He remembers waking up that first day, senseless and disoriented. He remembers blinking into total darkness, his heavy breathing and shuddering heartbeat his only companions. He remembers trying to move, listening to metal clank together when he's met with resistance.
He remembers being scared.
"H-hello?" he calls out in the moments after waking, only for the word to twist and die in the stale air when his throat proves stripped with agony.
Silence answers him, overwhelming in its voidness. It links hands with the darkness, crowding him with a singular focus that he's never known before. He makes to combat the dark away- only to find that he can't move.
Suddenly, the doors opens and he is bathed in harsh light, blinding him to the shadowed figures that appear.
He squints, his skin stretching uncomfortably at the corner of his eyes, and tries his luck at speaking again. "Hello? Can… Can you- help me? I…"
Then it's all loud voices and snarling faces.
Clawed hands rip him from his confines, heavy chains that rub his wrists raw, and tow him out of the large room. He is dragged down tunnels of rock, body limp and head lolling. They march down countless twists and turns, the air changing into something thick and nauseating; his eyes water and his nose stings, but all his croaks for answers are gifted with a sharp command or a nasty jostle. He sews his mouth shut after a particularly painful twist of his arm, listening to the gravel crunch under heavy footsteps and the distant churning of machinery.
There is no mercy when they arrive to their destination and he is dumped on the hard ground, the two figures jabbing him with the butt of their weapons and the heels of their boots before leaving, the heavy clang of a door swinging shut behind them. He cannot move and, so, does not; he simply lays there, eyes creaking open and staring listlessly forward.
There is a hand- his hand, tan and freshly bruised- in his view, and it twitches. Distantly, he can recognize that there is more to his body. The numbness fades slowly and there, yes, those are legs and oh, he has a spine and shoulders. Though with the discovery brings pain. Nothing is spared from the spasms that racks through his entire being, and it takes most of his energy to shift so that he's not inhaling dirt.
But where his body bends, his mind flexes.
There are a great many thoughts that flit through his mind- the where, how and whys- and none of them bring him any closer to the truth of his existence in this moment. Still, he searches, scouring the very edges of his head for explanations. It's amidst the resulting silence that he realizes something.
He doesn't know his own name.
No matter how hard he presses, scraping every wall and depth, he comes back empty. In fact, there is very little he remembers. At the forefront and fading fast, is the feeling of a soft, leather seat, the sound of humming metal and the weightlessness of falling; it all cuts off with a silent scream, shutting him out.
He blinks back into the now, gray, rock walls there to greet him. Air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy breath and, slowly, his muscles relax from their sudden tenseness. It's daunting, realizing that there is nothing and no one to fall back on, that he is utterly and unequivocally alone. Just a feeling that there is something- something important and irreplaceable and his- missing.
His fingers curl and pieces of gravel dig under his nails.
Eventually and with great care, he shifts himself into a sitting position. The ground scrapes the palms of his hands and digs into the soft flesh behind his knees, but he grounds his teeth against the pain. It marginally better, the pain more bearable as a dull ache than what it was previously. It's at this time that he takes inventory of himself; his limbs are long and smudged with grime, looking pathetic in a skin tight suit made from black, itchy fabric, and when he raises a hand to his head, he feels hair, short and oily. He wonders idly what he looks like.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, but it isn't nearly long enough when they come for him again.
They stomp into view, kicking dirt into his face before they pull him to his feet. He almost crumples to the ground once more, legs shaking in their effort to keep him upright, but he manages. It's hard, keeping up with them as they guide him out of- what he now knows to be- his cell and down a long, curving tunnel. The smells he had thought he had gotten used to are back and twice as potent, curling around his nostrils until he's coughing rancid smoke.
"Push."
He stumbles against cold metal, sharp edges jutting into his stomach and thighs, and takes a moment to blink what he's draped over into clarity. It is contraption of sorts, a soulless black in color and in the shape of a horizontal wheel. There are tubes attached to the walls, vibrating when echoes of something pass through them.
