The Friend of My Friend Is My Enemy – Part One
Chapter Summary: Some members of the Blade of Marmora hassle Lance. It goes too far.


When Lance stepped out of the Red Lion, his jumpsuit was sticking to his back. Flying with Red was always like that – hot and exhausting and kind of insane – but it had been a win today, a very decided win, so Lance wasn't complaining.

The chorus of his friends' voices echoed through the comm, which was noisier than usual these days. Pidge was bantering with Matt, while Hunk just sounded relieved that they'd all made it back in one piece. "Is there time to throw together a few snacks before we debrief? Because I've got to tell you, I'm starving."

Shiro grunted as he disembarked. "You'll have to wait a bit longer, Hunk. I want everyone to head straight to the meeting. I'll join you in a moment, but first I need to speak to Lance."

Lance went taught with anticipation. What had he done this time? He took off his helmet when Shiro appeared in his part of the hanger, careful to ensure his connection to the others was switched off.

"Lance," Shiro said once they were face-to-face. Lance hated the way Shiro said his name at times like this. Other names could sound soft or hard, but somehow 'Lance' always came out in one abbreviated syllable, like a bark. "Why didn't you follow my orders when I told you to approach that flank formation?"

Lance had obeyed orders. He'd swung around an outcropping of rocks and pinged them from a distance, one after another. It had taken a few shots to find their vulnerable places, but honestly he thought he'd been efficient. Had he taken too long? Afraid anything he said would sound like an excuse, Lance ventured, "Do you mean…because I was slow?"

Shiro looked confused. "No. I want to know why you didn't attack them."

"I did," Lance said, "with Red's tail blaster."

A mixture of emotions passed over Shiro's face: surprise, doubt, then finally understanding. "I see. That wasn't what I meant. We needed the Red Lion's presence on the battlefield, its swiftness and firepower, the intimidation factor of tearing their ships apart at close range. Your way may have achieved the same end, but it wasn't what I needed."

Lance understood what he was saying. Red's claws and jaw blade could cut through enemy ships like tissue paper, all at so blinding a speed that she left a white-hot afterimage in her wake. Lance liked it. The reckless haste, the violence. Sometimes. Like wielding a blunt instrument, however, it wasn't his first instinct. If he had to have a blade, he preferred a scalpel.

But what was the use of a scalpel when you needed a huge, flaming sword? Lance's shoulders fell. "I'm sorry, Shiro."

Shiro obviously wasn't happy with his remorse, didn't like being in a position to cause it. He stained for words to describe what was missing. "I don't need you to be sorry, Lance. It was a misunderstanding. I just need you to be –" He struggled to find words. "More aggressive," he finally decided.

Silence swallowed up the corners of the hanger until only the underlying hum of machinery remained. Between the lines, the truth hovered. Lance let it soak in. When the lion switch first happened, he'd been proud that not one, but two lions had accepted him. Red was incredible, fierce and almost too much for him to handle. With Keith as their leader, though, it had felt right to handle her. Then Shiro returned, and the Red Lion didn't felt so right anymore.

That was the crux of the problem. Lance wasn't Shiro's Red Paladin. He was Keith's, and now that Keith was dividing his time between Voltron and the Blades, Lance was in an awkward position, trying to fill a role that wasn't his. Just like old times, really. Inwardly, Lance sighed. 'Well, at least Shiro is nicer about it than Iverson ever was,' he thought.

Aloud, Lance said, "Okay, Shiro."

"Lance –"

He gave a lazy salute. "No, really. I understand. Sir, yes, sir."

As intended, the cavalier response reassured Shiro, whose head shake was both fond and exasperated. "Good," he said and placed his hand on Lance's shoulder. "That's what I need. A can-do attitude. Come on. We're late to the debrief with Kolivan and the others."

As they made their way through the ship, Lance had time to reflect on how full the Castle had gotten, its berths filled with visiting representatives from Voltron's growing number of allies. As they rounded the corner, Keith came into view. He was a welcome sight. Once, Lance wouldn't have thought he'd miss the hothead so badly, but it was true. The castle minus Keith was a dull place, and Lance was glad to have him back, even if he was still wearing the Marmora uniform instead of his rightful paladin whites.

"Keith," Lance said. He drew up short, however, when he realized Keith wasn't alone.

Lance had tremendous respect for the Blades of Marmora. He remembered fighting beside them on a planet under siege. In the aftermath, he'd found a crying child. As he attempted to soothe her, one of the Blades – a huge man with a tail like Antok – came over and touched a tear-stained cheek. It had been so tender, so gentle, that even though the mask had obscured the Galra's eyes, Lance had looked through the lenses and felt a connection, kinship.

However, what he hadn't realized until now, seeing them next to Keith without their ubiquitous masks, was that some of the Blades were young. Quite young. It was nested in their cheekbones, in the cockiness of their stance. And most of all in the way they teased each other. They stopped talking when he approached, and Lance felt his face heat up. "Um. Hello?"

Keith cut straight to the chase. "What happened out there? You disappeared."

Hardly a warm greeting between friends, but Lance shrugged it off. Keith was Keith. "I didn't disappear. I just found a sniping position, that's all."

Keith's frown deepened. "Red doesn't work that way."

Lance begged to differ. Of course, the Red Lion did like to be in the middle of the action; however, as far as Lance could tell she didn't mind his approach. Sniping made nice explosions, and he could feel her satisfaction when they hit a really challenging target. Under ordinary circumstances, Lance probably would have argued about it, but he was uncomfortable with having it out in front of Keith's buddies.

Instead he took a deep breath. "Are you going to introduction me, Keith, or should I just call everyone Steve?"

The joke fell flat, but thankfully it didn't linger. Keith jerked around and pointed. "This is Catz, Thread, and Markon. And Jaque. Guys, this is Lance."

Three of the Blades nodded; however, the one Keith had called Jaque did not. He was gazing at Lance with eyes set under a brow of almost delicate ridges. His lavender face was sparsely furred with pale lines of white streaking his cheeks, and his mouth was a knife cut, thin and hard. When he lifted his lip, a fang peeked through. Lance didn't know why, but the guy made him think of the Garrison. There, an upperclassman had made a game of getting under Lance's skin. Shoving his uniform into a urinal, trashing his bunk before inspection, hacking at least two of his exams. This guy – Jaque – had a similar look.

Lance bit back his uneasiness. 'What do you think the guy is going to do, pants you?'

"So this is the Blue Paladin?" Jaque asked. "Up close, he looks more like a kitten than a lion, although I can't say I'm surprised. That scrawniness must be the human in you, Keith."

Without giving any warning, Keith jabbed the guy in the ribs. It made Jaque grunt, and the others chuckled as Keith rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Jaque."

Lance smiled along, satisfied to see Keith knock the guy down a peg. The back-and-forth had the earmarks of an old beef, and if Jaque had a habit of making snide comments about humans, Lance could understand why that was. Unfortunately, his grin caught Jaque's eye, and he pierced Lance with a penetrating glare. "What are you smirking at?"

The hostility had Lance taking a mental step back. A physical step, too, which was a mistake. Jaque looked him up and down. The other Blades looked, too, their eyes flat and judgmental.

"Gentleman," Shiro called from the debriefing room. "We're ready to get started."

The Blades followed orders immediately, going to take their seats around the table. Keith brought up the end. "Way to go, Lance," he hissed as he passed.

Lance stared after him, confused. What had just happened?


The debrief was long, and Lance was so preoccupied he didn't have much to add. By the time it was over, all he wanted was to do was slip into comfy clothes and hang out with his bros. He was destined to be disappointed, however. They'd barely even finished before Kolivan was saying, "With your permission, my men would like the use of your training facilities."

Were these guys kidding? They'd spent the entire morning in a firefight and their idea of winding down was more fighting? Fortunately, Shiro would never go along with… Lance saw the Black Paladin raise his head from where he'd been rubbing his eyes. Oh, no.

"What a good idea, Kolivan. A combined workout would be good for morale."

"That's a pass for me," Pidge pipped up. "Hunk, Matt, and I are in the middle of a project, and it'll probably take us all night to work out the kinks. You guys have fun, though."

Lance felt a pang. Part of him wanted to join them, but he already knew that was a no-go. They'd spend hours under a console, talking about things Lance couldn't even understand. Whenever that happened, Pidge wasn't interested in playing Killbot Phantasm, and Hunk basically spoke in tongues, all sines, cosines, and tangents. Suck on the outside, Lance felt lonely, but what could he do? He was hardly going to complain about Pidge getting her family back.

Keith, of course, looked eager. "There's nothing like a Marmora sparring session."

Yeah, Lance bet. No doubt they had been trained as catlike assassins since the day they were born. He'd seen them jump out of his lion's belly like freaking ninja, for goodness sake. Nope. No, thank you. Lance could do without the humiliation. He edged his way around the periphery of the group. "Um, maybe I should just –"

He pointed with both thumbs down the corridor, but before he could make his escape, Kolivan's hand descended on his shoulder. "Nonsense. The Blades have been eager to meet Keith's comrades, and what better way to do so?"

