Shiro waits for the call to arms.
There are rules, to cope with the waiting. He falls back on them more and more now. Everyone has their own, if they last long enough to need them, but the single, unspoken one they all share is to never let it get to you. The waiting. The tension, in your shoulders. The sweat rolling down your cheek. Otherwise you snap.
Rule 1: Know your enemy.
Shiro watches the new stock scurry. There are a lot of new faces this time; the Galra have speckled fresh blood over old battle-scars to make them more gruesome. The heat is opressive. It smells like frightened animal and dead meat. Slaughterhouse smell.
There's an old crow-like thing leaning against the far wall, stooped over by the burden of too many victories. Shiro might've heard stories about him. It's hard to be sure; the stories they tell here (corner of the mouth, guards' not looking) dress everyone in shining armour. Every underdog is the hero to lead them to salvation.
Shiro doesn't need the stories. He has real things to be strong for (they were real, they will be again.)
This crow is grey, though. Moulting. So few people here reach old age, it's quite the achievement. Shiro has to watch him carefully.
- You ground the flying ones first. Take out the wings and go in with something long-range, maybe a spear, take advantage of their limited mobility and keep jabbing until they stop moving -
He wonders if he'll live to be that grey. A small, weak part of him hopes not. He'll go insane first.
Rule 2: Always think like you are going to win.
There is no second option. Don't think about it.
The bunker rumbles, marking the death of something big in the arena above. Dust trickles into Shiro's hair. He opressive throb of the crowd's approval in his boots.
The guy sitting next to him won't be grey, when he goes. His fear is the newborn kind that bawls and flails at anyone who tries to help. Wide, salamander eyes. Brown, like Matt's. Sweat. The smell of sweat is, it seems, universal. Locker room smell, at the Garrison, Matt Holt's struggling breath as he tried to keep up on the treadmill. Shiro always overtook him. He always came back -
Rule 3: The past is your greatest ally and your greatest enemy.
They come to him sometimes, these flashes of normality, reality, shots of light in the dark. But reality needs to be rationed down here, like everything else.
The ceiling shivers again, in anticipation. The newbies panic and stumble into each other like headless chickens. The crow does not react. Shiro is certain he his being watched back now, by beady, oil-drop eyes. He keeps his head down. The acolytes have started to mutter.
The Galra have scattered poison over the scars too, to let them fester. Three acolytes huddle together, whispering. Shiro can't tell if their scars are from fighting or ceremony; they all look the same. The acolytes have been fighting for too long, and now the bloodlust curls permenant and greedy behind their eyes.
He tells himself not to hate them. They could be good, if the Galra hadn't stripped them of their own faith and herded them towards the only thing left.
- Acolytes have killed their self preservation instincts, so take advantage of that. Keep luring them on, use the terrain, make the chase dangerous. Keep away from their hands, because they'll claw and rip like savages. Give them quick deaths. They like it when you make a show of them -
Rule 4: Never make it personal.
If you hate someone, you're accountable for killing them. It's not their fault.
Another roar from the crowd, and something screams.
The salamander beside him flinches with Matt Holt's eyes. The acolytes buzz louder. Their time is approaching, a chance to prove themselves to their new gods, sitting on the stands above. A consummation. Matt Holt stares at them through an alien face, like he's seeing the end of a long, dark tunnel.
"Don't let them change you." Shiro's voice is creaky from underuse.
Matt-not-Matt starts. Shiro shouldn't be saying anything.
"... You mean don't kill?"
"No - no, you need to kill, or you'll be dead." This is funny, but Shiro finds he can't smile. Across the room, the crow has tensed. He knows what's happening. He's seen it before. So has Shiro.
"Then how do I not let them change me?" the kid even sounds weedy. How did he end up here? Then again, how did Shiro?
"Just - hold on to what's you" (Rule 5). He's given this speech too many times, it's worked too few. But this one has Matt's eyes. He takes it as an omen. "Don't become them." Shiro indicates the accolytes, with their battle scars matting with the ones they carved themselves. "You can be better."
"How?"
"Fight. And hate it, feel guilty. Guilt means you're not one of their machines."
Not-Matt almost laughs.
"I think I'm too scared to feel guilty." He freezes. Weakness.
"So hold onto that instead." (Rule 6: Everything they tell you is a weakness is just a power they don't have.) "Fear makes you fast."
Not-Matt relaxes and Shiro manages a smile. It hurts a little, around the edges.
"Remember who you are, and you'll make it."
He can feel the crow's disapproval from across the room, waves of heat from a furnace.
Rule 7: Never make promises you can't keep.
But that's the problem with making your own rules. They're so easy to break.
