Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pyke couldn’t remember the last time he had hurt this much. 

Wait, no, scratch that. He could remember. It was fuzzy, a hazed memory lapping at the edges of his brain, but he remembered being so tired he couldn’t move, the faint sounds of Rett fussing from the other room soothing his worried mind. 

Now, however, there was no Rett. No comforting sounds of the Rhapsody keeping him company. No familiar home to ease his aches and pains and anxieties. 

Pyke’s face twisted as he tried to remember, trying to force his sleepy brain to work for him instead of against him. It was so hard, the taste of drugs on his tongue and the sound of a machine beeping providing the first piece of the puzzle. A hospital. He had ended up in a hospital, and doing a quick head to toe scan told him he was probably in for the rampant pain near his stomach on his left side. Had he had surgery? He sure as shit felt tired enough for surgery. 

The next thing that slid into the puzzle was the ache, the itch under his skin. The need for a cigarette. He hadn’t had one in just under a week, if he had to guess. Although he didn’t feel smothered, so he’d definitely been supplied with some kind of vitamin supplement to account for the sunlight he needed naturally. 

Another twist of the face and then Pyke wrenched an eye open, the second one following shortly after. The room was dim, a solar lamp in the corner glowing that sharp, sterile white of all standard issue vitamin D lights. Pyke squinted against it as he sat up, struggling greatly, hand coming up to clutch at his side, palm pressing against a thick swath of bandages wrapped over his chest and stomach. A picc line pinched uncomfortably at the crook of Pyke’s right elbow as he moved, and he finally settled once he was upright, examining himself as best he could in his condition. 

A nasal cannula around his face and pulse oximeter on his left hand. Standard hospital recovery fare. Pyke wondered loosely why he wasn’t intubated. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe he had been exaggerating the whole thing in his head. Maybe, as he slowly woke up, Rett or Chuckles or Laboosh or anyone would walk in, reassure him he was okay, that everything was okay. 

Then he noticed the IV bags. One clear liquid that was probably a painkiller of some kind, given the way it was dripping slowly through the line. The second was something Pyke hadn’t seen in a while. 

Blood. 

Solar elf blood. 

The blood in the bag had a faint glow, akin more to ichor than blood, truly, with its faint golden shine and warm sunshine color. Pyke marveled at it, wondering exactly what hospital he was staying at that just had solar elf blood on hand. It was growing increasingly rare in certain parts of the galaxy, with solar elves being encouraged to donate blood often to combat the shortage. 

Shaking his head and forcing himself back on track, Pyke began to shift under his gown, untying the strings and pulling the soft fabric out of the way, a short, strangled gasp escaping him as he saw the thick layers of bandages. Under his hand and through the gown, they hadn’t seemed too bad, but this was horrifying, a bandage the size of his entire hand taped down over his stomach, tiny dots of gold indicating that he was still bleeding.

Pyke took a breath, feeling it burn and hearing it wheeze, but he almost didn’t care as he danced his middle and ring finger of his right hand over the bandage, his touches light as a feather as he tried to knit together the story, unscramble the puzzle and put the damn pieces together. 

“No! Pyke!” 

“Wha- What has happened?” 

Pyke shuddered, a shiver racing up his spine as he screwed his eyes shut against the light, grinding his teeth even as the pain hit him, pulsing through his body, memories coalescing slowly, fragments of what happened becoming sharper, clearer, more defined by the second. 

“What did you do?”

“You just killed Pyke!” 

“Pyke!” 

Pyke sniffled, wiping his eyes before he could even realize he was crying. He wanted to curl up and sob, to cry his eyes out until he was empty and hollow. He wanted his family, his people. But instead, he was alone, alone with his legs curled to his chest with tears leaking out of his eyes, gumming his lashes together and causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

And speaking of his throat…

Pyke raised a hand up to his throat, gasping again when his hand skimmed the skin and felt a starburst of pain where his fingers touched. He tried to speak, but instead of words, the desperate plea for Rett, all that came out was a squeak, a horrible scratch against his vocal chords as a burn tore through his throat. He’d been hurt in so many ways before, bruised and broken and scraped and scared, but this was new. He’d never been so hurt he’d been rendered almost entirely mute before. He could still gasp and grunt and grumble, but any kind of words came out as a windy, whistled squeak. The thought scared Pyke, being so helpless to defend himself both physically and verbally. He swallowed, wincing at the pain. Of course it hurt, why wouldn’t it hurt? He’d bruised his goddamn vocal chords. 

“Oh my stars!” 

Pyke whipped around so fast he made himself sick, dizzy just from the small motion of movement. He gagged, and as he bent over, he felt a hand on his back, rubbing comfortingly between his shoulders as his gags turned to coughs, which turned to raw sobs of pain. 

“Here you are, dear. Let me wipe your eyes. You poor thing, I’m sorry I startled you.” A tissue gently dabbed at Pyke’s teary eyes, and he finally forced his vision steady, pulling the person in front of him into focus. 

She looked nice enough, wearing an old style nurse’s uniform dress, her straw blonde hair piled in a bun and her wide brown eyes shielded behind gold rimmed glasses. Her face was kind, round and stained with a galactic cloud of freckles in all sorts of shades, purples and blues and pinks, oranges bleeding the galaxy into her natural skin tone. 

“I’m Kialla, I’m a nurse here at the hospital,” she said, smiling. “Can you tell me your name?” 

Pyke shook his head, resting a hand at the base of his throat. 

Kialla frowned, pulling away and coming back with a small paper cup. “Here,” she said. “Some water. Drink, maybe it’ll help.” 

The water was cool but not cold, although it felt miraculous regardless, Pyke not realizing how thirsty he had been until he was presented with water. Kialla kept a hand gently under the cup just in case, but Pyke held it steady until it was empty. 

“Very good,” Kialla praised, taking the empty cup and setting it on a nearby counter. “Try again, just tell me your name.” 

Pyke opened his mouth, and from it a desperate rasp, a squeak that didn’t even sound close to his name. His face twisted in frustration, unhappy at his continued muteness. 

“Here, we’ll try this for now until we can get to the bottom of this,” Kialla decided, handing Pyke a small board and a marker. “What’s your name?” 

Pyke. 

“Okay. Pyke. Do you have a surname?” 

Pyke shrugged. If I do, I don’t know it. I was adopted.

Kialla nodded, sitting on a nearby stool. “That’s okay. Do you know where you are?” 

Hospital?

“Any idea where, or which hospital?”

Pyke shook his head. 

“Alright.” As Pyke responded, Kialla began to type his answers down into a small tablet, her nails clicking cheerfully against the screen. “Do you remember what happened to you?” 

That made Pyke hesitate before he eventually, slowly, shook his head, glad he didn’t have to speak. He could lie with his face, but his voice tended to give him away. Sure, he couldn’t remember it clearly, but he could still remember some parts, and he was certain he didn’t want to share what he could recollect. 

“Well, when we found you, your companion said you had been stabbed,” Kialla said, believing him without question. “That’s all we know.” 

Companion? What companion? Is he here now?

“The EMTs who brought you in only said companion,” Kialla said apologetically. “Never gave a description as to what he looked like. As for being here now, you were in surgery for a while, and then things were a little touch and go, but you’ve been stable for a few days. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’ve had any visitors, but I can check if you’d like.” 

Pyke’s heart sunk to his feet, ears downturning and hair going noticeably dark. Kialla cooed softly. “It’s okay,” she said. “We don’t have any contact information for you, so he’s probably looking for you, honey, we just didn’t have a comm code or anything. Might just take a little while to connect the dots. Were you two close?”

Pyke nodded, wiping his tears. He wanted to write out what Rett was to him, but no words could come close, so instead he just wrote, My family should be here.

Kialla paused in her notes and turned to Pyke. “They’ll be here,” she promised. “I’d bet my bottom credit they’re looking for you right now, Pyke. Give it a few days and maybe try reaching out. There’s a comms terminal at the end of the hall, you could always give that a shot when you’re feeling up to moving.” 

What happened to me?

“Well.” Kialla tapped a few things on her tablet, porting a collection of images over to a screen on the wall. “You were all but dead when you got here. This says you coded twice in the ambulance ship and twice more once we had you in the OR, and it was a struggle to find a blood match, but thankfully we managed to get you stable enough for surgery. It took our doctors a few hours to reconstruct your stomach, but they fixed you right up.” She began to cycle through the images, showing Pyke x-rays and scans of his organs. “On top of that, you had a lot of bruises and moderate scrapes, a few of which needed stitches, but those are well on their way to healed by now. The injury on your stomach, however, is going to take much longer to heal. From what we can puzzle together, you were stabbed by something thick, maybe three inches in diameter at the back and two at the front. It clipped a lung on the way in, and so you were aspirating when we took you into the OR. Your lung is fine, but the doctor recommends you remain on oxygen for a while. At the very least, you’ll be on it for the duration of your stay. Now thankfully, the injury didn’t hit your spine or kidney, just your lung and stomach. Now that you’re awake, we’ll adjust your painkillers to keep you feeling okay, but aside from that, all there is to do is to wait now.” She smiled at Pyke. “Any questions?” 

What hospital am I at?

Kialla pulled the images down, tucking her tablet under her arm. “Well, you were originally on a different, smaller hospital ship, but you were transferred quickly to Janus 1. It’s bigger and more stable. We’re in orbit around the star Aphit, if you wanted to know.”

That sent a terrifying chill down Pyke’s spine as he realized exactly where he was. Aphit was a large star with a steady solar system around it, but it was an Empire system, just near the heart of the galaxy. 

Pyke had been taken by the Empire. 

Thankfully, he wasn’t cuffed to his bed and Kialla didn’t seem to be making any move to arrest him, so either they were all waiting or Pyke wasn’t in any trouble yet. Maybe they didn’t know who he was. He took a breath, finally seeing all the signs. The Empire symbol on Kialla’s shoulder, the trademark cleanliness anyone would expect of an Empire hospital. Now it all made sense, the availability of rare materials, why Pyke had been put back together so easily, and even why Rett and the others hadn’t visited. They’d never risk being caught by the Empire. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Kialla said, handing Pyke a remote. “Here. If you need anything, just press that red button there. It calls right down to the nurse’s station. It’s really early right now, so the doctor won’t be around for a while, but he can run you down your condition and care in the morning, okay?” 

Pyke gave her a numb little nod, and Kialla smiled. “Try to get some sleep,” she recommended. “You need the rest, Pyke.” And just like that, she was gone, the door shutting behind her and leaving Pyke completely alone in the dim hospital room. 

Finally, Pyke let himself cry fully, great heaving sobs that burned like fire down his throat but stars above he didn’t care. He was hurting, not just physically but mentally, trying to wrack his scrambled brain as he laid down on his right side, looking at the wall and crying heavily. Each sob hurt, stuttered air into his lungs and a harsh hiccup that caused him to gasp and wheeze on more than one occasion. Kialla had left him another cup of water, and Pyke slowly drained it over the course of what had to be an hour, because once the cup was empty, so was Pyke, exhausted beyond words as he set the cup down and stared across the room at a small curtained-off section labeled as a bathroom. He knew, realistically, he had a catheter in, but maybe a trip to the bathroom wouldn’t be bad for him. A chance to get up, on his feet. Assess the situation himself. 

Of course, that plan was thwarted the instant Pyke swung his feet over the edge of the bed and a rush of blood left his head, causing him to grow painfully dizzy and lie back down on his back before the encroaching darkness overtook him completely. He sighed, staring at the blank ceiling. He was so tired, sleep licking at his eyes, trying to urge them shut, but Pyke refused, stubbornly keeping awake, pressing on his picc line whenever he felt himself growing too sleepy, the jolt of uncomfortable pain snapping him back awake. 

But no solution worked forever, especially in Pyke’s current state, and he felt himself falter too hard once, twice, and the third time was it, Pyke curling onto his side and giving up, eyes sliding shut and sleep taking him within seconds.

His plans could wait until tomorrow, he decided with his last thread of consciousness. Tonight, he just needed to recover. 

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, we can’t see him?” 

“I’m sorry sir, but hospital policy dictates-”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what your policy dictates! He’s my goddamn family, and I want to see him!” 

The receptionist on the other end of the line stammered, clearly flustered. “Sir, I’m sorry, but the patient you’re requesting to see has not given us any information as to who he wants to or doesn't want to see. As I stated previously, until he wakes up and gives us a consent statement, we will not be allowing him any visitors aside from blood relatives or legally married spouses. I do apologize, but as you are neither of those things, we cannot let you come see him, nor can we release any information regarding his current condition until he gives explicit consent.” 

Rett took a deep, measured breath. Keeping patient regarding Pyke had been difficult, but considering he’d been a little preoccupied with Laboosh, the days had flown until it had been nearly a week since the incident. Rett had begun to string their little family back together, swearing to Laboosh he’d get to the bottom of whatever had happened. Until then, it hurt him to see Laboosh so depressed, not even Chuckles able to cheer him up. He was sleeping in the brig willingly, spending every moment he could voluntarily locked up, behind the aether bars in only his helmet, the rest of his armor hung up in his room. Chuckles had taken to letting him out for a while, carrying him around and setting him on the couch while he played video games, always something single player, unable to think about playing a multiplayer game right now. Laboosh seemed to enjoy this, although no one could tell with the way he just stayed in his tank, unmoving and unspeaking. 

“Alright,” Rett said eventually. “When he wakes up, ask him if we can come visit, okay? Then call me, because I guarantee he’s gonna be pissed when he realizes we aren’t there.” 

“Understood sir. And I’m truly sorry I can’t say more, but we have to maintain patient privacy,” the receptionist said. 

Rett nodded, rubbing his temples. “Can y’all take down a note or something for him?” he asked. “Just so that when he wakes up, he has something while he waits for us to get there.” 

“Of course. I’ll establish a link for you to write a note, and I can reassure you that when he wakes up, if he so chooses, we have comms terminals on most of our wards, so he can call you if he wants when he’s up and about.”

“Perfect.” Rett tried to keep the sourness out of his voice, but it was impossible as he waited for the link. It popped through almost instantly, and Rett stared at it, at the tiny blinking cursor in the corner of the large blank screen. “Ah fuck. Boys, you got anything y’all wanna say to Pyke for when he wakes up?” 

Laboosh’s face went dark. “No,” he grumbled, and Rett nodded. 

“Chuckles?” 

“Tell him I wish I could send him a balloon animal through text! Oh, and that there’s a special pie waiting for him in his room.” 

“There better fucking not be.” 

“Fine, in the fridge then.” 

Rett allowed himself a short chuckle as he transcribed the conversation. “Will do.”

And then he got started on his own letter. 

He tried to keep it short, knowing he’d see Pyke soon, but the words got away from him, and nearly twenty minutes later, he was staring at a page full of words, some rambling, some genuine, others downright ridiculous. But they all came from the heart, which was all that mattered to Rett as he signed the letter from the entire crew and hit send. 

Rett stood slowly, Hank around his feet as he walked down the hall, past where Chuckles was showing Laboosh how to play some cube-based sandbox game. They’d be preoccupied for a while, and they knew better than anyone that Pyke’s absence hurt Rett the most. He and Pyke had been traveling together for decades, and not having his chain smoking almost lover around was odd. The spaces Pyke occupied were empty, an undeniable hole in the Rhapsody’s family only growing larger with every missing member. 

The door to Pyke’s room opened silently, and Rett stepped in. Call him selfish, but he missed Pyke too damn much to actually try and sleep in his own room. Instead, he was staying in Pyke’s, using the rarely-touched bed, watching the stars out Pyke’s window. They were so used to sharing spaces that Rett knew exactly how the room should look, cleaning it quietly in the first few days. Now, he walked past the blue plastic record player, the newly sorted record collection, the rolled up meditation mats, and the half-constructed wooden replica of the Sparrow laid out across a work mat on the floor. Rett’s hand skimmed Pyke’s desktop, looking at the inlaid shelf there with a few small plants Dandy had gifted him, a large collection of candles and matches, and an ashtray that had been dutifully washed until it shined again. All of Pyke’s books were shelved beside the desk, and Rett sat in the chair, flicking on the solar light Rett had built Pyke after Pyke bitched about his standard one feeling too sterile. Now, the white icosahedron shape lit up with a soft gold glow beside a new, untouched pack of cigarettes Rett had placed there. 

Rett took a breath. Pyke lived plainly, but he still lived here, his touch and stain unmistakable on the space around him. Rett stood, shutting the window’s blinds and making sure everything was in its proper place before he laid down on Pyke’s bed, reveling in the ever-present smell of Pyke that still clung to the sheets and pillows and the raggedy stuffed dragon Pyke refused to admit he liked. Beside the dragon, Pyke’s pig plush, cheerful beaded eyes watching Rett until he turned over, the smell of cigarette smoke, fruity soap, and engine fuel lulling Rett down into a dreamless sleep. 

However, where Rett’s sleep was dreamless, someone else’s was not. 

Halfway across the ship, locked in the brig in a self-inflicted punishment, Laboosh was dreaming. 

And he was dreaming hard. 

That moment kept replaying in his mind, that one terrible moment, watching his spike-like arm sink into Pyke’s back, hearing the wet sound of him coughing up blood and watching it seep under Laboosh’s ooze, the gold staining the black of his body as Pyke fell forward, dead. 

But it wasn’t the act that scared Laboosh. It was the way he felt, the way he enjoyed it, enjoyed watching, hearing, causing the death of one of his closest friends. The renewed strength and the pounding joy as Pyke gasped for air, choking on his own blood. The dull thump of his body on the cave floor nearly made Laboosh laugh, and it was all so elating until Rett had opened fire upon him, screaming bloody murder while the others looked on in abject horror. 

And then he came back to himself, and the dream started all over again. A vicious cycle of pain and torment and killing a friend, a family member. He didn’t care what happened to him now. He didn’t deserve freedom, not with that thing still infecting him, still grasping at his soul, trying to get out, to take over. 

To return from whence it came and become whole again. 

Another loop. Another moment of endless torment for Laboosh. 

Another loop. Another agonizing replay of Pyke’s death. 

Another loop. Another subconscious prayer that Pyke would be okay. 

Another loop.

Laboosh awoke in the closest equivalent to a cold sweat he could muster while being oozoid, a chill racing through his tank as he woke up in a snap. The bars of the brig were still solidly in place, Chuckles on the other side holding two cups of coffee. The clown looked exhausted, in his typical robe and wife beater combo, an obvious five o’clock shadow on his face that would somehow miraculously disappear when he showered. 

“Good morning,” Chuckles said, opening the cell and sitting beside Laboosh. He set one of the mugs down beside Laboosh’s tank, allowing Laboosh to ooze a rough approximation of an arm out to suction coffee into his system. They sat in silence, just letting the Rhapsody morning wash over them. 

“Chuckles.”

“Hm?” 

“Do you miss the others?” 

Chuckles took a deep breath. “I do,” he said finally. “I miss Kavir and Dandy a lot, and I miss Pyke right now, even though I know he’ll be back. Without them, no one will play games with me. Dandy used to laugh so hard at my jokes.” He sounded oddly sad, and Laboosh wilted, the coffee no longer receding. “I don’t like being sad, Laboosh.” 

“No one does.” 

They lapsed back into silence again, enjoying their coffee and each other, before Chuckles stood and gathered Laboosh’s tank into his arms, carrying Laboosh into the common room, where Rett was frowning at a datapad. 

“Any word on Pyke?” Chuckles asked tentatively, and Rett turned. 

“Take a look,” he said, passing them the datapad. 

Chuckles held it up, scrolling through various language options before he found Galactic Standard, the translation running across the screen. 

The patient you are attempting to contact is not in the care of the Janus hospital station system. Please check your spelling, or contact our helpline.

“But Pyke was just at the hospital!” Laboosh fretted, staring up at Rett, who, despite having just woken up in the last hour, looked exhausted already. “Just last night, you called!”

“I know,” Rett said, taking back the datapad. “That’s what worries me. When they took Pyke to Janus, they gave me a number, his ID number. It’s what I’ve been using to track his condition. Usually it just says he’s comatose but alive, and now.” Rett gestured uselessly at the datapad. “Now I’m getting jack shit. That message doesn’t show up unless he’s been discharged.” 

“What if he died?” Chuckles asked, unusually solemn. 

Rett shook his head. “Then it would say he’s deceased. No, no, someone discharged him sometime between last night and this morning.”

That brought them all to silence, staring at the datapad and just letting it wash over them, the realization that someone other than them had pulled Pyke from the system, had taken him out of the hospital without their consent, without their knowledge.

“What’re the odds he’s got a bounty on his head?” Laboosh asked finally, watching Rett snap from his daze and go to make another cup of coffee. “And someone found out he was at the hospital and took him for the reward?” 

“Slim to none, last I checked we were all bounty-free.” 

“What about the Empire? Do you think they took him into Imperial custody? Rex did say-”

“I was promised Pyke would be safe,” Rett interrupted. “The EMTs said that they’d release him back to us, no questions asked.”

Chuckles frowned. “This is the Empire we’re talking about,” he said. “What if they lied?”

Rett turned back to them, eyes alight with fury and malice. “Then I’ll kill them,” he growled. “I’ll murder every last one of those fuckers if they so much as put a scratch on Pyke. I’ll kill the Emperor with my bare hands if I have to. I’m not losing Pyke. Not after what we just went through. I will not lose him too.” 

“So what should we do?” Laboosh asked. “We have no leads, no one to ask; shit, we don’t even know what happened to him. For all we know, he checked himself out and he’s trying to find us right now!” 

Chuckles gasped so suddenly Rett almost whipped around and punched him on reflex. “Oh my gods! What if Pyke bonked his head and he doesn’t remember us! And he checked himself out without knowing we were waiting for him!” 

“I-” Rett was frozen in shock, the oddly abject, sinking horror of that scenario hitting him like a speeder. “I don’t think-”

“It’s unlikely,” Laboosh said, taking over for Rett. “Unfortunately, we will not know anything for certain without making some calls and asking some questions. Where should we start?” He looked at Rett, who was still shaking, but managed to get himself under control enough to speak, to start forming a plan. 

“Well, usually I’d call Kilavax, but he’s out of the picture now,” he said slowly. “We could start with the hospital, but I dunno how far I’ll get there. The Boss is an option given how many ties he has, but after all of that,” Rett gestured loosely to where the papers from Rex were still spilled out across the coffee table, “I dunno how much I want to talk to that sleazy bastard. Aside from that, we don’t keep a lot of contacts. Helps keep us off the bounty boards, y’know?” 

Laboosh sloshed around in his tank, eyebrows forming and giving his face a scrunched, deep in thought expression. “What about going back to the Pathway?” he asked. “If Rex and Kahn managed to escape somehow, that is where they’d be, is it not? So we go there, and even if they didn’t escape, then we can start asking around there, seeing if Kahn kept any kind of friends. We have to think of this like we’re hunting a bounty, not chasing down a friend.”

“You’re right,” Rett agreed, eyes downcast. “Feels weird to think about Pyke like that, but we gotta think rationally. Thankfully, we know the guy pretty well, so if he’s out there and on the move, it’ll be easy to think like him. The Pathway is a good place to start, and I don’t wanna waste any time. Chuckles, we need to access the Honk Weave.” 

Chuckles stood up straight, snapping to a sharp salute. “You got it, boss!” he said eagerly. “I’ll be back lickety-split! Just gonna get dressed first!” And with that, he rushed off in a cartoonish cloud of smoke, disappearing into his room, leaving just Rett and Laboosh in the galley. 

“You know he didn’t mean to upset you with the talk of amnesia,” Laboosh said eventually, looking up at Rett. “He was just being Chuckles.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rett sighed, still staring into his mug, even as Hank weaved around his feet and gave a few tinny whines. “And I know it's plausible, but I just can’t stand to think about it. All those years, everything, just gone in the blink of an eye. Like we never existed to him.” 

Laboosh slopped out of his tank, hesitantly reaching for Rett’s hand and slowly oozing under it, encapsulating his hand in a strange, oozoid embrace. “You traveled the stars with him for decades,” Laboosh said, as gentle as he could with his harsh accent. “Memories like those are not easily forgotten.”

“I suppose,” Rett grumbled, wiping his eyes with his free hand. “Thanks, Laboosh. Chuckles was right though, it’s time to shower. You wanna stay out here or head to your room?” 

“If you could drop me-”

“Enough of this stayin’ in the brig,” Rett insisted, cutting Laboosh off. “Look, I don’t care what you think, but you aren’t a danger to this crew. You ain’t gonna hurt us.” 

“I stabbed Pyke.” 

“No, the other thing stabbed Pyke. You had nothing to do with it. Now, room or galley?” Rett was clearly not in the mood to argue, his sharp tone and pointed stare speaking volumes beyond his clipped words. 

Laboosh paused. “I suppose my room,” he said. “For the upcoming venture, I will likely need my suit, yes?” 

“That’s a good man. I’ll help you out.”

And just like that, they walked down the halls towards their rooms, hands and hand equivalents still intertwined.

Chapter Text

Pyke was tired of being tired. 

It sounded ridiculous, but he was. He was so sick of being exhausted, the lethargy weighing his bones down so heavily he could barely move. It was early morning, if the small clock blinking on the doctor’s datapad was to be believed. 

The doctor looked over his glasses at Pyke, who was staring back at the man with half-lidded eyes, laying fully down while Kialla fussed around him, changing his painkillers and putting in a line of IV nutrition for his breakfast. 

“So Pyke,” the doctor said finally. “Feeling better?” 

Pyke rolled his aching eyes. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” the doctor decided, typing out something on his datapad. “You have to understand we did the best we could. Your throat may take another few days before it’s ready to support constant speaking again. Until then it’s best you remain functionally mute. As for the rest of you-” He was cut off by Pyke’s rapid scribbling on his whiteboard, turning it around harshly, punctuating his point with all the hostility he wished his voice could convey. 

I want to go home.

“You have to know we can’t discharge you for a few more days,” the doctor attempted, and Pyke glared at him. “You coded four times before we managed to stabilize you, Pyke. You’re staying here for a little while longer.” 

I want to call my family.

“And you will, so long as you cooperate,” the doctor promised. “As soon as we’re done here with the questions, I will take you down the hall and you can contact your friends. We will not withhold you from doing so, we just ask for your cooperation in determining if you’re healthy enough to make it to the end of the day. Now please, may I continue?” 

Pyke rolled his eyes again, but he made a circular ‘go on’ gesture that hurt his aching wrist. 

The doctor nodded. “Thank you. Now, your initial injury is healing well. Things such as infection are no longer a major risk, and we can start looking at giving the injury some time to air out for a few hours during the daytime. As for internally, I won’t know more until I get a CT scan and potentially an MRI, although I think a CT will be more than sufficient. Last we checked, however, the stomach injury was healing well, and the clip to your lung was following suit. I’d say we can attempt to start a liquid diet at the end of the week if today’s scans show continued progress. You’ll be on assisted oxygen until we discharge you, but I don’t think things will get serious enough for us to need to intubate you again. We’ll put you on intermittent painkillers for a few days, just to take the worst of the edge off, but we won’t keep that line in constantly anymore. Now, I think all we need to do is get some data, take you down for that CT, and then I’ll bring you back up to make that comm call, okay?”

Pyke shrugged, watching Kialla pull on a pair of powder blue gloves and gather a few vials. His brow wrinkled, pulling away from her when she tried to approach him. 

“I just need to check you for infection,” she promised. “White blood cell count, plus this’ll help us keep track of your nutrition and vitamin levels. I promise I won’t take any more than we need.” She reached out again, and this time, Pyke extended his arm, stubbornly watching as she unbuckled the small clasp on his picc line and let the blood flow out, filling three small vials with the glittering golden fluid. She capped the vials, passing them off to the doctor before flushing the picc line with saline, snapping it shut once more. “All done.”

“And now down to CT,” the doctor said. “Have you ever had a CT scan before?” he asked as Kialla pulled away and rounded to the back of Pyke’s bed, helping him sit up and adjusting the backrest. 

Pyke shook his head, frowning as the doctor took his whiteboard. 

“Don’t want to contaminate the CT room,” he explained with an apologetic smile. “I’ll return it as soon as we get out, I promise.” He walked alongside the bed as Kialla began to push it out of the small room, finally giving Pyke a glimpse of the hospital outside the four blank walls of his room. It was just like any other hospital Pyke had ever seen, with long white halls and a few nurses milling about in similar uniforms to Kialla’s. He was taken to the right, down towards the nurse’s station, although they went right past it, into a large elevator. The doctor pushed a button for the sixth floor. “You’ve had two CT scans since you arrived here, but you’ve been unconscious for both of them. It’s a very simple process though. The machine is a bit loud, but we can play music if you want to help ease the noise. The thing most people complain about is the contrast. We put a line of contrast into your IV to help effectively highlight your body and make things easier to see. It’ll give your mouth a terrible metallic taste, tends to feel very warm, and will very much attempt to convince you that you’ve just urinated all over yourself. I promise you haven’t.”

Kialla chuckled as the elevator doors opened and she began to push Pyke down a new hallway, this one lined in windows. “I don’t think anyone’s ever actually peed themselves on the CT table,” she said, but Pyke wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring out the window, staring at the vastness of space, endless stars stretching for infinite miles. It reminded him, painfully, of his room on the Rhapsody. He wondered if Rett was keeping it clean. If he was in Pyke’s room, preserving his memory and his belongings. 

Pyke sure hoped so. 

“Here we are,” Kialla said, watching two doors swing open and pushing Pyke into a room with a large machine and a stout man wiping the table down. “Good morning Doctor Cordaln!” 

The stout doctor, Cordaln, looked up and smiled. “Kialla!” he said cheerfully. “And our mystery solar elf patient, brought back to the land of the living. How’re you doing, young man?” 

Pyke shrugged, pointing to his throat. 

“His vocal chords are still bruised,” Kialla explained for him, giving Cordaln the datapad she had tucked into a pocket of Pyke’s bed. “And his name is Pyke.”

“Pyke, huh?” Cordaln asked, sitting down and looking over what Pyke presumed to be his file. “Alright Pyke, let’s get you all laid down here and get these scans over and done with. Think you can get up on your own?” 

The answer was a resounding no, with Pyke attempting to slide from his bed to the CT table and almost immediately going tango uniform, collapsing into Kialla’s arms as she steadied him and helped transfer him to the table. She carefully adjusted his nasal cannula so Pyke wasn’t laying on it and he was as comfortable as he could be while laying on a white plastic table attached to a large machine. 

“Just gonna do the contrast and then we’ll be good to go,” Cordaln said, approaching Pyke with a new IV line. “I assume someone already told you what’ll happen?” 

Pyke nodded, watching the ceiling as Cordaln hooked him up to the new line, finally turning his head to watch the contrast slowly drain out of the container it was in. 

The first thing he noticed, as warned, was the taste. It was like he’d just licked the underside of the Sparrow fresh off the racetrack, metallic and terrible, evoking a million horrible thoughts, all trying to be the closest to the flavor settled on his tongue. 

Next was the warmth, flushing from head to toe quicker than Pyke had expected. It was strange in a comforting way this time, reminiscent of the way Pyke’s body warmed from the core outward when Rett had taken him to bask in a nearby red supergiant. The tingle to his hands and feet was strange, yes, but not unwelcome. 

And then Pyke felt the third sensation he’d been warned about. He tried to keep calm, but Kialla must’ve seen his eyes widen, because she smiled when he looked over. 

“You’re okay,” she promised. “Haven’t peed yourself, I promise.”

Cordaln chuckled. “Every time,” he said lightly. “Trust me, kid, it’s my least favorite part too. Just close your eyes and relax now. Let the machine work its magic. Mind if I play some music? Helps keep patients calm and pass the time a bit faster.” 

Pyke shrugged, watching the ceiling as the machine whirred to life, loud and clunky-sounding, a few sharp beeps interrupting the mechanical grinding. Cordaln hummed, flipping a switch and suddenly, the room was full of gentle classical music, the exact kind of stuff Pyke had been taught to meditate to. He closed his eyes, memories of Kahn sitting with him and Rex, a hand down Pyke’s spine to straighten it, a whisper of a word on the air as Pyke took a deep breath both in his memory and in his current state. 

“Breathe, Pyke. Breathe.”

“Good job, Pyke. Just keep taking deep breaths and it’ll be over before you know it.” 

Pyke opened his eyes, the memories swimming around his brain uncomfortably, just out of reach from his hands, no matter how hard he tried to grab them. 

“All done!” 

That shocked Pyke, who turned, propping himself up on one elbow and watching as Cordaln punched a few buttons, the table pulling out of the machine and Cordaln offering Pyke a hand. “Let’s get you back to your room so the doctor can take a look at these scans with you, hm?” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, and Cordaln chuckled. “Told you the music helps,” he said with a wink. “You did great, kid.” And with that, Kialla came back in, helping transfer Pyke back to his bed and wheeling him down the hall once more, silent this time even as she handed Pyke a paper water cup. 

“Save some of that,” she warned as she pushed Pyke into the waiting elevator. “You’ve got some pills to take. A few basic digestive enzymes to attempt to rebuild your gut microbiome. The doctor really wants you to try and eat your dinner instead of us injecting it tonight.” She pressed a button on the elevator, the second floor symbol lighting up cheerfully. 

Pyke opened his mouth, determined to scratch out his request even if it set him back weeks in recovery. He rasped a few rough syllables, but before Kialla could stop him, he managed to squeak out a warbling, croaky, “Family?” 

“Oh!” Kialla said, nodding. “Of course! I’ll drop you by the terminal and get your pills while you get a message out, okay? Two birds, one stone, and all that.” The elevator doors chimed open, Kialla pushing Pyke out and down, right towards the nurse’s station, where, as promised, there was a comms terminal on the wall. Kialla parked Pyke right next to it, unhooking the pad and handing it to him. She smiled before walking away, digging through a few of the drawers behind the nurse’s counter. 

Staring at the blank pad, Pyke paused, suddenly hesitant. Did he really want to send the Rhapsody a message from an Empire station? Even if it was a hospital, that would give the Empire the Rhapsody’s ship comm code, which was less than optimal, but Pyke was also desperate. He didn’t know if the crew was dead or alive, or even if they knew he was alive. If they thought he was dead… 

No. Pyke shook that thought out of his brain as he began to type a short, simple message. He’d send it to Kahn, who would most likely read between the lines and forward the message to the Rhapsody. At the very least, if the crew thought him dead, Kahn would correct them, even if he didn’t send the message. For added protection, Pyke stubbornly didn’t drop any names, referring to the crew solely by code names and weaving his true intentions under layers of cyphers and codes no one but Hank knew. He wasn’t taking any chances. 

“Here.” Kialla came back, holding a small plastic cup and an even smaller paper one. “We’ll give these an hour to kick in, then the doctor will come visit you to go over your CT results and hopefully give you something more substantial to put in your stomach.” 

Pyke nodded, taking the four pills, two capsules and two small round pills, in one large gulp, handing Kialla back the cup once he had drained it. He nodded as a thank you before miming writing on something. 

“I’ll see if I can’t find it,” Kialla said. “It should be in your room. Give me one second.” 

