He never thought he'd welcome the scent of his own blood, the iron tang of it smothering the biting, sharp odor of the nitrogen dioxide the Galra mixed into the scrubbed air. Far away in the back of his mind, among the training and lessons of the Garrison, it made sense that an alien race would be accustomed to a different mix of gases in their breathable air. The acrid smell of it set his nerves on edge, conjuring up memories of the launch out of Houston; the smell was of burning rocket fuel, overheating metal, the great exhale of outdated propulsion systems clawing against gravity.
Shiro shifted his weight onto another point of his hip, feeling the pins and needles of inactivity vibrating around his body. He was still sore from his last encounter with the druids and his nerves throbbed where metal met flesh on his arm. At least that now that he was the druids' plaything he wasn't expected to fight in the arena anymore, a small comfort compared to the horrors the experimentations exposed him to. They never talked around him, unlike the rest of the Galra who openly sneered; they just stared at him with the same unchanging, quizzically bird-like masks. The only one without a mask, the old woman with the markings and sharp teeth, would talk amongst the other druids in what he assumed was their native tongue; whatever universal translator they used on the rest of the ship was disabled where the druids did their dreadful work.
The muffled footsteps of a sentry making its rounds froze the breath in his lungs, eyes darting to the small square window set in the door of his cell. It was frosted and opaque but he could still see the shadow of it blocking the hall lights as it marched. The air hissed out of him, a soft sigh of stolen relief, the heat of it pooling behind the muzzle held tight to his face. He couldn't tell if the damp stickiness on his skin under the metal was due to his condensed breath or blood from the long stripe he'd warn into his own face from trying to rip it off. The druids had forced it on him after he'd bitten one of them in a desperate attempt to escape; he supposed he should have been thankful they hadn't broken his jaw, but he wasn't about to be thankful for anything the Galra did to him.
Something warm pooled at the edge of the muzzle and on reflex he brought his right hand up to wipe it away; he flinched away when cold metal touched his skin and not his own flesh. He stared at the prosthetic the druids had fitted him with, eyes narrowing with a mixture of malcontent and disgust. If it was just an unfeeling replacement it might not have bothered him so much, but he could feel the ghost of sensation across his artificial fingertips, dulled and distant and filtered through strange manufactured nerves. The feedback made his nervous system buzz, tingling up his shoulder, his neck, into his brain.
He rubbed at the wrist joint, the polymers and alloys unfamiliar and exotic to him. It was light, much lighter than metal had any right to be, and he wondered how strong it was. He knew there was more to it than he knew, as when they'd fixed it to him the druids had made it glow the same sickly violet as much of the technology on the ship. He had no idea what it could do, but he knew it must be some form of weapon, otherwise the druids wouldn't have given it to him. They wanted something from him, but what it was he had no way of fathoming.
Shiro blinked and let his fascination pass, finally rubbing away the now-identified blood from his face with his left hand. He felt how inflamed and ragged the wound across his nose had become, the tissue rough and granular with the constant irritation of the metal. His gentle touch was enough to make the delicate scab slough and tear where his calloused fingers brushed, blood and serous fluid oozing from the raw flesh, down the black metal that was already stained with it. His hopes of it healing clean were all but a distant dream; he could only pray that the scar didn't permanently disfigure him at this rate. If I even live long enough for it to scar, he thought bitterly, wiping his hand clean on his tattered purple shirt.
The Galra weren't going to bother treating it like they had his other wounds from the arena. The security officer had said as much the last time they'd taken him to druids, or rather, the officer had told him after Shiro had regained consciousness; he'd smashed the muzzle down on the skull of one of the druid's who'd gotten too close, who'd been inspecting the prosthetic and his body like he was nothing more than a machine. The force of it had knocked the druid out, but had also driven the sharp edge of the muzzle deep into the bridge of his nose, deep enough he was almost certain the cartilage was damaged. He didn't care, it'd been worth it to see the surprise in the female druid's eyes when one of her own inner circle crumpled indignantly like a rag to the floor. Just those few seconds of triumph had been worth the brutal hit he'd taken to the back of his neck by the guard once they had realized what had happened.
He was pretty sure the horrific bruise was still on his neck from that. He wasn't healing as well as he used to and he had no illusions as to why. He wasn't eating enough, not getting enough fluids, not enough rest to heal even the smallest of his wounds; the druids instead forced that vile glowing liquid down his throat, the same he saw them use to power their machines and weapons. His throat was still raw from the last session, and he'd vomited almost all of it up as soon as he'd been locked back into his cell. His lips had tingled for hours afterward and the acrid taste of it and his own bile had all but burned the inside of his mouth.
Shiro hated to admit it, but he knew that the strange fluid was doing something to him. The prosthetic was responding to stimuli much easier now, something the druids seemed endlessly pleased about. He'd even discovered he could get the violet glow to shimmer on his own for a few seconds, something he guarded jealously and hid well. He didn't want them to catch on that he was learning how to use it, knowing it was probably the only ace he would ever have up his sleeve. If he could get it to activate and stay on, maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to use it to free himself.
Another sentry passed by the door of his cell, his body stilling on reflex and eyes locked on the small frosted window. The shadow passed over it and continued onward, the footsteps fading as it moved further away. They had a pattern but memorizing it when he didn't have any way of measuring time made it difficult, but he knew he'd need to know it if he was to escape. Escape was what kept him going; once the druids got bored with him he knew there were only two outcomes, the arena or death, and he wanted neither.
He thought of Keith often. They had only had each other for so long, and by now some form of news must have reached him. A distant part of him wondered what they might have told him. Equipment malfunction, a radiation pocket, pilot error—that made him scoff, a sour sound deep in his chest—there was no way they would tell him what really happened, even if control had seen or heard anything after the attack. He hoped Keith would move on and find his way in the world and not mourn him long. He'd give anything to speak to him one last time, even just to see him. It was selfish he knew, but he allowed himself to be selfish in his own mind, just this once.
And then there was the Holt family. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his breath hiss out through his teeth, feeling the hot burn of pain as the wound on his face cracked and split at the movement. Keith was his only family back home, but Dr. Holt and Matt had a whole family. A wife and a sibling who would never know what happened to them. Somewhere, deep down, he felt responsible for their loss. That maybe, somehow, if he'd done something different he could have kept all of them out of the line of fire and avoided the Galra entirely.
The door suddenly clicked, sliding open where a shadow loomed in the empty space. Shiro startled and started to jump to his feet but was quickly halted, a strong clawed hand grasping at the tender union of metal and flesh on his right arm. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
"The druids have more tests to run," the Galra growled behind a featureless helmet, "behave and maybe they'll see to that ugly face of yours."