I am not dead! Again, this is all thanks to UnfathomableFandoms and Meepicheep ~
Trigger Warnings: there are some uncomfortable scenes in this chapter. Torture of a kind, and some angst character internalization. If the idea of needles make your uncomfortable, this is the best I can do to warn you.
Please enjoy!

The Survival Trials

Chapter 10

Ezra heard cell doors opening and shutting periodically, and if he figured right, they were taking away the candidates by number. The gaps were roughly an hour long between shuffling footsteps, he judged, but there was no way to tell time in this place. He'd already lost track of how many days it had been. He missed the sky.

It was a shorter wait for five then he'd have liked, but soon the cell beside him slammed shut and the locks clicked loudly in the frame, and he heard movement outside his box. Ezra got to his feet, waiting for the guard on his feet when the door swung open.

It was the same Trainer from before. Ezra followed, and the guard wordlessly guided him away, down the un-mappable corridors to a bare room with a metal chair in the center facing the far wall.

Ezra was nudged forward by a sharp jab in the small of his back from the Trainer's baton.

He moved forward, if only because he didn't feel like objecting. He'd been either on his feet, suspended by his wrists, or laying on cold hard floor for what he thought was almost four days straight. It would be nice to sit down in a chair for a change, even if it had a particularly unnerving appearance.

He sat down with a relieved sigh, but the instant he leaned back, his skin began to crawl. This was not a good chair to be in.

He instinctively tried to stand up, but the microsecond his spine left the back of the chair; he was shoved hard back into the seat and his arms were torn behind him by the Trainer.

"I'm not resisting!" he said quickly.

"Sure Fodder." the Trainer absently replied. His drawl was central, but weirdly accented.

"What happens now?" Ezra asked politely, forcing himself not to pull against the binders around his wrists and arms. The restraints pinched, but didn't hurt as much as the awkward position. His already shoulders began to ache.

The Trainer didn't immediately answer. He focused instead on tightening the straps and taking time to double check each fastening.
When he was done, he stood up straight, leaning one hand on the back of the chair.
"You got yer number?"

Ezra blinked, and nodded after a moment, "Number six."

"That's right. Six." The Trainer snorted, a if he'd been reminded of a joke and walked around the side of the chair. He leaned back on his heels, pressing his back to the gritty wall and folded his arms.
Ezra, turning his neck to turn as far as it could, stared at him. Now that he really looked at the man, he didn't seem as old as his attitude made him appear.

He out of his teens, but not by far. Maybe ten years his senior. His short hair was pale yellow, his bronze skin was pocked with blemish scars and what Ezra thought might have been sunburn.
Ezra blinked, and the Trainer stared lazily back.

Abruptly, the man jutted his chin, and from one pocket on his belt he pulled a dark brown strip of a silver foil, and popped it into his mouth.

The heady smell of raw tabacc reached Ezra, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Should I be puttin' any bets on you, Six?" The Trainer asked, his tone was unimpressed, but his wide mouth quirked up at one corner.

Ezra winced to hear himself be addressed by the single numeral. It felt like the Trainer had said it wrong somehow. But a piece of him perked up at the question.
"What kind of bets?"

"Bets, gambles," the Trainer shrugged, scrunching the foil into a ball and pocketing it. "You get more bets, the more your rates go up. Your winnings get bigger. There's always a pot on the blaster fodder category."

Ezra frowned. No one had mentioned he was in for a chance to win money. Is that why the Duro's had bought their way in? "My winnings? You mean there's... a prize for making it to the end?"

The Trainer pushed off the wall, limply lifting and dropping his shoulders in a frustrating gesture of nonchalance.

"You didn't think this was all for naught, did you, Six? Of course there's a prize. A ship and enough creds to keep you in the flush till your younglings are old. It's why everyone wants a place in the line up." His voice took on a nasal, condescending tone. "It's why you're so fortunate to be here with us."

Ezra bit his tongue this time, unwilling to rise to the bait.

