Archive of Our Own

The blades kept Keith busy.

He liked being busy, because it kept his mind off of reality. Not that reality was bad, of course. In truth, a lot has happened since the end of the war. 6 full years. Keith still can't believe it, actually. One moment, he's in his shack, living off of noodles, then the next moment, he's working alongside aliens in humanitarian relief.

Shiro finally married and settled, Hunk became a galaxy Gordon Ramsay and Pidge works with her family at the Garrison. Coran has worked hard with Romelle and the other Alteans in rebuilding Altea, or rather, settling in New Altea. Lance, on the other hand, settled on a farm with his family. Overall, life is better than Keith ever imagined it would be. He's actually happy with it.

But no, the reason why he likes to keep busy is because of one teensy tiny factor. Keith... is lonely. He has his team, he has Kolivan—he even has his mom! He never thought he'd ever see her in his life, but he did, he found her and she's... well, she's here now. Yet...

The loneliness he feels is not that. He's felt lonely all his life. This wasn't the same. That loneliness was when Keith felt like the entire was against him. He was shunned and seen as a hopeless case, people going out of their way to ignore him.

This loneliness was quieter.

It crept in during the long hours between missions. During the silent stretches of space where the stars blurred together and the comms stayed empty. It lingered in the moments after he finished sharpening a blade and realized there was no one around to comment on it, no one to spar with, no one to tell him he was doing it wrong.

Keith flipped the dagger in his hand, inspecting the edge. Perfect. Of course it was perfect—he'd sharpened it three times already. He set it down with the others.

The armory of the Blade cruiser was immaculate. Rows of weapons lined the walls, each one polished and cared for. It was the kind of order Keith used to crave when everything in his life felt chaotic.

Now it just felt... quiet.

Too quiet.

A faint vibration ran through the floor as the cruiser adjusted course. Keith leaned back against the workbench and stared at the ceiling. Six years. Everyone had found something.

Shiro had a partner and a home. Hunk had restaurants popping up across half the coalition worlds. Pidge was surrounded by family and research projects. Lance had gone from the loudest pilot in the universe to a farmer who apparently woke up at dawn to milk alien cows or something equally horrifying.

Even the Blades had purpose rebuilding the scattered Galra colonies. Keith had... work.

And he liked the work. He really did. Helping stabilize planets after the war mattered. Escort missions mattered. Protecting the fragile peace mattered. But sometimes, when the ship lights dimmed and the corridors emptied, he wondered if he'd somehow missed the moment everyone else moved on.

Everyone knew what they wanted. Lance and Shiro wanted to settle down. Pidge and Hunk chased after their goals and became one of the most well known names for their talents first and as paladins of the lions second. Coran had a goal, to continue Allura's legacy and help New Altea be reborn. It feels as though Keith is... the only one who's still stuck. He hasn't crossed that line yet. That line where one decision makes your future.

People say he has. Working with the blades in humanitarian relief teams. Hell, at some point, he became a general, working right under Kolivan. He remembered how proud he was of that accomplishment. But he also remembered how he had no one to share it with.

He tried telling Shiro one time, but his daughter, Sasha, was running around, making a mess. Keith understood, kids are a handful. Lord knows he was. He found that one instance funny, so he didn't pay too much. He tried calling Hunk and Pidge, but both were too swamped with work or projects. Lance was his best shot. He managed to get the words out, and his entire family congratulated him.

Keith felt that warmth bubble up whenever someone told him he was doing good, or something like that. But he felt tired mostly. He had to go through this whole chain just to say one thing. Sometimes, even Lance was busy. He'd get lucky and get Shiro, sometimes Pidge, or even Hunk. And at times, he'd never get them. One time, he called Pidge and Matt answered. Hunk? Shay was there, and Keith had a pleasant 10-minute conversation with her. Veronica and Rachel were also pleasant, but if Keith's being honest, he always gets happy when Lance's parents answer. Or when Shiro's daughter answers, now that makes him happy.

But still... there are times where he really stops and thinks about it. How much of a hassle it is to call them, to have a single conversation with at least one friend. And it's hard not to feel bitter. But Keith feels terrible, because he knows that all they've done is chase their dreams, settled down or even just continued their lives.

The only time they ever hang out is on the anniversary of Allura's death. But even then, he's not so involved, because what the hell can he say? Everyone is talking about something new happening, whereas all Keith has to say is 'oh yeah, I just deliver resources to planets in need' every single time? That's all he's doing. Again, he loves doing it, he's proud of his work. But compared to the rest, he's just.... working. Everyone is living. He just feels... he doesn't even know. But loneliness is definitely it.

"General?"

Keith jumped, the blade in his hand dropping to the ground as he curses. He turns to see Acxa staring at him and he sighs, "Jesus, Acxa... you're too quiet." She huffs a laugh, approaching him in the armory while Keith picks the blade up.

"I wasn't quiet. You were too lost in your own thoughts."

Keith sighs, rolling his eyes as he puts the blade back in its place. It was way too sharp, damn thing nearly cut him when he dropped it. "Right... what is it, Acxa?" Acxa stared at Keith with that unwavering gaze of hers. Honestly, how she didn't become a general, Keith will never understand. Well, he supposes that since she was once, she might not want to be again. But at least her own command.

Acxa has the patience, skills, and dedication a general should have. And frankly, after a life of being in second, he figured she deserves to gain a rank up. But apparently, she was more than content with her current position. Still, with how hardworking she is, Keith truly believes she deserves a title.

"You've been in here for 3 Vargas. For the past months, actually, you've been coming here and sharpening the weapons on repeat." She says, analyzing the weapons. Keith scoffs, taking a blade and slowly assessing it. It was perfect, nothing to fix. But he still finds himself taking it.

"The weaponry needs to be in tact." Acxa arched a brow at his very unconvincing words. "One of the rookies cut themselves taking the knife out of its sheath."

Keith rolled his eyes. "Apparently, they didn't know how to take a blade out. It's not my fault he grabbed the blade and not the hilt." Acxa put a hand on his, stopping him from sharpening the blade as she looked at him.

"Keith..." Her tone made Keith shiver, because it was a sign that she would scold him. Out of all the blades, Acxa is the only one who'd scold him freely without fear for his rank. And the crazy part? He lets her, because he is both terrified and in awe of her. Sure, Ezor and Zethrid sometimes talk back and say things you really shouldn't say to a leader, but Keith can stand his ground with them. Despite Zethrid being twice his size, he doesn't feel small or afraid when facing her. Same with Ezor, he doesn't get annoyed whenever she tries to coax a reaction out of him.