"Push," they tell him again, leveling their guns with the center of his chest, "push or die."
He sets his teeth and does what he's told.
It takes a few days, all spent flinching under the short temper of the guards and the grueling work of the caves, but eventually the headaches start to fade.
It no longer feels like someone is carving hieroglyphics into his skull. Thoughts, though confused as they are, flow freely, flirting from one place to another. Finally, he can breathe and stand on his own without fear of stumbling into some hidden trench of memory- nightmares, he begins to call them, jerking to a wakefulness that has him gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. It's both a blessing and a curse that he never remembers anything.
Though, with this new state of mind comes a realization.
He is a prisoner.
The idea solidifies from the terrible treatment enacted from the non-android guards, always eager to demonstrate their power. Scum, they sneer when he gets too close, watching as he trips from their vengeful shoves and curls in on himself when the heel of their boots dig into his sides. Enemy of the Empire, they spit, shoving him in his cell for the night.
It causes a nugget of dubiety to settle low in his stomach. It's a thought that scares him, grossly churning until he feels like heaving what little sustenance he has all over the floor.
What if it's all justified? the cruel shadows whisper in his ear while he's nursing his wounds.
Maybe his past, shrouded in mystery as it is, is better left forgotten. For surely he must have done something absolutely terrible to deserve what's been dealt to him, and he's not entirely positive he wants to remember if that's the case. Perhaps he should leave behind those almost-there thoughts- of open space and salty breezes, of jubilant voices and solid touches, of sand between his toes and lost lullabies- because their price- of purple bruises and rapid gunfire, of stinging tears and relentless heartache, of feeling useless and sitting alone- is just too high.
Even so, deserving or not, this life is not for him. For life in the caves is hard. One moment he is pushing the wheel until his shoulders ache, the next he is scrabbling over rocks and clearing debris. The coarse, flight suit that clings to his gangly form does nothing to sooth the scrapes and bruises that the taxing labor delivers; there are stains of sweat and blood spotting his arms and sides, dripping down his neck and drying around his cuticles. Breaks are few and far in between, the only reward to pulling through being the sweet bliss of collapsing at the end of a shift.
His fellow laborers, varying in species and trust, help ease him into the routine of things. There is no outright talk of rules or schedules to follow, but, instead, there is a random three-fingered hand pulling him into line during roll call and a rough nudge that makes him stumble out of the way of a drilling machine. It is in the pointed way the two-headed being with spikes protruding down each neck keeps their eyes angled down when the guards pass by, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood, and in the desperate pleas for mercy the cyborg croaks out while the guards charge their guns.
It is a hard life. One, he fears, he'll die in.
They assign him a number.
L4782, they call him, gesturing to him as he stands in line, shoulders hunched and head down. Like livestock, he is branded with the ugly serial number to match the strange bands of silver circling his wrists and neck. L4782.
It's not right, he knows, but it is all he has.
When the prisoners are not being used in the mines or taking their daily break, L4782's holed up in his cell. It's there, back to the corner and legs tucked in close to his chest, that he thinks.
He thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about the guards and their shifts. He thinks about the caves and what hides beneath the planet's crust. He thinks about the reason behind it all, the pressure to work and the viciousness in which it's orchestrated. He thinks about his supposed crimes and the atonement in which he makes. He thinks about the stars and the worlds beyond them. He thinks about families and wonders if he even has one.
Every thought is precious, something to add to the cumulative picture that is him. There's little to base himself off of and he tries his best to piece it together, until, finally, there is a semblance of a person.
"What do you think we're mining for?" Those are his first words and he nearly startles himself back into silence because is that his voice? It's higher than he expected.
The question is met with stiff backs and distrustful side glances across the table in the large cave that serves as their refectory. The looks are justified, he supposes, conversation usually kept to an absolute minimum when there are guards present; interaction between prisoners isn't forbidden per say, but increasingly frowned upon and put a stop to almost immediately (usually by force). But, L4782 thinks with a quick sneak at the two robots standing ominously at the single entrance of the room, his question is worth the risk.
