Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cafeteria erupted in a chaotic symphony of sounds - roars, battle cries, and laughter merged into a cacophony that assaulted Shoku's sensitive ears. The noise was overwhelming, a constant reminder of her vulnerable position as a captive. As a Synthari from Ravimor, she yearned to shed her fragile form and shapeshift with the fluid ease she once knew. But the collar around her neck held her captive, suppressing her natural abilities. Shoku's thoughts lingered on the what-ifs - if only she'd been in a stronger form when her ship was discovered, perhaps her fate would be different. Now, she was at the mercy of her captors, forced to endure the harsh realities of being a war prisoner.

Once, her people's beauty standards had celebrated creativity and individuality, with shapeshifting forms that danced across the spectrum of possibility. But as a war prisoner, she'd been forced to adapt, to prioritize strength and survival above all else. Strength had become her sole focus, a utilitarian approach to her shapeshifting abilities that left little room for the artistic expression she'd once cherished.

The Synthari stayed behind the safety of the kitchen counter in her putrid Triceraton food service uniform. The colors were a mudded-down grey; a seam at the middle kept it together. Plain black pants covered her legs, only worsening the overall aesthetic. But it was the shoulder pad that truly rankled her - a bulky, awkward thing that wrapped around her muscles like a weight, emblazoned with the hated symbol of the Triceraton Republic. She hated parading that thing around.

However, she had no say. She convinced herself there was nothing she could do. Not while she couldn't shapeshift.

The new recruits shuffled into the cafeteria, their glowing blue handcuffs a stark reminder of their captive status. A diverse group of alien species, each with its own unique physiology, lined up before Shoku, their trays held limply in defeated talons or hands. Their eyes spoke volumes, conveying a hunger that transcended language barriers.

Shoku's movements were mechanical as she scooped the unappetizing slop into their trays, the metallic utensil clinking against the container. The substance itself was an affront to the senses - a runny, chunky mess that seemed to defy the very notion of food. It oozed across the tray, leaving trails of discoloration in its wake. The smell was overwhelming, a noxious miasma that clung to everything it touched. Shoku's senses were numb to the vile concoction.

The third prisoner towered over the others, his raw, pink flesh glistening in the harsh light. Rectangular protrusions lined his spine, giving him a grotesquely armored appearance. The two fleshy appendages coiled around his nasal area only added to his unsettling visage.

As Shoku served him the slop, his eyes widened in disgust, and with a sudden motion, he hurled the offending substance back at her. "What is this garbage?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the cafeteria. The slop splattered against Shoku's uniform, leaving a vile-smelling stain on the already-dreary fabric. She stood frozen, a mixture of familiarity and unease washing over her as she gazed at the prisoner, his outrage a stark contrast to the defeated demeanor of the others.

Shoku's eyes snapped up to meet the prisoner's furious gaze as his massive hands grasped her collar, lifting her off the ground. Her claws scrabbled futilely at his wrists as she struggled to regain her footing. The prisoner's face was twisted in outrage, his voice a low growl. "You nasty Triceratons expect us to fight in the arena on this...this filth?" he snarled, his grip on her collar tightening.

The prisoner's ranting continued, but Shoku's mind had checked out, her thoughts consumed by a silent, fervent wish for his downfall. She seethed with resentment, her association with the Triceratons a constant source of humiliation. The sigil on her shoulder seemed to burn with shame, a constant reminder of her captivity. "Rhinock is a respected warrior! He will not be served barf as food!" The alien bellowed foolishly.

Shoku bit her tongue. For if she didn't, she would only put herself in more danger. She kept her thoughts of pure loathsomeness toward this vile alien to herself. She bottled it up in a jar and hid it away, but there were cracks in that jar.

Shoku's claws sank deep into Rhinock's skin, his face twisting in pain and rage. Suspended in mid-air by her own clothing, Shoku's eyes blazed with fury, her gaze piercing Rhinock like a dagger. Her sharp teeth were clenched in a snarl, her jaw locked in a fierce determination. As she hung there, helpless and enraged, her mind seared Rhinock's features into her memory, every detail etched into her consciousness like a branding iron. The image of his contorted face would stay with her, a burning reminder of her powerlessness and his brutality. But most importantly, she remembered the injustice.

