( Requested by the marvelous @BNHAFireLeopard who lo

"So, what exactly is an underground colosseum?" Darkiplier asks you. "Obviously, it's a colosseum, and it's underground. But you talk like it isn't a normal colosseum."

"Demons are kidnapped and forced to fight here," you answer. "If you don't fight, you're tortured. If you don't win, you're tortured. If you do win, you get more stars."

"Stars?"

"We're both two-star fighters. I believe there are six or seven stars, and you gain stars by winning battles."

"Could you elaborate?"

You mask the urge to roll your eyes. Too many questions are being asked. "I believe it works something like this; you have to do a sort of show in the beginning. If you get one million stars after however many shows, you get to be in a battle. After you get another million stars from battling, you level up to a two-star fighter. Then you have to get two million more to become a three-star fighter."

"So... stars are, what, a sort of rating?"

"Exactly. Have you done any shows yet?"

"No."

"That means you're going to start very, very soon. Darkiplier, whatever you do, don't fight back. You will regret it, I promise you."

"How else am I supposed to get out of here?" he growls.

You sigh. "Well, you'd have to win the one-on-one tournament. Demons can only dream of that; usually, we die before we can get there."

He goes quiet, and so do you. You look at the ground, pain in your eyes as a memory comes back; you. Him. The arena. You shake your head and look back up at him, pushing the memory away.

"How many battles have you lost?"

You (dig your claws) (push your hoof) (scrape your talons) across the sandy floor. "Too many. It has greatly dampered my progress on becoming a three-star fighter." You pause. "You lose stars when you fail."

"Ah," he says quietly. He flicks his silky tail. "How long do you have before you get to three stars?"

"Not long," you say. "I won another battle today. It can't be more than five battles away."

"And, um... if you don't mind me asking, Y/N-"

"Ask."

"-why would you want to go up?"

You sigh. You've asked yourself this question many, many times.

"If I fail, I get tortured," you mumble. "If I fight, I have a chance of escaping."

"And that chance is extremely small, isn't it?"

You look back up at him. His electric-blue and fire-red eyes were narrowed with curiosity.

"Most likely," you reply. "But I'm more than willing to try and get there."

You stand and stretch out your legs, flapping your wings as you answered the urge to move around. You (flicked/lashed) your (long/short) tail, if you have one, before pacing around in your cell. It's the only thing you can do; it isn't even big enough for you to jump from one side to the other.

"How long have you been here?"

You growl quietly. For the love of Mother Anais, why won't he shut up?

"I don't remember," you answer, not bothering to turn and face him.

"Pardon?"

"I. Don't. Remember." You say louder and with less patience. "I was a demonling when I was taken."

"A child?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

You don't answer. You remember the fear, the pure terror you felt during your first fight. That demon was ruthless, absolutely insane. He nearly killed you. They'd even thought you were dead when you were brought to the sickbay. They didn't bother to scold you; you were weak enough, and they were certain you'd be dead within a few hours.

If only that had been the case.

A loud ringing echos through the hallways, a voice swirling past the line of cells.

"Lights out, demons! Remember; if you're caught trying to escape, you will be severely punished. Talking about escape is not tolerated. Destroying servants is not tolerated. Disturbing other demons is not tolerated. And now, your nightly announcements..."

You try to block out the sound, bringing your (arms/legs) over your ears and burying your head into the floor.

"The winners of the first quarter are as listed; Ukaro, Ryan, Pailonti, Denis, Scheran, Aetheria, Desonautto, Zepaura, Tyler. And now, the winners of the second quarter..."

You try to think of anything; anything is better than hearing your name. But all you know is inside this colosseum, and you've run the same rut for years. There's nothing new to think abo-

Darkiplier.

Right, yes, perfect; think about him. You think about his common color palette, the glowing dapples on his pelt like clumps of colored snow. You wonder what his necromancy is; it's like ice and fire collided within his soul. Maybe he can do both? What if he can turn into shadows? What if he could fly, too? You'd seen demons without wings fly. Then, your mind wanders to his eyes; the intense flames inside his soul, burning in a fit of ungodly rage, and the freezing, churning waters of curiosity and kindness. You couldn't decide which one he was, or was he both?

"And for the last quarter..."

You desperately think about the clash of white and black on his belt, the purple, his silky tail, anything.

"Desparo, Tykkera-"

Anything. Please, don't say my name. Forget about me.

Names fly past as you search for a different topic.

"-and last but not least, Y/N."

You cringe. God, you were so stupid; it's just your name. There's nothing wrong about a name.

