Shiro didn't know for how long he floated in the darkness. Minutes? Days? Years? He supposed anything was possible. He didn't mind the darkness so much. It was peaceful. Quiet. Eventually he began to come out of it.

It was a slow process. Vague sensations came to him at first, but nothing solid enough for his mind to grasp. Soon the vague sensations solidified into feelings of touch, smell, sound. Cold metal pressing into his back and neck. A disturbingly familiar smell. Metallic footsteps marching by.

It didn't make sense. He should feel a soft mattress under him. He should smell clean, filtered air. He should hear the sounds of his team chattering around him. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… was fighting Zarkon, and winning. He had defeated Zarkon. Hadn't he? He was sure he had. But… wait… something happened after that. He remembered… he remembered feeling a sudden rush of panic from Black. After that determination and… an apology? He wasn't sure, it had all flowed over him so quickly and the next thing he knew…

His breath hitched as the memory of suddenly being ejected out of Black with such force that he blacked out.

The memory was the last thing he needed to push him all the way out of the darkness and into consciousness. His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring up at a gloomy, sickeningly familiar ceiling. He pushed himself up and looked frantically around, taking in the metal walls, pockmarked with scratches and dents from previous prisoners. The smells and the sounds clicked into place and suddenly he couldn't breathe because he was back. Back with the Galra. Back in a prison cell. Back in the standard Galra prisoner uniform. Back in captivity. And he couldn't breathe.

He scrambled backwards until his back it the wall, fighting to pull air into his lungs as the panic really settled in. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't. He wouldn't survive this again. He was going to die at the hands of the Galra as a weak and pathetic slave, and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't know how long he stayed curled up in the back of his cell, fighting for breath and and shaking as the panic ran its course through his body.

Eventually he calmed. His thoughts stopped running in vicious circles and settled enough for him to begin thinking clearly again. His breathing returned to something approaching normal, and he didn't feel like he was choking on his own lungs anymore. The violent shaking settled into something closer to a tremble, and his heart rate slowed. He raised his head and wiped the tears off his face. And he decided: No. He was not becoming a prisoner to the Galra again. Oh hell no. He was going to escape, or he was going to die trying. There were no other options.

His determination quickly overpowered the last vestiges of panic and he pushed himself to his feet. He stepped up to the solid metal door and pressed against it, testing it for weaknesses. His eyes fell on his prosthetic and felt a grim smile unfurl on his lips. He'd often wondered why he'd never tried to use the arm to escape when he had been captured previously, he guessed he must have had some reason. Maybe one day he'd actually remember.

He pressed his ear against the door, listening for the sound of sentries coming past. He heard nothing but the sounds of fellow prisoners; a soft tap, tap, taptap, tap coming from somewhere to his left. Shiro would have to free them too. He stepped back, lit up his arm and cut through the hinges of his cell door. His fingers melted through the metal like a hot knife through butter. He wrenched the door open, the metal groaning in protest. He quickly stepped outside, his arm still lit up and ready for an attack.

None was forthcoming. Shiro didn't trust the sudden lack of reaction from the Galra, but he took advantage of it. He quickly scanned his surroundings and saw that he was in some kind of prison hold. But it was small for a Galra ship. He counted only five more cells, besides his own, and only two of those five seemed to be occupied. He frowned and glanced back at the only exit he could spot in the room, still expecting a rush of Galra soldiers at any moment. It wasn't that he minded the lack of an attack, in fact he welcomed it, but this lack of reaction went against everything that he had learnt about the Galra, and it put him on edge.

He walked over to the next locked cell door, lit up his hand, slipped his fingers into the locking mechanism, and yanked the door open, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face.

"Rolo?" he asked incredulously.