~[About Three Months Later]~

You sit restlessly in your cell, itching internally for another plan or flight pattern on this disgustingly intricate ship to fail.

It was never your choice to become the most vulnerable and intelligent pilot the species had ever seen. Or, to be a pilot for this species to see in the first place. But nowadays, piloting for them is the only thing that keeps you sane. You are grateful that you can continue doing what you love, but you hate who you do it for in the darkest pit of your heart.

All you wanted to do when you first dreamt of going to space was pilot. When you saw that Moon Landing Documentary for the first time, you decided that you wanted to be responsible for the whole event - the one who would be remembered. (Your small, innocent eight year old self couldn't stop watching it for about an entire year of your life). You had never imagined that you would end up being remembered this way - probably dead or dying at the vast ends of the solar system.

You had merely planned to land a spacecraft on a beautiful, untouched moon, live the most amazing, breathtaking experience of your life, write about it, then go home to publish a book about your findings. To push past the cheering crowds and see Keith. To go back to the Garrison and graduate top of your classes, and maybe go to space again in the future. But now, everything in your future is uncertain. Your future will probably lead to you dying in this very cell.

You go by a lot of names here. Y/n, "wench", "woman". Though, the most popular choice tends to be something along the lines of "Zarkon's shiny, new co-piloting toy". He's been using you lately to help him develop ways to attack harder, use less fuel, invade smarter. And by help, you obviously mean "do it all for him and then he takes all of the credit".

You hate it. You hate it with every last atom in your being, but what choice did you have? You plan on escaping soon anyways, so might as well get your bought of complaint out soon. They won't evolve past what you've taught them when you're gone. They don't have the brains, only unholy amounts of brawn.

The routine you've been living by became obsolete in these past few months anyway. They don't use you as much as they used to, you are an asset past it's prime. You are called only now called when Zarkon doesn't know what to do, when he's stuck-in-a-pit helpless. Most of the time, he summons you to strategize and plan for his next step in universal domination. Flattering, sure, but "foolish recommendations" would earn you a glare so hard that it's basically a slap in the face.

Zarkon is a quick learner though, despite being a universally-known, fear-embodied tyrant. He's learning little by little from your methods, so your presence is becoming less and less needed every time you're brought to him. He raids you with questions about how to improve his craft, in fact, last time you didn't even touch any controls. You just answered.

Effect of this; You have been in your shared cell with Shiro for eleven days straight, a brand new record, even beating Shiro's old nine-day fear. Another one of Shiro's great streaks has been broken by you, except, you don't really want to compete in this one. Impressive anyway, right?

Wrong.

This is insanely depressing.

Speaking of, something else that makes you fidgety aboard this anxiety-inducing ship is Shiro. He's fighting in the arena this afternoon, and even though he always comes back, you worry about him. (And silently pray for his safety every time he's forced to put his life on the line for Galra entertainment.)

In other Shiro-related news, the company you've been swept up into providing him has caused him to completely open up to you. He's shared stories about his ex-fiancée Adam, some stories about Keith's childhood (some hilarious and some heart-warming), his arm, his PTSD, everything. He had grown to be like a brother to you, and losing him would guarantee your eternal loneliness in this life you live. You had already lost countless people when you truly needed them, and you couldn't emotionally bare losing just one more.

The cards would soon be in your favor though, for you both plan going to escape this ship together on this very night. It isn't high in chance that you'll make it, but with the right procedures, it might just work. Without each cell mate helping the other, this plan will most definitely fail.

Everything about it is planned out to the exact second, to each and every last excruciating detail. Though the risk is high, your need for Earth, sunshine and nutrients is substantially higher.

The plan goes like this;

The escape will be during the ten-minute time period in which the sentry with the scratched ankle has already passed by, you had timed it. Your getaway is the escape pod left open during afternoon fighting matches, just in case a hopeless corpse needs to be shamelessly ridded of. (Seriously, what a vile race - the Galra always have to push things to the absolute extreme no matter the task at hand.)

You just need to get to that pod, and there is (supposedly) no one who is supposed to be in the corridors you'd be using to escape. Shiro thinks it's flawless with no chance of failure or punishment in the outcome, but your mind has other thoughts.

While trying to calm yourself by taking heavy breaths, you notice Shiro is seven seconds late. It sounds insane that you know this, but out of sheer boredom, your head h had begun to count every second that passed starting a few weeks ago. Or, every "tick", as the aliens call it. How is your mind supposed to stay healthy when all you do is eat slime, sleep (sometimes), and repeat?

Your pressing questions are caught off guard by Shiro being guided into the cell, the doors sliding behind him. He looks anxious as ever, but on the positive side, he only has one visible wound from his fights in the Gladiator ring. The wound is small and not at all deep. It'll be healed in no time.