Acxa though? She had been formidable from the day they first met. She was a strong warrior and a calculating analyst. Keith respects her for many reasons: Her skills, her character, her principles, etc. But what terrifies him about her is that she's able to respect him so much, yet perfectly able to drag him down if he ever rises too high. She grounds him in a way Shiro never did.

Shiro was always the gentle type. He basically showered Keith with gentle reassurances whereas Acxa used tough love on him. And frankly, it worked. She's the first to call him out on mistakes, the first to correct him, and if he's being honest? She's the first person he goes to when he's unsure about a decision.

Keith cleared his throat and tried to pull his hand back toward the sharpening stone, but Acxa didn't move her hand. Her grip wasn't forceful. Just firm enough that he knew she wouldn't let the moment slide. She was clearly determined to have this conversation.

"You are doing it again," she said calmly. Keith frowned. "Doing what?"

"Avoiding the problem by pretending it is a task."

Keith huffed. "It's not pretending. Maintenance matters."

"It does," she agreed immediately. Which only made it worse. Acxa tilted her head slightly, studying him the way a tactician studied a battlefield. "But you finished that maintenance two vargas ago. The remaining vargas were for your wandering mind."

Keith opened his mouth. Then he closed it. "...Maybe I like sharpening blades."

Acxa's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed the smallest amount, which made Keith's skin crawl. "Keith."

God, he hated when she used that tone. It was the same voice she used when a rookie tried to lie about skipping training. Keith finally pulled his hand away and leaned back against the table again.

"Fine. I'm thinking."

"Clearly."

He rubbed the back of his neck. The silence stretched. Acxa didn't rush him. That was the other frustrating thing about her—she had endless patience. She could wait out a confession the same way she waited out an enemy's mistake.

Eventually Keith muttered, "Do you ever feel like you missed something?"

Acxa blinked once, then she sat next to him. "Could you clarify?"

"Like..." Keith gestured vaguely around the armory. "Everyone else figured out their lives. Everyone knows what to do, and what they want... and I'm just doing... this."

He immediately regretted saying it. It sounded stupid out loud. And like he didn't value what he did, which was not true. But Acxa didn't laugh. Instead she folded her arms. "You are one of the generals in an interplanetary peacekeeping force." She says slowly

"Yeah." Keith nods once.

"You command one of the most respected branches of the coalition military."

"Uh-huh."

"You helped defeat an empire that ruled the galaxy for ten thousand years."

Keith stared at the ceiling then at Axca, frowning at her annoyingly accurate words. "When you say it like that it sounds impressive."

Acxa's voice was completely flat. "It is impressive. You achieved what many people failed to do for ten thousand years in a span of 2-3 years."

Keith shook his head, standing up with a frustrated sigh as he runs his hand through his hair. "That's not what I mean." He paced for a bit, trying to figure out just how the hell can he explain this. He could try, because Acxa... she somehow always knew what he wanted to say... he exhaled slowly.

"They have lives, Acxa."

She made a confused face, but she didn't speak or ask. Instead, she waited.

"Shiro has a family. Hunk built... like... twenty restaurants. Pidge is basically rewriting half the Garrison's technology. Lance—" Keith huffed a quiet laugh. "Lance has a farm. He sends pictures of his ugly goats all the time."

Acxa's brow lifted slightly.

"Goats?"

"Oh, right, um... animals with horns and hooves and they scream." He explained. Acxa made a weird face and shook her head. "Earth is so strange... Animals that scream?"

Keith snorted at her words. To someone who hasn't seen them, he can imagine how weird that can be. "Remind me to show you a video of a goat." He chuckled, before sighing and dropping back next to her. The moment faded again.

His voice dropped quieter. "They're building things. Homes. Futures."

Acxa watched him carefully. "And... you believe you are not."

Keith rubbed his temples. "I just... keep working." There it was. The truth sounded embarrassingly simple. And stupid. And it devalued what he was actually doing.

"I'm still on a ship," he continued. "Still running missions. Still doing the same thing I was doing six years ago."

"And you believe that means you are stagnant."

Keith shrugged. "I don't know."

Acxa hummed, before looking at the weapons stacked neatly. She stood up, analyzing Keith's meticulous organizing. It was a new pattern, she notes. Instead of size or weapon type, Keith had organized them according to serial number. At a shelf, she ran a finger lightly along the edge of one blade.

Her voice was thoughtful now. "In Galra culture, warriors did not retire."

Keith looked over at her. "They fought until they died?"

"Often."

"...That's depressing. But it makes sense. I mean, why else you'd all say 'Vrepit Sa' and... all that." Keith says with a shrug, to which Acxa snorts. "Not necessarily."

She turned to face him. "A warrior's life was not considered incomplete simply because it lacked a house or offspring. It was purpose that determined their lives."

Keith arched a brow. That was not surprising at all.

"You see them building homes. Families. Civilian lives. That's what they want. After fighting a war, they knew what they wanted to do. Settle or chase their goals." Her eyes softened slightly. "But Keith... they look at you and see the man protecting the peace that allows those lives to exist. Just because you're not doing what they are doesn't make what you do less fulfilling."

That hit harder than he expected. Keith looked away, his hands gripping the bench. "Yeah, well... that still doesn't stop the ship from feeling empty."

Acxa was quiet for a long moment. Then she said something that made him blink. "It is empty."

Keith looked back at her. "What?"

"You live here," she said simply. "You work here. You isolate yourself here." She gestured at the armory. "You sharpen blades for hours instead of speaking to anyone."

Keith frowned. "That's not—"

"You have called your friends repeatedly hoping they answer."

He froze. "...How do you know that?"

Acxa shrugged faintly. "You pace the command deck when waiting for responses." Right. Of course she noticed. Keith groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

"Great. Fantastic. I'm transparent."

Acxa stepped closer again. "You are lonely. You are a warrior who has not found his purpose yet. And there's no shame in that. Because a purpose must be chosen with great care, and with all the passion you have." There was no judgment in the statement. Just blunt observation. And he hated it. Acxa gently nudged him, which made Keith look at her. Acxa did not usually nudge people.

"....Why did you do that?" He slowly asks.

Acxa stared at him. "Veronica did it with me once. I think it was meant to be comforting." Keith blinked. Veronica? Lance's sister Veronica? Okay, so apparently those two are friends. "Did it comfort you?" She asks.

