Inspired by the song, "Hold on for Your Life" by Sam Tinnesz. Takes place during the episode, "Mad Quacks Beyond Hockeydome."
Hold on. . . .
He was so tired.
His body ached, his fresh wounds overlaid old scars, and he hadn't had a decent meal in days.
The cell he was in was damp, dark, and riddled with filth that should've made this entire area a biohazard. His sorry excuse for a cot mattress was worn so thin he might as well have been sleeping on metal springs.
Tonight was the last set of the games at Hockeydome. They had runs of them, usually lasting three or four days, and then the stadium took a couple days off to find new "recruits", repair the worst of the damage on the ice, and supposedly clean up the facility.
By way of his cell, he was more skeptical of the last part.
Once the round of games was completed, his "owner" would be back to retrieve him. Like the last set of games, they would give him a decent meal for having survived all the rounds, and would put forth a small amount of money in treating his injuries.
After all, it was worth fixing up one of your more industrious fighters when they made you a profit after each tournament.
A sudden explosion of, "OH!"s and "AH!"s filtered through the large hallway. Someone had done something rebellious.
The crowd was never surprised by the gory nature of death that occurred on the ice; they would applaud and cheer no matter who won, and they would just get louder and happier if the ice became covered with the insides of whatever player got annihilated.
They were here for the violence and nothing less: while they would root for the team or player they hedged their credits on, it wouldn't be a good game until someone was murdered.
No, the audience's collective reaction was because someone had tried to fight the system.
The tan mallard slowly sat up off his pathetic bed, groaning from his sore ribs. He had learned the hard way, too, that you couldn't fight the system.
Not alone.
It was tempting—since they let you pick a weapon to use—to take the upper hand and put a stop to the torment they put you through each day. But they wanted you to try, try and fail so painfully that you would lose all hope for escape.
So they let you pick and use your weapon against them, just so you can learn that it only works on the ice; and they let you aim your weapon at the emperor, just so you can watch it bounce off the force field like a rubber ball.
They knew it would break you, and they cherished it.
Hold on. . . .
There was more commotion outside, and he could hear the distinct voice of a female in the distance.
He listened, his brow furrowing as he did. Is that..?
No, that's not possible.
They were a few hallways away, whoever it was, their speech mumbled and faint from the labyrinth of cells. But it was so familiar to him.
He shook his head. This place was making him insane.
How long had it been? Months, for sure. He'd been teleported to some desolate planet with minimal technology, and had to bargain his way onto a cargo ship to get the hell out.
He wasn't completely out of sight from home; most knew of Puckworld, though convincing anyone to travel to a warzone wasn't the most easiest of tasks.
It had been about two months ago when he tried to bargain with the wrong crew, and subsequently ended up as a bartering tool himself.
They didn't have many ducks in the Hockeydome, because most didn't survive long enough to become well-known.
Canard was different.
He'd been trained in survival, and had the know-how for most weapons that were provided to the players. He survived where others couldn't, and that made him an instant favorite with the audience.
"—creep!"
Canard jumped up, ignoring the protest of his ribs and legs. He did know that voice!
"MALLORY!" he yelled, running up to the bars.
He did his best to look down the hall, hoping beyond measure that they were taking her in his direction.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Canard growled and hit the wall, only grimacing slightly when he felt the muscle in his shoulder scream at the jostling. He started pacing within his cell, the adrenaline soaring through his system.
And all because of a faint voice.
But it had to have been her. He had never hallucinated before about the others, and there were times he wish he had, if only to take his mind off reality for a little bit.
No, this was definitely her. Were the others with her?
He walked up to the bars, ready to yell, when a lion-like guard walked by, two other cat-like guards following behind him. The lion glanced in Canard's direction, and gave the mallard what looked like a double-take, before returning his attention in front of him.
Canard watched him intently, his suspicion growing as the lion glanced at him twice.
"Hey!" he called out as the guards passed him.
The lion did not respond and, upon closer inspection, he noticed that the other two guards were holding weapons against the lion's back.
He was their prisoner.
Was he the one that had caused the audience to gasp? It must've been recent, whatever he did to get arrested: he was still in the armor that the emperor's security wore. Canard watched as the guards guided the lion down the hall and into the room beyond, the door hissing shut behind them.
Canard scowled at the door for a while before returning his attention to the other side of the long hallway. "WING!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, more for the release of his own frustrations than anything else.
If Mallory was here, Wildwing and the rest of the team should be too, right?
He had so many questions. Did they follow Dragaunus? Did they kill him? Did they get out of the gateway and return to Puckworld?
He hadn't seen another duck since he'd been teleported through that electromagnetic worm. His desperation made him selfishly hope that the team had been captured like him, and were now here planning their escape.
