Chapter Text
The first mistake was coming to the funfair in the first place
The second mistake was coming in a bright blue car.
The third was taking that picture. That stupid picture.
–
CALIFORNIA STATE FUNFAIR – 12:07 PM
Lance hopped out of his car, fanning himself as the sun pressed down on Californian ground like it had something to prove.
It was times like this where he wished he wasn’t famous.
So he could walk around without hoodies.
Without sunglasses.
Without a medical mask.
Without people looking at him like he was an event instead of a person.
Without hearing—
“Oh my god, is that Lance McClain’s car?”
He froze in his tracks, turning around so fast that it almost hurt.
A group of girls. Teenagers. Already looking at the car, not him. Not yet.
Bright blue paint. Custom plate. Recognisable enough to be a liability.
If they saw him, he would get swarmed. And Lance definitely didn’t like getting swarmed,
Lance did not hesitate. He turned and ran.
As he ran, his phone buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
Probably Shiro.
Probably multiple Shiro’s at this point.
He didn’t check.
He couldn’t. It was too risky to stop running now.
He pushed himself through the crowd at the fair entrance, weaving between bodies, noise, flashing lights, distorted music from the main stage at the front of the field.
The fair stretched out in front of him. Rides, stalls, chaos layered over chaos.
And then–
A smell.
Sweet. Savoury. Familiar in a way that made his stomach immediately decide for him.
Lance didn’t even think.
His feet moved before his brain caught up.
He followed it. All the way across the field to see where that sweet and savoury aroma was coming from.
If there was one thing he could recognise from his small hometown in Nevada, it was the cooking of his childhood best friend, Hunk.
He couldn’t be too sure. Hunk had said something about setting up a stall somewhere a few days ago when they had arrived in California, but Lance had no idea what he actually meant by it.
Yet there it was.
Like a beacon of survival.
Hunk’s stall.
Lance exhaled sharply, almost laughing at the sheer inevitability of it.
Of course, this was where his life choices led him.
He hadn’t even meant to come here.
But the line–
The line was ridiculous. Snaking out into the crowd, full of laughing people, phones and noise.
“Nope,” Lance muttered. “Absolutely not.”
He stepped back and then abruptly stopped, looking at the side of the stall and spotting a back entrance.
A gap in the structure where staff moved in and out.
“…That’ll do.”
It was a race against time now.
Shiro on his trail.
Fans somewhere behind him.
Security definitely on their way.
And the internet–
The internet was always on his tail.
At least his mother wasn’t.
Yet.
Lance felt like a ninja while doing this. There was heavy security around the entrance of the stall, acting more like Hunk’s assistants rather than security.
He crouched down onto the ground, watching as the ‘security’ followed after one of Hunk’s actual assistants to go and get a box of… something.
This was his chance.
He crawled as fast as he could through the somewhat-crowded back side of the stall, standing up as he neared the door and grabbing an apron to fit in with the workers.
There he was.
The man.
The myth.
The legend.
Hunk.
Well, he wasn’t being the most legendary dude right now. He was quite obviously panicking about how many orders that were being placed, handing out drinks left and right while somehow cooking three different things at once.
Lance sighed. Of course this was happening.
“Hunk,” he said, far too loudly for someone trying to be subtle.
Hunk didn’t hear him. Hunk was mid-collapse.
“No– no, that’s not how you make change, I literally gave you fifty– okay, wait–sir–SIR–”
A blender beeped.
Something hissed.
Somewhere in the distance, a customer shouted something about “extra sauce.”
Lance blinked.
“…Yeah. That tracks.”
He stepped closer, weaving through staff who were clearly one bad order away from emotional breakdown, and tried again.
“Hunk!”
This time, Hunk paused, slowly turning towards the familiar voice.
Then–
“HOLY–”
Hunk slammed whatever he was holding down and pointed directly at him.
“Lance?! Why are you here?!”
Lance raised both hands immediately. “I’m technically not Lance right now.”
“That doesn’t answer my question!”
“It also doesn’t change the fact I’m being hunted.”
Hunk made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scream, quickly grabbing him by the sleeve and dragging him behind the counter.
“You can’t just appear in my stall like this!”
“I didn’t appear, I ran for my life.”
“Same thing!”
“Not remotely the same thing.”
Hunk didn’t respond because he was already shoving a cap onto Lance’s head and pointing at the apron.
“Put this on.”
Lance looked down at it. “Why?”
“Because if you don’t, someone is going to recognise you in approximately five seconds, and I will lose my licence for emotional damage.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is my business plan.”
Lance put the apron on.
He adjusted the cap.
Then instantly whipped his head around outside the stall shouted:
“IS THAT KEITH KOGANE?!”
“What?!” Lance blurted out, looking at where the person was pointing.
No.
No. It wasn’t Keith Kogane. Just a man in a hoodie.
Lance was paranoid, letting out a breath as he turned to Hunk.
“Alright, what do you want me to do?”
–
HUNK’S GALACTIC GRILL – 12:25 PM
Lance was currently getting scolded by Shiro at the back of Hunk’s stall.
How this had happened, he didn’t know.
He remembered handing out drinks to the customers waiting for their food, before suddenly being dragged by the back of his hoodie by a seemingly strong hand.
Man, who let Shiro be built like a bodybuilder!
Lance didn’t even get a chance to protest properly before he was marched behind the stall where the noise dropped slightly and the air smelled less like food and more like impending judgment.
Shiro let go of his hoodie.
Lance immediately straightened. “Okay, hi, hello, nice to see you too–”
“Sit.”
“I was already standing.”
“Lance.”
That tone.
That tone.
Lance sat on the ground.
Slowly.
“…You’re not my dad,” he muttered.
“I’m currently the closest thing you have to emergency services out here,” Shiro replied flatly, crossing his arms.
Behind them, Hunk poked his head through the curtain.
“I didn’t know he was here, I swear–”
“Not helping,” Shiro said without looking away from Lance.
Hunk vanished within seconds.
Silence settled.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind right before impact.
Shiro exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple like he was physically holding reality together.
“Do you want to explain,” he started, “why I was told by you that you were going to the beach, just to see this?”
Shiro held his phone up to Lance, showing the picture that he had taken with the fan earlier.
Lance opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Damn it!
“…I would like to plead the fifth.”
“You’re not the American law.”
“I’m an American citizen.”
Shiro stared at him.
Lance smiled weakly.
It did not help.
“You’re not posting anything else today.”
“I wasn’t planning to post anything today.”
“You weren’t planning to be seen today either.”
Lance hesitated. “…Fair.”
Shiro leaned slightly closer.
“Listen to me very carefully.”
Lance straightened a little.
That was always the dangerous part.
The calm Shiro voice.
“You are currently one of the most recognisable people in California right now. You cannot keep doing things like running into crowds, disappearing from security, and–”
“I didn’t disappear,” Lance interrupted.
“You hid in a food stall.”
“I wanted to see Hunk! He disappeared when we got here and I wanted to check up on him.”
Shiro didn’t react.
That was worse.
“…Lance.”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
Shiro’s voice lowered slightly.