Smiling wryly as he chewed, the man tilted his head at the boy. "Still, I wouldn't want to put ideas in your head, Six. In your case, it'll be your backer's winnings. You need to be alive to claim, see?"

Ezra twisted his mouth down, and snapped his neck back around, frustrated.

The Trainer snorted, tapping the blunt end of his baton against the boy's shoulder as he passed, headed for the hatchway.

Ezra realized the Trainer was leaving and a rush of anxiety filled him.

"Trainer, sir?" he asked, not ready to be left alone again—not bound to this chair.

"What, Six?" The Trainer asked, sounding bored. Ezra couldn't see him from this angle, so he frowned down at his knees.

"If... I get more bets, if I earn the most, will I get to go free?"

The Trainer huffed, sucked his teeth noisily and tutted, as if Ezra was a child with a listening problem.

"You're blaster fodder, Six. You ain't go'in free, even if you sliced and outlasted every other candidate."

"Then what? " Ezra pressed, this attitude was not a new one, he wasn't deterred. "What if I win?"

The question came out in a rush, because the thought hadn't occurred to him before.

Of course he wasn't going to win.

But, what would happen if he did?

The Trainer didn't immediately answer, but when he spoke, Ezra was surprised to hear a serious edge in his tone.

"Six, if you won, you'd be the first fodder candidate to do it, but you'd still never see daylight again."

"Why?" Ezra demanded, now twisting his neck, trying to find an angle he could get a good look at the guy, to read his face.

"Coz you're fodder, Kid. Ain't you getting this?"

"Not really." Ezra shot back, letting the corner of his mouth pull up in a crooked smirk. "If these...trials are the real deal, then why couldn't I win? If blaster fodder wins; what happens?"

The young man let out a long suffering, but amused sigh. "Then you'd get shelved until the boss wants to show you off. Maybe in another season or an end game…." He trailed off, and then, in a tone too casual and too sure of himself for Ezra's liking, he added, "You are not leaving the tub, Six."

Ezra let this wash over him.

This was the most direct information he'd been given in days but it hardly made sense. Were people really spending credits to watch him be thrown into a slaughter pool? It wasn't that he didn't believe the galaxy was a cess-pit, but this was an insane level of effort and depravity funneled into all of this. The mechanics of this place alone were something bewildering and beyond belief.
The game makers must be unhinged!

Could this deranged plan really make that much credit to be worth all the trouble? How did they keep this quite from the Empire? Or did they know, and not care?

It wouldn't be the first time the Imps had a hand in underworld games, he mused darkly, thinking back to that eventful arena day on Lothal.
The thought came attached to several memories, including the unfortunate end of Ezra's pickpocket mentor, Ferpil.

But he also remembered the debacle in the ring. Ezra had come across one of the bookkeepers a few days later, who told him that Borbrig Drob had agreed to throw the fight to Warjack from the beginning. All of course, under the orders of the infallible Imperial Lieutenant Jenkes.

Ezra narrowed his eyes at the blank wall in front of him, frowning. If this place was the money maker he'd been promised was it likely the end of the match was already decided by whoever was in charge?

What was he thinking? Of course this game was rigged.

He saw the diplomatic smile on the Man-in-white's face and he twisted his mouth, feeling suddenly stupid. They'd brought him in because he'd proven he could shake things up, not because they considered him a serious threat and certainly not a threat to their gambles. Who was their frount horse? The Trandoshan? The Massassi?

This place was no different then the lothrat matches or the Carve Up, it was just on a larger, more depraved scale.

Money was business, and business like this Ezra had the barest of chances at understanding.

Could make them change their minds about whoever was already in line to win?

Ezra had been silent for sometime now, and Trainer, thinking the kid was done, finally reached for the door. It swung open with a metallic whine.

"Trainer, Sir?" he called out loudly, his own words bouncing back at him.

Ezra was surprised to hear the Trainer's boots squeak as he stopped short in the doorway. "Yeah, Six?" He was irritated, and Ezra sensed he was out of time. But Ezra still had questions. He picked the one he needed to know most.

