Ohh man, I mean I know there aren't a lot of people waiting for an update lol, but I still feel bad that I've been putting this off for so long. So this is the action-y chapter and I don't know how good I am at writing action-y things, but it had to be done, it was important to the story. Next chapter will be about Fai!

Also, I use a lot of dashes. Just realized. But the situation called for them, what can I say?

Chapter 5

Irkens weren't religious in any aspect of their lives. Perhaps at one point in the past the species had exhibited some form of religious worship, but no one really knew for sure due to the deletion of that information—plus much more like it—to prevent the universe from discovering the Irken race's humble beginnings. The closest the Irkens came to such a concept as religion was in their fanatical idolization of the Tallest.

Veld remembered the images of some aliens on their knees with their heads bowed and hands clasped together after their little village had been destroyed by…something or other. Heck, maybe Irkens destroyed it.

Not the point.

Veld had wondered what those gestures meant. Why did these aliens do this strange thing and why did he see it all the time? The Irken had asked Kad about it once, and, well…Kad had unrestricted access to all of VortTV so his question was answered pretty quickly thereafter. He still didn't get it though. Why did aliens try to talk to a being that didn't exist? Did they think they'd get an answer? Or perhaps they had powers to talk to beings that he somehow just couldn't see? It was all very confusing.

Well, the whole concept of praying to a higher being just became slightly less confusing, because as Veld stood in this cramped little armor pod with only the sound of his harsh, jagged breathing to fill the silence, he desperately wished for a miracle. Maybe if he clasped his hands and bowed his head like he saw those aliens do, he'd get one.

He didn't have the wherewithal to feel silly in this moment because he was too preoccupied with trying not to hyperventilate before he even got out into the arena. What was the proper way to clasp one's hands in prayer? Should he clasp harder? Softer? Kneeling was out of the question due to little floor space. Perhaps he could try to reason with this imaginary being that lived in the clouds. He should at least try to talk to this being, yes? Just to exhaust all of his options. He couldn't say that he didn't try.

"If there really is someone who is watching over me—a god for Irkens—please help me to…not fail. I'd really appreciate it. Um…thank you for your time." Best to be polite, he supposed.

Thank Irk for this sound-proof pod.

A piercing alarm snapped him out of his anxiety-induced stupor and he whipped his head up to see a blinking light that warned him that he had too few precious minutes before he would step out into the arena. Kad would have finished his exam quite a bit ago, but Veld had no way of knowing whether he passed or failed until after he himself had finished. He dropped his head back down over his clasped hands in an afterthought.

"P.S., please let Kad have passed his test. I hate to admit it, but I don't really know how to do anything without him." Okay, now I'm done.

He watched the blinking light before him with a kind of fixation and felt the liquid sugar in his veins take effect as his adrenaline spiked. He felt light as a feather, as if movement required no effort even under all the armor. In the last few seconds, he wondered where Kad was—perhaps he was watching on the sidelines? He liked to believe that was the case, but he couldn't be too sure after the events of their previous meeting—er, argument.

The light began blinking more rapidly and just a few moments after, the sliding door whooshed to the side—Veld's cue to step out into the arena and face his opponent. His tunnel vision was immediate and he was grateful that years of practice had allowed him to block out any distractions that may hinder his performance. He was no longer intimidated by the excruciatingly intense arena lights hundreds of feet above or unnerved by his apparent isolation as he walked calmly down the middle of the vast expanse of the floor upon which he and another Irken would be trying vehemently to maim each other.

Well, this was his doom.

Across the arena floor stood an Irken Elite who was posturing with his PAK legs deployed. The front two sharp metal appendages were poised above his head as if he were a spider about to attack, and the back two were braced on the floor behind him. As per protocol, Veld couldn't see his opponent's face, as it was concealed by a thick but sleek helmet which donned the legendary emblem of the Elite on the forehead. He looked positively vicious.

But Veld could handle this.

Out sprang his own PAK legs in a fraction of a second to mimic the other Irken's in form. He held them in the air knowing he looked just as menacing as the Elite as his visor snapped down over his face, hiding his mint eyes behind tinted glass. This was his element; this is what he lived for—the few tense moments as he and his opponent stared each other down from opposite ends of the arena, calculating both the other's and his own moves based on such little information. Only this time it was different.

