It was one of the first things he'd become aware of, the roughly seared stump of metal that was still fused to his skin jagged and raw looking, dripping liquids that smelled foul and made him sick to his stomach. The job was choppy, these weren't Galra whatever they were and he suspected that infection from their chop job set in quickly. Or the continual drugs they pumped him with did the same. He'd been feverish for what felt like weeks now, dehydrated, wrenching in and out of consciousness where he hung by his single human arm from the wall, legs cramped and joint swollen. There were new wounds across his bare torso now too, burns from heat and liquids, bruises, cuts. And he still wasn't sure what they wanted.
Not that he'd give it to them even if he knew but the questions they screamed at him never made sense and he couldn't even tell if they worked for or against the Galra or operated entirely alone. They knew him though. Champion. Not the Black Paladin. Just - Champion. Spat at him during each session, snarled each time they tossed him back in and chained him to the wall again.
Champion.
He'd wanted to believe he'd moved beyond that.
When the explosions start he's just been finished through one of their sessions and his head is throbbing so hard, his skin feeling so dry and tight and hot, that he's not sure, at first, that its not just his head. Except it keeps going, gets worse and somewhere inside of himself he finds the energy to pay attention. An attack? Has his team finally come for him? Or is it something entirely unrelated and he'll die in the vacuum of space with no one ever knowing what's happened to him?
He doesn't miss the irony of that.
But - no. Red lion. He hears it and his lips curve, aggravating the split in his lower one. Red lion. Keith. And he'd almost feel sorry for everyone onboard suddenly. Weak he forces himself up, using the wall as support and locks his knees. He needs to be mobile. He needs -
the smile does come, wolfish for all its faint, when he hears the fight outside and maybe someone else would wonder but he knows. Shiro already know who's going to win that one. He hisses when the door opens though, slitting his eyes against the dim light that spills in and clears his throat, trying to get enough of his voice back.]
Keith. [It's a thousand words and the loudest of them is faith.] Not surprised. I can move. Get this chain off my wrist.
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It was one of the first things he'd become aware of, the roughly seared stump of metal that was still fused to his skin jagged and raw looking, dripping liquids that smelled foul and made him sick to his stomach. The job was choppy, these weren't Galra whatever they were and he suspected that infection from their chop job set in quickly. Or the continual drugs they pumped him with did the same. He'd been feverish for what felt like weeks now, dehydrated, wrenching in and out of consciousness where he hung by his single human arm from the wall, legs cramped and joint swollen. There were new wounds across his bare torso now too, burns from heat and liquids, bruises, cuts. And he still wasn't sure what they wanted.
Not that he'd give it to them even if he knew but the questions they screamed at him never made sense and he couldn't even tell if they worked for or against the Galra or operated entirely alone. They knew him though. Champion. Not the Black Paladin. Just - Champion. Spat at him during each session, snarled each time they tossed him back in and chained him to the wall again.
Champion.
He'd wanted to believe he'd moved beyond that.
When the explosions start he's just been finished through one of their sessions and his head is throbbing so hard, his skin feeling so dry and tight and hot, that he's not sure, at first, that its not just his head. Except it keeps going, gets worse and somewhere inside of himself he finds the energy to pay attention. An attack? Has his team finally come for him? Or is it something entirely unrelated and he'll die in the vacuum of space with no one ever knowing what's happened to him?
He doesn't miss the irony of that.
But - no. Red lion. He hears it and his lips curve, aggravating the split in his lower one. Red lion. Keith. And he'd almost feel sorry for everyone onboard suddenly. Weak he forces himself up, using the wall as support and locks his knees. He needs to be mobile. He needs -
the smile does come, wolfish for all its faint, when he hears the fight outside and maybe someone else would wonder but he knows. Shiro already know who's going to win that one. He hisses when the door opens though, slitting his eyes against the dim light that spills in and clears his throat, trying to get enough of his voice back.]
Keith. [It's a thousand words and the loudest of them is faith.] Not surprised. I can move. Get this chain off my wrist.