The Triceraton guards intervened, dispatching an electric pulse through Rhinock's body. Shoku crashed to the floor, landing in the slop, her eyes blazing with hatred. Her gaze fell upon her trembling claws, and her mind conjured a vivid fantasy: ripping Rhinock's vocal cords from his throat. The image was a fleeting solace, a desperate outlet for her rage and frustration. Shoku's hatred for this place ran deep, fueled by her powerlessness.

The other guards took care of Rhinock, and Shoku brought herself back to her feet.

The funny thing about serving war-crazed barbarians slop daily is that threats become the usual. She drained all the emotion from her face, picking up her kitchen utensil with her shuddering hand. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as if it were a caged animal infuriated by the injustice. Shoku managed to contain her anger as she served the other prisoners, although it was very much there.

As Shoku hastily packed up the kitchen and made her way to her quarters, the Triceraton guards' snickers and leers followed her. Their eyes lingered on the slop-stained uniform, their mocking laughter a stark reminder of her degraded status. Shoku's gaze remained fixed ahead, her expression a mask of indifference, but her eyes burned with a quiet resentment.

With a swift motion, Shoku swiped her triangle-shaped key card, and the door slid open. She slipped inside, her fingers moving with frantic urgency as she tore off the detested uniform. The stained rags were tossed into a bucket, destined for the wash, but for now, they were just something to be discarded. Shoku's actions were driven by a primal need to shed every reminder of the Triceratons' influence, to reclaim a shred of autonomy in the confines of her quarters.

She lay bare in her bed, shutting her vibrant eyes. Behind the safety of her own eyelids, she reflected on the events of breakfast. She processed the events in a way that would make the rest of her workload more bearable. Her mind spun rapidly, but unfortunately, the Triceratons weren't gracious enough to give her more than a few minutes of rest. The bell's jarring clang shattered the silence, its unmistakable tone summoning her back to duty.

Shoku stood up, her pawed feet steady as she slipped into the guard uniform. Compared to the cafeteria attire, this design was marginally more tolerable. She zipped up the turquoise sleeveless top, securing the metal shoulder pads in place. The matching pants were cinched tightly around her hips with a sturdy belt. One small mercy was that the Triceraton Republic symbol was subtly positioned as a belt buckle on her waist, rather than a prominent emblem on her shoulder. The less conspicuous placement made the uniform slightly more bearable.

Shoku donned her gloves and gauntlets, then grabbed her keycard before exiting her room. The card's significance had shifted. Having her keycard during the guard shift was much more important than her cafeteria shift. Now, not only was it her method to get back to her room, but it was also a source of discipline for prisoners. She found that train of thought ironic since technically, she was a prisoner as well.

With her dual tails flowing behind her like silken banners, Shoku trailed the other guards, her footsteps muffled and her countenance a mask of studied neutrality. Though she stood nearly six feet tall, the imposing Triceratons, with their statuesque eight-foot frames, dwarfed her. A circumstance that allowed her to blend into their ranks despite her marked physical differences.

Within the Triceraton hierarchy, blending in was a valuable asset, yet Shoku couldn't help but covet the spotlight. She observed those who commanded attention, studying the traits that set them apart. Among the Triceratons, it was the horned leaders who stood at the forefront, their authoritative presence undeniable. Among the prisoners, it was the boldest and most ferocious who drew the gaze of others, their defiance and bravery earning them a twisted form of respect.

They had two things in common. One, they were the biggest and strongest. And two, they had a voice.

Shoku didn't possess either of those, not in this form.

The soldiers dispersed to their designated posts, and Shoku fell into step, her march leading her down a sterile hallway to Sector G. The room unfolded before her, a cavernous space with a utilitarian air. A moving walkway bisected the area, its sleek surface gliding smoothly along the floor. At its heart, a hulking machine pulsed with mechanical life, its articulated arms extending like metallic tentacles, their purpose a testament to the sector's industrial functionality.

Shoku reached her post beside the machine, settling into the operator's chair. With a few swift keystrokes, she activated the system, and the console burst into life. Lights danced across the control panel as the mechanical arms stirred, their movements becoming more fluid and purposeful. The walkway, previously dormant, gradually accelerated to a steady pace, its rhythmic hum filling the room as it reached optimal speed.

The day dragged on, monotony etching itself into every passing moment. Shoku's role had become a mind-numbing routine: prisoners were conveyed to her station on the moving walkway, flanked by imposing Triceratons. With mechanical efficiency, she would activate the system, and the machine would secure the prisoners' wrists in blue restraints. The glowing tattoos would then be applied to their shoulders, a stark symbol of their captivity. The repetition was suffocating, leaving Shoku's mind numb and her spirit craving something more.

