Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perhaps Lotor should have expected this.

Perhaps he should have acknowledged the spontaneity that came with space battle and those who fought them. He should have reminded himself of the vindictiveness that permeated the universe and those who roamed it, let alone his father’s beloved space witch.

He certainly wouldn’t have found himself quite so stranded.

Lotor had planned for every conceivable outcome after the rift within Daibazaal’s cold and wasted husk refused to open; in the event he failed to destroy Haggar’s ship during the chaos, Naxzela would have destroyed him alongside the Galactic Coalition. Had he succeeded, the rebellion would no doubt have accepted him as a prisoner of war, if not a valuable informant. Guaranteed security paid in information and his freedom. It was almost comical.

All of his planning—his sacrifice… and for what? For his people? His planet?

He couldn’t bring life to Daibazaal. It remained as it always had for eons gone by; devoid of quintessence and its people.

Lotor felt the pain deep in his chest, hollow and sickening. For a brief moment, his failures weighed on his bones and grated between the crevices of his joints, even as he stretched his limbs and crashed through his environment. Ten thousand years, yet all his aspirations led him down the same path; no home, no followers, and no power to call his own. At least this time, he seemed to be in less dire circumstances than expected, with surrounding vegetation and resources aplenty.

Lotor removed his cracked helmet with some difficulty, the sealing mechanism jamming when he initially tried to unlock it. He resisted the urge to toss the broken hunk of metal and instead clipped it at his waist. Lotor’s hair was slicked with sweat yet the temperature was hardly warm enough to warrant a fever. Still, the heavy humid breeze was a relief to his chapped and raw throat. Experience told him he’d need to find a water source soon, especially if he wanted to avoid dehydration.

Reaching back in his hazed and jarred memory, Lotor distantly remembered the feel of corrupted quintessence running up his spine, down his legs, through his skull and across his vision, even as he’d watched Haggar wield her magic before him.

If he recalled correctly one of the lions… it was the… was it the black lion? It must have been. Lotor doubted any of the other lions carried enough power to punch through a force field of that size, let along damage the ship to that degree.

Still, that had been the only form of attack from the almighty Voltron before their precious wormhole had been hit with all of Haggar’s wrath. Lotor, himself, had only warped in moments before; just in time to see Naxzela set itself for a galactic-wide massacre. It was certainly long enough for the weight of understanding to settle in the depths of his being as his small ship was dragged into the wormhole behind him. Long enough for his engines to fail under the strain.

Long enough for him to realise he would die.

Of course, that was before the corrupted wormhole dumped Lotor and the deadened Lions into orbit of a lush green mass of a planet.

The constantly throbbing pain at the base of Lotor’s skull, coupled with the dull viridian mass oozing down his face, told Lotor all he needed to know of his missing memories upon landing on this seemingly deserted planet.

With a frustrated sigh, Lotor lifted his head up to the sky. The sun brushed his face in small golden patches, warm without searing his skin. Above him, thick foliage and curling vines shaded the rainforest around him, offering his sensitive eyes some reprieve from the sun’s full light. The brightness still managed to feed his headache, leaving him breathless and dizzy for a brief moment until he could regain his bearings.

The air felt thick and heavy with the musky taste of pollen, sharp but full on his tongue. Walking across the terrain was more difficult than he was used to. Perhaps the gravity was much greater here, Lotor mused, or perhaps his armor was much heavier than he’d thought. Still, he didn’t stop to shed the weight.

Beneath his feet, the ground was gorged and scarred, the damage having left nearby flora gutted and crushed. It was as if an asteroid had hit the earth at a sharp angle, leaving behind a broken path. Peeking beyond the trunks and vines in the distance, Lotor thought he saw a glint of metal under sunlight. It was perhaps another dobosh of walking at his current pace, he mused.

The gravity made it feel like a varga.

By the time Lotor managed to wrestle his way through rugged terrain and trailing vines, leaving deep prints beneath his feet, the blood seeping down his head had congealed somewhat into a slick viscous mass caked along his hairline. It felt like a second skin – unwanted nor was it needed to combat the heat that had slowly assaulted him as the day dragged on. His eyes stung from sweat and bright rays of sunlight making its way through the opening in the canopy left by the lion before him. His head pulsed sickeningly in his skull, seemingly cracked much like his helmet.

