Chapter Text
Ojiisan told him the story, reading aloud from the old, musty book Takashi found buried in the bottom of the wooden chest that sat in the spare bedroom. It had been covered in dust and almost too heavy for Takashi to lift, nearly making him topple over when he first heaved it up into his arms, small fingers cutting through the thick layer of grime that coated the front cover. Takashi was already better at reading than most of the other kids in his class, but he hugged the book tight to his chest and carried it downstairs to show Ojiisan anyways, asking if they could read it together. He liked the sound of Ojiisan’s voice, the soft, rolling lilt of his faded accent, the care he took in shaping words.
Ojiisan frowned. He’s was an organized and tidy man, and Takashi’s shirt was wrinkled and messy, twisted at the hem and smeared with dust. With a sigh, Ojiisan took the book from him, retrieving a towel from beneath the sink to wipe down its surface, peering at the title from behind the gleam of his round glasses. His eyes narrowed, the edges of his mouth pulling tight, though his expression softened when he glanced back at Takashi, watching with fondness as he squirmed on the spot, rocking up onto his toes with excitement.
“Later,” Ojiisan promised, turning the towel over in his hand and wiping the clean corner across Takashi’s noise. “But no more exploring for today.”
They saved the book for bedtime, and it was then that Ojiisan told him it belonged to Takashi’s mother.
“She took a class on mythology in school and practically begged me not to throw away any of her textbooks,” he said, tapping a finger against the corner of a yellowed page. “Always said she would come back and sort through them eventually.”
He was smiling as he spoke, but not in a way that made him look happy. Takashi couldn’t remember his mother very well, recalling her only in bits in pieces: soft hair and thin wrists, dark eyes that flashed with specks of grey. He didn’t know what to do with the uncomfortable way his stomach twisted when Ojiisan spoke of her, so he sunk low into his bed, pulled the blanket up to his nose, and asked his grandfather if he would read to him.
The book wasn’t just a single story, but a mixture of different myths and legends. The one Ojiisan chose was about a man on a quest to save his dead wife. He ventured into hell and played music for the god of the underworld so sweetly that they allowed him to take his wife back so long as the man walked out of hell without turning around to look at her. It wasn’t a bad story, but it was strange and surprising, lacking in the happy ending Takashi had come to expect. He asked Ojiisan at least three times if he was sure there wasn’t more after he finished, scrunching his nose unhappily when Ojiisan started to laugh.
“You didn’t like it?” Ojiisan asked, marking the page with his finger as he closed the cover.
Takashi shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because he ruined it. He looked back too soon.”
“Mm.” Ojiisan took off his glasses, hooking them into the collar of his shirt. “Some things are difficult to wait for. I think I feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t! He was stupid.”
Ojiisan lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t like that word.
“I mean…” Takashi looked down at his fingers, worrying at a stray thread that had come loose from his blanket. “I feel sorry for his wife. She’s the one who’s trapped.”
“He tried to help her.”
Takashi puffed up his chest, frowning at his grandfather. He tried, but he also failed, and to Takashi that seemed far more significant.
Ojiisan pushed back his chair, smoothing a hand over Takashi’s hair before reaching for the lamp on the bedside table, turning it off with a click as he stood. “I think this may be a good thing for you to learn, Takashi. You can’t always help everyone.”
It’s likely that Takashi was still entirely too young for that lesson, but Ojiisan, though not unkind, had never believed in telling half-truths. To his credit, Takashi would go on to remember that moment in near perfect clarity well into adulthood, the sudden fall of darkness accompanied the warm touch on the crown of his head, the comforting sound of his grandfather’s voice.
Ojiisan was wrong, Takashi decided, though he kept that to himself.
By Coran’s estimation they lose communication with the others approximately forty-five ticks after they reach the Kepler Belt. Shiro doesn’t notice when it happens, his attention narrowed down to Galra fighters streaking across the Black Lion’s viewscreen, the smooth slide of the controls beneath his hands. Kolivan had warned him that there could still be active fleets within the area, but the Blade’s estimation of the Empire’s numbers had been off. The mistake nagged at Shiro. Had he known he'd be facing so many ships on his own, he wouldn’t have been so quick to propose splitting up the team.
Black hums inside his head, an undeniable, stubborn sense of pride pulsing through the bond. Shiro is allowing himself to be distracted by nonsense --they’ve had worst odds, together. She offers a whisper of guidance, urging Shiro to wait another three ticks before firing off, to ease back and circle around for a better vantage point instead of flying directly into the fray.