Keith blinked, looking at her. "I don't know... do it again."

Acxa lightly nudged him again. Keith hummed, before nodding. "Yeah, a little." Acxa didn't exactly smile, but her lips curved just the faintest bit. She nudged him again, this time more sure. Keith snorts and nudges her back. Acxa makes a face, but it's the kind of face that's similar to the one Veronica makes when Lance says something stupid. Tolerant, but soft.

"Keith, come out with us. The crew and I are going to step foot on this planet and attend it's festival. Apparently, they celebrate the day their two suns align once every 10 years. It further strengthens their planet's core, apparently. I do not not fully understand it. Zethrid wants to drink and Ezor wants to mess around and cause problems."

Keith snorts. That's very them. He's surprised Zethrid doesn't wanna cause problems too, although, some of the missions lately have been physically taxing. Well, with all the trouble the two of them cause together, Keith is somewhat surprised that they're not always together when relaxing despite being glued together.

"Um... I'll pass. Sounds like Zethrid is planning on getting drunk and I do not want to be there when she starts getting stabby." Keith says with a smirk despite himself.

Acxa snorts. "Which is why I am dragging you out of here. I'm not asking." Without wasting a second, she grabbed Keith's arm with her freakishly (but unsurprising) arm strength and dragged him out of the armory. Keith grunted, trying at least, once to break free. But he doesn't bother. Acxa could manhandle him without a sweat and he really doesn't need to give the crew further cause to not respect him and undermine his authority.

Outside was surprisingly nice, compared to the confined space of the armory. The first thing was the breathable air. Not stuffy, like the armory. The second thing was the bright colored banners and the many tall aliens—Ker'cha, he remembers—walking around.

Tall creatures, somewhat humanoid. They held similar facial features to humans, except for their eyes being a tad too big than the humans. Similar to deer's, Keith mentioned once. They were tall, very tall, with large horns. Some had one horn, some had two, or three. Some of them had wings, while some did not. They came in a variety of colors, and were known for their ability to be multitalented. It was a weird thing to be known for, but Keith assumes there's a special aspect to it he has yet to understand.

The noise hit him first.

Not overwhelming—not like a battlefield—but alive. Layers of sound stacked over each other: laughter in strange pitches, music that pulsed in uneven rhythms, vendors calling out in a language Keith only half understood. The air itself felt warmer, thicker, carrying scents that were sharp and sweet and unfamiliar all at once.

Keith blinked against the brightness.

Two suns hung in the sky—one larger, burning a steady gold, the other smaller and almost white, positioned just close enough that their light overlapped in a halo effect. The entire city seemed to glow under it.

"...Okay," Keith muttered, looking around. "That's... actually kind of incredible."

Acxa released his arm, though she stayed close. "It is statistically rare for a planet's core to stabilize through solar alignment," she said, scanning the environment like she was still on a mission. "Their celebration is... justified."

"That's one way to say it," Keith replied, watching a group of Ker'cha spin long ribbons that shimmered like liquid metal. Perhaps... a moment of peace could be good for him right now.

"KEEEEITH!"

He winced. Too late.

Ezor slammed into his side with zero restraint, nearly knocking him off balance. "You came!" she grinned, far too pleased with herself. "Acxa said you'd try to escape."

"I did try to escape," Keith shot back, steadying himself. "She just doesn't believe in free will."

"You're being dramatic," Acxa said flatly. Ezor barked out a laugh, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, a large glass of something violently purple in her hand. "Free will is a suggestion," she said, taking a long drink. "One you ignore when it's inconvenient."

Keith narrowed his eyes at her. "Watch it, Ezor. Jokes are one thing, but—"

"—Yeah yeah yeah, don't care. Let's go!" Keith is once again dragged away by Ezor and towards the large mountain towering over the city. For a nation that celebrates the alignment of their two suns, it's odd that they built their settlement right behind a large and towering mountain. Said mountain had multiple buildings attached to it, half built like it was part of the mountain. Ezor led him to an opening, a cave, right at the foot of the mountain.

She slammed the door hard, nearly breaking it off its hinges from the force. Keith stared at Ezor slightly flabbergasted at her force. "Ezor, calm down! What's the rush!?" He turns to see one of the Ker'cha staring at him, blinking slowly. Based on the fancy clothes, he assumes it's the owner. And with the way he stares at him like he just insulted his entire family.

"I'm so sorry, I promise to compensate for it—"

"BEEP!"

Keith blinks, looking at the Ker'cha with wide eyes. He looks at Ezor with a confused expression, before another Ker'cha approaches, his webbed hands on the other's shoulders, "Pardon my cousin, he's shy." And he drags him away.

Keith stares at them, watching them leave to the other side of the cave, which he now realizes is ordained with crystals. Glowing crystals, actually. The cave was large, spacious, with many of the Kar'cha, and some of the blades as well, he notices. Drinking. Of course. It looked like a bar, except more... stony.

"Okaaaaaay," Ezor says slowly, before shrugging, "Anyways, here we are!" Ezor drags Keith towards the bar, right next to Zethrid. Instead of the super hammered and drunk Zethrid he was expecting, he was met with a surprisingly still sober Zethrid. She smiled widely, laughing as she threw her large arm over him, nearly toppling him down.

"Ah Keith! Finally out of that armory, are you? Come, drink with us!" She loudly laughs, raising her tankard with the other Ker'cha and blades. Keith scoffed at that. "Uh, no? I'm your boss!" He says sternfully. "Come on, come on! One drink!" Zethrid pushed, smirking at him.

Keith stared at her, and the other blades. Perhaps... he could relax a bit. Now, Keith doesn't make it a habit to drink, but... maybe just one, very light, drink. The crew has been pestering him to come and join them for a while, and with the hopeful way they look at him, Keith is finding it very difficult to say no. He sighed, giving Zethrid a firm look.

"One drink." He confirms, a smile growing when he hears the blades cheer. Zethrid smirks, patting his back. "One drink, boss."

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

"Uhh... Zethrid?" Keith says her name hesitantly, staring at the very concerning sight. It was not, in fact, one drink.

It was for Keith. He drank only one light drink, and he actually felt himself relax and talk with the crew. Apparently, Mavi was very good at whittling, Druz likes to play a flute-like instrument called a fornilous, and Ezor hates drinking, which surprised him. Acxa wasn't really a heavy drinker, but he noticed she apparently had a form of resistance to these things.