“This isn’t just about PR anymore. It’s about safety.”
That landed differently.
Lance looked away for half a second.
“…I know,” he said quieter.
Silence again.
Shiro sighed, stepping back.
“Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t post. Don’t breathe loudly if possible.”
“I think I need breathing to survive.”
“Debatable.”
Shiro turned to leave.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“And Lance?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop being so paranoid.”
–
PARKING LOT – 12:12 PM
“Coran, this is so not fair!” Romelle screeched, trying to get Coran’s attention from where he was in his car.
Coran had decided that hoodies weren’t enough of a disguise and had pulled out a chest of costumes, choosing Romelle as his test subject.
She was currently wearing a pair of sunglasses, a yellow bucket hat, a purple scarf and a trenchcoat all over her purple hoodie from earlier.
“It is very fair, Romelle. Look at you, making the fashion statement of the century!”
Allura had been, respectfully, covering her mouth to hide the fact that she was laughing.
Keith, on the other hand, looked like he was actively reconsidering his life choices.
“Why does the scarf have sequins?” he asked.
“Because subtlety is overrated,” Coran replied proudly.
Romelle yanked the trench coat open dramatically. “I look like a confused detective from a low-budget spy film!”
“That’s still detective-coded,” Coran said, pleased with the work that he had done in styling Romelle.
“I refuse. I refuse. I REFUSE.”
She ripped the scarf off first, then the trench coat, throwing both into the back seat like they had personally insulted her.
Coran sighed dramatically, putting on his own pair of sunglasses and an orange sequin scarf “Fine. Be visible then.”
“I WAS NEVER INVISIBLE–”
“Debatable,” Keith muttered.
Romelle shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. Keith quickly looked away.
“Right! Romelle, put the coat back on. Keith, cowboy hat!”
“What?!” The two of them said in unison. This was not going well.
“You heard me. Inspector Romelle Goole, Cowboy Keith, and Princess Allura are your disguises today!” He exclaimed, settling a tiara onto Allura’s hair.
Allura finally exhaled, calming herself as she took the tiara off.
“Coran,” she said carefully, “why exactly are we doing this again?”
Coran tapped the steering wheel like this was the most obvious answer in the world.
“Because,” he began, far too cheerfully for someone who had been panicking a few minutes earlier, “if we all stay together, we can control narrative proximity.”
Silence.
Romelle blinked. “That is not a real sentence.”
“It is in PR,” Coran said.
Keith leaned forward slightly. “We’re in a public fair. There is no controlling anything.”
“That’s the spirit!” Coran beamed.
“That was not encouragement.”
Coran ignored him and stepped back out of the car, clapping his hands once like a stage director.
“Right! Group formation. We stay close, we move efficiently, and we absolutely do NOT split up under any circumstances.”
Romelle crossed her arms. “That sounds like the first rule before people die in horror movies.”
“Exactly!” Coran said brightly.
“That’s not—”
“Allura,” Coran interrupted, already walking, “you’re left flank. Romelle, emotional decoy. Keith—”
“Why do I have a role called emotional decoy?” Romelle snapped.
“Because you have expressive eyebrows.”
“I’m leaving the industry.”
“You say that every Tuesday.”
Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not Tuesday though. It’s Saturday”
Coran pointed at him with unnecessary dramatic flair.
“You. Main character energy containment.”
“…That’s not a job. Why do we even need jobs?”
“It’s the industry!.”
Keith stared at him.
Coran smiled.
Keith did not win this exchange.
–
CALIFORNIA STATE FAIR – 12:16 PM
They moved as a group.
Badly.
Not coordinated. Just contained.
Which, in Coran’s mind, was the same thing.
And as they walked deeper into the fair–
Noise rising.
Crowds thickening.
Music bleeding from every direction–
None of them noticed how often people were looking.
Phones lifted slightly too fast.
Whispers starting and stopping too quickly.
Names being half-said.
Half-guessed.
Even with the hoodies and sunglasses, it wasn’t hard to recognise them, especially after the recent drama that had been taking place.
Romelle slowed slightly, pulling up next to Allura “…Do you feel like people are looking at us?”
“Yes,” Allura said calmly.
“They’re definitely looking at us.” Keith added, crossing his arms over his chest.
Coran, without hesitation:
“Wonderful! We’re trending socially!”
“That is not how that works,” Keith said flatly.
Coran ignored him, speeding up his pace to walk in front of the group. He was obviously leading them somewhere.
Then, he stopped walking so suddenly that the group behind him nearly collided.
He placed both hands on his hips, staring out across the fairground like it was a painting only he could understand.
“…Ah,” he said softly.
Romelle narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Oh no.”
Coran ignored her.
“This,” he continued, voice warming, “is exactly like the fair I went to when I was younger.”
Keith blinked. “We didn’t ask.”
“Yes, well,” Coran said breezily, “you’re about to hear it anyway.”
“You simply don’t understand,” he began, already slipping into full storytelling mode. He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the fairground like it was a stage built specifically for him. “This place–this noise, this chaos, this absolutely beautiful disaster of humanity–this is exactly where I used to come when I was young.”
Keith sighed. “We’re not doing this.”
“Oh, we absolutely are,” Coran claimed cheerfully. “Because you need context. You need history. You need to understand the roots of joy and poor decision-making!”
Romelle muttered, “I need a different manager.”
Coran pressed on “I was not always a man of refined beverages and emergency PR intervention,” he reminisced, lifting a cup of something up slightly. “I was once a boy. A boy with dreams. With ambition. With far too much free time and absolutely no supervision.”
Allura smiled faintly. “That explains a lot.”
“Thank you,” Coran said, as if she had validated his entire existence.
Keith crossed his arms. “Is there a point to this?”
“There is always a point!” Coran replied immediately. “You just have to survive the journey to reach it!”
Romelle raised a hand. “I’d like to get off the journey.”
“Denied,” Coran said brightly.
He turned back toward the fairground again, his voice growing more theatrical.
“When I was your age,” he continued, “I used to come to fairs just like this. I would arrive with absolutely no plan whatsoever–”
“You still do that,” Keith muttered.
Coran pointed at him without looking. “Character development!”
“Still not a plan,” Keith replied.
Coran continued regardless.
“I would come here with friends, with dreams, with absolutely no understanding of budgeting or consequence. We would spend entire afternoons trying to win prizes we did not need–giant stuffed animals, plastic crowns, goldfish of questionable legality–”
Romelle interrupted as soon as she could, sounding somewhat worried. “Why is that last part so specific?”
“Because I once owned one,” Coran said proudly.
Allura tilted her head. “Did it survive?”
A pause.
“That is a story for another day!”
Romelle groaned. “Why are we like this?”
“Because!” Coran exclaimed, spinning slightly to face them all again. “That is what fairs do to people! They strip away professionalism! They reveal truth! They create chaos, connection, and occasionally mild regret!”
Keith frowned. “That sounds like a warning.”
“It is a blessing!” Coran insisted.
Romelle pointed out toward the crowd. “People are literally staring at us.”
“Yes!” Coran said happily. “That means we are part of the environment!”
