Chapter Text
The metal ring clamps shut with a dissonant clang, a sharp pain ripping through Lotor’s arm. He bites his tongue and endures it. He can’t show weakness in front of the Paladins or the Coalition. If these were their terms then he would accept them. Being monitored was a small price to pay for his plans. He would be more concerned if there were no precautions set in place. Perhaps it would keep him more honest, or at the very least test his ability to tell a convincing lie. He frowns, rubbing the exposed skin on the sides of the bracelet.
“Have you ever tested this on a live subject before?” he raises toward the green paladin.
There is a deep intelligence behind her steady, golden gaze. “You’re the very first. Feel honored,” she says. Lotor’s fingers twitch.
The Altean princess steps forward gracefully and supports her weight on the raised war table before them. “Pidge, explain how exactly this works again,” she speaks in a hushed tone, fatigue apparent. None of them had respite since the events of Naxzela mere hours before, emotional and physical exhaustion hanging over their heads like a reaper ready to collect souls.
The green paladin steps forward and speaks louder for the Blade and Coalition leaders in the room standing away from the table. “Well, BLIP tech is used to detect vital signs in our paladin armor along with relaying our location to the castle. So it wasn’t that difficult to adjust the tech so that it was more portable, but Matt and I,” she pauses to look at a man with similar features standing a few feet away, “were able to engineer it so it’s able to read galran biology with a little help from Kolivan.”
Allura rests a hand on her chin in thought. “So it’ll tell us where Lotor is if he tries to escape and, what, exactly?”
“We’ll be able to tell if he’s lying based on heart rate and chemical reactions. But it might be a learning curve since we don’t know exactly what equates for dopamine or adrenaline in Galra,” the larger one, Matt, adds.
The blue paladin suddenly smacks a hand on the table, startling everyone other than the large Blade in the corner. “So what you’re saying is that you built a fancy lie detector?”
The green paladin groans, “Lance, why d’you have to put it like that?”
Lance squints, “well, is it?”
“...I guess you could say that, yes.”
Lotor flexes his hand, pain rippling through it. “Is the pain temporary?” he asks in a voice much quieter than he meant. He glances over at the green paladin, waiting for an answer.
“Your body will get used it, it’s just because it entered through the muscle,” there’s a cold edge to her words and Lotor wonders for a moment if she purposefully made it to be painful. “Oh! And if you misbehave, I can send an electrical current through it. It won’t stop you, but it will hurt like a bitch.”
Definitely meant it to be painful.
Lotor narrows his eyes at this information, wondering if these negotiations were worth the hassle, but the idea of being thrown to the mercy of his father makes him swallow back any sarcastic remarks. These are the only possible allies he has left.
From the corner of his vision he spots the movement of a small Blade, mask on, skirting the sides of the room but attention fully on him. Like stalking prey. Lotor keeps his face impassive, or as expressionless as he can manage with a dislocated shoulder and now damaged wrist. He watches carefully as the Blade goes to stand beside the larger one, only then revealing just how diminutive in size they are. The black paladin catches his gaze, following it to the now still figure.
“Now that we have some security with Lotor, I think it’s safe to dismiss everyone for the night. We’re all exhausted and can focus more on negotiations tomorrow.” Most of the room collectively sighs in relief. The black paladin clears his throat before looking in the direction of the small Blade. “Keith! I need to speak with you. But first, take Lotor to his quarters,” Lotor is graced with an icy glare, “and lock his door from the outside when you’re done.”
He unfolds his arms in finality and begins to move towards the door, a steady dismissal flowing through the room at the action. And ever so suddenly, everyone loses their tough fronts at the promise of sleep and recovery.
The little Blade, Keith, stops in front of Lotor, his mask still on. There’s a small head tilt, a sign to follow, but no words are spoken. Lotor closes his eyes, taking in a long breath before falling in step behind the other.
As they stray further away from the main part of the castle, Lotor has half a mind to believe this Keith will attempt to kill him. He runs through scenarios in his head, trying to find a solution if he must fight while considerably handicapped. As he settles on a plan of action, the pair stops in front of a door. Keith swipes some sort of ID chip connected to his suit, authorizing the door to open and wordlessly steps aside so Lotor can enter.
He begins to walk into the room but turns when he’s in front of the Blade. “Why have you not removed your mask?” Lotor prods quietly. “Are you afraid of what will show if you reveal yourself?”
The empty glowing eyes of the Marmora mask rise to meet his gaze. A heartbeat later, a hand follows to click something by his ear, the mask disintegrating into light before dispersing completely. Keith doesn’t look Galra at first glance, but Lotor knows better. Being Galra is bone deep, the way you carry yourself, the way you think, the way you fight and love and feel. It is those exact instincts and bloodline that allows one to become a Blade of Marmora. Before him is a half Galra: shaken and alone, unable to process the raw conviction he had during his moments of imminent death, and deep, sorrowful regret as obvious as blue starlight.
He’s met with a glassy stare, but one with a storm of emotions he can’t begin to decipher. The deep indigo draws him in, and he knows he could easily get lost if he let himself. He knows because it is himself who looks back. A ghost of his former self whispering to him through the boy before him. Anger, sadness, confusion, mangled vines of emotions rooted far within. He sees himself in Keith, knows his heart has a weakness for lost little half-breeds like himself.
He turns slowly around as Acxa calls to him, only to be met with the the blooming pain of being shot. The betrayal of his generals, his closest friends, his family. Death would have been kinder. Keith is him, and he is Keith. So he looks away, unable to bear the heavy gaze burning into him.
“You’re the pilot…” he starts gently and doesn’t dare finish. The pilot who almost killed himself. Who almost pointlessly died, whether for heroics or out of desperation. The pilot I saved by intervening mere seconds before death.
This seems to take Keith by surprise. “How did you...?” the voice is equally quiet, but wavers slightly. He’s still shaken from his actions only hours ago. Lotor can intuit by the dissociated reactions Keith gives that no one has addressed his actions nor comforted him.
Victory or death. Knowledge or death. Means justify the ends. Lotor is certain it’s written into their genetic code at this point and not just a toxic, imperialistic mentality. Pursuing their goals with reckless abandon. Pointless carnage and sacrifice and death.
Lotor chances a look once more into the abyss of emotion. He doesn’t know what brings him to say it, only that it invokes a reaction he’ll not forget. A sharp intake of breath, fists clenched and completely frozen at the statement, Keith stands prone.
“Because, little Blade, you and I are more alike than you know.”