? Becoming something different, something more like the Drules she was meant to unite her people with? It felt like fulfilling her duty at the cost of herself.

Again.

Still.

She was sitting wrapped in a towel, brushing out her hair, which was long since sufficiently brushed but she found the ritual soothing. Especially doing it herself—Kalindra would often take care of such things before formal appearances, and watching the battles was considered such an appearance. It was a small thing, but any bit of comfort helped. Her gaive'llar sat on the dresser in front of her, its presence also something of a comfort; not the carved skull, so much, but the symbol of Kistrial etched into it.

Focused on the calming ritual, she never heard the door open, and indeed had no idea she wasn't alone until Prince Lotor appeared behind her in the mirror. "A'kuri?"

"Sincline!" She dropped the brush and spun around, blushing furiously. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"It's alright," he chuckled, running his fingers through her hair. "Perhaps I should have knocked, but I was so excited to arrive… I have some good news about our wedding!"

"Oh…" It took her a moment to grasp. Sometimes she forgot that there was to be an actual wedding ceremony involved in this somewhere along the line. It always seemed like a distant future blur. "…Oh! What sort of news?"

"Our fathers have finally come to an agreement on the matter of heirs." He shook his head in annoyance. "Father was needlessly reluctant on the subject…" If he weren't always so picky about proper heirs, I might have another sibling to be doing this nonsense instead. "But he's given his blessing at last, and once you are carrying a child, your father will be ready to formally bless the wedding."

Not a bit of that struck Romelle as good news; she frowned and leaned over to pick up her brush, buying herself a few moments to think. It didn't really help her fake any joy. "…Oh."

The muted reaction drew an immediate cloak of concern over his face. "It's nothing against you, a'kuri! The people might object to a half-blood on the throne, is all. There is some history, you understand. But the firstborn is heir to the armadas, not the crown." Usually… he shook that off and smiled, baring his fangs. "I have no doubt that Polluxian blood, with proper training, will forge a wonderful warrior. Just as it is forging a wonderful Princess."

Much as he was not looking forward to taking the throne, Lotor had to admit he was looking forward to a child. After all, the firstborn was meant to be a warrior… and who could question him taking a very active hand in his child's military training, instead of neglecting that child in favor of political nonsense? It would be a win-win situation.

Romelle watched him, the genuine happiness and even pride on his face, and sighed. It was hard to be angry at him, even when he got everything so painfully wrong. "No, it's not that. Just…" She trailed off, wondering if she really dared speak out. Be silent. Do your duty. For Pollux.

"What is it, then?"

His look of worry encouraged her. The gaive'llar in front of her even more so. No. Speak up for yourself. You are still a Princess, and he keeps telling you to be strong. She rose and took a few steps away, her eyes on the winglike symbol on her weapon. "I didn't know anything was being discussed about heirs… I hate being left out of things that concern me so often." She looked up in frustration. "It's not even that I object to children," I don't think, "but I feel I should have been there. It's me, it's my body that will carry this child. Why didn't I have a say?"

Lotor stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. "…To carry the heir of the kingdom is the rarest of honors," he finally answered, in a tone that was still worried but not quite apologetic. "I promise you, the technicalities were excruciatingly boring… and I wasn't sure my father would bend on the matter." He approached and patted her shoulder awkwardly. "If he'd refused to grant that honor… I didn't want to subject you to all of that."

Of course. Carrying his child was a privilege, why would he imagine she'd want a say? She clenched a fist around a bit of the towel. "It may have been boring, but it's still a huge event in a person's life! In my life!" She turned back to him, almost pleading with him to understand, and decided to try a different angle. "And I appreciate you wanting to spare me, but… if I am meant to be a future ruler by your side, it should have been a learning experience as well!"

The prince's eyes narrowed. "A'kuri, there's no need to raise your voice towards me." She did have a point, though, he decided as he mulled over her words. If he wanted her to handle other matters of politics, letting her be excluded from the negotiations had been foolish. Perhaps she'd even have found them interesting? He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Romelle had taken a half-step back; she hadn't quite realized she'd ended up yelling. "I'm sorry for raising my voice, but…" She trailed off in a weak sob. She'd made her case; but why should she have expected anything else? Never mind her place here, she knew her place with her own father well enough. Of course they'd seen fit to leave her out of it. She'd never been given a choice before…

Lotor's hand tightened on her shoulder, breaking just a little through the fog of despair. "Strength, a'kuri. You were correct in what you said. You will rule at my side; I promise not to leave you out of any future decisions." He pulled her around gently, smiling again. "But for now, what's done is done, and we must produce a child. Perhaps getting to work on that will calm you?"