The sugar in his bloodstream was finally making itself apparent. Very apparent. There was a terrible rushing sound in his head—not painful, but slightly concerning—and his hands began to shake in unsurpassed anticipation as he almost literally buzzed with energy. All in just a second, everything became so magnificently bright and clear and perhaps if he had had more time to process what he was feeling, he would have decided that it felt like his ocular lenses had suddenly been wiped clean of every speck and smudge. Every color became more vibrant and every sound more crisp than ever. The antennae atop his head swiveled to capture every new piece of information they could and curiously, he didn't find himself overwhelmed with what probably would have been sensory overload under normal conditions.

He actually felt pretty great. Powerful and unstoppable and more than ready to—

Woah, ok, guess we're moving now! He launched himself forward with such speed that even he himself was surprised. His PAK legs seemed to move on their own accord as he rushed the Elite, coming upon him in mere seconds. As expected, the Elite dodged expertly around him and Veld could almost hear him snickering at his opponent's irresponsibly direct attack. Without hesitation, the Elite slashed one of his PAK legs across Veld's vulnerable back but the other was able to side-step quickly to avoid the hit; he spun around to face the Elite who had bounded a few steps away.

The feeling had been coming on slowly, but now Veld was quite positive something about himself wasn't…right. He didn't feel like he was inside his own body, but watching himself from a distance. It was like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare (how clichéd). His entire body felt light—like he could fly away—and his tunnel vision grew so intense he thought for a terrifying moment he might black out. Of course, he had but a millisecond to consider the possibility, for the Elite launched himself into the air above Veld's head, intending to skewer the other as he came down.

Veld reacted just in time and ducked out of the way, instantly rounding on the other Irken as the Elite rose from the crouch he landed in. His attempts to slash the Elite across his middle were rebuffed and both Irkens took a quick step back to put some distance between each other. Veld's blood pumped so furiously that he feared his PAK might overheat. He growled in frustration; this was definitely not normal. Was it the sugar doing this to him? Kad hadn't mentioned any side-effects like this…

He continued to watch the fight play out through his eyes while he let his body move for him. He felt alien in his own skin and the sensation was getting progressively worse. The battle between the two Irkens was heating up quickly and Veld had no time to think about anything besides his strategy and preventing the Elite from gaining an upper hand. His movements were the result of split-second decisions and his full attention went to keeping track of what all his limbs—including his PAK legs—were doing.

As his conscious fled further and further from his physical body, he noticed just how oddly beautiful their skirmish was—almost like a dance. Veld would know. He would sometimes watch aliens do it on various intergalactic TV stations that Kad had managed to (illegally) access. There were all kinds of different dances, Veld had found out; some dances were slow, graceful, and smooth, inciting peace and awe as he watched. Some, in contrast, were rapidly paced and the movements were jerky but exciting. Irkens didn't dance—Veld didn't think they could.

Well, this was as close to dancing as Irkens would ever get, he thought.

A swift uppercut by the horizontal length of his opponent's PAK leg managed to catch him by surprise and his head snapped back violently, sending shooting pain down his neck and into his spine. He couldn't help but cry out a little in pain as he fell backward onto the ground, knowing that with every second that passed, his prone body would be open for further attack. In the time it took to blink, however, he had shot out one of his own PAK legs to sweep the other Irken off his feet. Said Irken saw the strike coming and would have avoided it had he not still been stabilizing himself from his own attack just a couple seconds earlier. The Elite lurched forward inelegantly, his PAK legs trying and failing to catch him on the way down so that they splayed out awkwardly beside him.

Veld heard the Irken curse and couldn't help but smirk a little to himself. Then, his PAK legs seemed to move on their own accord as they shot him downward toward the fallen Elite, who by this time had started to recover. When the two met in a vicious clash of metal, Veld felt himself leave his body entirely, his vision just a tiny pinpoint of light as his antennae picked up every miniscule sound originating from his opponent, like his quick, steady pants and even the clicks and whirs of the Elite's PAK working and processing. This was too much. His overworked senses were making him disoriented and dizzy but he urged himself to focus.

…FOCUS.

But it just wasn't happening. For a split second he surrendered to the disorientation and that's all it took. Once he let go, he couldn't regain that control. His consciousness was falling away and he just…let it happen.

Yet his body was still moving and fighting and from the outside it appeared as if everything was going right along as planned. He watched in wonder as his body ducked, leapt, and maneuvered its way around the arena skillfully.

What the Irk was going on right now?! And…wow, he was really kicking ass out there. Like, the other guy looked like he was really struggling to keep Veld—err, Veld's body—in check.

He only had to hold his own against the Elite for ten ticks and he would pass. Surely the time was almost up? It was not like he could chance a glance at the clock above their heads seeing as he no longer had control of where his eyes went. It felt as though he was in a trance with no concept of time or space and that disturbed him deeply. How much longer was this torture to continue?

