Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When something holds enough tension, it doesn't take a lot for that something to snap. 

The Paladins were all feeling that tension, talking about their next step in figuring out what to do about Lotor. Shiro had just returned to them, their recent victory had been a morale boost but that soon died when the realization set that no actionable intelligence had appeared. 

Then Coran barges in while waving a small red box around in the air. His words are excited and hurried. “Princess! A package just came through the matter-transponder!”

Allura stands and responds in disbelief, “What? From where?”

“From Earth!”

Now everyone stands and steps forward.

The snap. 

Coran instinctively reaches out to hand it to Shiro. “It looks like that what-did-you-call-it, Lance? A selfie-taker? You know, that boxy-thingy you had Hunk craft for you?”

“It’s a smartphone,” Shiro observes as he takes it from Coran. Now, he looks up at Allura. “But how do we know it’s safe?”

“The only way an Altean matter-transponder can receive anything is if it is sent by another matter-transponder. If it’s from Earth, where the Blue Lion was, perhaps it was the transponder that the Original Blue Paladin had,” Allura explains, looking to Coran who nodded in agreement. She gives Shiro a reassuring nod. "It should be fine." 

Shiro scrutinizes at it and flips the phone over and makes a face when he gets a good look at the logo on the back of the cover.

Keith looks at it too and frowns as he asks, slowly, “Is that a juice box?”

Pidge’s eyes widen and she shouts, “Wait! That’s Sena’s!” She practically teleports, rushing at Shiro, shoving past Keith, and claws at the phone.

“That’s a who-now?” Lance asks as he makes his way over too.

“I’d recognize that stupid phone cover anywhere,” Pidge laughs as she takes the phone and peers at it fondly. She presses the 'on' button and the screen brightens with a programmed click.

Out of reflex, the Earth boys crowd around Pidge’s head to get a better look at the small screen in her hands.

“It’s locked,” Hunk notes.

“Give me a sec,” she grumbles back as she types through a series of numbers. Each attempt, however, is met with a short vibration and a small notice that says: INVALID PASSCODE.

Pidge growls, as if addressing this so-called 'Sena', “Come on. You manage to send a phone all the way to the other end of the Universe but you didn’t think to unlock it?”

“Maybe they didn’t want it broken into?” Hunk suggests.

Something in the next second seemingly enlightens Pidge and she begins typing again and, finally, the phone clicks open to reveal the main menu of applications against a background photo of another juice box, different brand this time.

“Ha!” she shouts triumphantly. 

“What? What’ya do?”

“She used my birthday.”

“Who’s she?” Lance interrogates, exasperated.

“And why is she so into juice boxes?” Hunk adds.

Pidge makes a face at Lance. “She is Sena – she’s a friend of my family’s and a reporter who was helping me figure out what happened to my dad and Matt back before I joined the Garrison.”

“Sena,” Shiro murmurs with a strand of familiarity in his contemplating tone.

“Yeah!” Pidge looks excitedly up at Shiro, now used to his new haircut. “Sena Young. Did you know her?”

“I'm not sure,” he responds in truth. 

“She was my mom’s student…so, I don’t know, you might know her,” Pidge shrugs, then clicks on the GALLERY icon from the phone’s main menu.

The most recent item shows a small screenshot of a young Asian woman looking right at the camera.

“Whoa, she’s cute,” Lance mutters as Pidge taps the screenshot to expand the video to full-screen.

The other Paladins see her features a little more clearly now – her face exudes concern, her dark black hair, albeit tied up, is slightly disheveled, her cheeks are dirty and rosy from physical fatigue, her forehead is covered in sweat and dirt, her brown eyes are fixated on the screen – staring right back at them.

“Yeah, Matt had this huge crush on her growing up but then he-“

“Totally,” Lance muses, interrupting her. She frowns. “She’s got that ‘I woke up like this’ look down-,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Keith growls, interrupting him. Lance frowns. “Just play the video.”

Pidge taps the center of the screen.

The voice of her friend pulls Pidge back through time and it makes her feel like she’s back home with the single uttering of her name: “Katie.”

The voice is soft; the tenor is heavy.

The video continues, “I miss you. Your mother misses you. But we’re here together. We’re okay,” Sena blinks slowly and sighs. “They said at the Garrison that you’re missing, or dead, but I knew they were hiding something and now,” she pauses and her eyes brighten. “I’ve seen it – I’ve seen Voltron. I’m inside the cave.”

She turns behind her, gesturing to the slabs of rock behind her that glow with veins of bright blue.

Lance shouts, “Hey! That’s the cave where we found Blue.”

“SHHH!” everyone insistently shushes him.

“I’ve been talking with the A.I. that the Blue Paladin left behind. He told me everything. I know you’re a part of it somehow. I know you’re still out there. I’m just praying that you’re safe.”

Pidge winces.

“And if Lance and Mikael are there too – let them know that I’ll update their parents. It's my next stop.”

Lance pushes himself closer to the screen and then looks back at Hunk in shock.

“So by the time you get this, they'll know you are alive and that your mission is going to keep you a while. So don’t worry about what’s going on back home. I got this. But-,” Her eyes soften as she sighs out a small but burdened laugh, “Please don’t make me out to be a liar. Stay safe. All of you. Do what you can out there. Defend the universe,” now she beams as she says this but Pidge sees how her brows furrow and her eyes glisten. “Then come back home to us.”

The Green Paladin is fighting back tears too.

“And, Katie, I want my phone back when all of this is over, kay?”

“Okay,” Pidge whispers, without even realizing it. Her characterizing rationality, her awareness of the fact that - of course - Sena could not possibly leave her, her foundational reasoning - it all has seemingly left Pidge. Only Katie is left behind - not reduced, just lonelier.

Lance notices her softly spoken word, her posture, her expression; and he wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders.

A tear finally manages to drape down Sena’s cheek as she says one last thing, “I love you.”

Chapter Text

In the mob of other sweaty, sticky metro commuters, with my only support being a tentative grip on a metal bar next to a row of cramped seats, I peer over my phone, scrolling through a series of text messages, a lot of which were unanswered. Looking at the last one clenches my chest and shoves it into my stomach.

“Are you safe?”

Not even a read receipt.

I close my eyes and feel my brows furrowing together. It’s not like her to do that.

Then, a perky, female and vaguely British AI voice announces through the speakers, “This stop is the Dairaga Galaxy Garrison Headquarters. This stop is the Dairaga Galaxy Garrison Headquarters.”

I shovel my way through the throng of people to get to the door and I completely and positively regret taking the subway. I hate people. Why do I still take public transportation if I hate people?

(It’s because I’m poor.)

I look at my watch and curse, “For f*ck’s sake, of course, I’m late.”

I grumble that I should have just taken a taxi as I finally make it out of the metro station and rush out into the desert heat. The humidity instantly sits over my pores as if my skin is wafting through a block of bacon grease. This doesn’t help with the fact that I’m dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved collared blouse, which, in my defense, I wore because I get ridiculously cold in overly air-conditioned environments.

I run against the paved concrete and my wedges are making a distinct and embarrassing clacking sound as I run towards the Garrison campus. My messenger bag jumps erratically off my hip and back down again with every hurried stride.

Eventually, after running for what seemed to be miles (but what was actually about a block and a half), I see Gideon Engström waiting by his company car in Parking Lot B. He waves me down and shouts, “Sena!”

I head over to him and collapse onto my knees in hurried and heavy breaths. “Gideon, I am so sorry.”

Gideon is a tall, somewhat stocky man who dresses like a hipster from the early 2000s but still manages to pass his style off as professional. It helps that he has that refined, distinguished, older-guy, professor look about him.

Despite his actual personality. 

He snarls and the sun shines a tint off of his designer glasses, which almost blinds me for a second. “First, you make me pull you this insane favor and then you repay me by being obscenely late.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry,” I wheeze. I’m a little too used to being told how being late is such a cardinal sin. So much for my polychronic personality.

I stand up while I decide not to make a comment on the fact that his cerulean tie in a single Windsor with his baby blue oxford shirt makes his neck look fat.

“Here’s a badge and do not start up anything once we’re inside, alright?”

“Yessir,” I mutter as I take the plastic tag that reads “PRESS” in bold letters. I loop the lanyard over my head and flatten it down over my shirt.

We begin walking towards the building and, sure enough, as soon as we enter I hear the whirring of AC machinery hard at work to make the climate inside the Garrison Sky Dome akin to that of the North Pole.

“Why did you want to get in here so badly?” Gideon asks as we follow a group of other smartly dressed reporters making our way to Conference Room A. He avoids eye contact as he further and slowly questions, “Is it because you’re still not over him?”

I scoff. “I know a kid in the program,” I explain. I look down at the sleek black marble floors as we walk. “And she hasn’t been picking up my calls or responding to my texts. I…I owe to a lot of people to see that she’s safe. And I’m afraid that with all this weird crap going on.” I sigh. “It just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Okay…” he accepts slowly. His face contorts into something that screams disbelief. “What’s her name?”

“Pidge,” I retort with a smirk as he reacts with a facial reaction that leaves me very satisfied as I walk towards the conference room.

“What the f*ck is a Pidge?” he asks after me.

I just laugh.

We reach the door but then someone grabs my shoulder and pulls me aside. I look up angrily to see a Garrison security guard glaring down at me.

“Who are two affiliated with?” he interrogates gruffly.

I’m about to retort in all of my fury when Gideon takes me by the elbow and has his other hand firmly on the guard’s grip on my shoulder. I recall him mentioning that he did judo in college as I see him peel the other man’s hand off of me.

“We represent Dae-Han International Publishing,” is all Gideon says.

The guard bites back, “Dae-Han International is not affiliated with-,”

Gideon cuts him off as he lets me go, “Dae-Han Corp has considerable investments in all Garrison operations since the CEO’s daughter – Instructor Elizabeth Kang – teaches at the school campus. Which is why my team is allowed clearance for any and all press conferences.” His tone changes from informative to teasing, “Mr. Kang likes to keep up with what his daughter is involved in. I understand that all of this military-related stuff is very hush-hush but I’m sure you can find his name on whatever list you’re keeping.” He ends with, “You can check. We can wait. But we would at least like to grab our seats since we're already a bit late as it is.”

But he doesn’t wait for a response and instead leads me through the door and we make our way around cameramen and other reporters, eventually to a row with a few empty chairs.

“Wow…I actually kind of respected you a bit there, Mr. Engström.” I am obviously facetious. I do respect Gideon far more than he will ever know – but I don’t plan on telling him that.

“You better,” he haughtily quips back while he sets down his briefcase in front of his seat.

I follow suit and pull out my work-phone and my tablet.

“Oh good, it’s not your apple juice one.”

I turn to him emphatically. “Shut up.”

I’m setting up my recording app when he asks, “So how are you doing?” in an almost pitying tone.

I scowl. “What do you mean?” I don’t look up at him. I continue to stare down at my phone.

“Well, you obviously don’t want to talk about it but you have to at some point.”

“I’ve talked about it and him enough. I’ve moved on, Gideon.”

“Then why are you here?” he pushes.

A weird noise comes out from my throat. “Just because I had a personal stake in the whole thing doesn’t make it any less of a compelling story. There’s something weird going on at the Garrison and I’m going to find out what.”

And on cue, a Garrison employee with a decorated uniform makes his way to the podium at the head of the room.

Cameras start flashing and everyone around me starts recording, lifting their phones or microphone attachments in the air towards his direction.

White, male, balding – with a bit of a beer gut, I note as I lift my phone too.

“Good afternoon. I am Director Foster.” A dramatic pause. “The Galaxy Garrison is calling this press conference to inform the public about the recent crash landing three days ago. The crash was the result of a mishap during a standard training exercise in which the landing protocols of one of our lunar drones went faulty. Its A.I. programming miscalculated return vectors and unfortunately,” he pauses, “there were some other repercussions.”

Three more cameras snap and flash.

He continues, “Three cadets in our program had ventured out from the Fuji campus compounds just prior to the crash and are now MIA as a result of the confusion.”

Uproar erupts. Reporters start raising their hands and blurting out questions.

“What were their names?”

“Have their families been informed?”

“Sir, will you be retiring due to your consistent lack of professionalism and continual oversight?”

“Please!” he asserts angrily. “One at a time.”

He points at one reporter in the front, who asks again for their names.

My heart starts pounding. No, I pray. I start praying so hard, so desperately. The arm holding out my phone starts trembling.

Please, not Katie.

The director blinks as he looks down at his tablet and reads out, “Class of 35’s Crew Team 23VD – Lance McClain, Mikael Tsuyoshi-Garrett, and Pidge Gunderson – all…”

I shudder. “No.”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says.

No.

I sit down. I let my equipment fall on the seat.

“No,” I weep.

I grab my hair and bury myself into my knees. “No. Not again.”

I feel Gideon’s hand on my shoulder. “Sena, I’m sorry.”

I choke everything down and stand up – anger and utter fear is boiling in my chest. I stand up again and thrust my hand into the air.

The Garrison Director eyes me and before he can ignore me or call on me, I proclaim, “I am the guardian of Pidge Gunderson and I was not informed.”

Everything seemingly stops.

“Excuse me?”

My words manifest how expressly and overwhelmingly livid I am – each word that comes out of my clenched teeth is forceful and spiteful, but calm. I need to be calm.

“Pidge Gunderson was placed in my care when - when his parents passed away.” My insides are broiling. I think to myself about the face she might make when I tell her and my heart is already breaking. “My name is listed as his primary and emergency contact. I should have been the one you contacted before this press conference even occurred.” Then I almost screech at him, “Why weren’t the families informed prior to this conference?”

The room is silent. The director stares at me blankly – not with horror, not with guilt – but with an apathy that I’ve always hated seeing in military dogs.

“Ma’am, we decided it was best to inform the families after an official statement was released.”

That is not an apology. I want an apology.

I regain my composure and my anger is now my fuel, not a grenade. “Sir, this is exactly how the Holt and Shirogane families found out about their missing husband and sons after the failed Kerberos mission and the Garrison underwent heavy criticism because of that fact. Did you not think that the parents and families of these students deserve to know what happened to their children before the masses? Before your ‘official report’?”

“Ma’am, this is not about what the families deserve. The Garrison is a dangerous place and whoever applies to this program need to know the risks.”

I seethe, “Do these risks include having to deal with incompe-,”

Gideon’s hand is on my elbow again. “Sit down, Sena,” he whispers in a commanding but gentle manner, that I know he’s right.

I physically internalize. Then I breathe. 

Someone else takes over with his own questions, “Then what about the massive craft that left Earth’s atmosphere from this area?”

Director Foster now, finally, looks taken aback, “What?”

The reporter continues, “We have readings corroborated from nearly every other space station all across the world and they all state that a large craft, the size of a mountain, left our atmosphere at speeds that were almost unheard of. If students were missing then why was there a launch?”

“Again – all part of the training exercise,” the director asserts. He calls on a man in the front.

“A whole day after the crash?” asks Shinobi Kai from East Asian Aerospace Informative.

“This training exercise that was performed over the course of three days.” He moves on and gestures to a blonde woman on the far right.

Ginger Ellington, a reporter for Commonwealth Science and Technology, furthers the line of questioning, “And despite with three students missing, your training exercise still went on?”

Foster immediately responds, his eyes are glowering despite his apathetic visage, “We did not realize they were missing until the end of the exercise.”

“Bullshit,” I seethe under my breath as I finally sit down again.

“No f*cking kidding,” the male reporter with a thick Irish accent, sitting two chairs down from me, states just loudly enough for me to hear.

There is another flurry of questions, all armed against this inexplicable wall that this international military space exploration compound erected against the public.

Director Foster tries everything he can to dodge and maneuver – with clever wordplay, ambiguity, run-on sentences, and the constant threat of “That information is classified.”

But I know that my colleagues are fighting for me. Or, at least for the pursuit of the truth.

And when Gideon sits down besides me and places his hand and warmth over the small expanse of my back in an urging but soothing way, and says, “Sena, maybe you should leave,” I know it is his way of fighting for me.

I just nod in response and begin to stuff my things into my messenger bag.

At one point he stops my hands by taking hold of my wrist then placing his car keys into my palm. “Go to the car. You can keep the AC running. Pull the car up when you see me. I’ll text you when it’s finished.”

I nod again, slip my bag strap over my shoulder and slip out through our row. The Irish reporter, who I now recognize as McShannon or something, nods in my direction and says, “We’ll get him for you.” Then gives me a wink.

I don’t sit in the car for very long, which I had imagined would be the case since Director Foster obviously wanted to say one thing and then leave.

By the time I received Gideon’s text on my personal “apple juice” phone, I’ve already finished the two boxes of fruit punch that I had in my bag. The imploded cardboard remains of my stress-drinking were strewn on the dashboard. Gideon will probably say something.

When I see his large hipster frame step outside, I drive the car from the lot to the curb.

“Go,” he orders as he opens the door, tosses his briefcase into the back, and lands in the passenger seat. He draws his seatbelt.

I see a few reporters heading towards the car and I realize that they were probably after my statement, so I gas it and head towards the west exit.

We spend the next few minutes in silence until I’m driving among the traffic of Dairaga city, a small desert metropolis that continues to expand and grow due to its proximity to a sizable lake, the embedded Garrison Sky Dome landmark, and the inevitable addition of the Garrison School base about ten miles east into the desert.

“Thanks,” I mutter to him as we stop in front of a traffic light.

He grunts a response. Then he asks, “What are you going to do now?”

The light turns green and I ease my foot down on the gas pedal.

I sigh after a moment of thought. “I need to collect my thoughts. And I think I need to get a fruit basket.”

“What?”

I produce a wincing smile, obviously forceful but it is the best I can do now. “It’s a Korean thing,” I murmur. “I need to go to Col…” I stop myself. “I need to run a few errands.”

There is a pause before he reacts. He knows I’m hiding something.

“That Pidge Gunderson was an alias, right?”

“Well, duh,”

“Sena,” he reprimands.

“Gid, I just-. I need a moment to think.” I half-shout, aggravated, but then I calm. “And where am I going?” I exclaim. “I’m driving in a straight line and we’re going to be stuck in the desert in a half hour.”

“Head to my place. Then you can take the car.”

“What?” I instantly retort. “No. I’m not going to take the company car,” I say as I still obediently drive towards the direction of his apartment.

“Take it to do your ‘errands’ and then give it back once you’re ready to tell me what’s going on.”

I purse my lips. “Gideon…I can’t just-.”

“I’m not taking whatever you say as an answer. Just take the car, Sena.”

I groan arduously. “Fine.”

“And if you need anything…just let me know, alright?” he offers strictly and plainly, as if he were my father. 

“Thanks.” But I know he genuinely means to help me. 

He didn't say anything about the juice boxes. 

When I reach the Holt home in the suburbs, I step out of the car to wrap around to the passenger seat and retrieve a small fruit basket I picked up on my way there. Suddenly, I hear barking and turn just in time to see a large dog bludgeon into me.

Nearly falling, I brace myself against the side of the car as the dog happily barks and scratches and licks everywhere in an attempt to get to my face. “Okay, Bae Bae. Stop! I actually like these pants,” I plead at him as I already see tear in my slacks at the expense of his claws. “Down! Sit boy!”

Now he sits on the pavement and I huff out in relief. I pout when I examine the tear in my pants. I’m going to have to buy another pair.

But I am far from being completely dejected at Bae Bae’s enthusiasm so I reach out and pet him in between the ears, which he markedly appreciates.

Then Colleen Holt comes out of the front door.

“Sena, it’s good to see you,” she says in the muted attitude that she’s been carrying after Sam and Matthew were pronounced KIA a year ago.

“Hey, Colleen,” I return in a similarly muted way.

“Where’d you get the car?”

“Oh, umm my old boss, Gideon?” I say with a slight lift to see if she remembers meeting him that one weird moment we all ran into each other at the Whole Foods. “He…uhh… lent it me.”

Colleen crosses her arms and nods slowly in remembrance. “Right, the half-Swedish fellow?”

“Yep.”

“I liked him. Nice head of hair.” She gestures fullness at her forehead with a hand.

I chuckle and she smiles warmly back.

“Is that a fruit basket?” she asks in disbelief as she points inside of the car.

“Yeah,” I laugh then I feel something drain from my body, starting at my face and heart. “I have some news.”

Her expression tightens. She nods and beckons me inside the house. I wonder if she can anticipate what I’m about to tell her about Katie.

She did.

“Colleen…it’s all my fault,” I murmur while I bury my hands into my face for the fifth time today, but now at the Holt dining room table.

“No, it’s not,” she responds as she stares at the apple she’s peeling.

“I’m the one who worked with Katie to get her a spot at the Garrison. I was the one who threw her into this mess. I’m the one who might have…”

“And I’m the one who introduced you to Shiro.”

Now, my whole body freezes up. I cannot respond. My hand rubs against the span of my forearm to my shoulder.

“You dealt with loss too,” Colleen says. Her hands lower down to the table and she places the peeled apple on a plate she had set there earlier. Her brows furrow slightly and she sighs. “Sena, Katie was the one who pulled you into this whole mess. She wouldn’t have been able to get into the Garrison without your help. She…she needed as much closure as you.”

“I was still responsible for her,” I state insistently back. “I-,” My lips close and my brain cannot produce any more words.

“Do you think she’s dead?” Colleen finally asks after a moment.

I blink and stare at her, trying to figure out what possible emotion birthed that question. But her expression is of neutral fortitude.

“I don’t think so,” I mutter in truth. “They are obviously hiding something and I’m going to find out what.”

Colleen closes her eyes and lips twinge slightly into a small, quick smile. “Alright then.”

Now she returns her gaze to me and asks, “Then why don’t you live with me?”

“...”

She smiles, almost mischievously at the fact that she caught me off-guard. And I am.

“Hah?” I am utterly nonplussed.

“The house is too big and with…everything that’s happened, it gets hard,” she responds at length, her grief finally showing in the tremors of her voice. “Having Bae Bae helps but it’s not the same.” She looks fondly at the dog lying between our feet and the legs of the table.

“That’s understandable but, Colleen, I’m not a very good house guest,” I confess slowly, teasing out what I should say. “Besides, you should be with family.”

“I know you’re messy, Sena,” she laughs and I puff out my cheeks indignantly as she cuts the apple into slices. “And you are family.”

My weird expression turns into a smile.

“I don’t want to move in with my in-laws and I don’t want to sell the house either.” She smiles vaguely herself and heavily whispers, “There are good memories too.”

“I would feel like I’m imposing.”

“Oh please,” she scoffs as she places the plate of apple slices in between us. “When have you not imposed on me and my family?”

I deadpan. “Thanks, Colleen.”

She sets the knife down and shifts back in her chair. “You won’t have to pay rent. Just help around the house a bit here and there; walk Bae; cook a bit, and I can lend you our car if you ever need to get around.”

I raise my brows as I’m considering it. Rent has been getting hard to come by now that I’ve gone completely freelance.

“Are you sure?” I finally ask.

“I’ve thought about it for a while, actually, and…” she reveals as she takes a slice and plops it into her mouth. She chews it as I wait. It is purposefully rude of her and she knows it since she is beaming at me while she masticates.

I take a vexed bite of one apple slice.

Now she speaks again, “And I would appreciate it. It’ll be nice to have some old mentor-mentee time again, don’t you think?”

I huff. I cannot win against her. “That would be great.”

When we finish the apple, we head to the kitchen to plaster something together for dinner. The whole time, we talk about the stupid things her children did in the past – including Katie’s choice in her new nomenclature.

“Why Pidge, though?” I ask with a scoff.

“Peter Gunderson was my grandfather,” Colleen laughs while explaining the connection. “Pidge was his nickname.”

“That is so weird…even for that generation, isn’t it?”

“Eh,” she shrugs as she sautés onions. “His brother was Chip, and how they got that from John is beyond weird to me. But maybe that was a generational thing.”

“Maybe,” I chortle while I finish cutting some peppers.

“What are you going to do?”

I glance back at her. “What do you mean?”

“About Katie and the Garrison,” she expounds without turning. “You have a plan, right? For your story?”

I ponder a bit then say, “Kind of.” A to-do list starts forming in my head – bit by bit – people I need to call, equipment I need to buy.

I look back at her and grin. “I’m actually thinking of seducing my way into the Garrison and finding out exactly what happened.”

She smirks back and says, “Nice.”

Chapter Text

Keith is walking down the castle halls about to head to his room when Pidge’s head pokes out from around the bend, further down.

“Hey, Keith?” she says. “Can I talk with you for a second?”

“Yeah, Pidge, sure,” he mutters awkwardly. He is not used to being the one people call out to. “What’s up?”

She steps out from behind the corner and motions to his room. Her haptics scream that she is perturbed and anxious with quick and uneasy glances, and stiff shoulders. He notices that her laptop is tucked under her arm and Sena’s smartphone is in her hand. She has had it with her for nearly every second of the past few days.

He nods and they head to his room. The door shuts behind them.

“So?” he prods.

“So…Shiro’s been acting kind of different, right?”

It's been a month since they found Shiro floating in space, a month since their last encounter with Lotor, a month during which Keith could not help but notice how rougher Shiro seems to be now. 

“He’s been through a lot, Pidge, I don’t think…” he observes her expression. “Why do you ask?”

She sighs, arduously. “I hooked up Sena’s phone to my laptop and I found some photos in her trash file that weren’t completely wiped from the hard-drive…”

He narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know where she’s going with this. “And?”

“Just come and see.”

She sets her computer on his bed, opens it, and flicks the screen on, displaying a picture of Sena and Shiro, side-by-side, arms around each other, with a sunset behind them.

Keith balks.

“Shiro and Sena were dating before the Kerberos mission,” Pidge says austerely. 

She taps the keyboard.

Click.

Now there is a photo of Shiro smiling shyly across the table at a diner with a coffee cup in his hands.

Click.

A photo of the two of them at the lakefront, making faces at each other.

Click.

A selfie of the two of them at a theater. Shiro is the one holding the phone high into the air to get the right angle. She’s kissing his cheek. He’s beaming.

“He…he looks so happy,” Keith whispers as he tries to remember the last time Shiro ever looked so unabashedly joyful.

Click.

A video, now, taken in portrait, of Shiro on a park basketball court with a ball in his hands and the hoop behind him.

Sena’s voice is laughing behind the camera. “Kay, Buzz Lightyear, show me what you got.”

He throws the ball into the air behind him and while it hits the backboard, it bounces straight off. But she still screams excitedly as if he made the basket.

“Did I get it?” he asks eagerly.

“No!” His face falls and she laughs uncontrollably. “You owe me a Costco crate of juice boxes, sucker!”

Shiro bolts towards the camera and Sena shrieks as he grabs her. The camera follows with erratic shaking as he wrestles her to the ground.

Keith and Pidge cannot discern much from the uneven visuals but they can hear the two laughing and shouting at each other in flirtatious tones.

“Stop!” Sena is screaming cheerfully.

“You should have never told me you were ticklish,” Shiro growls playfully back.

Keith is speechless as he watches. 

Then the camera shows a brief instance where the two are lying in the grass, Shiro is smiling down at her and he leans in to kiss her right when the video ends.

Keith blinks.

A weird and tense breath leaves his lips. He knows where Pidge is going with this now.

The repercussions start exploding in his mind.

Pidge returns to the keyboard and types in some code to pull another program that shows a series of text and numbers.

They were dates and times, Keith realizes. 

“There are deleted text messages too,” she explains the metadata.

She points to a line and Keith peers in closer to see.

“They were dating for a few months right up until the Kerberos mission. And then there’s one last message from her saying that it was a good idea that they broke it off. Three days after is the launch date of the Kerberos mission.”

Keith does not say anything for a moment. He wonders why Shiro never said anything, especially considering how things ended with Adam. But perhaps, that was why. 

Then he finally asks her, quietly, “You didn’t know?”

Pidge produces a non-answer at first then says, “Well, I didn’t know Shiro all that well, and Sena and I never talked about her love life – honestly, we just talked about where Mothman might live and stupid stuff like that.” She tries to laugh but her laughter falls. “But she didn’t tell me anything even after the Garrison said that the mission failed. I …I guess she didn’t want me to worry about her.”

Keith grimaces and begins massaging the bridge of his nose – he feels so much tension accruing behind his eyes.

Pidge’s desperation comes out through the concern in her voice. “Now I know that he’s been having headaches and it’s been tough for him but if Shiro doesn’t know who Sena is – even when they were obviously this close…then…”

She dares not finish.

“Then there's something wrong,” Keith finishes for her.

She has never been this unsure. They’re talking about Shiro, for quiznak’s sake.

“He might have selective amnesia,” she argues haphazardly. “But it doesn’t really work that way like it does in movies and shows and stuff. Then again, the aliens we’ve met all have technology to create mindscapes and memories – so maybe the Galra messed with his head… I…” Her shoulders clench. “I just don’t know.”

Keith ruminates for a bit, his face still tightened in a grimace. Then it all releases. “Thanks, Pidge,” he says softly. “But…don’t tell anybody just yet.”

“Yeah, alright.”

He takes a step towards the door. He wants to think about this - alone.

“And Keith,”

He stops himself from sighing. He doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t care. “Yeah?”

There is still nervousness about her when she says, “I want to send this back." She holds up the smartphone. "Or…at least something back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like what she did. Videos of me, Lance, Hunk, you – to send back to Earth, so that our parents know we’re okay…I just…”

He notices her body tensing and her gaze getting lower and lower.

“I knew that Sena would be there for my mom. So I didn’t mind going through that wormhole when we first left earth. I just…it just hit me though.” Something wrenches in her stomach and when she blinks, there is moisture forming from her eyes. “I left her all alone." A chill runs across her body. "I know that Matt’s alive but she doesn’t know anything and what if she thought we were all-.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes from beneath Matt's old glasses. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Don’t apologize, Pidge. It’s…it’s okay.” He places a tentative hand on her shoulder. He taps it awkwardly.

“And Lance and Hunk have families too that all might-.“

“I know, Pidge.” He keeps his hand on her shoulder.

She is trying, with all of her strength, not to cry. But her body trembles with guilt and fear. “You were right,” she whispers finally, rubbing out her eyes again.

“What?”

“That time I was going to off from Arus – to find my dad and Matt on my own. You…you were right,” she mutters as she looks up at him. “Everybody has families and we need to-,”

“Pidge, no,” he insists as he takes her other shoulder. He speaks to her slowly, emphatically, so that she knows he is serious. “You were right. I shouldn’t have yelled at you that night and I wanted to apologize to you for that for a while…but I…never had the right opportunity. I’m sorry. It’s normal for you to want to find your dad and your brother. I didn’t realize how awful it felt to lose someone you care about until…”

“Until Shiro,” she finishes for him.

He inhales deeply and lets it all out in a breathy grunt. He lets her go and his arms fall limply to his sides.

“I’m sorry for bringing this up…I was so happy to have him back too but…”

Keith shakes his head. “No, don’t be…I noticed something too – I thought it was weird that the Black Lion didn’t accept him.”

He sighs.

Pidge winces in concern. 

“But don’t worry about it – at least, not for now, kay? We’ll figure out what to do.”

She nods and collects her laptop.

Right before she heads out, he calls after her and says, “And sending some videos home sounds like a great idea. Why don’t we talk to Coran to see about what we can do?”

Chapter Text

I moved into the Holt Family home three days after the press conference without much fuss, except for the fact that Colleen threw out about half of my clothes and stuff.

“You don’t need all of this,” she had said while holding up a worn shirt that I had since middle school and some expired face lotion.

“But I might need it later,” I had replied as I took the items from her and held them desperately to my bosom.

She gave me a “mom” look and I eventually relinquished whatever she deemed to be “chaff in the proverbial wind of all of this sh*t needs to go, Sena. What is wrong with you?”

Turns out she actually does communicate with my mother on a regular basis. My mother was her mentor way back when. They talk about how to better “discipline” me - since, you know, I'm such a trainwreck. My mother lives halfway across the world and somehow the universe allows for her influence to remain ever-present in my life.

Anyways - after settling in and making a general plan for my “infiltration” mission into the Garrison, I devoted the following weeks to preparation.

First thing, I sorted through the tech that Matt and Katie had lying around in their respective rooms and whatever Katie was tinkering with in the garage. A whole lot was not terribly useful for my purposes since they were mostly old computer parts and fighter robots – but a data grabber disguised as a small battery pack could prove to be very helpful.

Then I scoured through the cloud drive I shared with Katie before and during her time at the Garrison as Pidge. In it were the classified files on the Kerberos mission she was able to copy, and I also found the decryption software she developed to get past all of the walls of encryption.

But unless I want to be caught red-handed right in the middle of looking through files, like Katie was, I realized early on that I need to go at it another way.

So I called up an old girlfriend from college who majored in coding to ask for an equivalent exchange – an individualized cloning program for which she would receive an all-you-can-eat conveyor belt sushi dinner, as many drinks she might want, and a full three hours of my time for her to update me on the latest male trash she’s been dating.

I mailed her the data grabber. The next week, we had sushi, she downed four and a half sake bombs, and we caught up on her boy drama. She warned me about seeing financial advisors. I promised never to date one.

Then she returned the small piece of machinery and also handed me two micro SD cards with what I need on it.

One day I visited Jackson, a professional MUA to get a touch-up course, specifically on how to contour my face so that I looked like someone else entirely. He suggested certain long-lasting products that were completely beyond my budget but he offered me a “friend” discount that was contingent upon my ability to set him up on a blind date with someone decent. I conveniently remembered that one of Gideon’s neighbors was now recently single.

So I called Gideon and asked for Harrison’s number but Gideon said I still owed him for the press conference and he would only give me the number if I babysit for his twin nieces. I didn’t say no. No kid could possibly be worse than Katie Holt as a child with a remote-controlled Roomba with her child scissors taped to it. She called it “George” until Colleen found out and had her dismantle it.

I also scanned the listing of job openings at the Garrison for anything that might be remotely helpful for me – they were holding interviews for IT tech assistants.

No experience necessary.

Perfect.

People probably aren’t too willing to live out in the middle of nowhere for an assistant’s salary.

With Colleen’s help, I brush up on my IT lingo just enough to make me a believable candidate, type up a fake CV, and I take a quick week-long course on information technology, just in case, as I work on the other elements of my “project”.

All in all, I stared at computer screens for a total of 150 hours before I felt prepared enough to go to the school campus of the Galaxy Garrison.

The morning of my step into the world of pseudo-espionage, I spend two hours on my makeup. With meticulous precision and with brushes and products that have names that make no sense to me, (like “Desert Smog” – seriously, what?) I attack my face with barely enough skill for me to pass for ethnically ambiguous female from Europe. But I manage to pull something off.

When I finish setting the wig I got from Jackson over my netted hair, I take one last look at myself as I smooth out the lapels of the jacket I purchased for the interview. It actually looks pretty convincing. I do not recognize myself.

When I step out of the bathroom Matt and Katie shared as kids, Colleen gasps.

“Believable?” I ask with my best Oxford English.

“Oh my gosh,” she mutters with her hands to her lips. “I can’t believe you’re actually good at something.”

I deadpan. Sena Young returns as I say, “Thanks, Colleen, it’s my life’s dream to be able to look like someone else.”

Colleen smirks. “Go get ‘em,”

Soon, Miss Serena Yamato-Talbot strides onto the Fuji Space School campus of the Galaxy Garrison and makes it past all of the basic security measures in full confidence.

“She” approaches the front desk at the lobby office and says that she is here for the interview, and has already sent in her resume.

The secretary, a thin male who bites his nails, almost drops his glasses at the sight of "her" slightly exposed cleavage and at the sound of "her" accent.

He stands quickly, hands me a visitor tag, and mutters to follow him.

I chuckle to myself. I didn’t think his type still existed.

(Wait, my younger brother is that type. Never mind.)

While in the elevator going down to the basement, he peers at me and asks, “So where are you from? Not from the States, right?”

I give him a breathy laugh, and again in my accent, say, “Oh, no, but I did graduate from Hendrick University just last year though. My family is from London.”

“Yeah?” he says meekly but with interest. “My friend went to Hendrick…it’s a good school. You…” he coughs into his hand. “…studied IT stuff there?”

“A bit of computer programming,” I only half-lie. I did graduate from Hendrick University and I did take one computer-programming course. However, my major was English with a minor in Communications, and I graduated four years ago.

“What brings you here?” he asks.

“I’m just looking for some decent part-time work in the area since my boyfriend works in Dairaga proper.”

The elevator dings to signal our arrival to Floor B7.

“Oh.” He looks a little too dejected.

I almost burst out laughing.

I honestly cannot believe it. Not that I’m complaining. But I can count the times men (and women) performed a double take for me on one single, solitary, hand – which, granted, is still one hand but still. I know I’m not ugly but …ah, right. Men are men. And I did come here saying I would seduce my way in.

But if only the kid knew that the face is all make-up and the bra I’m wearing is filled with latex pads.

I step out of the elevator and the secretary points down the hall.

“Uhh, yeah, just head straight and the second door on your left. Ask for Mr. Ross. But uhh,” the secretary looks at his watch. “He might be out since it’s his lunch break.”

“No worries, I can wait,” I say perkily. This makes my taking the IT course useless but it does give me more time. “Thank you.”

He nods and presses the CLOSE DOOR button.

I take off my visitor tag and stuff it in my pocket as I enter the room and see someone at the front desk, which is an eventuality I planned for. Potential scenario 4 – with three options to move forward.

Behind the office desk is a door, slightly ajar, showing a glimpse of the rows of tower servers in their back room.

I return my attention to the girl at the desk. She has dirty blonde hair, a pierced eyebrow, and a nametag with her picture and CAROL, S. over her stout torso. She maintains a perpetual scowl as her eyes are transfixed at her computer screen.

I head right up to the counter and she does not even look up to acknowledge my presence.

I go with Option B.

Now in an American accent, I say, “I’m sorry, Iverson sent me down here because he couldn’t get a hold of Ross. Do you mind going to his office and checking his computer?”

She looks up at me, glowers for a full five seconds, groans and rolls her eyes.

“Please?” I insist, “I have a meeting to go to in five-,”

“UGH! Fine,” she grunts emphatically while glaring at me, as if to insinuate that her superior’s computer problems are my fault.

She reminds me of my college roommate from senior year – not really a pleasant gal.

I only smile back as she pushes herself off her swivel chair, grumbles that “it’s probably just another virus he downloaded himself,” and stomps out the office.

I am so thankful that I profiled Iverson.

I wait a minute then peek my head out into the hallway to see that she makes it into an elevator at the elevator bank. When she finally stomps into one, I snake into the server room.

The Garrison school has a whole other room of tower servers for their aerospace calculations and simulations – but that is not what I need.

The room is sealed and well insulated to keep the temperature low, and the cold is the bane of my existence.

But I try to ignore the chill settling into my bones as I kneel behind a row that’s out of sight. I set my watch for three minutes - one and a half minutes for the elevator ride up from the basement office all the way to Iverson’s office on the 4th floor; one and a half for the commute down.

I set my briefcase on the ground and pull out my “laptop” which is actually an older model that I gutted and fitted with the technology I’ll be leaving behind. This way, it gets through security. I take out one SD card, any necessary adapters, and the data grabber.

I pull out one of the towers and carefully find the port I need to insert the card. Then I attach the data grabber by stabbing its prongs onto nearby cables in the same server. I am praying to God in heaven above that I’m doing this correctly.

Then I hear a man’s voice asking, “Susan?”

I close my eyes and murmur, “Oh, sh*t.”

Scenario 6, already.

I need to think fast. Adrenaline is pumping and coursing through my brain and body. I feel like my senses are honed but that my body is not my own. 

I push the server back in, take a file case from my briefcase, close it, and then re-clip the visitor nametag to my chest pocket.

I step out from the server room, see that his name card says ROSS, M., and say, with all the self-assurance I can muster, “Oh good, you’re here.”

He stares at me in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Ross I presume?”

“Yes, and who the hell-,”

“I’m the representative from FALA.” I hold up my file case/clipboard thing (I don’t know what it’s actually called) up in the air to show the company’s logo embossed on it.

“Oh,” he blanches at the name.

My uncle is a general contractor that works for FALA, Fredrickson and Li Assembly, a construction business/architecture firm conglomerate that built most, if not all of the Garrison campus.

Fortunately, my uncle had the blue prints, the emails, and the information I needed for this job, which may or may not have been taken without his permission. It is obscenely simple to get into that man’s computer. Even from another computer.

Unfortunately, it’s a little easier to get in as an interviewee than as a fake business partner who could get caught first-thing if they called it in. Hence, the multiple aliases.

I step forward and reach out my hand for him to shake. “I apologize for the impudence. There wasn’t anyone at the desk and the door to your server room was open. I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I took a look.” I give him a sweet smile as he reciprocates the hand-shake.

He starts stuttering. “Well, those aren’t …isn’t the…uh. The server room we’re looking to expand is upstairs.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

He rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin as he peers around. “Uh, how come I didn’t hear about this?”

“We’re still meeting with your superiors next week, but I was asked to do a preliminary check prior to that meeting with you specifically. We emailed this office a week ago. And we received a response confirming the time and place.”

He frowns and starts grumbling, “It was probably my assistant…she doesn’t tell me anything.” he peers at Ms. Carol’s empty chair in exasperation. He looks back up at me. “We’re getting a new assistant.”

“Right,” I smile politely but my insides are laughing villainously at the news that Ms. Carol is being replaced.

He gestures out the office with a slight nod of his head, as if he were bowing. I stride out into the hallway with a rhythm to my steps.

Lesson 1: Everyone believes that a pretty face can do no harm.

Lesson 2: Everyone believes a person with a clipboard.

Lesson 3: Be prepared but be prepared to bullsh*t.

After receiving a tour of the server rooms and making painfully awkward small talk, I inform him I will be using the restroom and that I will make my way out on my own. (Thankfully, there were no run-ins with Ms. Carol or with the nail-biting trope of a secretary. But I had contingencies for those possibilities too.)

And I really did have to use the restroom. I had not peed in hours and I need to touch-up my makeup.

I am leaning towards the mirror, reapplying my lipstick when I spy a female instructor entering.

“You know your gait is exactly the same.”

I look up to see Elizabeth Kang standing at the door, her arms crossed, wrinkling her Garrison uniform at the elbows. Recognition and rebuke taint her eyes. 

My head floods with the single sensation of absolute horror. “Pardon?” I manage to mutter. 

Elizabeth Kang does not have an imposing figure, by no means, being about five feet and two inches tall. But her intelligence, her poise, and her competence become instantly known to anyone who meets her. She graduated college a year and a half earlier than most, summa cum laude, and was recognized by her professors enough that she immediately became a Garrison instructor two weeks after her matriculation. 

It is not easy to fool her. 

“That’s the one thing you missed. How you walk,” she adds accusatorially. 

“I apologize,” I say – in my Oxford English, “Do I know you?”

She steps up to me. “Lose it, Sena. I know it’s you.”

I purse my lips. Elizabeth Kang was my roommate my freshman year. I have been caught.

Like how Katie was. 

So much for all of that planning.

“Hey, Beth,” I begrudgingly mutter in defeat while still maintaining a civil smile.

She laughs, somewhat patronizingly, “You know you aren’t as smart as you think you are.”

My civil smile grows a little more civil. “Thanks.”

She looks off for a moment, in contemplation. “Let me get you Pidge’s things,” she finally says.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re not going to report me?”

She snarls lightheartedly at me, “Just come and get his things, will you?”

I cannot argue so I follow her as she leads me to the dormitory floors. We walk in silence until she jokes about how she is surprised I didn’t try to replicate an instructor’s uniform to try to sneak in.

“Too many things could go wrong,” I answer honestly. I did think about it but it would be weird to see an instructor lurking about tower servers in the basement.

“Sure,” she scoffs. “You know your make-up actually looks okay for once.”

“Why does everyone feel the need to throw me under the bus when it comes to what I can do?”

She peers over her should and point-blank states, as if the answer were encyclopedic, “Because you make it so easy.”

I make a face at her. We turn a corner and see two male students walking our way. They tower over her but there is the distinct trace of fear in their wide eyes and jumpy behavior. They stop to salute her.

“Ma’am,”

“Cadets, you're late for class," she responds severely. 

I think one starts crying.

"Yes'm. We're on our way." 

They start walking again when Elizabeth takes a few steps past. Then I hear them barrel down the hall. I turn around to follow them with my eyes but they make it out of the hall in less than a second. 

I laugh to myself and then am reminded to ask, “Did the Garretts and McClains come already?”

She nods regally. “Yeah, last week. Unlike you, they were just sad – not ostentatiously livid or stupid enough to try to break in to the Garrison.”

Elizabeth always had a thing with exact wording.

We finally make it to a room with the words L2 INSTRUCTOR’S LOUNGE emblazoned on a nearby windowpane.

“You cleared out the room already?” I ask, sounding a bit hurt – which surprises me. I expected to be taken to Katie’s room.

“It’s been weeks, Sen,” Elizabeth retorts logically as she swipes her keycard at the security lock. The door slides open.

It is mid-afternoon and classes are in session so the lounge is empty except for a blond instructor napping on a couch with his jacket lying over his face.

She takes me to a corner where a solitary table sits, holding industrial packages of duct tape and a box that is labeled: GUNDERSON, P.

The box is open – I can see Katie’s neatly-folded Garrison uniform sitting on top.

“Just so you know. I think how you’re going about this is wrong but…” she tells me at a whisper as she hands me the box. My hands dip a bit at the sudden weight.

I stare at her, surprised again by her candor as I realize she is telling me why she’s letting me go.

“But they’re not telling any of the instructors what’s going on either.”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes in disbelief. “They’re not?”

“No,” she says. “At this point, we’re all just trying to maintain status quo so that the other students aren’t alarmed. All I know is that there are rumors of weird tech experiments and that those students are probably…” She stops and is caught in a bought of indistinct staring. Her lips thin. “Hunk was my favorite …by far. I’d hate to think that anything happened to him and that the Garrison might be covering it up,” she confesses to me quietly, in the small space of that little corner.

I do not know what to say. “I…”

“Don’t,” she warns me as she shakes her head. Then she grips my forearms and stares at me, insistently. “And if you do figure out anything, don’t do anything stupid. There are good people here, Sena. Don’t risk any more lives just because you got nosy.”

“I won't,” I promise. “Thank you.” I do not think I meant to thank her. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

She says nothing for a bit then, “It’s not just for you.”

Chapter Text

Lance calls dibs on going first with the phone to send video-letters home.

Pidge gives him a time limit of 10 minutes – “MAXIMUM,” she emphasizes. “There’s only so much space on these things,” she says as she hands it to him. “And don’t make fifteen videos of the mindscape generator or something.”

He smirks.

She sighs.

He’s going to make fourteen videos – all nine minutes long. Just to screw with her.

She knows.

He knows.

She just shakes her head in an admission of defeat.

He angles the phone at his face and hits the record button.

He opens his mouth and suddenly a deafening screech leaves his body via his throat and Pidge jolts and instinctively reaches for her bayard in shock despite being in her civvies and not her armor.

Lance starts speed-shouting into the phone, “HI, MY BEAUTIFUL, AMAZING, AWESOME FAMILIA! It’s -,” he does something weird with his hands then points a thumb in his direction and says, “Lancey Lance.” He winks at the camera.

Then he bolts down the hallway, laughing maniacally.

A beat passes as Pidge watches. 

She shivers herself back to clarity and decides to return to the hangar. There’s a picture of Bae Bae and her mom that she pulled from the phone and onto her laptop and she’s hoping to put in a small hologram display at her workstation.

Lance McClain ends up giving the phone a tour of most of the castle. He begins with the lions and provides a thorough commentary on each one and their pilots.

“This is Red,” for instance, “She was – like – really playing hard-to-get with Keith but with me, she was all,” his voice changes now into something gravelly and theatrical, as if he were speaking as the Red Lion, “Oh, Lance is so much cooler than Keith. I am so glad that Lance is my paladin now.”

He gives the camera a wink and moves on, chattering.

When he gets to the Blue Lion, he peers up at her with keen and melancholic fondness.

“This is the bridge that isn’t a bridge, it’s a control room – and this is Allura,” he says as Allura’s torso falls into the frame while he walks backwards. “The future Mrs. Lance McClain.”

“Lance. Get out.” The phone only shows that there are fingers digging into his forehead.

“Kay,” he meekly chirps.

He’s crawling over Hunk in the kitchen, the next minute. “This is Hunk’s domain – he doesn’t let anyone else cook here so that hasn’t changed about him. Especially Shiro, and yep, that’s right, your uncle is BEST FRIENDS with the famous astro-pilot Takashi Shirogane, you know, the guy on the Garrison recruitment poster I have in my room.”

Hunk whimpers, “I thought we were best friends…”

“Oh,” Lance’s voice borders on mortification. “We are…just…”

“I’m just kidding,” Hunk laughs. “But it’s totally weird that you have a poster of Shiro in your bedroom. Like…you really shouldn’t say that stuff out loud, buddy.”

“…”

The next shot is of Coran at the control panels of the teledav. Lance has one arm extended, maintaining the shot, while another elbow is propped up on top of Coran’s shoulder.

“So I’m your favorite paladin, right, Coran?”

“Well,” Coran contemplates the question for a bit then replies chirpily, “You were until Allura became one.”

Lance purses his lips for a second while he side-eyes Coran. Then he shrugs it off. “I’ll take it.”

Now the camera is pointing at Shiro and panning across his prosthetic.

“And he’s got a robot arm – pretty cool, right?” Lance comments as he drags his finger against the metal and starts tentatively touching a few of the buttons.

“So you’re the youngest in your family?” Shiro asks, looking just slightly amused by Lance’s amplified behavior.

“Yep!”

“And you’re already an uncle?”

“Yeah?”

“Hmmm,” Shiro smiles after a minute, “Explains a lot.”

“Eh?”

“Nothing,” the former Black Paladin says as he pats Lance on the head then ruffles his short brown locks.

When Shiro walks down the hall, Lance breathily squeals into the camera, “He’s a-touched me!”

He starts another video when he sees Keith brooding in the training room instead of sweating and training as he usually would.

“This is our fearless, mullet-wearing, hot-headed leader – who is part alien. OOOOOOOOOHHH.” Lance flutters his fingers in front of the camera as he inches closer to Keith’s face.

“Lance,” Keith growls in a peeved tone.

“Look at his brooding face.” The camera is about two centimeters away from Keith’s nose.

“Lance.”

“Oooh, I’m such a loner.” Lance lowered his voice to give it Keith’s distinct monotone character. “I got kicked out of the Garrison and now I’m flying lions and I have a butt-knife.”

Keith lunges. The camera is shaking erratically and finally, there’s an “OOMPH,” from Lance right before he hits the ground.

“Did you just judo-throw me?” Lance sounds hurt at first but he starts laughing.

Keith’s face is indignant and he begins walking out of the hangar. His ears, however, have a twinge of red.

Lance snickers behind his hand. “Awww, he’s embarrassed…no worries.” He looks straight at the camera. “He’ll come back. He can’t do anything without me.”

The next shot is of Lance alone, in his room. It is dark but the light of the smartphone gives just enough to see that there are tear stains on his cheek. But he wears a smile nevertheless.

“So Mamí, Pops, I miss you terribly. Your son is finally doing something pretty awesome. You can be proud now. I’m helping to defend the universe – who else can say that, right? But…” He looks downcast.

“This whole thing is far from over. And there are definitely a lot of times where I feel like they don’t need me here. And I know,” he forces a laugh. “I need to stop thinking about myself like that – that I’m special and important. I know. But,” he sighs.

“But even if there’s not a whole lot for me to do, I need to do whatever I can in this war. And it really is a war. There are whole planets out here that need Voltron.”

He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes shimmer again as water begins to form. He doesn’t stare at the camera.

He can’t.

“I want to promise you that I can be safe. I want to tell you that I’ll be fine and that I’ll come back home a hero. But I’m not sure I can keep that promise. I’m sorry,” his voice cracks and the tears fall.

“I’m sorry but…” In soft Spanish, he whispers. “No creo que vaya a volver.”

Chapter Text

Colleen and I are sitting in her car while engaged in a, frankly, awkward conversation, which is, unfortunately, made more awkward with Gideon’s twin nieces sitting in the back seat.

We are taking the girls back from The Wildlife Canteen, a themed restaurant that markets on animal and biome puns. Colleen decided to join us for some time out of the house, which was fine by the twins’ parents – Gideon’s sister, Joan, and her husband.

It has been two weeks since my infiltration at the Garrison. And four days ago, my “work” computer finally received the last of the files I had cloned from their servers. The program my friend developed basically cloned all of the data ever filed during the week of Katie’s disappearance. The data grabber would then send the files bit-by-bit through the Garrison’s own network to a server in Norway, then a server in South Korea, then finally to my computer.

But even one-week worth of files equaled to a few tetrabytes. Thankfully, my computer (with some additional accouterments taken from Matt and Katie’s hardware collection) could handle the space. However, that still meant a shit-load of data for Katie’s encryption program to work through, which I did not have time for.

Video recordings, security feeds, correspondence, student simulator scores, data streams, etc. – everything marked with the dates I had preset. So I had to narrow the search.

Yesterday, I was able to pinpoint the day of the crash – there was an emergency lock-down code, a zulu-niner (Z9-VKH94LX, to be exact). This code was sent to all of the campus computers at 22:41 on a Friday evening.

Friday evenings were usually when Katie would sneak out and communicate with me with updates while she listened to “alien radio chatter”. She never texted me that Friday.

I separate the files and find some rover vehicle logs from right after the code is sent out and then a series of copies of the security feed, which were triple-encrypted.

I have found the pot of gold.

I drop the files into the decryption platform and it estimates that the process would take about 37 hours.

So I call up Gideon to see if this weekend works for babysitting.

That leads me to tonight – when I’m driving through a slight bout of drizzle and Colleen carries on the undesirable conversation against my pleas with, “So you’re telling me that you didn't mind - at all - that Shiro liked nachos and tacos,” in a particular and peculiar tone.

"He didn't say anything but-" I start stuttering as if I am blubbering underwater. I want to throw my hands into the air but safety first. My palms sweat against the plastic of the steering wheel. “Sure, I mean, doesn’t everyone like a bit of variety to some extent? I can’t imagine anyone being a strictly nachos or tacos person. I kind of like nacos, myself. And do we really need to be talking about this?”

She ignores me and asks, “Did you make any nacos for him?”

I try to maintain my composure. “Why do I need to tell you that?”

I can see her shrugging out of the corner of my eye. “Already knew that his were the first nachos you ever had.”

A chill flares in my chest and face. I feel my hair is lifting into the air like a Ghibli character. “HOW. THE.”

“And I’m pretty sure you made him his first taco.”

“COLLEEN – I AM DRIVING IN THE RAIN AND I CANNOT-.”

Suddenly, “Are you guys talking in euphemisms?” one niece, Dana, asks us from behind.

I balk.

Colleen just snickers.

“I like nachos!” Lara, the other twin, shouts from her car-seat.

I decide not to ask how Dana knows the word “euphemism” and rather, go down the new direction that Lara provided. So I force a smile, and say, “Aw, that’s great, sweetie.”

“Then why did you get chicken nuggets?” Dana retorts after wisely deciding not to press the earlier issue.

“Because the nuggets were in the shape of wolves. I love wolves!” Lana had ordered the Arctic Wolf Pack – chicken nuggets in the shape of wolves, a bowl of fruit cut into cookie-cutter shapes of birds and fish, and fries with ketchup.

I thought it was a bit macabre for children.

“I think dragons are better.” Regrettably, there were no dragon-themed meals at the Wildlife Canteen so Dana had settled for a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches shaped into aquatic animals and tomato soup.

I am still trying to figure out if it was a heavy-handed message about over-fishing.

“Well, they didn’t have dragons at the resterang,” Lara explains.

Dana whispers, somewhat ominously, “They will.”

Thunder rumbles from a distance. The rain patters with heavier beats against the frame of the car.

I reach a red light and I peer over at Colleen who mirrors my expression. She leans a bit to me and whispers, “Are you sure they’re five?”

Unsure of my answer, I still whisper, “Yep.”

The girls go at it for a little bit until we reach the Holt home so that I can drop Colleen off, which she had insisted I do before I dropped off the girls. By this point, the rain was falling a bit more heavily but not enough that warranted the use of an umbrella in Colleen’s eyes.

“Goodnight, girls,” she says to the girls as she steps out.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Holt,” the twins reply simultaneously.

Colleen crouches to peer back into the car and says to me, “So I’m thinking I might want to spend the evening alone tonight.”

I tilt my head. “What?”

She rolls her eyes at me. She elaborates, “You should stay somewhere else tonight after you drop off the girls.”

Embarrassment burns my cheeks and chest as I finally get her drift. My face betrays how absolutely appalled I am. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask bitterly.

She smirks. “It’s Saturday evening. I can only live vicariously through you, Sena. And you live a boring life. So go and live,” she laughs then she stands, with only her head tilting down so that she can still laugh at me with her eyes as she says, “Who knows, maybe you’ll like Gideon’s nachos too?”

I am flabbergasted – now, my mouth is agape, and my eyes have expanded past what is humanly possible.

I try to say, “What?” angrily but all that comes out is a raspy noise.

When I finally pull into the driveway of the girls’ house and the garage door opens with an obnoxious rumble, I see a motorcycle inside that was not there when we left.

Dana points to it and she exclaims excitedly, “It’s Uncle Giddy!”

As I park in the garage, my mind begins to buzz with probabilities. Colleen put my head in a blender.

Could he possibly…?

I unbuckle the girls out from their car seats and they instantly scramble out and leap out of the car as the house door to the garage opens, revealing the stocky figure of Gideon Engström.

“Hi, Uncle Giddy,” I sneer.

“Shut up,” he snaps back but his eyes are smiling at me.

I force an over-exaggerated grin as I step into the house and notice a glass of a dark, brown - no doubt, alcoholic - beverage sitting on the coffee table by the couch. 

Gideon helps put their raincoats on labeled hooks in the mudroom while I head upstairs with the girls to start getting them ready for bed.

They’re fussy and silly and try to do whatever they can to avoid putting on their pajamas but within twenty minutes or so both girls are washed, dressed, and suitably less giggly.

Lara suddenly wraps her arms around my legs, like a small, earnest, human staple, pulling me from my focused stupor. She beams up at me and confesses quite loudly, “I love you, Miss Sena.”

I blink at her in surprise as warmth erupts from inside and into a smile on my cheeks.

“I love you too, Lara,” I say as I bend down and give her a hug. “Sleep well.”

“Okay.”

Now we all look at Dana, who contemplates the scenario for a bit. She’s already halfway under the covers as she peers at the rest of us in her mental quandary.

She finally says, “I’ll love you when I’m six.”

Gideon guffaws.

I chuckle. “Sounds like a plan. So does this mean I’m invited to your sixth birthday party?”

Dana just shrugs.

I hoist Lara into the air and toss her onto the bed as she explodes into beautiful chuckling.

Gideon kisses Dana’s forehead while I tuck Lara in.

“Goodnight, Uncle Giddy,” Dana mutters.

“Night, Dane,” he whispers back.

I cannot help but be struck but it only lasts a moment until I snap back and we switch twins.

While I dig Dana’s comforter beneath her body, I hear him bestow Lara the same affectionate words and gesture as she giggles her goodnight.

The next minute, as Gideon and I make our way downstairs to the living room, are painfully silent.

“Looks like they like you,” he finally says when I make a beeline to my purse that I had thrown on the couch when I arrived with the girls. He gives me a curt smile and I find myself suddenly hyper-aware of his physical person.

“Yeah, I guess,” I mutter as I look at a very fascinating spot on a wall.

I guess he notices because he puts a hand on my shoulder and asks, “You okay?” and I flinch.

He is not wearing his glasses so I can get my first clear view of his eyes and I realize how youthful he looks without his stupid hipster frames.

Then a flash and a loud crack of thunder envelop the house. His hand leaves my shoulder but the heat remains for a moment.

“You scared of thunder?” I ask him, trying to regain myself.

He is about to retort when a steam of lights beam across through the bay windows and over our faces, signaling the return of Joan and her husband.

The garage door opens and the couple walks in with a symphony of noises – the house door opening, the garage door closing, the clattering of shoes as they are discarded, whispered but excited greetings, exclamations of how wet it is out there.

We all exchange the appropriate amount of pleasantries.

Joan's husband, Mr. Chang, asked me how the girls were while Gideon and Joan devolve into sibling banter that reminds me of weekends with my own younger brother. 

At some point, while I am packing my things to head out, the sky flashes and thunders again.  

“Oh, how convenient, it’s raining even harder,” Gideon’s sister comments as she peers out through the bay window of her home. She turns to me and asks, “Sena, could you be a dear and drive Gideon home?”

“Uh…sure, but-,” I pause. “Did you just say, ‘how convenient’?” I ask.

“Joan, I’ll be fine on my bike,” Gideon growls at his sister.

“I don’t want you riding that ridiculous mid-life crisis of a vehicle out in this weather. And you drank way too much tonight.” She points menacingly at the glass which had reappeared in his hand.

“Then why can’t I just stay here for the night?”

“I don’t want you to,” Joan replies, point-blank, without even blinking.

He’s about to retort back when I interrupt with “It’s fine…I can take you.”

He peers over at me with a gaze I cannot analyze.

I cannot will myself to look back for very long. 

We say our goodbyes and I try not to notice Joan winking at Gideon as she hands him an umbrella.

I suspect that Joan and Colleen might have exchanged more than pleasantries earlier that night when we picked up the girls.

We do not say a word in the car.

Well, I don’t.

Gideon might have.

I do not remember.

I probably only answered in guttural noises.

I pull into the underground parking lot of Gideon’s apartment, out of reflex. And it suddenly hits me how many times I’ve been in his apartment.

Before I can process that thought, Gideon opens the car door on his side and says, “Good night, Sena.”

“Uh…wait,” I say without really thinking and before I realize it, I had reached over and grabbed at the cuff of his sleeve.

He pauses and waits as the whole earth swirls around in my head. 

“Could I pee?” I can feel my cheeks blister from the heat rising in my body. I cannot believe the words that came out of my stupid, stupid mouth. “In your bathroom?”

I actually did need to use his bathroom, but whether it added to or justified the awkwardness is still subject for debate.

I look at myself in the mirror and notice my makeup had worn off. Great. But, Gideon has seen worse from my late nights at the office trying to finish a piece before a deadline to my late nights at his place editing one of his pieces. 

I step out to see Gideon sitting in his armchair reading a New Yorker and drinking a beer. He can really handle his liquor.

I gulp and then ask, in my typical snark to hide my anxieties. “So how old are you?”

He looks up from his reading. “Why?”

I shrug and sit on the armrest of a nearby couch. “Joan looks so much younger than you but she said she’s the oldest.”

“And?”

“Are you are the youngest?”

“Middle child.”

I chuckle. “Explains so much.”

I can feel him glaring at me but I keep my gaze on his gross carpet.

“How old do you think I am?” he asks.

“I always thought you were in your fifties-ACK!” The rolled-up New Yorker unceremoniously slaps my forehead. “Gideon!” I scream as he lunges and sandwiches my face with his hands.

“You thought I was fifty?” he snarls.

“I’m just kidding!” I splutter through my squished cheeks. “But the grey hair is very misleading,” I say in my defense.

He relinquishes his vise hold, but only a percentage. His touch continuing to envelop my face.

He peers down at me, as if studying my pudgy cheek-flesh. “Mom’s side has a bit of Sicilian in her – they grey really young.”

“But Joan-?”

“Dyes her hair.”

“Oh.”

“I’m 38,” he offers.

“You’re younger than I thought,” I exclaim quietly as I secretly ruminate on the 14-year age gap between us.

“Yeah?” he mutters in the softest tone I ever heard him speak. His hands still hover on my cheeks.

“Yeah,” I return, my voice at a weak whisper.

I have never seen him quite like this before.

And I have seen him wasted. But, this Gideon – this soft, gentle, nervous Gideon - is not someone new, I think.

Our eyes finally meet…

His hands trail off my face, slowly, as if in the deepest contemplation, then he takes a step back.

I can feel the disappointment accrue in my stomach.

I am such a teenager.

“You should get home,” Gideon says, “Colleen’s probably expecting you.”

A weird laugh slips out between my teeth as I look askance. “She’s not.”

He expresses confusion as he walks back towards his armchair. “She’s not?”

“Nope…”

He says nothing. He merely reaches to the side table to grab his beer and take another sip.

He is still standing.

Is he waiting?

“You’re not going to offer me anything?” I ask, trying to play off the mood. “To drink,” I add for clarification.

“I don’t have anything for children,” he mutters back and takes another sip.

“Wow,” I scoff as I lean back a bit. “So I should just leave then?”

He raises his eyebrows – almost playfully. Where has Gideon been keeping this side of his personality?

“What’s keeping you?” he questions with a smirk.

I am at a loss of words for a moment. I realize my palms are damp and clammy. I knead them into the fabric of my jeans.

Then, in a sudden bout of bravery, the words, “I’m waiting to see if you’ll kiss me,” leave my lips in a whisper.

There is a beat.

A sudden overtaking of silence and anticipation.

I glance at him to gauge his reaction – which seems to show indifference, and I wonder if I just made the stupidest mistake of my young adult life.

He downs his beer, lifting the bottle smoothly into the air.

I wince.

He sets the empty bottle on the side table then walks again towards me.

I immediately look down again. My cheeks burn with greater force than at any time in my life. Air leaves my lungs in a hot, unsteady breath.

I wait for a sound, a word, something to filter to my ears – but instead, I feel the return of the calloused blades of his fingers on my cheek.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” is all he whispers into my heavy breath before he closes his eyes and brings his lips to mine.

He is gradual, at first; his lips barely press against mine before he parts. His eyes open slowly to see my reaction.

I had kept my eyes open, like a nocturnal animal caught in the beam of someone’s flashlight. I am caught, stunned – which I know is ridiculous since I basically asked him to kiss me.

He gives me a slight scowl when he sees my blank stare.

I finally sneer, “I forgive you.”

He sucks at his teeth, as if indignant, but he returns to my lips with purposeful yet tender force.

A jolt curves up my back as the sensation finally registers and the realization sets in.

Gideon is kissing me.

There is a brief second when I remember all the times Gideon would scowl my way throughout my initial internship, or his distant, seemingly indifferent care for me the late nights we spent up to work; and I smile – did this dork always like me?

His hands travel to the back of my neck and he pulls me further into him, his greedy lips, his breath, his chest.

I can feel his presence, his wanting me, it all blankets me like heat on a summer day.

He pulls me in again and again in a pattern of fervor and every part of him that touches me is fire. His force augments – becomes wilder.

I have to turn away for air.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he utters when we part.

“Do you want me here?”

His forehead rests against mine. He huffs. “I do.”

“And I want to be here so,” I swallow. “I’m not seeing a conflict of interest.”

He blinks a few times and then takes a singular step back. “I am.”

“What?” My body tenses. “Why?”

“Because you’re still in love with him.” His voice is matter-of-fact and resigned, which doesn’t settle well with me.

I step back and I feel my face contorting.

“I cannot believe you,” I murmur, the anger is palpable on my tongue. “What makes you think that you have any right to say this?”

At this, his hands finally release me.

The wavering chill now solidifies over me.

“Sena, this isn’t about-,” he sighs again. He looks askance, as if looking at me was too hard. “I’ve always waited for you. And I’ll keep waiting for you. But I can’t…”

“What are you saying?”

He continues, “Sena, I can’t do this if you are still in love with someone else.”

My whole body, each nerve, each fraction of my skin – is numb.

I am livid.

I am confused.

I feel betrayed.

I turn on my heels, sweep up my purse and coat and go straight to the door.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I seethe at him before I walk over the threshold and slam the door behind me.

After driving around the neighborhood in anger, I am parked in an empty lot of a grocery store. The rain beats against the car like a thundering timpani.

I scream. I shout. I bang against the steering wheel with my fists curled so tightly I feel my nails digging into my palms.

Then I remember his smile.

Shiro’s smile.

I remember everything about how he would smile. He would beam at me with his eyes. I remember the long stems of his fingers across my brow as he brushed away my hair.

I remember his laugh, his voice – everything about each moment he smiled in my direction.

I remember his smile when I collapsed onto his lap, sweaty and out of breath, after his insisting we run a few laps together.

I remember his smile when he insisted on eating the horridly dry cupcakes I baked him for his birthday.

I remember his smile when he would step out of his doctor's office and see me sitting in the waiting area, in utter agony at more bad news his diagnosis could have. 

I remember his smile in the flickering light of lampposts during the midnight walks we would secretly take in public parks after he would sneak out from the Garrison.

I remember his smile when I said something snarky and he responded with, “You know, sometimes, I adore you.”

I remember his smile.

And I remember the smiles I gave him.

And in the car, in the rain, I think that – maybe – Gideon is right.

I go home in repressed tears and muddied shoes and I find Colleen in her bathrobe with a glass of wine in one hand.

I start crying then.

I ruined her evening, I realize.

But she does not hold it against me as she takes me in her arms and waits for me to explain it all to her.

I feel so guilty. So angry. So all-around awful.

I am supposed to be there for her. I am supposed to be the one taking care of her.

So why am I the one crying in the middle of the night as she rocks me into a state of calm?

My eyes are red and puffy the next day.

I try not to think about Gideon. Or about Shiro.

It’s hard. And stupid. And so immensely, intensely, aggravatingly hard.

But the work is distracting enough. The decryption finished breaking through the protected files I selected. So I scrub through most of it as I am writing notes. I find an outdoor camera that briefly shows a small green backpack whipping around a corner.

I scribble:

• 22:41:23 – Zulu-niner
• 22:41:57 – Katie? Off to crash site?

I click on a different file.

The camera shows the inside of a medical tent – with a bed, extensive testing equipment, and Garrison officers in HAZMAT and med-tech suits.

“Camera is online, sir.”

“Make sure this is a secure connection to headquarters.”

“Yessir.”

I scrawl:

• 23:02:12 – alien test subject? lol

“Bring him in.”

A person dressed in purple and grey rags is rolled in on a gurney.

I jump out of my seat.

“It can’t…”

I narrow my eyes at the screen.

“It’s…not…”

I start blabbering. My eyesight starts to blur. My heart and lungs beat against the cage of my ribs.

The subject starts yelling about aliens, destroyers of worlds, Voltron. I just slump back into my chair.

My heartbeat bludgeons into my ears.

“Shiro’s alive.” 

Chapter Text

Princess Allura may or may have not been just possibly, incrementally, conceivably, just a bit…jealous.

In the bout of homesickness brought about by the arrival of “the smartphone”, Pidge has spent more time regaling the rest of the team with stories about this far-off “Sena,” which led to the other humans discussing what they missed about home.

The princess felt somewhat…peeved .

Now, Allura believes that she is not a petty person.

...

Alright, not that petty.

...

Maybe just a little petty.

But she had hoped she would be a shining exemplar of a female role model for Pidge to look up to but reality has not been very accommodating to Allura’s plans.

Allura spends most of her time with Coran and Shiro, discussing battle plans and strategies. Then in conference calls with the Blade.

Then if she does have time to herself, she’ll train in her quarters or bond with Blue.

Pidge, on the other hand, spends most of her time in the hangar with Hunk, fiddling about in the lab that they’ve constructed.

So for all her fantasies about the potential bond she could have with the Green Paladin, there was no pay-off. But - again - with the sudden arrival of the smartphone, Allura began to feel the exacting sting of those dashed dreams regurgitate like some hideous nightmare of her latent insecurities.

The princess had set herself up to be the leader of this team of humans, humans who she still did not know a lot about, yet she feels regulated to the sidelines of her own mission and purpose.

She is the princess. But the Black Lion chose Keith.

She is the princess. But she is just the Blue Paladin now.

She is the princess. But the Blade of Marmora leads all the missions.

She is the princess. But none of her own teammates treat her as such.

Granted, she understands that human reverence is much different to Altean (not that Lance’s particular brand of admiration seems to border on obsessive fascination, but she appreciated that much, at least).

She missed Shiro; (well, at least when he was the Black Paladin). She missed the rapport they formed as partners, as co-leaders. His steadiness and skill matched her drive and mastery in equal parts. He was is her counterbalance, the element that brought the team equilibrium.

All of that was seemingly decimated by his going away, and still has not fully returned with his return, which led her to wonder whether she was even a co-leader to begin with.

In the beginning of it all, when she awoke, her crown and station (plus the exceptional tension of having to suddenly anoint these children - really, they are all children - to be paladins) afforded her the right to be at the head of the Castle, and she did so well.

At least...she thought.

But now, Allura grapples with her own seeming failings at diplomacy and warfare, the skillset she was trained to hold since she could first camouflage.

After a swirl of thoughts and emotions, she finds herself finding Pidge at the Communications Bay, crowding the matter transponder which was nestled at the edge of the main console.

Well, she did not so much as find Pidge as overheard some very pointed yelling.

“Stupid -piece of-I made you-why aren’t you working?!” Pidge seethes at the holographic terminal displaying from her gauntlet and over the inscriptions on the transponder. She is typing away at the technology with vicious compulsion, making sounds punctuated by her own grunts of frustration.

“Is something the matter, Pidge?” Allura asks, stepping up to her, though with caution one would approach an agitated klanmurl.

“Oh, hi princess,” the paladin notes, returning to the technological quandary at her arm in an instant. “I’m just trying to get this transponder to send this back to Sena. But.” She stabs a button. “This.” Again. “Stupid.” Third time. “-translator doesn’t want to cooperate!”

“Well,” Allura begins, leaning into the predicament, “-all you have to do is ensure that the coordinates of the receiving transponder are correct and that it is ready for reception.” She quickly scans the text on the display, slides her hands over the controls, types a few keystrokes, then her initial enthusiasm deflates. “I’m sorry, Pidge. It seems like it’s not-it seems as though this one is stuck in reception mode. Even a reset won’t change it.”

The princess sees Pidge’s spirits flatten too so she tries to explain, “This model has been out of service for a while.”

“Just my luck,” Pidge grumbles, letting her limbs and features fall.

Allura forces a smile. “I’ll have Coran take a look at it. I’m sure he can figure something out. This older stuff is right up his alley.”

A wince of smile appears on Pidge’s cheek and Allura determines that to be a good sign of faith. The Green Paladin looks up at her and gives her a whole smile. “Thanks, Allura.”

“No worries,” she returns and her mind inches back to all of the insecurities of a few doboshes ago. “So what was she like?”

“Who?”

“This Sena you keep talking about,” Allura tries to say calmly as she gestures at the phone.

Pidge then chuckles and a large grin envelops her face, making Allura feel a little more self-conscious.

“She was weird,” the girl explains between a few laughing scoffs.

“How so?”

“Eh, like she would try to bite my butt sometimes.”

“She would bite your butt?” Allura only understood maybe half of what the translator had fed into her neurons.

“Yeah, she said she would do it to me when I was really little and she would keep doing it every now and again.”

“And this behavior is strange, even by human standards?”

“Yes,” Pidge immediately responds. “Very.” Then, a notification blares from her gauntlet, the screen lights up between them, and she taps on the icon. “Oh my god,” Pidge exclaims.

“What is it?”

“...I think I have a lead on Matt.”

“She’s going to what ?” Shiro and Keith both shout at the same time soon after Allura informed them of Pidge’s plan to go after her brother - alone.

“She is prepping as we speak,” Allura adds, as she compels them to follow her with a hand. They all start - from their places in the training room, towards the Green Lion’s holding bay.  

“Did she explain what sort of intel she got?” Shiro asks, jumping ahead of several questions that Keith was going to ask.

She shakes her head as they stride down the halls at a hasty pace. “Other than something about a trade, I did not get much else from her.”

“How come she hasn’t said anything?”

“She tried to convince me that she wasn’t going to leave but I could tell,” Allura says with increasing assuredness. “She is going to pull-”

“Pidge!” Keith shouts over the princess as he runs up ahead as a flash a green disappears around a corner.

Pidge, vexed at being caught, bristles and bites, “Why did you tell them?” at Allura.

The princess frowns, keeping all of her reactive anger at bay as she regards the small paladin before her. Then, as she watches Shiro warn Pidge of following a shaky lead, she begrudgingly returns to the trail of insecurity that has set her off her typical emotional calibration.

I am also a child.

For all the deca-phoebs she had over these Terrans, she behaves so similarly to them, like a child .

Pidge throws ranting and rhetoric that pull her from her thoughts, for a moment. “You guys need to plan your next move with the Blade and the rest of us have nothing to do. Matt is my brother ; I finally have something to go on and I can be with my family again. I-”

“Pidge, don’t you think that we all realize that? Matt’s-,” then Shiro winces. His prosthetic hand shoots up and claws at his face as a sharp pain conquers his temples.  

Allura, as crazy as it was, almost feels the tinge of pain shooting through him, like a mix of magic and metallic interference. It reminds her of a time she walked in on a Quintessence ritual as a child. Then, in her periphery, she sees Keith and Pidge share a furtive glance.

“Shiro, are you okay?” Keith asks, in a stalling tone.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I just got this headache and-”

“Allura! Why don’t you take Shiro to the sick bay,” Pidge suddenly suggests, though, with obvious duplicity.

“And I’ll talk with Pidge about Matt,” Keith offers, in the most tranquil and diplomatic way Allura has ever seen from Keith.

In shock, she nods and turns to help Shiro down the hall, but not without setting the camera feed overlooking that spot directly to her own gauntlet.

A slight twinge of guilt at the fact that she is spying on her own teammates passes quickly. It is obvious that her own teammates are keeping her out of the loop and it all peeves her to no end.

When she gets Shiro settled in a stasis pod, Allura feels the same sense of camaraderie and comfort when he jokes, “I feel like such an old man.”

She laughs and sets the program on the pod to concentrate on his head. She asks him a series of diagnostic questions to see if she needs to do anything more for him. She pauses, after the program is established and the pod begins to fill. She stares at him, settling into that friendly ease once more so that she might the question nagging at the blackest abyss of her thoughts.

Am I a good leader?

“Yes?” Shiro asks, anticipating something from her. “Is something wrong?”

The question is nearly pulled from her lips but then that mystic interference shudders through Shiro again. This time, Allura really and truly feels something, even if it is just a hint of it.

He groans and grimaces, digging his fingers into the bridge above his nose and eyes.

“Nothing,” she says with a soft smile. “Rest and get better. Can’t have you like this when we need our top strategist.”

Shiro returns, “I’ll be fine after an hour in this. Why don’t you head back to Keith and Pidge? I - honestly - don’t feel comfortable with them alone. I’m afraid Keith actually might let her go.”

Everything halts at this, her thoughts, her comfort - she recalls the argument between the two on Arus and wonders what could have possibly changed. Something, again, set off her internal measures.

She is not peeved by this. No, but she senses something off.

The last section of the pod door finally shuts with a siphon and a shudder. “Of course,” she articulates loudly so that he could still hear her then quickly makes her exit.

Allura checks the feed again and, unfortunately, that stretch of hallway is empty. She rewinds the feed a few doboshes to witness them when Keith and Pidge were discussing something and quietly enough that the feed could not pick up everything. Then he lets her go down the hall and to the bay, just 42 ticks ago.

Something is going on .

She heads straight for the Green Lion.

“Allura, what are you doing?” Pidge interrogates when Allura nearly leaps onto the ramp up to the lion.

“I’m going with you.”

“No,” Pidge automatically responds and it kills a small part of Allura. “I already told Shiro that I don’t need back-up.”

“And he and I both agree that you should not be going by yourself.”

Pidge is about to retort but Allura holds a calm and political hand to compel her to pause.

“Pidge, this is not because we doubt your abilities. I know you are perfectly capable of finding your brother on your own. But this is still a team and I am your teammate.” She is tempted to mention that she is till the princess too, since people seem to conveniently forget that minute detail of her status. But she decides against it.

Then and there, Allura decides, instead, that she will no longer tolerate this treatment and that she will work to earn the respect she feels she deserves. While she knows this to be a paradox of a sort, Allura can admit, at least at this juncture, that she has not acted as a leader ought to. 

She has been brash, biased, and reactionary when situations have called for calm and subtlety. Then there are other times when she is submissive and discreet when she should have been open. For the past deca-phoeb, she has not been the princess she could have been. She has not been the leader her father had taught her to be.

She has been given the responsibility to uphold the culture and sovereignty of Altea and all of its rulers before her. But she has squandered it at the expense of her pride. Voltron has been the forefront of her entire life since she woke; the war had consumed her to the point where she no longer recognized herself.

Now,

Now, s he needs to prove - to herself - that she can be the kind of leader she knows she can be. 

She needs to re-calibrate herself.

“I’m coming with you.”

The princess states, and so, is law.