While she was gone, Pyke attempted to finish writing out his message, brow furrowing as he found it significantly harder to concentrate, eyes heavy and head spinning. He wanted to call out for Kialla, but when he looked up, he saw nothing, and could speak even less, the comm pad falling from his limp hands as his eyes went wide, head lolling back on a useless neck. He wanted to cry out, to do something, anything, to get someone’s attention, but it was futile, Pyke a puppet with cut strings, left paralyzed to stare down an empty hallway. 

“For what it’s worth,” a voice said, and Pyke’s eyes snapped to where Kialla had reappeared by his shoulder. “I really am sorry about all of this.” She pulled the pad from Pyke’s hands, and he watched, unable to fight, as she deleted the message he had typed out. Softly, Pyke felt a sob bubble in his throat, watching the words disappear one by one, letter by damning letter until it was blank once more, slotted back to the wall as if it had never been touched in the first place. 

“I was hoping the pills would take effect before you hit send,” Kialla said, kicking the brakes off Pyke’s bed and turning him, pushing him back to the elevator, which the doctor was holding open. “In about half an hour, they should really take hold, and you’ll probably lose consciousness fully. It’s unfortunate, really,” she added as she watched the elevator doors close. “You were such a good patient. It’s a pity to do this to you, Pyke.” 

Pyke’s breath hitched. He was so close to tears, teetering on the edge, unable to do anything but stare ahead and fight the urge to cry, testing his body, kicking and screaming against the drugs, but it was worthless. He was done for, all because he was an idiot and trusted the word of the first kind nurse who caught him with his guard down. 

Rett would be so disappointed. 

“Where’s he headed?” Kialla asked, taking Pyke’s limp wrist and scanning the plastic bracelet with her datapad. “Four or five?” 

“I was going to start him down at seven.” 

“Really? So soon after surgery? He’s such a precious resource, don’t you wanna be careful with him?” 

“I was just going to let Sarge get a good look at him. Assess where we stand, what we can do, that sort of thing.” 

“You know Sarge is gonna recommend we strip him for all he’s worth.” 

“I know. Pity, truly. I haven’t seen one like this in so long. Purple is such a rare color on solar elves. Ah well. Maybe Sarge’ll let me keep a lock or two.”

“Mhm. So seven?”

“Shit. The CT just came through. Cordaln’s highlighted a few. Some bruising around his kidney on that side. Fuck. Set him up in a room on five and start IV hydration.”

“You got it.” 

Pyke bit the inside of his cheek, watching the ceiling pass as the elevator opened and suddenly, Pyke was in a new hallway, flickering fluorescents and white tiles as he was pushed down a maze of corridors, Kialla not saying a word behind him, although Pyke heard other people talking, a few muted snippets of conversations he couldn’t quite make out. 

Kialla remained silent as she parked Pyke in a new room, similar to his old one, plain white walls and only one door, a single light overhead and nothing else, no windows or other sources of light. Already, Pyke felt smothered, like a candle that had been burning for too long. He watched, eyes the only thing left moving as he locked onto Kialla’s movement. She refused to look at his face as she hung an IV bag on a pole beside his bed and hooked the line up. 

“Just get some sleep,” she advised as she turned to walk out. “It’s all you can do now.” 

And with that final, hopeless message, Kialla walked out of the room, leaving Pyke well and truly alone. 

Chapter Text

Pyke cried for the better part of an hour. He fought the drugs as hard as he could, although eventually they won, leaving him tear-stained and exhausted, dozing off in his hospital bed while the IV nutrition dripped into his system slowly. Time was slow and foggy, and when Pyke woke, he had no idea if it had been minutes or hours, sleep gumming his eyes shut. He pried them open, wincing as he did, reflexively attempting to reach up and rub the gunk from his eyes. 

Which was precisely the moment he realized he was cuffed to the bed. 

Cussing internally, Pyke gave the chain a yank, but the medical grade cuffs were deceptively strong, unmoving even after Pyke rattled them for a while, desperate for release. He needed out right now, before the others gave up on finding him, before they labeled him a lost cause and let him go. 

Grunting loudly, Pyke gave a frustrated groan through gritted teeth, letting the chains fall silent as he went still. At least whoever had cuffed him had the basic courtesy to prop him up halfway so he could stare at the blank walls instead of the blank ceiling. 

Although the walls weren’t blank for long. 

Still unable to tell time, Pyke had no idea how long it was before the door pushed open. He stubbornly ignored it, staring directly ahead as whoever walked into the room pushed something in, setting up just outside his periphery on his right. 

“I know you know I’m here,” a cold voice said, and Pyke merely blinked, not giving the person the satisfaction of seeing him react. “Don’t pretend you’re brave, elf. Look at me.” 

Pyke, still holding up a front of bravery, turned his head, looking at the man before him. He was tall, humanoid enough aside from the two hulking wings protruding from his back and the massive horns curling out from his forehead and around his ears. He had a strong, sharp face and closely cropped hair, eyes of the blackest night sunken into deep-set sockets. Pyke immediately hated him. 

“You will refer to me as Sarge and Sarge alone,” the man said. “You now exist in my care, and I am allowed to do with you as I please, provided you don’t keel over and die. Which means you and I are gonna have some fun.” He said it with a sick kind of glee, as if he enjoyed the threat of Pyke’s suffering. Knowing these types, he probably did. 

Sarge looked at the computer on the small rolling cabinet he had pushed into the room. “Note from the doc says that as soon as you’re done with that nutrition, we’re cleared to start playing,” he said. “Now now, Pyke. What to do with you, where to start.” As he spoke, he rounded around Pyke, taking him in the same way a hunter might observe an animal ensnared in a cage. “I’ve already gotten some blood, but I imagine we’ll take more. Pure blooded solar elves are rare as anything these days. Halflings and quarterlings are a credit a dozen, but you.” He stopped his pacing, smiling sadistically. “You’re special. So maybe I’ll wait to start taking samples. Put you through processing first, see how long you last surrounded by the scum of the galaxy down here. Pretty thing like you, you won’t last five minutes. Shit, you won’t even make it through to the end of processing. You ever seen a solar elf with a buzzcut? Trust me,” he tugged on a lock of Pyke’s hair, “it ain’t pretty.” 

Pyke had had enough. He snarled, whipping around, and before Sarge could react, Pyke bit him, sinking his sharp teeth into Sarge’s hand, still gripping Pyke’s hair. 

Sarge shouted, pulling away and cradling his hand to his chest while Pyke panted, eyes ablaze with a furious fire even through his exhaustion. “Remarkable,” he said softly. “You’re an adult. I’ve never seen a mature solar elf before. Fangs of that size, and a temper to match.” His smile was terrifying, no longer stained in a sadistic desire for pain, but dripping in interest, cruel and curious. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun together, Pyke. Just you wait and see.” He turned, going back to his rolling cabinet and pushing it around, out of the room. “I’ll send in two orderlies in to take you down to processing soon. I expect I’ll see you afterwards, Pyke.” And with those final words, Sarge was gone, the door hissing shut behind him. 

Pyke took a measured breath, knowing full well his every move was being monitored. He refused to show any kind of weakness, blinking tears away as soon as they formed and slowly forcing his thoughts to remain in order, thinking as rationally as he could. First, he needed a way out of the cuffs. Once he was out, he knew he was strong, likely strong enough to take on almost anyone that came his way. Khan had taught him the ins and outs of taking down opponents nearly double his size, and Pyke had a decent track record against Laboosh and Kavir. He could absolutely hold his own. 

Shaking his head, Pyke decided his second course of action. Finding a way out. It would be tough, but he wasn’t a complete idiot, and provided he found the elevator, he could get out. Getting out of the ship would be a different story, but he could steal an ambulance. Pyke scoffed humorously at himself for the oh so casual way he thought it, as if stealing an ambulance was something simple he did every other week. 

But once he had the ambulance, where would he go? Surely not back to the Pathway, that was too obvious. The Rhapsody had a few scattered rendezvous points, but Pyke would have a hard time getting to any of them without drawing attention. He was interrupted from wondering if he would have to disable a tracking device from the ambulance by the door to his room opening, two very large men in plain grey uniform scrubs walking in. Definitely bigger than Pyke, but smaller than Laboosh. Not simple, but definitely manageable, Pyke decided. 

“This him?” The first one, the taller one, gestured to Pyke. 

“S’pose so,” the second one, the blond, grumbled, checking a small device on his wrist. “Down to processing, this says.” 

The taller one chuckled, unceremoniously unhooking Pyke from the empty IV bag he had almost forgotten he was still attached to. “Now that’s a show I’d pay to see,” he said, grabbing a roll of white fabric tape from a pouch at his side and tearing off a few pieces. Without actually speaking to Pyke, he grabbed his right arm, pinning it painfully to the bed despite Pyke’s struggles, taping down the loose picc line still protruding from Pyke’s arm so he couldn’t tamper with it. “Oh quit your squirming!” he snapped as he let Pyke go, Pyke snarling at him. “Fuck me, you really won’t last ten minutes down below. You wanna sedate his ass or bring him down to Hummer still sober?” 

“Hummer ate my leftovers last week,” the blond said lightly. “Let’s leave him sober.” 

The taller one laughed, nodding. “Good man,” he said, producing a set of strange metal cuffs glowing with a distinct blue light. “You get his left.” 

It took both of the men to wrestle Pyke into the new cuffs, and the only reason they managed to get him to surrender was by the taller man socking Pyke in the gut and knocking the wind right out of him, giving them an opening to snap Pyke’s wrists into the cuffs and lock them with a sharp whirring sound. Instantly, Pyke felt weaker, eyes heavy as his ankles were uncuffed and he was transferred to a wheelchair, cuffed into that too before he was shoved down the halls. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he realized this would be his only chance to map his surroundings, but something else took his attention first. The halls weren’t busy by any means, but they weren’t empty either, sets of orderlies passing by, the occasional nurse or doctor milling about outside of a door with a datapad clipped to the wall just beside it. But it wasn’t that that stole Pyke’s gaze, no, that would be the patients being pushed on beds or in wheelchairs just like his. Some were human in appearance, untouched aside from a few bruises or scars, most of them sallow and bony, in varying states of semi-conscious. Others were non-human, and those folk were in significantly worse shape, wrapped in stained bandages and missing limbs and hooked up to more drugs than Pyke could count, clearly the subject to someone’s fucked up definition of treatment. 

Or worse. 

Pyke blinked, and suddenly he was in an elevator, the blond scanning his wrist device and punching a button. The doors closed and the elevator lurched, the taller one still holding onto Pyke’s wheelchair even in the small, confined space. 

The ride was short, the doors opening barely a minute later, Pyke staring down yet another blank white hallway, although this one was dimmer, a few doors propped open. Pyke got a glimpse into one as he passed by it, seeing a single leather and chrome chair in the center with a burly man in a white uniform coat wiping down a pair of overly large butchers shears with a bloodied rag. The man smiled cruelly at Pyke, and Pyke shuddered, tearing his eyes away just as the taller man stopped the wheelchair, turning it and chuckling as he pushed Pyke into an identical room. “Hummer!” he shouted at no one in particular. “Oh Hummer! Sarge has another poor schmuck for you to process!” 

“I’m out here,” a nasally voice said, and, unable to turn his head fully around, Pyke was forced to wait until the overly slender man came into view, wearing thick lensed goggles that magnified his eyes to a near comical size, his white coat tailored to his frame despite his frailness. “This is Sarge’s newest project? Is this what he meant when he said he was taking on another personal job?” 

“Who cares?” the blond said, unhooking one of Pyke’s ankles. Pyke wiggled his toes, earning his calf a sharp smack. “He’s all yours for whatever Sarge wants in his processing. But hey, if you end up shaving him, save me some and maybe I’ll forgive you for stealing my fucking lunch the other day.” 

Hummer rolled his eyes, pressing a few buttons on a wall panel and watching as a drawer unit slid smoothly out of the wall. “Of course,” he said, and Pyke bit his tongue hearing Hummer’s sarcasm. “If you could, please.” 

The two men transferred Pyke to the new chair, cuffing his wrists and ankles and strapping thick utility webbing restraints over Pyke’s chest and thighs. As soon as the blue cuffs came off, Pyke felt more energized, eyes lighting up and a snarl on his lips as he watched Hummer putter around. 

“Oh relax,” Hummer said as the two men left. “It’s hopeless to struggle. I promise this process will only be as painful as you insist on making it.”

“Fuck off,” Pyke rasped, voice tearing and burning, but at least he got two words out back to back. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. 

Hummer simply sighed deeply, staring at Pyke as Pyke glared at him, the rage in Pyke’s gaze undeniable and painfully furious. He could feel what little energy he had left simmer under his skin, face heating and hair growing brighter, a soft wind whipping around him, causing Hummer to pause and hesitate. It wasn’t much, but at least he seemed cautious to continue now. 

 “Don’t make me muzzle you,” Hummer warned, opening a drawer and rummaging through it. “Because I will.” He produced a pair of black nitrile gloves, slipping them on and approaching Pyke with a small rolling cart. Pyke couldn’t move, especially as Hummer used his left hand to grab a fistfull of Pyke’s hair, wrenching Pyke’s head over, exposing the delicate right side of his neck. 

“Hold still,” Hummer commanded, low and threatening, and Pyke was tempted to ignore him, but he held the position as Hummer separated a few small chunks of hair, the soft purple and indigo curls that framed Pyke’s nape. He rubber banded a few off, the awkwardly sized pigtails sticking out as Hummer stepped away. “Sarge wanted you shaved, but we ended up agreeing on a few simple samples instead.” As he spoke, Hummer produced a slender pair of scissors and unceremoniously sawed away at one of the pigtails, much to Pyke’s bone-chilling horror. “You’ll barely even be able to see where we took them.” The shorn tail was tossed onto the cart, the once-vibrant gradient now dulled and almost sad. “Just two more.” 

Each time the scissors scraped together, the harsh sound of the blades splitting hair, Pyke winced, refusing to look as each tied away chunk was discarded with the same uncaring nature. He supposed this was better than being shaved, but his hair was indescribably precious to him, and losing even a little felt like he was being stabbed through the heart. 

Of course, he had to know Hummer wasn’t done with the torture, not even by a long shot. 

“That’s that,” Hummer said, tossing the scissors down on top of the hair samples with a dull, muffled thump. “Now, onto the rest.” 

The rest started with a large metal gag that propped Pyke’s mouth open, saliva running down his chin as he whined and attempted to protest, trying to wrench his head from Hummer, but Hummer simply locked another utility restraint over Pyke’s forehead, allowing him uninhibited access to Pyke’s mouth. 

“You’re being unreasonably difficult for a simple saliva sample,” Hummer said, swabbing a cotton swab across the inside of Pyke’s cheek. “Sarge specifically requested I leave every tooth in your mouth intact. Something about mature fangs versus adolescent, I’m not sure. Regardless,” Hummer removed the gag, watching Pyke close his jaw, “I’m sure the results will be interesting.” 

After that, Pyke endured skin samples from three different areas and five dizzying vials of blood. Hummer kept quiet the whole time, occasionally remarking on the unique color of Pyke’s blood and marveling at his pink-toned skin, and once, Pyke heard him mutter something about a deeper skin sample and potentially a muscle or liver sample. Those words made Pyke shudder, hoping he’d be knocked out or sedated for those, yet knowing somewhere in his heart that he most definitely would not be. 

“I think that’s all I need,” Hummer decided. “Time to finish processing you, and then you’ll be sent down to your capsule.” 

Pyke wanted to ask what the fuck a capsule was, but he didn’t get a chance as he was uncuffed from the chair, immediately wrenched upwards and marched to the far wall by the two guards from earlier. He was pressed, arms and legs spread wide, against the smooth tile wall, and before he could protest, he was stripped from his hospital gown and cuffed to the wall, shame burning through him at such a rapid pace he was shocked he didn’t set something on fire by accident. 

“Hose him down,” Hummer said, and Pyke froze, muscles clenching just in time for a jet of freezing cold water to hit his back, wrenching a broken cry from his mouth as the deluge continued, soaking him to the bone and them some, the pressure from the hose just shy of bruising, the punishing pain pressing on his already aching body and exhausting him beyond words. He was flipped, and his front was given the same hosing down as his back, eyes squeezed shut and teeth chattering, even when the water stopped and he was let down, falling to the floor with a wet thumping sound, laying there on the freezing tile, shivering violently and heaving in breath after burning breath. 

“Get dressed,” one of the guards snapped, tossing Pyke a pile of clothes. “Or do we have to do that for you too?” 

At the idea of being manhandled into his clothes, Pyke crawled to his knees, shaking as much water from his hair and ears as possible, drawing the dampened clothes closer to him. He had been provided with simple clothes, a pair of black drawstring sweatpants cut off at the knees and a black linen wrap shirt with elbow-length sleeves. As he pulled the pants on, he lamented at their length, hesitantly fishing his tail out, the soft pink skin leading to a tufted end in midnight blues and purples. It was entirely useless, a relic from a bygone era of solar elves, the non-prehensile limb swaying uselessly above the waistband of Pyke’s pants. He typically preferred to keep it tucked down his pant leg, but it ran all the way down to his calf, and hiding it would be impossible. So he simply suffered, rolling his eyes as he felt the tail sway with his every movement. 

Pyke was also given simple stirrup socks as soon as he was dressed, but not provided with any shoes. He was careful in the way he dressed himself, methodical and almost meditative. The clothes did nothing to stave off the chill, but they helped, and by the time Pyke was dressed, he was no longer shivering so harshly, able to walk between the two guards, wrists and ankles predictably cuffed as he walked. 

The halls were long and confusing, and two sets of stairs took the wind out of Pyke quickly, until he was struggling to breathe properly by the time they reached an unmarked door. 

“In you get,” the blond guard said, opening the door and pushing Pyke in. “You’re in capsule twenty eight. Good luck.” And with that, the door slammed shut, leaving Pyke in this new room. 

Turning around revealed the room to Pyke’s rapidly adjusting eyes. It was large, with high ceilings and darkened corners, a few flickering lights the only way anyone could possibly see anything. People milled about, all dressed similarly to Pyke, and a few turned as he was shoved in, but they quickly grew bored when all he did was stand there and shiver, looking around. Two of the walls were lined with holes, presumably the capsules, each one labeled with a large, fluorescent number. 28 was easy enough to find, midway up the seventh column, and Pyke slowly, cautiously, walked over to it, climbing the metal ladder and slipping into the capsule with ease. 

The inside was just as depressing as the outside, a simple carved out cylinder with a thin mattress pad on the floor, a threadbare blanket and flattened pillow on top of it. There was a small light that Pyke pressed, instantly feeling a rush of something as he realized the light had faint UV properties. Not enough to power him up, but enough to keep him from dying. 

“Lights out!” A harsh voice echoed over an intercom system, and the others in the room all grumbled, headed into their own capsules seemingly for the night. Pyke watched them all file in, and two minutes later, the lights all went out, a few capsules flickering with their own personal lights, but it seemed most were headed to sleep for the night. 

Pyke didn’t blame them. He was exhausted, crawling under his blanket and yawning, giving his light ten more minutes before he turned it off, closing his eyes, and praying when he opened them, he’d be somewhere, anywhere else but here.

Chapter Text

Pyke woke up in the dark. He was almost convinced he was still asleep, stuck between awareness and dream, about to be shaken back to reality by Rett or Hank, but no such shake came. Pyke sat up, fumbling around in the pitch blackness until his hand hit the light above his head, throwing the space into the light, albeit dim and flickering, but light nonetheless. 

Sighing deeply, Pyke tucked his knees to his chest, looking around the small capsule he was still stuck in. Everything hurt, his old injuries and new both fighting for his attention, although Pyke ignored them both, merely lifting his shirt hem to make sure his stitches weren’t inflamed or oozing, and once he had confirmed that, Pyke cautiously poked his head out of the capsule. Already, other people were awake, lights on and people milling about in the large open space of the room. 

“You should come join us.” 

Pyke whipped around, breathing heavy as he came face to face with another person, who flinched back as well, nearly toppling off the ladder. “Sorry!” they said quickly. “Sorry! Just wanted to make sure you got a chance to eat today, y’know?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” That was all Pyke could manage before he broke into rough coughing, and the person’s face pulled into something akin to sympathy. 

“Food is first come, first serve,” the person said, gesturing with their head down to the floor. “And trust me, you want to eat.” 

Pyke wasn’t sure food was a good idea, but he did follow the person down the ladder, joining a small group of people gathered around a black orb on the floor, not big, but it was absolutely radiating heat, and Pyke happily sat, looking at the faces beside him. On his immediate left, the person who had brought him down, one kind gold eye and the other a wrended mess of tissue and scarring, thick-lensed glasses perched on the person’s face that framed freckles and blemishes, a frazzled halo of waist-length mousy brown hair tumbling down their back, streaked with thick chunks of silvered grey. Already, a small halfling girl was behind the person, braiding their hair in a thick french braid. The halfling was blonde, with sweet blue eyes made only larger by her buzzed head, a litany of scars traveling across her skull in varying states of recovery. 

“What’s your name?” the person asked Pyke, and he blinked a few times before swallowing thickly.

“Pyke.”

“That’s a pretty name,” the halfling decided, grinning, only half her face moving as she spoke and emoted. “I’m Anna.” 

“And I’m Eirian,” the person said. “That’s North,” they gestured to a sullen-looking humanoid sunken into the shadows across the orb, “and Joie,” a burly man with a shock of brilliant white hair and solid blue eyes, ears long and pointed much like Pyke’s, “and then that’s Zolle.” Finally, the person on Pyke’s immediate right, who had just joined and gave Pyke a jolt when he saw an aether dwarf sitting there, face familiar and yet foreign to him. 

“Guess I’m no longer the odd one out,” Zolle said with a chuckle. “What’re you?”

“Why?” 

“None of us are human,” Anna said, standing behind Pyke. “Can I do your hair?” When Pyke nodded, Anna instantly sunk her hands into his hair, brushing it out with her fingers. “They call this room the menagerie. It’s Sarge’s personal collection of unique species he wants to study. People leave, and sometimes they come back, but sometimes they don’t.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, head unmoving. “I’m a solar elf,” he said, yawning. “When is breakfast?” 

“Depends on when they decide to feed us,” Joie grumbled. “Sometimes they don’t, but sometimes they do. We can’t tell time here, so they feed us when they feed us. Where did you come from, elf?” 

“I’m a bounty hunter,” Pyke said, tucking his knees to his chest while Anna braided his hair in two tight braids close to his scalp. “I was hurt on a job and ended up here.”

“That’s it?” Zolle asked.

“That’s it.” 

“Breakfast!” Someone shouted, and instantly, everyone stood, Pyke ready to bound for the door, but Eirian held him back. 

“Let Joie get it,” they mumbled. “He’s big and strong and usually gets us our food. Everyone in our group has a job.” 

The door slid open with a loud scraping sound, and instantly, the room erupted into chaos, people fighting for what little food they could, Eirian pulling their group back, tucking them into a corner until Joie got back, carrying a tray of food. 

“Breakfast,” Joie mumbled, dropping the tray and setting down with his back to the room, protecting them all from any potential thieves. He began to pass out food, stale bread and plastic containers of overcooked oatmeal, small cups of water, and little plastic packets that he opened and dumped into the oatmeal cups. 

“What was that?” Pyke asked, starting with his bread, chewing and wincing at the toughness. 

Joie passed Pyke the empty package. “Vitamin supplement,” he said. “So we don’t die.” 

“Oh.” Pyke ate slowly, savoring every bite, no matter how dull and tasteless it was. It was food, and he so desperately craved food. It was interspersed with small sips of water, the lukewarm liquid doing no favors for Pyke’s aching throat, but he drank anyway, and by the time he was done, he felt better. Not great, considering he was fairly certain he was going through withdrawals and he desperately wanted a cup of coffee and a cigarette, but at least he wasn’t so hungry anymore. 

“So,” Anna said, tipping her head at Pyke once she was done eating. “Bounty hunter, huh? See anything exciting recently?” 

“Not really,” Pyke lied, loosening up the longer he spent talking to these people. “It’s a pretty boring job when you’ve been doing it as long as I have.” 

“And how long is that?” Eirian asked. “I heard somewhere that solar elves can live for thousands of years.”

They all looked at Pyke, who was well aware he barely looked twenty three, and he shrugged. “I’ve been around the system a few times,” he said softly. “My-” he caught himself before he said anything that would make him sad, and coughed to hopefully cover it up. “Last I celebrated, I was two hundred and thirty seven, and I’ve been bounty hunting for probably close to sixty years.”

The group was silent, staring at Pyke, who picked at his nails, suddenly embarrassed. “Worst part about a prolonged lifespan is that I was a toddler for, like, fifty years. I didn’t have a growth spurt until I was a hundred.” 

“Oh, I bet you were an adorable toddler!” Anna exclaimed. “So you started bounty hunting sixty years ago?” 

“Yeah,” Pyke said. “Did it on my own for a bit before I got contracted to help this guy out on a job. I said yes, and I just never left the ship when I was done. He kept me around, and we did things as a duo until two years ago, when we adopted a daughter.” No need to skirt the truth here, more like coloring it in a different light. “Then we met this odd couple who stayed around as hired muscle and quickly became friends, and finally we took in this motlian man, who rounded out our family last year.”

Zolle squinted at Pyke, who squirmed under her gaze. “Just out of curiosity,” she said slowly. “What’d you do before bounty hunting?” 

“I worked on the Prismatic Pathway,” Pyke said. “My dad, or at least the man who adopted me, he was a racer, and he took me and my adopted brother in when we had no one else.” 

“You any good at racing?” 

“Some would say so.” 

North, who had been entirely silent up until that point, snorted, and Pyke looked at her. “What?” he asked, and had he had any more energy, he would’ve sounded accusatory, but instead he was just curious. 

“You’re being too modest,” North said, and Pyke peered at her, her curling horns and spaded tail. “I’ve seen you race. Last I checked, you were the number two racer in the history of the Pathway, and you haven’t stepped foot on a racetrack since half the people in this room were born. He was so good that no one could touch his score for sixty years,” she added to the group. “We’re in the company of a celebrity.” 

Pyke stared at North. “And how old are you?” he asked. “Anyone who’s seen me race has to be-”

“Four hundred,” North answered for Pyke before Pyke could speculate. “Give or take a few years. After a while, keeping track is cumbersome. You’re very strange.”

“So I’ve been told,” Pyke agreed. “Anyway, enough about me.” He was desperate both to get some answers and to stop being the center of attention. “What is this place, how does it work? Why are we here?” 

“We told you the why already,” Zolle said. “We’re here so Sarge can poke and prod at us as he pleases. We’re his personal playthings. He studies us, picks us apart and plays god with our bones. He likes to pretend that it's science, but we all know he’s just a crazy egotistical maniac with a tendency for destruction, an Empire-sized budget, and the ability to take notes. As for the what and how,” she made a wide, sweeping gesture around the room, “this is a prison masquerading as a hospital. A place of torture hidden under a house of healing. We’re on Sarge’s personal level, the lowest it gets.”

“So who is Sarge?” Pyke mumbled, tucking his knees to his chest. “I’ve never heard of him.” 

North shrugged, scooting closer to Pyke and the others, tightening up their little circle. “No one has,” she said. “He’s a mystery. Best we can guess, he’s a top scientist for the Empire, doing their experimental dirty work so they don’t have to. But sometimes, sometimes I think he’s working beyond that, doing things behind the Empire’s back. It’s just a hunch, but stars is it a strong one. Aside from him, everyone here is under his employment. His guards, his researchers, everyone. And all his guards are fake, grown in test tubes to be the optimal bodyguard or some shit. He gives them fake lives and personalities, but they’ve all got the same eyes. Look at their eyes next time you see one. You’ll see what I mean.” 

“Sarge controls them through some kind of implanted neural network,” Joie said, gathering dishes as he spoke. “Kind of like a hivemind. It’s how he keeps them so obedient. We’ve got our speculations as to what else he’s put in them too.” 

“Like?” 

“A kill switch,” Anna piped up, startling Pyke, who had somehow managed to forget she was sitting right in front of him. “And some kind of thought inhibitor; keeps them from having independent thoughts. They tried to test it on me, but all they did was paralyze parts of me.” To demonstrate, she tried to smile, half her face remaining limp and unmoving. “That’s all we are to Sarge. The test subjects for his fucked up experiments. Sometimes he takes people and they come back days later, having gone through terrible surgeries.”

No one finished her thought, but the morbid idea of people not coming back at all flashed through all their minds. 

“So this is just a prison then?” Pyke asked slowly. “We’re just going to be here until we die?” 

“Unless you have a better idea, then yeah.” Zolle said. “People have tried to escape before, and the furthest they got was halfway down the damn hallway before they were shot six ways from Sunday.”

Pyke’s face steeled. “Yeah well,” he decided, looking around the ragtag group in front of him. “Those people weren’t me. I’m getting out of here. I’m going to see the stars again. I’m going home.” 

Chapter Text

Four days. 

Four days since they’d discovered Pyke to be well and truly missing. Four days of nonstop calls and travel and pain at not having their sarcastic, chain smoking solar elf companion by their sides. His jacket stayed draped over Rett’s captain’s chair, his cigarette box by the space keurig, his spare boots kicked by the shoe rack. Evidence of him was scattered everywhere, and whether it was intentional or not, every glimpse hurt, filling the small crew with a strange anger, a need to bring their lost companion home. 

They chased every lead they could. Kahn and Rex were nowhere to be seen, presumed dead after everything that happened. No one was willing to truly riffle through Kahn’s house, not even the Rhapsody crew, although Rett was given a key and Kahn’s personal mechanic’s condolences. He barely peeked inside, finding a simple house for a simple man, although for the first time in a week and a half, Rett allowed himself to cry standing amidst what was clearly Pyke’s childhood bedroom, perfectly preserved with posters and books and little space lego sets. There were even a few stuffed animals waiting for their owner to return, Rett holding the well-loved stuffed dog close as he sobbed. 

In the end, he took a crate of things from Pyke’s room, the dog sitting on top of a few records and some simple puzzles, small trinkets Pyke seemed to enjoy if the general wear and tear was any indication. 

“Anything?” Chuckles asked as Rett boarded the Rhapsody, Hank on his heels as usual. “Anything at all?” 

“Not a fucking lick,” Rett grumbled, setting the crate down by Pyke’s door. “Mechanic said to try asking around the Aphit system though. Apparently there’s a huge Empire-owned hospital moon there, which I guess is where they relocated Pyke to before he went missing.”

Laboosh nodded. He was still going slow, spending nights in the brig, but at least he stayed in his suit and came out in the mornings to spend time with the other two. “So we’re going to ask around the entire star system?” he asked, following Rett to the bridge. “That seems like a broad ask.” 

“Mechanic said the hospital moon orbits a planet called Morix,” Rett said, sitting down and pulling up the star map, zooming in on a large planet with even larger rings in vibrant shades of purple. Settled in its orbit was one moon, which Rett tapped on. “That’s Janus 1. That’s where Pyke was last. It’s deep in Empire territory, so we have to be careful, but we should be okay so long as we keep our heads down. We’ll start here, on Morix. This city is the biggest, so we can work our way out from there. See what information we can gather, people we can talk to, shit like that. With some luck, we’ll uncover a new lead.” 

“What should we do if we don’t have any luck?” Laboosh asked, almost hesitantly, and Rett’s jaw set. 

“We keep looking,” he said softly. “I’m not letting him go. I’ve got this hunch, this awful feeling that he never left that gods forsaken place. And I’m determined to break him out.”

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, mostly because they all had tasks. Laboosh used the trip to make sure all their personal ships were in order, while Chuckles and Rett got them to their destination in record time, Chuckles climbing out of his dunk tank and comically deflating on the floor beside it once they’d punched out of the Honk Weave. 

“No more for a while,” he pleaded, cartoon canaries floating around his head. “I’m wiped for a bit, Rett.” 

“I hear ya,” Rett promised, piloting the ship into the pre-designated parking zone nearby to their target city. “We’re gonna be here a bit anyways, few days at least. You’ll have plenty of time to rest.”

“Oh goodie,” Chuckles said, sitting up and shaking his head, the canaries dissipating. “So! Where to first?”

“Yes, do we have any leads?” Laboosh asked as he came back onto the bridge. “Anywhere we should start?” 

Rett shrugged, checking his notes. “Mechanic said there was an ex doc here,” he said. “Guy retired a few years back, although apparently retired is a very loose term to use. Some say he was fired, some say he escaped, just depends on who you ask. Anyway, guy never left the city, now he runs an underground clinic for those who can't afford the fancy doctors. All we gotta do is find the guy.” 

“Do we have a name?” 

“Yeah, says his name is Nintos.”

Laboosh peered at the sole grainy image beside the man’s name. “Well that’s not very helpful.” 

“Trust me,” Rett said as he stood, cracking his neck and walking towards the doors. “I’ve found worse men with less information. Let’s go.”

Morix was an oddly nice planet, with a warm, breezy atmosphere and glittering skyscrapers in all directions, haloed by the planet’s crystalline rings hanging in the perpetual night sky. Rett marched easily on, Laboosh and Chuckles beside him as he walked, looking around until he seemingly found what he was looking for, a small diner nestled between a dingy barbershop and a seedy looking secondhand store. 

The bell above the diner door rang out cheerlessly, and a tired waitress came up to them, chewing loudly on her gum. “Table for three?” she asked, and Rett shook his head. 

“Not today,” he said. “Actually wonderin’ if you knew where I could find one Doctor Nintos.”

“Who’s asking?” 

“Us,” Rett said. “See, my friend here is a motlien and he’s fallen a bit under the weather. Can’t exactly take him to your standard clinic, so I need something a bit more discreet. Word is that Nintos is the man to go to for cheap and anonymous.” 

The waitress raised an eyebrow, popping a bubble as she surveyed the ragtag group before she nodded. “Head on over next door and tell Barry you’re looking to get a number eight. Gotta say it exactly like that, otherwise you’re fucked, m’kay?” 

“Thank you,” Rett said, shaking the waitress’s hand and pressing a few credits into her palm. “Means a lot.” 

“Sure thing. Have a nice day.” 

Marching next door to Barry’s Secondhand Shop brought the trio into a dingy, crowded store lined in copious shelves and covered floor to ceiling in useless knick knacks, a wrinkled older man sitting behind a desk who looked up when they entered. “You gents here for something specific?” he asked in a gravelly voice that spoke of decades of smoking. “Or just browsing?”

“We just came from next door,” Rett said, absently glancing at the nearest shelf, coming face to face with a collection of paper books. “Spoke to the waitress, and she said that if we were looking to get a number eight, this was the place to look.” 

The man, presumably Barry, stood, shuffling around a few boxes behind him until he produced a shining silver key, an acrylic tag with the galactic standard symbol for 8 carved into the front dangling from the key loop. “ Go ‘round the back,” Barry said, passing the key over to Rett. “Gotta go a few down, past Mike’s place, to get to the alleyway, but once you’re there, you can’t miss it. Hope you gents enjoy,” he added as they all turned to leave. “Have a nice one.” 

“You too, thanks,” Rett said, letting out a sigh as soon as the door was shut behind him. The air felt stale, looking up at the sky, the lonely moon silhouetted against the vibrant rings, and Rett grit his teeth, knowing Pyke was somewhere up there, so close and yet so painfully far away. Silently, he walked down the street, past the diner and the barbershop, Laboosh and Chuckles following in his footsteps down the alleyway. As promised, it was dingy and dark, but as soon as Rett passed around the back of the buildings, he was met with a doorway, a faded teal cross painted on the surface. 