Shoku hasn't witnessed a single prisoner who hasn't screamed during this. Maybe it was the tattoo indenting into their flesh, or maybe it was the electrical shock that went through them. It could be both. It had been too long since she went through the same procedure for her to remember what made her scream louder. Either way, she was used to witnessing it.

The ship convulsed violently, its hull shuddering as distant explosions boomed through the void. The walls vibrated, and the air seemed to tremble with the force of the impacts. Yet, the guards around Shoku remained impassive, their expressions unchanging. This, too, was just another day.

The Triceraton Republic called a gargantuan mothership home, a testament to their nomadic existence after losing their native world. Shoku wasn't privy to the details of their planet's fate, but she knew the current conflict with the Neutrinos was a different story altogether – a brutal struggle for control of the Neutrinos' homeworld. The distant explosions and ship-shuddering impacts were a constant reminder of the war's relentless pace.

Shoku's capture was a direct result of the Triceraton-Neutrino war. She had set course for Planet Neutrino, unaware of the conflict, her information woefully outdated. As she beamed down to the planet's atmosphere, her ship was boarded by the idiotic horn-heads that called themselves the Triceratons, and she was taken prisoner. A casualty of a war that wasn't hers, yet had become her reality.

As the ship's quake subsided, she returned to her duties. One of the only upsides to this job was that she got to observe the aliens that populated the Milky Way. Being from Planet Ravimor, in a galaxy more than a quadrillion light-years away, these creatures were all new and incredibly fascinating.

Her initial fascination with the Milky Way's inhabitants soon waned. She was encountering the same twenty-or-so species since most planets managed to keep their inhabitants out of the war’s crossfire. This rendered her observations stale and predictable. The novelty wore off, leaving her feeling like she was stuck in a never-ending cycle of familiarity.

A new group of prisoners caught her attention, their unfamiliar appearance sparking curiosity. Four green-skinned beings with protective shells on their backs were escorted into the room, each with a single white tube attached to their mouth, indicating they required assistance breathing in the planet's atmosphere. The creatures huddled together, their eyes fixed warily on the Triceratons. Their colored bandanas – blue, red, orange, and purple – flowing behind them like banners. But it was the last one who truly piqued Shoku's interest, his soft eyes seeming almost out of place amidst the tension. She couldn't help but wonder what lay behind that gentle gaze, and whether she should be drawn to it or wary.

Shoku's attention snapped back to her task, and she swiftly activated the restraints, the walkway coming to a halt as the machine's mechanical arms descended. The Triceraton guard behind the new prisoners raised his blaster, its muzzle tracking their movements. "Prisoners, step back with your hands up," he barked, gesturing with the barrel. The four green-skinned beings froze. The guard in front of them growled, "Comply, alien scum," his finger tightening on the trigger as he took a menacing step forward.

“Who you callin’ alien? Dino-beak.” The red one's bold retort was swiftly silenced as the purple alien clamped a hand over his mouth. The four prisoners exchanged wary glances before reluctantly complying with the guard's demands, raising their arms in surrender. The familiar blue restraints snapped into place around their wrists, securing them. The Triceraton guard's gaze lingered on them, his expression unreadable behind his rugged features.

With a swift motion, Shoku activated the next stage of the processing sequence. The prisoners' bodies jolted as a surge of electricity coursed through them, their muscles contracting in response. The machine then applied a glowing tattoo to their shoulders, branding them with the same symbol that adorned Shoku's own skin. As the procedure concluded, the four beings were carted away, disappearing into the vast, impersonal machinery of the Triceraton's prisoner processing system. Shoku's brief, flickering connection to them was severed, leaving her with only the faintest memory of their existence.

The hours dragged on, midday finally arriving like a reluctant guest. But as Shoku mechanically served the sticky green slop to the inmates, her thoughts wandered, and the wait became a countdown to the day's end. Her mind drifted, detached from the monotony of her task, as she went through the motions with a sense of numb routine.

In her mind's eye, Shoku was back home, swinging effortlessly through the towering trees with their crimson and amethyst hues. Her tails wrapped around the branches, securing her grip as she scurried up the broad trunks, bursting through the leafy canopies into the boundless sapphire sky. With her eyes closed, the warmth of the blazing blue sun seeped into her skin, energizing her muscles and revitalizing her senses. For a fleeting moment, she was free, her spirit soaring as the trees and world below her fell away, leaving only the infinite blue expanse and the life-giving sun's rays.