Anyways, things were going good. But Zethrid kept drinking. And drinking. And drinking. He thought he was gonna have a peaceful time, take a breather and enjoy the festival with his crew. But no, Zethrid gets heavily drunk and challenges one of the biggest looking Ker'cha in the bar into an arm wrestle. 

Ezor's egging Zethrid on, cheering like her life depends on it while Acxa is... mildly enthused. Keith is NOT relaxed. He can't relax, not when Zethrid is slurring her words and barely holding herself upright, and somehow still holding her own in the match.

"H-hold on, boss. I-I'm about to win this!" Zethrid grunts, smirking as she grips the Ker'cha's hand tighter. Keith rubs his forehead, his agents shouting Zethrid's name. Keith drags a hand down his face, already feeling the headache forming. This—this right here—is why he doesn't do this.

"Zethrid," he says, voice low but firm, "if you break his arm, we're going to have a diplomatic incident."

"I won't—hic—break it," she slurs, grinning far too wide. "I'll just... bend it a little."

Keith glared at her. "That is not better." Ezor cackles from the side, nearly spilling her non-alcoholic drink. "Come on, boss, lighten up! This is cultural exchange!"

"Cultural exchange does not involve maiming the locals," Keith snaps, though there's no real bite in it. Not anymore. Not when half the bar has started cheering.

The Ker'cha across from Zethrid lets out a sharp, rhythmic series of chirps—apparently the equivalent of a battle cry. The crowd erupts louder. Keith exhales slowly. He should've stayed on the ship. 

SLAM

Keith's head snaps back to the table just in time to see both competitors still locked in place—veins popping, muscles straining, neither budging an inch. Zethrid grins, feral and unhinged. The Ker'cha grins back, equally committed.

"...Oh, I should've stayed on the ship," Keith mutters. Ezor leans into him, jabbing his side. "Ten credits on Zethrid."

"I'm not betting on my own soldier in an illegal arm wrestling match!" Keith yells, glaring at Ezor. She stares back at Keith, who stares back at her.

"Sooooo.... that's a no?"

"It's a no, Ezor!" Keith glares at her. Ezor sighs dramatically, like he's just personally ruined her entire night. "You're no fun."

"I'm your commanding officer," Keith shoots back. "I'm not supposed to be fun."

"That sounds like a you problem."

Keith opens his mouth to argue—then stops. Because somehow, against all logic, she's not entirely wrong. He exhales through his nose and turns his attention back to the match before he says something that will absolutely get used against him later.

Zethrid and the Ker'cha are still deadlocked. The table creaks. Keith squints. "That table is not structurally sound enough for this."

"Relax," Ezor says, waving a hand. "It's stone."

"It's decorative stone," Keith corrects. "There's a difference—"

CRACK.

Keith goes very still. The entire bar seems to go very still. A thin fracture runs down the center of the table. Zethrid grins wider. The Ker'cha chitters something that sounds both delighted and mildly unhinged.

"...No," Keith says quietly.

SLAM—

The table splits clean in half. Both competitors remain locked for half a second longer before the lack of support registers and they tumble sideways with the broken stone, crashing into the ground in a tangle of limbs.

The bar erupts. Cheers, laughter, something that sounds suspiciously like musical instruments being played badly in celebration.

Keith stares at the wreckage.

"...I am going to get reported for this," he says flatly.

Ezor is practically vibrating. "That was amazing!"

"That was a diplomatic incident."

Zethrid's head pops up from the rubble, hair a mess, eyes bright. "I didn't break his arm!"

The Ker'cha beside her chirps enthusiastically and claps her on the back hard enough to nearly send her face-first into the floor again.

"...I stand corrected," Keith mutters. "Cultural exchange." He sighs and heads towards the bar. The Ker'cha at the bar nods at him, and makes a series of chitters, before speaking, "What would you like to drink?"

"Another refill of that sweet drink from earlier please. Make it a tad stronger, though." Keith says with a groan. The Ker'cha nods and takes the stone cup. Keith rubs his forehead, and he doesn't dare look back when he hears a loud crash. But Zethrid's loud laughing is enough to give indication of what happened.

"Ughhhh... I shouldn't have left the ship."

Keith orders a refill, but this time, he asks for a stronger dose of alcohol. Normally, he'd stay sober because clearly none of his team is. Even Acxa has indulged a bit. She didn't go over her limit, but she also indulged, and at this point, he might as well. He looked back at the chaos that started and watched his crew have fun. Ezor cheering Zethrid on whilst collecting bets, Acxa watching them with an exasperated and yet, amused smile and some of his other agents starting other more arm wrestling matches.

He smiles despite himself. Well, at least no one is fighting. Everyone is clearly having fun, so why shouldn't he? The drink arrived with a soft clink against the stone counter. Keith picked it up, eyeing the deeper hue. It smelled sharper this time—less sweet, more bite. He hesitated for half a second.

Eh, he should listen to Acxa, she's often right. He could loosen up a bit. Then he took a sip.

Yeah. That was stronger. He exhaled slowly through his nose, setting the cup down and rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. He coughed, putting his drink down. Perhaps he was a bit too bold with the drink.

"Kogane." Keith blinked. He turned on instinct at the sound of his name, and he stared in shock as the MFE pilots were there, staring right at him. Was he hallucinating? He didn't drink much, so why the hell would he hallucinate? And them, of all people?

Keith blinked hard once, twice. Nope. Still there. Standing a few feet away like they hadn't just materialized out of thin air were the MFE pilots—uniforms a little less pristine than he remembered, a little more worn-in, like they'd actually seen things now instead of just training for them. They got older. But didn't they all, in the 6 years that passed? The MFE's actually look like it. Keith hasn't seen them except in the brief moments they've passed through the years in exchange through business. Now that they're right in front of them, he actually has a good look.

Rizavi's hair was tied in a messy bun, a faint scar on her cheek. Leifsdottir's hair grew only slightly, with a hair band pushing her bangs back, and she also has a scar, across her right side. Not fatal, Keith deduced, since her eye seems to be fine. Kinkade looks... the same, save for the stubble he's wearing.

And at the front—Griffin. Same posture. Same sharp, assessing eyes. Same protocol demeanor, if the way he's standing says anything. Keith stared at him, brain lagging a few seconds behind reality. "...Okay," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Either that drink hit way harder than it should've, or you're actually here."

Griffin's eyes narrowed just barely. "We're actually here."

"...Right." Keith nodded once, slow. It was hard processing this, not because of the fact that he hadn't seen them in a while, though it is subtly playing a factor, but mostly on the fact that the buzz he's feeling is messing with him and he's simply trying to focus. "Good. That's—good. That's better than hallucinating."

