Parasite Knight

Part 7 of a fan fiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, Voltron: Legendary Defender or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs to Dreamworks and associated parties.


"Help me—I've fallen on the inside,
I tried to change the game,
I tried to infiltrate,
But now I'm losing men in cloaks,
Always seem to run the show,
Save me from the ghosts and shadows,
Before they eat my soul."
~Mercy, Muse


The absolute blackness is back. It's the same as before—so thick and impenetrable he can't see his own hands in front of his face, no matter how hard he tries. Shiro is more familiar with this darkness now, but that doesn't bring him any comfort. Keith's quintessence had existed here, but Haggar also exists here, and his last encounter had not ended well.

He stays frozen in place, and listens as hard as he can. He's tempted to run, but he doesn't know if he'll run straight into her clutching claw-like hands, and nothing good will happen if she finds him. He has to be careful. He can't let her win.

He sees glittering yellow eyes through the darkness to his left, and hears her cackle. That way lies danger, and he does an about-face immediately, turning to run in the opposite direction before she can close in—

and there's a sudden acrid tang of smoke and ash in his mouth and nose as she just appears in front of him, looming out of the darkness inches from his face. He yells in surprise and tries to backpedal immediately, or turn his momentum into a turn, or something. Anything to get away from her.

But he's not fast enough, and her clawed hands lunge out just like last time, wrapping around his left arm and clinging with a grip of steel. She has him, and his mind is screaming inside suddenly, desperate and panicked and wild. He outsizes and outweighs her but he can't seem to break her grip. She drags him closer, and he can't get away, he can't, he's trapped and there's no way to escape, no hope—

But something flows through his mind suddenly—cheerful calmness, solidarity, confidence, and the screaming in his own mind quiets, and focus returns to him. He can see, suddenly; the darkness isn't so cloying, and there's a faint blue light coming from…somewhere. He's not sure where. He's more concerned with the fact that his arm appears to be smoking where Haggar is holding it, and wonders what new form of torture this is meant to be for him, and how well he can fight it.

Except he feels no pain—Haggar's claws don't even dig into his wrist. Instead, he feels a powerful sensation of determined loyalty flood through him, angry and protective, acting in his name as it rushes angrily at his opponent. Not for you, it seems to snap. Let go. Back off. And Haggar's yellow eyes widen, and she snarls as she releases his arm. Shiro is stunned to see frost crawling up her fingers, her hand, disappearing under her robe, creeping up her neck to her face, until the entirety of her seems frozen over. She shatters to pieces, robes disappearing into shadow, and within moments she's gone.

Gone, but not for long. Shiro catches the glittering yellow eyes out of the corner of his own vision, and whirls to face her. But this time Haggar keeps her distance, watching from far away. Her expression is hateful, but she doesn't come closer. Which is the point when Shiro realizes that his arm—all of him—is still smoking faintly, like he's burning inside, or like—

or like dry ice, he realizes, thinking of the way Haggar's hand had frozen over the moment she touched him. This is Lance's quintessence, once again so different from Keith's. Where Keith's had been aggressive, shielding through offense outwardly, Lance's takes internal defense as a better approach. Which…makes sense, in a way, Shiro realizes in bewilderment. Lance is a leg of Voltron. His first priority is always support before attack, protecting the internal team before extending for the external fight.

Lance's quintessence won't actively hunt Haggar down, but it will make her pay dearly if she tries to take Shiro if he doesn't want to go. And Haggar seems to know it. She watches, and she paces, but she doesn't laugh anymore, and she doesn't come closer. Lance's quintessence never takes any form other than the trailing, pale blue smoke that is now curling around Shiro's feet and waiting. But Shiro can almost feel Lance standing next to him, bead drawn on Haggar with his rifle bayard, as he lets Shiro know with a confident smirk that he's got this covered and everything is okay.

As if the quintessence hears him, it seems to soothe what's left of his confusion and fear away, and he swears he almost feels it grinning.

Rest easy, it seems to say. It's safe for now. I'll stay with you.