The stark contrast between her past and present was a constant ache. Deprived of the nourishing rays of her home star, Shoku's body suffered, her photosynthesis stifled. The dark circles under her eyes seemed to weigh her entire face down, a visible manifestation of her misery. Without the freedom to bask in the warmth and energy she craved, she felt drained, her vitality waning in the cold, artificial environment of the Triceraton mothership.

Shoku's head jerked up as the sound of new arrivals echoed from the entrance. Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, her eyes locked onto the group of green terrapins she'd seen earlier. The orange terrapin's voice carried across the room, "Finally! I'm so hungry, I can barely think straight!" He rubbed his belly, his expression a mix of relief and exasperation.

The red terrapin shot back, "And here I thought you were just born that way," his voice laced with playful sarcasm as they shuffled closer to Shoku's serving line. She raised an eyebrow, surprised by the pair's banter, but chose not to react, instead focusing on serving the meal with a neutral expression.

The orange terrapin shot a sidelong glance at his companion, raising an eyebrow as he collected his tray. "Oh, a wise guy," he quipped. Behind them, the blue and purple terrapins followed, the blue one sticking to the task at hand while the purple terrapin's eyes wandered, drinking in the surroundings with a look of wide-eyed wonder, his gaze darting from one thing to another as if everything was a marvel.

The orange terrapin bounced up to the front of the line, his grin infectious despite the grim surroundings. "One hotdog with extra relish, please!" he chimed, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Shoku deadpanned, her confusion evident only in her momentary hesitation. She served him the sticky green slop without a word, and he gazed down at it, his grin faltering as he sniffed the unappetizing dish.

"Eugh." the orange one stuck his tongue out. "It looks like moldy boogers!" He looked at his group, looking disheartened. Shoku, on the other hand, was bracing herself for an outraged response such as the one she had received that morning. Instead, the blue one spoke up.

"Keep moving, Mikey." He calmly urged him to proceed, and the line carried on.

As Shoku served the others, they all reacted with similar disgust, their faces scrunched up in distaste. The purple terrapin, however, seemed distracted. His gaze fixated on Shoku's shoulder, where the cyan symbols were visible. The marks that match the ones he and his companions had received. "Raph, look," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but he caught himself and closed his mouth, seeming to remember that pointing would be impolite.

He moved on, and so did Shoku.

The purple terrapin stuck out in her mind, his quirky demeanor and astonishment setting him apart from his more practical companions. Despite the bleak surroundings, he seemed untethered, his gaze drifting from one thing to another with a sense of freedom that was almost captivating. Shoku found herself pondering this enigmatic terrapin, wondering what had shaped his carefree spirit amidst the harsh realities of their world.

As the inmates settled in for their meal, Shoku stood behind the counter, her own portion of the unappetizing slop in front of her. She leaned on the metal counter, mechanically scooping the foul mixture into her mouth. The taste was vile, but she'd long since become desensitized to it, years of eating the same dish having numbed her taste buds. She ate without enthusiasm, her movements habitual and detached.

Rhinock sneered, "Give it up, weaklings," as he taunted the inmates, his bowl held out like a demand. The other prisoners cowered, handing over their rations to his clawed hands without resistance. Shoku, recalling the morning's confrontation, wasn't about to take chances. Despite her position behind the counter, she grabbed her food and took a strategic step back, putting a safe distance between herself and Rhinock's potential grasp.

Rhinock's gaze landed on Raph, his finger jabbing accusingly. "Hand over yours, freak," he growled, his tone dripping with malice. Raph's expression remained steady, and for a moment, it seemed he might resist. Shoku's curiosity was piqued, and she leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on the confrontation.

Raph's slow rise to his feet was deliberate, his cloudy eyes flashing with a fierce intensity. He leaned in, his face inches from Rhinock's, and shot back, "Who you calling freak, freak?" The jab to Rhinock's shoulder was a bold move, a challenge that seemed to dare him to react. The air was charged with tension as the two aliens faced off, their animosity palpable.