“Shiro,” Coran says, his voice tinny and hollow on the comms. The Castleship hovers just outside the reach of the melee, firing off blasts from the main cannon whenever Shiro leaves enough of an opening. “I think we have a problem.”
Shiro isn’t listening. The fighters rushing towards him suddenly bank, swinging around like a flock of birds and effectively breaking their attack formation. Shiro kicks on the reverse thrusters, leaning back in his seat as he watches the fleet veer off towards the Galra warship at top speed, seemingly preparing for a retreat.
“Shiro!”
“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Sorry, something strange is happening. The Galra--”
“--are preparing to leave. Let them.”
“When have you ever known the Galra to just pull back?”
“I would say we have more pressing matters, at the moment. I’ve lost contact with the other paladins.”
“What?” Shiro reaches out to flip through the communication channels, cranking the dial clockwise before winding it all the way back, coming up with nothing but static. “Did they reach the meeting point?”
“I believe so. At least, the last transmission was only a few ticks out from the Kepler Belt.”
“No one’s activated their distress beacon,” Shiro says, mostly to himself as he scans through the Black Lion’s systems. “Team Voltron, do you copy? Guys?”
“Maybe there’s a problem with their communicators,” Coran suggests, though he sounds doubtful.
“How far off is Kepler?”
“With no wormhole? Shouldn’t take more than a varga.”
Still longer than Shiro would like. Gritting his teeth, he lets his eyes focus beyond the readouts scrolling across the Black Lion’s screen, watching as the Galra fleet pushes further and further into deep space.
Rendezvousing to the Kepler Belt had been the backup plan. The Empire seemed to actively avoid the area, something Pidge attributed to the strange makeup of the asteroid field. The best she could tell it was composed of elements that worked to scramble the Galra’s systems, making it impossible for them to navigate whenever they ventured within range. Keith wasn’t even meant to be on the mission, but joined them in his own small vessel at practically at the last minute, insisting that he didn’t need a lion in order to guide a group of refugees to a new planet.
“It would still kinda help though,” Lance had pointed out, though he didn’t actually seem unhappy at the prospect of Keith accompanying them. Privately, Shiro suspected Lance missed having someone he could poke at and bicker with.
“There’s a smaller squadron situated on Yonar’s moon,” Shiro said, placing a mark on the galaxy map with a tap of his finger. “Keith and Hunk, that's on you. Allura, Lance, and Pidge, that leaves you to take care of everyone on Viran while Coran and I check on the remains of Sikar’s fleet.”
“You sure you shouldn’t have a little more support?” Hunk asked, shrugging sympathetically at Coran’s put-upon sputter. “I mean, the Castle’s powerful, but--”
“The fleet’s on the edge of the system and they only have a handful of ships left, according to their last report,” Shiro said. “It shouldn’t take long to escort them out.”
The Galra had been aggressive in trying to reclaim the coalition's newest liberated galaxy, and the defences the local inhabitants managed to muster up weren’t going to hold for much longer. The idea was to conduct a series of runs simultaneously in order to get as many people out as possible while at the same time splitting the Galra’s attention and resources. If something happened and the paladin’s were unable to make it back to Olkarian after completing their drop, they were supposed to head towards the Kepler Belt and wait for the others there.
Shiro thinks on this as they travel, keeping an eye on the Black Lion’s speed so he doesn’t leave Coran and the Castleship behind. He reconsiders and reworks the plan, running through a list of all things they should have done instead. Sikar’s fleet had been in battle when Shiro and Coran arrived, and maybe if Shiro had listened to Hunk and brought another paladin along they could have carved out an opening for the fleeing ships sooner, could have dealt with the Galra and gone off to assist Allura’s group more quickly when they first reported they were having problems. Keith and Hunk contacted Coran with a similar message, saying that they weren’t in any immediate danger but didn’t think they could slip away undetected after evacuating the moon. Better to join up with the others, wait until they could form Voltron and escape as unit. It was Shiro they had been waiting on.
Once, when he was still a student at the Garrison, the very idea of the Kepler Belt would have been enough to awe Shiro. Its sheer size is staggering, bracketing over half of the Linsa solar system and stretching out so far it cuts through most of another. Many of the asteroids are nearly as large as the Black Lion, gleaming with a strange, metallic shimmer that looks almost iridescent when the light from the Castle passes over them.