“That is not how environments work,” Keith said flatly.
“Oh, but it is,” Coran replied. “You see, when I was young, I realised something very important about places like this.”
He stepped forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make them lean in despite themselves.
“All the best moments in life happen when you are not controlling them.”
Silence.
Even Romelle stopped complaining for a second.
Coran smiled softly.
“You can plan your image. You can manage your reputation. You can build walls and schedules and strategies and PR statements…” he said, gesturing vaguely as if listing everything wrong with their lives. “But out here? In places like this? Everything leaks. Everything overlaps. Everything becomes… human.”
Keith looked away slightly. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s terrifying,” Coran agreed instantly. “But also beautiful!”
Romelle crossed her arms again. “This is definitely one of your ‘I am about to make things worse’ speeches.”
“I resent that,” Coran said.
A beat.
“There was one particular fair,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “where I convinced a group of friends that we could win every single prize at every stall.”
Romelle raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a scam.”
“It was!” Coran said brightly. “We lost everything. Emotionally and financially.”
Keith crossed his arms. “So what’s the lesson here?”
“That optimism is important,” Coran said immediately.
“That’s not a lesson,” Keith said flatly.
“It is if you believe hard enough.”
Romelle scoffed. “That’s not how reality works.”
Coran gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.
“Romelle! Don’t say that in front of the fair! It can hear you!”
“I want to go home,” she whined, sounding annoyed.
“You are home,” Coran replied.
Allura sighed gently. “Coran, I think we’re being noticed.”
“Of course we are!” Coran said, almost offended she had to point it out. “We are three extremely recognisable individuals and one emotionally unstable fashionista in a trench coat phase of life!”
“I’m not in a trench coat phase,” Romelle snapped.
“You were five minutes ago.”
“That was forced!”
“And yet,” Coran said, pointing dramatically toward the fair, “we persist!”
Keith exhaled sharply. “We’re getting stared at more.”
“Perfect!” Coran declared. “Then we must proceed with confidence!”
Romelle looked like she was seconds away from walking into the ocean.
Allura stepped forward slightly. “Coran, where exactly are we proceeding?”
Coran grinned.
“To lunch,” he said simply.
Then he gestured toward the crowd like it was destiny itself.
“And to chaos.”
Romelle narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound like that?”
Coran raised a finger slowly.
“Because,” he said, “I think we’ve arrived at a convergence point.”
Keith frowned. “A what?”
“A narrative intersection.”
“That’s worse.”
–
HUNK’S GALACTIC GRILL – 12:30 PM
“I am a singer, Hunk!”
“And today? You are a burger flipper.” Hunk retorted, handing Lance a spatula.
Lance looked at the spatula as if it was a weapon “I’ve won awards!”
“Congrats, man.”
“I have another concert for my tour tomorrow, man. I can’t risk burning myself!”
“You can’t risk the burgers burning either.”
Lance looked down at the grill, letting out a shriek as he flipped the burger. He really wasn’t used to doing stuff like this.
“Look, Lance. You wanted to hide, so here you are, hiding!”
Lance stared at Hunk blankly. “I don’t understand?”
“No one looks at employ–… What are you doing?!”
Lance had pulled his phone out and was holding it above the grill.
“Getting reference photos.”
“Reference photos for what?!”
“In case I ever release a country album.”
“PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY!”
Lance sighed dramatically before slipping it back into his apron pocket, which was covered in various sauces after his terrible attempt at plating.
“You're making this very difficult.” Hunk claimed, crossing his arms over his chest in mock annoyance. He could never actually get annoyed at Lance, but it was worth pretending.
“You're making my blood pressure very difficult.”
Hunk shoved a tray into his hands instead. “Fine. New job.”
Lance brightened, looking down at the tray in awe. “Ooh.”
It held 3 glasses of beer, 2 burgers with a side of French fries each.
“Take this to table seven.”
Lance looked around the packed seating area.
“…Which one's table seven?”
Hunk blinked before pointing over at a table with a large umbrella with the number 7 on top.
“…The one with the giant number seven on it.”
Lance followed his finger, looking down at the plate and then back to the table. “…That actually narrows it down.”
“Oh! And while you’re at it, take this to table 12.”
The tray for table 12 had a stackable serving tray, holding 7 glasses of beer and an ungodly amount of fries.
He took an exaggerated breath, beginning to walk over to the table with the trays for table 7 and 12, first going over to table 12.
He took an exaggerated breath, balancing the tray carefully before lifting the second plate beneath his arm.
"Table twelve first," he muttered to himself. "Then seven. Then I retire from the restaurant industry forever."
"You've been here four minutes," Hunk called after him.
"My career has been long enough."
Lance stepped out from behind the counter.
The afternoon heat hit him at once, making him feel trapped in his own clothes.
Lance was sweating so badly. He was wearing a hoodie, an apron, a baseball cap and a chef’s hat all while being stuffed in the sweltering stall of HUNK’S GALACTIC GRILL.
The fair was louder out here–children laughing, rides rattling overhead, music from the main stage bleeding into the chatter of hundreds of conversations. The smell of grilled meat mixed with popcorn and candyfloss, making the whole place feel impossibly alive.
He adjusted the cap lower over his eyes.
The tray wobbled.
"Don't drop it," he whispered to himself.
Halfway across the seating area, he had to slow as a group of people crossed in front of him, forcing him to sidestep around a family pushing a pram.
At that exact moment–
Keith rounded the corner of the neighbouring pathway.
Less than ten metres away.
His hood was pulled up, sunglasses covering most of his face, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie while Coran enthusiastically pointed at something further ahead.
"...I'm telling you," Coran was saying, "the caramel apples here changed my outlook on life!"
"They're apples," Keith replied.
"They're special apples."
Allura laughed quietly.
Romelle looked thoroughly unconvinced.
Neither group noticed the other.
Lance was concentrating entirely on keeping seven glasses of beer upright.
Keith was watching Coran to make sure he didn't wander into traffic.
The distance between them shrank.
Eight metres.
Seven.
Six.
A little girl darted across the path, chasing a balloon.
Lance instinctively stepped sideways to avoid her.
Keith shifted the opposite way to let another family pass.
They moved around the same obstacle...
...in opposite directions.
Five seconds later, they had already walked past each other.
Neither looked up.
–
CALIFORNIA STATE FAIR – 12:18 PM – 12 MINUTES EARLIER
“Right!” Coran clapped his hands once, far too loudly for someone trying to be subtle.
“This is it. Phase Two of Operation: Be Completely Normal!”
Romelle groaned as soon as she heard those words. “There was a Phase One?”
“Yes,” Coran answered brightly. “We survived it.”
“That’s not a phase,” Keith muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
Coran ignored him.
Around them, the fair buzzed–music, shouting, distant screaming from a ride that sounded immensely unsafe. People moved in waves, phones constantly rising and falling like a second heartbeat.
Keith kept his hood up.
It didn’t help.
“It is absolutely essential,” Coran continued, pacing in front of them like a motivational speaker who had never met consequences, “that we integrate into the environment.”