“This is it,” he guessed, walking up to the door. There was no keyhole, but as soon as Rett got close enough, a small panel came out, clearly waiting for him to do something.

“Perhaps offer it the key,” Laboosh said, standing on Rett’s left. “Maybe it is a scanner.” 

Rett shrugged, holding the key out to the panel. For a second, he was concerned it wouldn’t work, that Laboosh was wrong, but then the panel lit up green, the door opening with a soft whooshing noise. 

“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Chuckles said, and Rett took a breath.

“Let’s go,” he said, marching forward. 

The clinic was just as dark and cold as the street, furnished with only a few sparse, broken benches and end tables, a desk shoved to one side with a bored looking elf of some kind typing away on a small tablet. She looked up as the group entered. “Were you here to see the doc?” she asked in a bored monotone.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah,” Rett agreed, giving the room one last visual once over before he walked up to the desk. “We just wanna talk.” 

The nurse nodded slowly, standing and allowing the trio a good look at her digitigrade legs made of twisted, warped metal, although as messy as it looked, Rett had to admit it was well taken care of, no rust spots or stains to be seen as she walked them past the desk and down a humid hallway until she knocked on a door, peering in. A few hushed words were exchanged, and then she drew her head out. “Go on,” she said, gesturing. “He’s in the middle of cleaning up, but as long as you’re not squeamish, you’ll be okay.” 

Rett turned to the others. “I ain’t gonna ask you to go in with me,” he started, but Chuckles just laughed. 

“Aw, c’mon Rett!” he said, adjusting his jacket and straightening his tie. “Let’s get our friend back!” 

Rett smiled softly, ducking his head down and rubbing his organic eye, hoping no one saw he was tearing up. “Thanks,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. “Now let’s go. I got a lotta questions for this punk.” 

The room was, as expected, an operating room, messily thrown together, but at least it looked sanitary, cleaned as best it could be and well lit with standing lights that illuminated a patched together surgical bed and a few rolling trays of materials, most of them stained in blood. Puttering around the space was a hunched over human man dressed in a stained operating gown, gathering tools and depositing them into a metal sink along the wall. He seemed to either be entirely unaware of the group’s presence or simply blatantly ignoring them. EIther way, Rett cleared his throat, causing the man to startle and look around at them. 

“You Nintos?” Rett asked, cutting directly to the chase. 

The man nodded, setting his things down and chuckling nervously, wringing his hands together. “Who’s asking?” 

Laboosh stepped forward. “We are,” he said, voice almost a growl in the back of his nonexistent throat. “We have some questions for you, Doctor.”

“Please,” Nintos said, going back to his cleaning yet never quite turning away from Rett. “Ask away. I have nothing to hide.” 

That made Rett scoff as he crossed his arms and looked at Chuckles. “Finger on the trigger,” he whispered, and Chuckles nodded, reaching into his bowler cap and producing his toy gun, readying it to shoot while Rett stepped forward. 

“You used to be a doctor for the Empire, yeah?” Rett asked, and Nintos winced sharply. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“It was a long time ago,” Nintos said, dumping the last load of stuff into the sink and stripping off his gloves. “A very long time ago, but yes. I was a doctor for the Empire before they tried to have me killed. Is that why you’re here? Have I wronged you or your family in some way? I apologize for anything I may have done, but-”

“The Empire kidnapped my goddamn friend and I want him back,” Rett snapped, interrupting Nintos’s rambling. “You’re our only lead so far. They took him, promised he’d be safe at the hospital, and then they fucking kidnapped him. I want to know where he is, what they’re doing to him, and how we get him back. And if I think for a second you’re lying to me, or withholding information in any way, I will not hesitate to get my friends to shoot.” He gestured to Chuckles, who had somehow traded the toy gun for an equally bright and cartoonish flamethrower, wielding it with an almost maniacal look in his eyes. 

“That won’t be necessary!” Nintos promised, hands up and shaking in fear. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” 

“That’s what we like to hear,” Laboosh said, nodding. “Start talking.” 

Nintos nodded, sitting on a small stool and sighing deep. “It’s been a very long time since I told anyone this,” he warned. “So I may forget things, but I promise everything I say is truthful as best I can remember it.” 

“Works for me,” Rett decided, grabbing a second stool and sitting backwards on it. “Now, start from the beginning.” 

“Well,” Nintos said, leaning forward. “I was employed by the Empire originally as a geneticist, but my role quickly became more complex than that. I was very skilled at what I did, and before long, very important people began to take notice. I was taught surgical skills despite not knowing why, and eventually, I was approached about a top secret role. As in, I had to drop my life and allow myself to be forgotten. They paid well, and sent benefits home to my parents, who needed them badly, so I agreed. Which was when I met him.”

Rett’s brow furrowed. “Him?” 

“The Sarge,” Nintos said, and there was a distinct note of fear in his voice, a waver that spoke of unmistakable terror. “He was a doctor too, and he was obsessed with figuring out the intricacies of how the brain worked. How thoughts occurred, and if maybe the brain could be hacked. He was fascinated simply with how things worked, and when I was employed under him, I was asked to do a few genetic splicing projects. When I realized the participants were unwilling, more prisoners than anything else, I swallowed my pride and turned a blind eye, but eventually it became too much. Sarge went off the deep end, and I had to leave. I was only under his eye for a year or so, but I did untold amounts of evil. When I became a doctor, I signed an oath, and now no amount of healing will ever wash away the sins of my past.”

“So you’re saying Pyke’s being held captive by this Sarge guy?” Chuckles asked, his flamethrower suddenly nowhere to be seen. “Well that should be easy enough to fix! All we gotta do is kill the guy and get Pyke out!” 

“It’s not that easy,” Nintos said, almost desperately. “It’s never that easy. But.” He stood, Rett following his movements. “I think I may be able to help. Follow me.” He walked out of the room, the trio following down the hall and into a small office space, watching Nintos dig through cabinet after cabinet until he stood, holding a wrinkled, stained file folder. 

“This,” Nintos said, tossing the folder down, “is all the information on Sarge’s work that I was able to get before I left. I should still have some blueprints for his base of operations, as well as some other contacts of his you could go see, gather more information. I know I wasn’t much help, but-”

“This is perfect,” Rett interrupted. “Thank you, doc. This is more than perfect. This is a miracle.” 

Nintos’s face lightened, as if those very words lifted a weight off his chest he had been feeling for decades. “Godspeed, my friends,” he said. “May all the stars in the sky light your path.” 

The walk back to the Rhapsody was silent, but the instant the doors swung shut and the group was alone, Rett turned to the other two. “It’s not fair to drag you both into this without giving you a choice,” he said. “Either of you want to walk away now, I won’t be mad. I know this is gonna be dangerous, and I know it’s gonna be stressful. But I’m getting Pyke back.”

“No,” Laboosh said, and Rett whipped around to look at him, a look of pure incredulity on his face before Laboosh spoke again. “We’re getting Pyke back.”

“Yeah!” Chuckles agreed, grinning. “Now c’mon Captain! Where to next?” 

Rett, smiling despite his tears, turned into the ship, marching to the bridge. “Next stop,” he said, “Pyke. We’re coming, Pyke. Just hold on.” 

Chapter Text

Pyke spent most of his day in a daze. He stuck by his newfound group’s side, everyone seeming to take a liking to him, especially Anna, who talked his ear off about anything she could. She marveled at his earrings, which he couldn’t believe he had managed to keep, and told him she had always wanted earrings of her own. Then she somehow dragged Joie into a conversation, then Zolle chimed in, and Eirian, until North was the only one not participating, keeping away from the group and seemingly acting as a watchdog for their small party. 

Lunchtime came and went, presumably, because they didn’t get fed. A few times, guards came in and took people out, kicking and screaming the whole way. But the guards never even blinked, and Pyke watched curiously. Some of the people came back, and some didn’t, leaving open spaces where they had once stayed. No one new came in, and Pyke just took the time to observe the goings on around here. Determine the hierarchies, identify people of note, that kind of ordeal. 

“You’ve still got a bracelet.” 

“Hm?” Pyke looked over at Zolle, who was absently brushing through Eirian’s hair while Eirian dozed in her lap. 

Zolle nodded at his wrist, where a plastic hospital bracelet sat. “You’ve still got one of those,” she said. “They’ll probably take you back to change it out tomorrow. Depending on what you get as a replacement, that’s how we know what they plan to do to you.” 

Pyke turned to face Zolle fully. “What’re the options?” he asked. 

“Well, you could be tagged,” Zolle started, pointing to North, who barely even looked over. “Tags mean they intend to study you or you’re a part of Sarge’s treasured collection. Might take you out for a few days, but you’ll always come back because they’ll never let you die. You’re too special. Then some of us are tattooed.” To show Pyke, Anna turned, showing Pyke a series of numbers tattooed across her nape. “Those people are less precious, like lab rats mostly. Expendable. The third option is a grafted tag.” She turned her arm over, showing Pyke a raised patch of skin that bore a plastic strip that had clearly been shoddily implanted into the arm. “‘S kinda like a tattoo, but we’re not quite lab rats. More like dogs. Good candidates for something more, Sarge always says. Not quite good enough for his special collection, but better than the rats. No offense, honey.” 

“None taken,” Anna promised, fiddling with the fur of Pyke’s tail, braiding little pieces of it absently. “I don’t mind being a rat. Means I’m little and slippery. And maybe I can help you guys get out one day.”

“I’m sure we’ll all get out of here,” Joie said, leaning forward and handing Anna a few thin fabric strips that she used to tie off her braids. “All of us. And we’ll all go home to our families and live out the rest of our days in peace.” 

North snorted, but the others just ignored her. Pyke, however, couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut that North was more right than the others. Escape was likely hopeless, a fool’s dream meant to placate a troubled mind. But if the fool’s dream kept these people going, then Pyke wouldn’t feed into anything otherwise. He just nodded slowly, looking around as two guards pushed the door open yet again. 

“It’s almost dinner,” Zolle murmured to herself, sitting up straighter. “Why are they here so late?” 

“09-3172?” one of the guards called out. “Please step forward.”

When no one moved, North grabbed Pyke’s wrist and turned it over much to his annoyance, sighing deeply when she read the numbers printed on the plastic. “It’s you,” she realized. “Just go, don’t give them any shit. The more obedient you are in the beginning, the more you can get away with later.” She gave Pyke a little shove, and he stood, Joie standing with him. 

“09-3172?” the guard asked, and Pyke nodded. “Come with us.” 

“Where?” Pyke asked, and the guard rolled his eyes. 

“You don’t need to know,” he snapped, grabbing Pyke’s elbow and dragging him forward. “Let’s go.” He dragged Pyke out of the room for the first time since his initial entry. The hall was bright, much brighter than Pyke remembered it being, but he just squinted and endured as the two guards took him down the hall, half marching him and half dragging him, not allowing his feet to catch up for more than a few paces before he stumbled again. 

Eventually, the guards reached a door they opened, pushing Pyke into the room and chuckling when he tripped, sprawling across the tile floor with a loud grunt, the wind knocked out of his chest as he fell. They let him struggle for a minute, wheezing loudly, before they scooped Pyke up off the floor, all but throwing him down into a chair they quickly strapped him to, securing his arms and legs before he could even consider fighting back. 

“Good job,” a familiar and chilling voice praised. From around the back of the chair, Sarge came into view, slipping on a pair of black nitrile gloves and shooing the two guards out. “You may leave now. I’ll call you when you can collect him again.” 

As the two guards left, Sarge produced an IV stand, two bags already hanging from it, both full of clear liquids. One of them was plainly labeled as an intravenous form of vitamin D, whereas the other was blank. 

“You’re a very curious case, Pyke,” Sarge said, smiling as he produced an IV tube and hooked it up to Pyke’s picc line, setting Pyke up on the vitamin mix to start. “I’ve never had the privilege of working with a fully matured solar elf. Juveniles, yes, but never one that’s reached bodily maturity like you. A full set of teeth, complete yellowing of the eyes, even a non-prehensile tail. You’re a very curious specimen indeed. I think I’m going to have a lot of fun with you, Pyke. Now, I’ve done my research and am fully aware that without this,” he tapped the IV vitamin bag, “you will simply wither away and perish, is that correct? For your species, solar energy is just as important as air. I cannot, obviously, give it to you directly, but I’ve found that intravenous vitamins can sustain someone of your species for a good long while. Definitely long enough to begin and conclude any research I may want to conduct.”

“Go to hell,” Pyke spat, and Sarge laughed. 

“Now, now,” he said, almost teasingly. “Don’t make me disable your precious vocal chords permanently. The bruising was temporary for a reason, but don’t think I won’t silence you for good. I don’t need you to speak for what I have planned.” 

Pyke wisely didn’t say another word, merely leveled a glare at Sarge as the man hummed and watched Pyke, the IV vitamin drip continuing slowly. 

“And now for the fun part,” Sarge said, connecting Pyke to the second bag of fluid. “A concoction of my own design. I am very proud of it, and am curious to see what effects you gain off the drug. Please do not hesitate to share any feelings you may experience with me.” And with that, Sarge sat back, peering at Pyke as Pyke sat there, unable to move or protest, merely waiting, scanning himself head to toe as the mystery drug dripped into his system. 

Five minutes in, Pyke began to feel something. Just something odd, fuzzy, as if he’d been drinking and accidentally had one too many. The edges of his vision seemed to swirl, doubling over before they focused back in again. It was annoying but not unbearable, and Pyke simply kept breathing, every breath another second of endurance against the feeling, another minute without him hurling. 

Ten minutes in, and the feeling was infinitely worse. Pyke was shocked he hadn’t puked yet, still taking deep, measured breaths and attempting to settle somewhere meditative, but it was impossible with the way his entire head felt like it was spinning out of control, vision entirely blurred or blackened at this point. He felt like he was swimming, all sound muffled like he was underwater, and it was a feeling he had only experienced twice before in his life. Once after winning a particularly hard race in his teens, and once with Rett after a difficult hunt. Both were caused by the same thing, the same drug consumed in different ways, but it always had the same result. 

“Am I high?” Pyke managed to slur, head tilting towards where he presumed Sarge was still sitting. “Did you fucking drug me?” 

“One of the main ingredients in the drug is tetrahydrocannabinol,” Sarge said, and he sounded like he was speaking through a wall or shouting down a tunnel. “More commonly known as THC, so yes, I suppose in a way, I did. There are also trace amounts of ethanol and psilocybin. Are you feeling it? What kind of effect are you experiencing right now?” 

Pyke so desperately wished he could vomit on Sarge as he spoke, odd visions dancing across his eyes in the blackness. He refused to speak, not out of stubbornness, but because he was so certain he was going to hurl that he didn’t want to pry his lips apart for anything. His eyes fluttered shut and the world pitched forward on its axis, nearly causing Pyke to sob as the dream-like haze of the drug washed over him. Every time he thought he was safe, landed back in reality, the universe dove again, that same disarming unbalance of a dream just before waking up, like any second Pyke was going to open his eyes and see a different ceiling above his head, sit up and wonder what he had done to have such a bad dream before shrugging it off and going about his day.

But he never woke up, staying trapped in the nightmarish haze for too long, feeling like forever and yet only lasting a few seconds to his drug-addled brain. Somewhere in there he started to hallucinate, nothing he could quite remember, but definitely there, sharper than usual, which was probably to do with the added psychedelics Sarge had mixed into the drugs. Pyke couldn’t tell if he was crying or not, although he sure felt like he was, gasping for air as if his lungs had never been full before. He wanted to scream, yet found he was unable to make any noise at all. Everything about him was malfunctioning in the worst way possible, and Pyke wanted to sob, to lay down in his own bed abroad the Rhapsody, curl around his pillow on his mattress covered by his blankets and cry, sleep off the drugs with Hank by his side to make sure he didn’t choke in his sleep or something. 

Something grabbed tight to Pyke’s face, and he yelped softly, wrenching his eyes open and staring into Sarge’s face, gaze flickering to the scarily large plastic tool Sarge was holding, almost akin to a hole punch but bigger, sharper, more wicked in every way. Sarge fiddled with it, pushing a few plastic pieces onto the large metal spike before Pyke’s vision plummeted again, blackening out and forcing him away from reality until something tugged at his right ear, and Pyke gasped, blinking rapidly until he forced his vision back to his eyes just in time to see Sarge there, the tool positioned at the edges of Pyke’s periphery. 

“This may sting a bit,” Sarge said warningly, and then there was a loud clunking sound, and Pyke screamed. 

The piercing felt like molten fire racing through his head as he was tagged, blood trickling from his earlobe in lazy, slow rivulettes as Pyke gasped and fought for air, sobs tearing at his chest with each inhale. Sarge hummed, tugging at the plastic tag and wrenching a horrible screech from Pyke as the pain stabbed through him, tears building in his eyes and spilling over in an instant, racing down his cheeks with a macabre eagerness. 

“Oh calm down,” Sarge said, false platitudes staining his voice. “You’re okay. Now.” He turned, summoning back the two guards. He said a few things, all of which crashed over Pyke like waves in a storm, roiling and drowning and sludging down his throat and into his ears. He couldn’t fight as he was lifted from the chair and carried, ragdoll limp, down the hall and all but thrown into the room once more. 

Instantly, there were voices, commanding and sharp, yet not unkind. Pyke sobbed, reaching for the first thing, the first person he saw, desperate for care and comfort. 

“Rett,” he cried, clinging to the aether dwarf before him. “Rett, Rett.” 

“Shh,” the person holding him soothed. “Shh now, Pyke. It’s okay, you’re okay. Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep off whatever Sarge gave you. You’ll be okay as soon as you wake up, okay?” 

“Pr’mis?” Pyke slurred, cradling himself inward, vision entirely black once more as the sinking, dreamlike feeling washed over him again. He squeaked as he was lifted up, carried to a rock-hard bed and tucked in with a threadbare blanket, the gentlest of kisses placed upon his aching temple. 

“I promise. Now get some sleep, Pyke. We’ll watch over you.” 

Chapter Text

Somehow, Pyke slept. Despite the drugged turmoil, he slept like a rock until someone shook his shoulder, Pyke rolling over and groaning groggily as he was faced with Eirian. 

“Up and at ‘em, Sunshine,” they said with a crooked grin to Pyke’s sleepy and annoyed moan. “I know, I know, but it’s breakfast. We can’t save it for you, so it’s time to get up. That and North wants to take a look at that ear.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he crawled out of his capsule and joined the others down on the floor, still groggy and sticky-eyed, mouth feeling painfully thick and head pounding. 

“There he is, he lives!” Zolle cheered as Pyke sat beside her with a grumble. “You slept for a while.” 

“What happened?” Pyke asked, leaning against Joie’s shoulder as Zolle and Anna passed over his breakfast. “I can’t remember.”

Eirian chuckled, passing Pyke a plastic spork. “Well, you were taken out and didn’t come back for a few hours, and when you did come back you were absolutely stoned out of your mind. It was so weird, but you just collapsed into Zolle’s arms and wouldn’t let anyone else touch you. Kicked and screamed when North tried to check you out and Joie tried to carry you, and then we got you into bed as soon as we decided you wouldn’t like, y’know, die in your sleep. We kept an eye on you for a bit before we all kind of fell out and slept ourselves.”

“My ear?” Pyke mumbled, reaching a hand up and brushing against his ear, jumping when he felt something horrible and foreign, a massive piece of plastic plugged into his earlobe that felt like a cattle tag, and Pyke was almost certain it was. He gasped, reaching up for his other ear with shaking hands and carefully, almost reverently, removing his remaining silver earring. The one on his tagged ear was missing, but the other ear was still there, Pyke clutching the earring in his fist as he curled around himself. 

Zolle hummed softly, rubbing Pyke’s back comfortingly as he sat there, almost stunned. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’ve still got the other one. And we won’t let you lose it, I promise.” 

“One of my traveling partners bought me these,” Pyke whispered into his fist, feeling the back of the earring press against the sensitive skin of his palm. “When I joined him, I had this pair of gold earrings shaped like a star and a moon, and when they broke, he bought me new ones. They were cheap and I thought they’d break too, but they never did. I’ve had these for nearly fifty years.” He opened his fist, showing off the small earring, a star stud with a three-link chain leading to a dangling starburst shape haloed by a ring, a pale purple opal stone stuck in the center of the starburst. “Half the time, I’m convinced Rett keeps buying new ones and replacing them in my sleep.”

Anna cooed softly, reaching out and rubbing Pyke’s arm. “He sounds like a lovely guy,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll see him again, and maybe he’ll replace those earrings again.” 

“Maybe,” Pyke agreed, rubbing the tears from his eyes as he put the earring back in, determined not to lose it too. “Maybe.”

Breakfast continued slowly, Pyke eating as fast as his unsettled stomach would let him before he let North look at his ear, her poking and prodding causing him to wince more than once, but eventually, she sat back, determining that his ear would be fine eventually once the wound healed. Pyke mostly sat propped between Joie and Zolle, quiet and tired, yet was somehow unable to fall asleep despite his exhaustion, passing little stories between his newfound friends whenever they prodded him and urged him to talk. 

“I’m tired,” he grumbled at one point, when Anna asked him a question he didn’t even hear. “Why am I so tired?” 

“Dunno,” Zolle said, leaning closer towards Pyke and peering into his eyes. “Your pupils have more or less returned to their natural state and dilation seems good. North! Would you come check out Pyke? He keeps saying he’s tired.” 

North nodded, standing and crouching on the balls of her feet in front of Pyke, one hand under his chin, tipping his head up, while the other thumbed under his eye, prying the left one open as she peered into the yellowed scleras. She hummed noncommittally, tipping her head and peeking at the tag, then examined his untouched ear with matching intensity. Pyke had half a mind to ask her what she expected to see, but all he could muster was a yawn. 

“Don’t sleep,” North commanded suddenly, and Pyke’s eyes widened. “Stay awake.” 

“Why?” Pyke didn’t care that he sounded like a petulant child, pouting under North’s hands as she tipped him this way and that. “I’m tired.” 

North just frowned, taking Pyke’s arm and extending it, this time prodding at the picc line, smoothing the pad of her thumb over the veins extending up from Pyke’s inner elbow, much to Pyke’s annoyance as he wiggled away from her, but she was stronger that he was in this state, and she was easily able to keep him right where he was. 

“He’s still dosed on something,” North finally concluded, stepping back. “I’m not sure what, because I’ve never seen anything like this. They fed something through his line, but it was experimental, something I’ve never seen before. We just have to wait it out, but whatever we do, he cannot fall asleep.” 

“You got it,” Zolle said with a mock salute, and Anna copied her instantly. “For how long?”

“He needs to eat dinner,” North said, going back to where she was sitting, Eirian beside her. “Until then, he stays awake.” 

Pyke yawned wide again, bones feeling like jelly in his body as he slumped against Zolle’s side. “Can I close my eyes?” he asked, and Zolle laughed. 

“Nope,” she said, nudging him until he groaned and opened his eyes. “C’mon kid, tell us a story or something. Keep that mind of yours going steady.” 

So Pyke began to walk, recounting various stories from his time traveling with Rett, never mentioning anyone by name, but he spoke highly of his crew, praised them at every opportunity, called them family with every breath. He was fairly certain that by the end he was yammering on in complete exhausted gibberish as his body felt like it was failing him, days worth of sleeplessness weighing down on him in a matter of hours, the worst stakeout of his life times ten urging his eyelids shut every few minutes, and every few minutes, someone would poke him or nudge him until his eyes opened again. 

“Tell us something about before you became a bounty hunter,” Zolle offered a few hours into Pyke’s mandated wakefulness. “About the life you had before.” 

Pyke’s brow scrunched, and he chuckled, leaning into Eirian’s warmth as they stroked over his hair. “I got into a fight with my brother after a race once,” he slurred softly. “I beat him in the last few seconds, and when I got out of my ship to celebrate, he socked me in the jaw. He was just pissed ‘cuz he’d held the number two spot for too long and I took it from him with that race. We must’ve wrestled right there on the track for five, maybe ten minutes before our dad came and broke us up. My eye was swollen for a week, but he lost a tooth, so I think I won.” 

The others laughed, and Joie nodded. “And I’m sure anyone who witnessed it would wholeheartedly agree,” he said. “North, you’re a racing fan, right? You ever watch that race?” 

“What, the one where Pyke and Rex beat the shit out of each other after the race was over?” North asked. “Yeah, I saw that one.”

Smiling, Pyke leaned forward. “I didn’t know you were a racing fan,” he said. 

“It’s not something I tend to introduce myself with,” North replied, leaning over and checking Pyke’s veins again. She’d been doing so periodically as the crew kept Pyle awake, and finally, she must’ve seen what she wanted to see, because she dropped his wrist and looked at Zolle. “Monitor him, but he can take a nap before dinner.” 

“Oh thank the stars,” Zolle said, wasting no time scooping a nearly delirious Pyke up. He gave no protest, merely squeaked and gripped her neck as she began to walk away. “It was getting real hard keeping you up, kid. But you can sleep now. We’ll sleep in my bunk for a bit, just because it’s near the ground.” She lay Pyke out across the mattress, tucking him in and chuckling when he yawned. “Hey Pyke?” 

“Hm?” 

Zolle sat beside him as best she could, looking down at him. “Who’s Rett?”

The question hit Pyke like a bucket of ice water, and he was suddenly significantly more awake than he was before. “Rett,” he mumbled. “Rett.” 

“When you came back to us yesterday,” Zolle began, taking Pyke’s hand before he could work himself up too much. “You fell asleep on me as I was getting you into bed. You kept asking for Rett and nearly killed Joie when he tried to help me carry you. So who is he?”

Pyke took a deep breath, looking at Zolle through the halo of light coming in from her capsule’s tiny lamp. “Rett’s my best friend,” he whispered. “He saved me when I didn’t want to be saved, helped pull me from the worst spot of my life, and gave me a new purpose. A new home. I think, over the years, we’ve grown closer. Some people think we’re lovers, but we’re not. We’re closer than that.”

“And why me?”

“You remind me of him.” 

Zolle chuckled. “Is that so?” she asked. “I dunno if I should be flattered or offended.”

Pyke rolled his aching eyes playfully. “He’s an aether dwarf,” he said sleepily. “I’m gonna sleep now.” 

There was silence, so much so that Pyke was almost certain he was alone until he heard Zolle shift. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You do that. Get some sleep, Pyke. We’ll wake you for dinner.” 

Chapter Text

Pyke was dreaming. 

He was certain he was dreaming, because there was no way in all the nine hells he would ever be back here if not in a dream. 

The roar of the crowd was loud, louder than anything Pyke had ever heard, but he just smiled, waving and embracing the chaos that surrounded him with all the grace and tact of the overconfident teenager that he certainly was. 

But he wasn’t. He was older, wiser, lived beyond his current years as the last vestiges of a dream melted away and Pyke was left standing on the track, shaking his head and taking a deep breath before going back to his celebration. 

“Impressive,” a familiar voice said, and Pyke turned, laughing as he embraced Rex, the pair hugging tight. “And here I thought one last race would be the death of you.” 

“It would take a damn miracle to keep me off that racetrack,” Pyke said, holding Rex at arms length and examining him from head to toe. “Gods, you look awful.” 

“Hey!” 

Pyke laughed, slinging an arm over Rex’s shoulders and pulling him away, towards the exit. “C’mon, let’s go home.” 

They were halfway off the track when Rex spoke in a voice that wasn’t his, looking Pyke directly in the eyes. “Pyke,” he said. “Wake up, Pyke.” 

“What?” Pyke looked at Rex, brow furrowing. “What’d you say?” 

Rex’s face shifted from his impassive mask of calm to his usual wiry grin in an almost uncannily smooth way. “I said drinks are on you, little brother,” he said. “What’re we waiting for?” 

And in that instant, Pyke forgot what Rex even said in the first place, nodding and making for the exit. “Yeah, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Only if you actually pull your weight around the damn house.” 

Pyke blinked, and in a moment, he was tucked into a corner booth at his favorite bar, Rex across from him, a drink in hand. He didn’t have enough in his mind to question how he had gotten here so fast, instead just taking a swig from his glass and chuckling at a joke Rex made. The race was long over, and while Pyke very much enjoyed the adrenaline and thrill of racing, he was glad to be done for tonight, able to sit here at the bar with a drink and his older brother. 

Rex continued to talk, and Pyke tried to listen, he really did, but Rex sounded like radio static, fuzzy and incomprehensible, like each word was being spoken through a series of walkie talkies, each one more distorted than the last. Pyke tried to ignore it, because somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew exactly what Rex was saying, as if he had heard this story over and over again, but something in him was blocking it out, as if this was a dream. 

Maybe he was just tired. He had gone a bit hard during the race, and he had banged his head a bit near the end. Hopefully he wasn’t concussed. 

“Pyke!” 

Pyke whipped around, looking out across the sea of faces crowded into the bar, trying to find who had just shouted his name. 

“Pyke!” 

“Pyke?” 

Turning back to Rex, Pyke blinked a few times, yawning as he did so. “Sorry,” he said softly, still slightly distracted by the voice. “Thought I heard someone shout for me.” 

“Probably just celebrating your win,” Rex reassured, raising his own glass up. “It was a tough one, and I know a lot of folks had a lot of money riding on your victory today.” 

Nodding slowly, Pyke stared into his glass, at the empty cup even though he was sure he’d only had a few sips. “Maybe I did hit my head,” he mumbled to himself. “Shit Rex, maybe it’s time to get home.” 

Rex smiled, standing. “Lightweight,” he teased playfully. “C’mon. Kahn’s waiting for us.” 

This time, they did actually walk back to the house, and Pyke could recall this walk, because the air smelled wet, misty, and he knew it was bound to rain soon. He couldn’t remember the last time the Pathway had gotten rain, and he hoped the Sparrow would be okay for the night as he walked up to the small house he had grown up in, pushing open the door without a second thought. 

The house had remained largely unchanged for the last hundred years, a fact for which Pyke was grateful, because it meant he could navigate it with his eyes closed at this point, stumbling around until he collapsed on the couch, pulling a familiar deep teal blanket around him and yawning again. Rex sat beside him, as he always did, and before Pyke or Rex could speak, the door opened yet again, and in stepped Leo Kahn. 

“You boys are back early,” he noted. “I thought you’d stay out for another few hours.” 

“Storm started getting real bad,” Rex said, which almost startled Pyke because he couldn’t remember a storm ever starting, and yet when he looked out the window, it was raining, and he felt a bit stupid for not remembering that it had started raining, soaking him and Rex as they ran for the house. “Pyke’s acting weird.” 

“Am not!” 

“Are to!”

Kahn chuckled, crossing his arms and eyeing the boys. “Go to bed,” he said, pointing down the hall where their rooms were. “Now, before I put a month's ban on you. And Pyke,” Kahn turned to his younger son, a stoic, blank expression on his face, “I think it’s time to wake up”

Rex and Pyke both stood, and Pyke took exactly one step, his footfall forward all of a sudden stumbling him out of the shower, and he staggered, catching himself on the wall before rightening, blinking rapidly to reorient himself. 

“What the fuck?” Pyke whispered, suddenly acutely aware something was wrong. He stumbled forward, wiping a thick layer of fog off the mirror and startling back at what he saw. 

A young solar elf boy, wide yellow eyes and a ratty shirt, shaggy sunset colored hair in childlike curls around his overly large ears. He seemed sad, almost pitiful as he stared back at Pyke. 

Pyke blinked, and the image changed to a pre-teen, longer hair and an air of confidence about him, despite his braces and fumbling awkwardness as he grew into his lanky limbs. 

Another harsh blink, and a teenager appeared, taller now, with closely kept hair and a perpetual scowl, although now there was something painfully familiar tossed over the boy’s shoulders. Pyke’s racing jacket.

Pyke wiped a hand across the mirror, changing the boy from a teen to a young man, hair regrown, smile cocky, still wearing that jacket, although now he had something else. A single silver earring, a dangling supernova set in with a purple opal. 

This time, when Pyke blinked, he expected nothing, but there before him was an older solar elf, hair pulled into a low ponytail and face aged, not quite old, but older, an aura of maturity about him as he stared back at Pyke. Pyke knew exactly who this was. This was the person he was now, or rather, who he thought he would become. In an alternate universe where he didn’t leave, where he didn’t get into a screaming match with Kahn and storm out with only the clothes on his back, where he didn’t hop on the first ship he saw out. 

A universe without bounty hunting, without a life born anew. 

Without Rett and the others. 

His reflection shifted one final time, staring him dead in the eyes as the face changed, going blank and cold, eyes hardening. “Wake up,” his own voice said to him. “Wake up, Pyke. Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

Pyke stumbled back, away from the mirror, and as he fell, he rose, snapping upright in his bed and scaring the daylights out of Anna, who scrambled away, calling for North. 

“Fucking hells!” North snapped as she ducked into the capsule. “You can’t have one normal night, can you?” She wasted no time shoving two fingers into the junction of Pyke’s throat and jaw, taking his pulse. “And you scared the piss out of poor Anna.”

“Wha’ happened?” Pyke slurred, looking around. “Where?” 

“Unfortunately you’re still here,” North said. “Figure that was probably the last of the psychedelics wearing off. That was why I wanted to keep you awake, because I was sure they weren’t out of your system yet and you’d work yourself into a frenzy if you had a shroom dream. I was right, by the way,” she added. “You started shaking like crazy, mellowed out, and then just snapped up. You missed dinner again, but we saved you some bread. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing.” She held out a small knob of bread and Pyke ate it slowly, chewing on the stale bread with much more effort than he wanted to before swallowing. 

“Why in the fuck am I still exhausted?” he asked, blinking slowly. “I feel like I was just run over by a damn truck.” 

Shrugging, North passed Pyke a cup, and he washed down his five bites of stale bread. “You’ve been resting a lot, but it’s been chaotic,” she said. “You need a night of fitful and uneventful sleep. Only way you’re gonna heal.” 

Pyke sat up fully, peering at North. “Are you a doctor?” he asked, and North actually laughed.

“Not a chance in hell,” she said. “I used to work for my village’s medicine man, but that was about it. Only reason the others think I’m in charge is because I’ve been here the longest. Zolle or Eirian would probably make a better leader than me, but I was here first and turned the patchwork misfits into this little family. The more you look, the more you’ll realize everyone in this room is doing the same thing. We all have our groups, and that’s the only way we can all get along in any capacity. What’d you dream about?” 

It was such a wild shift from the original topic that Pyke actually had to pause and consider her question before he answered. “Myself,” he whispered. “I made this choice a while back, ran away from home and joined up with the bounty hunters. I guess my brain decided to run me through what would happen if I never left. If I stayed on the racetrack.” 

North nodded, giving Pyke’s shoulder a little push and sending him back down onto the mattress. “You should be good to sleep,” she said softly. “And you need it, Pyke. I took a look at that incision on your stomach, and you really need to take it easy. Rest, heal, whatever you want to call it. You need sleep.” 

In all the chaos and confusion of the last few days, Pyke had entirely forgotten that just a little while ago, he had been stabbed and needed intensive surgery. He wondered how many of those doctors knew he’d end up down here when they were saving his life. 

Bitterly, for the briefest second, he wished he had died on that table. 

