The underground holding cells beneath the Colosseum were a testament to Sakaar's brutal efficiency. Carved from the planet's bedrock and reinforced with salvaged alien technology, they served as both prison and preparation area for the endless stream of gladiators who fed the arena's insatiable appetite for violence.
Minutes later, the chamber's main entrance burst open with violent force as guards hurled Loki's battered form through the doorway. The fallen prince hit the stone floor hard, his clothing torn and bloodied, neural chains visible as dark lines piercing his collarbones.
Loki's unceremonious arrival punctuated the chamber's oppressive atmosphere with bone-jarring finality.
The sight of Asgardian royalty brought so low sent ripples of shock through the assembled fighters. Many had heard whispered legends of the golden realm that existed beyond the stars.
To see one of those mythical beings reduced to such a state was both terrifying and oddly reassuring—if even gods could fall, then perhaps their own circumstances weren't quite so hopeless.
"Behold the mighty Prince of Asgard!" sneered the guard who had overseen Loki's delivery, his voice dripping with contempt. "Nothing but a mangy cur when stripped of his pretty palace and daddy's protection!"
The guard's attention shifted to Ben, and his expression hardened with menace.
"You'd be wise to remember this sight, boy. Cross the Red King, and you'll end up in worse condition than your friend here."
Ben raised his hands in a gesture of innocent confusion, his expression carefully crafted to project harmless bewilderment.
"I've never seen this guy before in my life," he said with practiced sincerity. "We just happened to get captured at the same time—pure coincidence. Besides, I volunteered to become a fighter. I'm here by choice."
The guard studied Ben's face for a long moment, searching for signs of deception. Finding none that satisfied his suspicions, he turned on his heel and stalked away, his heavy footsteps echoing through the stone corridors until they faded into silence.
The moment the guard disappeared from view, Ben's wrist-mounted device emitted a soft chime and pulsed with blue light. The Omnitrix's scanning protocols had been working overtime since their arrival, cataloging the genetic signatures of every new species they encountered.
Two distinct indigenous DNA samples of Sakaar recorded, the device's internal systems noted with digital satisfaction.
Ben had observed the planet's complex social hierarchy during their brief tour of the arena complex. The red-skinned natives, who shared their genetic heritage with the ruling Red King, occupied positions of authority and privilege throughout Sakaar's power structure. The silver-gray-skinned beings—like Caiera, whom he'd met earlier—formed what appeared to be a secondary caste, possessing significant capabilities but operating under the dominion of their crimson-hued cousins.
The political implications were fascinating, but Ben's immediate concern was the broken figure of Loki sprawled across the cell floor.
The confrontation with the Red King had gone spectacularly poorly for the self-proclaimed God of Asgard. Loki's natural inclination toward arrogance and authority had proven catastrophically inappropriate for his current circumstances. His demands for royal treatment and threats of Asgardian retaliation had only served to amuse the planetary ruler, who had responded to such presumption with swift and brutal correction.
The Red King's punishment had been both practical and symbolic: Loki's collarbones had been pierced with neural inhibitors that would prevent him from accessing his magical abilities, while heavy shackles now bound his wrists in quantum-locked restraints that could withstand even Asgardian strength. The physical pain was considerable, but the psychological impact was devastating—the prince who had once commanded armies now lay helpless and forgotten in an alien dungeon.
Loki's breathing was shallow and labored, his eyes red-rimmed with pain and humiliation. For perhaps the first time in his long life, he was experiencing true powerlessness, and the revelation was destroying him from within.
"Hey there, newcomer!"
The cheerful greeting came from two massive figures approaching through the gloom. Ben looked up to see a pair of stone-like beings whose skin caught and reflected the chamber's dim lighting. Their bodies were composed of blue-gray rock formations that shifted and ground together with each movement, creating a constant symphony of geological sounds.
Ben immediately recognized one of them from his fragmentary knowledge of cosmic events.
"What happened to your friend there?" the larger of the two stone beings asked, genuine concern coloring his gravelly voice.
"He made the mistake of antagonizing the Red King," Ben replied with calculated indifference.
"Ouch," the creature winced sympathetically. "That's never a good strategy around here. Name's Korg, by the way, and this hulking mass of sediment beside me is my brother Druuk. Word of advice—the Red King is the absolute authority on this planet. Best not to challenge him until you're absolutely certain you can win."
Druuk nodded enthusiastically, his rocky features managing to convey surprising expressiveness despite their mineral composition.
"We weren't originally prisoners here," Druuk explained with the earnest enthusiasm of someone eager to share their story. "My brother had this grand idea about overthrowing the Red King's government. Didn't work out so well—the Death's Head units captured us before we could even get started."
"Death's Head units?" Ben asked, though he was more interested in collecting genetic samples than conducting political analysis. As Korg spoke, Ben carefully gathered small rock fragments that had naturally shed from the brothers' forms, allowing the Omnitrix to begin its genetic mapping process.
"The Red King's elite military force," Korg explained. "They handle the more... specialized... enforcement duties around here."
The stone being's expression grew wistful as he continued their tale.
