This came to me full-fledged while watching the opera "The Pearl Fishers." Gorgeous music, wonderful story, and strong libretto.

The characters and world created by WEP belong to them. Everything else comes from my own head.

….. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frenemies

The stupid beeping finally brought him back to reality. Still disoriented, it took only seconds before he sucked in a deep breath at the deep pain in his abdomen and left arm. Oh, heart monitor, right. Another fucking battle. Another scar. Another hospital stay. Oh, and do not forget the lovely pain accompanying it. Stomach wound, that means limited meds. That means shitty pain meds that only cut the edge or a stupid fucking nerve block that means gods-be-damned confinement to bed. I am so sick of this shit. That's it. Done. I am not going to be that freaks punching bag anymore. No more dramatic rescues. No more by-the-book crap. I am 26 years old, and have had more surgeries and hospitals stays than any ten normal people. Hell, between all of us, you could write a damned 300 page essay. When is this going to stop? Never. That's the answer. No rhyme or reason. Not a single piece of logic. Fine.

He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes at the vicious stabbing agony radiating from his flank. With a shaking hand, he pressed the nurse call button, trying to hold back the waves of red and black crossing his vision.

"Sir?"

"Hurts." He panted through clenched teeth.

"The doctor left orders that . . . "

"Block. Now." It did not matter if he could not walk for a day or two, with his stomach this messed up, walking would not happen anyway. The block meant he could stay awake to plan the next step with the guys.

"Yes sir. The anesthetist will be here momentarily."

The man only grunted in return, sweat breaking out on his head as he tried to ride the waves of pain. After about ten years, he heard the cheerful greeting from Dr. Galva as she entered the room. The sound of a brief conversation washed over his head.

"Sir. I need to you look at me. Sir. Open your eyes."

I'd like to see you open your damned eyes when you have had your guts rearranged courtesy of an obsessed freak of nature and those same guts now trying to escape constant damage straight out of the skin. Ok, fine. C'mon eyes, open. He managed to open his eyes to look at Dr. Galva and then waited.

"Ok, here's the deal, I am going to temporarily knock you out so I can put in the block. Right now you are too tense to safely insert the block. Blink if you understand."

A long deliberate blink followed the request.

"Excellent. The doctor's formed blurred as she leaned over and did something with the IV. "Ok, about ten seconds now and you should. . . "

Oh thank gods, oblivion. Take me away to the place of no pain. Ahhhhhhh.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next time he woke up, he no longer felt any pain. His left arm burned, but felt none of the stabbing agony from his stomach. Blinking to clear the fuzzy feeling he carefully looked around to see Dr. Galva sitting in a chair, reading a magazine called 'Sleep.' He tried to say her name, but only a croak emerged. The doctor looked up, "Ah, you have rejoined the land of the awake. Bet your mouth is sticky and your throat dry. Just a moment while I sit you up." As she spoke the doctor walked to the bed and pressed the controls to move it to a semi-seated position. "Since you took a wound to the stomach, I cannot raise you up all the way, but enough to give you something to drink."

No shit, Sherlock. This is not my first rodeo. Why do all the doctors, excepting Gorma treat us like invalids or stupid? He tuned out the friendly chatter as she held a glass with a straw for him to drink. Nearly gagging on the taste, the man mentally sighed and continued drinking until the doctor took the glass away, talking more about the need to watch the amount of food and drink. Blah blah blah. Seriously. Do none of them look at the files? Deliberately he closed his eyes for a moment before she decided to ask if he needed anything. "Yes. Anyone else hurt? How badly. If not too badly, I need to talk about security with everyone but Allura."

"Lieutenant McClain has a broken wrist and scrapes and bruises. Sergeant Stoker a mild concussion and bruised ribs from a hard landing. Sergeant Garrett escaped without injury. Princess Allura has bruising from the restraints. Dr. Gorma has said you need your rest and. . . "

"Yes, yes. I know the drill. Please ask Lieutenant McClain and Sergeants Stoker and Garrett to join me asap."

"But Sir."

"Did. I. Stutter."

"No, sir."

"Am I still in charge of the military on this planet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do what I just asked. Now."

"Yes sir, immediately."

The man sighed as the doctor left the room, throwing his right arm across his eyes. Idiots. Every farking one of them. I am perfectly aware of what Gorma would have ordered and do not care. I am tired of this shit, and it will end.

Tired from the meds, he let his mind wander and dozed as he waited for his friends and teammates to arrive.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Yo, bossman, time to wakey wakey. The rest of us are not sleeping on the job, why are you?"

'Bossman' opened one eye and stretched his good arm above his head before reaching to slowly sit upright as he could in the bed without causing more pain. "Everybody coming?"

"Yeah. Pidge is being a little slow walking, but coming. Gorma fussed a bit about letting him out of his room, but I pulled rank. They tried to insist on a wheelchair, but I swear the dude is learning too much from our fearless leader. Stubborn and not staying in bed where anyone with sense belongs after taking a beating."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look, can you find me a washcloth? My face feels sticky. Probably from whatever tape they used to keep whatever they needed in place on this last, oh-so-fun surgery."