Pyke quickly shook the thought away, rolling over and laying on his good side, yawning widely and reaching up, tapping the Uv light above his head. The familiar rush of feeling raced through him, like a glass of ice water on a hot day, cooling him and refreshing him as North bid him a quiet good night and slipped out, leaving Pyke alone. 

And alone was how he stayed. He tossed and turned and eventually fell asleep, blissfully dreamless, and Pyke actually rolled over in what he presumed to be the morning feeling decently rested. Sure he had a lingering headache and felt physically unwell, but he also didn’t feel any worse than he had beforehand, so he supposed that meant he was getting better. 

Breakfast went by slowly, with Pyke joining the group and all of them expressing how glad they were to see him up and about and feeling better. It was only after eating that anyone brought up the day beforehand, Eirian peering at Pyke and finally asking the million credit question. 

“So Pyke. What’d you see yesterday while drugged out?” 

Pyke paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, sighing deeply. He set his bowl down, looking at the group, all of whom were looking back, even North, who was pretending to be disinterested, was hanging onto his every movement as he folded his hands and took a breath, tail wrapped over his legs as he fiddled with the tufted end. 

And then he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and began to talk. 

Chapter Text

“My companion and I, we used to joke that in another lifetime…”

There was never a lifetime without Rett in it. Pyke couldn’t even fathom it. An existence without his favorite companion by his side, traveling the stars for decades with one another, was unheard of to Pyke. Every time he tried to imagine it, something happened, a big bang of sorts that hurtled Rett into his life. The twinkling of stars in a universe shrouded by love, a family Pyke craved like he craved air, rebuilding his life from the ground up, taking ashen rubble and finding the pieces to puzzle together the perfect life. 

“I was such a good racer, and Rett used to ask me what my life would be like if I hadn’t run away from it all.” 

But Pyke had run away from it all, had boarded a ship and gone. He’d hid under hats and scarves and folded every remnant of his previous life into a box, never to be touched again. He’d joined the bounty hunters guild, took solo jobs and made just enough money to scrape by. Always hopping from one day to the next, a passenger aboard the ship of his own life. A discordant note staining a melody that had long since died. 

“I never really thought about it much, but I guess life would be different. I’d probably still be racing…”

Rett had been an odd find, a veteran of his own existence, a war that hadn’t touched the galaxy in ages, stuck within himself. Pyke couldn’t remember what the job was that brought them together, but he sure as hell remembered the night after they were done, wrapped in Rett’s sheets and using his fingers to map the topography of Rett’s back, knowing that as soon as his one night stand woke up, this would all be over. 

“Rex never would’ve gone…”

And then one night turned to two. Two to three. Three to a week. A week to a month. A month to a year. Job after job, scrape after scrape, they stuck together through it all, Pyke’s lonely discordant melody finally finding its match, a lonesome duet that hummed through the floors of the ship, powered her engines, gave her the life they knew she had in her. 

“Shit, Kahn would probably still be out there too.”

Then along came Dandy, a daughter they never knew they wanted, a child they didn’t know they needed until they were practically raising her. Nights spent teaching her to read and write their own respective languages, days showing her pop culture and basic life skills. She left marks wherever she went, until Pyke’s room had a large ivy plant creeping down his shelves and Rett’s room smelled like vanilla and they both smiled when her laughter echoed down the hallways, bouncing down the corridors. 

“In another lifetime, I’d probably never retire. Most racers quit when they hit a certain age, but the only way off that track for me was death. Death or him” 

Their family kept growing, growing and growing until one solitary note ringing across the galaxy, out of place in its original song, found its melody, no longer clashing or discordant, but perfectly complementary, weaving together to form one big, happy family of seven. 

“Rett never gave me a choice. I was so close to going back, but he tilted me off my axis in the best way possible. There was no other lifetime with him around.”

And then everything went to hell in a handbasket. 

“Pyke?” 

Pyke looked up, wiping his teary eyes as he looked up at Eirian, who was peering into his eyes with a saddened expression. Pyke had no idea how much he had said, but given how sad everyone looked, even North, he had probably spilled too much. Had probably bared too much of his heart and soul for these strangers. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, rubbing his fists over his eyes and sniffling, trying to stem the flow of tears. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

“It’s okay,” Anna promised, taking Pyke’s hands and smiling up at him as best she could. “We don’t mind. We all got a bit weepy when we got here. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” 

Zolle nodded, wrapping an arm around Pyke and tucking him close into her side. Joie took up residence on Pyke’s other side, Eirian and Anna in front of him, and North just off a ways, keeping an eye on them all as she always did, ever the faithful watchdog of the group. 

“It’s okay to cry,” Eirian promised, wiping Pyke’s cheeks as the tears refused to slow. “Cry it out, Pyke. You’ll feel better, I promise.” 

And cry it out Pyke did. He sobbed into his hands, back heaving as he finally let the emotional dam burst, crying with violent fervor about everything he could. Between horrible, wrenched breaths, he cried out for people, for places, he sputtered apologies and pleas and everything in between, face soaked in tears and spit, body damn with sweat. And the entire time, someone held him, face in Zolle’s palms, Anna’s fingers across his hands, Joie’s warmth against his back. Even North, at some point, came over and held Pyke for a bit while the others split breakfast up. She was stiffer than the others, but she held Pyke’s chin with an almost familiar firmness as she spoon fed him his breakfast, and by the end she was softly murmuring, gentle praises as she wiped his eyes and tapped under his chin with the pad of her finger. “Chin up, Sunshine,” she said quietly, the others listening and pretending not to. “This fight isn’t over yet.” 

Pyke hiccuped. “He used to call me that,” he said softly. 

“Who, Rett?” 

“No.” Pyke shook his head, not making any move to crawl from North’s lap. “Kahn. He used to call me Sunshine when I was upset. Never told anyone, ‘cuz by the time I would’ve, I was too embarrassed.” 

North chuckled, smoothing a hand over Pyke’s hair, fingers toying with the cut-away tufts at the back near Pyke’s nape. “Don’t tell the others,” she murmured, looking out at the group, who were all prepping for their day. “But I call my daughter Sunshine.”

“You have a daughter?” 

“Mhm. My wife, Elonar, is at home with her right now,” North said, almost wistfully. “She’s gonna turn twelve soon. Last I saw her, she was barely six.”

Pyke relaxed into North’s hands, suddenly realizing why she was so good at caring for him like this. She was being a mother. “I bet she misses you,” he said.

“Same way your family misses you.”

“It’s not the same,” Pyke tried to argue. “She’s your daughter.”

“Didn’t you say you adopted a girl?” North said, tracing over an old scar that marred Pyke’s left eyebrow. “Dandy?” 

Pyke flushed, cheeks and ear tips going a sharp peach color as embarrassment flooded him. “Dandy’s different,” he argued weakly. “We took her in, we never-”

“You raised that girl,” North said, cutting Pyke off before he could try and argue further. “And I’m sure that wherever she is out there, she misses her dad. And she wouldn’t want you to throw in the towel just yet.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, and he buried closer into North’s side. “I’m tired,” he said, and North chuckled. 

“Like hell you’re tired,” she said, sitting up fully and forcing Pyke up with her. “C’mon, let’s sit with the others.” 

The others were happy to have them, Anna cheerfully asking Pyke if he knew any kind of games they could play without pieces, and Pyke shrugged, trying to think about game nights abroad the Rhapsody. Typically they were video games at Chuckles’ request, but without a console in front of him, Pyke was forced to make do with his brain and some creative thinking. Blessedly, he could still remember some of the games they had stashed away in a closet somewhere, and mentally sorting through the boxes, Pyke found one that could realistically be played without pieces or cards. 

The group ended up playing word games for a few hours, Pyke at the center, urging them on and while he had started his day in tears, it seemed he was going to be ending it in laughter as he led the group through his favorite word association game. He gave a letter of the alphabet and a category and two people went back and forth, listing things in that category that began with the suggested letter until one person failed to produce an answer. Usually the game was played with cards and a list and a die to determine the letter, but Pyke just made them up on the spot. 

The door opened, cutting Pyke off and silencing him mid-word hours after they had begun, everyone in the room turning to see a few of the guards, the one in the front holding a datapad. He rattled off a few numbers, people slowly standing and immediately getting dragged away, some fighting, others going willingly. 

And then the guard looked down at his datapad and read off, “09-3172!” 

“Fuck,” North grumbled. “It’s you again,” she said to Pyke, who felt a chill race down his spine, the fluff of his tail expanding before he smoothed it down, standing and rocking on his aching heels. Slowly, deliberately, he walked towards the guards, looking back one last time at the small group he was leaving behind before the door shut and Pyke was being manhandled down the hall, all but dragged to a room, shoved in, watching the door click shut. 

Aside from Pyke, it seemed the room was empty. No furniture, no other bodies, no nothing beside one confused and tired solar elf. Pyke took a breath, straightening his spine. Whatever this was, he could endure it. He had to endure it. 

“So we meet again.” 

Pyke turned, snarling as he saw Sarge walk in, pushing an unfamiliar yet still distinctly wicked piece of furniture. A large X shaped restraint, adorned with cuffs at each end. Sarge locked it to the floor in the center of the room, turning to look at Pyke once he was done, a wicked smile pulling at his lips. 

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Pyke took a breath, staring Sarge down, face set in stoic stone. He would not crack, he would not break. No amount of torture could break him here. No pain could ruin him so deeply that he wouldn’t stand back up and get himself home. 

“You’re going to have to force me into that thing,” Pyke said finally, when Sarge didn’t say anything. “Good luck. I’m stronger than I look.” 

“So am I,” Sarge said, setting his clipboard down and smiling his cruel, terrible smile at Pyke. “If you go willingly, maybe the pain will not be so bad.” 

“Oh I fucking doubt that.” 

“And there he is,” Sarge said, almost in a satisfied purr, eyes narrowing. “I was waiting to see the true you, the you once you’d healed. I had hoped you’d be a spitfire. Most solar elves are. I wonder if it’s something in your nature, to be naturally fiery in attitude. I shall have to investigate.” He picked his clipboard up and made a note, Pyke crossing his arms and waiting, tapping his foot for dramatic effect. 

Eventually, Sarge looked up, smiling once more. “If you could,” he said, gesturing to the X restraint. “Please.” 

Pyke raised an eyebrow. “Fucking make me.” 

There was a pause, and eventually, the door opened, Pyke whipping around and shouting as two large guards came in, manhandling Pyke with strange ease. He kicked and screamed and fought like the devil, teeth gnashing and limbs flailing, fierce as fire and rageful as a summer storm, but it was all for nothing as the two guards shackled him up, hands raised, ankles apart, his back to Sarge, stomach pressed to the wood of the restraint. 

“Thank you,” Sarge said, circling around to Pyke’s front, pulling on a pair of black nitrile gloves. He didn’t speak, merely watched Pyke with a critical eye as he flexed his hands. Pyke kept his face flat, unwilling to share any kind of emotion with the man in front of him. No fear, no apprehension, nothing at all. 

Eventually, Sarge went back around, disappearing from Pyke’s field of vision. A shudder went down Pyke’s spine, the first drop of terror hitting his bloodstream as he was left in the dark about what was about to happen. He could hear Sarge’s footsteps, and then the metal on metal sound of something being picked up off a tray. 

“Ten years ago,” Sarge began, unwrapping Pyke’s shirt and letting it drop to the ground, running a hand down his spine, the feeling of the gloved fingers making Pyke cringe. “I began a study, and after running a few tests with various test subjects, I found solar elves to be the best candidates by far. However, with how rare they are becoming, my study fell flat. I was forced to put my research on pause and turn to other subjects. But none of them had the complexity, the resilience of solar elves.”

A pause, a beat of silence, and then something began to trace down Pyke’s spine, soft and strange, almost like the tip of a marker dashing down his vertebrae. “The study was vital,” Sarge continued, capping the marker and setting it down. “Originally, I set out to discover what made you so special. I was curious as to what made solar elves, well, solar elves. What set them apart from other elves out there. And at first, I came up flat. We knew about all of it already. Every rock had been unturned, every secret spilled.”

“What’s your damn point?” Pyke snapped, and Sarge chuckled, seemingly just watching and taking notes as he went. “Or are you just going to fucking monologue at me this entire time?”

“My point is that you’re special,” Sarge said. “In my research, I found a new direction, a new study to embark on. The study of solar elf genetics, attempting to use the power gifted to me to understand you at a base level, a molecular level. See how far we can push the limits on you, my dear Pyke. Everyone else in that room you stay in is special to me, my personal little menagerie, but you, a solar elf who still displays primal traits.” As an example, Sarge lifted Pyke’s tail up and let it fall from his hands, the useless limb thumping back to limp. “The others have their projects, their experiments, but I have no use for you other than study. If I could, I would vivisect you here and now, spill your guts across this floor just to see how they work. Alas, I fear you wouldn’t survive, so I must make up for it like this.” 

Pyke snarled. “You’re a sick fuck, you know that, right?” 

“So I’ve been told. Now hold still please, or else this may hurt a lot more than I intend it to.” 

Instantly, Pyke froze on instinct, feeling Sarge grab at his waist, gloved hand tracing the skin there, a collection of pale scars already marring the skin across Pyke’s hip bones, plus a few jagged stretch marks left over from his childhood growth spurts. 

Sarge’s hand dipped lower, coming to rest on the small of Pyke’s back, where his tail began. Slowly, Sarge began to caress the area, feeling around for stars only knew what at this point. Pyke just let him, not able to struggle in any way that mattered. 

“Hold very, very still,” Sarge murmured, and in the next instant, Pyke grit out a groan as he felt something pierce into his spine, a needle sinking into his back, pressed between two of his vertebrae, horrible and foreign and painful as it just kept going. 

Eventually, the pain mellowed, not traveling any further, and Pyke quickly began to feel his legs go numb, a panic racing through him as he tried to wiggle his toes and found that he couldn’t. It was a strange sensation, being numbed up so thoroughly. On the one hand, Pyke was glad he could no longer feel the ache of his muscles or the way Sarge was feeling up his skin, but on the other, he was no longer aware of what Sarge was doing, no way of discerning his actions through touch. 

“I’ll give the bupivacaine a minute to take hold,” Sarge said, still around Pyke’s back, although he stepped back, grabbing something off a tray. “The moment the nurse upstairs told me she had a solar elf who still displayed primal traits, I was over the moons. I have studied dozens upon dozens of solar elves over the years, and yet none of them display all the primal traits you do. A tail, fangs, and unique coloration to top it all off! You, Pyke, are a scientist's dream.”

Pyke bit back the comment that sat on the tip of his tongue, not wanting to speak out and make his treatment here worse. All he wanted to do was go back to the others, to rest and wait. But he had to endure this, had to suffer the torment before he got his reprieve. 

“I had debated merely taking skin and marrow samples,” Sarge said, one hand taking Pyke’s tail, and Pyke realized with a jolt that he could still feel it, the drugs in his bloodstream not traveling to his tail fast enough. He could still feel it as Sarge positioned a clamp at the top of Pyke’s tail, cinching the skin as close to Pyke’s back as he could. “However, I figured that if I have this beautiful chance, why waste it?”

There was a loud whirring sound, and Pyke realized what was about to happen mere seconds before it did. He didn’t have time to brace for it, didn’t even know how he could brace for it, prepare for the pain he was about to endure. All he could do was gasp out a breath, feeling a hand yank his limp tail outward just before the pain began. 

The sound of the saw changed as it met Pyke’s skin, and he keened, head falling forward as he thrashed, throwing all his weight against the restraints but it was useless, the saw eating through skin and muscle, the pain of it weakening Pyke. All he could do now was wail, great, horrible screeches of pain as he cried out, hearing and feeling Sarge cutting his tail off. The realization hadn’t quite hit him yet, but the pain was sure as hell there, bright as a supernova and loud. It consumed him from the inside out, radiating in thick, horrible waves, pulsing in every fiber of Pyke’s being as his head wrenched backwards when he heard a sick, twisted crunching sound and knew that Sarge was sawing through the bone now. 

The pain never ceased, Pyke screaming so harshly that his throat burned, his head pounded, his muscles shook with exhaustion. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears, everything in him begged for death, for reprieve, for something to happen to put him out of his misery. At some point his head flopped forward again and he threw up, vomit trailing down his chin and mixing with the tears and the spit puddling on the floor. A lightheaded spin overtook his brain, sending him limp against the restraints, jelly-boned as he came too slowly to the realization that he was bleeding out, the edges of a sunlight gold puddle slowly creeping across the tile coming into Pyke’s fuzzy field of view. 

“Ah, this is much more blood than I anticipated,” Sarge said, his words odd and far away to Pyke’s ears. “Hold still.” 

Had Pyke had any more fight in him, he would’ve made a comment, but instead, all he could do as the whir of the saw died down was garble out a moan, pitiful and strangled. Sarge came back to his back, hand pressing against Pyke’s spine. The feeling was muted, dulled, but still horribly there. 

And then it doubled down, the sharp sting of pain being replaced with a fiery burning agony, and this time, Pyke’s body wasted no time. He endured mere seconds of the torture before he slumped unconscious, unable to take any more. 

Pyke awoke minutes later, as the door to the room slammed shut and he jolted, no longer trapped in the restraint, although it was still there. Now he was spilled out across the floor, body pulsing with pain, the apex of which being his back. Whoever had let him down hadn’t bothered to clean up, meaning that when Pyke’s eyes fluttered open and he began to twitch, he realized quickly that he was laying in a puddle of his own spilled blood. 

The thick, gold liquid seemed almost magical here, swirling in beautiful patterns as it seeped through the cracks in the tile and crept across the floor. It shone in the light, giving off the faintest glow all by itself, and Pyke slowly, shakily dragged a hand through it, watching it dance under his fingertips, collecting on the pads of his fingers and staining his pink skin gold. 

“Rett,” Pyke whispered, rubbing his soaked fingers together, watching the blood swirl and shift. “Wish you were here, Rett. You’d know what to do.” And with that final wish, Pyke succumbed to his injuries, breathing out one final breath before the world around him went dark, went cold, Pyke’s eyes fluttering shut and his hand going limp, splashing back down into the pool of blood.

Chapter Text

Rett was starting to lose hope. 

Truthfully, hope had been lost days ago, when every lead on this mysterious Sarge guy went cold and flat, but Rett kept up appearances, determined to trick everyone into believing he had the answers. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could trick himself too. 

It didn’t quite work, but Rett was determined to keep trying. 

He woke one morning to the soft barking of Hank, who had taken to sleeping on top of Rett’s chest. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” Rett grumbled, sitting up and patting Hank between the ears. Hank tipped his head, barking a few more times and informing Rett that they had gotten a package late last night. 

“A package?” Rett was fully awake now, confused. The Rhapsody never got packages. Sure, her occupants got the occasional piece of mail in a planetside mailbox, but for the actual ship to get mail? It was almost entirely unheard of. “From who?” 

Hank informed Rett that the package had no return address, and was simply addressed to the residents of the Rhapsody. No further information. It was a cardboard box, and scanning it led to the conclusion that it wasn’t a weapon or any kind of potential explosive device. In fact, if Hank had to guess, the material in the box was organic in nature, although it wasn’t alive anymore. 

“That’s strange,” Rett agreed, walking into the galley to find Laboosh and Chuckles already sitting there, the aforementioned package between them on the table. It wasn’t small, although it wasn’t very large either, a foot and a half square box, low and squat. Rett stared at it for a second. It was simply an ordinary box, nothing strange or malicious about it.

“Should we open it?” Laboosh asked, and Rett immediately shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “Not a chance in hell we’re gonna open this thing. Not until we can do so in a safe area.” 

Chuckles tipped his head, squinting almost cartoonishly at the box. “Who do you think it’s from?” he asked, and Rett shrugged, smoothing a hand over the writing on top, scrawled in neat, robotic lettering. 

The Crew of the Rhapsody.

Just as Hank had said, there wasn’t anything else written down, no return label, no names, no nothing. Pushing the box away, Rett took a breath. 

“We need to find a safe way to open it,” he said. “Anyone have any ideas?” 

Laboosh poked the box, his ooziod hand mushing against the side. “Perhaps, if we have an open enough area, I could attempt it,” he said. “I am quite resilient, and if anything were to attack, I would be most likely to survive, no?” 

“We could clear out the hangar!” Chuckles added happily. “Move all the ships to one corner and open the box in the middle! That way, if it explodes, we’ll be okay!” 

Rett paused, staring at the box with a quizzical expression, lost in thought until Laboosh put a hand on his shoulder. 

“If you want to wait, we can wait,” he said softly. “I am scared for what’s in there too.” 

“I ain’t scared,” Rett said sharply. “I’m just nervous. What if it ain’t good news for us.” 

“There’s no way this is good,” Laboosh agreed. “It is circumstantial. However, I think that not opening the box will be worse for us, even if it is an explosive.”

“Fine,” Rett said, standing and taking the box off the counter. “Get the hangar cleaned out, I’ll see what I can’t find while yall do that.” 

He marched off, Laboosh and Chuckles rushing to the hangar. Rett faintly heard them begin to get the ships cleared out, likely parking them on the deck of their current parking space. It would take them close to an hour to fully get the hangar cleared away of ships and various other equipment, so Rett had plenty of time to play around with the box. 

Somehow, Rett’s workshop was in worse condition than usual, although with no regular guests to clean up for, Rett had to admit it made sense that the place had fallen into disarray. He pushed a few tools around, making space on his desk for the box. Since Pyke’s disappearance, Rett’s entire workshop had been taken over by mess, papers and maps scattered everywhere, printed off sheets of information, every single freezing cold lead making a veritable hurricane of useless words, each one more hopeless than the last as Rett sent them fluttering with the scraping of his chair across the floor. 

“Hank, run the bomb tests again,” Rett said, grabbing a pair of thick gloves. “Just one more time, buddy.” 

Hank barked happily, hopping up and sitting in front of the box, eyes going blank as he began to scan the box and the air around it. He barked again, head tipping as he informed Rett that the box was not a bomb of any known kind. It had a weight of four point four standard kilograms, and contained two objects. One large organic object that Hank couldn’t identify and one small metal object that seemed to be similar in composition to most jewelry. 

“Jewelry?” Rett echoed, confused. “That’s weird. See if you can’t identify that metal.”

While Hank worked, Rett tested the cardboard, running a battery of complex chemical tests he usually reserved for his own machinery, trying for any hint as to where the box had been previously. He didn’t get any promising leads, only a few small traces of cleaning chemicals, dirt and grime, and whatever hand lotion the person delivering it had been wearing. That didn’t deter Rett from continuing, trying a second time while also seeing if he couldn’t slot a syringe into the cardboard, using the hole to insert the smallest camera he had, but without a source of light, he was fucked. All he could catch were tiny glints of whatever metal object was in there as well as a large circular object, potentially a coil of something. 

Thankfully, where Rett didn’t have any luck, Hank had plenty. After nearly half an hour, he perked up, barking that the metal was, in fact, a common jeweler’s metal, 316L stainless steel, used to make various types of jewelry, although if Hank had to guess, he’d say it was likely an earring, adorned with a single opal. 

That sent a chill down Rett’s spine. An opal. Had Pyke been wearing his earrings when he’d been taken? He had worn them for the race, mentioning something about good luck, but he kept a set of studs in the Sparrow just in case, always claiming he hated fighting with dangly earrings. 

Rett grit his teeth, taking the box and carrying it almost reverently to the hangar, where Chuckles and Laboosh were clearing away the last of the tools Rett had been using to return the Sparrow to top condition. When Laboosh reached for it, Rett almost didn’t let it go, hesitant, but eventually he did, allowing Laboosh to carry it to the center of the hangar, setting it down on the floor. It was painfully unassuming, although they all knew that whatever was in it was anything but innocent. 

“Ready?” Laboosh asked. Chuckles nodded, covering his eyes and peering between two fingers. 

Rett gave a single solemn nod, bracing himself for an explosion, or potentially something worse. 

It was so much worse. 

Laboosh tore through the tape, opening the box and immediately, his ooze went still, body reeling back with a strange sound that sent Chuckles running up, stopping as soon as he saw what was in the box. 

“What?” Rett asked, not daring to move. “What is it?” 

Chuckles slowly removed his hat, turning to look at Rett. It was one of the most somber expressions Rett had ever seen on Chuckles, and it chilled him to his core. He stepped forward, one step and then two, another following another until he was barely ten feet from the box. Laboosh turned, picking the box up and closing the flaps, looking at Rett with an expression just shy of terror. 

“It’s bad,” he warned, holding the box out. “It’ll make you angry.” 

Rett took the box, pausing with his thumb under the flap. Laboosh’s hand was on his shoulder, Chuckles there at his side with a comically colored baseball bat and a vase. 

And Rett opened the box. 

Instantly, he gasped, frozen to the spot. His brain didn’t know how to react, barely caught up on what he was actually looking at. He wanted to cry, to scream, to throw up and plead to whatever god was out there that this was fake, was a trick to make him desperate and irrational and emotional. But deep down he knew it was real, knew it was real as he slowly, reverently, picked up Pyke’s tail, coiled neatly in the box. It was heavier than Rett realized, pale and lifeless, the tufted end dulled of all its usual colors, left a dark, soulless purple. 

Laboosh took the box back as Rett examined the tail. It had been cut off expertly, sawed away with surgical precision, and Rett thumbed over the cauterized end. “It’s not long enough,” he whispered. 

“What?” 

“It’s too short,” Rett said again. “Either Pyke’s out there with a seven inch long stump, or whoever took this from him cut off seven inches before they sent it our way. And if I had to put money on it.” He let the rest of his sentence hang off in the air, a thick, chilling silence shrouding them all. Rett was, shockingly, devoid of emotion, clutching Pyke’s tail in hand. 

“This was in there too,” Laboosh said quietly, holding out a hand, and nestled in the ooze was an earring. 

The instant Rett saw it, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t the tail, mutilated and cut away, that broke him, but the small silver earring he cradled close to his body, slumping to his knees and sobbing. One of Pyke’s earrings, cherished and loved. The metal was stained in blood, dried to an almost mustard color, flaking off with each touch. Rett held it to his chest, hugging the tail and clutching the earring. 

“We’ll find him,” Chuckles promised, handing Rett a tissue from his pocket. “He’s gotta be out there somewhere, right? I mean, this is proof!” 

“Chuckles,” Laboosh said softly. “Not now.” 

“But Pyke isn’t dead!” Chuckles insisted. “He can’t be dead! Because if he’s dead then we’ve lost Dandy and Kavir and Pyke and that’s too many people to lose! It’s not fair!”

Laboosh sank to his knees, hand still on Rett’s shoulder. “Sometimes the galaxy isn’t fair,” he murmured. “No matter how hard we fight.” 

They stayed like that for a while, probably longer than necessary, until Rett went quiet, stroking the soft fur at the end of Pyke’s tail. He could still remember watching it wave and sway as Pyke walked, the way it curled across Rett’s lap during movie nights and how it slumped over the seat of chairs at breakfast. He’d never see Pyke’s tail shift again, never see the emotion betrayed through subliminal movement, tiny twitches that gave away what Pyke’s face couldn’t. 

“Rett?” 

Rett raised his head, staring at Laboosh. “What?” 

“Should we start making arrangements?”

“For?” 

Laboosh took his equivalent of a deep breath. “A funeral.”

“A funeral?” Rett couldn’t actually believe what he was hearing. “Why?”

“For Pyke?” 

Rett stood, shock making his body go cold. “No!” he snapped. “No! He’s not- he can’t be-“ He clutched the tail tighter, knuckles going white as he squeezed. “He’s not dead.” 

Laboosh paused, an almost sad look in his eyes before he stood, nodding slowly. “Alright,” he said. “So where to next?” 

Chapter Text

Pyke had never been so tired in his life. He rolled over, groaning unhappily as he did so. He felt terrible, like a wrung out sponge left to dry on the asphalt for too long. He felt, for lack of a better word, empty. 

He groaned again as light filtered behind his eyelids, and he screwed them shut, attempting to block the light out. Words attempted to slip into his ears, but they came in fuzzy, like he was listening through a wall. 

“-think he’ll be okay?”

“I dunno, it’s-“

“That’s one nasty-“

“-think there’s anything we can do?” 

“The light isn’t helping. Grab that-“ 

Pyke wrinkled his nose, the combination of light on his eyes and hands on his body making him horribly uncomfortable, and he tried his best to wiggle away, but the hands were so much stronger than him, keeping him settled down there on the cold, slick floor. 

“Pyke!” The word was sharp, snapping Pyke from his strange daze and forcing him still. “Calm down!”

A hand prodded at Pyke’s back and he yelped, crying out and scrambling for purchase, for escape from the pain. 

His hands met someone else’s, warm and steady and strong, and he gripped them tight. Someone cooed, and Pyke sobbed, tears squeezing out of his unopened eyes. 

“You’re doing great,” someone murmured to him, familiar in a strange way. “You’re doing great, Pyke. You’re being so brave.” 

“Make it stop,” Pyke begged through his tears, desperately grabbing at the wrist of whoever he was holding. “Please, please make it stop.” 

“I know,” the person responded. “I know, Pyke, and it’s almost over. You’re doing so well. North just has to take the epidural out and you’ll be okay. Then you’ll be okay.” 

Pyke cried, clutching onto the hand and weeping, begging in whatever language he could for the pain to stop, to fade and pass over him. It felt like someone had driven a white hot rod into his back, pain beyond words, beyond understanding. He was exhausted down to his bones, a weariness he couldn’t even explain. How was he so tired? 

“Done!” someone shouted, and Pyke felt hands on his body, soothing hands, rolling him over and calming his pains, rubbing his arms to coax heat back into them and curling him onto his side, laying his head in someone’s lap while they stroked his hair. There were murmured words, something about a bath and infection and blood, but Pyke let them wash over him, existing in this peaceful, aching moment. 

“You did wonderfully,” someone murmured, hand sifting through Pyke’s tangled, knotted hair. “You were so brave, Pyke. North got you all wrapped up and now all we have to do is wait for the drugs to wear off. Should be soon. Then we’re gonna bathe you and get you all cozy again. Dunno when they’ll let us out but hopefully it’ll be soon. The lights in here are no good for you. You must be exhausted, poor thing. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.” The hands moved from his hair to his ear, gently massaging the tender, sensitive flesh. Their thumb traced up, running along the helix of his ear, simply rubbing, easing every worry and tension Pyke had. He was boneless, a melted puddle there on the floor. 

Eventually, someone moved, and Pyke managed to crack an eye open, wincing at the painful lights. The room was fuzzy as he squinted, but he could catch little snippets of someone moving, someone familiar. North and Zolle, both of whom were shuffling around as quietly as possible, clearly trying to let Pyke rest. 

The hand at his ear traced a nail down his temple, and Pyke shivered, causing North to look around. Seeing his eyes made her visibly wince, although she tried her best to hide it. “He’s awake,” she said, and the person at his head, presumably Eirian, paused. “His eyes are open, at least.” 

“Poor thing,” Zolle mumbled. “He's gonna be devastated.” 

“Wha’ happ’n?” Pyke slurred softly, rolling over until he was looking up at Eirian, haloed by a bright, almost painful white light. “Where’m I?”

Eirian smiled as best they could, smoothing hair off Pyke’s forehead. “You’re in an exam room,” they explained gently. “A few guards came to get us and brought us here. We found you and patched you up as best we could. You’ve lost a lot of blood, so you need to stay still and take it easy, okay?”

“Blood?” 

“Yeah, blood,” Eirian said. “You were hurt pretty bad. We cleaned the wound and wrapped it up, but it’s rough, Pyke. It’s gonna take some getting used to.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, and he tried to roll further, to see North and Zolle, but Eirian’s hands stopped him. “Shh,” they soothed. “Stay still. They’ll come to you.” 

Sure enough, North sat beside Pyke after a minute, replacing Eirian so Eirian could stand, joining Zolle in trying to fix something. The words were too fuzzy for Pyke to really understand. 

“Eirian didn’t tell you what was wrong, did they?” North asked. “Trust them to leave me with the hard job.” North’s hands were dirty, covered in a strange mustard-like stain of gold. “I won’t lie, Pyke. It was hard. We almost lost you a few times. With no excess blood to spare, we had to make do as best we could. Thankfully, the wound was cauterized, so we didn’t have to stitch it up ourselves, but you’re not out of the woods for sepsis yet. We’ll take it slow and just work our way through each day.” 

Pyke nodded slowly. “What happened?” he rasped out yet again, and North took a breath. 

“When we came in, we were sure you were dead,” she started. “You were just laying there on the floor, limp and cold and pale. It took everything we had to get you back to safety. There was so much blood, we couldn’t even really tell where it was coming from until we started looking.” She took a deep, steady breath, as if steeling herself for something traumatic. “Pyke. Sarge did something awful. Something that can never be undone or forgiven. He mutilated you on a level none of us can even begin to understand.” 

“What happened?” Pyke was slow and deliberate this time, words firm and punctuated with urgency. 

North looked horribly guilty as she closed her eyes, opening them slowly. “Sarge cut off your tail, Pyke. It’s gone.” 

Pyke shook his head, disbelieving her words. “No,” he gasped, reaching around, knowing that his tail was right there. He would grab it and show her it was still attached to his body. 

But his hands met nothing. Fingers grasped at empty air, and Pyke felt his heartbeat pick up quicker and quicker as he grabbed at nothing, going higher and higher until his hands met his back, wrapped in thick bandages, a noticeable bump where his spine met his tail. It stung, burning harshly with even the lightest touches. Now that he realized it, Pyke couldn’t believe he had ever tricked himself into thinking his tail was still there. It felt like a hole, deep and horrible, a part of him that had been torn away. He felt empty. 

“No,” Pyke breathed, looking at North desperately, tears burning in his eyes yet again, although this time they were desperation fueled, pleading with her silently for her to tell him this was a bad dream, a nightmare he’d wake up from. 

North shook her head slowly, an apologetic look on her face that wrenched a broken sob from Pyke’s chest, clutching onto her with all he had. “No,” he cried, all but wailing as she held him, cradling him like a child to her chest. “No, no, no.” 

“It’s okay,” North murmured. “It’s okay, Pyke. You’ll get through this. We’ll help you get through this.” 

“It’s not fair!” Pyke sobbed, chest heaving with stuttering, shaking breaths. “Not fair!” He beat a fist against North’s chest, screaming his frustration into her shirt. 

Pyke must’ve cried for half an hour, sobbing and wailing and screaming his pain out, until his face was soaked in tears, his throat torn to shreds. He was shaking, clutching onto North like a lifeline, slowly realizing they were both covered in his drying blood, a slight metallic sheen to the flakes and the stains. 

“Let’s get you clean,” North suggested eventually, smoothing a hand over Pyke’s hair. “You wanna get washed up?” 

Slowly, Pyke nodded, almost pathetically. North just shifted, helping Pyke move until he was on his feet, holding her hands as she helped him walk. Between the recent blood loss and the loss of his tail, Pyke was horribly off balance, stumbling and wavering until North helped ease him down onto a plastic stool. 

“Just sit,” she said, taking off her shirt and leaving her entirely topless. “We’ll take care of the rest.” 