Such a different approach than the last, but he can still feel that fierce loyalty and determination. He can still feel the way it projects positive emotions and feelings whenever he starts to feel uneasy about the way Haggar stares, or gestures, or flexes her clawed hands like she's waiting to sink them into his flesh. It's like Lance's quintessence is trying to cheer him up every time he feels worse, any way it can—like it's a positive force between him and something truly terrifying.

And most importantly, it doesn't leave him. Because Shiro can tell Haggar is just waiting for the moment he's alone to pounce, when he doesn't have another paladin watching his back anymore and he's easy, vulnerable prey. But it doesn't abandon him and leave him alone for a second. And she doesn't come close.

And for a time, just like before, Shiro finds his mind is peaceful and his dreams are quiet. His rest doesn't feel quite as rejuvenating as he'd like—it takes so much to do so little—but at least his mind isn't plagued by dark thoughts and darker memories. Things don't feel okay, but they do feel better than before, at least.

But like before, there's only so long this can last, and eventually Shiro can start to feel the positive projections Lance's quintessence gives him fade. The faint blue mist rolling gently off his skin and curling around his feet starts to thin. And Haggar, eyes predatory, takes her first step closer.

Run, Lance's quintessence seems to say suddenly. It feels weaker. Tired. Run. Live to fight another day. Hurry.

It hasn't lied to him yet. Shiro turns, and bolts.

He doesn't make it very far before Haggar lunges out of the darkness to his left in another acrid burst of smoke, and slashes at his face. Shiro feels two of her long nails connect, gouging deeply into his cheek and just missing his eye. With a burst of fear and fury, Shiro feels the last of Lance's quintessence strike, as frost grows up Haggar's arm once again. But she grins savagely, and flicks her fingers with contempt. There's a flash of purple, and the frost's blue hue drains into a dulled gray and shatters off her skin, disappearing in tiny flurries in the dark.

And Shiro is alone with the monster in his mind again.

He twists away to keep running, to use the time the last of Lance's quintessence bought him to flee, but he feels her dagger-like nails dig into his left shoulder. He gasps as she drags him back, as easy as if he were a child, like all his strength and size means nothing. Her talons dig deeper and twist, and he can't help but cry out in pain as she cuts deeper and deeper, blood running in rivulets over his skin and her fingers into the shadow, and—

and he watches the energy partition rise in front of him, opening the way into the arena. He stares at the now-familiar sand and metal pillars jutting out of the ground, and stares expectantly at the sentries on either side of him.

They don't give him a weapon, just shove him forward into the ring with the butts of their firearms. They've never given him a weapon since getting the metal prosthetic two weeks ago. He doesn't fight it, and just goes quietly into the ring, knowing better than to get antagonistic now. When there's no one to protect it's not worth it; it usually just gives him an extra bruise or burn or gash to have to contend with in the fight itself.

He stumbles a little as his feet slide in the sand, and he winces as it jars his prosthetic. Two weeks later it's no longer infected, but it's still extremely sensitive, and the scar tissue hasn't had a chance to heal fully. The metal chafes against his skin and weighs down his right side, and he knows it's going to hurt like hell by the end of the fight, no matter what he does.

His stomach growls, and he winces. He's starving, so hungry he feels shaky and weak, and waves of exhaustion roll through him with every step. That hunger is always on his mind now, a gnawing void in his thoughts he can't ever seem to rid himself of. He hasn't eaten well recently—standard rations in the ring just aren't enough when you're constantly fighting for your life and trying to recover from injuries.

Winning rewards more food and water, and winning after a spectacular show rewards more still, but Shiro hasn't behaved well for his past three fights. His opponents have all clearly been captured civilians and slaves, decked out in the same ragged black suit and overshirt as himself, all carrying weapons in unfamiliar hands and watching him like he's the goddamned devil himself. It doesn't matter what they actually look like, vaguely humanoid or not at all—every time he looks at them he can hear Matt's shaking voice. "I'm not going to make it. I'll never see my family again." And he can't be that monster to them. He won't. Screw Haggar and her confidence—the only thing that can make Shiro a monster is Shiro himself, and he refuses.