"Hold on two shakes. Harder to do with a bum arm."

"Sorry about that. Wanna call a nurse?"

"Nah, Hatchett is on duty."

Both men shuddered, "Take your time. That woman. . . "

"I know. Worse than a mongoose after a cobra."

"Are we sure she is on our side?"

"Not ever going to even ask, bossman. I am scared of the results."

Lance finally managed to wet and slightly wring out a washcloth without using his bum arm. Keith gratefully used it front and back to clean his face and neck, before wiping off his hands. Tossing it onto the table next to him he sighed. "Are you as tired of this shit as I am?"

"Yes!" came the resounding response from the doorway. Keith looked over at the doorway and grinned, the other two remaining members of the original team stood in the doorway, the green pilot leaning heavily on the yellow, looking a little green around the gills.

"Ok, then I officially propose we implement plan 'We came up with it drunk, but I bet we could make it work anyway.'"

"That is such a terrible name, who came up with it anyway?"

"Um, I think it was consensus? I don't remember, that was the night we found that hidden compartment in the library filled with those bottles of whatever we drank."

"Good point. Ok, back to the motion. Is there a second?"

The big man in the doorway held a hand, "So seconded."

"Any discussion?"

"No."

"Nope."

"No siree bob. I think it is a fine and dandy plan with a 5.7% chance of success."

"Noted. Ok, all in favor?"

All five men called "Aye."

"No opposed, motion carried. Operation 'Drunk' to commence."

"Boss, being that I have a concussion and all, can we delay start until I can look at a computer screen without wanting to throw up?"

"Well, considering it will be several weeks before I am at full capacity, I suppose I can cut you some slack.

"Good, then I am going to go back to my room, throw-up, and then sleep for a week."

"Dismissed, then."

The yellow and green pilots slowly turned and made their way at Pidge's shuffling pace toward his room, leaving the other two pilots.

"Well, since you seem bright eyed and bushy tailed, oh glorious leader, and we do not want any notes, shall we discuss?"

"Yes. First, I need you to reach out to Collund on Planet Norva. . . "

The two men proceeded to speak for the next two hours about the beginnings of the end. Or so they hoped.

. .. . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lotor, Crowned Prince of Doom scowled into his goblet, ignoring the dancing girl directly in front of him. Again. And again. And again. What is the point of continuing to go after that stupid planet? Why does 'dear-old-dad' have such a stupid obsession with one little planet. It is not like they have anything worthwhile these days. We stripped their planet years ago. What's left other than the lions and Allura? Ahh, beautiful Allura. She would make such a grand addition to my harem. Not that I would let her rule by my side, but she would give me such sons and daughters to rule after me. Once I dispose of dear-old-dad.

A bout of laughter turned Lotor's head to the right. Seated just down from him, near other dignitaries sat Queen Merla. Pink hair flowing down her back, in a green dress that bared her shoulders and left little to the imagination of her assets. Lotor's eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Queen Merla. Queen of what, exactly? A planet stripped bare of any resources and a dying sun in a dying solar system. Her people fled years ago and live amongst the stars, looking for a new home. Queen indeed. Powerful, I will give her that, but lacks cunning. Smart, twisted, but not subtle. Father thinks we would make a good match. Ha!

Abruptly, without waiting for dismissal, Lotor rose from the table and strode from the room. With a crook of his finger, his person attendant came forward to await his orders. "Prepare my personal shuttle. I will not need an escort."

"Yes, your highness. When do you wish to depart?"

"One hour."

"As you command, your highness."

Lotor did not bother to respond. After all, underlings did not require any explanations. Walking toward his personal quarters, he did not notice any of the slaves groveling against the walls or scrambling to get out of his way. Stupid, stupid me. I let one bimbo cause me to stop thinking through critically. What happened to me? They feared me throughout the quadrant and in the next three galaxies. My name meant horror, destruction, pain and death. Now? Now I am that pathetic Prince Lotor who the Voltron Force defeats time and again. Obsessed with a pretty princess and unable to close the deal. Well to the Infernal with that! Time for me to leave aside the pretty princess and finish that piddly excuse for a planet once and for all. Then I will go on such a reign of terror, they will remember me for the next ten thousand years!

Arriving at his quarters, he snapped orders to have his belongings prepared for a month away. He would go and visit one of the pleasure planets, gorge himself on blue-eyed blonds until he could not stand the sight of them. Then he would come back to deal with the problem of Arus. He would bring an end to the threat of Voltron and recover all he had lost. Then, and only then, would he tackle the problem of dear-old-dad and his witch. Time to stop relying on her unpredictable magic and increasingly incompetent RoBeasts.

Fist clenched, he strode into his harem, the fierce look on his face instantly silencing any conversations. His smile, devoid of anything pleasant, holding only the promise of pain sent a wave of terror through the room. Lotor closed his eyes and basked for a moment before opening his eyes and making good on the promise of his eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .