Time seems to slow down after Shiro leaves. You wait anxiously for something to happen, hoping that somehow Shiro is injured badly enough that he needs to come to you after the next battle and wait to escape. But each time the thought passes through your mind, you hate yourself for wishing something so awful on him. In Ellythrian culture, wishing on stars holds real weight, so you push down your selfish desires and instead imagine the millions of stars Zarkon's ship is flying past and whisper, "Please, please let him get out alive."
Four days go by this way. No one enters your room; droids deliver your food. You spend hours thinking, hoping, worrying. You imagine everything that could wrong with Shiro's plan, all the ways he could be hurt or killed. One night you wake up from a nightmare crying and think to yourself that maybe Shiro already tried to escape, maybe he was shot or stabbed or had his limbs ripped off and he died without ever saying goodbye and you'll never see him again, you'll never escape, you'll be stuck here forever and no one as kind and brave and determined will ever be sent your way again and then you can't breathe and you can't turn off your thoughts and you sit crying and shaking and shaking and shaking until you're so exhausted that you pass out on the floor of your cell. You wish on the stars for a sign that he's okay.
On the fourth day, your door finally slides open. Your eyes are bloodshot and framed by dark circles as you stare up at a single Galran guard, petrified, not sure what's going on but praying that whatever it is, Shiro is okay. The guard cuffs you, and you comply without hesitation or complaint. As he takes you out of your cell for the first time in months, you feel like you're floating--like you left yourself behind and now you're watching your body walk down the hall but the hall isn't real, nothing is real and your stomach is a balloon that floats along behind you on a string. The guard pushes you along in front of him, shoving the butt of his gun between your shoulder blades to make you stumble ahead more quickly. It feels like you're walking forever.
As you go further into the ship, you stop recognizing where you are. Granted, you've only been allowed on limited, isolated excursions to places other than your cell, but something about the place you are now feels more foreign, more secret than it should. Even the guard pushing you forward seems a bit nervous.
Finally, you turn down a large, unfamiliar hallway. Doors line the walls, thicker and larger than your cell door. Eerie noise drift into your ears as you shuffle down the hall, moans and screams and sobs like icy fingers stroking your face, rustling the hair hanging over your ears, sending chills down your spine. You shudder involuntarily. It isn't hard to guess what this part of the ship is for.
The guard halts you at the very end of the hall. He places his hand against a scanner, and the door slides open.
You recoil instantly from the smell. Blood and burning flesh assault your senses, and you gag involuntarily. When you register the scene in front of you, your nausea intensifies, and you find yourself hunching over, clutching your stomach as you dry heave. The thought crosses your mind that it's a good thing you haven't eaten yet, today.
You had guessed from your walk down the hall that the doors you passed led to torture chambers. But, despite the amount of time you've been Zarkon's prisoner, you had never actually seen a person tortured. Maybe, if asked, you would have said that there are certainly creatures tortured on the ship--in a way, even being held prisoner here could be considered a form of torture. But this room contains the most graphic cruelty, the most disgusting violence that you've seen in your life. You want to break into pieces. You don't want to be here. You don't want to see this.
A Galran soldier is setting down a white-hot metal bar. The guard standing behind you says, "You're old-fashioned, Synda." His words are joking, but you're surprised to detect a hint of anxiety in his tone. Even he isn't completely comfortable in this place.
"Sometimes, old-fashioned methods are effective. There's more...buildup, using methods that a subject recognizes. When I pick up this bar, the human knows exactly what it is. When I heat it, he knows exactly what I'm going to do with it. As I wait for it to heat, he has plenty of time to imagine how it will feel, how his skin will burn..." The soldier--Synda--smiles, and it's one of the most terrifying things you've seen in your life. She speaks so fervently, so ardently, it's like torture is an art form to her. Or a god.
"Well, take a break." Your guard says, "We don't want him dead. Let the star-girl do her work."
At the guard's words, Synda shifts her attention to you. Her grin widens, and she strolls towards you slowly. "So," she says, grabbing your chin and turning your head to the side to inspect you, "This is the healer. Amazing..." She lets go of your face, but leans down to your ear and whispers, "We'll make a great team," before exiting the room.
Your head is spinning with fear and disgust and despair. What the hell is happening here? You try not to fall apart as the guard tells you, "Heal him. And be quick about it. Synda has more work to do." With that, he leaves you alone, shutting the door and locking you in the room.
You stand frozen, staring at the person in front of you. He's human, like Shiro, but smaller, with paler skin. His hair is caramel-colored and shaggy, hanging tangled around his sharp face and matted by sweat. His eyes look sunken and exhausted, and you can tell by the wiry muscles and protruding bones that he must have come from a labor camp, where prisoners work hard and eat little. Something stirs in your memory, something Shiro said, but you're too distracted to focus on it.
