Enter the machine, and you never leave. Body absent and separate, but the mind is still there. Festering in its forceful inactivity. Not inactive in the way that makes you dull and stupid, but in the way that every voice that tells you that this is wrong, please don't do this, is silenced.

She sees it in him just as she sees it in herself. She saw it in the eyes of the Blade of Marmora members that cared to remove their helmets; a burgeoning emptiness. Hopelessness. The kind that infects you and eats your soul until you're a shell.

Like her.

Shiro got out, lost his memories, and regained his freedom in his newfound ignorance of self. But she saw what the others did not, and it was that with each passing day he was becoming more and more as she was. A cog or sprocket in the grand machine. He felt the exhaustive pull of the Witch's magic and said nothing. He didn't have to. It was the same here as it had been everywhere she had gone after being broken and remade; Ezra saw everything, but said nothing. Not unless it was necessary.

And it wasn't. Not yet.

When all was still, she contemplated the danger that Champion put his family in. He might snap in the way that older soldiers do; a broken soldier could never be held down for long. She knew he felt like a broken toy, lost in his confusion, but expert in his ability to protect the other Paladins from worry with well-placed smiles or poorly executed jokes. Even the hot headed princess was fooled, though her impressive intelligence seemed to not matter much in the way of her very...direct way of thinking.

Ezra had hidden in the shadows when the Blade agent had come knocking, had learned from him how Haggar's dearest experiment had slipped from her tightly clenched fists. She was impressed, really. Listening to Ulaz's account had left her wondering just how many spies there were amongst her Masters' troops. The other Galra's forthcoming nature proved to Ezra of his lack of ill-will and unassuming presence. Besides, if his little tag session with the Paladins had taught her assassin's eye anything, it was that he had been playing with them more than anything.

She showed herself to him after his cuffs had been removed at Shiro's request, and the first faint feeling of surprise had stolen over her always unnaturally still frame at his recognition of her.

She was not a well-known face to the vast majority of the Empire. During her decades as the Empire-Slave, she had, almost constantly, been in possession of a sleek, black mirror mask. Featureless. Impassive. This meant that he had gotten particularly close to either Witch or Emperor in terms of service. Perhaps he'd even worked his way through her former battalion… She didn't remember his face, though Ezra had never found it necessary to recall every Galra she came in contact with. She responded to immediate threats as they came. Long-term threats had always been made known to her through sub-commander, or rather, Commander Throk.

With the destruction of the Third Fleet, there had been a great number of changes. Even the Emperor had been discomfited in his own ridiculously stoic way.

It didn't matter now, though. Neither of them could return to the Empire. One because he was a rebel cell member who had exposed himself and the other because she valued purpose over her own life.

Ulaz most likely knew of all that she was, as well as Champion, but Ezra was sure that he would say little to nothing about what they were to the Voltron crew. He knew the delicacy of the environment; four of the people on-board were arguably still children, the princess had a ridiculously short temper and blundering gentility, and Coran was the sort of individual who had a great deal of pity to spare.

There is nothing a Galra hates more than pity. A close second is disloyalty, but that does not count for much in the company of 'traitors', does it?

He hadn't been terrified, per say, at the sight of her, but there was a panic in his body. A thrumming anxiety. Had he been wrong? Was this all a ruse? Had he exposed his people to agents of the Empire?

He hid it well, and she did not deem it necessary to placate him, only coming to stand in the doorway and allowing their shared charge to explain in whatever way he wished. She didn't care, and Ulaz did not want to...incite the princess' wrath with any sudden movements. Such as; making a pretty good break for it. 'Knowledge or Death', so similar to 'Victory or Death'. But Ulaz had a cause and a purpose, and if he needed to warn his people of a possible threat, he would. Anyone who had seen the Emperor Slave in action would be...uneasy. She was unfaltering loyal and because of that, Ezra didn't blame him for his suspicions. Last he had seen her was most likely as a shadow trailing dutifully behind Zarkon as he went through the daily tasks assigned to him as absolute Ruler and Conqueror. If the male had been totally trusting of his situation, it would have been beyond concerning for the older female.

Ezra had heard of the Blades briefly and in passing, but the secretive group had always eluded the Empire. Every century or so, they'd catch one, but the culprits had all been absolutely silent during their interrogations about their rebel cell. She'd even overseen one or two, learning everything and nothing from both males. They'd die for their cause, 'and rightly so', a voice whispered, 'for what is glory under the thumb of tyranny?' They were exemplary actors. The last one they'd caught had been in the ranks for three hundred years before they caught him, and Ezra was beginning to think that he'd let them.

She'd only seen Shiro get truly irritated once, and it was in response to his comrade's continuing distrust of his liberator. He was the one who had been held captive and mind raped for over a year. Not even Allura or Coran knew what the Empire was really like ten thousand years later; something Ezra had tried to tell them after hearing Allura make a number of thoughtless remarks in response to her Ward's freezes and hiccups. The princess was still young, and still very bitter, and perhaps always would be the latter, but Champion's judgement had not led them too far astray for as long as team Voltron had known him. He needed time as well as an outlet. Trauma had broken him, but it had also made him wise.

Ulaz saw Shiro as he had been, had seen him at his lowest, and as he was struggling to be what he knew of himself, once more. But he believed in him; told the gladiator there was still something good within him. Shiro had hung onto the other Galra's word like a lifeline; Ulaz was giving the human the reassurance and hope that she and the others could not.

She couldn't because of her own inability to connect her sickly apathy, cared for and nurtured for long and endless nights, with the still fresh agony of his own torture.

A leadership role was a difficult position to be in when the seed of savagery had been beaten into your core. There was a rabid dog bellowing in his chest, begging to be let out, clawing at his ribs, snarling in his throat.

Not even Champion noticed when his eyes flashed gold.

When Ulaz had sacrificed himself, Shiro had been beyond distraught. Another death, one he probably saw as being his fault-'I'm not good enough, Ezra! He died because I can't do my fucking job!'-and of the one who had freed him from his tormentor's clawed hold. He stuffed the majority of it down; it was another loss he would have to deal with in the pitch of his quarters. Alone.

He'd been distracted since then; temper shorter and energies off-kilter. One moment he would be fine, the next, it would be as though he couldn't stand the feeling of his own skin, clawing absently at his organic arm or the back of his neck. He'd snap and snarl before considering kindness or patience, storming off to the training room while muttering colorful strings of Galran curses under his breath. Aggression was boiling beneath the surface of his skin.

She wondered when it would reach its fever pitch.