A/N: Comments, notes, constructive criticism all appreciated! This fic is plotted and partially written. Updates are planned to be weekly. Cross-posted on AO3, under the same title & username. Come find me on Tumblr! No link, but I'm under the same username (Cuivenengazer) everywhere. Future chapters may come with trigger warnings at the beginning. Rated M for graphic violence and a fuck-ton of swearing.
It's too soon, too soon when the door bangs open, jerking K38-701 from his fitful attempt at rest, and he keeps his eyes screwed shut, cowering further into his corner, scrubbing his face into the ground. It's not time, it's too soon, it's different, it's bad. He wishes his arms were free so he could hide his head better, but he was bad last time and failed Haggar's test, so she left his hands cuffed tight behind him, left the electricity to buzz and burn through his nerve endings and now he can't even feel his arms, knows only that they are still attached because something is between his side and the floor.
This is probably the rest of his punishment coming now. He didn't mean to, he didn't mean to break it, he's sorry, it just hurt so much. Maybe if he can show the druids how sorry he is they'll see, they'll see he can be good. To prove it, he shoves the whimper that wants to come out back down into his chest, where it squeezes against his heart and lungs but that's ok, it's better than showing how cowardly he is, and then he opens his eyes, stilling his scrabbles to show the druids that he'll come quietly, he'll be good, even if they're here to punish him.
It's not druids, and just like that his fear is clawing its way back up his throat to come spilling out of his mouth, because it's not druids, it's not druids and it's not guards, and even through the tests are painful the guards are so much worse, and the two beings that have just opened the door are neither, they are new and different and this will be worse even than the guards. They are standing in the doorway, all white and blue and green, one tall and one short, helmets on and weapons in their hands and their mouths open under their clear half-visors in matching expressions that he doesn't know, he hasn't seen before, and it's more new, more different, and he's sure it will be very bad. It's too soon for this, he's not ready. He's still hurting from the test, he can't feel his arms, and underneath that he's still hurting from before, when the guards last visited, and he doesn't think he can take whatever's coming next.
They come closer, advancing further into the cell, and they're speaking but he can't understand, it's just gibberish, and despite himself he's pushing back into his little corner even though it's hopeless. He knows how stupid he is to move away, to show fear or resistance, he knows, but he does it anyway because he's too much of a coward not to. They keep coming, keep spouting their strange words at him, they just keep coming and even though the short one puts its weapon away, the other doesn't, and they're both hard and strong and their hands are free to reach for him, to grab and hit and strike and stab – he can't, he can't take it, and he kicks out at the closest one and knocks it back onto it's ass, and now he's done it, now they'll be mad and he was bad, so bad to kick. The one he kicked yells, in pain or in anger, he can't tell, and now there'll be no mercy for him, why couldn't he just be good?
The other one helps the short one up to its feet, and they keep making noises at him and at each other, hurling their strange words out like quick darts of intent and none of it makes sense, why haven't they hit him yet? They switch, the one he kicked going to the door and drawing its weapon to glare out at the hallway, and the tall one puts his gun away to crouch in front of him, hands open and empty and a string of meaningless sounds dripping from it's mouth, and if he wasn't so scared he'd be annoyed – really, is it necessary to make that much noise all the time?
He's so caught up in the babble that he loses track of the hands – stupid, stupid – and suddenly they're touching him, gripping his shoulders, and he fights and squirms and even screams, but it's no use, he can't shake the arms that encircle him, lifting him up until he's slung over a hard white-and-blue shoulder and they're leaving his cell and everything is terrible and new and he's so scared that his breath comes quicker and faster until he passes out.
He wakes up when the shooting starts. The blue-and-white one shoots from under him, shots sure and unerring even with K38-701's weight draped across him. The short one, the one he kicked, darts in and out and up and around, it's green weapon sometimes a blade and sometimes a hook on a string which it uses to fly across the halls in a frightening display of deadly agility. They're shooting guards and druids, they're taking him, why are they taking him? This is bad, this is so bad, and he kicks feebly against the chest of the one holding him, trying to slide off of its shoulder. It doesn't work, of course, and he gets a firm slap on his ass and a string of gibberish for his rebellion. But that's it, for the moment – what? – there's no spike of pain from his cuffs being adjusted to punish him. They keep going, bursting into a hangar bay and it's been wrecked, dozens of ships reduced to heaps of scrap metal, and in the midst of the destruction a massive blue lion-ship sits awaiting them, and if he didn't know better he'd swear the ship was projecting an air of smugness as it sits in the midst of the destruction it has wrought. It moves as they approach, lowering its' gigantic head and opening its' mouth and Haggar save him, they're walking into the mouth of the lion and he's going to die.
He gets set down once they're in the cockpit. The blue-and-white one slides into the pilot seat, but K38-701 doesn't move because the green-and-white one stands over him with its weapon out and now that he's seen it in action he has no desire to give them any reason to use it on him. Besides, they're taking off, and he knows that he can't survive outside the ship. Haggar would understand, wouldn't she, that he really couldn't have prevented this. This isn't his fault. Is it? He can't figure it out, and it's hard to think because the journey has jostled his cuffs up to the next setting and the electricity is sending minute trembles through his frame and really he knows he was bad, how long does he need to be reminded? He can't stop the whine that tears itself from his throat, and he rolls onto his side as best he can, offering his cuffs to the green-and-white one in a silent plea for mercy, he knows he was bad, he'll be good, please just turn them off. He won't try to escape, he'll be still, he'll be good, please.
The green-and-white one crouches over him, examining the cuffs, and then there's a sudden stream of rapid-fire babble above and around him, and its' hands are on the cuffs, but it must still be mad at him because the voltage jolts higher suddenly and he screams, he's SORRY! The hands seize up, yanking and tugging at the cuffs, and abruptly everything stops. The cuffs deactivate, releasing his hands, and his arms sag limply with the rest of him as he accustoms himself to the absence of volts coursing through his body. His arms are free, he thinks, but he's not sure. He can't move them, can't move anything really. They're still flying, he realizes dimly, the aliens who abducted him conversing softly above him, and he doesn't want to black out again but he can't fight it for long as grey covers his vision and he slips away.