The pink alien's face contorted in rage. "No one touches Rhinock!" He swung his massive arm at Raph, but the terrapin was ready. Raph fell back into the purple terrapin behind him, then quickly sat up, cracking his neck with a deliberate motion. His cloudy eyes never left Rhinock's face as he delivered a low, even threat: "Wrong move, you giant piece of moldy bubblegum." The crowd's reaction was immediate, with sharp gasps and intrigued looks spreading through the room.

"Wait, don't!" the purple terrapin urged, but Raph was already in motion. He sprang to his feet and launched himself onto the table, using it as a springboard to deliver a swift kick to Rhinock's shoulder. The larger alien stumbled back, clearly off guard, his expression a mix of surprise and annoyance as he struggled to regain his footing.

As Shoku watched the brawl escalate, her initial shock gave way to fascination. Her gaze was drawn back to the four terrapins, and a sudden realization dawned on her. Her heart rate quickened, her pulse racing with excitement. The spotlight was on them. And she wanted it.

Chapter Text

Whenever a big, grotesque alien with a menacing glint in their eyes arrived in the prison, their power was made brutally obvious to others. These formidable creatures would intimidate and subjugate their peers, clearing a path for their own supremacy. As the strongest, they held court over the arena, their dominance unchallenged. Rhinock was one of those big, grotesque aliens.

And Shoku just watched the cycle crumble.

Raphael stood triumphant, surrounded by a frenzied crowd of aliens, their fists pounding the air and their roars of excitement echoing through the space. Rhinock's limp form lay at his feet, green blood streaming from his nose and splattering the floor. A wide smirk spread across Raphael's face as he surveyed the crowd, his eyes gleaming with pride. But amidst the chaos, he remained unaware of the true significance of his victory.

He completely changed the course of events.

The Triceraton guards finally intervened, though Shoku suspected they had been lingering on the sidelines, entertained by the spectacle. It wasn't that they were incompetent, but rather, their job was soul-crushingly dull. A fight or two was a welcome distraction, a spark of excitement in an otherwise monotonous day. Shoku had observed that the Triceratons weren't just apathetic guards – they were battle-hungry themselves, craving the same intensity as the aliens they kept contained.

The Triceratons stormed in, one of them hit a button on their keycard that sent a shockwave through Raph’s body, causing him to jolt and collapse. "Take him to solitary confinement!" a guard bellowed, and Raph was dragged away, much to the dismay of his fellow terrapins. Shoku watched as worry and frustration etched themselves onto their faces.

As the rest of her shift dragged on, Shoku's mind lingered on the earlier altercation, replaying the events in their head. While others might have dismissed it as just another fight, they recognized the significance of what they have witnessed. Years of observing the prison's dynamics had given them a deep understanding of its rhythms and patterns. And what they’d just seen was a singular moment – a break in the cycle. Once the afternoon arrived, they took the free part of their day gratefully. Most of it was spent either curled up in their quarters or observing the battle arena.

But today, Shoku had a different plan. The Information Hall beckoned, particularly the Main Server room, which held the secrets of the prison's database. With their intimate knowledge of the Triceraton prison's rigid routine, Shoku had memorized the guard shifts down to the minute. They knew exactly when and how to move, timing their steps to avoid detection as they made their way to the Main Server. A calculated pace and precise timing would allow them to slip in unnoticed.

Shoku lingered at the corner, eyes fixed on the triangular door as it slid open with a hiss. A guard strolled out, and as soon as his back was turned, Shoku seized the opportunity, darting into the room. They'd found the automatic doors' delay to be a valuable asset – a brief window of time that allowed them to slip in undetected, provided they timed it just right.

With the door closed behind them, Shoku hastened to the granite table, aware that their window of access was narrow. Fingers flying across the glowing orange screen, they swiftly logged in and navigated to the inmate database. Scrolling through the list of new admissions, they quickly located the four terrapins – their names stood out amidst the alien entries.

Shoku dove into their information without skipping a beat.

Raphael Splinterson, Michelangelo Splinterson, Leonardo Splinterosn, and Donatello Splinterson. The four were Earthlings, which was perplexing on many different intricate levels. From what they’ve learned, Earth was in the Planetary System and was the only planet sustaining life. The dominant species were humans, or homo sapiens. They were not advanced enough for space travel.

The terrapins' appearance and presence in space defied all logic, sparking a rush of adrenaline-fueled curiosity within Shoku. The more they uncovered, the more questions arose, and the need for answers became an overwhelming drive. They were hooked, determined to unravel the mystery surrounding these enigmatic Earthlings.