There was a beat. Then, because his brain decided now was the time to start working again, Keith frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching your crew tear the place apart, apparently." Rizavi smirked, watching Zethrid full on wrestle a Ker'cha while everyone cheers and chants, the entire bar now focused on them. Keith groans, rubbing his forehead. Yeah, that tracks.

"You guys make sure no one dies. I need to talk to Kogane." Griffin tells them with an arched brow, eyeing the way Ezor is egging the crowd on. Rizavi snorts, cracking her fingers. "Oh heck yeah! I've been dying to get a drink!"

Leifsdottir arched a brow at her, following Rizavi towards the huddle. "The last time you drank at an alien bar, you became severely intoxicated from one glass. You were awake till three AM, shirtless and spinning your bra while screaming at the top of your lungs."

Kinkade shivers as he follows them. "That was a horrible night."  Keith raised an eyebrow at their words, and looks back at Griffin with a questioning look. Griffin sighs, "I won't ask if you won't." Keith nods, sliding another drink towards him.

"Sounds good to me." Griffin caught the drink, but he didn't drink immediately. He sat down beside Keith, and stared at the drink. Then Griffin leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly. "We need to talk. Privately."

Keith exhaled through his nose. He was worried about that. On some weird level, he had hoped this was just a coincidence and that they could use the time to just get a drink and that's it. But no, there is actually something to talk about. "If this is about paperwork, I'm going to fake my own death. I've done it once."

"It's not paperwork—wait a second, you faked your death?!" Griffin stares at him with wide eyes. Oops, shouldn't have slipped that. Keith just sighs, and takes a sip of his drink.

"Then what is it?" Keith asks immediately, shifting the topic. Griffin stares at him, and he looks like he wants to continue the 'death' part, but he doesn't. He shakes his head and sighs, shifting back to a professional demeanor.

Griffin pushed his drink aside, which he still didn't even sip, and just tilted his head slightly toward a quieter corridor carved into the cavern wall. "Walk."

Keith hesitated only long enough to finish the drink in one go—immediately regretted it—then followed. If Griffin is taking him aside, then it's serious. He follows him to a more quiet and private area. The stone walls here were cooler, threaded with faint bioluminescent veins that pulsed in slow intervals—almost like the structure itself was breathing.

Keith immediately regretted the drink he'd downed. Not because it hit him hard, he could handle alcohol better than that, but because it sharpened the edges of everything in an inconvenient way. The shift from chaos to silence made his head feel slightly misaligned with his body.

"Are you sober enough to have this conversation?" He hears Griffin ask. Keith scoffs, glaring at Griffin. "Of course I am, I'm not some alcoholic. I just indulge from time to time. And I'm off duty." He didn't have to explain, a simple 'yes' would've done the job. But he didn't like Griffin's tone, as if he was talking to a regular drunk.

Griffin hums, arms crossed. "Fine... The Atlas was in the Zuulov quadrant, assisting some refugees in a territorial dispute. We thought we were dealing with a random group of pirates, but it turns out, it's actually more complicated."

Keith frowned, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. If it looks like he's doing it to stay upright, he's not. He's not dizzy or anything, he just simply wants to. Instead, he said "Define complicated," Griffin didn't answer immediately. That alone was enough to tighten something in Keith's chest—Griffin never paused unless he was either choosing words carefully or trying not to say something that would make everything worse.

"The pirates weren't... well, pirates," Griffin said. "They were coordinated. They were less like a group of looters and almost like military-grade discipline."

Keith's eyes narrowed slightly. Keith didn't like the sound of that, but frankly, it's not new. Many people across the universe had some form of military training, and some of them now happen to pick on the weak without fear, because unfortunately, that's become more common than it should.  "That's not new. Half the galaxy runs that way. Experience you gain in the war doesn't just go away. You either do something good, or you fall back into old habits."

Griffin makes a sound Keith thinks is in agreement, but the frown throws him off. "I doubt that looting and killing innocents is the right way to make a living, but whatever. That's not the point. This was a precise attack. They knew our response times, our plans of action, they knew how to shield themselves from oncoming attacks. They baited the Atlas into a black hole. Had it not been for the Holts buying us time, we wouldn't have gotten out in time."

That got Keith's attention fully. Having a good defense and attack plan is one thing, but leading the Atlas to a black hole? That is not something that can just casually be left aside and forgotten. He pushed off the wall a fraction, posture shifting without him thinking about it. "You're telling me that a group of rogues managed to not only block off attacks from the Atlas, but also lead you all towards a black hole?"

"Yes." Griffin confirms, and Keith feels something cold settle in him. No one just does that. If you were looting and killing random people, and suddenly the Atlas shows, you wouldn't be concerned with taking it down, but with escaping and cutting your losses. To have gone through so much effort implies that there is more to the story. So much more.

"This seems like a real problem. But why come to come to me? You need help?" Keith asked. Keith could work with bad news. He could work with impossible odds. He's literally been through worse. But what he needs is the information. It must show on his face, because Griffin exhaled. "We didn't come because we need backup for pirates."

Keith's eyes narrowed. "Then why?"

Griffin's gaze shifted slightly toward the glowing corridor behind them, like he expected the walls themselves to be listening. "Because while the Atlas was trying to get out of the black hole, the Holts picked up a transmission. It wasn't broadcast. It wasn't conventional comms. At the time, they focused on getting the Atlas out of there, but when we relocated to catch our breath,"

He tapped his wrist, and a message began to play out. It was static at first, and slightly distorted. "We heard something disturbing." He whispers, and Keith hears voices. From the message. At first, it was nothing—just broken signal, chopped syllables, interference that made meaning feel like a coincidence rather than intent.

Then the voice stabilized. Not fully but clean enough.

"...—confirm corridor collapse—"
"...Atlas is en route—"
"...repeat, blacksite protocol is active—"

Keith's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The alcohol dulled reaction time, not comprehension. And his brain locked onto one thing immediately: protocol language. Not pirate slang. Not desperate scavenger chatter. Structured. Military-adjacent. Controlled. This is not sloppiness that always follows pirates and rogues. This is clearly military grade level threat.

"That's not the worst part." Griffin says, pressing his wrist band and moving his finger further along to a specific point.