Meeting any of the Blades in combat sounded like a horrible way to make friends, but before Lance could come up with a way to decline, Shiro made the decision for him. "It'll be good for you, Lance. You could use some work on your hand-to-hand."

The way he said it made Lance squirm, because, yeah, he knew his hand-to-hand wasn't great, but it still sucked to have it pointed out in front of one of their most important allies, especially one he respected as much as Kolivan. Perhaps the Galra leader could sense his discomfort, because he squeezed Lance's shoulder in a way that was probably meant to bolster his resolve. In actuality, it made his collarbone creak.

"No one is a master of all skills. The key is time and practice."

Lance swallowed but resisted the urge to whine. Not in front of the Blades, and not when he'd already failed to be the Red Paladin Shiro needed. Keith was glaring, too, as though daring him to slink away. Seeing the writing on the wall, Lance scrounged for a weak smile. "Whoopie," he said.


Lance was sore and miserable. By his weary reckoning, the training session had been going on for more than three hours, yet the Blades never seemed to tire, as efficient in combat as gladiator bots. Actually, Lance would have rather fought gladiator bots, but unfortunately that wasn't an option.

At the moment, he was standing on the sidelines while Keith wiped the floor with everyone. Keith had been paired with one of the younger Blades, the one called Catz. Catz smiled a lot and had ears that ended in adorable white tuffs. There was nothing adorable about the way he used a spear, however, and with his back to Keith and his flashing sword, they seemed invincible. Lance couldn't help but think Keith seemed in his element, barely able to be told apart from the deadly warriors taking part alongside him.

Lance, on the other hand, felt entirely out of place. All around him were ready faces. He got the sense they thought of this as a sport. You know, something you did for fun. Lance, on the other hand, was pretty sure he had a full set of bruises, one in every color of the rainbow, and there was a persistent ringing in his ears that hadn't faded since his last sparring match.

A match he lost. Like, really lost. Embarrassingly lost.

A cheer went up. Keith and Catz had overcome their opponents. They clasped each other's arm in a warrior's handshake. Someone tossed Keith a towel, and he rubbed it on his face. When he came up for air, he was smiling. Keith rarely smiled like that. Was he really happier with the Blades? Stomach sinking, Lance wasn't paying attention when someone came up behind him.

A shove sent him stumbling forward. Startled, Lance turned around…and found that guy from earlier, Jaque, gazing at Lance as though waiting to see what he would do. Though they were clearly playing attention, the other Blades didn't intervene or voice any objection. They also seemed to be waiting.

Lance shifted. "Can I help you?"

Jaque said, "You look forlorn, paladin, standing in a corner watching the real warriors fight. I thought you might like a challenge."

Eyebrows flying up, Lance said, "In case you hadn't noticed, we were all watching. Keith and Catz, with their shiny weapons. Were you even paying attention?"

The sass was second nature, his go-to method for diffusing uncomfortable situations. If he'd thought about it, he would have realized it was a bad idea, but it was too late for taksies-backsies. Jaque made a low, deep sound in his throat. "Do you know what I think? I think you're all bark and no bite. Why don't I prove it to you? Now that your brethren is done flashing his 'shiny' weapon, it appears the floor is free."

A sparring match? That's what this guy was angling for? Lance gave Jaque a once-over. He wasn't massively over Lance's weight class. Actually, he was pretty slender, though he was no doubt solid muscle under that lean figure. There was also a glow of anticipation in his eye, his blood already pumping. Lance doubted he could take the guy down. Doubted he could even put up a good show, really. But, hey, he'd gotten himself into this mess. Which is why he lifted a shoulder.

"Okay, then."

Jaque paced into the center of the training room and loosened his arms. Lance reluctantly followed. No weapon had appeared, which probably meant this was going to be mano-a-mano. In other words, Lance's lousy odds had just gotten lousier. He caught sight of Keith, the towel still hanging around his neck. He was chewing on his lip, but there was a determined look in his eye. When he caught Lance's gaze, he gave a curt nod.

Lance raised his hands, which felt about as useful as two sacks of flesh, complete with highly crunchable bones. Jaque's needle-tipped fists looked much more formidable. In an undertone, the Galra asked, "Are you ready to really fight?"

What kind of question was that? Nevertheless, Lance nodded. "Bring it on."