He isn't given a response, many outright ignoring him and glaring something fierce into the meager bowls of slop that has been distributed out for their (only) meal of the quintant. Disgusting food aside, L4782 is undeterred.
"Maybe it's worth a bazillion GAC," he says conspiratorially, eyes roving the table and enticing discussion. Now that he's got a taste of it, he can't get enough- talking is a simple luxury, easy to focus on and become distracted by. "Maybe that's why we aren't allowed to see or touch it. Maybe that's why they keep us here. Free labor they can profit on."
Squinty, orange eyes atop a cone head meet his, a beard of tentacles quivering as unwilling words form, "It's not for us to question such things."
"I get why you think that, but don't you ever wonder why we're here?" he asks in a loud whisper, head ducked down low in the pretense of eating. In truth, his spork and bowl lay untouched, forgotten with the prospect of a divergence from bland walls and grueling labor. "What do they do with the stuff we pull out of the ground? What is it for? Who is it for?"
"Those questions are likely to get you killed. Or worse, tied to the Post," the serpentine figure next to him hisses, scales a hideous green in the low light.
Everyone within earshot shifts uneasily, a few going so far as to superstitiously cross their bands in an 'X.' Even L4782 looks away at the name, wincing at the thought of being subjugated to such torture at the hands of the guards. No one has been to the Post in many weeks- L4782 himself has never seen the public display of power the guards enact on those they label disobedient, but has heard enough rumors make his skin crawl at the mere mention of it- and no one wants to be the one to break that streak.
Still… "Isn't it odd that none of us remember our crimes? I mean, we're all supposedly 'dangers to to the universe' and have bounties on our heads, but we don't even know why? Isn't that weird? Doesn't that bother any of you?"
Tentacle Face let's out a wobbly sigh. "What is, is." A hand rises, wrinkled and blistered, and strokes his companion- a individual of the same species, but a dull red in color- under the ridge of their right eye. It's startlingly intimate. "And nothing can change it."
"But why?" he persists.
"Because that it how it is!" The serpent alien is harsh in her tone, the edges pricking L4782 like a thorn wanting to draw blood. Her neck extends and the yellow scales there shake dangerously. "Now, no more foolish questions!"
The boy blinks in surprise, leaning back and raising his hands up in surrender. His shocked expression must be enough to guarantee silence because she backs down just as quickly, slitted eyes flickering over his shoulder toward the entrance even as her fangs fold back into her wide mouth.
The table goes silent after that and stays so as they finish their food. L4782 doesn't bring up his questions again.
Sometimes L4782 dreams.
He'll lay down on his cot and stare aimlessly at the rock walls, listening to the deep breathing of his fellow laborers in the cells adjacent and across from him. He will sigh, long and wanting and sad, and before he knows it, sleep is creeping over him and his eyes flutter shut- only to open a moment later to a new world.
It is beautiful, the images that stream over the back of his eyelids. Everything is so full of life and color, filling him with an energy so raw that he might implode in a great bang of light. Rather, it is a sea of lights, rippling with the orbits of planets and the smiles of galaxies, that he floats in. The water, so cool and blue and refreshing, laps at his skin, caressing his cheeks with a mother's touch. Creatures swim about him, twirling in the dust of asteroids even as they give kisses that tickle his ankles. Some, bigger than life itself, jump out of the water and into the air, moaning their song with the intent of it traveling to every corner of the universe.
The world turns upside down and suddenly he is falling. A waterfall of memories skid past him, teasing him with images of places he's never been and people he's never seen; he lets his fingertip trail across its rushing surface, in awe of the rainbow of mist it creates. Then there's a splash and he's submerged, limbs weightless as he sits there. Curious, glassy eyed stares and playful flicks of slippery fins greet him, enticing him to join their game of life.
He smiles and laughs, though he doesn't know why. Maybe it is the bubbles that erupt from his mouth, popping against the sharp line where air meets water. Or maybe it is the ribbon of fabric that twists around his chest and between his legs, catching him in an embrace that teases of drowning. Nevertheless, he feels good and happy and whole and thinks that he could happily stay there for all eternity.
But then he wakes up and it's to rock walls, rough blankets and the wails of the desolate.
"Push or die," the guards greet him.
He pushes.
"Do you think they'll ever let us go?" he asks one day. His muscles are sore and his feet bleeding, and he so desperately wants to stop and rest, but he can't.
Push or die, the guards chant from the sidelines, a reminder. Push or die.
The figure tethered to him for this work shift is genderless, having large eyes with crosses for pupils. Pink markings run down their sharp cheeks, cutting their face with permanent tears, sad and endless just like the drooping antennae sprouting from their temples. They do not pause at his question, pushing like their life depended on it- and it does.
"No," they say, and it is the sad truth.
Still, he hopes.
Life changes.
It is an abrupt change, as they usually are, and one that he doesn't see coming. It happens on a day like any other, having no anomaly that marks it as different from the rest; he wakes up like he usually does, shuffles in line like he usually does, and works like he usually does.
However, all that changes when, halfway through the day, a voice speaks over the drilling and pipe work. "No longer!"
L4782 pauses in his work, watching with interest as those around him do the same. Attention drawn, he steps out of his designated niche at the wheel, pushing through the multiple bodies that start to pulse forward- all interested to see the source of the commotion. It's only when a burly fellow, skin as hard as rock and spiked tail as long as he is, shifts to the left that L4782 is able to see.
A fourth of a squadron stands at the cave entrance, all carrying their standard blaster and angled in the direction of two figures- a prisoner and the overseer, in a heated debate.
"We've been working for eleven vargas, straight," explains the alien loudly, humanoid in shape, but missing a nose and yellow in coloration. "We can't take much more of this- it's too much! We'll die before we even breech this planet's outer core!"
All prisoners must work, states the head guard on duty, the finger hovering over the trigger of its blaster twitching. The Empire-
"Screw the Empire!"
Such slander is considered of the highest offense within the Galra Empire and punishable by death. More than one blaster is raised, the high hum of a plasma being charged filling the air. The workforce mutters among themselves, slipping onto the slope of hysteria.
He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe it's the way the outspoken prisoner flinches, hands crossing in front of his face protectively. Maybe it's the sound that crosses the tunnel, a frightened whimper. Maybe it's the growing dissatisfaction that makes him seethe whenever he sees the sigil of the Empire. And maybe it's none of that. Maybe he's just stupid.
Well, no matter what it is, it still has him yelling out, "Hey! Leave him alone!" and taking five long strides into the circle, into the spotlight. It still has him shoving the guard away with all his might. It still has him sneering with vicious pleasure when the guard goes down and his weapon flying.
It's not until one of the guards yell, Treason! that he realizes what he's done.
The shackles tighten around his wrists, stinging as it nearly crushes bone, while the collar encircling his neck lets out a high beep. It is the only sign he gets that his body is no longer his own, muscles contracting instinctively as his mind rebels at the thought. But his struggle is useless against the alien tech, his limbs moving of their own accord and pulling him through the throng of people. With a jolt, he lands at the feet of his wardens.
One look up and he freezes.
Standing point ahead of the overseer and two animatronic guards is a figure he doesn't recognize, tall and slender with hair a startling white. Light, purple skin looks deceptively soft in the harsh light, muted by those beside him and the dark armor plated suit he wears. Sharp eyes stare down a long, straight nose, features cold like the stinging metal of their chains. He is immaculate in appearance and posture, and there is a twisted feeling inside L4782 when he looks at him- it is unfair, he thinks, that something so beautiful can exist in such an ugly place.