“They’re not here,” Shiro says. He’s flipping through the communication channels again, even checking the frequencies they never use just in case one of the others happen to be connected. He’s not panicking, not yet, but there’s a tightness growing in his chest, an undeniable feeling of dread seeping into his core.
Coran makes a strange sound, both thoughtful and surprised. “These readings are familiar.”
“Readings?”
“From the asteroid field. They’re focused in a rather small area, but…”
The system beeps quietly as Coran transfers information between the Castle and the Black Lion. A marker flashes on Shiro’s viewscreen, hovering above a dense cluster of asteroids.
“It’s faint, but familiar. Very similar to what we picked up from that meteor.”
“You mean the one you found in the alternate universe?”
“Alternate reality,” Coran says primly, and Shiro can practically hear him taking a moment to smooth out his moustache. “But yes.”
“So what are you saying? You think that’s where the others are?”
“It’s possible. When they passed through before we lost all communication and I couldn’t track-- hey! Now wait just a tick, Shiro!”
Shiro eases back on the controls, cutting off the burst from the Black Lion’s thrusters but not veering away as she continues to drift closer towards the belt. “We may not have much time--”
“I said the readings are similar, not an exact match. We don’t know what could happen if you try to pass through. It might not even work, and even if it does we have no way of telling where you might end up.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. The others haven’t come back yet. What if they can’t? If something happened to them?”
“And if you go and get trapped there as well, how will that be helpful?”
Shiro jabs his finger down on a button on his side-console, turning on the video feed to he can turn and look at Coran directly. “What are you suggesting, then? That we sit here and wait? See what happens?”
“No,” Coran says, and Shiro can hear the rough edge of frustration creeping into his voice, see it in the way the fine lines across his brow and cheeks deepen. “I suppose that isn’t an option, either.”
“Is there a way for the castle to follow Black in?”
Coran huffs. “Not without being torn apart, I imagine. The only thing that allowed the others through before was the lions themselves.”
“Well,” Shiro says, holding up an empty hand in a helpless gesture.
“Well,” Coran repeats.
“I’ll find them.”
“I don’t doubt you, Shiro. I just--” Coran cuts himself off, and not for the first time it strikes Shiro how difficult it must be, always having to stay behind whenever the rest of them set out, waiting to see if they’ll return. “Be careful.”
Shiro taps two fingers against his helmet in a salute, letting his mouth curve into something that, hopefully, at least resembles a smile. “I will.”
He urges the Black Lion forward, the readings on his console spiking abruptly as they near the outer edge of the asteroid field. Warning messages flash across the viewscreen in bold, red letters, predicting an inevitable collision, and Shiro swipes them away with a quick flick of his wrist, watching closely for any kind of waver or disruption in the feed that would suggest the presence of some kind of force field or wormhole.
He finds nothing, and only knows that he’s passed through the invisible barrier when the Black Lion rumbles and lurches around him.
A strange sense of weightlessness comes over him, and for a moment Shiro feels sick and disoriented. He presses himself back into his seat, lifting his feet from the pedals and dragging his heels across the floor, trying to catch himself from falling. The oncoming asteroids vanish between one heartbeat and the next, replaced all at once by a barren, orange-tinted tundra stretched out beneath a lilac coloured sky. The shift happens so suddenly that Shiro can barely manage to process it, nausea rolling in his stomach as he curls forward, pounding his hands down against the arms of his chair just to feel something solid pressing up against his palms. The Black Lion purrs reassuringly, nudging at the frazzled edges of his mind. He’s okay. She’s still with him. This strangeness will pass.
Shiro nods, pulling in a slow, measured breath, counting to five before letting it out again. He leans into Black’s presence, letting it buoy him back up.
“Coran?” He says without raising his head, unsurprised when he doesn’t receive an answer. He reaches out, finding the console by touch and flicking the comms back to the main channel. “Team Voltron, can you hear me?”
Interloper.
Shiro straightens his spine, bolting upright so quickly his helmet cracks against the back of his chair. The greeting doesn’t come through the comms but blooms from the inside his own head, accompanied by a peculiar itching sensation that seems to skitter straight through Shiro’s skull. The Black Lion rumbles, but her presence almost seems muted, impeded upon by something or someone else now vying for Shiro’s attention.
