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The infirmary was cold and sterile. The place filled Galacta Knight with dread: Here there were no passionate, fiery deaths– only the stench of slow, painful passing.
He stared at the heart monitor beeping on the side of the of the bed. With every passing moment, he grew more desperate to crush it into a thousand pieces. Its voice mocked him relentlessly… Like a clock, he thought. Counting the seconds as they go by.
Galacta had never been in the infirmary for this long. He'd sustained injuries in battle, of course, but never any that kept him there for longer than a few hours. He should have guessed his first overnight stay would be on a chair rather than on a cot.
Meta Knight's breath was slow and labored. He rested beneath a thin sheet, a white bandage covering his eyes. Galacta had watched the nurses tend to his injury– and then scared them off when he'd snapped at them. The lingering embarrassment only made him angrier.
It'd been a long time since he'd seen him without his armor. He looked so small… So vulnerable. Not unlike he had as a tiny chick.
It was pathetic. Stripped of his metallic facade, he had the bearings of a child.
Ever so often, he'd turn into one. Galacta would blink and open his eyes to someone Meta Knight wasn't, and Meta Knight would never be again.
It was tiny and soft and oh-so fragile. Those huge, milky eyes of his would stare at him with innocent intrigue, and melt his heart with that wretched magic that permeated its every action.
He clawed at the cot's siderail. Not real, he told himself. It never is. But the memory lingered in the back of his mind, and gods, how it hurt him.
When I'm grown, I'll be a great hero! it'd chirped. Just like you!
A demon lingered by the side of his head. But it's not him anymore, it repeated. And it never will be.
His gaze drifted to the scars on the back of Meta's body. Wings, or at least what remained of them. He'd always wanted feathered ones like Galacta's, and until they'd grown in, the latter had always assumed they would be like his own.
When he'd lost those wretched, demonic things, he'd almost been glad.
This was all his fault, in the end. He'd been the irresponsible one. He'd turned him into an asset. He was the one who'd let him become a monster, ready for the slaughter from the moment of his conception.
A dagger rested in one of his paws. You can finish the job, the demon said. You can still save him.
It was made of light and his own fiery magic. He'd used one of these to strike many-a demon beast– Even Meta Knight himself. What was one more dead monster?
It's the only way. He'll only be cleansed in death, it insisted. It said it wanted to be an angel.
His grip on it tightened. It couldn't be more difficult than putting an animal down. By the time Meta Knight realized what had happened, he'd be grateful.
If he'd hurt him before, he could hurt him again.
But his paw trembled, and the dagger fell to the ground. It dissolved in a burst of magic and disappeared, leaving nothing but a few white sparks where it'd once been.
The demon vanished. The moment was over.
Meta Knight hadn't woken up, of course. His vitals were still weak, and his wound– the would Galacta had given him– was still hurting. Ever so often, his body would flinch in pain.
"I love you," he said, out loud. Only the security cameras heard his words.
He was wasn't sure if it was true, anymore. He wanted it to be true. He still saw the chick– His chick every time he blinked.
And every time he held his breath, he saw its demise. Galacta Knight had become weak too, and emotions like this were unbecoming of a warrior like himself. If he was going to make a fool of himself by showing a demon beast sympathy, he ought to think of it as a brother in arms and nothing else.
But he'll leave me if I'm not kind to him, he thought. If Meta Knight didn't feel safe in the GSA, it was only a matter of time. An animal only returned when fed.
But that was assuming he didn't die in a few hours, which was still a possibility.
Galacta Knight was selfish. He'd only been thinking of himself when he'd hurt him in that horrible, passion-filled moment, and he'd only been thinking of himself when he'd chosen to spare him. It was all this love and hate that made him so weak– The reason they hadn't won the war yet.
A spell began to form inside his closed fist. No, no, no, NO, his mind screamed. NOT NOW. But he could never hold back, no matter how hard he tried.
There was a bright red glow as the room started spinning, spinning, spinning, and the light reflected off the wall tiles and bounced around the room, taking a life of its own. The magic pierced Meta's flesh like a knife, Galacta's claws digging deeper into his skin.
His entire body trembled. Every word of the spell fell out of his mouth as a raspy whimper… Desperate, he thought. Pathetic, again and again.
A bead of sweat ran down his forehead like blood, falling onto Meta Knight's cheek. It sizzled and evaporated on contact.
No, not sweat. It was some sort of murky, glowing residue… His own magic, leaking from his body as he strained himself. His wings flared out behind him at the shock of sudden pain, iridescent feathers flying everywhere.
Why would you do this to me? he wondered, his body shaking. With every labored breath came a new burst of terror. This demon– This animal was going to be the death of him.
I can't lose you, he thought. Not again.
He couldn't hold back a sigh of relief as magic began flowing back into his body. The bright light over Meta's body slowly began to fade, and with it Galacta's panic.
He leaned over the sleeping warrior, catching his breath as he took a closer look at him. A bit of color had returned to his face. That was good. He was much better at destroying things than healing them, but at least he wasn't completely incompetent.
At last, he let go of the siderail and returned to his seat. He'd made deep markings in it with his claws, he realized… But it didn't matter. This ship was his, and so was the army. He'd never get into any trouble.
Still, he felt a pang of horror in his chest. Not my chick, it told him. Not my baby.
He let his head fall back, exhausted. He had a feeling he wouldn't get much sleep tonight.
It was true, decidedly. He had loved his chick.
But this wasn't his chick anymore.