Galra ship prisons were worse than brutal and higher than high security. Cells were barren, inmates were forced into unpaid work, the food was all scraps from the soldier’s food supply, and then there were the gladiator-style fights. Shiro, for all his injury, had the upper hand. The upper hand made of hard metal and Galra technology. That, along with him not being ill or weak, was what was keeping him alive. He had enough weight and muscle to spare when the meals were thin, he had morale, he had a weapon attached to him to get through the fights. And he was smart, he was planning, and he flew more or less under the radar despite his spotlight as just about one of the only non-Empire-sponsored fighters to survive more than a few rounds.

It didn’t matter who was ill, it didn’t matter who was unfit to fight. There was almost no out, not age, not health, not weight class, not behaviour. And you were almost next in line. But Shiro was in front of you. There was still a chance, a hope for your life. But if he lost, it would not only mean that you get pummelled, but it would also mean that the one moral booster in this place was dead and gone.

You must’ve been more or less lost in thought the whole round, deaf to the cheering, only coming back for a second whenever a particularly hard hit was landed. There was no choice to snap out of it when a shadow loomed over you, not tall enough to be Galra. Shiro. Shiro was alive. Unsteady on his feet and bruised, but alive. And he had a weird look in his eyes as the refs and wardens cleared out from the space.

In a second, he’d raised his prosthetic arm and jammed it into the wall, wrenching the two weak plates of metal apart, creating a crack out to the hallway. His other arm reached and grabbed the nearest collar, trying to rescue as many as possible in the break out. His fingers curled into your tattered prison shirt as you were dragged through the jagged material into the outer halls, manhandled to duck for cover and hide and he counted with labouring breaths.