While she grabbed a few buckets and filled them with water, Pyke carefully examined her back, covered in a huge expanse of delicate scarring, surgical precision that spanned from shoulder to hip. She must’ve bore three dozen scars, each one bigger and more wicked than the last. If she noticed Pyke staring, she didn’t say anything, simply pulled the buckets over and dropped a few sponges into them. 

“No soap, but we can get you as clean as possible without,” North said, watching Eirian gather towels and Zolle roll her sleeves up. “Trust us?” 

Numbly, Pyke nodded. 

Bathing him was a delicate process, one that North and Eirian did slowly. While Zolle sat on the floor and scrubbed him from the feet up, washing away blood with slow, soft circles of her sponge, North started on his hair, using her hands to pour water across his head, soaking him in warm, almost pleasant water. 

“I can’t get the damn light to work!” Eirian snapped at some point, and Pyke looked up, sending little trickles of golden-tinged water traveling down his face. 

“We’re trying to get some kind of solar light going,” Zolle explained as North stepped away, helping Eirian. “You’re really pale.” 

Pyke held a hand out. Even without the gauntlet, the focus of his energy and the thing that turned his magic from an internal chaos into an external weapon, he could still wield his own power. It was shaky and unpredictable, but still always there. 

And yet, as he focused, he found nothing. No power came to his hands, no light between his fingers. What usually came so freely, jumped to his skin, obeyed his beck and call, was absent. It hurt worse than any material pain, and Pyke let his hand fall, looking at Zolle. She smiled sadly up at him. 

“Y’know, one day it won’t hurt so much,” Zolle promised as she dunked her sponge into the bucket and began to slowly scrub blood off Pyke’s right arm. “One day this’ll be a bad memory. You’ll be older, wiser, and this will be a story to tell. A reminder you’ve endured. It’ll always hurt, but some day, it won’t hurt so bad.” 

“Promise?” Pyke whispered.

“I promise.” 

North came back, and they all lapsed back into quiet once more. It was a while until Pyke felt clean, scrubbed of all the blood and grime, Eirian and North drying him off and dressing him again while Zolle kept an eye on the door. 

Dinner came and went, no sign of food or rescue. 

“I think we’re staying here tonight,” Zolle determined, sitting with Pyke and North on the floor that had been slowly scrubbed clean. “Buckle in, kids.” 

Pyke grumbled unhappily, his stomach turning over. “Any sign of dinner?” 

“No,” Zolle said, ruffling Pyke’s hair. “Sorry.” 

“We’ll be okay,” North promised. “They’ll come get us eventually.” 

Eventually ended up being the middle of the night. The lights were all off and everyone was asleep when the door burst open, scaring everyone as they all tried to scramble to their feet quickly. 

“Let’s go!” someone snapped, shoving Pyke so hard he went tumbling, Eirian catching him and shooting a sharp glare at the guards before helping Pyke along. “Move it!” 

As expected, they were transported back to their holding room, shoved in with little fanfare while the door locked shut behind them. A few people were milling about in the dark, and North immediately squinted around, looking for something. 

“Where’re Anna and Joie?” she asked, helping Eirian get Pyke set up in his capsule for the night. 

“Took ‘em,” someone grumbled. “Couple’s hours ago.” 

“They’re gone?”

“Guess so.”

Pyke’s brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” he wondered, but North just shushed him. 

“Nothing,” she lied. “Get some sleep.”

“M’kay.” And so Pyke rolled over, a sick feeling in his stomach as he followed North’s advice and fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

Pyke wasn’t used to being awoken by anything. He was the early riser of the Rhapsody, needing less sleep than anyone else, so he tended to wake first. Even before Hank, he was usually up and in the galley, making coffee and lounging across the couch. He could take up as much space as he wanted, watch whatever he picked on the TV before anyone else joined him. It was peaceful, to be the first one awake. 

But here, he was almost always awoken by someone else, a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear. This time, he rolled over to swatted Eirian away, grumbling about just five more minutes. He still felt drained, devoid of solar energy, and his back hurt. A deep seeded ache that spread up his entire spine and down into his thighs, making every minuscule movement absolute agony. 

“You have to get up,” Eirian hissed, and they sounded strangely urgent. “Now.” 

“Why?” Pyke mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Wha’s goin’ on?” 

Eirian’s face was stern, a strong mask put up in the face of danger. “Just get up and stay up,” they murmured, glancing out. “But stay up here. We’ll bring you breakfast.” 

With his aching muscles, Pyke didn’t think he could get out of his capsule even if he really wanted to, so instead he just followed Eirian’s confusing advice. Stayed on his bed, cross legged, watching people mill about down below. He could see North and Zolle talking in hushed voices, Eirian joining them and gesturing up to Pyke a few times. When they looked at him, he waved, and Zolle had the decency to wave back. 

Time dragged on, and eventually, Pyke realized what was happening when Zolle brought him his breakfast. “When did Anna come back?” he asked, accepting the lukewarm sludge and stale bread. 

Zolle glanced behind her, where North was gently helping a limp Anna eat breakfast. “Early this morning,” Zolle said. “Really early. Won’t talk, won’t move. We think they may have done an experiment that paralyzed her.” 

“Oh.” Pyke poked at his breakfast, brow furrowed. “Tell her I said I hope she feels better. I promised to tell her about a few of my races.” 

“Will do,” Zolle promised with a smile. “Eat, Pyke. You need as much strength as you can get.” 

As Zolle left, Pyke peered at Anna, who seemed to be staring off at nothing. His heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest, a twinge of something almost akin to guilt burning through him. He tried to ignore it, to eat in peace, but Anna’s blank, emotionless stare pierced through him like a dagger, and before Pyke knew it, he was done eating and desperately trying to keep his composure. 

“Is Joie back?” he asked Eirian when Eirian came to keep him company for a while. “Or is he still missing too?” 

“Still missing too,” Eirian said, unwrapping Pyke’s bandages and pouring what little water they could spare over the wound. “Anna’s limp as a ragdoll, but she’s responding to stimuli, so we have some hope. North doesn’t think she’ll ever move again, but if we can get her out, we can get her some fancy wheelchair and maybe some therapy. See if we can’t get her an independent life again.”

Pyke curled his knees to his chest despite the pain, mumbling into his legs. “Feel like it’s my fault,” he admitted. “Because no one else was here for her and Joie.”

“Even if we had been,” Eirian said, hands moving up and ruffling through Pyke’s hair. “Even if all of us had been together, we couldn’t have stopped them. All we can do is be there for her now. She needs our support, and so our support she will have.” 

“Right,” Pyke agreed numbly, watching as North stood, shaking her head slowly. 

Eirian stuck around for a while, braiding Pyke’s hair into two messy French braids against his scalp, tying them off with scraps of fabric and smiling softly. “Your hair is so pretty,” they said. “These colors are beautiful.” 

“It’s a very rare coloration for solar elves,” Pyke said. He’d loosened up a bit, relishing in Eirian’s comforting touch. “Most lean towards reds and oranges. Occasionally some will pop up with pink, but the blues and purples are really rare.” 

“What’s your brother look like?” 

“Oh, he’s all orange and red,” Pyke said, smiling into his knees. “His roots are yellow like mine, but his ends are this beautiful blood orange color. His hair is longer than mine too. Asshole wears it in the ugliest ponytail I’ve ever seen. Once, I made a bet with him on a race. He lost, he’d have to cut the damn thing off. I lost, I’d have to cut mine, because it was long then too.” 

Eirian chuckled. “Who won?” 

Pyke paused for a second, rolling his eyes playfully. “He did.”

That made Eirian laugh, glancing out of the capsule and frowning quickly, seeing North standing there, comforting Zolle. “I’m gonna go check on that,” they said softly. “Stay here.” 

Pyke nodded, watching Eirian climb down and talk to North, pausing in their tracks halfway over. There were hushed whispers, a few wide gestures, and then North broke off, looking at Pyke. 

Slowly, North shook her head. 

It was all the confirmation Pyke needed. 

He took a breath, slowly, very slowly, climbing down, North instantly there to support him as he walked over to where Zolle and Eirian were sitting beside Anna, or more accurately, Anna’s body. She wasn’t breathing, eyes slipped shut. She wasn’t cold or pale yet, but Pyke could see the tiny signs, the lack of life in her body as she lay slumped. Even to an idiot, she was so clearly dead that Pyke couldn’t even pretend. Couldn’t fool himself into believing she was asleep. 

“Someone’ll come get her eventually,” North said softly, sitting beside Pyke. “She's in a better place now. She's at peace, and the best thing we can do now is mourn her and stay strong.” 

“She deserved to leave,” Pyke whispered, taking Anna’s rapidly cooling hand and squeezing it. “She deserved to get out and live her life. It’s not fair.” 

“It hardly ever is,” North agreed, rubbing Pyke’s back.

They stayed in silence for a while, simply mourning in the only way they could, a vigil for their lost friend. None of them moved, and with Anna gone, they could only assume the worst about Joie. 

After what had to be hours, Pyke stood, looking around. The room was quiet, almost too quiet. People were milling around, but they kept their distance, seemingly respecting Anna. Still, the quiet made Pyke uncomfortable, as if it were a trick. A ploy to keep him and the others calm. 

Dinner came and went, and they all ate in silence. No one was in the mood to talk, not after losing two of their friends, their companions. In North’s stead, Pyke kept a lazy watch, sitting a little ways away from everyone and scanning the crowd every few minutes, keeping tabs on the people around him. Some filtered off to bed right after dinner and some stayed up, talking in hushed whispers and respecting the silence. 

It wasn’t until lights out that things changed. 

The lights turned off, Pyke barely noticing as he shifted, standing slowly. The others began to move, making for their capsules sadly, although Pyke could see a weight off their shoulders. The opportunity to grieve had been good for them. 

And just as Pyke was about to turn from Anna one final time, he saw her fingers twitch. 

A chill went down his spine, something akin to absolute horror spilling through his veins as, in an instant, he yelled, grabbing Eirian and throwing them aside. In that same second, Anna snapped upright, a distinctly inhuman screech pouring from her lips as she twisted, bones cracking and crunching with each movement towards them, body contorting wildly. Her every noise inflicted pure terror, animalistic grunts and screams joining her wild-eyed expression, turning the woman they all once knew into a monster, a stranger wearing her flesh, speaking with her voice. 

“Run!” Pyke snapped. He was a good fighter, he was trained for this. He had been taught to let go of every shred of emotion he held dear and fight like his life depended on it. Pyke knew his skill and he knew Anna. She was small, chaotic, likely not herself. She seemed almost possessed, movements so far from human that it made Pyke hesitate for a brief second, fists raised. 

And then Anna turned to him, her eyes, once soft and expressive and kind, locking to his. She was a predator now, a fierce glaze to her expression as she snarled, cracking her neck and snapping her teeth. Whatever had been done to her had granted her back her full range of movement, her originally slackened face now twisting into a full grin, teeth exposed and glistening with a cruel kind of malice. 

“I’ll make this quick,” Pyke promised, hands raised, stance low despite his aching pain. “You deserve this to be quick, Anna! You don’t deserve to suffer!” 

Anna screeched again, and the sound reminded Pyke so painfully of a strange whistle Rett had shown him once. Almost human, but there was something distinctly wrong about it. She snarled, twitching as she waited, seemingly for him to make the first move. 

Pyke raised a hand, index and middle finger out. He had no idea how much power he could summon, but he had promised Anna a quick death and he would do his best to deliver on his promise. Squeezing his eyes shut, Pyke aimed, taking aim directly at Anna’s chest, where her breath was wheezing in and out of her lungs in hot, open mouthed pants. 

Slowly, Pyke felt the power rise, collecting against his palm, warming his fingers until it was all there, a wiggling, warbling ball of light, weaker than usual but still there, still present. He let out a breath, glanced down his hand, and fired with a soft, “Bang.” 

The light snaked and shifted as it traveled across the room, Anna racing, running to him in a fit of fury now, and she collided with the energy ball, screeching as it radiated against her skin, burning her with the ferocity of the very suns Pyke drew his power from. She collapsed, breath whistling from the hole Pyke had punched into her. She gasped, hands twisting into claws, reaching, pleading, and then she went limp once more. 

“What was that?” North snapped, grabbing Pyke’s shoulder and yanking him out of his daze. “What was wrong with her?” 

“Whatever they did to her,” Pyke breathed, watching wisps of smoke dance off Anna’s chest. “It was like she was possessed. That wasn’t Anna anymore. That’s a demon.” 

“At least she’s at peace now,” Zolle murmured. “Let’s get some rest. Someone’ll be around to clean this up in the morning.” 

They turned away, and Pyke watched as North and Zolle climbed up to their capsules. He sighed, ready to sleep and almost four feet off the ground when he felt something grab at his ankle, yanking at him with a furious strength. Pyke yelled, kicking wildly and glancing down, ice cold terror filling his veins as he did, realizing exactly what had grabbed him. 

It was Anna, claws sunken into his skin, hole in her chest still smoldering. She screeched at him, and Pyke felt the blood drain from his face. 

She was still alive. 

And she was pissed. 

Chapter Text

“Climb!” Pyke screamed, kicking desperately at Anna, dislodging her hand from his ankle and grabbing for the ladder rung above him. Someone grasped his wrist, and Pyke let Eirian and North pull him up, away from where Anna was steaming and snarling, clawing at the walls and seemingly unable to use the ladder to follow. 

“Fucking hells!” Eirian snapped, looking down at Anna. “What did they fucking do to her?” 

“They ruined her,” North hissed. “They ruined our poor, sweet Anna. And I guarantee they ruined Joie too. If he were here, he’d be in the exact same state Anna’s in. He’d be attacking us and- and-” 

Pyke let out a breath, leaning against the wall of the capsule and resting a hand against his heart. “We have to stay calm,” he said. “She can’t know we’re scared of her.” 

“I’m not fucking scared,” North grit out. “I’m pissed. They turned her against us.” 

“And they want her to turn us all against one another,” Pyke reasoned, glancing at where Anna had abandoned the ladder and was sniffing around the floor, bits of burned, singed flesh sloughing off her chest. “Or rip us apart in the process. They’re counting on her to murder us, one way or another. She’s a killing machine, and we’re-” Pyke froze, mouth open as the realization hit him all at once. 

“What?” Eirian demanded. “We’re what?” 

Pyke swallowed thickly. “We’re her prey,” he whispered. “We’re target practice. Training dummies to make her better. They’re using us to train her.” 

They all looked down at Anna, who was prowling around, sniffing at the ground, occasionally lifting her head and growling, the deep, warbling sound sending a shiver down Pyke’s spine every time. 

“What should we do?” North mumbled after a few minutes. “We can’t just stay up here for the rest of our lives.”

“I can’t shoot her again,” Pyke said, resting a hand over his heart, feeling it beat harshly. “I don’t have it in me. Where’s Zolle?” 

Eirian pointed down, where Zolle had crawled into her capsule. She was closer to the ground, and if Anna reached up, she could probably reach in. “She won’t fit up here with us,” Eirian said. “But she can’t stay down there. Anna could get to her.” 

“Zolle can hold her own,” North promised. “She’s tough.” 

“But Pyke shot Anna and she just got back up!” Eirian pointed out. “It’s fucking hopeless.” 

“It’s only hopeless when we give up,” Pyke mumbled, blinking a few times before looking over at the other two. “Sorry, it’s something my dad used to say to me and my brother when we got discouraged. The amount of times he had to sit us down at the table and tell us that when we wanted to quit racing.” Pyke trailed off, an almost-smile gracing his lips before it fell, the gravity of the situation crashing back down. 

North chuckled, rubbing Pyke’s back as he dangled his legs out over the edge of the capsule. “Wise words from a wise man,” she said. “You need to sleep, Pyke. You’re healing, and you’re exhausted. You’ve expended too much today.” 

“But-”

“No buts,” Eirian interrupted. “We’ll be okay, we’ll keep our eyes out. If Zolle’s in trouble, we can squeeze her in here, but North is right. You need sleep.” 

Pyke smiled softly, shifting until he was against the back wall, knees to his chest. It was a familiar way to sleep, curled up on himself, memories of stake outs and bounty hunts swirling through his brain, urging him off to sleep. 

He woke up seemingly hours later, North keeping watch while Eirian slept, head lolled back, snoring lightly. 

“You should get more sleep,” North murmured without turning, and Pyke snorted. “I’m serious. She’s sleeping now. We’re safe.” 

Crawling over to squeeze beside North, Pyke peered out, looking at where Anna was laying down, eyes open yet still strangely stationary. She was observing despite her sleep. 

“You should sleep too,” Pyke whispered. “I’ll wake up Eirian if I need more sleep, but you can’t go without, North.”

North sighed deeply, leaning her head against Pyke’s shoulder. “I promised her,” she said, almost tearily. “When we were eating breakfast, I promised her. I said we’d get her out, get her fixed and she’d be able to live a life she deserved. We’d get a little house out in the country and she’d see the grass and the stars and the sun every day. We’d have horses and cows and she’d get to have a garden.” She was crying now, tears falling with an almost graceful silence, breath hiccupping. “I failed her, Pyke!”

“You didn’t fail her,” Pyke reassured instantly, meaning every word, every letter he spoke. “This hospital failed her, this planet failed her. This fucking galaxy failed her. But you, you never gave up on her. You never let her down.”

North sniffled, wiping her eyes. “Tell me a story?” she asked softly. “You said you wanted to tell Anna a story about your races. Tell me?” 

Pyke nodded, reaching up and wrapping an arm around North’s shoulders, hugging her close. “Okay,” he said. “So to set the scene. I had just turned a hundred and fifty, and Rex was a hundred and seventy two.” 

He continued to slowly and calmly recount one of his favorite races, the day he unseated Rex as the number two racer and took his spot for the first time. It was a day he’d never forget, the adrenaline and joy and pure emotion he’d felt, hoisted onto Rex’s shoulders with the crowd cheering around him. Before he and Rex had created a tense rivalry, when they had just been close siblings trying to one up one another. 

Eventually, Pyke reached the end of the story, trailing into silence at some point, looking at Anna as she shifted, waking up and yipping animalistically, perking up and staring at Pyke, eyes locking. 

“I hope you heard that,” Pyke said to her, and she snarled. “You would’ve loved the races. I’d’ve raced one last race for you, Anna. Would’ve bribed Rex into it, and you could’ve met Rett and the others. One last race, just for you.” 

Anna snapped, and Pyke blinked a few times. “You don’t scare me,” he said. “The Anna I knew is dead. Whatever you are will be snuffed out, and Anna will be free.”

The night continued to pass, and Pyke kept watching as Anna prowled around. She never made any huge moves, just hunted the floor, searching for weakness, for anything she could pounce on. 

The lights blinked back on at some point, and Pyke looked up lazily at them, the light waking Eirian, who groaned and sat up. “Fuck,” they grumbled. “Any changes?” 

“She’s been up for a bit,” Pyke said softly. “North’s sleeping.”

“That’s good,” Eirian said. “How’s Zolle?” 

“Hasn’t moved.”

Eirian nodded. “Think they’ll feed us?” they asked, and Pyke snorted. 

“Hell no.” 

Somehow, they managed to get North laying down without waking her, Pyke snoozing against Eirian’s shoulder while they kept watch, humming something quiet and rhythmic. It sounded almost familiar. 

“Any updates?” 

“Fuck!” Eirian and Pyke both whipped around, seeing North sitting up, rubbing her eyes. 

“Sorry,” she said, yawning and stretching. “So?” 

“Nothing,” Pyke said. “She’s up and roaming, but aside from that, nothing.” 

North sighed, sitting against the wall. “So we just wait now?” 

Pyke nodded, shifting so he was sitting beside North, leaning against her. Eirian joined them, creating a cozy snuggle puddle, warming one another and providing comfort, a certain support they all needed now. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We just wait now.”

Chapter Text

Waiting wasn’t hard. 

Especially because they didn’t have to do it for very long. 

Only an hour later, Anna perked up as the door opened, three guards rushing in with large, heavy guns. They aimed at her, and despite her snarling and howling, they shot, sending arcing beams of blue light at her, shooting her down. She fell with a gargling screech, and the guards rolled their eyes, shoving in a large tray. 

Food. 

“Come and get it!” the guards teased before the door fell shut once more, leaving them alone yet again. 

“This has got to be a trick,” North said instantly. “There’s no way in all the hells they’d just leave her there.” 

“She’s probably stunned,” Pyke agreed. “Are we going to eat?” Already, he could see people crawling out of their capsules, hesitantly padding around the twitching, slumbering body warped there on the floor. 

Eirian took a breath. “We have to,” they said softly. “If we don’t eat, we’re fucked. No dinner last night and no breakfast today? You and I won’t make it, North, much less Pyke. We need to eat.” 

“I know,” North murmured, eyes narrowing, trained on Anna’s form. “I know.” 

They waited five minutes, watching other people slowly taking food, more and more emerging as Anna never moved. 

A sharp hiss drew their attention, and they all looked at where Zolle was, head poked out of her capsule. “I’m gonna try and get breakfast,” she said. “Got room for me up there?” 

“We can make room,” North called down, and Zolle gave them all a thumbs up. Just as carefully as anyone else, she crawled out of her capsule, edging around Anna, towards breakfast. 

“If I have to,” Pyke started, shifting so he was sitting at the edge of the capsule, hand raised, “I can probably pop off enough of a blast to distract Anna, maybe disable her for a minute or two if push comes to shove.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Eirian hissed. “If you push yourself too far, stars only know what we’ll have to do to bring you back.” 

“But-” 

“Pyke’s right,” North said, interrupting them both. “If it’s between Pyke getting weaker or Zolle dying, I’d rather take the former. We can bring Pyke back.” 

The unsaid threat of losing Zolle too shut Eirian up quickly, although they pouted, watching with bated breath as Zolle gathered breakfast for all four of them, an eye on Anna’s now clearly slumbering body the entire time. 

When she twitched, Zolle paused, glancing up at them all. Pyke gave her a nod, readying his hand. 

It wasn’t needed, blessedly, because Zolle made it back to them as fast as she could, one of the last to get breakfast. The final person who managed to get snag some turned, back to Anna, and didn’t see as she popped upright, a loud howl and a sharp snarl the only warning as she bounded forward, teeth gnashing as she lunged at the person, a terrified wail the first and last thing to leave their lips as Anna grabbed them with her hands, tearing and pulling, yanking the person off balance and sending them crashing to the ground. In an instant, she was upon them like a vulture, tearing into their throat with her teeth, a sickly gargle the last noise the person ever made as they drowned in their own blood, weakly clawing at Anna yet never making a dent, never once shifting her as she ripped them apart limb from bloody limb. 

And when she was done, when they were dead and gone, Anna simply lumbered away, leaving the corpse there on the floor, untouched, blood pooling and seeping.

“She’s a sport hunter,” Pyke mumbled, halfway to himself and halfway to the others. “She doesn’t hunt for food, she hunts for enjoyment. For the pleasure of the kill.” 

“So what should we do?” Zolle asked, doling out breakfast to everyone. “We can’t just live like this.” 

“They don’t intend for us to,” North said, glowering into her bowl of mush. “They intend for Anna to pick us off one by fucking one until it’s just her and a pile of corpses in this room.”

Eirian frowned. “That doesn’t make sense,” they said. “Sarge wants us, he needs us.” 

“He needs some of us,” North corrected. “She’ll pick off the weaker ones, the lesser ones, until all that remains are those he picks. She’s probably been trained to recognize us, to only kill the people he wants her to kill.”

“So why’d she go after Pyke?” 

“Dunno.”

They ate in silence. No one wanted to talk much, and breakfast tasted sour and stale. Watching Anna rip a man to shreds with her teeth and hands really seemed to ruin all their appetites. 

Once North was done with her breakfast, she set the empty bowl aside, taking a deep breath. She seemed like she wanted to say something, but eventually decided against it, simply crossing her arms and frowning at the wall. Zolle and Eirian kept well entertained, playing a child’s game that only required a few small buttons and a nice rhythm, and it was to the rhythm that Pyke was able to meditate, legs crossed, hands on his knees. He set his spine one vertebrae at a time, stacking them one on top of another until his back was ramrod straight, shoulders falling back, chin raised ever so slightly. It was cliche and a bit useless considering Pyke typically meditated in zero gravity or lounged across Rett’s workshop, but the simple basics helped him clear his mind, imagining stones in a river, waves lapping upon a smooth sandy shore, and smoke dancing in the air. 

He let out all the air in his lungs, feeling a certain strange calm wash over him. It was the same familiar calm of meditation, but now, in this moment it felt different. Like cold water being poured down his spine, droplets rolling across his skin. A shocking kind of calm, a much-needed respite from the burning heat. 

Pyke must’ve remained in a meditative state for hours, because when someone placed a hand on his shoulder, he opened his eyes to find the lights had changed, brighter now than they had been. 

“They tranqued Anna again,” North whispered, pointing to where the three guards were cleaning up puddles of viscera. “I dunno if they can control her.” 

“They definitely can’t,” Pyke agreed. “They have no choice but to tranquilize her every time they want in.”

North’s face twisted. “I hate that we can’t even put her out of her misery,” she said softly. “She deserves better than this.” 

“I know.”

“This sucks.” 

“I know.” 

Pyke and North both watched as one of the guards pushed a large rubber broom across the floor, sweeping the piles of what had been a person out of the room. 

“I wonder if we can rush them at dinner,” North mumbled. “They tranq Anna, we rush the guards. No one ever tried before because it seemed hopeless, but with them distracted over her, I bet we could try it.” 

Pyke examined the guards. “Even weak, I’m not useless,” he said. “Kahn taught me a fair share of martial arts, and I’m pretty evenly matched with the biggest guy on my ship. I could easily take down one, maybe two guards?”

“Eirian and Zolle aren’t the best fighters, but Eirian fights dirty and Zolle’s a walking tank,” North whispered, a glimmer of something akin to hope in her voice. “And I’m no amateur either.”

“If we get some of the others in on it too,” Pyke breathed, feeling something light up in his chest. “That could be our ticket out.” 

North grinned, looking at the others, who were smiling. They knew. 

“I’m gonna see my wife and kids again,” North said, and Pyke chuckled, throwing an arm around her shoulders. 

“Let’s get to work,” he said. 

They spent the rest of the day and half of the night planning. Dinner came and went, and Zolle went as fast as possible while Anna was asleep, the plan still too underbaked to execute it. She spread the word while she was getting dinner, telling everyone that at breakfast, they revolted. 

“I’ve got at least eight people on board,” Zolle said as she passed out dinner bowls. “A few of them even offered to pretend to get into a fight to draw the guards away from the door. Once they’re in, we rush them. We keep sharp eyes on Anna, we slip out, we stick together. If we can find weapons, that would be best, but all we have to do is get to the elevator. Once we’re in the elevator, we’re out. That elevator goes to a public space, there will be a lot of people. I know we’re not the most inconspicuous, but fuck. Any kind of crowd helps.”

Pyke ate slowly. He was their main line of offence, their only hope for ranged attacks. Eirian mumbled something quietly, brow wrinkling as they pulled away from the entrance of the capsule. “They shot Anna twice, and it took ten seconds for the dart to work. From that point, Anna was asleep for exactly two minutes before she got up again. We have two minutes.”

That brought a grin to Pyke’s face. “Two minutes? All I need is one.” 

That night was spent resting. No one stayed awake, no one bothered to watch Anna sleep. They all piled around one another, sleeping on top of legs and under arms, using chest and thighs as pillows and falling asleep to the cadence of one anothers snores. Pyke slept the heaviest, knowing that come morning, he’d need every ounce of energy he could muster to make it out of here alive. 

Morning came faster than anyone wanted it to. The lights flickered on and everyone awoke quickly, a certain dread filling the room, yet also an eagerness. A hope. Barely a spark amidst the ash, but even a spark could ignite. Pyke watched people prepare, gather themselves for the upcoming slaughter, and a lesson Kahn had taught him echoed through his ears. 

“You must learn to control your spark, Pyke. Because the very same spark that lights the torch, also starts the wildfire.”

Pyke grit his teeth, watching Anna stir, blood flaking off her lips. Forget the torch. Forget control. Today he was going to burn this place to the fucking ground. 

The door opened. The room fell dead silent. 

A dart gun went off. Once, twice, three times.

Anna thumped to the ground. 

There wasn’t even a moment, a bare second between her body slumping limp and the room exploding into a flurry of action. Two people rushed the door, holding it, barring it shut as everyone screamed, racing forward. The guards fired into the crowd but it was useless. Pyke steadied his arm, a blazing ball of furious light gathering at his hand, warming his palm. 

“Sorry Dad,” he whispered, closing one eye and staring down his arm at one of the guards. “But today I’m picking the wildfire.” 

The instant his shot rang out, Pyke rushed out of the capsule, not even waiting to see if he connected, following Eirian and North as they poured out, furiously grasping at the guards. Calls for help went unanswered, comms ripped from hands and smashed beneath bare feet. The ground was a macabre painting of blood, but no one seemed to care as time marched on, second by second, until a low, warbling growl froze everyone still standing in their tracks. 

“Run!” Eirian screamed, turning and colliding head first with Anna, grappling her with a sharp snarl. Eirian roared, shoving Anna back, blood already pooling across their face from a long gouging scrape. “North! Get Pyke and Zolle out of here!” 

“Eirian!” Zolle yelled, struggling against North’s hands. “I’m not leaving you!” 

Eirian laughed, pushing Anna and wiping their face. “Let’s fucking go, you monster!” they taunted. “C’mon! Come and get me!” 

Anna let loose a howl that chilled them all to the bone, sent a stab of pure terror into their hearts, but Eirian stood firm, unwavering even in the face of definite death. 

“Let me go!” Zolle cried. “Let me go help them! I’m not leaving them to die!” 

“Zolle, we have to go!” North snapped, gesturing to the open door, where people were already flooding out, trying to beat the guards that were on their way. “Let’s go!” 

“No!” Zolle gave a particularly harsh twist, yanking North’s arm and sprinting off as soon as North’s hands were off their skin. “Eirian!”

Pyke couldn’t watch, turning away and looking to North. “C’mon,” he said, voice wavering on the edge of a desperate plea. “Let’s go, we have to go.” 

“Pyke,” North whispered, stumbling a step forward. “Pyke. Go.” 

“I won’t leave without you,” Pyke insisted, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “C’mon North. Don’t play the hero today. Stick to the damn plan.” 

“This is the plan,” North promised, reaching up and caressing Pyke’s face. “Of anyone it could’ve been, I’m glad it’s you who’s getting out. You’re the only one I trust could do it. Go, Pyke. Be strong.” And before Pyke could say anything, before he could move, North pushed him towards the door and gave him one last kind smile before rushing in, hoisting Eirian up and joining the bloody, hopeless fray. 

Pyke didn’t stick around to find out what happened. He couldn’t. All he could do was turn, staring at the doorway. At light, at hope and freedom, shining through the door in bright, brilliant streams of white. He glanced over his shoulder, energy gathering in his hand as he turned one last time, facing his friends, raising his curled fingers. He aimed past them all, the wavering, warbling energy weak in his hand, but there all the same as he let out a breath. 

“How’s this for a wildfire?” he whispered, the words falling out of him like water over a waterfall, unstoppable and endless, as he fired into the room, hitting one of the heat units and setting the room ablaze. 

And with the fire at his back, the inevitable end behind him, Pyke turned from the room, and he ran.

Chapter Text

The Rhapsody crew didn’t want to admit they’d lost hope. 

The days were bleeding together, hours blurring like minutes and days stretching like weeks. It was almost infuriating, the way time bent and warped for the crew as they tried their best to keep spirits high while chasing leads and doing research. 

At some point, Rett found a new lead, although it was less of a lead and more of a leak, a few wayward notes about Sarge’s projects. Every picture filled Rett with more and more disgust, image after image of people laid out on tables, cut open and sewn back together in increasingly more horrific ways. By the time Rett had reached the end of the file, he felt sick, and the first mental picture of Pyke spread out on a metal table like that, stomach pinned open and precious organs on display as he sobbed, had him running for the bathroom, retching painfully. They had to find Pyke. They had to. 

Thankfully, the pictures helped more than they hurt. At the edges, the fringes of the image where it blurred and warped, Rett ran every scan he could, matching products and people, springing match after match for criminals and medical personnel who had lost their licenses for one reason or another, each one tracing back to one person. 

Malreus Reichar.

Rett looked him up instantly, seeing a professional photo of a man in a white coat, large wings and horns and a strangely stern face. He had dropped out of med school halfway through, claiming the system was broken and didn’t support true medical progress. After that, he hopped from job to job until he was recruited by the Empire and worked as pseudo-medical. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, all records of him ended. It was like he simply failed to exist starting five years ago. 

“Malreus,” Rett mumbled under his breath, staring at the photo of the man, looking into his eyes, black as pitch and gleaming with something strangely evil. “What have you done with Pyke?”

The photo didn’t answer, but it was all Rett needed, standing and stretching. The crew hadn’t found a trustworthy Guild contact yet, but Rett knew of a few people who could put a hit out on someone. A ping on the map now that he had a name and a photo. It was better than it had been two days ago, that was for damn certain. For the first time in weeks, Rett had hope. 

“Look alive!” he called as he entered the lounge, causing both Laboosh and Chuckle’s heads to swivel to look at him. “We have a name.”

“A name?” Chuckles said eagerly, a wide grin blooming. “Perfect! What is it? I’ve always been partial to Michael, but I’d also accept Harold, Patrick, Andrew-”

“Not a name for us,” Laboosh interrupted. “Presumably the name of the man who has Pyke.” 

Rett nodded. “Malreus,” he said. “I’m gonna plant a hit on him, offer a couple thousand credits for information. Hopefully we get a ping in a few days.”

“Malreus,” Chuckles said, and the way he said it made Rett wonder why no one had ever realized how evil the name sounded. “What an asshole name. Michael is much better.” 

“Well, you can bring that up with him after we cave his face in for whatever he’s done to Pyke,” Rett said loosely, sitting down and pulling up the Guild board. Typing up a new hit wasn’t hard, especially considering he’d done it before, but he still hesitated before posting it out. With one click of a button, the entire galaxy would know the crew was looking for Malreus. The Empire would know, and they’d likely tell Malreus. Although people put out hits on Imperials every day. Hopefully this one would be no different. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, Rett clicked the button, posting the hit. 

It loaded for a brief second before pinging happily, informing Rett that his post had been successful and it may take a few minutes for the post to hit the postboard. But it had been done. Rett sat back, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“So now we just wait?” Laboosh asked, and Rett nodded. 

“Now we just wait,” he agreed, standing. “Let’s hope we don’t have to wait too long.” 

Despite what Rett originally thought, they got a message that night from a man who had gone to med school with Malreus, claiming him to be a pretentious dick and a self-righteous asshole. He hadn’t dropped out so much as flunked out, and how he had managed to get a job at all after leaving college was a complete mystery. 

“So all we know now,” Rett said as he finished reading the message. “Is that this guy’s a complete jackass who has never cared about ethics or other people. He flunked out of med school and somehow still got a medical job with the Empire. That sounds shady as shit.” 

“Because it is shady as shit,” Laboosh said, his ooze forming into a frown. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

Laboosh paused. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Something feels very wrong.” 

“Wrong how?” Rett was sitting up straighter now, staring at Laboosh as the oozoid man stood fully, a dark tendril rising through his suit. “Laboosh!”