So he beats them, because if they win a match they'll never survive against the next opponent, and many others in the arena aren't just winners—they're sadistic winners. He uses the same tactic he uses on Matt, injuring them just enough that they're useless in fights but still viable as free labor, defeating them quickly and efficiently. They leave alive. He wins. In a personal sense just as, if not more than, a literal one.

But by the third bout and the third win, his victories start to feel more hollow. Haggar is not happy with his resistance, clearly, because he doesn't get the extra rations he'd normally be rewarded for defeating any opponent. His hunger starts to claw not just at his stomach, but at his mind, and he feels weaker and more exhausted the more time passes. He's spared those lives, and he should feel fulfilled because of it, feel a grim sort of pleasure at being able to disobey Haggar in any way, in making any kind of decision where they gave him no choice at all, for being able to retain his humanity in this hellhole.

But it's hard to feel accomplished about anything when he feels like a wraith, withering away on the inside. Mostly he just feels tired. Like he's accomplished nothing. Like his efforts are pointless. Like he can't be bothered to care.

He almost dreads seeing his next opponent. He doesn't know what he can do if it's another terrified slave that's desperate to go home to their family and probably never will. He needs a real victory, but he needs to keep his humanity, too. It's all he has left of himself.

So he feels…relief, almost…when he spots the brute across from him stepping out onto the sands. The announcer screams the matchup that Shiro can understand through the miracle of some sort of translating technology. Champion versus Harronox, a new up-and-comer, who earned his spot in the ring for slaughtering twenty different people during a Galra invasion—mostly civilians, but also a Galra officer. Shiro suspects the Galra were none too pleased about a non-Galra showing enough insubordination to kill one of their officers, which is probably why the guy is here now.

Shiro has no pity for him. Nineteen innocent civilians slaughtered. This guy is a monster—he's fair game, and he's going to be Shiro's real win and meal ticket for the next day or two.

Shiro sizes him up, well aware that his own ravening hunger, exhaustion, and lack of familiarity with his weapon are going to be major setbacks for himself. He can't rush things, or he'll be this guy's meal ticket. The brute stands upright and twice Shiro's height, with a thick elephantine head, body and legs. But the rest of him looks like it belongs on the ocean floor—his arms are like massive crab claws, and he seems protected by a thick carapace that overlaps his body like armor. He clacks the claws threateningly, and leers at Shiro from beneath a tentacle-like trunk.

He underestimates you because of your size, Shiro coaches himself automatically. Use it. Naturally armored, need to find a weak point first, then strike hard and fast. No weapon, but watch the claws, he can crush you or snap you in half with them. Eyes might be a weak point. Nose looks soft too.

And when he barely keeps himself from visibly swaying, he adds, End this fast. Surviving with some rations is better than dying trying to get extra for a flashy show.

Harronox doesn't wait—he hurls himself forward as soon as he catches sight of Shiro, and roars as he brings both massive claws down in a devastating hammer move. Shiro doesn't dodge to the side as expected, but rather dives forward, rolling between his opponent's feet and skidding to his own on the other side. It leaves his head spinning from the sudden movement on top of the fatigue, but he's in the clear.

This clearly isn't a move Harronox expects, because his next move is to sweep his claws sideways, ostensibly to toss or crush an opponent when they predictably dodged to the right or left. But it puts him off balance from behind, and Shiro takes the opportunity to clench his new metal fingers into a fist and smash them into the back of Harronox's left leg.

The carapace holds, which is impressive. Shiro hasn't had much opportunity to test the limits of his new arm yet, but he knows already it's significantly stronger than his left hand based on the way he effortlessly breaks ration bowls and cups (and weapons, and bones, and—). But it does crack the surface of Harronox's natural armor. With more strength and power he could shatter it, he thinks.