"...—Terminate Atlas—"
"...—Terminate the Blade—"
"—Terminate Galra...—The Liberated"

Keith's eyes widened. Terminate the Galra? Keith didn't move for a second. Not because he didn't understand—he did. That was the problem. The words were simple. Clean. Deliberate. The kind of phrasing that only existed when someone had already decided what a target was and how to erase it.

"Terminate the Galra..." he repeated quietly, like saying it out loud might expose a mistake in interpretation.

Griffin didn't correct him. That silence allowed something to settle into Keith and unnerve him. Keith exhaled slowly through his nose. The alcohol in his system suddenly felt like an insult, something trying and failing to dull an edge that refused to soften.

"You're sure that's not taken out of context?" he asked, but even as he said it, he already knew how weak it sounded.

Griffin's stare sharpened a fraction. "We replayed it sixteen times. Cross-checked the signal decay. Holt confirmed the encoding pattern matches military blacksite transmission protocols. It's not misinterpretation. They plan on terminating Garla."

Keith's jaw tightened. That is definitely something concerning. He takes a deep breath. "And I assume... you analyzed all the attacks after the message." Griffin nodded, crossing his arms as the hologram turned off.

"Only Galra targets, something we failed to notice because the settlements were filled with multiple species. Once we stopped to analyze the extent of the damage, the Galra who resided in said settlements suffered the most. They were more severely injured, whereas the others got off lucky."

Targeting Galra? Perhaps Keith should've seen this coming. Restoring relations has proven to be a hot topic for the Galra, so to speak. No one can easily forget the fact that the Galra enslaved the entire universe for 10,000 years. So, when they offer peace, naturally everyone is gonna scoff and be guarded. It's why the Blades work so hard in humanitarian relief. To give hope, to spread the message that there are good Galra, that they are willing to help and change.

It's why Keith worked so closely with the new Council that formed on New Diabazaal. Instead of one emperor, they divided the leadership to 5 Galra, each one specialized in something. It was a whole thing, but Keith watched them focus on rebuilding, rebranding and offer what little they could to assist. He shouldn't be surprised that there are some people who are not willing to forgive nor forget.

But why the attack on the Atlas? Why the Blade of Marmora? The Blade and the Atlas are allies of the coalition, they literally helped in the war. Keith sighed. He had so many questions. But there is one burning that he needs to ask.

"So, what's my role in this?" He asks, "Why come to me?" Griffin sighed. He opened his mouth to talk, but a loud crash shook the ground. Keith yelped, leaning against the wall while Griffin grabbed onto a nearby table.

"What the hell?" Keith growled, running outside with Griffin. He slammed the door open, and a ship was flying above the settlement, blasting down. Keith's eyes widened. An attack? Seriously? He growled, pressing his comms.

"Acxa, come in!"

"General! What—"

"Get the crew and get out here! We're under attack!" Keith closed comms and grabbed his dagger. Griffin clocked his gun, and eyed his dagger. "Yeah, like that's helpful from the ground."

Keith glared at him, dragging him right behind a large boulder as lazer shoot right where they stood. "Shut the hell up! You cover me!" Griffin rolls his eyes, but acts quick. He peeked and shot at the attackers, shooting with precision. With the focus on him, Keith pulled his hood up, and dove towards another boulder, moving around them.

He climbs one of the boulders, and dives towards one of the rogues. He knocks him out, throwing his blade at the other. The masked rogue dodges and aims it's gun at Keith, but Griffin shoots him from behind. Keith looked up at the cruiser, and noted the small size. Barely a courier ship. What the hell is that doing attacking a planet with the Atlas hovering beside it?

"MFE's! To the ships, attack it from above!" Griffin yells into the comms. Moments later, he sees two MFE fighter jets fly towards the cruiser. Keith narrowed his eyes, looking at Griffin. "Are you seriously sending them to fight it!? Why the hell is a courier ship attacking with the Atlas near it!? It's obviously a trap!"

Griffin glared back at him. "Trap or not, it's still shooting beams at the settlement and it needs to be taken down! The Atlas can't shoot it or it will take out the settlement too!"

Keith glared at him, scoffing. "For fuck's sake, Griffin! You're sending your team to fall in a trap! For all we know, it will explode and take out the entire planet! We don't know what we're dealing with." He dodged another lazer, gritting his teeth. He used his blade to catch the reflection. Three incoming. Two shooters and one staff wielder.

Keith groans. "Ugh, on your right. I've got our left."

Griffin didn't argue this time. He shifted his weight, snapped a shot, and immediately ducked as return fire carved a glowing line through the stone behind him.

"Right flank noted," he said tightly. "Left's yours."

Keith didn't respond. He was already moving. The staff-wielder came first—bad positioning, overconfident angle. Keith didn't waste the dagger. He threw it low instead of high, forcing the man to react defensively. The split-second hesitation was enough. Keith closed distance, shoulder-checking him hard enough to knock breath loose and sending him stumbling into his own teammate's line of fire.

A bolt missed Keith by a hair. He felt it singe the edge of his cloak. "Yeah," Keith muttered under his breath, rolling out of the way. "Definitely a trap."

Above them, the MFE fighters broke formation. Griffin pressed his earpiece, but Keith didn't stop to listen along. He pulled Griffin down, snatching his gun as he shot at incoming attack. They're gonna be here for a while...

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

The cruiser didn't last long, because unsurprisingly, the cruiser is a trap. But it didn't explode the planet, like Keith suggested, but it did cause a lot of damage.

The cruiser broke apart in a way that didn’t feel like victory. No clean detonation. No dramatic fireball. Just a violent structural failure mid-air—panels shearing off, internal systems venting energy in uneven bursts—then a hard, ugly descent into the far ridge beyond the settlement. The shockwave rolled late, like the physics of it had to catch up with what had just happened.

If Keith had to guess, it was meant to fall. Fall on what, he doesn't know exactly. The attack didn't make sense. He and Griffin had to regroup with the MFE's and blades on the Atlas and further discuss what was next, because whether he likes it or not, Keith is now involved. And when he stepped on the Atlas, he was greeted by the new captain of the Atlas, since Shiro stepped down and Iverson is on Earth.

The new captain of the Atlas was a weird guy. Keith didn't exactly get a bad feeling, but... weird is what he'd describe him. Similar to Coran, actually. Equally animated, and equally intuitive. He presented himself with a friendly smile, before switching to business very quickly. Though, his short attention span was shocking for someone commanding the Atlas.

He was an older guy. Eric Montgomery, his name was. His brown hair greying and his glasses always a bit wonky. But Keith could respect his directness, even if his delivery was odd. 