Shiro swallows. “Hello?”
The viewscreen buzzes with static. There’s a figure standing on the ground before the Black Lion that Shiro can’t fully make out. He pinches his fingers together in the air, trying to enlarge the image, but the screen blurs and pixelates, losing focus as it crackles with white noise.
That’s when he feels it: a pull of intent, a hook slipping between his ribs and trying to drag him forward. The sensation is not entirely unlike speaking to the Black Lion, only this presence is strange and unfamiliar and feels, impossibly, more grand.
Come out. Speak with me.
Shiro hesitates, but the screen doesn’t clear and the pull comes again, stronger this time, more insistent. Shiro wonders if he’s meant to take it as a warning --leave under his own power, or else find himself forced.
The Black Lion snarls, gathering herself and rearing back, preparing to pounce. Shiro breathes out and shakes his head. Wait, he tells her. Wait, not yet.
“I’ll come out,” he says, twitching uncomfortably at the sheer force of the Black Lion’s resistance. He guides his hands across the controls anyways, lowering her head and opening the hatch.
According to the HUD’s analysis the air on whatever planet Shiro’s been transported to should be breathable, but he still leaves his helmet on and his faceplate down, feeling strangely bolder for it. The ground beneath his feet is dry, covered in a gritty dust that kicks up under his boots when he walks. His footfalls are strangely silent, producing no noise even when he stomps his boot down hard, drags his heels and scrapes his toes.
The figure waits. Shiro is under the impression that they’re watching him approach, though he finds it impossible to tell for sure. The alien has no true face for Shiro to look at, features shifting too quickly for his eyes to follow. One moment he sees a black, swirling cloud in the shape of a person, and then all at once there are yellowed teeth and bulging eyes, gaunt cheeks and curved horns. A second passes by, two, and something else has changed, the alien’s skin warping into dark scales, their mouth widening into a red, gaping maw.
A sharp ache pulses at Shiro’s temples, and he has to look away.
“I’m looking for my friends,” he says, coming to a stop.
Friends. The alien’s voice shudders through Shiro, a creaking whisper inside his head.
“They came here before me,” Shiro tells them. “Not long ago.”
Yes. They came as you did: uninvited and unwelcome. They paid the price for their intrusion. You cannot have them.
Fear burns through Shiro, as violent and uncontrollable as wildfire. “They didn’t know. They didn’t mean to--”
You cannot have them, the alien says again. They are not yours.
Shiro dares to lift his eyes, pushing past the new wave of nausea that rises up when he forces himself to look at the alien’s horrible, twisted face. “They’re not yours, either.”
The alien tilts their head, their eyes multiplying by the hundreds into pupil-less specks that gleam like blobs of oil. The heat of their anger licks along the soft edges of Shiro’s mind as they offer an unspoken thought, the knowledge that the very act of standing here is a boundary that Shiro never should have been able to cross. This place is not for him. His presence is toxic, a violation of laws forged long ago with entities far beyond Shiro’s limited, pitiful understanding. He is tainted and misplaced, wrong and unwanted.
“Please,” Shiro gasps. He takes a step back, momentarily sickened by the alien’s own feelings of disgust. “You don’t understand. We’re paladins of Voltron, we’re trying to stop the Galra Empire--”
The alien laughs. Shiro flinches, nearly buckling beneath the weight of it. The pain in his temples pulses, and Shiro’s fingers are scrabbling against the hard shell of his helmet before he can stop himself.
This is meant to convince me? A boast of your petty war?
“Petty?” Shiro chokes out, saliva flecking against the inside of his faceplate. “The Galra take over galaxies, destroy planets--”
Their reign means nothing to me.
“It’s not nothing to the people they’ve hurt, whose lives they’ve ruined.”
The alien says nothing, something not unlike confusion passing between them. The sensation makes Shiro’s headache waver before suddenly spiking, white-hot pain flashing behind his eyes. Shiro flinches and shivers, forcing himself to lift his face, sweat catching on his lashes when he blinks, trickling down his brow and the bridge of his nose.
“Are they still alive?” Shiro asks. The words feel heavy, but they threaten to rot on his tongue if he doesn’t speak them.
You could claim them, if I allowed it.
“Are they alive?” Shiro raises his voice, pressing a hand flat against his chest, over the ‘v’ that marks his armour. “Like me.”
Yes.
“Then what do you want?”