If he can find the strength and the power. That punch alone feels like it drives a knife into the place the prosthetic connects to his flesh, and he grits his teeth to keep a gasp of pain from escaping. Don't show your weakness, he snarls at himself.

The punch does succeed in buckling Harronox's knee from behind. His surprised opponent drops to one knee with a crash, overbalancing as his massive claws splay awkwardly forward. Shiro takes the opportunity to leap onto his back, ignoring the wave of dizziness that comes with the sudden movement. He claws his way up the opponent's carapace, digging fingers into the natural cracks and crevices, and ignores Harronox's startled yowl and angry thrashing as the massive being tries to shake him off.

Harronox's head is also armored with carapace, oddly flat on top of the head and in the back, but his eyes are exposed. Shiro draws back his metal fist and slams it into his opponent's eye slit, as hard as he can. Harronox shrieks in surprise and twists his head back in automatic reaction. In that brief moment of flailing Shiro sees it—the exposed, soft flesh of his opponent's neck and throat, visible through chinks in the natural carapace when stretched back like this.

Shiro lunges, but he doesn't make it close enough—something wraps around his metal wrist and hauls him back. He realizes too late he forgot to account for Harronox's fleshy trunk, which operates, he now realizes, just like an elephant's. It wraps from his wrist to around his whole arm, and with an enraged scream Harronox flings him across the arena.

Flashes of the crowd pass Shiro by too fast to really take into account, and he's dizzy from the movement. Then his back smashes into one of the pillars in the area, and his head cracks against it a second later, and he sinks in a sitting slump down to the sand.

His vision is hazy. Blurred. Dulled at the edges. He feels so…so hungry. So weak. So tired. The throbbing pain now bursting through his head and back doesn't help any, and what's left of his right arm is screaming in agony from being so brutally whipped around and thrown by his prosthetic. He can feel vibrations in the sand and in the pillar at his back, and hear the screams of the arena spectators. And, harder to pick out, he can hear and feel a distinct little click-click-click, repetitive and insistent.

He blinks, and twists his head down. Realizes his own metal fingers are tap-tap-tapping incessantly against each other. Some kind of nervous tic, or maybe a malfunction. Probably a malfunction. Harronox had probably done something when he wrapped up the prosthetic and flung it like that.

God, it's so hard to focus. He hit his head harder than he thought.

The rumbling vibrations he can feel in the pillar and sand grow more insistent now. Shiro blinks his vision to see Harronox barreling towards him. His opponent looks enraged, and both his claws clack threateningly. He's not underestimating Shiro now—he's mad, and Shiro's ruined his chance to take advantage of that misstep.

But he's not going to lose. He's not going to lose. This sick son of a bitch slaughtered more than a dozen innocent people for no damn reason at all, and he had the gall to underestimate Champion. He thinks he can kill Shiro. He thinks he has the damn right to do so.

But Shiro refuses to die. Champion refuses to roll over and give in. He's going to live, damn it. He's going to survive and he's going to find Matt and Commander Holt and he's going to go home and he's going to make sure these sick sons of bitches never hurt another person from his planet ever again.

If they think they can steal his life away before he does those things, they've got another damn thing coming.

His arm stops tapping, and instead there's a sudden thrum of noise from it as the gears inside begin whirring faster. Shiro gasps in surprise and in pain as it seems to make what's left of his right arm throb even harder, and it feels for a moment like the breath is sucked out of him. Exhaustion rolls over him, so powerful he almost passes out then and there, and he only stays conscious through sheer force of will, sheer refusal to literally lay down and die. His hunger grows exponentially as well; it's like every painful or weakening sensation doubles in strength, and it's almost overwhelming. He clutches at his wrist and can't suppress a cry of pain as he does.

But while the sensations are awful, the arm's reaction is stunning. It sparks to life, his hand glowing with violet-white energy. This close to his chest and face he can feel the heat rolling off of it, and knows better than to touch with his flesh. It crackles like electricity, but glows like druid magic, and he's not sure what it is or if he wants this much unknown power literally sitting in the palm of his hand.