Lotor had to stop for a moment. With his back to the lion – he couldn’t tell which colour, not that it mattered much at this point – he slid down its outer shell so he could sit on the floor. Lotor felt like he was cooking in his own skin. Blisters appeared in lines where armor met skin and the metal seared deep into tough flesh. His hair smelt burnt, the acrid scent eating at his throat. Before him, the ground appeared hazy and distorted; whether from heatwaves or his own inability to focus, Lotor was unsure.

Behind him, a shift vibrated against his back, though the metal did not outright move. Lotor glanced over his shoulder, hair moving to brush against his front. With some observation, he noticed a hatch open not far up from his head.

Lotor blinked.

Addled mind notwithstanding, Lotor felt that perhaps – not certainly, just quite possibly – rumors of the Lions’ sentience lacked puffery.

He had a choice, here. Either stay where he was, at the mercy of the elements and harsh light that fueled his nausea tenfold…

Or go in.

Really, the choice was quite simple. Any negative consequences that could have come to mind were absurd and held no logic or reasoning to his broiled brain, Lotor supposed. At the very least, he’d be stuck in darkness for some time, or at least until the Lion’s paladin came to retrieve him and hold him as a prisoner of war.

All things considered, it wasn’t too far off from his original plan when he’d warped to the battle outside Naxzela.

Decision made, Lotor struggled to heave himself into a standing position so that he’d be able to reach the open hatch. His limbs felt as weak as the padding he’d used in his sleeping chambers back aboard his ship…

He remembered Narti gifting him the padding as a token of affection. For… for rescuing her so long ago…

Even in his current state, Lotor felt tired in a way that transcended physical comprehension. He didn’t know whether to feel grief or relief in how it all turned out. It was never in his plans to kill off one of his generals, let alone one he trusted so dearly. In that moment of weightlessness that accompanied tumbling through an open hatch, Lotor wondered if he could have prevented Narti’s mind from being so thoroughly invaded; if he could have protected her from Haggar’s machinations.

It certainly would have spared him some trouble.

“Oof!” A grunt escaped him, all the air wheezing out from his lungs upon landing on his back. For a brief disorienting moment, Lotor watched as shapes lined into the ceiling danced to the beat of his heart, blood rushing to his head and out of the wound atop his head. The darkness inside the room was ruined by sunlight pouring in through the hatch, though the overall dimness was a relief to his overworked senses.

Breathing felt like a chore, puffs of air brushed hot against his cooked flesh. It reminded him of is youth, when he’d contracted some illness or other and nearby Galra had shied from his feverish form like vermin. Lotor spat off to the side, trying to rid himself of the grainy feel coating his tongue. Nothing left his mouth, though it was pleasant to imagine having something left in him to expel.

At least the blood on his head finally stopped leaking.

Beneath him, Lotor saw coarse scabs fall and tangle into his hair, even as he shifted into a somewhat upright position. He had to grit his teeth against the exhaustion that begged him to lay back down. His body swung between lacking a stomach and raging nausea churning his intestines. He rolled onto his side and used the momentum to push himself to his feet, swaying for but a moment before falling against a nearby wall. At his feet, something rolled and clinked into his line of sight.

Lotor stared.

“A helmet…” He said, hardly able to process it. In the dark, he barely made out the colour painted into the top. “Red. It’s red. That must mean…”

Lotor’s brain struggled to finish the thought, even in the foggy quiet of his brain. Still, his head turned to the side, eyes darting. In the darkness, he made out the silhouette of a pilot console. For some reason, the pilot seat was much further back in the room, bare of any paladins.

Turning his attention back down, Lotor gingerly lowered himself to inspect the helmet.

At first, it looked useable. There wasn’t any reason for it to be abandoned; no scars or blemishes marked the surface. There were no dents on the outside. Lotor rolled the helmet over. From here, he could understand why the mask was discarded. The visor had shattered so thoroughly so that only a few pieces of glass remained jutting from the rim. Lotor ran his hand across a set of smaller, darker red patches slicked across the remining glass. His hand came away coated in a strange red substance not unlike the viridian mass coated to his head.