"What do I have to do?" Ezra demanded quickly, "To get more bets I mean?"

The Trainer went quiet for a few moments, and Ezra thought he might have finally spoken too candidly. Then the young man made a puckering sound, like he'd been sucking hard on his lips.

"You make them watch you, Six. You make them like you, and then they'll keep you around for a long as your worth watchin'."

The Trainer stepped out and closed the hatch before he could reply, leaving Ezra alone and bound to the chair.

Ezra sat quietly for a moment, and then began to shift in his seat, testing the bindings on his wrists and letting the Trainer's advice melt into his thoughts. How did you make an audience like you?

A hum in the corner startled him and Ezra jerked his head around.

A hygiene droid was descending from a panel in the ceiling.

Ezra eyed the droid warily, as it lowered to his height and began to circle. Photoreceptors zooming in an out as it scrutinized the boy.

Ezra tried to swallow his fear. It was just a droid for kriffin sake, and it wasn't even a torture droid.
"Uh... Hello." he began awkwardly.

The droid did not answer, but a panel underneath it pulled back and revealed an extendo-arm that ended in a round silver prod, lined with a sharp row of tiny teeth. Ezra straightened, and the hygiene droid hoovered out of view at the back of his head.

"Hey! What are…."

Ezra didn't recognize the noise at first. There was pressure against the back on his neck and he bent forward in surprise. The noise followed the pressure up over his skull and over his left ear.

A curtain of raven dark hair fall to the floor. He cried out in shock and jerked away. The razors sliced a layer of skin off the very top of his ear.

"No! Stop. STOP!" Ezra shouted, struggling vainly against the restraints. He couldn't move his head more then a few centimeters away but it seemed to give the droid enough cause to cease, and the razors shut down..

The droid drew backwards, floating into view and Ezra thought, for just a second, it was listening. That they, whoever they were, were listening.

It was going to be fine.

Then, a jolt of electricity flew down his spine and every nerve flexed in response. He was on fire.

The metal shackled around his wrists conducted the volts and he screamed. Rattling the shackles, he spasmed, rocking the chair in the bolts on the floor. All concious thought fizzled away.

He must have passed out for a few minutes because the next thing Ezra was aware of was the buzzing scrolling over the back of his neck.
Ezra stared down at his lap. It and the floor at his feet were covered with long dark blue hair. He blinked, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Ezra had lived much of his life focusing on his freedom and the control he had over him own destiny. If he went hungry one night, it was because he had failed to find food, not that someone had decided to take it away. If he took a risk, it was because he wanted to. Ezra's appearance had always been an extension of that control. If he wore his flight suit every damn day, it was because he wanted too, and kriff anyone who thought otherwise.

He'd let Sabine cut his hair a few times before, and once and only once, Hera, who was surprisingly not as skilled with a pair of shears as she was behind the helm of a ship.

But those were trims, a few inches off every now and then. Ezra wasn't vain, by means, but the idea of not having the curtain of blue to shield his face, to help him blend in with the crowds of Lothal, made him feel exposed. It felt just plain wrong.

Ezra had never felt more helpless then he did right now. The hum moved over his right ear and only a few shards of hair were falling now. The razor skimmped across his scalp, and Ezra realized that he was almost, if not entirely, bald.

His chest was a burning storm of fear and anxiety. The cold in his bones burned and pushed against the sides of his ribcage. His whole body trembled.
It felt like he might burst!

He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a hard breath of air.

I can't let them know I'm force sensitive, Ezra thought, struggling to put words before the fury.

Unbidden, Kanan's voice rang in his ears, cutting through the cold shiver that was rattling his spine.

"Clear your mind."

Kanan had spoke, at great length, how the skills learned in meditation would become one of his greatest assets. Ezra could easily draw on the voice of his master, even now, while his jaw ached with pressure, and the pain was lancing through his thoughts. Kanan's voice was quickly taking over the role of his conscious.
"A clear head is a level one, and that is your greatest resource in the heat of battle."