Harronox roars, and Shiro realizes almost too late he's forgotten himself in his confusion and his exhaustion and his surprise. He rolls left as one massive claw comes smashing down exactly where he'd been sitting, digging chunks out of the pillar and sending rocks scattering everywhere. Shiro curses as several sharp pieces dig into his arms and torso like shrapnel. He curses louder when his own superheated metal hand accidentally touches his natural one, instantly burning several finger marks into his palm and wrist.

He doesn't have time to react further. Harronox sweeps the same massive claw out sideways just as before, but this time Shiro is in the path of it. He can't escape in time, and almost on instinct he swings his metal arm out with a yell, palm flat and fingers extended, cutting like a blade.

The energy thrums again and seems to charge just before slashing clean through the front half of Harronox's claw. The severed piece goes flying, narrowly missing Shiro by half an inch. He doesn't manage to dodge the acid-green blood that comes spitting out, and his slave uniform is spattered with gore in just a few seconds. The same blood hisses and sizzles off Shiro's still-burning hand, and his weapon is almost instantly clean again.

Harronox screams, and flails back in a sudden panic at the first serious wound in the fight. Shiro sways in place for a moment, feeling his exhaustion crashing in the back of his head, but his vision is oddly sharp and gray. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and he's gasping for breath, can feel the adrenaline coursing through him and hot fury and the sheer need to survive singing in his ears, and he presses his advantage before Harronox can recover.

He launches himself forward, staggering on top of Harronox's half claw, and clambers up the thick, carapace-covered arm of his opponent. He's within Harronox's range too fast. Shiro can see the other's remaining undamaged eye go wide in sudden understanding, and he flails the other claw to beat away the pesky human, but it's too late.

Shiro hurls himself up the last natural armor plate. With a furious, primal yell and the very last bit of his strength, he slams his still-glowing right hand through the carapace and straight into Harronox's fleshy throat.

Harronox's shriek of pain turns into a gurgle, and he flails again. Shiro takes several no doubt bruising beatings from the trunk once more, but holds on gamely, metal fingers squeezing ever tighter. He doesn't think he could let go at this point even if he wanted to. Harronox flails, and gurgles, and tries to beat at the too-small thing ripping the breath and blood out of it, but he can't reach. And eventually he stills, and collapses, and Shiro falls with him.

He rolls off the body. Pulling his hand free from Harronox's throat is difficult, his fingers are fastened so tightly, but once he manages he staggers to a stand. He's panting harshly, wild-eyed and coated in acid-green fluids. His heart still hammers in his chest so hard it's almost painful, and his arm throbs from the beating he's taken, and the rest of his body complains from the dozens of cuts and bruises he's taken.

But he feels more alive than he has in days.

It's almost euphoric. There is nothing that can truly match surviving against all odds when the entire world feels like it's against you. There's nothing quite like snatching victory out of death. It's like some terrifying kind of high, one that leaves Shiro shaky and weak but wild in the knowledge that he lived, and his win feels less meaningless for it. Everything else seems to fall away, unimportant. All three of his previous fights ended with his opponents walking away alive with a chance to see their families again, and yet this one, this one felt more fulfilling than all three of those put together.

And that scares the hell out of Shiro.

He lets the sentries drag him out of the arena and back to his cell after his victory is announced, hiding any hints of his emotions. Haggar is out there watching somewhere, he knows, and he can't let her see him react. But once he's alone, once he's wolfed down his extra rations to take the edge off his hunger, once he's used his extra water rations to try and clean the gore off of himself and out of his now-sticky and no-longer-glowing right hand, once he's slept like the dead for almost a day as he nurses his injuries…he stares at his metal palm and wonders.

What is Haggar's game? Why give him such an insanely powerful weapon like this?

He's still not sure, but he's definitely afraid to know the answer.


Lance's quintessence is basically a patronus, okay.

Also just as a head's up, there will be NO UPDATE tomorrow. I need some time to get some stuff done and posting chapters daily takes up quite a bit of it. See you Tuesday!