"They don't throw you in anymore?" You joke and he leans against the wall, clearly nervous about what is to come. He has reason to be, but you didn't think he would show it this much. Shiro is one of the bravest men you've ever know, daring to venture out into space and fight alien enemies - but he's afraid to escape prison. "Should I get the kit?"

"I guess they don't. And no, it'll heal on its own." He replies quietly, folding his arms tightly and looking quietly at his feet. You walk over to his side of the cell and lean on the wall next to him, putting on a fake moody face to match his.

"Oh look it's me, Mr. GrumpyPants. I might actually break out of this dump after an entire year here, but I can't not put out a pouty lip and ignore the sentry that will pass by in three and a half minutes." You fake grump, making your voice low and coarse and folding your arms across your chest.

You turn hopefully to him as he chokes down his genuine, uprising laughter. Success! You congratulate yourself on reaching your nearly-impossible goal, despite not being a naturally humorous person to begin with. You try sometimes, though, you try.

"Really though, scratch ankle will be here soon, get ready." You tell him, patting his shoulder and beginning to nonchalantly pace in stomps around the cell.

"Wait, what did you mean 'might actually break out'?..." Shiro realizes. "You're calculating. Stop it, it stresses out both of us." He warns, then demands, turning his head in your direction.

"Of course I'm not calculating," You state in defense, but your lies were countered. Specifically, by you mouthing numbers and counting silently on upraised fingers.

"Y/n, we're gonna get out of here, you probably know that better than anyone on this ship." He says, the tables on who was anxious the turning completely not in your favor.

"There's only a 63.782% chance we'll both make it out of here alive, Shiro! And that's rounded down!" You whisper-scream as you stomp around, and he chuckles to himself.

"Isn't it a pretty good chance if he number's over fifty percent though?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"Mathematically, yes. Our success is likely. But these people are killers, Shiro! They destroy planets! If we get caught, we could also get a laser blast to the head." You panic, and he walks over to rest his hands on your shoulders in an attempt to calm you down.

"Even if we do end up getting caught, we're valuable to them, we've made ourselves irreplaceable. They wouldn't kill us-"

"But I'm not important anymore Shiro, I'm completely expendable! You're their top entertainment, the crowd would riot without you! But these... things, they can pilot now. They learned from me. I-I taught them how to! I've been in this cell for eleven days. I'll never-"

Shiro is milliseconds away from interrupting your mini-meltdown by shooting positive facts at your self-doubt, but he quickly sits on the floor quietly and non-suspiciously. You can hear the sentries approaching, one of the lower joints on one having the tell-tale squeak of a creaky ankle. You sit quickly beside him.

"Y/n, you're the smartest person I've met. Don't you dare say you're expendable."

"Uhaww, then- wait, weren't you best friends with Sam and Matthew Holt?"

"You win. Barely though, because the Holts never doubted themselves. That's where their success comes from."

"...Wow.. wait, he's gone!"

Now leaning forward eagerly, you tap your fingers on the floor in sync with the footsteps echoing outside the door. You are so ready to get out of this dark pit of your life, for you finally have access to an escape ladder. (Your finger taps just so happened to be in sync with the seconds ticking thoughtlessly in your head, too. How perfect).

As the steps fade away, you make eye contact with your cellmate. He gives you a look that asks;

'You ready for this?'

And you looked back;

'I hope so.'

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1." You mouth, then the both of you stand up eagerly, ready to get the hell out of here. This is the moment you have waited for every second since you were thrown on this god forsaken place. For months on end, you waited this out. The time is now. You know the codes, the time and the plan.

It's basically all up to you, and that's a lot of pressure to be under.

You grabbed a thin sheet of scrap metal hidden under your cot in the back corner of the cell. It was been stolen by Shiro a few weeks when he found it on the ground of the arena, most likely a fly-away piece of metal amor. Legging it to the doors, you begin running your finger down the center crack, where the doors shut together and seal until the next time they open. You have to find the lock mechanics, which you have practiced locating beforehand, but you have to be absolutely positive of it's placement if you don't want the security breach alarms to activate. Otherwise, you might as well just open fire on the poor doors until they open.

To open it normally, a scanned sentry's hand or ungloved Galran mitt would put their handprint on the pad outside the door, but you have no access to either of those, nor the outside of the cell for a while. So, that means getting in credit-card style; only without a credit card, and instead using a large piece of flimsy scrap metal.

Once you feel a hollow filling in the thick door with your light fingertip's touch, you know you've found the lock's ignition. You carefully slide the metal into the crack, corner first. After a few terrifying seconds, relief floods through you when you heard that relieving click. You have successfully opened your cell. The doors slide open, and you go back to your on-point mind clock, tapping your finger against your side to ensure accuracy.

"Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds until the sentries reach the location." You whisper, the Shiro nods quickly in a silent answer. Since he is out and about being forced along the ship more often than you, he navigates the halls. The duo walks for about ten minutes before reaching the escape pods and finding the ship, open and ready to take off into the nearest black hole.

Shiro stands guard outside the small door while you punch in the coordinates for planet Earth, smiling as you type in the unnecessarily long numbered destination. You can't help but be overwhelmed with pride for yourself and happiness for Shiro that you are finally going home.

Your internal relief is startled by someone who isn't supposed to, nor positioned to be walking outside the pod doors;

"The afternoon arena fights ended early, so Zarkon himself ordered me to retrieve the Champion for- HEY!" A voice brags, then barks at the attempting escapees. You tune to it quickly, fear overcoming you as you watch Shiro immediately begin to shoot at the two specters. He is too late in finishing them off, though. They had already requested backup.

You have been caught.

Curses fly about in your head as you look around the pod for anything, anything to potentially fight or cause serious damage with. And you spot it.

You grab an emergency laser blaster from the interior of the pod and run out to Shiro's aid, even though he can most likely handle his own with his weapon-dynamic arm and all. Nevertheless, you aren't losing any more dear family today. Not after all you had worked for.

You start shooting at the fight-thirsty sentries that arrive almost immediately, with only 71.5% accuracy, you might add. You start doing pretty well when a scream-rousing blast of heat strikes your foot, making you cry out as if it had been drilled through and set on fire.

You had been shot.

"GAHHH!" You groan, falling backward towards the pod. You topple onto Shiro, who's top half of his body then fell past the doors and into your transportation of escape.

An idea then strikes you, faster than the shot that had hit your foot.
A risky, brave idea.
A stupid, so very stupid, yet heroic thought.

You are no hero, but you know that Takashi Shirogane is of a higher priority to Earth. He knows more, he has experienced more, and is more himself. His arm is an alien species' technological masterpiece, for crying out loud.

Keith needs him.

Earth needs him.

They don't need you.

At least you can die knowing you saved four lives, as opposed to three...

You grab his legs roughly and throw the rest of his body into the pod, sending him flying into safety as well as major confusion. He drops his aggressive mood on impact and begins scrambling to sit up and fight.

"Y/n?!" He yells, confused, and you limp quickly over to the control panel on the right as fast as you can. It is a miracle you begin to miss the blasts being sent your way, but you do it somehow.

You seal the pod door on him, much to his distaste.

There is no going back. You feel a wave of deja vu from a few months back.

After making sure that you have locked the coordinates in the panel, you hobble back to the window and wave a goodbye. Shiro slams his fists with the force of wrecking balls into the clear- yet, seemingly unbreakable- barrier that keeps you distanced.

"Tell Keith that I miss him! Maybe we'll meet again." You shout loud enough for him to hear, past his thrashing and pounding against the glass of the pod, seconds from blasting him to safety.

"I'll come back for y-" he tries, but before he can finish, the pod is sent shooting into the darkness of deep space. Faster than the speed of light, and in the direction of his home, where he deserves to be. Where he belongs.

Sure, it's your home too, but you wouldn't even be thinking about going back there anytime soon. You have a feeling that you will be stuck here for a long time.

You sigh, scolding at the regret that starts to pour in. Shiro is safe, that's all that's supposed to matter to you right now.

Some of the remaining sentries that had come in for backup grab tight, painful fistfuls of skin and tattered purple fabric from your shoulders and drag you off, and you know very well where you're headed. Let's just say it isn't to the infirmary just yet. To their belief, despite being shot in the foot, you don't require immediate medical attention. Infections can easily be fought off with amputation.

You, instead, are headed straight for Zarkon's throne chamber.

When you enter the ballroom-sized throne room, a guard yanks you up by your oily, unbrushed {hair color} hair, making you stare up at the one who you tutored and his fifteen-foot throne. It even has stairs leading up to it, but you don't have the pain tolerance to speak out about his tyranny at the moment.

"What is it now?" The Emperor growls, looking up from a screen displaying statistics of different kinds.

"It helped your Champion escape, my Lord. He is now unreachable and most likely headed towards his home planet. What do you propose we do with it?" One asks, in the most robotic, monotone, yet, somehow most evil voice you have ever had the displeasure of hearing.

"Let the Champion go. In time, she will be trained well enough herself to take on his place." Zarkon muses, pointing a thick, gray finger at you from where he sits. You gulp, your fear beginning to override the pain screaming from your scalp (where the soldier is still pulling your hair).

"And make sure to amputate the foot. Tell the Druids to give her something... useful."

.-~+*°*+~-.

{3109 Words}