Hold on. . . .
An unknown amount of time passed in Canard's destitute prison before he could hear the crowds ramping up again. The announcer's voice was foreign and muffled, making it impossible to pick out any actual words being said. The typical buzz of excitement could be heard for a while until booing started to take over. He listened intently but couldn't pick up anything else.
Usually, jeering meant no players perished during the scrimmage.
It didn't happen often, since the beings that ran these games made sure to never pair two prisoners together. There were plenty of other aliens itching to play a deadly game of hockey to keep the game interesting, at least by their standards.
The last thing they wanted was two prisoners standing up to the regime and refusing to play.
More silence followed, which meant they were in the lull between matches. Canard had already played today, and by silently counting the number of intermittent cheers from the crowd, he guessed the games should be nearing their end. They typically had about twenty games a day, and Canard had guessed there to have been about eighteen by now, not including his.
During his competition today he had been faced with an alien that he had never seen before: it had black fur, a small snout with sharp teeth, and wings that connected his arms to the sides of his body.
Having your opponent capable of taking flight made for a very uneven match. Canard had been divebombed multiple times, and one hit in particular sent him against the boards and left his ribs feeling like they'd been snapped off and glued back on.
Canard's only redemption came from the odd anatomy of the creature's wing and arm attachment: he was able to use his hockey stick and jab it into the alien's wingspan, throwing it off balance and away from him. One lucky maneuver sent it into one of the pools that would occasionally be opened during a match, and a few nasty tentacles sealed the fate of his opponent by dragging him into the depths of the icy water.
A loud buzzer sounded and startled Canard out of his thoughts. The sound was something the tan mallard had only heard a few times in his months of playing: when enough were captured, or when they had a few groups of aliens interested in competing, team play could commence.
It was usually saved for the last day of play, seeing as though the violence and bloodshed were amped up tenfold. It finished the tournament with a bang, and it usually left the rink so badly damaged that repairs would need to be done before any more games could proceed.
Canard had never been a part of group play, at least not yet. He imagined he was far more valuable as a single player, given the amount of games he had managed to survive since being captured. A part of him wondered why he continued to fight and subsist. What was the point?
Hold on. . . .
In the distance there was some commotion; voices. He strained to listen, getting as close to the electrified bars as far as he could so he could peer down the long hall.
Nothing. After a few moments they faded and he emitted a loud growl.
He cursed to himself and walked away, resuming his pacing within the small confines of his lonely imprisonment.
Team play had to mean they were all here. Mallory's voice couldn't have just been a coincidence. He needed to get out of this cell, if only so they could know he was alive and enslaved in these death games with them.
It wasn't like he hadn't tried to escape in the past. He knew these cells so well: the ventilation was too small to traverse, the drains in the floor were about the size of his fist, and the control box for the electrical cell bars was encased in an extraordinarily strong alloy that, despite his best attempts, could not be removed or bent to allow access.
The bars themselves sent a jarring bolt of electricity through you if you touched them, and the only way to deactivate them was with a handprint and personalized access code.
Team play was usually much louder, and as Canard waited and listened he could tell that there was a lot going on. The crowds were loud and boisterous, which meant they were getting to see quite a bit of violence.
Would his team even still be alive after this?
After what felt like forever, another buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. Canard's pacing stopped and he returned to the front of the prison, keeping his eyes on the long, empty hall.
There was nothing but silence as he waited, and he realized after a few moments he'd been subconsciously holding his breath. He took a deep, quiet sigh and grinded his teeth in anticipation.
Still nothing.
Just when he was about to step back he saw his electrified bars flicker. He blinked and stared at them, unsure if what he saw was real or not. They were still on, but it was clear they had lost some power: the bars were made of a thick laser-like alien energy, but the bars before him now were thinner and weaker.
Power had been rerouted somewhere, and a lot of it. He looked at his bars, back out into the hallway, and impulsively reached his hand out to touch the energy.
He felt the shock, but only at a fraction of what it usually did to body contact. His adrenaline racing from his risky movement, Canard reached out again and held his hand under the energy.
He hissed at the burning pain but realized very quickly that he could hold his hand under the laser—at least for a few moments—and cut off the connection below to create a gap within the cell bars.
That was the only motivation he needed. He quickly ran back and grabbed his cot mattress, hoisting it over his head and running back to the entrance. He had tried this escape attempt in the past, but had learned rather painfully that the alien energy at full power would send any material bouncing off it, and would simultaneously serve as a conduit for its strong bolt of electricity.