“We’re in public,” Keith said flatly. “We are already integrated.”
“No,” Coran said, pointing at him. “You are standing suspiciously still. That is not integration. That is surveillance behaviour.”
Romelle muttered, “He does look like he’s about to investigate a crime.”
“I am not–” Keith started.
“Perfect!” Coran cut in. “Then you’ll blend in as a detective archetype. Excellent. We move.”
The four of them continued to move through the crowd, most of them keeping their heads low. Their plan, before Coran intervened, was to get lunch from a nearby stall and discuss what Coran called an ‘existential crisis.’
Unfortunately, they had instead spent their time walking around the fair, listening to Coran’s endless stories about his youth in acrobatics.
At one point, Romelle forced them to “Stop!”
“What is it, Romelle?” Allura asked, placing a hand onto her shoulder as a way of reassuring any upcoming breakdown that may happen from her.
“We need water. Or juice. Or any form of hydration ASAP. I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
Keith let out an annoyed groan. They had been stopped because of that?
“I’ll get some from a stall. It’s not like–”
“Absolutely not,” Coran interrupted immediately.
Keith paused. “What do you mean ‘absolutely not’?”
“I mean,” Coran said, spinning slightly on his heel like this was obvious, “that we are currently in a controlled visibility environment.”
Romelle blinked. “We aren’t in anything. We’re at a funfair.”
“Yes,” Coran agreed, “a high-density public environment with fluctuating visual unpredictability.”
“That’s just people,” Keith said flatly, trying to wrap his head around whatever the hell Coran had just said.
“Exactly!” Coran beamed. “Which means we must maintain formation.”
Allura sighed softly. “Coran, it’s just drinks.”
“It is never just drinks,” Coran replied solemnly. “It is how reputations are lost. One poorly-timed selfie, one misunderstood angle, one–”
A group nearby screamed as someone won a plush toy the size of a small horse.
Coran pointed at it as quick as lightening. “–one emotional outburst triggered by oversized prizes!”
Romelle pressed her fingers to her temples. “I need water now before I become a part of that sentence.”
Keith crossed his arms. “I’m getting it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Allura said calmly.
“I don’t need supervision.”
“That is not what I said Keith and you know it!”
Coran stepped between them instantly, as if physically blocking narrative consequences rather than the blooming argument.
“No splitting!” he declared. “We remain a single cohesive unit!”
Romelle stared at him. “I am five seconds away from dehydration and you’re worried about cohesion?”
“Yes,” Coran said, completely unbothered.
Keith exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Coran said, lowering his voice slightly like he was sharing a secret, “this is exactly how things go wrong in my experience.”
Silence.
Romelle narrowed her eyes. “That is not reassuring!”
“It’s preventative!” Coran insisted.
He then clapped his hands once.
“Right. New plan. Hydration acquisition will be conducted under supervised movement.”
Keith stared at him. “That’s just walking to a stall!”
“Yes,” Coran said proudly. “But now it has structure.”
Allura closed her eyes for a moment. “I miss silence.”
Coran ignored her and pointed ahead.
“Forward! To refreshment!”
Romelle muttered as they started moving again, “If I pass out, I’m haunting all of you.”
Keith stepped forward without looking back.
“…You’d still be dramatic as a ghost.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
They didn’t make it far before the crowd shifted again.
The fair seemed to breathe around them–people weaving in and out, bodies cutting across sightlines, noise stacking on top of noise until nothing stayed consistent for more than a few seconds.
Keith kept his hood low. It didn’t help.
Romelle was the first to notice a stall for drinks.
“Over there,” she said quickly, pointing through a gap in the crowd. “Before I actually collapse.”
Coran followed her gesture like it was a divine revelation.
“Excellent! Hydration station located!”
“It’s a lemonade stand,” Keith said flatly.
“It is a beverage experience,” Coran corrected.
They moved closer.
The stall was busy–constantly moving hands, stacked cups, condensation on plastic, the sharp smell of citrus and sugar cutting through the heavier scent of fried food from nearby booths.
Keith stepped forward slightly–
–and that was when it happened.
At first, it was nothing.
Just a pause in the rhythm of the stall.
A girl behind the counter hesitated mid-pour.
Then looked up.
Properly.
Directly at him.
Keith didn’t react immediately. He’d learned not to.
People misrecognised others all the time. It happened constantly in this industry–hoodies, lighting, angle, expectation bias–
The girl blinked once.
Then twice.
And then her entire expression changed.
“…Wait,” she whispered slowly to herself.
Keith’s stomach dropped a fraction.
Allura, beside him, went very still.
Romelle, for the first time in a while, looked excited to see what would happen next.
Coran, of course, leaned in like this was a scheduled interaction.
“Oh! Hello there!” he greeted cheerfully, grabbing his wallet as he looked at the menu behind her.
The girl ignored him. Her gaze stayed locked on Keith.
“No way,” she exclaimed, looking at Keith with awe.
Keith exhaled through his nose. “You’re mistaken.”
That was the wrong sentence.
Because now she looked certain.
“I know you,” she declared.
Keith shifted his weight slightly. “You don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, stepping forward just a little too fast. “You’re– you’re Keith Kogane!”
Silence.
Or at least that’s what it felt like.
The stall noise didn’t stop, instead changing.
People nearby started looking.
Not fully yet. But just enough.
Keith’s voice stayed level. “No, I’m not.”
Coran immediately jumped in, far too brightly.
“Fantastic guess! He gets that a lot!”
“That doesn’t help,” Romelle hissed.
The girl frowned now, pulling her phone out.
“I swear– I saw you on– wait–”
Keith took a small step back without thinking.
That was enough.
The recognition spread.
Not fast.
Not viral.
Just… ripple-like.
A couple of heads turned.
A man nearby slowed down.
Someone whispered something that included his name but not loudly enough to confirm it.
Keith felt it as soon as he heard it.
That shift.
The moment a place stops being anonymous.
Hundreds of unwanted voices filled his head.
“No way!”
“I went to his concert in London last year.”
“I have a photo with him from a few months ago!”
Allura grabbed his sleeve. “We need to go.”
“I know,” Keith said quietly.
Coran, however, looked delighted.
“Oh! This is wonderful! Organic audience engagement!”
“That is not what this is,” Romelle snapped.
The girl at the stall was still staring.
Still trying to process.
“I saw your post this morning,” she added suddenly.
That made Keith freeze.
Of course she did.
Of course that was what stuck.
Behind them, the crowd was starting to reorient–not fully converging but definitely interested.
Keith lowered his voice. “We leave. Now.”
Coran nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent decision! Strategic repositioning!”
Romelle grabbed the drinks immediately and slammed whatever money she could find in Coran’s hands onto the table “I’m taking these, I’m not dying out of principle.”
Keith turned–
–and for a fraction of a second, his gaze lifted across the fair.
Past the stall.
Past the crowd.
Somewhere deeper in the movement of people–
There was a flash of bright blue.
A hoodie.
A tray being balanced too carefully.
A voice he couldn’t hear.
Keith frowned slightly.
“…Nothing,” he muttered.
“Sorry?” Romelle asked.
“Nothing,” he repeated, sharper.
Coran, already herding them away, didn’t notice.
“Forward! Before this becomes a situation!”
Keith followed.
But as they moved–
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the fair had just shifted again.
Like something had almost locked into place.
And missed.
–
HUNK’S GALACTIC GRILL – 12:39 PM
Lance felt a shift in the air.
As if something that was previously aligned was no longer fixed.
Well, he heard a shift. It came from the stage at the front of the field.
A pre-recorded song.
A very familiar voice.
A Keith Kogane song.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit!”
Lance needed to get his mind off of Keith. He also needed to pack up all of his belongings and move to Kerberos before having to deal with more Keith.
“Hunk, oh my god, I just figured out what’s wrong with me!” He shouted, running up to Hunk as he threw his empty tray onto the fold-up table, grabbing Hunk by his shoulders and shaking him aggressively.
“What? What?!” Hunk asked, sounding panicked as to what could’ve been happening to Lance.
“I have TMK syndrome, duh!”
“What?”
“TMK? Too Much Keith?” He replied with a straight face, sounding completely serious about what he had just said.
Hunk couldn’t believe what he had just heard, shaking his head in disbelief and handing Lance another stackable tray, this time with 5 completely full layers on it “Lance, just go back to work, man.”
Lance stared at him.
“No,” he said firmly, as if Hunk was the one being unreasonable here. “You don’t understand. This is medically accurate.”
“There is no world in which that is medically accurate.”
Lance ignored him.
“I hear his name everywhere,” he continued, ticking off on his fingers. “People are talking about him. He’s trending. He’s apparently in the same place as me. Now his voice is literally in the atmosphere e–”
“That’s a speaker,” Hunk said flatly, pointing vaguely toward the stage.
Lance froze.
“…That makes it worse.”
“How does that make it worse?”
“Because now he’s haunting the fair.”
Hunk closed his eyes for a second, like he was praying for strength.
“Lance. Please. Just–please take the trays.”
Lance looked down.
Then at the trays.
Then at the trays again.
“…I could die doing this,” he said solemnly.
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could die!”
“You’ve already done that online like seven times today.”
“That’s different,” Lance said, offended.
Hunk shoved the stack into his arms anyway.
“Go. Table sixteen. Then table seven, again. Then table whatever-you-need-to-be-quiet.”
Lance straightened immediately, switching modes like a lightbulb flickering into confidence.
“Fine. But if I die, tell my fans I loved them equally.”
“You don’t have favourites?”
“I absolutely do.”
“Lance.”
“I’m going.”
He turned sharply, balancing the trays with the kind of fragile confidence that suggested gravity was personally out to get him.
The fair noise swallowed him again instantly.
And of course–
As he walked–
He heard it again.
Keith’s name.
Not clearly. Not directly.
Just fragments.
A laugh from a nearby group.
A phone screen held too high.
Someone saying something like “That guy from this morning–Keith Kogane–”
Lance’s eye twitched.
“…He is following me,” he muttered under his breath.
A child ran past him, almost knocking into his elbow.
He stumbled slightly.
The trays wobbled.
He recovered.
Barely.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Okay, Lance, breathe. You are not being hunted. You are not in a documentary. You are just in a normal fair where Keith Kogane is definitely not–”
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
Because somewhere across the noise–
Not visible.
Not confirmed.
Just felt–
A song changed on the speakers.
And Lance’s entire soul left his body for half a second.
“Oh my GOD.”
–
At the exact same time–
somewhere else in the fair–
Keith paused mid-step.
Romelle walked into him slightly.
“Sorry–what are you stopping for?”
Keith didn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t just noise anymore.
It was everywhere.
A voice from a speaker.
Too familiar.
Too specific.
Too unavoidable.
“…Why,” Keith said slowly, “is that song playing.”
Coran leaned in, delighted.
“Oh! That’s one of Lance McClain’s hits! Very popular choice today!”
Keith stared at him.
“…Of course it is.”
Romelle sighed. “I hate this place.”
–
Back with Lance–
He rounded a corner too fast.
Nearly collided with a family.
Recovered again.
One tray tilted dangerously close to falling.
“Okay,” he hissed. “Okay. I need to stop thinking about him. I need to focus on literally anything else. Burgers. Customers. Emotional stability–”
He stopped.
Looked down at the tray.
“…I am holding five layers of emotional instability.”
He nodded to himself.
“That’s fine.”
And then, he stepped forward—
Just as someone stepped into his path from the opposite direction.
Not close enough to see fully.
But close enough that if either of them had looked up.
Everything would have snapped into place.
Lance didn’t.
Keith didn’t.
The trays blocked the world.
And the fair kept moving.
–
TIMESKIP – 5:09 PM
Lance was so sick of today. It was absolute hell.
Why it had come to this, he didn’t know, but he was currently sat on a bar stool across the field away from Hunk’s stall, downing a bottle of something that he had gotten from the bartender.
He had been recognised earlier and had to run. It was too risky to stay, especially after hearing that the paparazzi were apparently nearby.
“Bad day?” the bartender asked, giving Lance another bottle of what he was now calling ‘magic juice.’
“Tell me about it.”
The bartender slid the bottle across the counter like they’d heard worse confessions today.
Lance took another long drink.
It burned slightly on the way down.
Not in a bad way.
More like in a this is probably illegal but I’m too tired to care way.
“Rough crowd?” the bartender asked.
Lance let out a hollow laugh.
“You have no idea.”
Behind him, the fair kept moving.
Lights shifting.
Music bleeding between stalls.
People laughing in a way that felt increasingly distant from him specifically.
He slumped slightly on the stool.
“Today,” he said slowly, “I have been chased, attacked, disturbed, and possibly cursed.”
The bartender nodded like this was a normal review.
“Uh-huh.”
“I think someone is following me.”
“Celebrity stuff?” Of course. Of course the bartender had recognised him.
Lance pointed vaguely across the field without looking.
“Yeah. But worse.”
The bartender paused. “Worse than fans?”
Lance hesitated.
“…Yes.”
That earned him a look.
But he didn’t explain.
Because how do you explain Keith Kogane as a category of problem?
You didn’t.
You survived it.
He took another sip.
“Everywhere I go,” Lance continued, “I hear his name. Or I see something that reminds me of him. Or someone says something like ‘he’s here somewhere’ and suddenly I’m in a horror movie.”
The bartender leaned on the counter.
“Sounds like you’re overthinking it.”
Lance stared at them.
Dead serious.
“I am not capable of underthinking him.”
A pause.
“…That came out wrong.”
“Yeah,” the bartender said. “A bit.”
Lance exhaled, rubbing his face.
“I just need like–ten minutes where nothing happens. No fans. No cameras. No music that sounds suspiciously like his entire existence.”
“I’m sure you can figure it out, man.”
“You’re pretty shit at giving advice, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But my buddy at the other bar is worse. At least I don’t ask for tips 24/7.”
–
THE BAR – 5:13 PM
Keith found today obnoxious.
His phone had been taken away by Coran.
He was now, unfortunately, the unproud owner of a giant hippo stuffy that Coran had won to ‘boost morale.’
He had lost Allura, who had lost Coran, who had lost Romelle.
And was now sitting on the stool of an outdoor bar.
And to make it worse, there was an ungodly amount of heat in the air and he had to wear this stupid hoodie.
“Sup, man” One of the two bartenders began, handing Keith a drink that he didn’t ask for. Keith didn’t respond, sending the man a glare.
“Woah, okay then. I was just bein’ friendly! Bad day today?”
“What do you think?” Keith snapped. Why wouldn’t it be a bad day? He had been dragged into some stupid drama with someone he barely even remembered, and then actually dragged here!
“What’s the problem? You can trust me. I won’t tell!”
“I think I’ve been cursed. By Lance. Lance McClain.”
The bartender, who was drinking his own drink, suddenly began to choke on it, hitting his chest as he tried to regain his bearings “Oh, oh! The irony!”
The bartender wiped his mouth, still coughing slightly.
“Lance McClain?” he repeated. “Like… the Lance McClain?”
Keith’s eyes narrowed “Yes…?”
The bartender slowly set the glass down.
“Man. That’s not a curse. That’s just–”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Keith cut in immediately.
The bartender raised both hands. “Alright, alright. But I’ve gotta ask, what did he do to you?”
Keith paused.
That was the problem.
Nothing, technically.
And somehow that made it worse.
“…He exists,” Keith said finally.
Silence.
The bartender blinked.
“That’s it?”
Keith stared at the man as if he had just punched him in the face.
“That’s enough.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, like he hated that he was saying it out loud:
“Everywhere I go, there’s something. His voice on a speaker. A clip. Someone humming one of his songs. People talking about him like he’s–” Keith gestured vaguely, searching for the correct level of frustration, “–like he’s a weather event I can’t avoid.”
The bartender leaned on the counter.
“Sounds like you’re thinking about him a lot.”
Keith shot him a look so sharp it could’ve sliced metal.
“I am not.”
Another beat.
A faint buzz of music drifted across the fairgrounds.
A pop track. Bright. Overproduced. Unmistakably Lance.
Keith’s jaw tightened.
“…That is not my fault,” he said flatly.
The bartender nodded slowly. “Sure, man.”
“It isn’t.”
“Totally.”
Keith took a sip of the drink. Immediately regretted it.
“…This tastes like regret.”
“That’s the special.”
Keith exhaled through his nose, then looked out across the fair again.
Too many people.
Too many lights.
Too many places someone could appear without warning
“…Hold on,” the bartender said slowly said slowly.
Keith didn’t look up. “What.”
The bartender squinted out towards the field.
“What is that?”
Keith whipped his head around just to see a large crowd forming around what looked like Coran. Coran was standing in the middle of a ring of fire, juggling four ducks, two candles, and a lamp.
Keith stood up so fast the stool scraped the ground.
“I need to leave.”
“Tip me,” the bartender said automatically.
Keith dropped some money on the counter without looking.
Didn’t wait for change.
Didn’t hesitate.
Just walked. Because if he didn’t, he would’ve expected the whole world to set on fire with what he was seeing.
–
THE OTHER BAR – 5:18 PM
At the exact same time, across the field, Lance slammed his bottle down again.
“I swear,” he began once again, pointing vaguely toward nothing in particular, “if I hear his name one more time today, I am moving to a different planet.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
Lance opened his mouth–
Stopped.
Because somewhere in the distance, a voice rang out.
Not just any voice.
That one.
That one.
He straightened instantly. “…No.”
The bartender sighed. “You too?”
Lance was already off the stool. “I need to go.”
“You didn’t pay–”
Lance dropped cash on the counter, not bothering to check the amount and already moving.
The bartender watched Lance leave as the other bartender came up to him.
They both paused.
Looked between the two disappearing figures.
“…Oh.”
“Oh.
“Yeah. That’s gonna be a problem later.”
–
THE RING OF FIRE – 5:19 PM
“Coran, stop!” Allura shouted from the crowd around him.
“I thought we were meant to stay low after lunch?” Romelle muttered, nudging Allura with her shoulder while referring to all of the lecturing that they had gotten from Coran earlier.
They had ended up eating lunch at Hunk’s Galactic Grill once the line had gone down and then proceeded to lose each other for approximately an hour, which in Coran-time qualified as a national emergency and therefore required performance intervention.
Romelle had gone to the bathroom and come back to find a crowd of fans surrounding her.
Allura had gone to find water and returned to chaos.
Keith had gone to find silence and somehow ended up here.
“THIS,” Coran announced, spinning a flaming baton with absolute confidence in his own mortality, “is what I call controlled visibility management!”
“That is not a thing!” Keith shouted over the noise, having made his way through the crowd and standing next to Allura and Romelle.
“It is now!”
Allura let out a frustrated groan. She wouldn’t get annoyed often, but this was one of those moments.
The crowd around them was getting larger. The day was getting hotter. The fair was getting busier and busier.
All because of one ‘rumour.’
“Have you heard that Keith Kogane is here?”
“I’ve heard that Lance McClain is here too!”
“I saw him working at one of the stalls earlier.”
Keith wasn’t really paying attention to any of it. The crowd blurred into noise and rumours, none of it sticking long enough to matter–at least not yet.
There were more important things to deal with. Like stopping Coran from hurting someone, or himself.
“Okay. We’re done here!” But before Keith could do anything, he felt a hand on his shoulder which definitely wasn’t one of the girls, turning around to see who it was.
It was a girl.
A random girl.
He turned.
A girl.
Just a random girl.
And then, immediately, everything went wrong.
She didn’t hesitate.
She pulled him into a quick hug, like she’d already decided this was normal, like this moment had already been posted in her head before it happened in real time. One arm around his shoulders, phone already up in the other hand.
Click.
“Got it!” she admired, far too pleased with herself.
Keith froze. Not because he was flustered.
Because the crowd noticed.
There was a moment of silence where it felt like every eye in the crowd turned to look at him
“Oh my god, that’s him.”
“Keith Kogane!”
“He’s actually here!”
The air changed instantly.
Phones lifted higher. Bodies shifted forward. The loose, confused crowd tightened into something sharper.
Romelle took a step back. “Nope. We do not need this.”
Allura’s expression dropped. “We need to leave. Now.”
Coran, somehow delighted, clapped once. “Excellent! Organic engagement!”
“That is not–” Keith started but stopped as another flash went off near his face.
The girl who took the photo looked up at him, grinning like she’d just won something.
“Sorry!” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just that no one believed he’d actually be here if there wasn’t evidence!”
Keith exhaled slowly through his nose.
This was exactly what he didn’t want.
Exactly what he always got.
He looked back at the girl, who was now on Instagram and posting the photo “Wait, don’t–”
Too late.
A cheer rose somewhere around them.
Too close now.
Too loud.
Too focused.
And as Keith stepped back, the crowd stepped forward–
Like they had all agreed on the same target.
–
THE RING OF FIRE – LANCE’S POV – 5:19 PM
Lance wanted to see who it was in the middle of the crowd.