"So not a lightsaber or a gun turret?" Ezra had replied. He almost winced now, recalling the snark in his tone during such a serious lesson, but his face was scrunched tight in agony.

Kanan hadn't risen to the bait, shaking his head slightly with a small frown. "You need to learn how to dissect your thoughts."

"That sounds messy."

"In a stressful environment," His master continued, heedless of his apprentice's rude comments. "You need to learn how to separate thoughts born from an emotional response, from the one's you calculate based on your situation. When you can think clearly under dire conditions, there is little else that can stop you."

Of course, at the time, Ezra had rolled his eyes behind his teachers back. He understood how important it was to out-think an opponent. And he often exercised his natural skill for antagonizing his adversaries; bullying them into making mistakes, into losing their focus. Ezra knew how to outsmart his enemies.

But that wasn't what Kanan had been trying to teach him; Ezra knew that now.

It wasn't enough to poke holes in your opponent's focus; you needed to ground your own. He needed to learn how to outweigh his feelings with measured logic. He heard Kanan's voice again, and it siphoned away some of the cold.

"That will only come with practice and experience."

Ezra pulled in a deep breath, and forced his expression to relax.

This whole charade...was a test of some sorts, Ezra was sure of it. They were pushing him, if not for entertaining purposes, then to ensure only the hardest candidates took up space in their arena.

This wasn't about forcing him into a haircut; this was just another part of their game.

All these thoughts flew through Ezra's head at the same rate as his heart, which was beating high in his throat.

No matter how he searched, he kept coming to the same conclusion.

They are watching. If I react now, it will just bring more attention. If I show even the slightest hint of Force usage, the Imps will be here in hours. They'd use me as bait to find the crew and the rest of the rebellion.

Ezra swallowed, rolling his sandpaper tongue over his teeth.
All at once, the fight left him and he went limp against his restraints. He fell still, and did not jerk away as the droid returned and sheared the last few hairs from his scalp.
There was no doubt in him, he would sacrifice whatever he needed to keep his crew safe.

Ezra was very glad to see the droid withdraw the razor after another minute, and gasped in relief, lifting his face and snorting to dislodge the few stray hairs that had settled on the bridge of his nose. His head felt cold.

He hadn't slept in two days. He was tired. He was surprised how much he missed his box.

Another panel on the droid opened up and now brandished a sharp silver pen with a blue liquid on the inside. It came to the side of Ezra's head and pressed down.

A sharp prick made Ezra flinch.

At first he thought they were taking blood. What a stupid place to inject a needle!

Then the pen began to whirr and started moving along the left side of his skull, stabbing in short little motions. Increasing the pressure, it forced his head to tilt at an uncomfortable angle.

The noise was a grinder in his ear.

He realized, with a cold jolt, that they were tattooing him.

Ezra sucked in a shaky breath and grit his teeth, the buzz and the ache spread across his skull and bore through the bone, putting his teeth on edge and setting his body into a fit of shivers. It felt like they were drilling into his brain! He hissed as the needle hit a nerve and pain exploded like one of Sabine's miracles. It spread like fire across his temple.

"Clear your mind."

Easier said then done when it feels like my skull was being pieced through with a hydraulic drill bit, Ezra thought, grinding his teeth. But as soon as the acid remark rose, he pushed it away. That was his anger talking, his emotions. This was... just another test.

Ezra sucked in another shaky breath, and held it for seven beats, and exhaled. This time, he heard his heart rate slowing in his ears and the throb in his temples lessened. Another breath, hold, release. Each breath managed to soften the blow a little as the sharp pen punctured his skin.

His master had spoken once about the different boons of meditation, beyond clarity and inner peace. It could help lower your heart rate, raise the metabolism, and help the body rebuild cells at an accelerated rate, with practice of course.

But one skill he had touched on, but never explained further, was dulling pain receptors. After all, physical pain as just another worldly distraction, one that, with Practice, could be controlled to varying degrees.