Jaque didn't hesitate. One tick he was standing there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and the next he was a pale blur that sent Lance ricocheting several feet. He groaned. Quiznak, that hurt. One shot and he already felt like a train wreck. Only his sharp reflexes allowed himself to twist away from the following blow. And for a while, that agility was enough. Jaque's frustration grew palpable as his opponent kept just out of reach. However, Lance knew he couldn't keep it up forever. He was already tiring, and he still had yet to land a single blow.

Inspiration struck. As another jab clipped his chin, Lance allowed himself to fall. It gave him the right angle to hook his leg behind Jaque's knee. Tangled in their combined limbs, the other fighter went down, and Lance took the opportunity to thrust a knotty elbow into Jaque's abdomen. His opponent wheezed, and Lance used this moment of incapacitation to put some distance between them.

"You're going to pay for that," Jaque said hoarsely as he levered himself upright.

Lance drew his fists into a ready position. Or what he thought was a ready position. Shiro was always telling him to adjust his fingers, to turn his wrists just so. In the fog of the moment, Lance wasn't sure if he was doing it right. Nonetheless, he prepared himself as best he could

Jaque had realized that Lance was trying to maintain distance, and he pressed close in order to use the bone-crushing advantage of his alien strength. Without recourse, Lance attempted to grapple, but it was a terrible idea. He ended up on his backside, scuttling backward as Jaque made a savage attack.

What happened next was pure instinct. With perception trained to take in an entire battlefield at a glance, Lance zeroed in on a glove that had been dropped on the floor. Metallic plates studded the finger shafts, and Lance snatched it without thinking. Then he pitched it like a skipping rock, sending it skimming under Jaque's feet.

The Galra fell. Hard. Lance heard his head crack on the floor. Worried that he'd done serious harm, Lance took an ill-fated step forward. It gave him no room to react. One minute he was wondering whether he'd given his ally a concussion and the next minute there was a purple fist around his neck, claws digging into the delicate tissue of his throat. White spots exploded before his vision even before Jaque smashed him into the ground. Then he was thrown. His body tumbled, over and over. When he finally stopped, Lance was on his stomach. A whine made it through his lips, which were pretty much the only thing he could move. Everything else felt pulverized.

Jaque, meanwhile, was heading in his direction, ready for round two.

But, see, the thing was, Lance knew his limits. And, man, even his teeth were hurting. At this rate he was going to end up with a lot more than a battered ego and a few bruises. He'd end up in a cryopod, and they couldn't afford to be down a pilot, not with things as tenuous as they were.

He held up his hands, "I give."

Silence. It filled the whole room. Even Jaque, who had been looking murderous, stopped and stared at him. "What did you say?"

Lance groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. He scrubbed his face, hoping it would clear his head. Ow. He'd forgotten his teeth. And his nose. And his neck. "I give up," he repeated, giving a feeble flutter of his hand. "White flag. You win. Hooray."

"You're forfeiting," Jaque repeated.

"Yes," Lance said. He swayed as he regained his feet, but only a little. He held out his hand. "Good match."

Jaque did not shake his hand. Instead he stared at it, wearing a look that Lance couldn't read. When he raised his eyes, though, the underlying emotion was clear. It was contempt. And he wasn't the only one. The whole crowd of Blades were gazing at him with similar expressions. Lance took it in, his stomach sinking. Apparently, among the Marmora, there was no such thing as an honorable retreat.

Lance lowered his hand.

Jaque muttered, "I knew you were a trickster, more rogue than fighter, but I didn't realize you were spineless, too."

Before Lance had a chance to respond, a voice carried over the intercom. "Gentleman, dinner is now being served in the commissary," came Allura's melodic voice. "Please head there directly."

For a moment, the tableau on the training room floor remained unbroken, but then somebody coughed and the sound of the motion-activated doors could be heard. Jaque left with the others, but not without deliberately ramming into Lance.

Lance rubbed his shoulder. "Jerk," he hissed at the Galra's retreating back.

Keith crossed his arms. "He's just posturing. If you wouldn't back down, he wouldn't talk to you like that. He expects you to push back."

"Well, excuse me for not being interested in flexing my pectorals to get respect." His chest tightened, but he squeezed out the words he was thinking nevertheless. "I'm not like that."

Keith snapped, "Well, it makes you look weak."

"Since when does throwing around your weight make you strong?"

"Being able to defend yourself is the literal definition of being strong. Cowards back down."

Nostrils flaring, Lance snapped, "I'm not a coward."