The alien moves closer. Their form wavers, growing intangible around the edges, and if asked Shiro would be unable to say with any kind confidence whether or not alien is walking or crawling or slithering towards him.
You believe you are in a position to bargain?
“I think it’s the only option I have.” Even with the Black Lion standing strong at his back, Shiro has no doubt the alien could tear him apart and crush him into dust if they wished.
A prickling sensation skitters up Shiro’s spine, fanning out across his shoulders and along the back of his neck. He shudders, shrugging as though he could physical dislodge the feeling, but it spreads over his throat and down his arms, buzzing across his tongue and fingertips.
Paladin, the alien muses. Is that what you call yourself? Or something else?
Shiro looks up, startled. “What--?”
Shiro, they say. Takashi, Champion--
“What do you want?”
It feels like Shiro’s skin is being rubbed raw, like it’s being peeled back layer by layer, exposing every twitching nerve and hidden weakness and rotten little piece of him. It's all laid bare for the alien to see, to poke at and pod as they wish. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut and sees a flash of violet light behind his lids, claw-tipped fingers reaching out towards him and the bright shine of a whirring saw. Distantly, he’s aware of this knees cracking against the ground, of the low, keening whine now spilling from his mouth.
The creature makes no attempt to hide their intentions, gliding along the surface of Shiro’s thoughts before pressing deeper, struggling momentarily with the Black Lion’s lingering presence before pushing her aside. Shiro grits his teeth, curling forward until his helmet is scraping against the dirt, hands lashing out to grasp at nothing. Resisting the onslaught is like attempting to push back against a crashing wave, and all Shiro can do is hold on and try not to be swept away.
He’s shaking when the alien finally retreats, his hands trembling so violently it takes him three tries to hook his fingers beneath the lip of his helmet, tearing it off over his ears and flinging it aside. He retches, saliva thick and hot on his tongue, abdomen clenching as vomit burns up his throat. He hates throwing up, hates the helpless heave of his stomach and hitching in his chest, and it’s a long time until he’s finished, until his stomach is blessedly empty and the dry heaving subsides.
Your mind is small. Sensitive. The alien says. An explanation, given without even the smallest hint of compassion. You want your friends.
Shiro spits, wiping the back of his glove across his mouth. He feels disgusting, like he's covered in layers of grime and filth, like he wants to dig his nails into his own skin to scrape it off. “Yes.”
Then this is my offer: you will walk to the end of my realm. Should you succeed, you may take what you wish.
Shiro hesitates. He settles back on his knees and looks over his shoulder, only mildly relieved to see that Black is still there, standing tall and proud and immobile, her glowing forcefield shimmering around her.
"What about the lions?" He asks.
You may take what you wish the alien says again, slower this time, as if speaking to a child. They move aside in clear invitation as Shiro pushes up to his feet, their form flickering when he sways on the spot and stays where he is.
“How far do I have to walk?”
As far as you need to.
Shiro frowns. He stays where he is.
I will not cheat you, the alien says, the sharp edge of impatience creeping along their words. There is an end that can be reached.
Shiro looks into the distance, focusing on the long, empty stretch of the horizon. “What’s out there?”
The alien says nothing, and Shiro’s not sure if that’s preferable or not.
“This isn’t a fair deal. I need to know your actual terms.”
The alien’s form darkens, all but radiating irritation. Dark tendrils unfurl around it, twisting through the air and bleeding across the ground. The curl around Shiro’s ankles, licking at his wrists, ice cold even through the plates of his armour.
If you look back or refuse to go on you will fail, and I will keep what you seek for my own.
Shiro startles, letting out a hiccup of nervous, disbelieving laughter. He thinks of his grandfather’s worn hands cradling his mother’s textbook, the flash of a lightbulb going dark. “Is this a joke? That’s--”
My terms.
Shiro scrubs a hand over his eyes. His head still hurts, and he realizes that he’s left his helmet behind, rolling back and forth in the dirt like an upturned turtle.
“I want proof that they’re alive,” he says. He wants it to be a command, an ultimatum, but his voice breaks and wavers and betrays him. He needs to know, needs some kind of reassurance--
No, the creature says, the word falling over Shiro like a thunder-crack, ringing in his ears and nearly bringing him back down to his knees. Go, now, or I will consider our bargain forfeit.
So Shiro rolls back his shoulders, shakes his arms and legs free of the alien's chilled touch, and walks.