The doors ground to life. A sliver of purple half-light, still bright enough to blind, creeps up the floor towards them. Not-Matt squeaks. Shiro breathes.
He's done this before. You hold on to the victories and cut the rest out. He glances at Matt, and tries to communicate how important their own truths are, even if they are mangled and small. Cupped hands under a leaking gutter.
The doors screech to a halt. The crowd bays for blood, and the acolytes lead the charge into the arena.
...
The bedroom lights flicker on at 6am. Everyone else's do this at 8am, but Pidge has made a few adjustments to her personal system; she can't see the point in wasting two potentially productive hours in darkness. Now she groans awake, and blinks into the bleached glare of the laptop monitor. Her groping hand finds a pillow, and she chucks it at the nearest lamp.
Screw productivity.
The pillow bounces off, and the lamp continues to glow merrily. She glares at it for a second, before peeling their face off of the laptop and staggering into the bathroom. It's mercifully dark in here, and they let themselves slip back into low power mode, waiting for their brain to crawl back from the land of the dead. They drop their pants, and fumble around for something that isn't there.
Half a second. Brain clicks back into place. Blood turns to ice.
Shit. She groans like a zombie and drops onto the toilet lid, head in her hands. Shit.Why does she keep doing this to herself?
Katie. I am Katie, she tells herself. Firmly, sincerely (she tells herself).
Pidge, Pidge, Pidge, everything else whispers. Clothes, glasses, hair, binder (which she really needs to stop wearing. There just never seems to be time-).
Out of the bathroom and across to the wardrobe. Everyone picked up some spare changes of clothes on their last visit to a Belt Market. Hers are plain, non-descript. No dresses, no bows. No shirts either, she reminds herself. Tries to take comfort. No boots either. They want boots, a good, sturdy pair that won't melt from plasma residue. But that seems risky, somehow. Keep it simple. Ambiguous enough to avoid the question. She has bigger things to deal with.
She climbs up onto the bed and stands on her tiptoes, sliding the laptop back into its hidey hole in the ceiling. Yet another thing she hates about being short; it cuts off all the best hiding spots. Shiro is bound to find-
Their stomach withers. She shakes herself, and leaves the room. Shiro will find the laptop, it'll be fine. Maybe as early as tonight. No way he'll let her have too much fun.
The others have already gone down to eat, by the looks of things. Shiro's empty room almost looks normal. Doesn't feel it.
The elevator swishes open and then Pidge is gliding upward, towards the mess lamps in here are on around the clock or, more accurately, round the ticker. Same thing. Not really. The light glows warm, candle light made steady. Not electric; she'd taken one apart last week (Coran had nearly fainted) so she knows they run on some kind of perpetual energy source, way beyond Earth. But, then again, what isn't out here?
The Castle uses minature suns to light its hallways. Seriously. This kind of thing is starting to get pretty familiar, actually.
The elevator door opens again and Pidge steps out, working over the possibilities. They really should ask Allura about adapting the technology for Green. Maybe some kind of self-sustaining force feild? The lions' particle barriers don't work in-flight, a serious oversight, if you ask them -
The others are waiting in the kitchen. It honestly looks like Pidge has slept best out of all of them, which is a little sad. Lance and Keith are slumped over on the same couch. The same couch, without yelling at each other, which notches things up to scary.
Hunk is by the stove, wearing the drawstring apron Lance helped him programme into the fabricator. Pidge still doesn't understand why he can't just buy one from a Belter, but maybe that particular shade of pink is hard to come by. Pidge passes him on the way to the refrigerator; Hunk's been going through an 'experimental' phase lately, and this morning he's keeping his hands busy rolling dough.
Except it's not really dough, because it's purple (Coran says he's never heard of wheat before). This is a substitute. That's getting pretty familiar, too.
Pidge opens the fridge and peruses their options. They ask the question that needs to be answered.
"How is he?"
Lance looks up. He's tired enough that the cocksure grin doesn't yet reach his eyes.
"Stable. Allura says he'll be fine. Obviously, I knew that already." He puffs out his chest a little, and Pidge will not roll their eyes, not now. "Yep, I have complete faith in our fearless leader. I mean, it's Shiro. He's been through tons worse. The guy survived a whole year of the Galra on his own."
"You mean he's still alive," Keith mutters. He's the only one still in battle armour. Lance frowns at him like he's dense.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
Keith shakes his head.
"Never mind."
"Anyway, point is, Allura says he'll make it."
"I don't know, guys," Hunk says from the stove. He's decided to fry his breakfast, (dough-ish, Pidge has christened it) and small ridges are raising on it as it spits in the oil, like the spines on a sea anemone. "Allura's ears were flat when she said it. You noticed she does that when she's scared?"