It actually wasn't to last much longer, to Veld's relief, for the arena's clock began its one-tick-remaining countdown that was signaled by a much-too-sinister alarm. In all honesty he was surprised he had even gotten this far in the first place, even when he did have control of his body. The Elite seemed to adopt a sense of urgency at the realization he had less than one tick to bring his opponent down, which made Veld ponder for a moment if perhaps elites were punished if they lost a sparring match in instances like these.

That last tick felt like literal torture. He tried to count down the individual seconds in his head and came close to crying when the elite managed to roundhouse kick him in the sensitive spot beneath his PAK, making him pitch forward as his hands shot out to prevent a painful faceplant. A yelp escaped him and his spine lit up with fiery agony. Again. At this rate he wouldn't be able to stand up for days. He saw himself wipe the pained grimace from his face and swiftly turn over onto his back as the Elite appeared overhead, suspended like a spider with his mechanical legs aimed to pierce the soft innards of his prey. Like a heavily-armed, expertly-trained, mutated spider from hell that was also pissed off.

Veld did his best to roll out of the way in time but couldn't quite make it before one of the PAK legs darted out to pierce through his armor and into his side. The leg retreated back instantly as vibrant, pinkish-purple Irken blood dripped onto the arena floor and Veld instinctively went to clutch at his wound. It stung tremendously and he clenched his teeth together so hard he though his jaw might crack under the pressure, but he knew he was still in harm's way and couldn't afford to lose any more time. He urged whatever force that had taken control of his body to act quickly and fortunately his body seemed to have some sort of plan in place, as he heard his main PAK port whoosh open before his own holoshield attachment deployed to prevent another stabbing just in the nick of time.

He grunted at the force of the other's PAK leg colliding with the shield, which made fizzing and crackling noises as it struggled against the opposing weapon. The Elite's PAK leg bounced away, but not after inflicting significant damage; Veld knew his PAK wouldn't be able to sustain the shield for much longer and his mind went blank as he watched himself brace his hands on the interior of it in hopes of reinforcing it. It was in that exact moment that he understood the reason behind why, throughout the entirety of the battle, this terrifying out-of-body experience had occurred: his PAK had taken over. Well, it was true that the PAK was always responsible for an Irken's movements, but it never dictated a decision without the command of the organic brain. In this scenario, it appeared to Veld as though the PAK just went over his organic brain's metaphorical head altogether, acting on autopilot as it defended his body against the attacker while Veld's consciousness looked on, unable to intervene. But…why? What could have caused such a thing?

Oh Irk, please no. He looked on numbly as the Elite balanced himself again and came back for more.

Veld flinched away in panic and held his breath as he caught a glimpse of a bright flash of metal…

…And even after the alarm sounded—the alarm that declared the match over—he found he couldn't release his breath. Frozen to the spot, he dared crack his eyes open to see the elite standing above him, the PAK legs still poised to strike. The elite seemed to hesitate for a brief moment as if he actually considered just skewering Veld through even after the match had ended (as an Irken is wont to do), but probably decided he'd rather forgo the discipline he'd receive from his higher-ups for killing a prospective elite. Finally, he sheathed his PAK legs in disappointment, glared icily at his opponent still lying prostrate on the ground, turned on his heel, and walked away without a word, his head held high.

The holoshield had long since disintegrated but Veld still didn't have control of his own body.

Yet, he had only moments to realize his panic before a familiar white hot pain once again shot right down his spine and whatever breath he had mustered up was forced from his body. This time, he didn't even have the air available within him to yelp in pain and felt like he was suffocating, grasping his hands to his neck instinctively while spasms wracked his body. Fearful tears escaped his darkening eyes and he truly believed that he might die like this, crumpled pathetically on the ground in the worst pain imaginable while hundreds of people looked on.

The world started to close around him. There's always that split-second that you know you're about to go out, but can't do anything about it. Even if your brain could still put together a sentence in your head, your mouth wouldn't be able to form the words to tell anyone of what was about to happen. Maybe you can still hear what's going on around you, but you can't discern what people are saying or what's happening. Your hands freeze up and suddenly you feel more nauseous than you've ever felt in your life. If anyone were to touch you, they'd find your skin to be uncomfortably warm and clammy.

All in all, blacking out was a horrible experience, but Veld welcomed any kind of reprieve from the piercing pain in his back as well as the sensation of being suffocated for no obvious reason.

It must be noted that all this happened in mere seconds, but to Veld, those seconds couldn't have ticked by longer until an intense coldness pressed down upon him and forced him into unconsciousness.

Worst. Day. Ever.