Ginger hair.
Well-kept moustache.
Unusual clothing.
Huh. He reminded Lance of someone.
Oh well. Lance had come to a conclusion though. This guy was awesome!
Seriously, juggling while surrounded by fire and an insanely large crowd while they shouted at you? That was so sick!
Lance wanted to get closer to the man. He wanted to get a picture with him. He wanted to be the fan for once.
Unfortunately, he was quickly pulled back and out of the crowd by a hand on his shoulder.
“–Hey!” he exclaimed as he stumbled backwards, almost dropping his phone from his hands as his feet caught on the uneven ground.
“Hey, hey! Personal space, man. If you want a picture, you can ask!” he snapped.
The grip didn’t loosen.
If anything, it tightened.
Familiar weight. Familiar timing.
Lance froze.
“…No,” he said slowly.
Behind him, the noise of the crowd surged again, like the world had decided to keep moving without him.
He turned his head just enough to see a sleeve.
Dark jacket.
Glove.
Posture like disappointment given physical form.
Lance sighed. “Oh my god.”
The grip yanked him fully out of the crowd.
And suddenly–
Sound dropped.
The heat stayed.
But everything else felt farther away.
Lance turned fully now, already knowing what he was going to see.
“…You have got to be kidding me!” he mumbled, sounding annoyed.
Shiro stared back at him.
Completely unimpressed.
Not surprised.
Not relieved.
Just done.
“Hi,” Lance offered weakly.
Shiro didn’t blink. “Do you want to explain why you were about to walk directly into a fire hazard, a crowd crush, and whatever that situation is.”
Lance glanced back over his shoulder. “…It was cool.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s a vibe.”
“It’s not a vibe. It’s a liability.”
Lance exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fair, but in my defence–”
“There is no defence,” Shiro cut in immediately.
Behind them, the crowd erupted again–louder now.
Lance tried to look past him.
“Wait–hang on, I swear I just wanna see who–”
“No,” Shiro said.
“I didn’t say anything yet.”
“You were about to.”
Lance looked behind Shiro, where three Atlas Entertainment security guards stood with their arms crossed over their chests.
Shiro, meanwhile, had gotten his phone out of his pocket and held it up to show Lance a ‘Celebrity Watch’ Instagram account.
There was a picture of Lance working at Hunk’s Galactic Grill, flipping burgers before he had been sent to give plates and beer out to tables with the caption “Lance McClain Spotted At California State Fair”
Oh.
“Oh…” Lance said, sounding more sad than shocked. He knew that he’d get spotted at one point, but he didn’t expect it to happen this soon.
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ We have to get you out of here.” Shiro responded, sounding as if he was trying not to upset Lance while also trying to protect him.
Lance blinked. “Out of where? I was literally just appreciating fire-juggling man’s artistry.”
Shiro didn’t respond to that. Which, honestly, was a good enough answer.
Instead, he grabbed Lance by the wrist. Firm. Final. Non-negotiable.
“Okay,” Lance said quickly, letting himself be pulled because arguing felt like a losing game that he didn’t have the energy for. “Okay, cool, cool, I’m being evacuated. Love that for me.”
They started moving.
And immediately–immediately–Lance understood the problem.
The crowd had shifted.
Not fully panicked. Not chaotic.
Worse.
Focused.
Phones were up again, but now it wasn’t random. It was directional. Like someone had pointed at something important and everyone had decided to follow the same invisible arrow.
“Yeah,” Lance muttered under his breath, “that’s… not good.”
Shiro didn’t look back. “Don’t stop walking.”
“I wasn’t planning to do a little sit-down protest, Shiro.”
“Lance.”
“Okay.”
They pushed through the edge of the ring area and into the main walkway of the fair. The noise multiplied instantly–rides clanking, music overlapping, people shouting over each other like volume alone could create clarity.
And then Lance saw it.
The exit.
Except it wasn’t really an exit anymore.
There were people there.
Too many.
Not just fairgoers milling around.
No. These guys were clustered, positioned. Watching.
Cameras raised higher than normal phones.
Long lenses.
Dark clothing that didn’t match the vibe of cotton-candy chaos behind them.
“…Oh, man!” Lance said softly, sounding defeated.
Shiro stopped so abruptly Lance nearly walked into him.
“Stay behind me,” Shiro said.
“That’s the paparazzi, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That is so unfair,” Lance muttered, sounding like an annoyed child. “I’m literally at a fair. I should be allowed to be free at a fair.”
“Move,” Shiro instructed, using his Dad Voice™.
They started forward again, but the moment they did, it happened.
A camera flash cut across the crowd like lightning.
Then another.
And suddenly–
They were seen.
A ripple went through the exit crowd.
Phones lifted.
Heads turned.
And Lance could hear it start before he even understood it.
“That’s him–”
“No way, that’s actually him–”
“Lance McClain is here–!”
“Oh my god, move, move–”
The crowd at the exit tightened instantly, like the entire space had inhaled at once and forgotten how to exhale.
Shiro swore under his breath. “We’re not going that way.”
Lance stared at him in disbelif. “That is the way out.”
“It was,” Shiro corrected.
Behind them, the fair suddenly felt louder. Like it had realized something was happening and wanted in.
And from the other side of the crowd–
Another flash.
Different angle.
More cameras.
Paparazzi weren’t just at the exit.
They were moving in.
Circling.
Lance felt his stomach drop. “Okay. Okay, wait. That’s not normal paparazzi behaviour.”
“It’s organized,” Shiro said sharply. “They’ve been tipped off.”
Lance laughed once. It came out wrong. “About what? Me eating fried food aggressively?”
Shiro didn’t answer that.
Which was much worse.
They turned sideways, trying to cut through a narrower path between stalls instead.
Bad idea.
Immediately, people there noticed them too.
A teenager pointed. “Lance–!”
“Oh my god–!”
And then it was like a chain reaction snapping into place.
Phones. Movement. Recognition.
Lance pulled his hood up instinctively, even though it did basically nothing. “I hate this,” he said quickly.
“Keep moving,” Shiro repeated.
“I am moving!”
“You’re slowing down.”
“I am processing, dude! I had some funky drink and it’s taking a while for my brain to catch up!”
“That is not helpful right now.”
They turned another corner.
And ran straight into a dead end of bodies.
A ride queue.
Full.
People already pressed shoulder to shoulder, all of them turning as the commotion hit their section.
And then someone in the queue said loudly, far too excited:
“WAIT– IS THAT LANCE MCCLAIN?!”
The entire queue pivoted.
Lance went very still.
“…Nope. Nope. I’m not doing that.”
Shiro grabbed his wrist again, tighter this time. “We go back.”
“We can’t go back!”
“We cannot go forward.”
“That is so... Shiro! That is so not helpful–”
A flash went off behind them again.
Closer.
And then another.
Lance turned his head just slightly.
Paparazzi had pushed further in.
Security too–but not theirs.
Different jackets. Different badges.
Two teams moving in the same space and very clearly noticing each other for the first time.
“Oh no,” Lance said again, quieter this time.