"Now!" He clapped his hands together, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. "What do we know so far?" Montgomery asks, turning towards Griffin. He nods and turns to the table, "We know that the Atlas recently encountered a coordinated attack disguised as piracy in the Zuulov quadrant. The attackers demonstrated unusual military-level discipline, tactical awareness, and an ability to lure the Atlas toward a black hole, suggesting deliberate planning rather than random raiding. The Atlas only escaped due to intervention from the Holts."

Sam Holt stood up, typing something into the console and bringing up the voice messages to display, "After analyzing recovered communications, we discovered disturbing intercepted transmissions, mostly speaking of something named “blacksite protocol” activity and explicit targeting directives. The most alarming thing is the repeated phrasing such as “Terminate the Atlas,” “Terminate the Blade,” and “Terminate the Galra,” suggesting a coordinated effort to eliminate key Coalition-aligned forces and specifically target Galra populations."

Keith frowned further at that. Perfect. Just what he needed. A coordinated attack on the Galra, hidden under a mess of piracy. Captain Montgomery hums, rubbing his chin. "What have we recovered from the courier ship?"

Rizavi crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Nothing useful. There was no cargo, no pilot. It was empty." Montgomery hummed. "Do we believe it was a distraction?"

Keith scoffed, "For what? What could they possibly need to distract us from? My team were down there and we saw nothing suspicious." He hears Griffin scoff.

"That's because your team was too busy getting drunk and destroying a bar." Oh the fucking nerve of this asshole! Keith glared at him, standing up. "We were off-duty! And we didn't go to the bar straight away, they actually looked around!"

"Alright, gentleman, let's not get fired up just yet," Montgomery said with a smile, "This is a very confusing case, and we're clearly not dealing with amateurs here. Now, we know that this... what was it they said? The liberated? A little name for themselves, it seems..." He says, muttering to himself, before hands go behind his back.

"The Liberated have a goal, which is to 'Terminate the Galra'. We know that the Galra suffer more from these attacks, and we also know that the Blade of Marmora isn't fully safe from their eyes either. Now, we just need to think... What is their plan?"

Keith sits back down, shooting Griffin one last look, before he thinks quietly. Terminate the Galra, it seems. That's their plan. Hit settlements with all the Galra. It looks like they're going for small hits, targeting those that can't protect themselves. The attack on the Atlas, leading them a literal black hole, what does that prove? Are they testing the Atlas' ability to get out of situations? Was that an attempt to simply eliminate them? Because if so, it's quite the attempt.

"General Kogane!" Montgomery calls, smiling at Keith with a friendly yet far too cheerful smile. "You shall remain among the Atlas, assisting us in this tricky situation! As a member of the Blade of Marmora, and a high ranking one at that, it would do well for us to work together!"

Keith didn't disagree with that, but it's not that simple. He just stared at Montgomery like the man had suggested something wildly inconvenient—like rearranging gravity or canceling oxygen.

“…That’s not how this works,” Keith said flatly. “I have a command. I don’t just ‘remain’ anywhere because you said it with enthusiasm.”

Montgomery beamed like that was the exact response he’d been hoping for. “Ah! Excellent. Resistance. Shows you’re thinking. I like that.”

“That wasn’t—” Keith stopped, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple. The lingering adrenaline was seriously not helping, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. “You don’t have jurisdiction over the Blade.”

“No,” Montgomery agreed easily, rocking back on his heels. “But I do have a rapidly escalating, highly coordinated anti-Galra movement with blacksite-level communication protocols, an attempted Atlas kill maneuver, and a very concerning lack of visible infrastructure.” He ticked each point off on his fingers.

Keith stared at the man. While he may act like a weirdo, he sure does have the capability of a captain. Keith could respect that. There wasn’t really an out here. Not a clean one. Not one that didn’t end with more Galra dead somewhere while he stood off to the side pretending this wasn’t his problem.

It was his problem. It had been the moment those words came through the transmission.

Terminate the Galra.

That wasn’t random violence. That was intent. This was... practically showing off to be a hate crime. Keith rubbed his forehead, and he sighed. "I will speak with my superior."

Montgomery smiled widely, as if he had been waiting for that. "Oh, the grumpy alien with the braid necklace? We spoke to him!" Keith blinked, looking up. He spoke to Kolivan? Sam sees Keith's confusion and laughs nervously, standing beside Montgomery.

"We spoke with Kolivan. It's actually how we found you. He told us that we might find you here since it's where he last spoke with you. We briefed him on the situation and he gave us the confirmation to allow your assistance. He tried contacting you but no answer, so we made our way here. But did request your crew to return for assistance."

Keith stared in shock. Kolivan already knew? Keith groaned, rubbing his forehead. He should've stayed on the goddamn ship. Wouldn't have made a damn difference. But at least he'd have a better attitude to this whole thing. He was actually starting to relax before the MFE's came along, even if Zethrid was destroying shit, at least everyone was having fun.

"General?" Acxa calls to him, waiting his orders. He sighed. He nods, and Acxa stares at him for a moment. "If Kolivan gave the all clear, then don't waste precious time. Go." Acxa nods, and he watched Ezor and Zethrid follow her with the rest of the agents.

Montgomery clasped his hands together, entirely too pleased. “Excellent! Then we’re all aligned.”

“We’re not aligned,” Keith corrected flatly. “We’re temporarily pointed in the same direction.”

“Semantics,” Montgomery said brightly. Griffin snorted under his breath. Keith shot him a look sharp enough to cut metal, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table.

“Fine. Then we do this properly.” His tone shifted, becoming more clean, all the loose edges from earlier snapping into place. “We’re not chasing ghosts and we’re not reacting blind. If this group—‘The Liberated’—is running coordinated strikes with blacksite-level comms, then they have infrastructure. Supply lines, intel networks, staging points. You don’t pull off something like the black hole maneuver without rehearsal.”

Sam nodded immediately, fingers already moving over the console. “Agreed. We’ve started mapping attack vectors against known Galra settlements. There’s a pattern, but it’s… inconsistent.”

“Inconsistent how?” Keith asked, eyes narrowing.

“Timing,” Sam replied. “The strikes aren’t evenly spaced. Sometimes there’s a cluster—two or three hits within a short window—then nothing for days. It’s not random, but it’s not clean either. Almost like they’re... testing us. They don't do anything aside from attack, and flee. Almost as if they're..."

