Unstoppable

1. Capture and Release.

The strongest people
Are not those who show strength in front of us
But those who win battles we know nothing about.

◌⑅●♡⋆♡ 💙♡⋆♡●⑅◌

[Blood is running
Heart is pumping
As the battle gets closer]

Youngest Garrison Graduate of the century chosen to pilot the Kerberos Crew into space.

A headline that was once the pride and joy of the McClain family now ten months later serves as a bitter reminder of their sons supposed death. A piloting error they called it. And for months the grieving family was heckled with hate mail from all over the globe. Never given a moment's peace to respect their sons memory. But the one family who had a reason to hate the McClains had not said a word. Because not for one moment did the Holt's believe the boy whom their own son had spoken so highly of had crashed their ship. Not even a flicker of a heart beat went by without either family believing something else happened up there. Along side their support was the Garrets, who's son was a dear friend of the McClain boy. Adam Wells and Takashi Shirogane, who'd both had a hand in personally training the youth were also wracked with disbelief. So while the whole world shunned and ridiculed him for 'failing' such a momentous of an occasion as the Kerberos mission, a handful grieved and theorised what had really happened out in the starry void of space.

☀-☀-☀-☀-💙-☀-☀-☀-☀

His name, what was it? He couldn't remember it, couldn't even touch on a name similar to it. As if his mind rejected the concept of being anything but 'the Champion'. He couldn't remember how long he'd been reduced to a mere source of entertainment from the blood thirsty race of aliens. How long he'd been forced into an arena with nothing but a blade. He longed for his own weapon, one he'd trained himself to use, one he had pride in prior to his capture. He couldn't even remember how he'd come under their rule. His training has never touched on the possibility of a sentient race existing in the void of space. Man had thought itself as advanced and intelligent. Next to the technology and mercilessness of his captors, man looked like toddlers. Living in the comfortable bliss of ignorance he'd come to be raised in he never even dreamed of a situation like this. And who would, who would willingly imagine themselves in his position? But now he was just a toy for these aliens to toss aside should he die, and cheer for should he not. When he first arrived he flinched away from the idea of taking a life, he's always sought to save them, its what he trained for. The mission was supposed to be his ticket. His debut. But now... Well now it was kill or be killed. And he had long since pushed past the notion of morals.

He was currently in his cell, the quiet solitude was in ways better but in others worse than the arena. It was safe, no adrenalin, no fear of being destroyed by the monsters pit against him should he falter, no screaming roar of the crowd as his blade hit fast and true. But the silence was deafening and the blood on his hands seemed to jeer at him, the ghosts of those who weren't monsters fighting against him crying in pain at his ruthlessness. He'd come to welcome their cries, telling him that at least the guilt was a sign he was still somewhat human. The thin black metal collar on his neck confining him to his cell even if he wanted to leave. A tracker, like a microchip to locate a lost dog. The collar also inhibited his arm. He couldn't remember when it had happened but time, his name, they hadn't been the only things these creatures had taken from him. His arm, his right arm was replaced by a robotic one, after having been mangled in a fight. But he couldn't use the weapons within it with the damn collar activated. He tried many times.

A small part of the door slid open, a tray of food and a bag of water being carelessly shoved through, the light hurting his eyes making his lip curl in a silent growl. It was gone as quick as it had offended his eyes and he turned slightly on the pile of rags that was his bed. Skirting forward like an animal he dragged the tray towards him, long gone were the days he rejected the food and water. It was his only source of strength, and if he was obedient they gave him more than most. They needed their champion strong after all. He tore at what seemed to be an alien alternative of bread, scooping some of the weird yellowish goo up with it. It was all tasteless, artificial almost, which he found more disconcerting than if it was a ghastly tasting alien dish. He cleaned the tray completely, tossing it aside once it had served its purpose and his sharp canines bit into the strange thin metal like bag that contained the water. They had sharpened over time, he wasn't sure if it was just his own imagination but he remembered once having a lot of trouble tearing through the water bags. Perhaps he was adapting to the harshness of captivity.