This has absolutely nothing to do with the John Green book. I just thought adapting/stealing his title might work for this fic, given the circumstances.
I plan for this to be the first part in a series dealing with the aftermath of Lotor's demise in season 6. Of course, that makes this sound way more serious than it is.
This fic is a product of thinking about the alternate universes brought up throughout Voltron: Legendary Defender and the fact there are now five animated versions of this cartoon. Yes, five-that's not counting all the attempts at comic books it's undergone, by the way. While many of the pairings in each show will be mentioned, even explored in later fics, this isn't primarily a work focused on romance. Just want you to know that going in, dear reader.
Oh, and if you aren't familiar with all the animated incarnations of Voltron they are as follows:
- Beast King GoLion (This is the original anime from Japan that started it all!)
- Voltron: Defender of the Universe (The American version that was cobbled together from GoLion. Its second season was created specifically for an American audience by Toei. Vehicle Voltron was created with pieces of an anime called Armored Fleet Dairugger XV.)
- Voltron: The Third Dimension (A short-lived CGI Voltron series made in the late 90s. Tim Curry was the voice of Prince Lotor and King Alfor.)
- Voltron Force (The NickToons reboot. Introduced several new concepts and characters in the form of individual weapons for the pilots, three young Voltron cadets, and an element called Haggarium that can create monsters. Or give someone superpowers and a serious breakout of purple zits.)
-Voltron: Legendary Defender (Our newest version of the show, compliments of Netflix, and the reason this fic now exists.)
If you're not familiar with all of those, no problem. You'll be learning about them alongside Lotor. :)
Infinite power, unceasing pain. The two merged into one, expanding until they filled his entire being. They blocked out the crackling sizzle of the Sincline mech's instrument panels shattering around him. The stinging stench of ozone as whips of iridescent lightning scorched his skin and hair. The rupturing strain on his vocal cords from the howl of mad triumph pouring out of his throat.
If he could reach Voltron it would all stop. The scalding power erupting from his skin, his warring Galra and Altaen natures rending him in half, the blood-soaked memories of everything he had done to arrive at this moment—all of it stop.
He just needed it to stop.
And, in a baptism of pure quintessence and magenta lightning, his prayers received an answer. The universe, including worldly pain and terror, fell away into blue-white oblivion. The last sound made by Emperor Lotor, only son of Zarkon and Honerva, was a sigh of relief.
"No, we can't just leave him!"
That voice. He knew it once, long ago. It promised warmth and light…but also rejection and darkness. He hesitated, caught between pulling away and being drawn in.
"Lotor's made his choice, Allura."
He knew that one as well. More important, the names it spoke. They began to pry his awareness from the safety of its shell in oblivion. Memories seeped in against his will.
Lotor and Allura…Pleas for peace and reason traded across a cell's forcefield and centuries of warfare. Awestruck side by side in the hallowed halls of their ancestors. Hands of smooth brown and strong lavender clasped. Warm lips sealed in a disclosure of emotion and ambition. A room full of eyes reflecting disgust and outrage. Her eyes, brimming with betrayal. Lotor and Allura. Lotor and…
"Allura!" He sprang to a sitting position, pulse hammering in his temples. Casting his muddled senses every which way, Lotor searched for any sign of the Altean princess.
Nothing. Only gauzy veils of clouds drifting across a violet sky that stretched for infinity each direction. Yes, only.
With a wince, Lotor tottered to his feet. No sharp pains to indicate injury, just stiff joints and aching muscles, like he'd slept in the pilot's seat. Not to mention a mind turned inside out.
Where in the name of the ancients was he? Oriande? No…this place didn't radiate the same sense of alchemical power, of potential. Its energy read as serene, meditative, almost lulling. Besides, there wasn't mystical fog all over the place. Frowning, Lotor dropped his gaze.
It took half a tick to realize what a mistake that was.
Whatever he stood on reflected the sky so faithfully that he swore he stood on nothing but miles of empty air with the clouds far below. Lotor's stomach did a backflip. He wobbled as the phantom sensation of freefall gripped him, dissolving his balance. Taking deep, slow breaths he squeezed his eyes shut.
Right. No looking for loose change on the ground.
Master of his senses once more, Lotor opened his eyes and stared out into the middle distance. Barren. Not a single landscape feature or bit of difference to break the monotony. He turned on his heel ninety degrees (and simultaneously banished thoughts of the mirror-like image under his boots shattering and letting him drop to who-knew-where). Same story to report there. Another turn. Another identical result. Repeat. His mouth twitched with a repressed snarl.
All right. Fine. He'd been in worse situations before, surely. For instance, that time when…wait, no. Narti's companion Kova had found him before the girders had given way. Then what about when Acxa had…damn it, no! That had worked out as well and, worse, in large part thanks to her being rescued by two wet-behind-the-ears paladins in the form of Keith and Hunk.