"They're testing our reaction times." Montgomery chimed in, his smile replaced with a more thoughtful expression. "Mn, it makes sense. Know thy enemy. Catch our attention, test our limits, and see what they can work with."

Keith straightened slightly, mind locking into place now that there was something concrete to work with as Montgomery continued. “They continue to check our response times. Defensive capabilities. Communication lag between settlements and Coalition forces.” He gestured toward the projection. “They hit a location, observe how fast help arrives, how strong the resistance is, how coordinated the response becomes. Then they adjust. They don't stop once or twice. It's a continued experiment.”

"Yeah, but how long till they get the results?" Rizavi asks, a frown on her brow. "And what will that mean for us?"

Montgomery sighs as the hologram fades. "I cannot say for sure how long, but I assume once they do get the results they want, they'll become a force to be reckoned with. Extremist groups act loudly. They claim responsibility. They want visibility, fear, recognition. This group, the Liberated, it does the opposite. Instead of claiming responsibility, it simply stays silent and let's the result do the talking."

His words sink in. The silence stretches, and Keith grows uneasy. Even more so than he originally was. Because this group is really pissing Keith off, and all he's had to do is sit and listen to Montgomery talk about them. And even then, not everything is 100% correct and certain.

"Well, that concludes this meeting!" Montgomery cheerfully says, clapping his hands together, startling Keith. "Dismissed! We shall be heading out and on the road to the truth! Everyone rest up!"

Keith stares at Montgomery with disbelief at this man's abruptness, but everyone seems to have gotten used to it, if not a little exasperated. Keith sighed, standing up and getting ready to head to... wherever he can, mostly to yell at Kolivan privately.

"Ah, General Kogane! Could you stay behind please, for a nice chat?" Montgomery calls, halting Keith. "You too, Griffin. I'd like to speak to you two, the leaders, hehe." He laughs, approaching Keith. He notices Griffin approach with a raised brow, and he crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Montgomery.

"Yes, sir?" He hears Griffin dutifully answer. As soon as they're left alone, Montgomery smiles softly, chuckling to himself. "Listen, fellas... I'll keep this simple. General Kogane, you have no team. Which is why you're now a part of ours. And since you're both leaders, I'm appointing you two as partners for the duration of this case. It'd be best to have your talented skills and sharp minds working together!"

A beat of silence.

"No, absolutely not." Keith said flatly.

"With all due respect sir, I'd rather die." Griffin said instantly, crossing his arms. Montgomery tilted his head, like a curious bird rather than a man being directly contradicted. “No?”

“No,” Keith repeated, slower this time, as if that might somehow make it more acceptable. “You don’t just assign me a partner like I’m some cadet fresh out of training. And definitely not him.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Griffin added, arms still crossed, posture rigid. Montgomery hummed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Fascinating. Immediate resistance from both sides. That usually means the pairing is either disastrous… or extremely effective.”

“It means it’s a bad idea,” Keith snapped.

"Oh. I see." Montgomery smiled, not upset at all. He approached a console and pressed a button. "What's this then?" The screen flashed, showing footage of Keith and Griffin fighting side by side, not really in perfect sync, but good enough in the sense that they looked out for each other, providing cover and such.

Keith scoffed, glaring at Montgomery, "Did you seriously record us?!"

Montgomery shrugged, "It's a security camera! It's how we kept eyes on the ground, and I just happen to notice how well you fought together! I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's you two, right? I mean, look at how well you operate!"

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know anything about how I operate.”

Montgomery stopped, turning back toward him with a small, knowing smile. “I know enough. Blade of Marmora, high-risk infiltration background, adaptive combat strategist, tends to favor instinct once variables exceed predictive models.” His gaze flicked briefly to Griffin. “And you—structured, procedural, strong adherence to chain-of-command frameworks, excels in coordinated operations and predictive analysis.”

Griffin didn’t look pleased, which Keith considered ironic. First time he's ever seen the guy disagree with something a superior officer has done, given how in love with the chain of command he is. “Sir, have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course I have,” Montgomery said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the universe. “I like to know what tools I’m working with. And in a ship this big, you gotta know who's who and what can they do!”

Keith exhaled sharply through his nose. “We’re not tools.”

“No,” Montgomery agreed easily. “You’re worse. Tools don’t argue or talk back.” He put a hand on each of their shoulders. "Now gentlemen, you're both under my command, and the order is simple: partners! Come on, work together! Your superior, I forget his name,"

"Kolivan," Keith interjects with a flat voice. "Right, Kolevan," Montgomery says, making Keith narrow his eyes at the slight mispronouncing, "He said you're officially under my command, so let's not cause any problems, okay fellas?"

Keith glared at Griffin, refusing to accept this. He can see that Griffin agrees. Montgomery stares at them, waiting for them to agree. But they don't. He hums. “I expect you,” Montgomery said, tone still annoyingly cheerful, “to dislike each other professionally and still not let people die because of it. Because we can either waste forty-eight hours negotiating feelings, or we can accept the reality that someone out there is running structured extermination trials on Coalition assets and purposefully targeting the Galra and starting what might just potentially be a whole new war. What'll it be? We shake on it?”

Keith glared harder, his frustration rising because, goddamn it, the man was smarter than he appeared to be. Griffin sighed slowly, and he extended a hand, like it physically pained him. Keith glared at him, then at his hand.

Griffin held it there anyway, arm steady, expression locked into something that looked professionally neutral if you ignored the faint twitch in his jaw. Keith didn't have to do this. He could just say yes, and move on, instead of wasting time satisfying this lunatic. He was talking  to them like two kids who were misbehaving.

With a growl, Keith grabbed Griffin’s hand, a tad too firm. The shake was brief. Firm enough to communicate acknowledgment, not trust. It ended as soon as it was socially acceptable to end it, which in Keith’s opinion was still two seconds too long.

“There,” Keith said immediately, dropping his hand like it had static in it. “Satisfied?”

Montgomery clapped once. Loud. “Beautiful. That’s teamwork. Horrible, emotionally repressed teamwork—but teamwork nonetheless.”

Griffin wiped his palm against his uniform in a way that was only slightly insulting. Keith noticed. Of course he did. He personally would prefer to cut his hand off. "Alright boys, off you go. This marks the beginnings of a new and lovely friendship—"

"—No it does not!" Griffin glares at Montgomery.

"—Fuck right off, Mr. Smiles!" Keith cursed, flipping him off as he left. Montgomery watched them leave, barely affected as his smile remains.

"...I'm proud of this decision." Montgomery says, smiling proudly as he stared at the doors.