Lotor frowned.

Was this human blood? He’d heard the paladin with red armor was human. There was little reason to believe this had Altean origins, especially as he’d only found the one lion.

There couldn’t have been enough time for the paladins to regroup. He hadn’t seen any footprints leading to or from the Lion aside from his own. His concern led him to a more alarming thought.

If this Lion’s paladin was already gone, it could take quintants before somebody found him.

No food, no water, no energy to even move. Lotor’s prospects were looking grim. Dismayed, Lotor neglected his surroundings for a brief moment. He tried to plan his next course of action, but all his mind would allow him was the thought of sleep and not moving for the next decaphoeb.

A sudden bright light at Lotor’s side blinded him. It was accompanied by a kiiiiizzzt sound so sharp his ears popped. Lotor flinched back, bumping his head against the wall. The impact sent his head reeling. He had to close his eyes and turn his face to the wall, hoping to shield himself from the sudden assault. Something blunt knocked into the back of his head. The force left him prone, nauseous. Even if he wished to face his attacker at this point, his hair acted as a sufficient blindfold. Lotor’s limbs wouldn’t move.

“Nngggh…” He tried to roll to the side. Another strike left him breathless and immobile. Nausea churned in the pit of his stomach, leaving him flushed and cold. Sharp metal coated his tongue and neck. He felt his chest constrict as thick liquid forced its way past his lips in short bursts. Exhaustion washed over him, dizzying black spots danced across his vision. Lotor didn’t have the energy to fight.

He let the darkness take him. 

Chapter Text

“The Galra Empire was dealt a heavy blow, today. I want all of you to remember that; no matter how big they look, or powerful, there is always a way for the oppressed to triumph. We won’t back down – not now, not ever. I want you to look to our victory at the Battle of Naxzela, and remember that feeling when we drove Zarkon’s forces back. Together. We can win this war. The Coalition, together, makes up a force so much more powerful than the Empire could imagine—"

“What about Voltron?” One of the amorphous beings on Rolo’s screen butted to the front of the group. Rolo’s mutterings could be heard through the speakers as he went careening into an unseen console. Nyma gave the newcomer an irritated glare. It didn’t seem to give her any mind as it got up and personal with the video receiver. “We saw them go through that weird vortex-thing. What’s gonna happen if we can’t get ‘em back?”

Nyma elbowed the being in its side.

“Leave Shiro alone. Whatever happens with Voltron is his business.” She defended the Coalition leader. The amorphous being wasn’t having it.

“The only reason we survived that korgon-shit was because we had Voltron!” It retorted.

Shiro blinked.

Along the other screens, Shiro saw the nods and thoughtful hums of those who agreed with the newcomer.

He wished Allura was there. She had a way with words that transcended the any language barrier and cultural difference.

“Without the Coalition, Voltron wouldn’t have come as far as it has,” Shiro lifted his head. He met the eye of every alien visible on-screen.

Good; he had their attention.

“We are strongest when we work together. The Blade of Marmora is working around the clock to help find the other paladins. The best thing we can do right now is buy them some time,” Shiro looked at the amorphous being next to Nyma. “Zarkon knows we don’t have Voltron, right now. He’ll be looking for them too. We can’t lose hope now, not when we’ve come so far.”

“What would you have us do, Shiro?” Ryner spoke up from the far-left screen. She was a pillar of calm in this mess of a video conference.

Shiro was grateful she was there.

“We’re going to need more Balmeran crystals to replenish our stores. I’m gonna need a few teams in charge of that while we move intelligence squads further out into ex-Empire territory,” Shiro felt a sense of accomplishment fill his chest; all their hard work was really paying off. “There should be some free space up for grabs around the Orevelle galaxy. I want some people scouting the area for Empire outposts. We could really learn a lot if they managed to leave anything behind.”

“I believe I will be able to handle any further logistics,” Ryner offered congenially. Shiro nodded gratefully.

“That’d be great. Thanks, Ryner.”