…He didn't get it at all. But the numbness she escaped to did seem welcoming right now, and she felt her mind already beginning to drift at the prospect. There was no other way out; may as well take what there was. Nodding, she wiped her eyes and let the towel drop to the floor. "Yes, sincline."

Soon enough, the world faded away.

*****

This was not how Tarlok had foreseen his governorship going.

The Arusians had tossed him into a small room largely stripped of any furnishings. Everything hurt, and badly. The arrowhead still lodged in his kneecap sent shooting pain up his leg every time he so much as twitched. Other puncture wounds along his arm had stopped bleeding, but he'd been chained too securely to even clean the blood; it had dried hard, sticking his tunic to the tender wounds. The chains themselves dug a bit too tight into his thick wrists, and his muscles strained like fire from the awkward position they'd left him in.

No doubt the soldiers would have mocked him for such petty inconveniences, but that was why Tarlok wasn't a soldier. And now the soldiers were dead, so what good were they anyway?

Mentally grumbling about his predicament wasn't helping anything either, but he didn't have much else to do. But soon enough, the door opened. A single Arusian knight—was she a knight? The fiery-haired girl wore no armor, but she carried a bloodied staff and glared at him like she was eager to use it—entered, followed by…

"Princess Allura, isn't it?" He tried for his best ingratiating tone.

She said nothing, but waited until most of her advisors were arrayed outside within earshot of the Drule. She didn't want their true numbers to be known. Looking about the room, she noted that its original use as a small conference room could still be seen. Though lacking much of its furnishings, there were still some chairs that appeared usable. Taking one with an armrest, she made herself comfortable in it before addressing the captive.

"And just whom do I now have as my guest?" she spoke softly.

"…I am Governor Tarlok, the hand of the Ninth Kingdom, envoy of King Zarkon and chosen lord of this world in his name."

"Mmm… and yet, for all your titles, you don't appear to be having a pleasant day on Arus. But then, I would guess these events are not exactly going as you planned." Drawing her bow across her lap, she made a point of studying his injuries. "Perhaps we can make matters better for you by taking care of those wounds?"

"You would give aid to one who is your enemy?" he asked, looking at her in surprise.

Her eyes—green surrounding pinpoints of bright blue—were deathly cold as she studied him. "We are a peaceful and kind people, Sir Tarlok. We would gladly give your wounds the finest care. But… sadly, it seems we have a shortage of doctors at this moment." She toyed idly with the bowstring. "Many seem to have died in recent months. And our medical supplies are limited, critical even, for some reason. You understand, don't you?"

Her voice had never once raised, her words polite and measured, but her tone was sharpened steel. Tarlok bit the inside of his cheek. He was no fool, current predicament aside; he had a suspicion of where she was leading him. "Indeed I do."

"My duty is to my people. Being a governor, I'm sure you understand such difficult choices. Those who can protect Arus must be prioritized." Her eyes sharpened. "Of course… there is a way you can help protect Arus."

"You wish for the events that have just happened to not reach Lord Zarkon's ear. You must know, even if I agreed, that would be an impossible ruse to maintain? Never mind that you can't force me to commit treason."

"True… but would that be worse than where you are now? Surely King Zarkon would not be very pleased with you, being in this circumstance. I am curious… how does your lord handle governors who fail to stand their ground?"

Tarlok's eyes widened, and he grumbled in frustration. Such a fall from grace could, in theory, be recovered from… but only if one were in very good standing with the King. A status he could not guarantee he would have, under these circumstances. "You have a point," he growled as he shifted, staring at his knee as it found a new level of discomfort. If nothing else, the ruse would buy him time to explain.

Time… if there was something that everyone in this room could agree on, it was a need for time.

It might bring shame upon him to take such a bargain, but if his next actions were handled just right… "I shall make no mention of your presence," he finally agreed, bowing his head in defeat. "As far as my superiors beyond Arus' soil shall know, I still maintain this castle."

Allura smiled. "Let's see about those wounds of yours, then. I'll send one of our doctors in." As she moved to leave, her gaze hardened again. A warning. "The longer you can maintain the impression that all is well, the better… you understand."

Tarlok understood, alright. He noted the disappointment in the fiery-haired one and read the warning there as well; he would have to be very careful with every word and action from now on. So be it.

As they left, Coran fell in beside Allura and whispered. "Do you trust him?"

"No… not a bit. He will try something. So I need everyone to keep fully focused on their tasks, should our time on the surface be shorter than we wish." Everything from this moment on would be as time-critical as it was delicate. It wouldn't be easy. But if they could salvage enough, get enough contact established, find enough help… perhaps it would work.

The old knight nodded his understanding. "We will see to it, Your Highness."