"Lance is right," Keith interrupts. Lance gapes, and Hunk has to dive to retrieve his dropped spatula. "Shiro will be fine." There's something going on with his eyes, though, something rigid Pidge can't name. Hunk probably can, but he's been distracted by the lilac bubbles congealing over his breakfast.
Pidge wolf whistles, grabbing a bottle of their own breakfast and nudging the refrigerator shut with their toe.
"Not fighting and now actually agreeing on something. Have you guys agreed on baby names yet?"
Lance splutters on air. Keith's frown deepens to Mariana Trench levels. Pidge flops down on the opposite couch and takes a swig of alien pop.
"Pidge, is that the... pepsi, you've got there?" Hunk asks. Pidge gives him innocent eyes.
"Technically it's space pepsi."
"You can't have pepsi for breakfast!" Hunk sputters, clutching his stomach like he's protecting his only child.
"Dude, have you seen what you're meant to be eating?" Lance seems relieved at the change of subject. Pidge can smell the dough-ish from here (squid, spinach... was that egg?) and Hunk seems to be having difficulty breathing through it. "She's actually doing better than you right now."
Pidge jolts, she jolts. Cover it up with another mouthful of pepsi (which actually tastes like warm cottage pie, but it sort of looks like pepsi, and something as weird as pie-in-a-bottle really needs to be normalised before being drunk and okay you're rambling now.) Change the subject, now, before they notice.
What about the engines? She can normally feel how fast they're going through deck vibration. No vibrations now. So -
"Where have we landed?" she asks around another mouthful. Normally she feels the shiver of touchdown from her room, but she must've missed it.
"We don't know." Keith grunts. Nobody asks her how she knew. At this point, when it comes to machines it's generally assumed Pidge is some kind of psychic. "Coran only checked for no sentient life and a breathabler atmosphere before going back down to check on Allura." He glares angrily at an innocent patch of space, like Allura has paid him personal insult. "Still too dangerous to go out, though. There could be anything out there."
Lance's eyes light up.
Here we go...
He springs upwards like a rubber band and makes a show of bending backwards, like a bamboo pole. Cartilage clicks.
"Well, come on then, we're burning daylight! Quintak light. Whatever."
He strides off towards the elevator, which Pidge knows he'll take to the entrance hall and then head straight out the front door. Keith asks anyway.
"Where are you going?"
"Gonna go look around, check out the sights, get friendly with the locals." Lance winks and Keith's grip on the armrest tightens. Pidge can't hold back the eye-roll this time.
"I just said-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know what you said." Lance waves him off. "Wanna know what I say?"
"Not really," Keith says honestly. Pidge snorts into her pepsi.
"What I say is there's a whole new alien world out there. You guys realise we're the first Garrison cadets to make it beyond our own solar system? But we never get the chance to actually go exploring! It's always train now, fight this, save them, pew-pew-pew ." Lance's finger gun riddles Keith with laser holes. "Don't you want to see what's out there? I mean, I know you dropped out, but -"
"Fine," Keith snaps. He has the emotional range of a screwdriver, and can block out most of the stupidity in the universe (boy, does Pidge want that superpower), but Lance always manages to get under his skin.
Pidge slides off the couch and mooches after them, still bickering. Hunk trails behind, twiddling with his apron. The words 'My Kitchen Is My Canvas' are emblazoned on the front.
"Uh, guys, not sure I'm on board with this plan." He follows them into the elevator anyway, "I mean, what if we get out there and the ground is made of jell-o, and we all sink and drown in strawberry quicksand?"
"You could eat your way out," Lance offers. The elevator opens to the ground floor.
"OK, but what if, like, the planet is run by cat people who think the Lions are gods, and they hold a freaky dance party where they sacrifice us to them? Or, what if everyone looks like a clown and the circus performers have to wear make-up to look like normal people? Or-"
"Or, maybe there were some inhalable hallucinogens in your breakfast," Pidge suggests. They've reached the main doors. Lance's hand hovers over the release button for dramatic effect.
"Seriously though guys, it's going to be horrible and explodey-" The doors slide open and Hunk puts his arms up to defend from certain death. He can't look. "And there are going to be mountains of acid and carnivorous trees and... a beach. Oh. It's - a beach. Huh. OK."
Pidge steps forward, and feels the universe steal their breath away. Again.
The beach stretches on forever, a primal steak of white on a canvas of grey (cliffs - to the left) and blue (sea - to the right), left by the paintbrush of an ancient god. The sky is the too big, too empty kind, with no clouds, the kind you can believe wraps around the entire world.
But that's the boring bit. That's the not important, seen-it-before bit. The rest of it... oh.
Oh.