From there, the meeting shifted to organizing supply runs for Coalition planets, and then to creating an all-inclusive school on Olkarion for orphans and those with parents on-call to the Coalition. By that point, Shiro had successfully gained a full booklet of notes to review after a good sleep, not having any rest since before the Battle of Naxzela. With high spirits, the conference drew to a close.

“Thank you all for your support. The Coalition wouldn’t be the same without you.” Shiro bid them farewell.

“We could say the same for you and your team, Shiro.” Ryner gave him a knowing nod.

The screens blinked off. The stars beyond the communications visor floated past unassumingly. Shiro spent the next few seconds staring out into the void beyond the glass, then deflated. His body sagged into the chair behind him, cushioning and far more comfortable than it probably should be.

His head pounded.

Eyes shut, Shiro could sense the silent but hulking presence to his side. His hand pressed into the bridge of his oddly shaped nose, still not quite used to the face his clone owned. There was a knob below the bridge, as though the cartilage had been broken and badly reset. His skin felt too soft, as though he moisturized every 10 minutes.

He didn’t feel welcomed in this strange body.

Shiro mentally shrugged; it wasn’t like the host was there to tell him off.

“Any news?” He asked through the fatigue.

“No.”

Kolivan’s response was expected. It didn’t stop the cloying disappointment from weighing into his chest. Shiro sighed. He opened his eyes. Kolivan met his gaze.

“Is there any way to trace the wormhole? I know Allura did it after that major battle.” Shiro knew he was picking through hay bales, but he couldn’t let this slide until he’d exhausted every option.

“I’d heard that the Princess had a special connection to the lions…” Kolivan didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Shiro’s heart sank.

“I haven’t been able to connect to the lions that way since before the mindscape,” he confessed. Despite looking away, Shiro could feel Kolivan’s assessing stare bore into the top of his head. “It’s weird. I don’t know if I’m the one pulling away or if the Black Lion is keeping me out for my own good.”

Kolivan didn’t respond.

It was probably for the best; there wasn’t much anyone in the Known Universe actually knew about the Lions of Voltron. Any suggestion he made on how to connect with them would have come from a place of ignorance – the very opposite of what Kolivan stood for.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply basked in each other’s company as they attempted to think up their next plan.

In a way, the company made Shiro feel more lonely.

“Ah! There you both are!” Coran’s jubilant voice echoed off the walls, brightening up the room by at least 3 shades. He pushed a hovering trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “I’ve just had a word with the Mice, and they seemed rather inclined to mope in the Princess’ room,” He dumped the mischievous mice from his pockets and onto the floor, pointing toward Shiro’s slouched form. “There you are! Off you go, all of you.”

Plachu, the greenish-looking mouse, sent a rather offensive-looking gesture Coran’s way. The Altean hardly noticed through his bustling about. The mice made their way to Shiro and Kolivan, seeming to have an extremely passionate debate about whether to perch on Shiro or Kolivan.

They picked Kolivan.

The Galran rebel leader didn’t even twitch as the mice took up stations atop his head and shoulders.

Coran came over with a trio of short cups half-filled with a familiar kind of hair tonic.

“Nunvill?” Shiro questioned, though he sat up and accepted the cup with little more than a grimace. Kolivan took his own cup; he had to hold it away so the mice wouldn’t jump in. Coran held up his cup.

“To friendship!” He called, lifting his glass just a tad higher before tipping the liquid into his mouth with flourish. Shiro and Kolivan followed suit. Neither of them outwardly reacted to the taste.

Shiro looked down into his cup.

He saw a face that wasn’t entirely his own.

“You know, Number One,” Coran rubbed his chin, “I seem to recall Keith nearly dying when he tried to connect with the Black Lion from half-way across the Known Universe. Perhaps it’s for the best we don’t have a repeat!” His chirpy attitude drew away some of the heaviness in his chest. It became a bit easier to breathe.

He must’ve heard us from the hall…

“I guess you’re right, Coran.” Shiro agreed.

“We will keep looking,” Kolivan promised. “I have a list of areas already searched. Zarkon’s witch is not skilled enough to send them further than this reality.”