Lotor grimaced at the bland horizon. Who was he trying to fool aside from himself? He'd been forced to kill Narti, Acxa and his two remaining generals had abandoned him, and his attempts to revolutionize intergalactic history had gone up in quintessence flames.
To top it off, he was dead. Or near enough at any rate.
The only thing he could scrounge up gratitude for was the fact he hadn't been forced into some spiritual tribunal with the specter of Zarkon or anyone else who'd fallen to his superior skills serving as key witnesses. On the other hand, that would have been more engaging than loitering in a cloudy purgatory. While no sense of hunger, thirst, or fatigue plagued him—not yet—he couldn't imagine lingering in this place forever.
Perhaps that was the idea.
All his ambition, his curiosity, his drive to explore the boundaries of possibility…left to rot in an eternal state of ennui. A fitting sentence, some would think. Lotor clenched his jaw tight enough to ache. This was Romelle and her brother's fault. They'd ruined everything. Years of painstaking research, the sacrifice of scores of test subjects, his life's work, and Allura…gone. All because two children were too selfish to understand the stakes and couldn't keep their mouths shut.
He was so mired in resentment he didn't notice it at first. When it finally caught his eye, he froze.
A silhouette shimmered in the distance. A figure, coming his way. All inflamed thoughts cooled and formed sharp focus in Lotor's mind. So. Not destined to wither alone after all. Something warm yet painful kindled in his chest. What if…Could Allura have come in search of him despite the other paladins' protests? She had the alchemical knowledge and power. None could have stopped her if she wanted to. Pulse driven by fresh purpose, Lotor headed straight for the distant sight of hope at a pace just under a run.
At the first sight of long white hair he almost tripped over his own feet. He surged into a desperate sprint before his brain caught up with him a dobosh later.
White hair, yes, but it hung over shoulders much too broad to belong to Allura. The height was off as well—of Galran proportions almost. Blue skin confirmed the notion.
Lotor's pace flagged until his feet came to a scuffling halt. The figure, he noticed, also stopped. A mirage? He might have believed it if not for being close enough to make out the other's attire. Blue tunic and pants matching the skin with a black collar and kilt about the shoulders and hips respectively. And…was that red fringing? How quaintly archaic. It almost could have been a Galran military uniform if it weren't so impractical and tacky.
The figure, apparently having been busy staring too, resumed walking first. Putting his own hesitation aside, Lotor did likewise with nearly as much vigor as before. While it wasn't Allura, it was someone and they'd surely have a tale about how they had wound up in such a place. The more data he had the better his odds of doing something about the situation.
Fifty paces…one hundred…two fifty…then a deluge of speculation and dread as he and the stranger slowly circled one another, both staying well out of kicking or stabbing range. A Galran half-breed, just as he was. The softened features left little doubt about that. What caused trepidation and excitement to wrestle in his stomach was the other's pale hair and glinting golden eyes. The latter sported feline pupils that dilated with the same range of emotions playing havoc inside of him. Though he couldn't identify why, the sight of them reminded Lotor of his father. The hair, however, so like his own…could this stranger be of Altaen blood as well? No markings showed on his wary face, but none had revealed themselves on Lotor's either until he'd finally discovered Oriande.
In the end, he had only one way of knowing.
Lotor came to a stop, prompting the other man to copy him. Making no sudden movements, he placed one fist over his chest.
"Vrepit Sa."
In reply, the stranger raised one white brow and stared as if Lotor had just suggested he dunk his head in a bowl of food goo. Right. Clearly, another approach was warranted.
"Greetings, friend," he tried again, turning his palms up in the universal sign of truce. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to see another person."
That got the reaction Lotor had been waiting for and more besides. Accustomed to reading people, he didn't miss the relief that eased the suspicious tension on the stranger's face for a tick. The man's expression hardened again in the next instant.
"The pleasure's all yours then." His voice oozed a wry arrogance. "Who are you and what are you doing in this strange place with me?"
"I could ask you the same thing…but in the interest of not wasting energy on bickering I wound up here because I was trapped in the quintessence field. I'm—"
"The what?"
Lotor made himself take a deep, even breath. "Quintessence field. A plane from which pure, limitless energy can be harvested?"
He may as well have been trying to explain advanced alchemical engineering to Zethrid and Ezor for all the recognition that got him. Just as he started to wonder whether an eternity alone might not have been the better option after all the stranger shrugged.
"Quintessence you say? I've never heard of such a thing in any of the systems or galaxies I've campaigned in. We use lazon as our energy source on Doom."
Lotor's turn to stare had finally come. What kind of place would earn such a name? The kind where people believed fringing and skull belt buckles were socially acceptable, apparently. "How interesting," he replied in a tone that implied otherwise. "In all my travels I've never heard of lazon or a location by that name. Perhaps we could exchange stories of how we both came to be here, Sir…?"
"Prince," the stranger corrected him with a toss of the head that, admittedly, was almost regal. "I am Lotor, Crown Prince of Doom and only son of King Zarkon."