“I need to go to the brig,” Laboosh said, voice strained and almost scared. “Now.”

Rett wasted no time, gesturing to Chuckles, who joined him as they both rushed Laboosh to the brig, watching the blackness, the inky swirl of pure nothingness, grow and undulate until it had consumed nearly half of Laboosh’s usual green color. They somehow managed to get him into the brig’s only cell and slam the bars down right before Laboosh flushed entirely black, head to toe, ooze wriggling and writhing in a way that borderline terrified Rett, fear for his friend rushing through him as he stepped back. The last time any of them had seen this happen to Laboosh, Pyke had died, and now, Rett put a protective hand across Chuckles, shielding him  subconsciously. 

“Laboosh!” Chuckles cried out, and the thing inside Laboosh turned, a strange glimmer to his eyes. Not malice, but hunger. A distinct hunger, a need to consume. Rett shuddered, watching the thing puppetting Laboosh, twisting his facial features into a cruel smile. It shuddered out a noise, as if testing the body, flipping all the switches and pushing every button to see just what Laboosh could do. 

“If you have something to say, just say it!” Rett demanded. “This is my damn ship! I’m the captain here, and you will obey the captain. So tell me, what do you want?” 

Laboosh huffed, and it was an odd sound for an oozoid in a helmet, more wet than anything else. He paused, eyes darting between Rett and Chuckles and back again before he garbled, managing a single slithering word that chilled Rett down to the bones. 

“Hungry,” the thing hissed. “So hungry.”

“How do we get Laboosh back?” Chuckles asked, concern warping his painfully expressive features. “What did you do last time?” 

“I shot him,” Rett remembered. “But maybe all we have to do is startle him out of it. Doesn't the brig have a cleaning cycle?”

Chuckles lit up, a lightbulb appearing above his head that disappeared the instant he moved. “Take this, you monster!” he crowed, slamming a fist down on the cell’s control panel. “Get washed!” 

Instantly, warm water came raining down from the ceiling, the cell’s cleaning cycle running its course. The thing gargled out a pained noise, almost pleading, and Rett had half a mind to show it mercy. 

And then the image of Pyke gasping, choking on blood, hands wavering over the sharp spike in his stomach came flashing back, and Rett held his damn ground. 

The cleaning cycle lasted five minutes, and Rett was glad that as an oozoid, Laboosh was incredibly heat resistant, because the water got insanely warm. However, once it was done, the cycle having run its course, the only thing left in the cell was Laboosh, his ooze trembling, but it was once again that beautiful, vibrant green, not a single strand of blackness to be seen. 

“Laboosh?” 

“Leave me alone.” 

“Now c’mon, Laboosh, don’t be-”

Laboosh looked at both of them, a look of pure sadness on his features. “It’s so hungry,” he mumbled. “It wants to feed, and I can’t stop it. I can feel it growing inside me, getting stronger. I’m becoming a monster, and there’s no way to make it stop. Let me stay here. It’s where I belong.” 

Rett opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and ultimately shut it, taking a breath and walking away slowly. “I’ll keep you updated on Pyke,” he said finally. “And I’m sure one of us will come get you in the morning. You’re not a monster, Laboosh. And I swear, the instant we get Pyke back, we’ll get you back too.” 

He left, leaving Chuckles and Laboosh alone together in the brig, Chuckles oddly sad. 

“You should go too,” Laboosh said. “Just go.” 

Chuckles nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as he shuffled out, and the only indicator that he was coming back was his squeaking shoes, the sound getting louder and louder until a hand curled down the hall, holding something familiar. Laboosh reached through the bars of the cell, grabbing the small hourglass in his hand. He watched Chuckles round the corner, wearing his pyjamas already, holding a pillow and a strangely cartoon-looking stuffed bear. 

“We’re having a sleepover,” Chuckles said, very matter-of-factly, laying his pillow down and summoning blankets for himself, laying down and tucking himself in. He seemed comfortable despite the lack of a mattress. “Goodnight Laboosh. Sleep tight.” 

Laboosh didn’t respond, clutching the hourglass close, watching the grains of sand trickle down and down and down. 

“Goodnight,” Laboosh whispered eventually, when all the sand was gathered at the bottom of the hourglass. He hunkered down for his own rest, and right before he succumbed to sleep, he flipped the hourglass over, the ever-faithful sand ferrying the way to peaceful dreams.

Chapter Text

Pyke couldn’t remember the last time he had run like this.

He raced through the halls, ignoring the way the walls blurred and his vision swam desperately, threatening to sink altogether, but Pyke swallowed the bile and rounded a corner, shoving between two unsuspecting and scared-looking nurses, stumbling before he straightened, continuing his desperate race against time itself. To say he was terrified would be the understatement of the millennia. Pyke’s heart was racing a mile a minute, and he skidded around another corner, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. An alarm started to wail, crying out as lights blared, bathing the once white halls in blood red.

“Stop him!” someone shouted, and Pyke yelled as he rounded a corner and saw four guards there, all poised with guns, all seemingly aimed to kill. With a weak, wayward blast out, Pyke scrambled to turn, bare feet gripping the floor with shocking ease. Without his tail, he was horribly off balance, but he ran regardless, learning on the job with each pounding footstep. The alarm never ceased, and beyond it, Pyke heard yelling, gunshots, crying. People were dying all around him and all he could think was his next move, his next footstep on the ground. 

Pyke screamed, colliding with a guard as they both rounded the same corner in opposite directions, hands on hands, Pyke growling and fighting dirtier than he ever had before. He slammed the side of his hand into the man’s throat, adding the strongest punch he could to the man’s solar plexus for good measure, leaving him wheezing and falling over himself to regain the breath in his throat as Pyke ran onward. 

The halls began to blur, door after door, body after body. At some point, the fire suppression system came on, dousing Pyke in water yet never drowning the alarms that continued their painful, shrill wailing. 

Pushing past another panicking prisoner, Pyke didn’t even waste a breath as he came face to face with more guards, slipping down, sliding between the closest one’s legs, firing a bolt of light up as he did so, unfortunately nailing the man directly in the crotch. As he went down, Pyke twisted, sweeping the legs of another guard, sending him crashing into his friend until they were all in a soaking wet pile, allowing both Pyke and the mystery prisoner to race off in opposite directions. 

Either thankfully or not, when Pyke came skidding to a halt next, he was met with an elevator face, sleek and buttonless, although Pyke did his best to find a panel. He tried to remember coming down here, swearing loudly above the siren and the sprinklers as he distinctly remembered the elevator being keycard only. He yelled, punching into the elevator door. Useful? No. Cathartic? A little bit. Pyke shook his aching hand out as he looked around, trying to remember where he left the body of the guard he’d shot in the dick. 

Cursing his failing memory, Pyke didn’t have to find any of the guards, because three of them found him, guns raised, a chillingly familiar figure between them. 

“You’ve been trouble,” Sarge said plainly, voice audible above the din. “Maybe I’ll paralyze you after this. Make it so you can’t run. Can’t cause all this trouble for me.” 

“Get fucked!” Pyke spat, raising his hand, wavering and weak. He was determined to defend himself to his last breath. If he was going to be trouble, then he was going to be as much trouble as possible. Pyke was going to rock this place like a damn earthquake. 

“Surrender now, and maybe I’ll have mercy,” Sarge said, taking one step forward. “Maybe I’ll spare whatever is left of your friends. I can save them, Pyke. I can give them back to you. All you have to do is follow me.” 

Pyke took a breath, Anna’s bright eyes and Eirian’s grin, Zolle and Joie’s laughter over a story and North’s gentle hands all flashing through him. Sarge was offering a way out, a way to see them again. Pyke shook his head, shaking away the thoughts. He would never allow Sarge to ruin his friends, to turn their gentle memories into something twisted, a constant bargaining chip against him. 

His breath hitched, tears balling at the back of his throat. He swallowed them down. “Don’t,” he growled, punctuating each word with a breath, left hand clamping to his right, steadying his aim to deadly accuracy. “You.” The ball of light gathered, glowing brighter than he had ever seen it, radiating an almost rageful red light, painting the hall in beams of sunset brightness. “Dare!” 

Sarge didn’t even have time to register what was happening before Pyke’s beam hit him in the face, Pyke screaming, throwing himself forward and using the very last of his energy to bound, one foot then another, and the third brought him through the air, disappearing in a burst of light, the starlight step sapping the last of Pyke’s power as he screwed his eyes, praying this would even work and he visualized the inside of the elevator. 

With a loud crash, Pyke went tumbling, colliding with a metal wall, eyes flying open to see the elevator interior, darkened and in emergency mode, but Pyke had never been happier to see an elevator before, stumbling forward and collapsing, hand flailing as he smacked the control panel, fingers fumbling until he hit a button, the elevator lurching, carrying him up. 

Up. 

Pyke was going up. 

He had done it. He was free. Free to never see Sarge’s face again, or at least what was left of it. Free to breathe the air and feel the sunlight. 

Free to see the crew of the Rhapsody again.

He clutched at the elevator’s railing, hauling himself up to standing, the trembling of the elevator below him rumbling through his limbs, but he was rising. Rising upwards. A bubble burst in his chest, and Pyke began to laugh, his joy interspersed with sobs as the adrenaline began to die, leaving Pyke hollow and raw, body pulsing with pain and exhaustion. He was so spent it was a miracle he was still awake, a frayed rope coming more and more undone with every second he spent moving. 

But he couldn’t stop. He had no idea what button he had pressed, but he was still going, tears streaming down his filthy cheeks as he watched numbers tick slowly, taking him all the way up. How he had managed to punch the top floor was a mystery, but Pyke would take it all the same. 

The doors chimed open almost cheerfully, and Pyke stumbled forward. He was in a hallway, long and dark and desolate, a cool-toned evacuation order echoing on the speakers as Pyke stumbled and shuffled his way down the hall, hand on the wall to keep his balance until he found a door. Heavy and metal and labeled with a faded red symbol and lettering 

‘Emergency roof access.’ 

Ignoring the safety warnings and the disclaimer that opening the door would set off the alarm, Pyke shoved at it with all his might, ragged and tired but so fucking determined. 

The door popped open with a loud clicking sound, and thankfully, no alarm sounded as Pyke stepped forward, the door swinging shut behind him. 

There was a moment of hesitation, standing in the shadows and looking out at a beautiful sight. A large planet, glittering with bustling activity, surrounded in cloud-like purple rings that shone in the closest star’s morning glow. Below him, the surface of the moon, people moving like bugs, frantically trying to evacuate the hospital as the basement burned to ash below them, the untold, unknown horrors finally finding the peace they deserved after so long trapped below, deprived of the sun and stars. 

Taking a deep, steady breath, Pyke took a step forward, edging his toes, his ankle, his knee, into the light.

And with one large stumble forward, clutching the railing in front of him, Pyke stepped into the sun. 

Pyke laughed involuntarily, the sun on his face after so long, beautiful and golden and perfect. He bathed in it, felt it warm him, empower him from the core outward with every beam. Rays of it danced between his fingers, and he watched as it filtered across his skin, the solar glow the only thing Pyke cared about. He was free. Free from the dark and the cold and the endless pain and torment. He was free. 

With one last giddy giggle, Pyke turned, turning away from the rooftop, away from the rail, back towards the elevator. He could get out now, now that he didn’t feel so weak, now that the sunlight was coursing through his veins. He’d take the elevator down, hide amidst the crowd, slip away and page the Rhapsody. He was home free. 

He heard the shot mere moments before he felt it, the bullet whizzing into his shoulder, starbursting out in a horrible, dizzying burn of pain. It made a clean exit, golden, ichorous blood spraying out, catching the sun, glimmering there like pure molten sunlight, and Pyke tumbled, stumbling back and back and back still until he hit the railing and tipped head over heels. 

And with a loud shout, Pyke reached out, reached for nothing and everything, hand outstretched, fingers grasping at air. As Pyke began to fall. 

Chapter Text

Pyke couldn’t remember hitting the ground. 

His head was spinning wildly, staring up at the sky as it warped and swam in his lazily opening and closing eyes. He was so tired, fighting every instinct he had to just let his eyes slip closed and sleep. He didn’t hurt, no pain breaking past the bubble of shock that still enveloped him. It would be so easy to sleep, to just rest his eyes for a second and let unconsciousness wash over him. 

And then he remembered who was waiting for him on the other side, and that fluttered his eyes open, brought some of the fire and fight back to his bones. 

A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, Pyke’s face warming in the solar rays. He could feel his every blemish and freckle and scar lighting up, a warm glow urging him up. The hard part was over, but this fight was far from won. Struggling upward, Pyke sat up, clutching at his oozing shoulder. It stung now, bleeding sluggishly and staining his shirt with even more fucking blood. At least it was a clean wound and no matter how much it hurt, Pyke was fairly certain it hadn’t actually clipped anything important. No arteries or major nerves were damaged. Cradling the injured arm to his body, Pyke stood on shaking legs, taking a few hesitant steps forward before he grumbled softly, steeling himself. He was a wreck, bloodied and bruised and tired, but he was on the run now. There was no time to rest unless he knew for certain he was safe. And right now, in the shadow of the hospital, he was most certainly not safe. He had to get off the moon. Getting out of the system would be a challenge, but finding a bus planetside? Pyke was certain he could manage that. 

Huddling in on himself to hopefully hide his now shining hair, Pyke stayed close to walls and stuck to busy areas. Blessedly, emergency services had shown up, making the panicked throng of people only that much thicker, and Pyke was able to weave between them with odd ease. Maybe the gods were finally having mercy on him. 

He pushed through a few people, stumbling to what was very clearly a bus stop, leaning against the pole and looking down the road. There were a few people there with him, each of them shooting him a look before ignoring him, minding their own business, likely assuming he was homeless. 

Good. Let them assume. Let them ignore him and think he was just some harmless freeloader. Better for him. 

The bus came within ten minutes, Pyke piling on and collapsing into a seat near the back, glancing up at another man nearby, bundled in coats and covered in a layer of grime not so dissimilar to Pyke’s. 

“Bus go planetside?” Pyke rasped, and the man chuckled. 

“Not this one,” he said. “Gotta get off at the junction and hop a different bus. No fare.” 

“Good. Ain’t got money.” 

“None of us do,” the man agreed, taking off his topmost coat and offering it out. “It’s rough getting started out here, kid. Take what you can get.” 

Pyke nodded, bundling himself into the coat. It smelled like cigarettes, and he could’ve cried just burying his nose into the creases of the fabric. “You smoke?”

“Do you?” 

“Can I bum one off of you?” Pyke asked, voice a low plead. “Haven’t had one in weeks.” 

The man smiled, reaching into his coat and producing a wrinkled, faded box. “You owe me,” he said lightly, passing Pyke a cigarette. 

“How about I give you a light?” Pyke held his hand out, finger lighting up with a small, concentrated flame. The man laughed, lighting the end of his cigarette and taking a long drag. Pyke kept his, tucking it away into his coat. He wanted to save it, wait it out until he knew he could get more. Didn’t want to tempt the fates with withdrawals. 

The homeless man got off at some point, telling Pyke exactly which stop to get off at to end up planetside. Pyke thanked him profusely, and the man gave him a smile. 

“Gotta stick up for each other,” he said. “See you around.” 

The rest of the bus ride was quiet, and when the bus pulled into the junction, Pyke shuffled off with everyone else, sticking with the throng of people until he found a bus advertising a short, free trip planetside. The bus was run down and creaky, but he got on regardless, grateful for the heater he tucked his legs up overtop and buried himself down into his new coat. The warmth was doing wonders for his aching bones, and yet again, no one bothered him as the bus lurched off, taking Pyke far, far away from the hospital and the moon’s surface. 

Just like the last one, this bus ride was calm. Pyke used the reprieve to nap, soaking in the heat and the downy fuzz of the coat while he rested his eyes. It was peaceful, in a weirdly fucked up way. 

Pyke was awoken from a much deeper sleep than anticipated by the bus lurching to a halt, a bored voice announcing that they’d reached the surface of Morix. Standing and shaking the sleep from his head, Pyke shoved his hands into his coat pockets and began to shuffle out. 

Morix was even more beautiful from the surface than it had been from the moon hanging in the sky. Pyke looked up at the stunning nebulous rings that glowed a faint, smooth purple, in awe of the stunning starlight that bathed the planet’s surface. He was at peace here, a power he had never felt before coursing through his veins. 

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, looking down the street. He needed a plan, a place to stay for the night. Already, he was starting to get exhausted, the pain of his escape and his fall coming crashing down much too fast. If he had to guess, he had about half an hour before his body decided to fall asleep wherever it landed. So all he had to do was get into a relatively safe place before that. 

Easier said than done, but Pyke began to walk, limping with each step but still pressing on, passing face after face, person after person. He saw a few hotels, but all of them were higher end, too plush for how filthy Pyke was right now. He didn’t quite trust a homeless shelter, but if he had to, he would. All he wanted was a decent bed and maybe a warm meal. He couldn’t afford to be too picky right now.

Rounding a corner, Pyke entered into a small diner, a bored-looking waitress chewing gum giving him a look as he stood there in the entrance. “Can I help you?” she asked, and Pyke nodded. 

“Do you know anywhere safe I could stay the night?” he asked, putting on his best pathetic performance, tears building in his eyes. “My- my ex-husband is looking for me.”

The waitress immediately softened, seeing Pyke shaking with tears and pain, a black eye blooming, clearly malnourished. “Oh honey,” she crooned. “Did he do this to you?” 

Pyke nodded, bottom lip trembling. 

“Pop next door,” the waitress said. “Tell Mike that Crystal is vouching for you and that you need a room for the night. He’ll get you hooked up, honey.” 

“Thank you,” Pyke mumbled out, looking at the waitress through clumped lashes. “If anyone asks, I’m not here. My ex, he was with the Empire. They might come looking for me.” 

The waitress shook her head. “We ain’t snitches,” she promised. “Now go, go get yourself cleaned up.” 

Stumbling out the door, Pyke looked up and down the street, seeing a raggedy secondhand store to one side and an equally run down barbershop to the other. Walking the dozen steps down, Pyke pushed open the barbershop door, listening to the little bell chime cheerily as he stood there, awkward and very much out of place. 

The man behind the counter at least had some pity on him, looking at him with a curious expression. “Can I help you?” he asked. “You here for a cut or?” 

“Crystal sent me,” Pyke said slowly. “Said to ask for a room for the night. Said she’d vouch for me.”

The man, presumably Mike, nodded, shuffling out from behind the counter and pressing open a wall, unveiling the hidden door nudged between two shelves. “Up you get,” he said, gesturing up a rickety, narrow set of stairs. “All the way up, first door on your left.”

“Thank you,” Pyke said, as genuine as possible as he slipped up the steps, the door shutting behind him with an almost foreboding creak. But he just ignored it, taking the steps one at a time until he reached the top, grateful he didn’t have to squeeze down the dark hallway, instead slipping into the first room on the left. 

It was a simple space. A small twin-sized bed with mismatched blankets and pillows, a three-legged stool beside the bed, and a thin dresser beside another door. Pyke instantly opened the dresser, seeing clothes of all shapes, colors, and sizes stuffed into it. He carefully folded his coat up, laying it at the bottom of the dresser before pulling out some pyjamas that would probably be big on him, but looked cozy as hell. 

Examining the door led to a cramped but cozy bathroom, and Pyke had never in his life been so glad to see a shower as he cranked it to hot, dragging a plastic bucket in and sitting on its upturned surface, the water beating against his back, soaking into his shirt. 

Slowly, Pyke pulled out of his pants and shirt, peeling the ruined fabric off his wounded shoulder. It hit the shower floor with a loud, wet splat, and Pyke stared at it, the blood that seeped out, soaked away by the running water. He had to assess his injuries, and probably fast.

The first thing to be examined was his shoulder, marred by the large bullet hole. Already, the sunlight exposure was doing its job, stitching him back together, but sunshine could only do so much. He’d have to ask Mike downstairs if he knew any first aid. For now, he wrapped it in waterproof bandages and kept his arm tucked close, not wanting to jostle the wound any more than necessary.

Next came his litany of bruises, each one worse than the last, and his left ankle was definitely ruined beyond belief, although how he hadn’t broken it was a mystery. Another series of bandages securing the swelling joint, and Pyke was ready to move on. There was little he could do for the bruises aside from let them fester, so he just washed a hand over a large one dappling his thigh and moved on. 

With the worst of the stains gone, Pyke could easily see his healed surgical scars, oddly well healed despite everything that had happened. They were little more than silvered lined against his stomach now. 

Unable to twist and see the damage at his back, Pyke got set on scrubbing down. This was a much needed shower, and he relished every second of hot water and soap, the shampoo smelling sharply of peppermint as he scrubbed through his hair twice over, running a brush through it the second time around and wrinkling his nose at the sheer amount of hair he was shedding, watching it swirl down the drain in thick, sunset toned clumps. 

He was a bit more careful with his body, taking a washcloth and doing a slow preliminary scrub, the attacking anywhere he knew he could with a soap-soaked sponge, going over every inch of safe skin with careful, attentive circles, the soap washing weeks of grime and neglect from his body. It left him raw, pinker than usual as he stood and toweled himself dry, shaking his head and cleaning his ears with a washcloth helpfully folded on the sink’s edge. Pyke also set about brushing his teeth twice, humming the alphabet both times. By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, he didn’t feel any better physically, but his mental state had improved leagues above what it had been, and Pyke was able to leave the bathroom feeling significantly more humanoid than when he had entered. 

Unsurprisingly, Mike was there when Pyke stepped out, holding a large first aid kit. “Need a hand?” Mike asked gruffly, and Pyke nodded. 

“Shoulder, if you could,” he said, sitting on the bed’s edge. Mike gave an approving kind of frown, watching Pyke unravel the bandages until his brand new gunshot wound was on macabre display. 

“It’ll need stitches.” 

“I’d be shocked if it didn’t.” 

“I’ll send you to a real doc tomorrow,” Mike decided, grabbing a sterile package out of the first aid kit. “He’ll fix you up better than I could. But for now, a few stitches ain’t hard.” 

Mike blessedly didn’t say anything else, merely letting Pyke bite down on his fist and grumble his way through eight stitches on each side, sixteen in total before Mike disinfected and bandaged the wound, giving Pyke a real sling to keep his arm captive through the night.

“I’ll bring breakfast tomorrow,” Mike said, packing up his kit and standing. “But until then, sleep.” 

It was an order, not a suggestion, one Pyke took oddly willingly, laying down on the soft mattress and letting out a breath. The sun hadn’t quite risen on Morix, and was now fully set, darkness enveloping the room as soon as Pyke killed the lights. 

He stared out the window, tiny and slatted, and sighed out, eyes trained on a star, twinkling and blinking way off in the vast expanse of space. He was free. He was actually fucking free.  

And with that glorious thought, Pyke fell asleep for the very first time in a long time, free as the stars that guided him to sleep.

Chapter Text

The sun shone through the window, painting golden beams of light across Pyke’s face. He wrinkled his nose, rolling over and pulling the blankets up over his head, blocking out the sun. He usually didn’t need much sleep, but he was so tired now, yawning as the sun refused to let him rest. He rolled over, jostling his injured shoulder and that was finally enough to wake him up for real. 

Pyke sat up in bed, blinking blearily for a second before remembering exactly what had happened. He was cozy and warm, curled up on a small twin mattress and surrounded by patchwork quilts, wearing pyjamas two times too big for him. The tiny room was sunny, and Pyke carefully rolled his legs out of bed, testing his weight on his shoddily wrapped ankle. 

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t want to bear his weight, and Pyke used his good arm to hug the wall as he stumbled into the bathroom, sitting down on the tripod stool so he could brush his teeth. It felt strangely nice to be able to clean himself, keep up with the hygiene that had been severely neglected. 

“Kid?” 

Pyke looked around, poking his head out of the bathroom door to see Mike standing there in the doorway to the bedroom, a bowl in hand. “Yeah?” 

Mike held out the bowl. “Breakfast,” he said. “Ain’t much, but it’s food. Crystal sends her regards.” 

Accepting the bowl, Pyke looked down into it, seeing the colorful mix of scrambled space eggs and sausage and even little bits of potato, roasted and seasoned and cooked to utter perfection. Pyke could’ve cried seeing it, poking around with his fork and taking a slow, measured bite. He couldn’t rush into it, had to force himself to eat at a normal pace. Mike ducked away, coming back with a mug and placing it at Pyke’s side. It was full of tea, steaming softly. It smelled of lemon and berries, and when Pyke took a sip he could taste sugar and honey, the tartness of the lemon and the perfection of a warm drink. 

“Thank you,” Pyke mumbled around one of the last bites of food in the bowl. “Thank you so much.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Mike said, chuckling softly. “It’s what we do. Later, once you’re up a bit more, I’ll send the doc on up. He’ll take a look at that ankle and that shoulder of yours. Should be able to get you some help.” 

Pyke nodded. “I have an odd question,” he said, and Mike cocked an eyebrow in interest. “Anything you can do about this?” He sifted his hands through his hair, exposing the growing but still painfully awkward spot at his nape where his hair was beginning to tuft out. 

Mike eyed the spot, huffing a laugh. “Aside from shaving it down, probably not,” he said. “Sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” Pyke pointed out, shaking his head and letting his hair ruffle out. “Do you have a long range comm? I want to call my family.” 

“The doc has one, and he can send out a coded message,” Mike said. “He said he’ll be in shortly. Said there was an emergency he had to take care of first.” 

Pyke nodded. “Works for me,” he said. “Got any music?”

“Down the hall, last door on your right. Take a look, but return whatever you take. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” 

Mike shuffled back down to the shop below, and Pyke waited a few minutes before he passed silently down the hall, pushing open the last door on the right. It was just as cramped as his bedroom, stacked with various leisurely activities, books and puzzles and an old-looking record player next to a box of records. But what Pyke ended up taking was a small Walkman, thumbing over the controls and wishing it was his. He wanted his Walkman, scuffed and scraped up, repaired dozens upon dozens of times. The first gift Rett had ever gotten him. 

Digging through the collection of tapes, Pyke found a few he recognized, including the one he always listened to while he cleaned the Sparrow. Slotting Days of Thunder into the Walkman, Pyke pulled the headphones over his ears, limping down the hallway slowly, reveling in the comforting music. 

He ended up on his bed, hands on his knees as he meditated. It was a strange way to pass the time, occasionally clicking through on the Walkman, but other than that he was still as stone, breathing in and out, measured breaths and loose, blank thoughts. He let the music wash over him, accompanied by the sounds of Mike doing his job below Pyke’s feet, faint small talk bleeding in and only helping provide Pyke with the ambiance he needed to lose himself in his own thoughts. 

It must’ve been some time later, because the sun was gone when Pyke opened an eye, glancing at the door where a knock had just come from. “Come in,” he said, pausing the tape and pulling the headphones around his neck. 

A timid-looking man stepped through, adjusting his glasses and smiling nervously at Pyke. “You must be Mike’s newest refuge,” he said. “I’m Doctor Nintos, but please. Just Nintos will do.” 

“Pleasure,” Pyke said, watching Nintos set a large black bag down on the edge of the bed. “You here to put me back together?” 

“Something like that,” Nintos said, gesturing to Pyke. “What’s your name?” 

“Pyke.”

“Pyke?” Nintos froze, like the name meant something to him. Pyke was immediately on edge, hand growing warm. “Oh stars above. Pyke.” 

“Yeah, what about it?” 

Nintos grinned, more genuine this time. “A few weeks ago, I met a few friends of yours,” he said, and a cold rush flooded Pyke from head to toe. “I had hoped that the information I gave them would lead them to you, but I guess you got out all on your own.” 

Pyke was still in shock as Nintos began to help ease him out of his shirt. “You saw Rett?” he breathed. “How was he? And the others? Did you see them too? Can you call them? I want-” 

“All in due time,” Nintos promised. “Right now you need to keep still and calm, and I’ll tell you everything as best I can. Start from the top. What do you want to know?” 

Somehow, that was the very question that stumped Pyke. He sat there for a minute, just silent, everything and nothing swimming through his brain as he tried desperately to come up with even one question to ask. Eventually, he looked up at Nintos, eyes wide. “Did my family seem okay?” 

“I’m going to be honest,” Nintos said, digging through his bag and producing a bottle and some cotton rounds. “No. They were tired, especially the dwarf. They seemed like they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, Pyke. Losing you must’ve done a pretty bad number on them.” He was careful, dabbing at Pyke’s shoulder wound with a soaked cotton round. Pyke hissed as the burn of it seared through him, but he just endured it, eyes squeezed tight. 

Once Nintos was done, he peeled away a few synth-skin patches, the naturally tanned tone almost comical against Pyke’s pastel skin. 

“Leave these on for three days,” Nintos said, nudging Pyke around so he could start on the entry hole. “Then after that, wear them during the day, but take them off for the night. Let the wound get some air. Mike did a good job with the stitches though, I’m impressed.” 

Pyke nodded numbly. “My family,” he said. “Can you call them?” 

Nintos chuckled, smoothing another skin patch onto Pyke’s body. “As soon as I’m done here,” he said. “You can even be there when I do.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise. Now, you’ve been to a multitude of places recently, each more unsanitary than the last. Any other open wounds I should know about?” 

Pyke shrugged. “Scrapes, scratches, bruises, yeah.” 

Nintos raised an eyebrow. “Any big ones?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Well, I’ll check,” Nintos decided, beginning to slowly check Pyke over, incredibly mindful of his tail stump. “I had a patient once who came to me in a similar condition, all banged up. Checked her over, cleaned the big injuries, and sent her on her way. Turns out, in one of her small wounds, a bacteria was festering. It ate away at her for days, and when she came back, it had consumed half her leg. Poor thing needed one hell of an amputation, and even then I was worried it was too late. That bacteria ate her alive, and would’ve continued to do so had I not amputated.” Every scrape on Pyke’s skin got the same treatment. A thorough wiping down with an alcohol wipe and then a dab of an antibacterial cream, some of them bandaged and some left to get air. The entire time, Pyke kept quiet, just thinking about what he’d say to the others.

At some point, Nintos examined his ear tag, removing it as carefully as he could. With everything that had happened, Pyke had forgotten he even had the damn thing in, although he mourned his earring hole, seeing the new hole punched in the cartilage of his ear. Maybe he could start wearing gauges, or maybe he’d just leave it alone. As Nintos tossed the tag into the trash, all Pyke could think was good riddance. 

“I think all that’s left is that ankle,” Nintos decided after making sure Pyke’s black eye wouldn’t cause any serious, permanent damage. “Can you put any weight on it at all?” 

Pyke stood, testing the waters of his injury. It hurt, large pulses of dull pain radiating outward, and he hissed, pulling weight off his ankle instantly. 

“Sprained but not broken, then,” Nintos diagnosed, helping ease Pyke back to sitting. “Okay. That’s good. I can work well with that.” He sat on the floor, drawing Pyke’s ankle into his lap and carefully prodding at the swollen flesh, confirming that there was no break before he fished out a roll of fabric bandage, wrapping Pyke’s ankle with practiced ease. “Keep weight off it as best you can, but if you have to walk, I’ll give you some crutches. Should work for now because my only boot is on loan.” 

“Okay,” Pyke mumbled, looking at Nintos. “Call now?” 

“Call now,” Nintos agreed, standing and packing his bag back up. “I’ll get the crutches and the comm and be right back.” He left, leaving Pyke with a light, airy feeling in his chest. This was it, the end of the line for him. He’d call Rett, they’d come get him, and he’d go home. 

While waiting for Nintos, Pyke turned the music back on, basking in the fleeting sun. Morix, as Pyke was quickly learning, had a strangely unstable solar pattern, living in the shadow of the moon above. Sunlight hours varied greatly day to day, although today seemed good, Pyke cross-legged on the bed with his face soaking in the most of the sun. He felt at peace, one of the more quiet moments of his life. He preferred to meditate in zero gravity, but settled on the cozy, well loved quilts and plush, worn down mattress, it was just as good.  

“Knock, knock.” 

Pyke looked up, where Nintos was in the doorway, Mike behind him. “Yeah?” 

“Crutches and comm,” Nintos said, taking the stool and settling on it. 

Mike didn’t bother coming in, merely poking his head through the doorway. “Think you can pull your weight ‘round here?” he asked. “My usual receptionist called out.” 

Pyke shrugged, watching Nintos set up the comm. “Sure.” 

“Perfect. Just come down when you’re done.” 

He left, leaving Pyke to peer at the comm, Nintos mumbling the code to himself under his breath as he punched it in. 

“Attention Rhapsody,” he said, sending Pyke’s heart to his throat. “Attention Rhapsody. This is Nintos, calling in from the Aphit System. If you’re there, please pick up the call.” 

There was a loud burst of static, and for a second, Pyke was certain it wouldn’t work, that the call would spin out and no one would answer. 

And then…

“This is the Rhapsody, we read you Nintos. What’s up?” 

Rett. Rett’s voice, bittersweet to Pyke’s exhausted ears, and he couldn’t help the involuntary sob that bubbled its way out of his throat, hand clasped over his mouth in shock as he cried. 

Nintos passed Pyke the comm, Pyke accepting with shaking hands. “I found something I think you guys are gonna want to see,” Nintos said, gripping Pyke’s hand tight, providing him with stability. “It just sort of, well, fell into my lap unexpectedly.” 

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Turn the camera on.” 

The comm flickered, the connection symbol wavering and snapping out before Rett came into view, not looking, clearly distracted by something else. He looked terrible, sunken and sallow and like he was burning both ends of a rapidly diminishing candle. But he was there. Stars and moons above, he was there. 

“What’s going on, Nintos?” he asked again. “What’d you find this time?” 

“Rett.” 

Rett froze, hand hovering over a keypad as he turned slowly, organic eye wide. “Pyke.” 

“Rett!” Pyke cried, a rare and beautiful smile breaking across his face. He could feel his lip split, but he didn’t care, grinning like a lovesick fool at Rett’s grainy image. 

“Pyke!” 

“What? Is that Pyke?” 

“What do you mean, Pyke?” 

Rett turned, Chuckles and Laboosh instantly shoving into the image as well, and Pyke laughed, curling his legs close and taking it all in. His friends, his family, all together and alive and looking at him. 

“What the hell happened to you!” Rett shouted, and Pyke shrugged softly. “How’d you get out?” 

“Stayed a bit of a coup,” Pyke explained. “Blew the whole place to hell and shot the man who had been keeping me captive in the face.” 

“Good. If you didn’t, I was going to,” Rett said, and Pyke giggled. He faintly noticed Nintos slip from the room, providing him with some privacy. 

It was privacy he used, talking with the Rhapsody for nearly an hour, recounting everything that had happened. They also shared their side of the story, jumping from system to system chasing leads to get him home. It was comforting to know he hadn’t been forgotten. 

Eventually, it was just him and Rett again, Rett almost awkwardly tapping at his data terminal. “I fixed the Sparrow up for you,” he said. “She’s good as new.” 

“That’s good.” 

“And Pyke?” 

“Hm?”

Rett took a breath. “I’m sorry to say, no one’s seen hide nor hair of Rex or Kahn. They’re probably gone.” 