Shiro’s jaw tightened. “Stay behind me.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ve got that part,” Lance muttered, “it’s just the ‘don’t get photographed into oblivion’ part I’m struggling with—”
A loud crash of metal from the ride nearby cut him off.
The queue shifted suddenly as the ride mechanism slowed, then stopped.
Groans rose immediately.
Then confusion.
Then irritation.
And then—
A loud announcement crackled overhead:
“ATTENTION–PLEASE EXIT THE ATTRACTION VIA THE NEAREST WALKWAY.”
“…Are you kidding me,” Lance said.
Because the “nearest walkway” was the same one everyone was already flooding into.
Including them.
Shiro made a decision instantly. “We move with them. No stopping.”
“That’s not a plan,” Lance said as they were swept forward by the crowd, “that’s just being carried by society.”
“It’s a plan,” Shiro said flatly, “because we don’t have better options.”
They were pushed into motion whether they wanted it or not.
Bodies on all sides.
Noise compressing into something almost physical.
–
SECURITY POV – 5:25 PM
Lance’s security moved fast and efficiently.
They had one main objective: Get Lance out of the fair.
Unfortunately, they had ran into another group of security while doing so.
It happened near the narrow service walkway behind one of the food stalls–where the crowd noise dulled slightly and the air smelled more like grease and sugar than people.
Lance’s team came in from the east exit corridor.
The other team came from the west.
And both stopped at the exact same time.
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then one of Lance’s guards said quietly, “We’ve got a live extraction. Stand down.”
The opposing team didn’t move either.
Their lead security officer tilted his head slightly. “We’re also extracting.”
A pause.
“…Who?”
Another pause.
Then, at the exact same time, both teams realised.
Not just that they were working in the same place.
But who they were working for.
The tension changed instantly.
“Atlas Entertainment Security for Lance McClain,” one guard said.
The other team reacted immediately.
“Altean Entertainment, for Keith Kogane.”
Silence.
Then, slowly–
Both groups looked past each other.
Through the gaps in the crowd.
And somewhere in the distance, like the universe was actively mocking them, a cheer rose up from the main fairground.
One of Lance’s guards muttered, “That’s not good.”
One of Keith’s guards said, “That’s really not good.”
A radio crackled.
“Paparazzi converging at north exit. Repeat–multiple press units confirmed.”
Both teams spoke at once.
“North exit is compromised.”
Another pause.
Then Lance’s lead guard made the decision.
“We reroute. South service path. Now.”
Keith’s team didn’t argue.
Because they were already moving.
The problem was the fair was not designed for two celebrity evacuations at once.
It was designed for funnelling people in, not getting anyone out.
So, when both security teams turned into the same narrow service corridor–
They immediately collided with a third problem.
Cameras.
Flashbulbs.
Press.
A paparazzi cluster had already found the back angle of the fair, and now that both exits were compromised, they were doing what they always did best:
Spreading.
“Is that–?”
“Lance McClain’s security–!”
“No, wait–that’s Keith Kogane’s team–!”
“Are they together?!”
“No way–no way, move closer–!”
Shouts overlapped instantly.
One of Lance’s guards raised a hand. “Back up. Now.”
A camera clicked anyway.
Then another.
And then someone yelled–
“WAIT–THERE HE IS!”
And everything snapped forward again.
Not toward the guards.
Not toward the press.
But toward the gap between them.
Because through that gap–
Two separate movements were happening at once.
Two separate exits collapsing into the same pathway.
And neither team had enough space to stop it.
One of Keith’s guards swore under his breath. “We’re going to lose him in this mess.”
One of Lance’s guards responded, “We already have.”
And then–
A loud crackle came over both radios at once.
“Ride system failure–alternate evacuation route initiated for safety.”
Nobody asked what ride.
Nobody needed to.
Because somewhere deeper in the fair–
The crowd shifted.
And both security teams, for the first time that day, realised something terrifyingly simple:
They were no longer in control of the situation.
They were just trying to keep up with it.
–
RANDOM ROOM – 5:28 PM
Lance didn’t know when this had happened.
Neither did Keith.
Lance could only remember Shiro saying that they had lost their security, followed by him losing Shiro, followed by a very brief moment where someone shouted “north exit is compromised,” and then everything turned into motion without direction.
So, he did what felt logical.
He decided to go through a random alleyway at the fair where there were way less people.
Which, in hindsight, was exactly the kind of decision that only sounded smart in the moment.
The alley was narrow–service fencing on one side, stacked crates on the other, and the distant hum of generators filling the gaps where crowd noise used to be. It was quieter here, but not in a comforting way. More like the world had simply stopped caring enough to follow him into this space.
Lance slowed slightly, breathing hard.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. This is fine. This is normal. People go into alleys at fairs all the time. Probably.”
He adjusted his cap.
It didn’t help.
Somewhere behind him, the fair roared again–like it had briefly lost interest and then remembered it had unfinished business.
Lance flinched.
“Right,” he said, picking up speed again. “Cool. Love that for me.”
He checked over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Then–
A flash of movement at the far end of the alley.
Lance froze.
“…Nope,” he said immediately, turning back around. “Nope. Not doing that. Absolutely not.”
He broke into a jog.
Keith had the same problem.
Except he had somehow lost Coran of all people.
Which, given Coran’s personality, felt less like “getting separated” and more like “being abandoned by a natural disaster.”
One moment Coran had been yelling something about “controlled visibility management” while waving a flaming baton in the general direction of chaos.
The next moment, Keith had blinked–
And Coran was gone.
Just gone.
Keith stood still for a full five seconds in the middle of a thinning crowd, staring at the space where his manager-slash-problem-generator had been.
“…Of course,” he said flatly.
Around him, people were still talking. Still moving. Still reacting to whatever the latest rumour was.
“Did you see the fire act?”
“Keith Kogane is somewhere around here, I swear–”
“No, I heard he left already–”
Keith exhaled slowly through his nose.
He should have felt relieved.
Instead, he just felt like the universe had removed its last remaining safety warning label.
He adjusted his hoodie, which had somehow become both too hot and not enough disguise at the same time.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll find my own way out.”
He turned toward what looked like a side corridor behind a ride structure. Employees only. Dim lighting. Less people.
Less problems.
Hopefully.
He started walking.
Neither of them realised they were heading toward the same place.
Not yet.
The alley system behind the fair wasn’t designed like a map.
It was designed like a mistake that had been expanded over time–paths that forked and reconnected, dead ends that looped back into service routes, and narrow passages that forced movement whether you wanted it or not.
Lance rounded a corner first.
He stopped.
Keith rounded the opposite corner half a second later.
He stopped too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The space between them was maybe ten metres–just wide enough for hesitation, just narrow enough for inevitability.
Lance blinked.
Keith blinked.
“…Oh my god,” Lance said.
Keith’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A tightening. A recognition he clearly did not want to acknowledge.
“…You,” Keith said.
Lance let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Me. Hi. Hello. Great. Love this.”
Behind them, somewhere deeper in the fair, something loud exploded into cheers–like the world was applauding poor timing.
Parallel lines were never meant to meet.
So why had fate brought these two together?