L4782 doesn't know how long he stares, but it's long enough to watch thin lips pull in this shadow of a smile.
Why, how the mighty have fallen, comes the baritone voice and he starts, surprised at being addressed. There is a certain familiarity in the tone and it makes him uneasy, how naked he feels. How my father succumbed by such weakness is beyond me, but, I suppose, it doesn't matter now. For I am not my father.
Confused, L4782 opens his mouth to speak, only for the butt of a gun to smash against his temple. He topples over with the force of the hit, groaning.
Careful of the face. He'll be a nice addition to my collection when all is said and done.
Then those eyes are sliding away, pausing fleetingly on the figure hunched next to him, yellow forehead touching dirt. A slender brow twitches and something flashes in hard eyes, a decision considered and made. Head jerking to the left, the stranger turns away with a flourish; the guards step out of his way immediately, blasters raised in some sort of salute.
Take him to the Post, says the overseer in his wake and L4782 feels his blood turn to ice.
"No," whispers his companion on the ground, voice a dying ember sinking to the bottom of a pit. But no one hears him, not when metal arms are lunging forward and gripping tight over biceps, deaf to the frantic pleas that start to pour out. "No, no, no. Please, no, I didn't mean- I recount! I recount, so please! No, no! No!"
It is a useless cause, for the gray helmets blind the guards of benignancy and they carry vindictive lust for violence. L4782, himself, grows numb and submissive to the touch of his captors, staring listlessly forward when they drag him along the short journey to the largest cavern of the mines where a lone, metal post stands. The entirety of the work force follows behind, obedient and silent like specters of the forsaken; it takes a single command, barked and harsh in the stale air, and they are stopping, shoved down to kneel like animals.
The small alien is trembling when they step up to the legendary fixture, crying tears that evaporate once they hit skin as he is hung by the shackles, his back to the masses. The sobs turn into screams as a punishment of fifteen lashes is executed with merciless accuracy. He bleeds red.
L4782 doesn't look away.
The show goes on for what seems like an eternity, until, finally, eternity is over. The whip, a primitive weapon with a tail of sparking pink energy, fizzles out and they are left in the aftermath of despair, broken only by muffled sobs and the clack of metal footfalls.
Strangely, when the laborers are ordered back to work, L4782 is left. Chains snap to his shackles, tying him to the ground, and he watches from under heavy lids as the masses file out, heads down with not a twitch in his direction. It's disappointing, but not surprising. It's a survival of the fittest lifestyle in the caves and, at the moment, his chances aren't looking too good.
Time passes and silence reigns.
"You know," comes the whispers in the dark a good few hours into the night cycle, startling L4782 into attention; if he turns his head just so and squints hard he can just begin to discern the darker shade of black that makes up his unfortunate companion. "I had hoped to see my family before this was all over."
Family. L4782 has often heard of them, heard snippets of stories and memories that his fellow prisoners have divulged in times of vulnerability, when the night is quietest and the dark most stifling. He knows the individual in the cell next to his has three sons, identical since the day they hatched, and that they loved playing games, switching clothes and demanding their parents to guess right; he had stopped hearing this particular story in his second cycle when a guard had taken the babbling senior out for an interrogation and never returned (but he tries his best not to think about that). He knows the pain the word brings.
"What are their names?" he asks because he is weak. Though he has nothing, he craves for more- constantly more, more, more- never realizing that it is this greed that leaves him unsatisfied. Even in this situation, of open wounds and tight chains, he searches for what he cannot have. "What are they like?"
"I don't know," comes the broken reply. "I- I can't remember."
And isn't that the truth of it all.
Soon after that, the tears start to come and L4782 curls into a ball, pretending the warmth he feels is that of a family long lost. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of taking to the sky and flying far, far away.
He wakes.
The body across from him does not.
A/N: So, I've been wanting to write this for, like, EVER and just recently found the motivation to actually do it. Anyway, enjoy!