It means I subjected someone to torture.

But it also means there's one more free demon out there, and that you are safe.

You haven't been able to stop this war of thoughts. It's been years, and they still haven't gotten any better.

"Congratulations."

It was Darkiplier.

"That's nothing to congratulate me for!" you snarl viciously as the announcements ramble on. You don't turn to look at him; you don't even want to see his ignorant face.

That's not fair. He doesn't know what it's like yet.

"Well, you're not dead, and you're not being tortured," he stated flatly.

"But someone else is. The more demons that die, the more they bring in. Most of us avoid killing for that sole purpose, but what's the alternative? Torture. Hours and hours of torture."

"Pain is a temporary setback," Darkiplier sighed, as if bored. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"That's the most ridiculous saying I've ever heard in my life. What doesn't kill you will get you tortured, and make you weaker, and will either get you killed or drive you insane."

"Insane, huh?"

"It happens to the best of us, Darkiplier. If you don't die, the years of torture will drive you insane."

"You're not insane."

You growl, your (hackles/or whatever) rising in anger.

"That's what it seems when I'm awake," you say simply, and bury your head under your wing and curl up. You'd given up on trying to stay awake; it only left you weaker for the fights to come. You've given in to the sweet siren song of slumber, and you've many times paid the price.

But you're not the only one.

As the majority of the dim torches are blown out - only a few are left burning so servants can see - you close your eyes and succumb to sleep.

/_-|-_

Darkiplier lies there, letting out a huff. He can't sleep. The glow of his strange body causes an array of colors on the walls around him. Wilford is probably worried - or, as worried as Wilford can get - that he isn't back yet.

He frowns. Actually, come to think of it, why did he leave in the first place?

He can't remember. He looks over through the gate at Y/N. He can see better in the dark now than he ever could before; he can see them sleeping, so why can't he. He turns his canine head away, looking back at the colorful dapples on his pelt. They light up the dark cell like nightlights. In a way, they're comforting.

A low whine begins to screech through the air. It was a sound of despair, fear, anger. Without meaning to, he whips his head around, his ears perked forward in a sort of alertness only found in a guard dog.

It's Y/N.

They whimper in their sleep, beginning to toss and turn.

"Oh, Father Dimitri, they're at it again," a male voice groans.

"God, it's every damn night with that one," another hisses.

"What's so bad about that?" Darkiplier asked quietly.

"Wait for it," the first one sighs, and they both go quiet. He squints into the darkness, because although he can see better, he can't see perfectly.

"Eahhhh..." It's like they're crying out with a hoarse voice. His ears are completely forward, listening for any sort of words. "Eaaahh.... aahh..."

They're afraid of something. It's obvious that Y/N is having a night terror.

"RrrrrAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-aaa-AAAAAAAAH!" Darkiplier winces and flattens his ears against the back of his head as the terrible sound shrieks into the hallway. Their shrill scream of utter despair and agony rips through the hallways. If he had even half a soul, he probably would have found the sound to be the most sorrowful thing he'd ever heard. But, the shrill scream is merely unnerving as all hell.

They jolt upright and cut off their scream, their chest heaving as they look around.

"Yeeh, that's the worst sound I've ever heard," one of the voices next to him says. Darkiplier could hear the cringe in his voice.

"Shut up!" Y/N snarls, and Darkiplier raises an eyebrow. Or, well, the ridge that used to be his eyebrow. They turn around and flop on their platform, curling up tighter.

"They do that often?" he asks quietly.

"Every damn night," another says.

"I can hear you," Y/N grumbles.

"Congratulations, your bloody ears work," the male beside Darkiplier hisses. "By the way, mine don't any more!"

Y/N says something vulgar in return before going completely silent. Demons whisper under their breath as they, too, seem to turn away and try to sleep again. Now it's just Darkiplier, sitting wide awake, Y/N's scream still echoing in the corners of his mind.

/_-|-_

When you next wake, Darkiplier isn't in his cell. He's probably been taken away to do a show.

Shows were like walking down a catwalk and having multiple judges stare at you as you perform different, simple moves, like turning in a circle, jumping as high as you can, things like that. There's an audience that watches you, too. These go on for a month or two, and by then you usually get enough stars to be forced into fighting.

Today, you don't have a fight.

You're stuck inside all day. Well, you'd rather be doing this than fighting. You spend most of your time pacing and listening to what other demons have to say, flapping your wings here and there.

If you have claws or talons, you practice climbing up the walls or clawing opponents.

If you have hooves, you practice dealing deathly kicks.