Shiro didn’t know how much he’d needed to hear that until he did. He exhaled, curling down from his upright position, elbows on his knees for support. There was a strange sense of grief that threatened to explode from his throat. It was harder to keep it together with the Galra and Altean in the room. Shiro felt Coran’s fleshy hand grip his shoulder. It grounded him, but it also made him want to scream.

He felt responsible for losing Allura.

He felt responsible for losing Keith.

For losing Pidge, and Lance, and Hunk.

Guilt clawed its way through his chest, ripping into his lungs and heart. It was his fault for choosing to attack Naxzela; he should have known it was a trap. It was his responsibility as leader—

“In war, there are always mistakes,” Kolivan said. The gravelly baritone helped cut through the worst of Shiro’s internal monologue. “Perhaps your intentions are pure, and perhaps there may have been a better alternative. But we have all chosen our paths,” Kolivan placed a hand on Shiro’s other shoulder. Shiro tilted his head up to hear Kolivan out. “Our choices can affect others, but it doesn’t mean it is the end. Keith learned this shortly before his temporary leave from Voltron.”

Shiro looked up. Kolivan met his gaze unwaveringly.

“You taught me to have hope, Shiro. Do not forsake your own.”

It was hard. Shiro didn’t feel very hopeful; though he didn’t feel outright hopeless. It was an odd numbness that wouldn’t leave, but didn’t seem to hurt him in any way.

Maybe I don’t have to have hope in the situation, Shiro realized. Maybe I just need to stay firm, determined. I just gotta hope it’s enough.

He thought of the Black Lion – the other paladins – the mindscape. He thought about the dangers and risks.

He thought about the payoffs.

Please just let it be enough.

Please.

Chapter Text

Keith’s head hurt.

Like, really hurt.

It was the kind of pulsing ache that didn’t leave with meds or sleep. A ‘tension headache’, Shiro had once called it, housed deep in the back of his head. It made him slow and sluggish, a hazy fog clouding his judgement.

Didn’t stop him from whomping Lotor in his fucking face.

“Asshole.”

Keith’s nose scrunched into his scowl, giving him a nasty expression. As his gaze roamed across his ruined Lion, blue sandstone eyes absorbed the damage with a sour mood. If he tilted his head just so, he could see the pale curling tips of mussed hair poking from the top of the Lion’s entry ramp. It was almost a distraction from the carved metal making up the Black Lion’s outer shell, shaped as though a very angry dragon had come and scorched the paint, then taken a very large bite from the Lion’s neck and tail. Keith could only imagine how long it’d take for repairs when he got back.

If he got back.

Keith huffed. He gave up analyzing his options. There was really nothing he could do for the Black lion other than stay alive and attempt to reconvene with the others, if they were on the same planet.

Big if, there.

Keith tried not to think about it.

He sighed through his nose, then flicked some of the mud caking his boots. It was a lost effort. Then he walked up the ramp. His knees creaked, but didn’t shake under his weight; the gravity felt familiar, Keith realized, like he’d experienced it first-hand. The thought was distant, as though from a time he could only remember in a dream.

He shook his head. It felt like there was pillow stuffing between his ears; the air density made his ears feel swollen, like they were about to pop.

Head’s too foggy, he mused. Hard to keep focus.

His thoughts felt jumbled, although that could’ve been from the impact. The crater carved by the Black Lion was definitely larger than an Olympic swimming pool.

“What a mess,” Keith muttered. His eyes landed on the still form corded with spare electrical wires. White hair was stained a dull green in places. Shattered pieces of dark armor littered the floor but remained far from its unconscious owner. There were burns littering along scarred purple arms. A thin trail of green fluid escaped one ear, leaking down until it joined with the green globs flowing from Lotor’s nose. He seemed to breathe fine from his mouth.

Keith sighed.

What was he supposed to do with a downed Galra prince?

Wet guttural sounds choked their way out of split purple lips, accompanied by deep green fluid. Keith stared uncomprehendingly as Lotor’s body convulsed and arched unnaturally as he tried to regain his breath. The fit only lasted for a moment, but it was enough to smear the strange liquid into the metal floors. Keith blinked.