The plot thickened: the terrapins' presence in the prison was tied to the war between the Triceratons and Neutrinos. They had helped a robot called the Fugitoid escape, and that act of protection had landed them in this predicament. Shoku's curiosity was now piqued on multiple fronts – Who was the Fugitoid? How did they get tangled up with him? Why did the Triceratons need him in the first place?

The sound of approaching footsteps jolted Shoku back to reality – they'd lingered too long. They quickly committed the terrapins' holding cell numbers to memory and scurried for cover, relieved that the Triceratons' loud footsteps had given them a warning. As the guard performed a cursory security check, Shoku held their breath, hidden behind a nearby object that easily concealed their frame. They watched cautiously as the guard's gaze swept past their hiding spot, and when he exited, Shoku slipped out unnoticed.

The Synthari’s footsteps echoed down the hall, their pace driven by a newfound sense of determination. The excitement and intrigue coursing through their veins had given way to a resolute purpose. As they walked, the sterile walls seemed to take on a different hue, no longer a symbol of confinement, but a challenge to be overcome. At that moment, Shoku made a silent vow: these walls would no longer hold them captive.

A sudden collision sent Shoku stumbling backward, their forehead throbbing from the impact with the Triceraton guard's rock-hard chest. They rubbed the sore spot, wincing as they gazed up at the imposing figure. It was like running into a living, breathing monolith – the Triceratons seemed to be crafted from stone and steel rather than flesh and blood.

"Shoku?" Traximus's voice was laced with concern as she raised an eyebrow. Shoku's gaze snapped up to meet hers, recognition dawning as they took in her worried expression. Traximus's face turned solemn, the scar above her left eye creasing with the movement. "I'm glad I found you," she said, her tone grave. Shoku's mind stuttered, the excitement and questions about the terrapins momentarily forgotten. "It's about Rembrandt," Traximus added, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Shoku's body went numb, their blood running cold as Traximus's words hung in the air. The excitement and intrigue surrounding the terrapins faded.

The mention of Rembrandt's name hit Shoku like a physical blow, leaving them breathless and reeling. Memories of their bond with the N'Krasha warrior flooded back – the camaraderie forged in the depths of Triceraton captivity, the struggles they had faced side by side. Rembrandt's presence had been a lifeline, a reminder that they weren't alone. Shoku's chest constricted. What had happened to Rembrandt?

A single glance was all it took – Traximus swiftly led Shoku to a medbay, her urgency palpable. "Thank you," Shoku murmured, before ducking into the private area. The moment they stepped inside, the calmer atmosphere enveloped them. Lighter walls and soothing blue hues replaced the harsh orange tones that dominated the rest of the ship, creating a sense of serenity. The medbay's cleanliness and tranquility were a welcome respite from the grime and chaos that clung to every other corner of the Triceraton arena. Shoku didn't see Traximus slip off to give them privacy, their mind focused on the sight before them.

Rembrandt's four icy blue eyes flicked away, his rugged features showing his disappointment. His ego was just as bruised as his body. Shoku's gaze lingered on the N'Krasha warrior, their fascination with his species never far from the surface. The majestic antlers that sprouted from Rembrandt's forehead seemed almost otherworldly, a testament to the alien's proud heritage. Shoku had always been drawn to the intricate cultural traditions of the N'Krasha, the way their society was woven from threads of honor, loyalty, and ancient customs. Despite the vast distances between their worlds, the similarities between the planets in the Milky Way galaxy were striking – parallel evolution had crafted species with eerie echoes of one another.

Another strange behavior was their repulsion to nudity, which was clearly displayed as Rembrandt held his hospital blanket over his bare chest defensively. Shoku found it strange, but maybe the fact that they didn't have genitals played a role in their confusion.

They moved into the room with quiet deliberation, mindful of Rembrandt's fragile state. Injuries often left him testy, and Shoku approached with caution. "Hey, big guy," they murmured softly, sinking onto the mattress with a gentle creek. Rembrandt's response was a low, rumbling snort, followed by a languid roll onto his side. The harsh medbay lights danced across his rich auburn fur, casting subtle highlights as his eyes remained fixed on the wall, his demeanor a mix of irritation and vulnerability.

Shoku's voice was laced with a playful menace, the threat hanging in the air like a challenge. "Want to fill me in, or should I go track down a doctor? Or maybe I'll just take a look at your records myself?" The humor was there, but beneath it lay a determination that Rembrandt knew better than to test. Shoku's eyes sparkled with a mix of concern and amusement, daring Rembrandt to brush off the question.