Canard took a deep breath and, with mattress poised over his head, pushed himself through the bars. As the laser beams hit the mattress, their energy was transported to both the bedding and—by proxy—to Canard. He hollered at the pain, which was much stronger when multiple beams were electrocuting you, but he ignored it and pushed harder.
Hold on. . . .
With a strangled yell he was through. He collapsed on the ground, the mattress falling next to him and looking rather charred along its surface. He took a few shaky breaths as he got to his hands and knees, cautiously looking around to make sure he hadn't gathered the attention of passersby.
His limbs were tingling from the amount of electricity that had passed through him. He felt like his breath should've been smoking from it. Standing up, Canard stumbled as he tried to regain muscle control of his legs, but after a few wobbles he found his footing and began navigating through the hallways, keeping close to the walls and peering around corners before crossing intersections.
A bunch of hollers and yells startled the tan mallard and he thought he'd been caught. He looked around, ready to run, but found nobody nearby.
It had come from the parallel hallway across from him.
Canard took the chance and followed the commotion. He reached the end of his corridor and turned the corner, only to see Emperor Charg and a horde of guards running perpendicular past him, through the passage and on to Canard's left.
He quickly hid behind the corner again, waited for them to pass, and then trailed behind them at a safe distance. He reached the long passageway they had been running through and cautiously glanced around the junction.
They were still running towards the end, shots being fired from both sides. Canard felt his breath hitch in his throat when he saw the group beyond.
Wildwing and Nosedive were up front, firing at the gang to try and slow them down. Mallory, Duke, and Grin were behind them, with Mallory the only one firing. Duke and Grin were covering someone—Tanya—at the control station to what looked like a teleportation device.
They were escaping!
He wanted to call out to them but knew that he couldn't. He would either distract them and get someone killed, or he'd garner the attention of the emperor and end up on the wrong side of those weapons.
The ducks were at the end of an L-shaped corridor; that meant there was another route to them. He swiftly turned back the way he came and found the next hallway that was parallel to the ongoing battle.
He turned right at the next connection and bolted down the passageway, reciting a silent "Please," over and over again as he closed the distance.
Faster. Faster!
Time felt like it had slowed down to a crawl. He reached the end of the hall and turned right, only to see Wildwing roll under a closing metal door. The bang of metal contacting metal reverberated throughout the facility as the heavy door shut, and a bright light escaped through the cracks of the room as the rest of the Strike Force was teleported away.
Canard's momentum was strong and he nearly fell forward as he forced himself to a stop. The emperor and his minions had reached the teleportation chamber and someone used their hand on the access module to reopen the door.
The mallard backtracked silently and hid around the corner, watching as the emperor became angry and yells of aggravation erupted from his team when the chamber revealed itself to be empty.
They hovered in the area for a while, most likely trying to find where they went. Canard kept watch on them, occasionally checking his surroundings to ensure he was still alone in his immediate vicinity. Eventually the emperor was carted off on his traveling throne, his followers close behind.
Canard wasted no time. He quietly but hurriedly made his way to the teleportation chamber, glancing down the hall to ensure that the emperor and his mob had left.
The chamber had been left open, which meant it was unlocked and did not need the handprint of someone with authorization. But the other buttons were not labeled and provided no indication of what to type in or how to use them.
And since the emperor had left in a fit, it was likely that they could not trace where Wildwing and the rest of the team had gone.
Canard stared at the control module and fought the urge to slam his hand into it. He had been so close to reuniting with them.
Now what was he to do?
A sudden small rustling from the other end of the hall surprised Canard and he made a jump into the teleportation room, pressing himself into the corner where the doorjamb provided a small means of obscurity.
He had no weapons on him. He had been so preoccupied with finding his teammates that he didn't think about ways to defend himself.
The rustling got louder and became more recognizable as footsteps. Canard held his breath as he heard beeps on the other side of the wall, and only realized too late that it was the buttons on the control module.
A female lion-like alien, dressed in a uniform that the general staff wore in the facility, hastily entered the teleporter and turned around to aim her gun at the opening. Her simple red top and pants contrasted oddly with the short purple hair she had, which she had brushed to one side of her face and had somehow managed to immobilize, either with a ton of gel or some other alien technology Canard was not privy to.
She only noticed Canard after she turned around and the door to the chamber was halfway shut. Her aim quickly turned towards the duck, but by then Canard had already sized up the situation and made his decision.
As the door closed and the teleportation machine turned on, Canard ran up to the lioness and grabbed her arm, triggering the teleportation energy to take him as well. An echo of her loud, "HEY!" was all that was heard as they were both beamed away.
Hold on. . . .