He could die…

The thought came unbidden. It was certainly a flip from his earlier views. Still, looking at Lotor’s current state, Keith was hard-pressed to ignore the urge to do something about it. He sighed, closing his eyes. He rubbed gloved hands into his eye sockets in agitation. Another glance at the bound Galra made him cave.

Keith groaned.

“I’m going to regret this,” He said, running his hands through dark sweaty hair. The act offered a brief moment of relief from the sweat-inducing humidity. Keith was glad he’d shed his armor, or the task would’ve been impossible; the gravity, humidity and heat made moving almost unbearable, even if he wasn’t carrying a half-dead 6’3” oddly-not-furry alien. With a last haul, Keith dumped Lotor’s ass right by a deactivated inbuilt healing pod, careful to avoid damaging an already-battered head.

Keith stared.

“This is awkward,” He put his hands on his hips; maybe if he found a spare Balmeran crystal in storage…?

Keith sighed. Even if he’d found a spare power source lying around, it wasn’t likely for him to know how to hook it up. The best he could do was set Lotor on the pallet, since the pod was oriented horizontally. At the very least, the air filter didn’t require a power source to be operational; it was a constantly running feature Hunk and Pidge had added after he’d finished that one mission on Kamen—

“No.”

Realisation hit him harder than a brick.

No.

It was more like a truck.

Or Pidge’s laptop.

“Motherfu—” Keith couldn’t believe his luck.

Without preamble, Keith reached down and scraped some of the mud that had caked the bottom of his boots. He brought out a tablet that was still functional even without a server connection. He scanned the mud with the tablet; the results came back with a little green flash.

“Goddammit!” He cursed.

Kamen, the small green text read, English letters plain as day.

He was on Kamen.

Why was he on Kamen? How!?!?!!

Keith wondered what he did to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment as he lugged Lotor into the healing pod. By the time the hatch had closed, and Lotor’s breathing was being assisted by the air filter, Keith was already recalling his mission with the Blade of Marmora – the one that resulted in everything falling to pieces. He remembered a lab—

“The lab,” Keith murmured. Last he’d remembered, the place was blown sky-high along with the adjoining facilities next door. If he’d done his job right, there shouldn’t be a lab, anymore.

It might be useful if it was still there, though, Keith thought. Could really use some supplies, right about now.

A painful wheeze scratched through the deactivated healing pod’s speakers, grating at his ears. From the corner of his eye, Keith saw tied hands clench against their bonds; yellow sclera house rolling blue orbs, eyelids flickering once, twice, before falling shut once more.

Keith winced. An inkling of guilt settled somewhere between his heart and throat. He tried not to grimace.

Maybe a doctor…

Keith’s hand fell to his side, directly over a tender spot above his hip. It pulsed when he pressed into it.

“We could really use one, right about now.”

Chapter Text

Lance took a deep breath. The darkness rested on his shoulders like a cool blanket, and parted only for the soft glow of his LED lantern. Across from him, Hunk and Pidge sat cross-legged with their own lanterns. In their little circle-triangle-thing was a tray topped with their LED lanterns, hovering slightly off the floor so they’d be able to reach the lights with ease. The tray wouldn’t be needed soon, but that depended if Lance figured out the story he’d be telling in their little sleepover.

He guessed he could go for something tragic. Those were always a hit.  

“This is a bit of a blast from the past,” He began, “you know; about a hundred years ago, when high schools were still around.”

“Sounds safe enough,” Pidge shrugged. Hunk paled.

“I really hate those kinds of stories. People always gave them the worst endings!” Apprehension seeped into his face, making deep lines where the light touched.

Lance scoffed.

“Yeah, well this one’s got a little something-something called karma. Y’all ready for this?”

Pidge and Hunk shared a questioning glance, but nodded.

“Alright! Well, I guess our story begins with these two sisters. Twins, I think.” Lance began. “They went to the same high school, same classes, shared a room – pretty much shared everything. But, see, there was this scholarship that came up in their last year of high school for a mega-super-ultra-elite private dance studio, where if you got in, your life was set.”

“I think I’ve heard this one before…” Pidge threw Lance a suspicious look. “I think the story’s from White Day, or something.”