Just as you sit on your platform, you hear a familiar growl behind you. You look over your shoulder, your (e/c) eyes glittering in the light of the torches.

It's Darkiplier, thrashing on his platform as he's carried into his cell. You watch as he's set down and the metal servants scurry away, the last shutting the gate behind it. You can hear their steel feet scratching away as they scamper down the corridor.

The light of his binding fades, and he is set free from the platform.

"That was... strange."

You don't answer, hoping he's talking to himself.

"Y/N? Are you okay in there?"

You sigh. "Yes."

"Don't sound so enthused," he snorted sarcastically. You roll your eyes and turn to face him, trodding up to your gate.

"How did it go?"

"I suppose it was alright," he said. Now that you looked at him, you could see the way his pelt scintillated in the firelight. "They cleaned me, brushed my hair... I felt like a toy."

You hum in amusement. "As all of us did."

"I got two thousand twelve stars," he says. "I wish I'd gotten less."

You nod. You feel bad for him; if he got that much today, he's well on his way to fighting. You'd only gotten around one thousand on your first day, and in all honesty, you can't believe that his common coloring got him that far.

He drags a talon through the dirt. "I suppose your show did better than mine."

Was... was he saying that... you looked better than him? No one had told you that before, and you aren't quite sure how to take it.

"No," you reply quietly. "You did better by one thousand stars."

"You're joking!"

"No, but thank you."

"You're welcome."

Darkiplier and you began to talk. Nothing to big, just the basics; most ended with a lot of "I don't remember." You can't remember your life outside of the colosseum and he doesn't seem too keen on sharing, more on questioning. You can't blame him; you probably would be the same way if you had things to be secretive about.

"I have a... very large family," Darkiplier tells you. "Very crazy, but... they're still family."

"Mmm," you hum in acknowledgment. "What're their names?"

"Well, we have Wilford, Google, Bim, Eric, King... there's too many to count, really," Darkiplier chuckles. "Now, what about you? Where are you from?"

You shrug. "I don't remember."

"Ah. Your family?"

"I don't even know if I had one."

"You were taken young, weren't you?"

"Yes," you reply. "Sometimes I have to remind myself that I wasn't born into the colosseum."

"So, it takes a long time to get to this point?" Darkiplier sighs.

"...No," you mutter.

"It took you years-"

"I didn't fight for years. I took the punishments until I couldn't anymore."

Darkiplier falls silent as you stare at your feet. You remember those long nights; the cracking of the whip, the trickle of blood, the clinking of metal blades against one another.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You're not the one who imprisoned us," you snort. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Darkiplier gives a small nod. There's a small pause as he thinks of a question. "Does it get lonely here? You must have made friends in the past."

"You can't. You make friends one day, and you'll be forced to tear each other apart the next."

"Well. I suppose I'll take the risk."

You look up out of shock. Was he saying you were his friend? Your (e/c) gaze met his mismatched eyes, which still had that light in them that says, "I'm not broken yet."

The demons you've fought have long since lost that light. You wonder if you saw your reflection, would you see that same light? Or would it have been extinguished?

You give him a nod. "I appreciate it, but that's not a wise choice. Don't get attached to anyone, Darkiplier; your heart will only get to know more pain than it needs to."

He shrugs in a sorrowful way. "If I'm going to die here, I want to die knowing that I spent the last of my days with somebody I cared about."

Your gaze softens. You don't mean for it to, but it does anyways. His unbroken confidence is astounding...

Were you like that before the colosseum?

The question hits you hard in the chest. Maybe you were; maybe you were a sweet, social demonling. Maybe you loved people, or just loved those who were closest to you. You had, for years, longed for the sweet words of a loved one, the kind and funny words from a friend... the affection of a mate.

What if this is your chance?

You meet his gaze once again. "You know, Darkiplier... it would be amazing to have a friend. Really, it would, but..."

Life is unfair. Death takes too many victims here, and you know that. You've already been hurt too many times over the many years, and you cannot subject yourself to such pain again.

His face falls. Your heart aches; you look at your feet, not wanting to see his sad eyes.

"I don't want to feel the ache of losing that friendship if one of us were to die. I don't want to have to face you in the arena. I don't want to be let down."

There's a pause between you both. The rambling and pacing of other demons are the only sounds that fill the space.

"I understand," he says flatly, as if he never really cared in the first place.

And that was the last time you spoke... for a while.

...

Like I said; short and sweet, and really boring. I hope you liked it anyway because honestly I most certainly do NOT, but I promise there will be more lively parts in the future! Thanks for reading :)