"Then stop embarrassing yourself," Keith said, and he stalked off, going to join his new friends. Lance was left alone in the empty training room, bruised in body and heart, the Blades' and Keith's disdain heavy on his mind.


The castle's corridors were draped in artificial night. Everywhere, its denizens curled up in bunks and took their rest. However, in the hub standing watch over the training room, the computer console glowed with activity. Its setting: Long-range combat, Solo, Level XXII.

Outside, the chamber itself was transformed. No longer a blank canvas for the sparring matches of earlier in the day, it was now a place of niches and hollows, platforms and unevenness of surface. Gladiators worked nimbly through the terrain, firing at the subject of the simulation, but he was high, unreachable for the moment, and he was ready. One after another, he targeted them, and one after another, they went down in a pile of electrical discharge.

From his position, Lance ignored the sweat beading down his forehead, blinking away the sting of it rather than let his finger leave the trigger, even for a moment. This was what he could do, what he was built for. His eye took in every detail, mapping positions in his head. It came easy, so much easier than earlier that day.

The gladiators were coming at him from all directions now. He spotted some beginning to scale to his position and changed his angle, but a bolt seared past his forehead when he did, and he cursed. Time to abandon the high ground; speed would finish off what precision started. His bayard shifted without thought when he reached solid ground, firing rapidly at the approaching hoards. There was a dozen left, two dozen. The only way not to be overwhelmed was never to miss. Lance did not miss. He clamped down on his lip, his concentration absolute.

There was a moment of intensity, when it almost seemed too much, and then the last enemy was collapsing into a heap of metallic limbs. Lance lowered his weapon, heaving a sigh even as the computer announced, "Level cleared. Proceed to next level?"

On an ordinary night, Lance would have called a halt. Wiped away the perspiration from his forehead and hit the showers. Tonight, though, he didn't feel the usual steadying confidence that came after one of these solo sessions, the kind where he could practice the actual skill he brought to Voltron. Instead, the oppression that had driven him from his bed was still there.

"Start close combat training," he heard himself say. "Level four."

A single gladiator appeared, weaponless. It approached him even as Lance let his bayard dissipate and sunk into a weary but ready stance. For a while, he kept up just fine, even landed a hit or two, but soon the relentless skill of his opponent became too much. Lance struck clumsily at the metal side with the wrong part of his hand, yelped as it bounced off. The gladiator took advantage, getting under his ribs so that he saw stars when his head bounced off the floor.

The calm computer voice said, "Failed sequence. Repeat level?"

"Yes," Lance hissed.

He lost again. And again. And again.

By the sixth time, his vision was blurring so badly he was no longer sure he was facing only one opponent. He squinted and saw Jaque. Laughter, bitter as any poison, filled the room, and Lance was no longer sure if he was imagining it. With a bark of desperation, he threw himself at his enemy. The gladiator bot struck his jaw, and this time Lance was certain he lost consciousness. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, listing as the sound of metal boots approached. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the attack, the gladiator launching itself toward him to make the killing blow.

Once again, his reaction was pure instinct. The blaster formed, whined. Fired.

The gladiator went down, a perfect hole in its forehead. Smoke billowed out. The disembodied voice of the computer announced the results with finality. "Conditions defied. Failed sequence."

"Dammit!" Lance swore, pounding his fist on the ground. He stared at his bayard with hard eyes, willing it to change. Into a sword. A whip. Anything other than what it was. Of course, it remained stubbornly the same. Just like Lance. For a while he stared at nothing, waiting for the intensity of the emotion he felt to die down and the tightness in his throat to dissipate.

"So much for that," he muttered. He fell backward onto the floor and laid there, limp with defeat.


Author's Note: This story was written because ranged and close-combat fighting are not the same, and it's unfair to compare them to one another. It also ended up being so long that I had to split it into two parts. The other half is already written and in the revision phase. Here's a preview:

'Lance looked at his tormentor. Jaque didn't know that Lance dreamed about the freezing embrace of the cryopod, reliving the horror of those few seconds while he stared, voiceless and helpless, through the transparent veil at Coran's averted back. He certainly didn't know about the air lock. No one could be that cruel, right? Jaque depressed a button on the wall, and one of the smaller tubes ejected. It was long and narrow, like a coffin, and when loaded, it would be sucked back into the wall…

That was when Lance really began to fight.'

Please drop me a line to let me know what stuck out to you so far! I'd also appreciate some help promoting. If you happen to know anyone who might enjoy this piece, please help me spread the word!