Lance was hurt. Wounded.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He sniffed. “I got this from one of the guys back in the flight simulator.”

“Anyways,” Lance gave Pidge an opening to interrupt; she didn’t. “The scholarship was only for one person. Meaning, they couldn’t share it, even if one of them got it. Which was a mega problem for one of the sisters.”

“Oh God…” Hunk whispered, already inching back. It seemed a little premature, considering Lance had just started the story. Then again, some of these stories tend to strike fear in a guy… Especially this story.

“Yeah, buddy. Sabotage~” Lance gave his best jazz hands, answering the question Hunk hadn’t wanted to ask. “The younger sister was really really good at dancing – like, top-of-her-grade-good –, plus she was really sweet and wasn’t that competitive. Everyone expected her to get the scholarship easy. The older sister, though…” Lance blew out a whistle, “She always had to work twice as hard to be half as good as her sister, but she was still second in the school. Had to compete for even that, though.

 “A week before finals, the older sister and younger sister gifted each other a new pair of white dancing shoes. You know, to say ‘good luck’. They’d done it for as long as they could remember. The younger sister was really happy with the shoes she was given, because they were so shiny. On the other hand, the older sister seemed alright with her bland shoes, which struck the younger sister as odd, as she’d never remembered her sister to be so forgiving of bland gifts.” Lance took a deep breath, lowering his voice into something grave. “That day, at rehearsal, the younger sister collapsed mid-song, white shoes staining red. When she took off the shoes, she found the shiny stuff from the shoes dug deep into her feet, lacerating them so badly she couldn’t even walk.”

“Damn,” Pidge winced, bringing her feet closer to her body. Hunk looked really upset in the dark.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, but it gets worse.” Lance warned. “The older sister got the scholarship, since the younger one couldn’t even stand without hurting herself more. So, while the older sister lived her happily ever after, the younger sister was miserable. She kept trying to get back into dancing before her feet fully healed, to prove she was still good at dancing, but she just made her feet worse, until eventually sepsis got her.”

Hunk’s shoulders slumped.

“I thought we were doing ghost stories, not…” He couldn’t even finish.

“This is kinda ruining the vibe, Lance.” Pidge agreed.

“Well, every good ghost story has an equally tragic backstory. We gotta work on our build-up.” Lance defended himself but felt a little bad. He shook it off for the sake of the story. “Well, a few months later, Big Sis is in the dance studio late, working on her next gig. Suddenly, she notices that her reflection is acting all weird. Like, one moment it’s copying her, the next, it’s doing its own thing, like a hand’s out of place or a foot goes the wrong way. She stops, but the reflection’s still dancing, until it stops right in front of her, smiling. The older sister stepped back, frowning.”

Lance took a deep breath. This part was always the creepiest.

“The reflection pressed its face – her face – into the glass, like it could come through if it pressed hard enough. Then, the reflection opened its mouth, and it said, ‘have I been copying you well, sister?’”

Hunk let out a small ‘meep’; Pidge let in a sharp breath. By now, both their faces were painted with caution, shoulders raised in an effort to protect themselves from the worst of the story.

Lance stared them dead in the eye. He lowered his voice still, so they had to lean in and listen close to hear him.

“The next morning, authorities found the older sister dead in the studio, feet covered in septic cuts from knee to toe.” Lance said. He leaned back first. “That’s it. Story’s over.” He grabbed his lantern.

Pidge and Hunk glanced at each other, then grabbed their lanterns. They sat back with some measure of unease.

“One,” Pidge said, turning off her lantern.

“Two,” Hunk followed suit.

That left Lance.

“Three,” He said, turning off his lantern. For a moment, the three did nothing but sit there, waiting for something to happen. Worst case, the old folk tale was true, and they’d accidentally summoned a ghost into the Red Lion, where they’d be bunking for the night. Best case: it was a fluke like all the other times, and they’d be down to snooze after the 5 minute timer went off on Pidge’s wrist console.

Around the 3-minute mark, Lance’s keen ears suddenly picked up a change in the airflow, like someone was taking heavy breaths.

The air brushed his left ear.

“Four.”