"Druuk and I are from Kronan—warrior people, born for conquest and glory. We were originally part of an invasion fleet sent to subjugate a backwater planet called Earth. Primitive place, barely worth the effort of conquest, but orders are orders, you know?"
Ben's blood ran cold at the casual mention of his home planet, but he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Earth?" he asked, injecting just the right amount of curious ignorance into his voice.
"Small, unremarkable world on the galaxy's outer rim," Korg said dismissively. "You've probably never heard of it. Anyway, we never even made it there—got swallowed by a spatial anomaly and ended up here instead. Sometimes I wonder how that invasion turned out without us."
Ben filed that information away for future consideration. The knowledge that Earth had been targeted for Kronan invasion was both troubling and useful—it suggested that his home world's profile in galactic politics was higher than most people realized.
"The locals here found us first," Druuk continued, picking up the narrative thread. "The Sakaarian natives—specifically the Shadow People, those silver-skinned folks you might have seen around the arena."
Korg's expression darkened as he described the Shadow People's plight.
"Most of them live like animals," he said with genuine sadness. "The Red King's regime has enslaved the useful ones and abandoned the rest to scavenge in the wastelands. They can't even build permanent settlements because of all the debris that keeps falling from those dimensional rifts overhead."
The brothers painted a picture of systematic oppression that made Ben's jaw clench with suppressed anger. The Shadow People survived by selling captured off-worlders to the arena in exchange for basic necessities, while the weak and elderly were often consumed as emergency food sources. The Kronans' rocky physiology had initially protected them from such a fate, allowing them to disguise themselves as natural stone formations until they decided to take action against the regime.
"We tried to organize resistance among the Shadow People," Druuk explained with obvious regret. "Figured they'd be eager to overthrow their oppressors and reclaim their dignity."
"Instead, they turned us in for the bounty," Korg finished bitterly. "Can't really blame them, though. Generations of brutalization tend to break the spirit of rebellion. They've forgotten that resistance is even possible."
Ben remained diplomatically silent on the subject of resistance movements and their chances of success.
Korg proceeded to introduce him to the other inhabitants of their underground community: Hiroim t he shamed, a former Shadow Priest turn warrior; Miek, whose insectoid appearance concealed a surprisingly philosophical nature; and various other beings whose stories all seemed to end with capture, defeat, and resignation to their current circumstances.
Each introduction was accompanied by a discrete genetic sampling as Ben allowed the Omnitrix to catalog the incredible diversity of life forms that had found their way to Sakaar's arena.
Kronan genetic matrix acquired... Insectoid variant cataloged... Additional xenotype samples processed...
The device's quiet confirmations provided a steady soundtrack to Ben's efforts.
"You look pretty fragile for combat," Hiroim observed with the casual assessment of someone who had seen countless fighters come and go. "But don't worry too much about it. Most of our matches are preliminary entertainment—warm-up acts before the real bloodshed begins. We put on a good show, take some minor injuries, and try not to do anything stupid like challenging the champion."
The Shadow People's gaze fell on Ben's wrist, where the Omnitrix's periodic scanning pulses created brief flashes of light.
"What's with the blinking watch?" Hiroim asked with mild curiosity.
"Old piece of junk," Ben replied with practiced nonchalance. "Been acting up for years. I keep meaning to get it fixed, but you know how it is."
The explanation seemed to satisfy Hiroim's curiosity, and conversation moved on to other topics. Ben found himself integrating smoothly with the community, his age and apparent vulnerability earning him a protective attitude from many of the more experienced fighters.
Meanwhile, Loki had dragged himself to the furthest corner of the cell, where he sat hunched against the stone wall like a wounded animal.
For the first time in his long life, Loki was experiencing true isolation—cut off from his magic, his status, his family, and any hope of rescue or redemption. The pain of his physical injuries paled beside the agony of complete abandonment.
"Is he going to be okay?" Korg asked, his voice heavy with genuine concern. "He looks like someone kicked his favorite pet."
"He's Asgardian," Ben replied with calculated indifference. "They're tougher than they look."
"Ah," Korg nodded with understanding. "Asgardians are indeed resilient. Like cosmic cockroaches—nearly impossible to kill permanently."
Ben suspected that Odin was perfectly aware of Loki's current suffering, watching through whatever mystical means the All-Father employed to monitor his wayward son's progress. The fact that no rescue had been forthcoming suggested that this ordeal was part of some larger educational process—a harsh lesson in humility that the God of Mischief desperately needed to learn.
The philosophical implications of godly parenting strategies were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and the screech of opening doors. Several guards entered the chamber, dragging between them a figure that immediately commanded attention and respect from the assembled gladiators.
"Old Bill!" Korg exclaimed, leaping to his feet with obvious delight.
Hiroim leaned close to Ben's ear, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
"That's Beta Ray Bill," he explained. "He's from the Korbinite. One of the greatest warriors this arena has ever seen."
Ben studied the newcomer with intense interest. The being before him possessed an elongated skull that resembled a horse's head, with features that managed to be both alien and noble.
"So he's not actually a horse," Ben observed.
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