It was like all the air had been punched from Pyke’s body. “Gone?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

They sat in silence, and Pyke slowly pulled his sole cigarette out, lighting it with the tip of his finger and taking a long, low drag. “For you, Rex,” he whispered, smoke curling off his lips with every word. “Worst damn brother I could’ve asked for, but somehow you made life worth living.” He watched the smoke curl on the air, chuckling. “I’ll have a drink for dad later. He always hated smoking.” 

Rett let him mourn for a minute before he spoke up again. “Well chart our course for Morix within the hour. Chuckles is too worn down to maintain honk weave travel, so we’re using standard FTL. Should be a few days, but it’s better than nothing.” 

“Right.” 

“Just stay put, promise? Don’t go making any trouble you can get out of.” 

Pyke laughed, leaning back, the light on his body and a feeling of peace and hope inflating his chest for the first time in a long time. “I promise.” 

Chapter Text

The instant Rett hung up, he turned away from the comm, standing and taking a breath. 

Pyke was alive. 

Every fear and doubt and worry he’d had about Pyke being dead was suddenly gone, evaporated like the smoke that poured off their lost companion’s lips. Rett had never been happier, a joy he’d never felt before swelling in his chest as he sat on the couch, and before he could even fathom it, he began to cry. 

The tears weren’t from upset or pain, but ones of relief and thankfulness, the crashing of emotions on his already battered body. Rett cried, cried for Pyke and for the pain he had endured to bring him home. Cried for the weeks without him, the uselessness of the crew. Cried for Pyke’s journey home. His resilience and determination to come back to them. 

Rett must’ve cried there for a while, because by the time anything interrupted him, he was running out of tears and felt oddly weakened. 

Hank whined softly, sadly, nuzzling up against Rett’s body. Ret sniffled, petting Hank between the ears. He’d been neglecting everything recently in his desperation to get Pyke back, even Hank, and it showed on the poor dog. Rett took a deep breath, ignoring the way it stuttered in his throat. 

“Pyke’s coming home,” he said quietly to Hank. “Isn’t that exciting? Pyke’s gonna be back.” He paused, rubbing a hand down Hank’s back. “Sorry I haven’t been a good dog dad recently. It’s just, well, with everything else, I haven’t been myself. But I promise, tomorrow I’ll take good care of you, buddy. How’s an oil bath and a full diagnostic adjustment sound?”

Hank yipped his approval and acceptance of Rett’s apology, lapping tears off Rett’s face with his semi-functional tongue. Rett sighed deeply, yet he smiled, standing and cradling Hank in his arms. “Yeah, let’s go get the workshop clean again.” 

Without Pyke to judge Rett on the state of his workshop, the whole place had fallen into a state of moderate disrepair and severe mess, everything strewn everywhere in haste and panic. Rett took a breath, determined to at least make headway as he set Hank down to charge in the corner. Originally, the workshop had been entirely off-limits to anyone but Rett, and then Pyke came spiraling into his life and left a supernova sized hole in Rett’s chest, as well as a solar elf shaped dent in his bed at first. They had settled on something just to the left of platonic in the end, not wanting a relationship to ruin what they had together. The one night stands stopped, the sleeping together slowed, and then came Dandy and Kavir and Laboosh and Chuckles, and suddenly, they were family. And family, they decided one late night, didn’t sleep with one another. 

But where their relationship fizzled out, Pyke’s spot in Rett’s life hadn’t. He found himself most comfortable borderline invading Rett’s space, lounging beside him and spending time in his room, the shared silence somehow perfectly loud between them. Pyke shifted from laying naked on Rett’s bed while Rett worked to instead meditating on the floor. They changed from Pyke laying across Rett’s shoulders while he worked to getting him his own chair to sit in, although now it was piled with a few jackets and spare energy plugs for some long-forgotten project. Everywhere Rett looked, Pyke had changed his life, wiping away the grim blackness and leaving behind a sunburst of color.

Rett took a breath, scooping up a pile of paper on the floor. No time like the present to begin purging his workshop, he supposed, dumping the papers into the incinerator can in the corner of the room. The workshop was built into the largest bedroom on board the Rhapsody, and it was actually where Rett tended to sleep. With a bed against one of the walls and a small porthole window, it was barely passable as a bedroom, most of the space taken up by work benches and equipment, but it worked for Rett and Hank. 

But where Rett had lived for years undisturbed, Pyke had somehow managed to leave a permanent mark in just weeks. A small meditation pillow between the bed and the dresser, a sweater that lived on the jacket hook on the wall, a box of Pyke’s preferred cigarettes in the bedside table drawer. All things that spoke of a regular visitor, one who left a bright, colorful stain wherever he went. 

As Rett thought, he kept cleaning, humming some song Pyke liked under his breath as he went. Trash was incinerated, screws and bolts organized in their proper containers, blueprints were tacked up on the walls where they belonged, and clothes were tossed into a bin for future Rett to do the laundry. The workshop took far too long to clean to any half-passable standard, and by the time Rett reached the actual living space of his room, he was exhausted, pulling one final box close to sort through and probably throw out. 

And then he pulled the lid off. 

Inside, right on top, was a small velvet box that Rett pulled out and opened, revealing a beautiful, silvery set of earrings that Rett had spent years making and perfecting only to decide they were never good enough. Not Pyke’s typical fanfare, maybe just a bit fancier than what he normally went for, but after forty years of traveling together, Rett thought Pyke deserved something fancy. Something pretty. 

Something just as special as he was. 

Shutting the earring box, Rett carefully set it on the edge of his now cleared workbench. He could finish the earrings another day. A day when he wasn’t so tired, he supposed. 

The rest of the box was more mementos, little things like ticket stubs and receipts, the occasional photo tucked amidst the paper. Rett was careful with all of it, tucking the box away with the reverence it deserved, being so full of memory the way it was. He stood, eyeing the bed. Sleep would do him good, to lay amidst the blankets and pillows and get some damn rest. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rett looked around. His room was half of a mess, a clear line where he had stopped after a while. He still had laundry and cups and trash in his bedroom, and he sighed deeply. 

“Maybe for tonight, I’ll just change the sheets,” he said to Hank, who barked his agreement and helped Rett drag out a set of sheets from the linen closet in the bathroom. Pyke had folded the sheets, proclaiming he was not only good at it, but enjoyed doing so. 

Now, Rett unfolded the neat sheets, stripping his bed of the filthy ones and laying the new plain white sheets out. Everyone on board the ship had their own sheets in their own patterns. Dandy had childish cartoon plant and animal sheets, Kavir had sand-toned sheets, Laboosh stuck with a plastic bed liner, Chuckles’ sheets looked like something right off an arcade floor, and Pyke’s sheets were celestial themed. Rett was the only one with boring bedsheets. 

Hank barked softly, running into the linen closet and coming back out happily toting something that was far too large for him to be carrying, but he did his best anyway, nearly tripping over the pillowcase before Rett took it from him, examining the white fabric with gold and silver and navy star patterns in delicate, swooping patterns. 

That night, Rett slept with Pyke’s pillowcase on his pillow, and he’d be damned if he didn’t admit it was the best sleep he’d gotten in months. 

The next morning brought with it a certain cheer. They were all excited at the prospect of having Pyke home that everyone was behaving strangely well, even Chuckles not committing to his entire array of antics while they ate and began to prepare for the trip to go get Pyke back. 

Which was when their hope turned to despair. Rett sat down and Hank cried, whining that something was wrong with one of the FTL engines. 

“What’d’you mean something’s wrong?” Rett asked, and Hank barked that the port side FTL engine was reporting a massive power instability. Something must’ve worn out with the constant faster than light travel they’d been doing recently. It was a very standard issue and an easy fix, but would likely set them back by a day or two, depending on how fast they could fix the issue. 

“What should we do?” Laboosh asked, and Rett grit his teeth, standing slowly. 

“Hank, pilot the Rhapsody to the closest habitable surface,” he said. “Preferably one with a half-decent mechanic shop. Laboosh, Chuckles, let’s fix the damn ship.”

As they walked down to the engine room, Rett took a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the stress headache he’d finally managed to get rid of came back in full, throbbing force. “Stars, I hope Pyke is still okay.”

Chapter Text

Pyke was feeling strangely okay. 

He’d been spending his free hours downstairs, sitting behind the counter, chatting loosely with the few customers Mike serviced throughout the day. He managed to find some clothes that fit him well enough, a loose mustard gold henley shirt and some overalls, paired with a muted blue and pink plaid bandana to keep his hair tucked away. It was embroidered with small, delicate little figures holding hands and dancing around the hem, each figure adorned with the head of a glittering starburst. He’d also opted for brown fingerless compression gloves and loose socks, forgoing shoes. While he sat, he flipped through magazines and read a book from upstairs, listening halfheartedly as Mike talked to his customers, clearly familiar with all of them. 

Around lunchtime, Crystal brought food over, and Pyke happily ate, glad to be given lunch again. It was light, just a sandwich, but it was one of the best damn sandwiches Pyke had ever eaten, savoring every bite and slowly finishing his glass of water alongside it. 

Once he was done, Pyke somehow ended up striking up a conversation with a woman sitting there waiting for Mike, a hand over her heavily pregnant belly. They talked for a bit, Pyke oddly conversational while they both waited for Mike to finish up with the woman’s wife. He felt like a second life had been breathed into him, and stars above he was eager to live it. 

The pregnant woman and her wife left, and Pyke turned in his chair, rubbing a hand almost uncomfortably over his own stomach. Mike peered at him. “Pain?”

“I’m just not used to eating lunch,” Pyke admitted. “Even before all this. I get a lot of my energy from the sun.” 

“‘S’at why you’re thin as a damn stick?” 

“I mean, kind of,” Pyke agreed, standing and grabbing the crutches that were leaning against the closest wall. “Solar elves are naturally skinny because our diet consists of ninety percent sunlight.”

Mike chuckled, passing Pyke a small white box. “And cigs.” 

Pyke gasped happily, reaching for the box and instantly pulling out a cigarette. “Nah, that’s just a me thing,” he said, perching the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with the tip of his finger. “Started smoking after I left home and just never stopped.” He inhaled, the bitter, acrid taste of tobacco coating his tongue. “I don’t even want to know what my lungs look like by now. I’ve been smoking for sixty someodd years.”

“Nintos said you smoked, so I went and bought a pack,” Mike said. “I don’t partake.” 

“How’d he know I smoked?” 

“Fuck should I know?” 

Pyke snorted softly. “Fair,” he said, brows pinching as the pain doubled back on him, a horrible ache at the top of his stomach. “You got a bathroom?” 

Mike pointed, and Pyke wasted no time hobbling to the bathroom, limping heavily and clutching the wall as he went. The door opened and shut, leaving Pyke alone in the cramped bathroom as he gripped the sink’s edge with rapidly whitening knuckles, leaning against it and breathing heavily. He managed a glance upwards, seeing his own reflection look just as poorly as he felt, face the unappealing color of overly-chewed gum, eyes ringed in bruises, cheeks sallow and skin soaked in a sheen of glittering sweat. His mouth, lips chapped and pale, felt thick, and combined with the churning feeling of his stomach, he was almost certain he knew what was going to happen next. 

Sure enough, Pyke turned from the sink with a grunt, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and cradling his head in his arms, bile building in his throat and his stomach flipping violently. He took a deep breath, eyes screwed shut. 

And then he heaved forward, stomach clenching, muscles tightening, all breath blocked from his lungs as his body attempted to pull up everything he’d eaten. All he could taste was the horrible burn of bile, coughing as nothing came up, and he managed to suck down a breath before his body retched again, stomach pulling away from his shirt, throat scraped raw as yet again, Pyke choked on air in his desperation to vomit. 

Finally, he threw up fully, a messy, wet mess spilling off his lips as the half digested mix of lunch came back up. Pyke sobbed, going limp against the toilet, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. 

“You good in there?” Mike’s voice floated through the door, clearly concerned. 

In response, Pyke groaned, leaning back up and puking again. He cracked an eye open, a cry wrenching from his chest as he looked down and saw the mess of lunch and breakfast, although what made him cry wasn’t that. It was the distinctly there and very vibrant golden flecks of blood mixed into whatever he had thrown up. “Doctor!” he moaned unhappily, slumping against the toilet again, hoping that it was over. “Now!”  

Mike must’ve rushed out and gotten Nintos instantly, because they were there not even five minutes later, although in that time Pyke managed to throw up twice more, shaking and shivering violently by the time the door cracked open and he saw Nintos peering in. 

“Oh dear,” Nintos fretted, helping Pyke sit up straighter, leaning him against the wall and instantly dampening a washcloth Mike held out, gently wiping down Pyke’s sweat-soaked face. “This is very bad. You might be sick.” 

“Blood,” Pyke rasped, nodding weakly to the toilet.

Nintos peered in as he dabbed the washcloth at Pyke’s mouth. He paled instantly, looking at Mike and murmuring a few things that Pyke couldn’t hear. He almost didn’t want to hear them, watching Mike leave again, Nintos slowly helping Pyke to a more comfortable position. 

“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up again?” Nintos asked, and Pyke shrugged. “Okay, well, if you do, please tell me. Right now, can you open your mouth for me? I want to check your throat.” 

Confused but not about to question it, Pyke opened his mouth weakly, Nintos using a pocket light to peer in, humming softly. “Well,” he said. “I definitely see some irritation, but not enough to warrant all that blood. Mike is getting a few things from my clinic for me, and I’m going to set you up with IV fluids and liquid nutrition. It won’t be the most comfortable thing, but it should help us determine if this is you being sick or if this is your body beginning to shut down on us.” 

“Body better not fuckin’ shut down,” Pyke mumbled sleepily. “I’ll be pissed.” 

Nintos looked around as Mike came back, holding a bag. “Good. Let’s get him up. Just over there, closest chair you can.”

Pyke didn’t protest as Mike helped him up and walked him to the closest chair, the leather soft under Pyke’s body, although he was far too weak to really enjoy the comfort as Nintos nudged his head against the headrest. 

“Don’t move,” he said, handing Pyke a small plastic bottle. “And when I say chug, start chugging.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, but when he saw the long tube Nintos was holding, he didn’t protest, instead lifting the bottle to his lips and wrinkling his nose at the overly artificial scent. 

Nintos was careful, humming to himself as he cleaned the tube and looked at Pyke. “Big breath in,” he said. “This is going up your nose and down your throat.” 

Following the advice, Pyke took a deep breath, closing his eyes and forcing his face to not react as Nintos began to ease the tube up his nose. It was a truly horrendous feeling, and Pyke wanted nothing more than to make it stop. But he didn’t, clutching the bottle in his hands. 

“Start drinking,” Nintos said, and Pyke, eyes still shut, began to drink from the bottle. He nearly choked on the sugary flavor, painfully fake and powerful as a punch to the jaw. He almost didn’t notice Nintos pushing the tube further and further down, his gag reflex triggering a few times but he just kept chugging until the bottle was empty and Nintos was stepping back, letting Pyke cough and splutter. 

“I know it feels horrible,” Nintos said, ripping a large piece of fabric medical tape off a roll and carefully taping the tube to the curve of Pyke’s cheek. “But it’s for the best right now. You’ll get used to it, I promise.” 

Pyke wiped his watering eyes, the sick feeling to his stomach returning, although he was fairly certain it was just apprehension at the new scenario. “Feels awful.” 

Nintos chuckled, rubbing Pyke’s back as Pyke launched into another coughing fit. “I know. Makes the IV seem downright fun.” 

“Just fucking stick me.” 

Twenty minutes later, Pyke was sitting in his bed upstairs, listening to Mike and Nintos talk while he stayed curled up, a bag of IV fluid draining into his blood, rehydrating whatever he had lost in his vomiting fit. He was also being very slowly fed via a small bag of what he was fairly certain was a nutrient shake, watching it drip through his new feeding tube and into his stomach. He didn’t feel sick or have an urge to vomit yet, so he considered that a win. He was just sitting in bed, headphones over his ears, listening to some cheerful synth-pop as he absently played with a crystalline 3D puzzle, keeping his mind busy yet relaxed. He was exhausted, barely awake as he lay there, the sun setting already through the window.

A knock at the door made Pyke look up, and he saw Nintos standing there. “I’m going back to my clinic,” he said. “Mike will call me once the IV is empty or if you throw up again. Just try to relax. Maybe take a nap.” 

“Okay,” Pyke said through a wide, tired yawn. “Wanna shut the window?” Nintos had cracked the window originally, claiming Pyke needed some fresh air or else he’d go stir crazy. 

“No, leave it. The air is good for you. Anything else before I go?” 

Pyke shook his head, setting the half-done puzzle aside and pulling the blankets up a bit closer. “I think I’ll be okay,” he said. “You’re good.” 

With that, Nintos silently shut the door, and Pyke leaned back, eyes slipping shut with no issue. 

And the last thing he saw before he fell asleep were the shadows of the curtains, blowing in the soft Morix breeze. 

Chapter Text

The curtains rustled softly, blowing in the soft Morix breeze. The air smelled like metal, the reek of the city filtering through gauzy fabric, almost comforting in a strange way. 

Pyke shifted, fully asleep, face slack with peaceful unconsciousness. The curtains billowed, a clock ticking somewhere far off. The breeze whistled in, gentle and quiet. The faint smell of grass danced on the air, and whatever stress was left from Pyke’s face melted away. His hair was glowing ever so faintly, flickering in his sleep, casting a faint sunset hue across the walls. 

A truck rolled down the street, the faint screech of tires whistling for a split second before it stopped, the engine dying down as the rattle of keys replaced it. The sun was gone, moonlight dappling the sheets and floor in delicate silvery pools. 

The truck door slammed.

Pyke’s brow furrowed gently in his sleep. 

A door shut somewhere inside the shop, Mike’s uneven footsteps creaking on the floor. Pyke’s door cracked open, flooding golden light into the room in slivers. 

He didn’t stir. 

Mike let out a soft chuckle, the door slipping shut with a light click. Pyke’s fingers twitched in his sleep. 

The breeze blew through the room yet again, the curtains dancing and billowing. The sheer fabric seemed to whisper, the faintest idea of words slithering out between the folds and flaps. 

“Is that him?”

“Looks like it.”

Pyke let out a quiet snore, mouth slightly ajar to accommodate for the feeding tube. He was so warm, surrounded by soft sheets and thick quilts. 

“Shit, this is almost too easy.”

“No such thing. Just grab him and let’s go.”

A creaking footstep. A pause. A breath out. 

The wind picked up again, the curtains whipping in a frenzy now. They seemed angry, agitated. As if the very air itself was whistling with a warning, a desperate attempt to wake the room’s sole sleeping resident from his needed and deserved slumber. 

Maybe if he had woken, he would’ve smelled the sickly sweet smell to the air, thick and cloying. His face scrunched after a minute, and he almost woke, but something kept his eyes closed, his exhaustion running so bone-deep that he never woke entirely. One eye flickered open, and had his brain not been clinging so desperately to sleep, he would’ve seen the shadowed figure standing in the corner. 

But he didn’t. His eyes shuttered back closed and he drifted back to sleep, blissfully unaware of the man grabbing his wrists, shackling them together and quickly moving on to do the same to his ankles. He slept right through it, the drugs in the air aiding his sleep in a way that felt suffocating, thick and almost painful. A sharp hiss nearly woke him, but yet again, he just remained asleep. 

The intruder unhooked Pyke from the various tubes he was attached to, easily clamping off the IV line before wrestling a mask over Pyke’s face, grumbling unintelligibly. 

“And you’re sure this is him?” 

“Stars, Jeth, have you seen any other solar elves in the last ten years? Of course this is him.” 

“Hærm says he’s powerful enough to run the ship for a lifetime.” 

“Hærm’s full of shit and you know it.” 

Hands grasped at Pyke’s skin, and his brow furrowed as he was lifted, carried up out of his bed. The smell was painfully sweet now, so thick that Pyke was struggling to breathe, breath coming out in soft pants. 

“Watch the doorframe!” 

“Fucking hells, how much further?” 

Somewhere in his dreams, Pyke was unaware of what was going on, but everything about him knew it was wrong. That something was deeply, horribly wrong with him. He wasn’t safe anymore, and if he could just open his eyes, could just force his eyelids apart and see what was around him, he could figure it out and fix it, maybe get a few more hours of sleep before the sun came up and Nintos came to check on him. 

A figure, burning like a supernova, stepped before Pyke, visions of a lighthouse on a shoreline, the light spinning and spinning, blindingly brilliant. A man on the sand, glimmering delicate gold that fit snug around Pyke’s hand and wrist, the burn of solar light as Pyke harnessed it for the first time. 

The sound of a music box playing delicately in the distance, the sound carried in on the rain-soaked wind. A storm was coming, the clouds thick with moisture, dark and heavy. Pyke turned, turning from the tumultuous sea, churning with white-capped waves, the warm storm wind whipping through his hair, smelling of petrichor and salt. The air whispered promises of power, of destruction, of freedom and heavy costs and prices to be paid. Pyke felt the ground slip under his feet, and he reached up, out, fingers silhouetted against the light, circling around, warning ships in the dangerous night. 

The music box spun on. 

Thunder, lightning, rain began to pelt the ground, and Pyke, so unsteady on his feet already, had no hope as he slipped and slid, falling into the crashing waves. 

He jolted as he hit the water, and in that instant, he woke with a start, jerked from the discomfort and confusion of his dream to the painful feeling of metal below him, laying horizontal on a table, thick shackles horribly cold against his skin, locking him down to the surface below him. He tried to twist, to move and dislodge the cuffs, but they were too tight and too thick, clearly having been designed to keep solar elves captive. 

Pyke tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much, and his head thudded back down to the table below him, a woozy, sick feeling to his entire body. He’d definitely been drugged, but with what? His mouth tasted sour, yet when he breathed out, he could taste something almost sweet, teasing him just there at the edge of his awareness. 

“He's up?” 

“He’s up!” 

Pyke, unable to see who was talking, was left to guess as he heard people bustling around, the clank of machinery and the skittering of many footsteps, clearly smaller than him. 

And then finally someone came into view, a man barely four feet tall, lizard-like in nature and wearing filthy coveralls, his eyes crystalline and almost seeming to glow with an unnatural green hue. “You’re awake!” 

“Yeah, I’m awake,” Pyke grumbled. “Who are you, where am I?” 

“I am the one called Kipla.” The creature spoke with a lilting, simplistic accent, one Pyke couldn’t place. “I am in charge here. And you are our prisoner.” 

“Prisoner?” Pyke wrenched a wrist against the shackles again, face screwing when all it did was ache. “Why?” 

Kipla chittered, and a shiver raced down Pyke’s spine at the sound, horribly animalistic. “The boss says so,” he said. “The boss says go in that window and get the sleeping boy. The one with the glowing hair. And so we sent Jeth and Tolax, and they came back with you. Now you are here and you are our prisoner.” 

“Yeah,” Pyke grumbled, frowning. “I got that, but why me?” 

“Oh!” Kipla gestured, and a few other creatures came around, all dressed in the same dirty uniforms, although they all seemed to vary in color. Kipla was the only red one. “The boss was very clear. You are very powerful.” 

Before Pyke could speak again, a door opened, and heavier, larger footsteps echoed in. The small creatures all scattered, yelping and chattering to one another as they scurried away, leaving only Pyke and a shivering Kipla to face the two large dragonfolk that came in, rounding to Pyke’s front. The dragonfolk were better dressed than the creatures, cleaner too.  

“This is him?” the blue dragonfolk asked, and Kipla nodded. 

“Yes, yes! This is him, Malkir! Just as the boss asked.” 

The dragonfolk, Malkir, peered at Pyke. “He seems young,” he decided, and Pyke raised an eyebrow.  

“I guarantee I’m older than everyone in this room, probably combined,” he spat, and the silver dragonfolk chuckled menacingly. 

“I doubt it,” he said. “We’ll take it from here, Kipla. You’ll get your pay in a few days.” 

“Fifty thousand credits, like we agreed on?” 

“Sure. Just get out.” 

Kipla rushed from the room, and Malkir stared at Pyke. “Boss must have high hopes,” he said eventually, standing to full height and looking at the silver dragonfolk. “Living weapon my ass, that thing could barely charge a battery right now.” 

The silver dragonfolk rolled his eyes. “Look, we don’t get paid to ask questions,” he said. “We get paid to find fighters. And the boss has had his eye on this one for a while.” As he spoke, he began to shift the table Pyke was on, kicking off wheel brakes and rolling it down a long hallway. “That asshole from the hospital promised him a few weeks with this one, just for show and flavor, but the whole place is gone now and the doc’s a no show.” 

“At least we ended up with the boss’s prize here.”

Pyke let the conversation flow, too weary from the last few days to really try to engage, and he was still wrapping his head around being kidnapped and captive again. It was so wildly unlikely, the painful odds crashing down on him all the same as he was wheeled into a different room, one with a large frame of some kind that Pyke was lifted up onto, barely protesting as he was locked into the frame, hands above his head and feet spread slightly, his ragged form on macabre display. 

The silver dragonfolk stepped back while Malkir began to press what felt like electrodes into Pyke’s bare skin, wires extending out and hooking to machines of unknown use. Something was connected to his IV line, and what looked like a meal shake was attached to his feeding tube. 

“Prep cycle prepared,” Malkir said, stepping back from his spiderweb of wires, Pyke the unwilling prey caught in the center. “Should one of the kobolds come watch him?” 

“No,” the silver dragonfolk said. “Just let it run.” 

Malkir shrugged, and he stepped back, flipping a large switch with a loud clicking sound. Instantly, Pyke felt his body light up with pain, screaming against gritted teeth as his muscles fought the electricity racing through him. He was in agony, and he could feel his body growing strangely warmer, a glow beginning to overtake him. Whatever was being pumped into his bloodstream was sending him into overdrive, and Pyke was powerless to stop it. 

“Opheth will be docking in four hours,” Malkir said, words barely audible above Pyke’s suffering. “She’ll want to see him when she boards.” 

“Let her,” the silver dragonfolk said, hands clasped behind his back, clearly pleased with himself. “She can tend to the boss’s pet project herself then.” 

And with that, they both turned and left, leaving Pyke strung up there, alone and in pain, to suffer his fate.

Chapter Text

Hours passed there in that room, Pyke held captive by the metal frame, electricity pumping through his muscles and some kind of something pouring into his veins. Malkir had called it prep, and Pyke was terrified of what could be happening, what this could be preparing him for. There was little he could suffer that would be worse than this. He was kept from being hungry by the feeding tube, likely the only reason he still had it in. No need for him to eat, to pause in his torture, if he could simply be fed via a tube. 

Occasionally, the door would open, one of the creatures, Pyke could remember them being called kobolds, scampering in and checking something, a readout on a screen Pyke couldn’t see. They’d mutter to themselves, and some of them spared him pitying looks before they ran off again. 

Left alone, Pyke refused to hold back, screaming and crying his pain to the room, the stale air and the metal walls. He was on a ship, that much he knew now, but what kind of ship and where in the galaxy he had the misfortune of being was unknown to him. He shed tear after tear, crying for himself and for the others, knowing he had been so close and yet so far from home, from safety and family once more. He finally had it in him to cry for Rex and Kahn, great big sobs of something akin to grief as the pain overtook and overshadowed every other emotion he had. He wished his last interaction with his brother and his father hadn’t been that of frustration and rivalry. He desperately wanted one last conversation with them, if only so he could apologize. 

The pain never ended, every moment another breath of agony, another spasm or scream or prayer spilling off his lips. Pyke never prayed, never once believing in any kind of god out there. But now, he bowed his head and silently cried his woes for anyone who would listen, deity or not. 

Minutes passed like hours and hours like days, each instant stretched to an eternity like warm taffy, gooey and slippery, pulling and pulling and pulling until-

“You must be Pyke.”

Pyke’s head snapped upright again, and standing there before him was a woman, dragonfolk like the other two, although this one shimmered with scales of pure opalescence, everything about her dripping elegance and power as she stared at him, an almost uncaring and bored expression on her stern features. She was holding a datapad, and she tapped a few things on it before walking around to his side. “I am Ophlith,” she continued, as if Pyke wasn’t trembling so violently his teeth were chattering in his skull. “I have been assigned to oversee you until we reach the city. My boss, who you will be meeting shortly, is a man of great power who demands your immediate and unwavering respect. As from this moment, you are his property. You will do as he says with no argument and he is fit to punish you as he deems appropriate should you step out of line.”

Pyke wanted to protest, to kick and scream and cave this woman’s face in with one solid punch, but he couldn’t, so he settled for glaring sleepy daggers at her unimpressed face. 

Ophlith continued on. “Under the order of the boss, you are to be turned over to me for the duration of our trip to help me conduct a few experiments, then you will be turned over to the boss to be used in his arena fights. Cooperate and survive, and we will make it worth your while. Until then,” she set her datapad down, flipping the switch and finally releasing Pyke from the pain and the torture. “I have a theory I’d like to test. I see Kilax and Malkir have already prepared you, that’s good.” She watched as Pyke gasped, his every breath a ragged pant, desperation staining his every inhale and pain wheezing with his exhales. 

She left Pyke to suffer through harsh recovery, body trembling in a way he had only ever experienced once before. After his first big crash, when shock and adrenaline had taken over his body and it took Rex nearly an hour and the aid of Kahn to bring him back down off the shaking, seizing high. 

But he didn’t have an hour now, nor did he have the hands of his brother as he watched Ophlith gather things from around the room, setting up a metal tray with surgical tools and unopened packages of things Pyke couldn’t even dream up in his nightmares. He writhed and pulled at the restraints as best he could in his weakened condition, but it was futile as Ophlith pulled on a pair of black surgical gloves and turned to him with a sick gleam in her eyes. 

“And now,” she said, opening one of the packages and revealing a long, spooled up length of thin clear tubing. “We can begin.”

Drawing closer to Pyke, he was unable to run, to go anywhere, to do anything but flinch when her ice cold hands grazed his arm, thumbing at the IV line nestled into the crook of his elbow. Her hand trailed down, until she was gripping Pyke’s hand harshly, holding it as firmly as she could. “You may feel some slight discomfort,” she said as she picked up a needle so large it made Pyke’s head spin. “This is to be expected.” 

The instant the needle pierced Pyke’s hand, he cried out, a weak, whimpering cry that sounded more pitiful than anything else. With the tube nestled snugly into a vein, Pyke watched as Ophlith connected the other end of the tube to a machine, the line already filling with thick, golden ichorous blood. It made Pyke dizzy, not knowing what was about to happen to him. He realized, with a very tired jolt, that he was still glowing, even the blood escaping his body shimmering and tossing around dancing beams of light. 

Ophlith wasted no time, piercing into the back of Pyke’s other hand, and then his other elbow crook. She trailed downward, putting tubes into the arches of his feet and his ankles, each one of those earning her a wrenched, awful cry from Pyke’s mouth, tears dripping down his cheeks once more. Up, up to the backs of his knees, where two more tubes were inserted. By the time Pyke had the tenth tube set up under his skin, he was so dizzy he was sure the room was spinning, a carousel of pain and torment as, with a bubbling sob, he saw Ophlith lift another needle.

“Hold very still,” she said, rounding around Pyke’s back, and he froze, an icy bolt of fear racing through him as he felt a hand on his head, shifting through his hair. “One wrong move could kill you.” 

It was a horrible thought to have, but as she placed the first IV line under his scalp, Pyke wished for death. He wished so desperately to simply die, to pass over and away from the pain, from the fear and the upset and the stress of it all. He wanted to find his peace, to find comfort in the mundanity of the afterlife. He could almost see it, see Rex’s hand reach out, haloed in heavenly light as he beckoned Pyke onward. 

And then another stab of pain brought the illusion crashing down. 

Ophlith finished quickly, and Pyke, desperately faint, watched as she hooked the final tube up to a machine. He could barely picture himself right now, but if he had to guess, he’d say he simply looked horrific. Mutilated, starved body on display, spread out, crucified on the metal frame, limp and pale and cold. Wires and tubes spread out in every direction, creating a horrible, macabre halo of light around him, each tube pouring, spilling with heavenly ichor that cast the room in a soft, almost gentle golden glow. 

“Prepare yourself,” Ophlith said, and Pyke groaned, weak and pained. “What you are about to experience may hurt, but just go forth and know that what you are sacrificing has greater meaning than you will ever understand.” And with that, she flipped a switch, and Pyke jolted, eyes flying open, mouth wrenching apart. 

And without a second thought, Pyke screamed.

The pain was indescribable on a level he had never understood before. He had been hurt and battered and bruised in every way that mattered before, but this was something else entirely. This wasn’t a flesh wound he could push through and ignore, this was an injury that scraped and scored at the very soul of his body, the culmination of everything he was being rent and ruined. It felt like every atom, every molecule in his body was being torn apart, burned and lit ablaze to spark away. He didn’t know what was happening and he didn’t care. All he could do was scream, babble and plead for whatever merciful god there was out there to kill him, to see his suffering and take pity, put him out of his misery once and for all. He was blind to all else aside from the searing whiteness of pain, deaf to anything but the rush of blood in his ears and the shattered wails of his own voice. Pyke couldn’t tell where one scream ended and another began, nonsensical words in a myriad of languages pouring out of him, staining, flooding the room with golden light. It was like every ounce of his power, the very solar nature of his being, was being sucked out of him, removed slowly, drop by agonizing drop. 

But amidst the wails and the screams, Pyke only ever repeated two words. Two tiny words, each one weighed down with the heaviest of burdens, the saddest of intentions and the purest of desperations. 

“Kill me!”

Ophlith never stopped, documenting Pyke’s every twitch and spasm, his every noise and screech. Her pen never slowed and her eyes never stopped drinking in the sight before her, opalescent scales awash in golden light, growing brighter, more blinding by the second. 

“Kill me!”

Pyke had no idea how long the pain lasted. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? However long it was, when it ended, when the numbness came, the lack of pain, of suffering washed over his body, Pyke sobbed, head falling limp on his neck as he cried. Ophlith scoffed, taking his face in her hand and wrenching it up, so he was looking into her eyes. 

“Pathetic,” she spat. “Barely ten minutes. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

Pyke coughed, blood spilling off his lips, gaze fuzzy. “Kill me,” he rasped, lashes fluttering with the effort of remaining awake. 

Ophlith growled, and for a split second, Pyke was certain she was going to grant his grated out plea for release. Instead, she dropped his face, walking away with her datapad under one arm. “We begin again in one hour,” she said as she retreated. “Do try to keep alive until then.”

Chapter Text

Pyke must’ve slept, some hellish cyclic nightmare racing around his brain, plaguing him desperately as he tried to rest. He was never unplugged from the machines, the IV tubes itchy and pulling at his delicate skin. It was painful, but he had just been through hell itself. He could suffer some moderate discomfort for a bit. 

The nightmare looped back over itself, hazy details and fuzzy plot. He remembered Rex and Kahn, words exchanged between them, but what they were, Pyke had no idea. His eyes fluttered, and suddenly it was Rett there, face lined in anger. He was yelling, and Pyke was crying, unsure as to why Rett was mad at him, but he was sure he deserved it. Pyke whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to avoid it, to hide away from Rett’s scathing words, each syllable cutting into him like a knife. 

Another flicker, the lights in the room dimming and sharpening. 