How Ezra wished he'd asked Kanan to teach him that skill, to expand on the footnotes that he'd taken for granted until now.

But, he thought, if it was just another level of meditative state, surely he could learn it eventually. If he focused, and put all his effort into his breathing. He just needed... to practice.

So Ezra, sucked in another slow breath and gently pushed back against the needle, no longer struggling out of reach. Straightening his neck, so at the very least his neck stopped throbbing. The sting of the needle flared for a few minutes, and then, returned to a sharp ache.

The droid was not fazed by his wriggling. It readjusted as he moved and the needle continued to buzz across the skull in horizontal lines, like a data-strip print.

He tried to follow the direction of the pen, attempting to build an image of the tattoo in his mind. But the pain was too wide spread to tell. What the kriff were they writing into the side of his head?

Ezra continued to breathe, putting all his focus on the count between inhales and exhales and the stretch of his rib cage.

It took thirty minutes for the tattoo to be competed. Then, it was sprayed with a fine mist of something that stung his nose. It must have been an antiseptic, because a sharp hot sting bloomed across the left side of his skull. Ezra hissed through his teeth and sucked in thin breaths through his nose.

The needles hummed as the droid withdrew them, and just as Ezra relaxed his aching jaw and let out a groan of relief; the bot circled around to the other side of his skull and began the process all over again.

Ezra did his very best not to scream, or make any noise beyond the occasional frustrated groan. He focused on counting the seconds between sucks of oxygen, slowing the count and drawing out his steady sigh as long as possible.

But he could do nothing about the tears that began pouring silently down his cheeks.

Forty minute later, Ezra found himself standing outside the door to his box.

His head ached, and throbbed and stung all at once. He felt dizzy, dehydrated and worn down to the core.

The Trainer hadn't struck up any menial conversation on the trip back, and Ezra had reveled in the silence. His ears still buzzed and he occasionally had to shake himself awake, to keep on his feet.

He just wanted to lie down.

The hatch to his box was opened and Ezra slipped in without waiting for the jab of the baton. The hatch closed behind him with an empty click-hiss.

And finally, he felt safe again.

Of course, Ezra knew, he wasn't safe. But they would likely leave him alone for a few hours now. They had a lot of candidates to mark after all. He wondered if they were all receiving the same treatment.

He reached up a hand, but the heat he could feel coming off his scalp gave him second thoughts. He wondered what it was. Perhaps they'd given him an identification tag, or maybe they'd just slapped on the holonet channel logo.

He circled his box, feeling disoriented. He trailed his fingertips against the rough walls before pressing his back against it, and slowly slid down to the floor. He curled his knees under him, and then lay down on his side.
He let his head touch the floor, and jerked back with a hiss as the tender inked flesh touched the cold gritty floor.

"Guess I wont be sleeping on my side for a while", he muttered, rolling onto his back and carefully resetting the back of his head against his folded arms.
It felt... weird, not to have hair. Weird, and wrong. His skull, which he'd always thought was round, he now found was narrower and bumpier then he'd realized and his scalp was flecked with a few tiny cuts where the razor had cut too close.

He wondered if he looked like a freak now. What would Sabine think of his misshapen head? What would she think of his new ill gotten ink? What would Kanan say?
Ezra absently ran a finger across the sticky oil that was still clinging to his cheek. It had mostly caked and fallen away, but the residue left behind was still thick enough to cover his scars.

What will happen if they wash me? Ezra asked himself, now certain they would see the lightsaber scars without his dark mop to hide behind. It wouldn't

Bolts echoed in the walls, and Ezra sat up a little, lifting his heavy head. He suddenly remembering who's turn it would be now, and his gut shifted guiltily.

He didn't know how Xexto flesh took to tattooing, but he hoped for the kid's sake it would be easier on him then it had been for Ezra. At least they wouldn't have to shave him.

He heard the movement in the hallway, but the relief of sleep was starting to take hold and he spared no more effort on forcing his eyes open.

R&R To inspire the author into throwing Ezra into the ring...