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The door to the Vice-Chancellor’s office is never closed—and on rare occasions, locked. Following last year’s controversial Uni Games result between Voltron and arch rival Galra Tech, Galra Tech having edged out Voltron by a single point during the tiebreaker to cinch the Shield, this break in pattern is to ensure Coran's sanity. The only thing standing between him and the maelstrom of rabble-rousers banging against the expensive olkarion pine, crying foul about the whole affair.
Of course, nothing compares to when the storm’s eye makes landfall.
Voltron University Students’ Association President Allura.
King Rabble-Rouser herself.
And, possibly, part-time assassin. In some indeterminate amount of time, between Coran shifting a wary eye back and forth from the door to the cat videos on his laptop, she let herself in, and had planted herself patiently in the chair opposite, reading something on her phone. There’s nary a petition nor protest sign in sight, but the duress alarm sounds in Coran's head anyway.
Mother Mary of the Cross, she's smiling.
It’s the smile Coran remembers from the incriminating footage of her reigniting the rift between Voltron and Galra Tech. What was surface-wise a congenial exchange between Captains as the two shook hands, had actually been a front cultivated by Allura to get close enough to cold-cock Lotor square in the jaw. It’s hearsay as to what Lotor had done to draw Allura’s ire, but there’s no disputing the result:
Pandemonium.
Eighty per cent of Voltron and Galra-Tech’s student body arrested and held overnight at the precinct, including some of Coran’s senior teaching staff. He had to shut down Voltron for three days because the students who hadn’t been arrested—or who’d been smart enough to evade arrest—had camped out on Voltron’s front courtyard in solidarity for their incarcerated peers.
Vice-Chancellor Haggar—erm, Honerva —had been out for blood. Mostly Allura’s, and then when she couldn’t because Alfor had called in a favour with the board— Coran’s.
Yet another reason to get that state of art combination lock installed. Coran has his eye on the one with the fancy biometrics: facial recognition, fingerprints, voice recognition. The whole chupa . Padlock Monthly had given it five stars, so you knew it was legitimate.
Yes, that’d teach her—
“Coran.” Allura announces, in the tone of someone who’s repeated themselves for the fifth time but with laughter lingering on the fringes. “Forget about those manks for a bit.”
Coran spitefully clicks on another thumbnail to start a new cat compilation. “Only as long as you're not here to remind me about that old drudge," he says. "Would hate to put your acolytes out of a job.”
“I have a proposal,” Allura says, ignoring the quip. “One that will take our relationship with Galra Tech into the next millennium.”
“Mm. Funny you should mention Galra Tech. Haggar—” Allura snickers at the gaff and Coran clears his throat. “ Honerva emailed. She's still waiting on an apology from you.”
“That is funny.” Allura touches her chin. “I wasn't aware I'd socked her too.”
“Allura,” Coran warns.
(Secretly? Secretly he’s proud of his god-daughter. If the circumstances weren’t such as they were presently, why, he’d even reach across the table to shake her hand for that little display of wit. Haggar’s not the most charming personality to be around.)
Almost as if Allura can read his mind, she smiles.
“I digress then. This makes my proposal even more vital.”
Vital, she says. “To whom? Voltron or your own vendetta?”
Allura doesn't flinch; in fact her smile widens. He feels a corresponding chill creep up his spine, splintering and spreading through every vein, freezing him in place.
“I’ve canvassed and found that student morale has been at an all-time low. And while it spells concerns for my possible re-election, it also spells dire news for you too, I’m afraid.” Allura exhales. “Vice-Chancellor, I don’t know how else to say this, so I’ll just be frank—your polls have dropped.”
“I beg your pardon. My what has...what?”
“Your popularity polls.” Allura taps on her phone a few times and an email notification pops up in the corner of Coran’s screen. "Go on.”
It’s a graph: likability percentages mapped against time. The first thing Coran fixates on of course, is the red, almost accusatory bolded line dropping sharply from the end of September last year into a trough that hasn’t seen any improvement coming into the new year.
“Dear Lord they have.” Coran mutters, feeling faint. “Since October? That was Panko's unveiling! I was very vulnerable then! They couldn’t possibly have expected me to—”
Allura slams her hands on his desk.
Coran jumps, his knees thunking loudly against the desk’s underside.
“Vice-Chancellor. I don't presume to think that this stands testament to your performance, but I do know inaction could worsen things, especially with the board. With your endorsement I, and a few dedicated individuals can turn this sinking ship around. Are you in?”
That metaphor trips over its own legs, trying to stand.
Who cares what direction a ship is facing while it’s sinking? Coran. Coran does. It’s his sinking ship, and it’s his bloody sagging polls, no one else's.
“What do you need?”
A life jacket and inter-university co-operation never hurt anyone.