The sea is frozen. Not to ice, it's just - stopped. Waves are caught mid-break, white stallions rearing out of the depths, spray haloing the shore like hardened starlinght, catching the glint of a morning sun. Pidge looks out further, and beyond, the water dives and undulates and ripples, silk stroked by a breeze, a sheet of cobalt steel not yet hammered into shape.
It's a stormy sea, the tempest captured in a moment. It's scream chafes against the cheery sunlight, against an impossible leash, a leash it knows is impossible, and Pidge feels it's fury at this injustice hit them full in the face.
It's quite possibly the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.
Lance walks out past them, leaving what might just be the first footprints this world has ever known in sand as pure as snow. He stops. He stares. He drinks it in. A thousand different emotions are playing on his face at once. Pidge remembers why they wanted to be an astronaut.
This moment, right here. This single, perfect moment, with the world literally frozen to remember, with so much incredible new bubbling up their insides-
Coran smashes the moment to pieces.
"Guys, where have you - oh, you opened the doors. Thought you'd do the environment checks yourselves did you? The old fashioned approach, nice and simple. Good-o. I'll just do some preliminary checks and - Oh." He stops beside them, gives his brain a second to register what he's seeing. But it's not wonder pulling his mouth too tight. "It's one of those."
Pidge sprang at him.
"You reognise this? Do you know who did it? Do you know how they did it, because this isn't natural, obviously, but I've never seen anything near this scale before, is the whole ocean frozen or is it just this section? How long can it be held for? What energy source is it using? Is it some kind of stasis feild, or have they made the molecules inert, except that wouldn't work because then they'd just collapse and become unreactive, maybe a brion wave? No -"
They laugh. They can't help it, it just sort of escapes, like heat from an air balloon. Just when you think the facts can't get more impossible, the universe can't get more incredible - They want to steal it, keep it, take it apart and rebuild it better. They dance along the sand, careful to preserve Lance's footprints. They're pulling at their hair, suddenly too short.
"What kind of genius built this? Why, what could possibly be the point-"
"The Galra built it," Coran interrupts, "So they can keep the planet fresh for reaping."
Pidge's glee dies mid-skip. She suddenly notices how everyone is staring at her. Coran sighs, and it ruffles his moustache. Suddenly, it's not hard to imagine him with grey hair.
"I heard about these planets in the Belt, but I assumed it was just the usual rubbish, 'oh my parusha has six backs and collapsable antlers, have you heard of the prophet Maligmas? He has toenails that change colour with the weather'. Or maybe I hoped." He smiles, " suppose the universe isn't playing by our rules anymore."
"What do you mean by 'harvest'?" Keith interupts.
"Well, the Galra scour the cosmos for undeveloped planets with the potential for life, and then use something - some kind of magical jiggery pokery - and freeze all life on a cellular level. Nothing dies. Nothing grows. Then they auction them off to the high ranking generals." Coran's frown looks unnatural; his face isn't used to making the shape. "Apparently caring for one is a great honour. They unfreeze the planet, and the General builds a base, uses his forces to manipulate and subjugate developing life -"
"What?" Pidge frowns "But that would take hundreds of millions of years at least!" Coran shrugs helplessly.
"However they've done it, the Galra have found the brake and gas pedals of evolution. There are entire worlds out there bred to be slaves for the empire, to suck their own homes dry of all natural resources. Then the commanding officer relinquishes his post and hands the planet over to Zarkon for something... other. Nobody knows what." he brightened, "Good news is, apparently the process takes up so much energy there are actually very few of them! Always a silver lining, eh?"
Everyone stares at him in silence. Lance's smile has splintered.
"Now, let's see exactly where we've ended up." Coran activates the diagnostics screen by the Castle entrance. Pidge steps forward; magic is just science trying to hide from her. Fire was magic before friction was given a name. She needs to understand, this, the greatest, most terrible, most phenomenal piece of science she's ever seen.
"But what about -"
Four symbols leap out at her, unmoved by the tide of information flowing across the screen.
Recognition flares, bright and terrible. The world turns to treacle.
Katie can't breath. The question has congealed in her throat like old peanut butter, she can't -
She stares at the date on the screen. Astral time, year, month, day. Each echoes oddly, in the ringing of her ears. The echo of the day before.
Matt's birthday.
Katie turns and runs into the Castle.
...
A/N: Hi. I'm glad this fic has actually found an audience. Last I checked, VLD's representation on was criminally small, and I was incredibly intimidated by the tidal wave of Klance angst on ao3. To anyone who's got this far, thanks for trying me out! REVIEWS are the best, please say if you don't like something!
Updates should be weekly-ish, but I'm not making firm promises.
Thanks