"I got hurt," Rembrandt muttered, his voice barely audible. "Clearly." Shoku's eyes rolled good-naturedly as they settled their chin on his shoulder, their bright orange irises sparkling with knowing humor, their navy blue sclera intensifying it. Rembrandt's reflexive glare softened almost instantly, his body relaxing into Shoku's proximity. With care not to jostle his injury, he draped a loose arm around them, the gesture a mixture of affection and vulnerability. "My bindings were too tight during the battles," he admitted, his words laced with a defeated tone. "I didn't adjust in time, and the doctor says I've got a cracked rib.”

The pieces clicked into place for Shoku – Rembrandt's prickly demeanor made sense given his injuries and the frustration that came with being vulnerable. As they sat with Rembrandt, Shoku's mind wandered to the peculiarities of intergalactic culture, particularly the concept of gender that seemed to be a universal oddity among the Milky Way's inhabitants. On their own planet, the absence of physical sex characteristics meant that societal roles and identities weren't tied to biology. Shoku had been assigned labels based on appearance after their capture, a decision that still felt artificial and imposed.

The complexity of it all was staggering – these Milky Way aliens, like Rembrandt, were bound by their physical forms in ways that Shoku's people weren't. The concept of gender dysphoria was foreign, yet Shoku grasped the essence of it: a disconnect between the body and the identity. Rembrandt's chest binding was a tangible attempt to bridge that gap, but it came with risks, especially in his line of work. Shoku's shapeshifting ability would allow them to change their form to match their identity seamlessly, but for Rembrandt, it was a constant struggle. It explained the quiet desperation that sometimes lingered beneath his rugged exterior.

"Let me see," Shoku asked gently, their tone infused with concern. Rembrandt hesitantly lifted the sheet, carefully exposing his left rib while keeping the rest of his chest covered. Shoku gently parted the fur, revealing a patch of skin with emerging bruises. Their finger lightly touched the area, but Rembrandt's sudden flinch and irritated swipe of his hand cut the examination short. "Shoku, knock it off," Rembrandt growled, his voice tinged with annoyance. Shoku immediately pulled back, their eyes locking onto Rembrandt's with a mixture of apology and understanding.

“Sorry,” Shoku's apology was sincere, and they didn't take Rembrandt's irritation to heart – they knew they shouldn't have probed the injured area. As they sat beside him, their gaze drifted over the subtle signs of pain: the guarded movement of his ribs, the faint catch in his breath, and the lingering panic in his eyes. "Are you okay?" Shoku whispered, their voice barely audible, the question laced with genuine concern for Rembrandt's well-being.

As Rembrandt shifted onto his back, Shoku's gaze locked onto the fleeting grimaces that crossed his face, a testament to the pain he was enduring. "I'm fine," Rembrandt said, but the words rang hollow as his eyes darted away, avoiding Shoku's gaze. The tension in his body belied his claim, and Shoku sensed the weight of his words. "I've got another fight scheduled for tomorrow," Rembrandt admitted, his voice laced with resignation. "The Triceratons aren't giving me an out." His ears folded back, a subtle sign of his distress, as he awaited Shoku's response.

Shoku's face went slack with shock, their jaw clenched in dismay. "What?" The word hung in the air, heavy with incredulity. They knew the fragility of the Milky Way aliens' physiology all too well – their studies on the subject had driven home the importance of the ribcage in protecting those delicate lungs that absorbed life-sustaining chemicals. A cracked rib posed a serious risk of lung damage, and the thought of further injury sent a chill down Shoku's spine. The contrast to their own biology, where chemicals were absorbed directly through the skin, made the risks seem all the more stark and unforgiving.

“I’ll be alright, Shoku, really…” Rembrandt's attempt to sit up straighter only seemed to underscore his vulnerability, the strain etched on his face a testament to the pain he was enduring. Shoku's gaze locked onto his, and they couldn't help but laugh – a low, incredulous sound – at Rembrandt's assertion that he was fine. "No, you're not," Shoku said, shaking their head, the words tumbling out between nervous chuckles. The absurdity of Rembrandt's claim, given the obvious discomfort he was in, was almost too much to bear.

Shoku stood up, their nerves practically quaking within their body. Their gaze raked over Rembrandt's form, their worry worsening. "I know how to get you out.”