Now it was Laboosh, arm sunk deep into Pyke’s stomach and he could feel it filling him, warming him from the inside out. His veins filled with goo and ooze, gold burning away into vibrant green, casting a sickly pallor across the room, tossing everything in prismatic emeralds. Pyke gasped, feeling the heat of Laboosh slipping through him so desperately, eager to hurt, to harm and injure. He wanted to cry, but every tear that squeezed its way out of his eyes was soft and squishy, oozing from his tear ducts and slipping down his face like warm gelatin. He wanted to choke, to cry and scream, yet he was silent, gargling on the ooze and feeling it fill his lungs. 

 A lightbulb popped, showering sparks everywhere.

The door opened, and Pyke whined, eyes flickering open as he stared at Ophlith, who peered at a machine near the wall with an impressed face. 

“Interesting,” she said, voice echoing and doubling on itself in Pyke’s ears. “Quite interesting.” She seemed pleased, looking at Pyke with an expression of something akin to scientific pride. “I’ve never seen this before. I’ve studied solar elves before but this is fascinating. The power you are exerting is off the charts. You could run the entire ship for a thousand lifetimes. The sheer solar energy of your blood is enough to power an entire fleet. I’m almost impressed.”

Pyke had no words, nothing beyond ragged gasps and pained whines for Ophlith as she took down a few measurements and crossed to the switch again, Pyke wincing just from watching her approach it. He keened, and Ophlith chuckled. 

“I apologize,” she said, voice speaking otherwise, tone cold with uncaringness. “But this is unfortunately necessary. Your pain will bring about a new era for Striea D.” 

The name rang a very faint bell in Pyke’s brain. Striea D, a moon circling an uninhabitable planet. If Pyke was remembering correctly, they were going through a power crisis now. But Ophlith couldn’t be serious about using him as a power source for an entire moon, could she? If this was the unrelenting agony of powering one ship, he couldn’t even fathom the way a moon would rip him apart, scorch him from the inside out and burn away his very being. 

“It’s a fascinating process,” Ophlith continued, hand dancing over the switch, teasing him, taunting him with the pain he would feel. “See, we, with the help of a doctor you grew very familiar with, discovered that using a process not too dissimilar from extracting plasma from the blood would yield us a pure concentrate of solar elf energy. The very essence of the sun in the palm of our hands. We could use it to power our cities, keep things running effectively indefinitely. We cycle the blood out, remove the solar essence, and then cycle it back in to be recharged. Provided with adequate solar lamps to keep the elf from withering away entirely, we could theoretically never end the cycle and have it run forever. But it would take a solar elf of a very specific nature to accomplish this goal. And you, Pyke, have hit every benchmark, passed every test with flying colors. You are the hope, the savior of a moon. Aren’t you proud?” And with that, she flipped the switch, the agonizing, burning, scorching feeling consuming Pyke once more. He grit through a scream, eyes flying wide as his vision sank dangerously, tear-filled and aching as his spine arched and his muscles contracted, every fiber, every synapse of his being frayed and on fire, threatening to snap and plunge him into unending darkness and peace and- 

And then it simply stopped. Pyke bolted upright in bed, gasping, hand over his heart, sheets askew. He was dreaming. Oh thank the stars it was only a dream. He sighed out, shivering and shaking. A terrifying, agonizing dream, but a dream nonetheless. He swung his legs up and over the edge of the bed, standing with a groan and stretching, muscles aching far too much. He would have to take an ice bath later. 

“It’s too early.”

Pyke looked around, seeing Rett still laying among the blankets, rubbing his organic eye, clearly having been rudely awoken by Pyke’s nightmare. 

“Sorry,” Pyke whispered, crawling back into the bed and peppering kisses across Rett’s cheek, easing Rett into his morning with soft and gentle affection. “Had a bad dream ‘s all. Nothin’ to be worried about.” The longer he spent with Rett, the more he noticed he was adopting some of Rett’s lazier speech patterns, his gruff drawl and tendency to grumble more and more. “Go back to sleep.”

Rett hummed, catching Pyke’s lips in a kiss that tasted sweeter than any dessert in the galaxy, deep and intimate and perfectly passionate. “Well now I can’t sleep knowin’ you had a shitty dream. Any way I can make it up to you, Pretty Boy?”

Something about this tickled the back of Pyke’s brain, and he desperately tried to chase it, to remember what his rapidly fading hindbrain was screaming at him. This had happened before, the strangest deja vu settling over Pyke before he shook it off, laying down beside Rett and allowing Rett to hold him close. “Maybe just a few more minutes,” he said, and Rett chuckled, pressing one final kiss to Pyke’s knuckles as he intertwined their fingers. 

“Of course, Pyke. Just a few more minutes.” 

A few more minutes passed in a blink, and before Pyke knew it, he was yawning, coffee mug in one hand and cigarette in the other, watching an equally sleepy Rett scroll the job board. 

“Anything good?”

“Just some search and recover job that’s barely worth the fuel.”

“We gonna pick it up anyway?” 

“‘Course.” 

Leaning in close to look at the details, Pyke was yet again hit with the deja vu, reading the job listing, squinting as he found the words hard to make out. Somehow, through his sleepy haze, he managed to get the information, sighing deeply. “Not our usual job, but it seems easy enough. How long ‘til we get there?” 

Rett shrugged. “Ten minutes?”

“Damn, it’s that close, huh?” 

“Guess so.” 

Something slithered, whispering across Pyke’s ears, and he shook his head, hair shifting and whispering, drawing out the hisses of his nightmare still clinging to the stubbornly sleepy vestiges of his brain. Pyke shuddered, glancing behind him. 

And as he turned, he could’ve sworn he saw a dragonfolk standing there, datapad in hand as she scrutinized him. The same opalescent dragonfolk from his nightmare. 

Then he blinked, and she disappeared. 

Turning back to Rett, Pyke stared up at the ship, eyebrow raised as he lit a cigarette. “Not so small of a job after all, huh?” he said, and Rett gave him an amused yet annoyed look. 

“So maybe the job board was a little inaccurate. So what? Just means we can demand more of a reward for whatever we find.” 

“Fair,” Pyke agreed, taking a short drag and blowing it out in the same breath he used to shift hair out of his eyes. “We ever seen one of these before?” The ship before him seemed familiar, and Pyke couldn’t place it, the answer just out of reach.

Rett shook his head. “Nah, never. Think I’d remember seein’ one of these. They’re rarer than we are nowadays.”

That got Pyke to scoff, grinning as he gestured to the two ships docked in the hangar. “Yours or mine?” 

“Mine.”

The ride out was boring and strangely, as soon as Pyke blinked, he was on the ship, but not near the entrance they were set to land at. No, he was deep in the bowels of the ship, alarms going off and lights flashing everywhere he looked. Beside him, Rett was swearing up a storm, running with no aim as he shot at another man in front of them. Pyke looked back, taking two shots at the two motherfuckers behind them both. “We’re fucking cornered!” he shouted above the wailing alarm. “We need to leave right now!”

“I know!” Rett shouted back, oddly angry, swinging into a room. Pyke followed, slipping past him and instantly burning the latch shut. It would buy them some time, at least. 

And then they both turned. 

They weren’t alone. 

Pyke gasped, a jolt, a spark going through him like a wildfire finally catching in a forest. Before him was a figure, slender and delicate, made of stone and plants, eyes closed as if she was sleeping. She seemed peaceful. 

But this wasn’t how it happened. Pyke knew this wasn’t how it happened. They had found Dandy on this ship, but it had been damaged, torn to shreds presumably by her as they saw her standing over a body, eyes alight with furious red light. He stepped back, head reeling, pain sparking deep in his core. 

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, this is all wrong. This isn’t right.” 

“Pyke? What’s wrong? What’s going on?” 

Pyke cried out, reaching for Rett, but it was like trying to catch smoke as Rett simply slipped through his fingers, Dandy disappearing too, fading away in whisps and swirls as Pyke screamed, arms outstretched, his family falling through them like sand in an hourglass. Before him, all that was left was the whisper, the suggestion of a figure, scaled and cold.

“He’s waking up.”

“Pity. I had hoped to get a few more minutes out of him.” 

The pain doubled, tripled, ripping at his seams, splitting him apart in a way he could never fathom, surrounded by the smokey remnants of his family. 

And then he woke up.

Snapping awake, Pyke sobbed, retching and nearly choking on his own vomit as he threw up, tears clogging his throat and blinding him to all that was around. He was no longer strung up, crucified on that horrible frame, but he was so weak, limp on the cold ground. Something bit at the base of his neck, pinching at his nape, and he tried to lift a trembling hand to examine it, but someone else beat him to it. 

“Ah, ah, here. Allow me.” 

A hand, warm and comforting, cradled his head, the other pulling something off his neck. 

“We had hoped that maybe a dream worm may help with the pain, but I see now we were wrong. Nevertheless, you are safe now, Pyke. We’re done. You did so well for us.” 

Lifting his head, Pyke looked through clumped lashes and glazed eyes at the man before him. Humanoid, with warm features and a kind smile. He held his hands out to Pyke, crouched down to his level. Pyke, shaking desperately, took his hand, the golden IV still protruding from his hand. “Did good?” Pyke rasped, desperately seeking something, anything, to tell him the pain, the suffering, was worth it. “I did good, right?” 

“Of course you did good,” the man reassured, running a hand over Pyke’s hair. “Now sleep, dear. You’ve earned it.” 

Pyke didn’t even wait for the sentence to finish leaving the man’s mouth. He simply drifted off, still holding the mystery man’s hand tight, clinging to whatever comfort he could find.

Chapter Text

Waking was hard. 

Pyke shifted, unable to tell where he was, but he could hear the rumble of a ship, so he was still traveling, that he was certain of. But without opening his eyes, he had nothing. No idea as to where he was.  And stars knew he didn’t want to open his eyes. He was so tired, and if he opened his eyes, he’d have to face his wakefulness. He decided, not moving on what was clearly now a mattress, he’d rest until someone bothered him. He definitely needed the rest, body aching and head pounding in his skull. His skin felt like it was being stretched too tight, various points of it alight with a painful sting. 

Right. The IV lines. Pyke carefully wiggled his toes, shocked to find a distinct lack of tubes protruding out from under his skin, the wounds wrapped in thick bandages instead. They still hurt, but Pyke was no longer burdened with the weight of wondering if he’d be subject to the agony of his very solar core being removed bit by bit. He still had the feeding tube, and his stomach felt full, so he must’ve been nourished recently. That, combined with the warmth of the bed, made Pyke’s head reel. It was so hard to tell reality from illusion and dream, and he tried desperately to puzzle it all together before the door opened and someone sat on the edge of the bed. 

“I know you’re awake,” a gentle, familiar voice said. “You can open your eyes now, Pyke. I won’t hurt you.” 

Pyke, biting back the sarcastic retort in case the man decided he wanted to drop the kind act, opened his eyes, forcing them to crack open and stay that way, looking up at the man before him. 

The first thing Pyke noticed was that he looked almost kind. Round face lined with age, hair greying at the roots yet still styled well, and soft brown eyes that hummed with a certain kind of softness. The man grinned, and Pyke instantly, strangely, felt safe. 

“There you are,” he said, and his voice was very faintly accented. “We were wondering when you would wake up. My name is Dorsey. I do apologize for whatever Ophlith put you through. She has a brilliant mind, yet some of her methods remain barbaric and cruel. I do hope you’re not too hurt by what she accomplished. It truly was a pinnacle of science and a true honor to witness.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed, and he reached up, fingers ghosting at the back of his neck. 

Dorsey nodded slowly. “The dream worm,” he said. “I discovered them about ten years back. Small leech-like worms that secrete a very peculiar venom. When attached to the base of the neck, the venom causes the person to fall into a dream-like trance wherein they relive their most treasured memories. It’s rare that anyone rejects the worm entirely. You’re very special in more ways than one, Pyke.” 

Laying back with a deep, almost defeated sigh, Pyke stared at the ceiling, a million questions all racing around his head and yet he seemed to be unable to ask anything, muted by his own tumultuous mind. 

“We’re just an hour or so off from Striea D,” Dorsey continued in that gentle, calming cadence. “From there, I will personally escort you to your temporary living quarters. We weren’t expecting guests, so I do apologize for the state of the room. I can promise that your permanent accommodation will be significantly different from where you’ll spend the first few days.” Dorsey smoothed a hand over Pyke’s hair, and Pyke hummed almost happily. He was so warm, cozy and safe in a way he hadn’t known he needed. 

“Very good,” Dorsey praised, the words warming Pyke at his very core. “Very good. You get plenty of rest now, dear Pyke. I’ll be around to check on you before we land.” He stood, hesitating at the door before it slid quietly shut, and Pyke instantly opened both eyes, wide awake now. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head and breathing a sigh out. 

“Get it together, Pyke,” he said to himself, breaking the warm bubble Dorsey had cast over the room. Pyke had heard of his kind before, just in passing. People who could manipulate feelings and moods with only their words, swaying conversations and minds all at once. Dorsey was one of them, projecting safety and comfort into the air, and Pyke felt sick for even believing him, even though he knew he didn’t have a choice. He was so desperate that anything, any kindness at all, was a blessing. 

But this was a blessing Pyke refused to accept, standing and wincing, shifting his weight this way and that, trying to pull the weight off his injured feet as best he could. Eventually, he found a good balance, looking around the sparsely decorated room. Just a bed, a desk, and a chair. No windows, no excess doors, no nothing. 

Well, at least the desk was a start. 

It was also a bitter end, empty of papers or datapads, no information to tell Pyke anything about where he was going or what he’d be doing upon his arrival there. 

With the dead end, Pyke sat back on the bed. The room had no windows, and the lights weren’t solar in any way, so Pyke still felt incredibly weakened, lightheaded from just a simple search through a desk. He sighed, almost frustrated with himself and his inability to function before he laid down, determined to sleep with what little safety he had. He did shove the chair against the door so at least if someone entered the room, he’d have some kind of advance notice of entry. 

His sleep was, shockingly, dreamless and deep, a distinct weariness weighing his bones down so heavily he wasn’t sure if he was even awake or not when his eyes cracked open. But he was awake, staring at Dorsey as he pushed the chair aside and sat down on it. 

“You slept,” Dorsey noticed. “I didn’t expect that.” 

“Why.” 

“They said you were skittish.” 

Pyke raised an eyebrow. “They were right,” he replied, tone measured and careful. “I don’t trust you.” 

Dorsey chuckled. “I know,” he said. “I haven’t gotten to where I am today without reading people very well. That and some other things I’m sure you can deduce.” 

Staying silent, Pyke narrowed his eyes. Everything up until now had been physical, torture of the body. But this, this was mind games and psychological, and the switch was jarring. He didn’t say a word, just sat back and watched as Dorsey took out a small personal comm and began to write up a few messages, sending them out before he finally looked back at Pyke. 

“I’d like to offer you a choice,” he decided eventually. “I have a few things I can do with you. One, I can turn you back over to Ophlith for her to do with as she pleases. I imagine she’ll string you back up and drain you dry over time.” The mere thought made Pyke shiver. “Or, in a much safer option, you can accompany me. See, I run something of an entertainment business.” As he spoke, Dorsey produced a cigar, lighting it and taking a drag. “And I’ve been meaning to find some new blood.” His every word was soaked in persuasion and sugary sweet deception, the saccharine lies pouring out as easy as breathing for this man. “So what do you say, Pyke? Her or me?” 

Pyke blinked a few times, fighting his body’s natural urge to just follow along, to nod and agree and go with Dorsey. He wanted to so badly, but he just screwed his eyes and fought it, grinding a fist closed as tightly as he could, nails biting into his palm. 

“I’ll go with you,” he decided slowly, through gritted teeth. He knew he’d be put up on a pedestal, put on display for all to see, to marvel and gawk at. He got it everywhere he went, and if Dorsey wanted entertainment, there was nowhere better to turn than a solar elf with fame under his belt. “On my own terms.” 

Dorsey chuckled. “I doubt that,” he said. “My terms or Ophlith. Final offer.” 

It was a shitty deal. Pyke was very tempted to refuse both, to simply snap and snarl and fight his way to freedom. But with his weakened state and the presence of at least the dragonfolk still around, he knew it would likely be more of a fight to the death than anything else. Slowly, and knowing he’d eventually regret it, Pyke held a hand out. 

“Your terms,” he agreed, and Dorsey’s grin grew. 

“My terms,” he repeated, shaking Pyke’s hand. “We land in three hours. You best be ready.” And with that, he stood and turned from the room, leaving Pyke alone with a horrible sinking feeling in his chest that he'd just made an irreversible mistake. 

Chapter Text

Three hours passed in the blink of an eye for Pyke. One minute he was sitting on the bed, hands on his knees, determined to show no sign of emotion, to prepare for whatever was to come, and then in the next breath, the door was opening, two unfamiliar human guards pushing in and hauling him to his feet. Pyke didn’t bother fighting back, but he gave them just enough resistance to be annoying without pushing any buttons too far. He dragged his feet and twisted funny, nearly yanking his own arm from the socket at one point, but he just grit his teeth through the pain and continued down the halls of the ship. 

As expected, Dorsey was there at the ship’s entrance, a smug grin on his face as he watched the guards manhandle Pyke. “Poor thing,” he said with faux sympathy. “Go on. Give them a show.” He gestured out the door, and Pyke’s brow furrowed in confusion before he was unceremoniously dragged out of the ship. He caught the barest glimpses of another hall, darkened with shadows and lined in cells, before a rough-hewn blindfold was shoved over his eyes despite his protesting shouts. 

“Think we’d get in trouble if he was busted before the match started?”

“Probably. Boss’d string us up if he lost the fight in the first thirty seconds.” 

Unable to react much beyond uselessly struggling, Pyke let his feet move of their own accord, following after the two guards who had him by the arms. He tried his best to follow their direction, memorize a path, but after the third left, he got lost, unable to keep it all straight in his brain. He did determine that he was solidly underground, the thick, rich smell of dirt and earth clogging his senses in a way that felt overly suffocating. He much preferred the smell of motor oil and open air. 

But he didn’t have either of those things as he stopped, the pneumatic hiss of a door opening causing him to almost wince in surprise. He barely got the time to brace himself before he was tossed onto the hard dirt floor, landing painfully on his shoulder with a sharp inhale, unwilling to show any further hurt. 

The door hissed again, and as soon as Pyke was certain it was shut, he sat up, carefully lifting the blindfold off. He didn’t know what to expect, whether it be a large holding room or a crowd of thousands, but he sure as hell didn’t expect the small four by four cell he was in, moist bricked walls and a thick metal door with a slatted cut out, a tiny barred window on the wall opposite the door near the ceiling and a pile of rags in the corner to pass as a bed. Turning in a circle, Pyke sighed deeply, inhaling the wet, warm air and wincing at the way it felt heavy in his lungs, like it was invading his body and settling there, never to be removed. This was a prison cell in its simplest and most basic form, and Pyke would be lying if he didn’t admit he was a little relieved to see a solitary room, no matter how pitiful it appeared to be. Considering he had been imagining wandering hands on his body and filthily crooned words, demands and actions that would make even the Pathway’s grid girls blush, this was nothing. Being faced with the idea of simply being bored in an undesirable location for a while? That was ideal. 

Letting his breathing even out, Pyke sat down on the floor, dragging slowly through the pile of rags. Most of them were greyed with age, fraying horribly and covered in holes, but Pyke found a few that were clean enough, setting them aside as potential bandages while he set the rest up in a nest formation. He did his best to stay off his heavily injured feet, the ankle that had been on the mend a little while ago now twinging and aching with pain again. Pyke took a rag that was mostly just a long strip and carefully circled it around his ankle, fortifying it as best he could. He did the same with his other ankle, then his wrists and hands. It was slow and methodical, reminding Pyke of his pre-fight rituals before a long day of sparring. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back at the Pathway, about to take on a day’s worth of lessons. Maybe this time he’d actually beat Rex’s smug ass, knock his brother down a few pegs. 

Time was incredibly hard to determine in the darkened cell, but Pyke just meditated his way through the hours, waiting for something to happen. He knew that realistically, he needed to get some damn sleep eventually, but the last thing he wanted was to sleep and let his guard down here, while he was alone, so meditation it was for a while. He meditated through the far off sounds of people moving and shouting, footsteps and whispers, air whistling down the long hallways. All of it provided a uniquely crafted white noise from hell for Pyke to lose himself in. 

Somehow, he managed to get lost in the stream of meditation, mind blank and hours slipping like honey from a warm spoon until he was startled out of it abruptly by a loud bang and an angry shout. 

“Get up!” a gruff voice demanded, and Pyke was two seconds from complying when he realized there was no one outside his cell, and when he stood to peer out, he saw two guards wrenching an exhausted looking woman from a similar cell across the hall. The woman looked ragged and haggard, eyes ringed in sleepless bruises and body frail, sallow skin hanging off weakened bones, what remained of her hair greasy and thin, chopped off at messy angles and haphazard lengths. Her clothes, stained and torn, hung off her malnourished frame, and whatever fight she may have had left in her faded fast as the guards yanked her up, shoving her down the hallway with little mercy for her rubbed raw feet, blisters and burns marring the delicate skin and making every step evident agony for the woman. Pyke watched her go with a feeling almost akin to pity swelling in his chest, worrying for the continued survival of the woman as he pulled away from the door, finally deciding to see what was outside the room’s sole window. 

Sunset was approaching rapidly, and when Pyke crossed the cell to peer out, he was hit with something almost like sunlight, although it felt weak and saddened, like it was being filtered through multiple filthy panes of glass, and looking out, Pyke quickly managed to determine that that was exactly the case. His window sat a few inches above the floor of a large arena space, giving him a strangely good view of the events that would take place here. For now, it was being cleaned by those same little lizard creatures, pushing brooms across a hay-scattered floor and scrubbing blood out of the stone tiles with soaked, stained rags. Pyke shuddered, watching people shuffle into the large, almost grand stands above the arena, taking their seats and talking amongst themselves as they waited for the show to begin. Above them all was a grime-stained glass dome, letting sun in without being too bright. Natural lighting, although Pyke was certain this place came with artificial as well. 

Unsurprisingly, as Pyke scanned the stands, he found Dorsey mingling in a private box with various other well-dressed individuals, and Pyke glared absolute daggers at Dorsey until a large gate into the arena opened, demanding everyone’s attention. By now, the lizard creatures were gone and the stands had filled to almost maximum capacity, people eager to watch whatever show was about to occur. From the gate, four sets of guards dragged people in, and among them, Pyke saw the woman from earlier, shivering and cowering in the light as her left ankle was chained to the floor with a long length of chain, but she was captive all the same. Amidst the others were two men, both human and both in the same relative state of neglect as the woman, and the fourth person appeared to be a child of some species, fuzzy and lanky, eyes wide with fear.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Dorsey’s voice boomed out, interrupting conversations and silencing the entire arena. “Welcome one and all to the Afterlife Arena, home of the galaxy’s last remaining gladiator battles. Tonight, we have a very special treat for you all, because tonight, my dearest guests, you decide the outcome of this fight. In just a moment, you will be voting on which of our four contestants you want to see compete in a brutal, no holds barred, fight to the death.” 

Pyke felt sick, looking out at the weakened, feeble figures all glancing at one another. The child began to cry, silent sobs as the crowd murmured and began to cast their votes. How anyone could find this even mildly entertaining was beyond Pyke, although despite his disgust, he couldn’t seem to look away. Couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene before him as Dorsey stepped up to the front of his box, arms outstretched, a triumphant, gleeful smile on his face. 

“The results are in!” he announced. “On one side of the arena, we have the lovely Miss. Serene!” The woman Pyke had seen shivered, falling to her knees with an ugly, crackling sob. She barely seemed to be able to stand, much less fight. For her sake, Pyke sincerely hoped whoever she was against out-matched her by a wide margin. She deserved a quick, painless death. 

But the twisted desires of the galaxy’s worst never favored mercy and kindness, and Dorsey chuckled as he was given the second contestant. “And facing her in a bloody match to the death is the spry little Chorak.”

The child whimpered audibly as the guards all came back onto the field, one in golden armor barking orders to the rest. “Get those two out of here! Take ‘em back to their cells! And you! Grab the little one! I got the girl.” It took some manhandling to get everyone in place, but this was, unfortunately, a well oiled machine, and in no time at all, a weapons table had been set up between the two shivering, scared contestants, their ankles still bound to the floor. 

“Remember,” Dorsey said, settling into a chair, face twisted into a mask of excitement that made Pyke want to throw up. “The winner of this match receives all they could ever need. Food, water, a warm bath. Perform well, and we may even begin to negotiate your freedom.” 

The woman and the child both looked at each other, and weakened as they were, Pyke could see a glint in each of their eyes, a renewed vigor burning in their bodies at the false, empty promise. He could see it, sense the twisting words and Dorsey’s natural ability to influence the mind, but the two in the arena were too weak, and Pyke felt his stomach curdle as a gunshot went off somewhere, signalling the beginning of the match. 

The instant the gun went off, Pyke let his body drop, curling up on his nest of rags, hands pressed over his ears in a desperate, wild attempt to block out the sounds of the fight. His nails clawed at his temples, his knees pulled to his chest, and his eyes screwed shut so hard he saw spots dance across his vision as he pressed out the sounds of animalistic murder and sickening cheers, head swimming and swimming until his frantic effort weakened him to the point of exhaustion. 

Oddly, he didn’t fight the sleep that overtook him. He’d need every bit of strength in the coming days. And as a final wave of cheers drowned out a blood-curdling scream, Pyke fell victim to the claws of sleep once more.

Chapter Text

Waking was hard. Pyke roused nearly a dozen times while he slept, restless and unable to find true sleep. The stadium never quieted, not once throughout the night, and Pyke tossed and turned to the sound of cheers, boos, screaming and clamoring. At one point, someone was slammed directly into the small window that sat in his cell, and Pyke groaned, dragging the rags closer over his head to block out the light and sound. Guards continued to patrol, and between everything that kept him up, Pyke sat up the next morning, when the stadium quieted and the cleaning crew began work on the blood-soaked sand and stone, having gotten maybe two hours of sleep all told. It was hellish, although by now the sun seemed to be out in full force, weakened severely, but still there. Tiny rays shone through Pyke’s slatted window, and he sat in them, their cold light painting his features as he tried to do something akin to meditating to pass the time and hopefully ignore his rumbling stomach. 

Down the hall, voices echoed. Pyke ignored them, only offering one twitched ear to show that he even heard them. The words slipped over him like water through a stream, too fast to understand. He caught snippets, gathering something about a big show, a trial by fire, lots of money, and the boss trying to pick the perfect contestants. Pyke just let out a breath through his nose and straightened his spine a bit more. What he wouldn’t give for some water right about now, mouth thick and dry. 

The guards passed by his cell, not bothering him as expected, but one of them did knock on the metal just slightly. Pyke could guess that something had been tacked to the door. 

Perfect. Some kind of mark. 

Sighing and standing, Pyke shifted his meditation, going through the repetitive, calming motions of his training exercises. Shift his bare feet just so, spread his arms wide, tilt his face to the sun to catch the last struggling rays as they tried to brighten the space to no avail. His hands warmed, as if he was holding them over a fire, and Pyke let the faintest hint of a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. The air around him began to heat, his hair glowing ever so slightly brighter, eyes alight as he continued in his motions, his forgotten ritual returning to him as he moved. He could still remember Rett seeing him do this for the first time, after a long and trying two weeks in the medbay of the Rhapsody. Then, just as he was now, Pyke was exhausted, but still determined to stretch his aching muscles. 

And by the time someone pounded on his door with the ferocity of a raging bull, Pyke felt better, loosened up enough to turn and stare two guards dead in the face. Between them stood Dorsey. 

“I expect you’ll begin pulling your weight around here today,” Dorsey said, flicking a hand. The guards surged forward, grabbing Pyke’s hands and wrestling them into a set of plasma cuffs. The strongest cuffs Pyke had ever seen, usually used for top tier bounties and the toughest of the tough. 

And now, apparently, Pyke. 

He didn’t struggle, merely watched Dorsey with an expectant and almost bored look, trying to show the man he wasn't afraid, nor was he very much interested in what was going on. It was all a show, but Dorsey seemed to believe it, making another motion with his hands and leading the small company out of the cell and down a hall.

The halls were just as dark and damp as the cell Pyke had been in, and he could see rows upon rows of the same doors, some larger, some smaller. As they passed a room, Pyke could see the fuzzy little child from last night, Chorak, being treated by a nurse in bloodstained robes. He growled at Pyke as he passed by, curling protectively around a small sandwich made of moldy bread and rotting meat. The nurse shook her head, reaching for a syringe. 

Before Pyke could see the outcome, he was ushered past, away from the snarling child, bloody and scared. The halls continued to twist and turn, and Pyke lost track too fast, unable to make any sense of the maze-like path they were on. But Dorsey seemed to know it, and after nearly fifteen minutes of walking, they arrived at a large door, locked and bolted shut. With a mere swipe of a card, Dorsey opened the door, revealing a large room. It was sterile and cold, tile floors and white cinder block walls, nurses in white uniforms milling about, a few busy with other prisoners. Everyone was in the same filthy state, malnourished and saddened as nurses cleaned them up in shower stalls, examined them on metal tables. The guards pushed Pyke in, and he stepped forward, watching with wide eyes as he was led to a table. 

“This is the final contestant?” A timid voice said, high and reedy, and Pyke turned to see a pale nurse with overly wide purple eyes and a tight knot of hair so light it may as well have been white.

“It is,” Dorsey said. The guards uncuffed Pyke, and he glared sharply at them both. “I have high hopes for this one, Dot. He’ll be on the main stage tonight, so please prepare him accordingly.”

“Yessir.” Dot gave a bow, clutching a datapad to her chest as she watched Dorsey and the guards walk away. “Follow me, please.”

Pyke silently obeyed, setting himself down on the table with a slight wince. Dot watched him, clearly afraid of what he could do to her, but Pyke just sat there, watching her right back. 

“If you could please remove your shirt,” Dot instructed after a minute of tense silence. “I need to examine you and prepare you for tonight’s event.” 

Shucking off his shirt, Pyke relished in Dot’s sharp intake of breath. He knew he was a mess of half-healed injuries, from dappled bruises that resembled battered peaches to thick gold scars that criss-crossed his abdomen. 

Dot swallowed, pulling on a pair of gloves and slowly approaching Pyke with caution. He just ignored her fear, allowing her to poke and prod at his injuries, cataloging them as she went. 

“This wound is infected.” 

“Hm?” Pyke could hear but not see Dot. She was around his back, fingers gently nudging at his sore shoulder. “Which one?” 

“Your-” Dot hesitated, voice tinged with terror. “Your gunshot wound.” 

Pyke’s brow furrowed. “Infected?” 

“A low level infection for now,” Dot promised, coming around to Pyke’s front and prodding at the entry hole of the injury. “But left untreated, this could spread fast. I can’t treat it now, I haven’t got the means.” 

“How can you get them?”

It was a plain and straightforward question, but Dot avoided it all the same, picking up a gauze patch and taping it over each of the holes, which now that she mentioned it, did hurt more than they should, a definite ache to his joint and a warmth under his skin. 

Eventually, she stopped, looking him in the eye, her fearful ones meeting his steeled gold. “You win,” she whispered. “Only winners get treated for their injuries. They get to see a real doctor, eat a real meal, recover for a bit before it’s back to a cell down here. Poor Chorak, he was all sorts of messed up when he came to see the doctor last night. At least he gets a real bed now.” 

“So in order to survive down here, you have to just keep winning?” Pyke asked, and Dot nodded. 

“Make the boss enough money, and he’ll take care of you,” Dot said, wrapping a weak ice pack around Pyke’s shoulder, killing some of the warmth coming from what Pyke now knew was a festering wound. “He’s good to those who do good for him. The next show is supposed to be a big one. Win it, and I’m sure your shoulder will be fine.”

“And if I lose?” 

“You won’t worry about the shoulder much if you lose.” 

It was a chilling, terrible answer, and Pyke lapsed into silence, allowing Dot to examine his tail stump, and she winced and whimpered as she poked at it. Pyke had half a mind to tell her to quiet down, but she was scared. Snapping at her would do no one any good, especially her. So Pyke just measured his breaths, following after her hands, allowing her to examine him as she needed to. 

Eventually, she finished, and Pyke was ushered to standing. He was led to a shower stall, told to strip, and stood there as Dot hosed the worst of the grime off his body. At least the water was lukewarm, not burning his skin with cold as he ran his fingers through his hair, flinging water droplets everywhere when he shook his ears out. Dot provided him with a towel and a change of clothes, similar to what he had been wearing earlier. Dark cargo pants, a deep maroon tank top, fingerless gloves, and stirrup socks. He dressed easily, wasting no time. There wasn’t a second to lose. 

“You’ll wait here,” Dot said, leading him to a new room once he was dressed. The room was tiny, barely bigger than Pyke’s cell, with a large metal door that took up the entire adjoining wall. “The door will open shortly. After that, the game will start. You’ll receive instructions, and when you hear a gunshot, that means it’s time to begin.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but refrained, pressing her lips together and giving Pyke a curt nod before slipping from the room, the door shutting silently behind her, leaving Pyke all alone once more. 

He must’ve been alone for an hour, boredom tearing at his mind even as he attempted to meditate. Every minute pulled like molasses, thick and gooey and almost unruled, not seeming to abide by the laws of time, and when Pyke stood, the door before him creeping open slowly, he was almost grateful for it. Any longer and he would’ve gone mad. 

The door crawled open, and Pyke stepped out as soon as he could, stepping foot onto the sandy ground of the large arena, looking up at thousands of faces cheering and screaming, lights bright as suns shining down on him and the eleven other contestants all hesitantly stepping out of their own doors. They totaled to a dozen, all blinking, squinting in the harsh lights. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Dorsey’s booming voice called out. “Welcome to my once-a-year spectacular! A three-day event showcasing everything our brave contestants can do! They might put up an impressive display to be the lucky winner of this year’s show. Now, I know you’re all wondering just what our winner receives as a prize this year. Well, look no further than this.” From high up in his box, Dorsey swept his hand out, showcasing a small box, no bigger than a fist. “A key, ladies and gentlemen. But not just any key. The key to their freedom.” 

A cold flush washed over Pyke as he realized exactly what was on the line. These people would fight dirty, they’d fight like hell to get out of here. With the promise of freedom on the line, all twelve of them would do whatever it took to be the last man standing. 

“Our first event!” Dorsey said, tucking the box away and smiling at the crowd. “Is a beloved fan favorite. Cherished amongst our spectator events! This year, we begin our spectacle with the one and only,” A long pause, in which the ground began to rumble and rattle, sand shifting as large walls, nearly a foot thick, began to rise from the floor, creating paths and turns and dead ends across the hundred and twenty yard space. What it was dawned on Pyke mere seconds before Dorsey finished with, “the maze! As always, first to the center wins the maze. Hidden throughout are boxes, items that may come in handy for our contestants as they fight ruthlessly to be the first person to rest their hand on the maze’s center. And please, my dear contestants, keep the bloodshed to a minimum. We’re only on day one, after all. Now, let the games begin!” 

A gunshot sounded, harsh and sharp against Pyke’s ears, but he didn’t care. He sprung forward, racing across the ground in front of him, entering into the maze without a second thought. 

If this was how he won, how he got out, how he got home, then so fucking be it.