Since the moment you entered the room you've been assessing the human's injuries. He's strapped to a chair, which is the only thing holding him up, because both his kneecaps are shattered. His nose is broken at an odd angle, and it looks like the bones in all the fingers of his right hand have been crushed. His upper arms are striped with burns from Synda's bar, and there's a hole drilled through the skin of his cheek, so large you can see his tongue through it. You shut your eyes, trying to calm yourself. It's too easy for you to imagine what's happened to this man, looking at the tools on the table next to his chair. You can guess exactly how he got each wound, exactly what Synda did to him, exactly how much it hurt. You can hardly bear to think about it, so you can't imagine what the man in the chair must be experiencing right now.
It takes you a few minutes, but finally you take a shaky breath and go to the prisoner. You tell yourself he needs you, he needs a healer--but your heart sinks when you think about the guard's words--Synda has more work to do. You know you've only been brought to heal the man so that Synda can torture him all over again, and you almost wonder if it would be better if you killed him.
You place your hands on his face, first, focusing on regrowing skin over the hole that Synda bored. He groans at your touch, only half conscious, and stirs slightly.
"Please..." He begs, "Stop, please."
"Don't try to talk," you tell him, trying to make your voice steady and soothing, "I'm here to heal you." He falls silent, and you return your focus to fixing his face. It's slow work--regrowing tissue is one of the hardest techniques that your mother taught you--but after an hour the human only has a small, circular scar on the side of his face. You work on his nose, next, which goes much faster, and then move on to the burn wounds--you can heal those quickly, too, although they'll scar.
After three hours, all you have left to heal are the broken bones in his arms and legs. Your head is pounding and your throat is dry, so you pause and look up, examining the room. You avoid looking at the instruments on the table next to you, instead scanning the back of the chamber. You're relieved to find a sink, and leave the man momentarily to get water. You almost turn back when you see that there are more tools situated next to the sink, but spy a cup that looks like it's meant just for drinking--at least, you're pretty sure that's all it is. The receptacle appears clean, and you're afraid you might pass out if you don't drink something soon, so you fill the cup with water and chug it quickly. You're about to go back to the man when you hear him say, "Please...is that water? I'm so thirsty."
"O-of course," you stammer, feeling guilty that you didn't think to bring him water, first. You fill the cup hurriedly and return to the chair, where you hold the cup to the man's lips. He swallows the liquid like he hasn't had water in days--which, you think to yourself, is a possibility. When he finishes, you get another cupful, and another, and another. Finally, he tells you that he can't drink any more.
As you set the cup on the floor next to you, the man breathes, "Thank you." You nod, placing your hands over his crushed fingers and getting back to work. He appears to be regaining strength enough to talk, because he asks, "What's your name?"
"Lyda," you tell him.
"I'm Matt."
"Matt..." you murmur, the same memory from before stirring in your mind. Suddenly, you gasp. "Oh! Matt! Did you...did you know Shiro?"
He looks surprised. "He was the pilot of the mission I was on when we were abducted. He saved my life when these....aliens were about to make me fight some sort of gladiator battle." You realize from the way he says 'aliens' that he's assuming you're human, and you don't correct him, even though he must be wondering how you're healing him with your bare hands. Or maybe he's still too out of it to question that.
"He injured me so I'd be sent to a labor camp with my dad," Matt continues, voice raw, but steadier than it was before, "And I've been there for....I don't know how long. Feels like ages. Until...I think it was yesterday, some guards just pulled me out of the mines and brought me here, and they've been asking me all these questions, doing...things, to me." He shudders, and his voice is raw as he says, "I've been telling everything I know, but they won't stop hurting me. They think I'm keeping some sort of secret, but I'm not."
"What do they want to know?" You ask, trying to figure out what could be going on.
"That's the thing," Matt tells you, "I don't know. They keep asking about Shiro--if I know where he's going, if he's looking for something, but I don't even know where Shiro is. I thought he was on this ship. And they keep talking about a 'voltron.' I think it's some sort of weapon, but I don't know what it has to do with Shiro."
At his words, you almost start crying with relief. Shiro must have done it! He must have escaped! And it sounds like he got away with some powerful weapon, too.
"I can't believe it!" you lower your voice, but can't hide your excitement, "Matt, Shiro escaped!"
"What?" Matt blinks, "Escaped from where? Here?"
"Yes!" You nod fervently, "Listen--Shiro has been here since you were abducted. The Galrans--the aliens--have been making him fight in gladiator battles for entertainment. I heal him after battles, that's how we met. He told me four days ago that he had a plan to escape, but neither of us were sure it would work. But if the guards are so desperate to know where he is that they brought you here from one of the labor camps, that means he must have gotten away!"
Matt studies you, brow furrowed as he takes in what you just said. "Really?" He asks, "Are you sure? He escaped?"
"Yes," you're half laughing, half crying with relief, "It's the only explanation. And if he got away, then he can get help; he can save us!"
Matt doesn't look very sure, but he whispers, "Do you really think so?" You can see that he needs to believe it. He needs something to cling to--even if it's just a shred of hope--the same way you do.
"Yes," you say, determined, "I believe in him. He'll come back for us, one day, I'm sure."
Matt leans back and sighs, closing his eyes. "I hope so," he murmurs, "I really, really hope so."