Despite his best attempts in the last twenty minutes, Canard still found himself down the wrong end of a gun as he opened his eyes. Nevertheless, he felt himself release an internal sigh of relief as he glanced at his surroundings and saw that he had been transported to another, similar teleportation chamber. The room he was in now had the same layout as the one at the Hockeydome, but this one had blue walls and was much more outdated with rusted metal and peeling paint.
"BACK UP!" the lioness shrieked at him, her weapon under Canard's beak and jabbing in his throat.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Canard responded, his arms up in surrender as he took a few steps back. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
The lioness squinted in confusion at his statement, but quickly stayed to the task at hand. "Back out of the room. NOW."
Canard followed her instructions, only glancing back twice to make sure he didn't run into anything as he took his steps outside.
"JEX!" the lioness screamed at the top of her lungs as she exited the room with Canard, her eyes never leaving sight of the duck.
"I'm not with them," Canard offered. "I was trying to esc—"
"SHUT UP!" she hollered at him. Her eyes twitched with anxiety as she briefly glanced away from the mallard. "JEX, DANGIT, COME HERE!"
Canard obediently waited with the lioness, afraid to make any more sudden movements. She wasn't exactly the most stable of creatures, and the last thing Canard wanted was to get shot by someone who was most likely on the same side as him.
"What is it?" a gruff voice asked from behind Canard.
"He jumped me when I was porting out."
"I didn't jump you," Canard argued. "I simply tagged along for the ride."
Jex, as Canard guessed, was a large cat-like creature with strong shoulders, a lithe body, jet black hair braided into dreadlocks, and round furry ears. His snout was longer than what Canard had seen on the other cat and lion aliens, but his hands had the same razor claws of one. Nonetheless, he did not seem as frightening as he should have, thanks to a very laidback demeanor he was portraying.
Jex had been facing the lioness, but now turned to confront him. "Without permission, I might add?"
Canard shrugged. "Like I told her, desperate times call for desperate measures."
"You got a death wish or something?"
"Not exactly, or else I would've stayed in my cell."
Jex cocked his head slightly at the duck, but after a moment his eyes widened. "Wait a minute, you're the Survivor!"
Canard's hands, which were still in surrender position, finally returned to a relaxed pose. His face, however, twisted in confusion. "Uh, what?"
Jex nodded as if his question had been answered, pointing at Canard and turning to the lioness. "It is. Yula, you brought home the Survivor!"
Yula, as she was called, still had her gun trained on Canard. She shook her head in disbelief. "Nah, there were lots of ducks in the Hockeydome tonight. Ain't him."
"Survivor?" Canard asked again.
"Most ducks don't last long in Hockeydome, except you. Crowds love you, and have nicknamed you Survivor for, uh, obvious reasons." Jex grinned and shook his head at Canard. "Kind of surprised it took you this long to get out of there."
Canard frowned at the cat. "Been a prisoner in Hockeydome recently? I'd like to see you try and escape."
"Those other ducks did it on the same day," Yula argued back.
"You don't by chance know where those ducks went, do you?" Canard asked, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "They teleported out right before you did."
"Earth."
All three occupants in the small room looked over to the source of the voice. It was the lion guard Canard had seen earlier in the evening, and sporadically throughout his stay in the Hockeydome. He was still wearing the official armor that the emperor's security wore, and the badge on his chest plate shined from the small light in the room. Without visible pupils and with his sharp fangs, the lion-like alien appeared much more menacing than Jex and Yula.
Canard nonetheless growled at him. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
Yula's gun had fell slightly during their conversation, but Canard's sudden aggression caused her to aim it at him again.
The lion guard brought one of his hands up, signaling to Yula to lower her weapon. "He has only seen me as a guard, so he is not aware." The alien turned and looked at Canard. "I was planning to return for you this evening, after seeing how loyal your species is.
"I was not aware you knew who they were."
Canard growled and shook his head. "You've been a lackey there as long as I've been a prisoner. I'm supposed to believe you're suddenly a good guy?"
"I am Kazor, and I had remained infiltrated in the emperor's command for some time. It allows us access to supplies and fighters, which is necessary when you are building a resistance."
Resistance. Memories flooded Canard's mind at the word, but he mentally shrugged it off. "You mentioned they went to Earth. Do you know how to get me there?"
Kazor shook his head. "I know of its location, but we will need a ship to get us there, since there are no teleportation stations on the planet. If you can help us take down Emperor Charg and his Hockeydome, I promise you the ship and coordinates necessary to find your friends."
The lion held out his hand to Canard. "Will you join the Resistance?"
Canard looked at the aliens before him, down to Kazor's hand, and back to the teleportation chamber.
Hold on. . . .
He would find his team, one way or another.
He shook Kazor's hand.
I'll find you.
fin