Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Lance.”

Ugh.

“Lance, bro, you gotta get up.”

No I don’t.

“Lance.”

Who’s Lance? My name is…

Wait.

Groaning, Lance McClain pushed back the blankets he was currently buried under, and reached up to run a hand through a head of unruly black hair. Only his hair wasn't black, it was brown, just like it had been all of Lance’s life.

Why did he think it was black?

For a moment, Lance just sat there, trying hard to keep his eyes open. They just didn’t want to obey; how long did he stay up last night?

A foot away, Hunk stood with a cup of water in his hand. Knowing Hunk, it was probably cold, and only reserved for when he was really desperate to get Lance out of bed. It was Pidge’s idea first, and just sort of… stuck around. Lance had only woken to a face full of cold water a handful of times before, thankfully.

“Took you long enough,” Hunk said eventually, “I almost thought you were dead.”

Words were difficult to form in his mouth, but eventually Lance managed to say, “Not yet. But I feel like it.”

Hunk laughed then, and handed Lance the water instead of throwing it in his face. “Well, hurry up and get dressed. Iverson’s gonna be even more mad than he usually is if you’re late like you were yesterday.”

...Yesterday?

“Excuse me?” Lance retorted, “I’m never late.”

And he wasn’t. Lance might not have been the best pilot in the Garrison (that was Takashi Shirogane, before he went off on that mission) but he did well enough in his classes, studied hard, and wasn’t late.

“Well, you were yesterday. Almost the entire day. And you didn’t get up, even when I dumped the water on your face. You did tell me to fuck off, though. That was nice.”

None of what Hunk was saying sounded even vaguely familiar to him. Nevertheless, guilt rose up in Lance’s chest anyway and he did his best to sound as apologetic as he felt.

“Aw, man, really? I’m sorry, Hunk. I’ll make it up to you. U-um… I’ll… do all of your cleaning duties for--”

But Hunk only laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Just don’t forget to actually brush your hair today.”

Lance’s best friend left after that, mentioning to meet up with him and Pidge later down at the cafeteria. He barely managed to mumble a response before Hunk was out the door.

I didn’t brush my hair?? What happened yesterday? And why can’t I remember any of it?

Now that he was alone, Lance had at least a little time to sort out his thoughts. But it wasn’t any good; all he could remember about the day before was… was…

Purple lights, a weird knife…

Lights. A knife.

Lights… a…

...Nothing.

He couldn’t remember anything.

There were memories there, for sure, but the more Lance kept scrambling, trying to gather them all together the more they were slipping away. He couldn’t recall a single thing.

Or almost a single thing, at least.

There was an ache in his chest, like his heart had dropped straight down to his stomach. Like he had lost something, something important, and no matter what he did Lance would never get it back.

Lance clutched at the front of his shirt like it would help him remember. It didn’t.

Overhead, the speaker in the dorm room was announcing that he had half an hour before classes started. Lance’s stomach made itself known, loud and unhappy.

Getting food was going to be easier than trying to dig up memories that refused to surface.

First things first, then.

Lance grabbed a clean uniform from his dresser. At least he still remembered where that was, if everything Hunk was telling him was true.

In the cafeteria, Hunk and Pidge had already found a table. The smaller of the two, Pidge, was buried in her laptop, the light from the screen reflecting off her glasses and hiding her eyes. The tray of food that was mediocre at best remained mostly untouched. At her side, Hunk was doing his best to swallow a bowl of gluey oatmeal while he flipped through a notebook.

Lance's usual seat was left empty, and a tray of food was waiting for him.

The oatmeal was out of the question, but the apple was good enough, even if the ones the Garrison served tasted mostly like plastic.

Questionable fruit it was, then.

Pidge looked up from her laptop as Lance slid into his seat.

“You’re clothes aren’t on backwards today,” she commented.

Lance groaned and pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

“You guys are messing with me, aren’t you? You gotta be,” he complained.

Closing the laptop, Pidge pushed it to the side (carefully) and sipped at the carton of orange juice waiting on her tray.

“Psh. I wish we were messing with you. That would be way less awkward. You were such a mess yesterday we were embarrassed for you. Do you realize how ridiculous you have to be to get someone to feel embarrassed on your behalf?”

Lance didn't know. And he didn't really want to know. He told Pidge so.

“Honestly I thought that, like, maybe you were possessed or something,” Hunk admitted.

“Don’t joke around about ghosts,” was all Lance could think of saying before he sunk his teeth into the apple. Yup. Plastic again.

Hunk looked almost offended. “I’m being serious, man. You were… it was like you were a completely different person. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“We had to tell you where to go to get to your classes all day,” Pidge added.

The crunching of the gross apple filled the quiet between them as Lance tried to think of what to say next. How come he couldn't remember an entire day? It was impossible. It should have been impossible. Somehow it wasn’t.

“It was like you had amnesia,” Hunk said eventually.

“Maybe you hit your head on something during the flight simulator?” Pidge offered.

Which might explain some things, but if Lance really did something bad enough to make him lose full day, he would probably still feel it. He pressed a hand against his head, looking for some sign of an injury that wasn’t there.

“I don’t think so,” he said after a while, “Just… none of this makes sense.”

Pidge and Hunk bounced ideas off of each other for what could have happened, but to no avail. Eventually the bell rang, signaling they had five minutes before the start of the first class. Lance tossed his tray.

“Remember,” Hunk called after him, “It’s down the hall and to--”

“I got it!” Lance cut him off, “I’ll see you all at lunch.”

He left before either of them could get another word in, but he could still hear them laughing behind his back.

----

The light’s settings brightened automatically to signal the start of a new day, and in response Keith shut his eyes tighter and tried to roll over.

Not yet, the flight simulator…

Wait. What flight simulator?

There was a knock at the door, and from the other side a voice asked, “Keith. Are you awake?”

Thace.

Who’s Thace?

Oh yeah.

“I-I’m up!” Keith managed, and he reached down to grab his boots, except…

His boots weren’t at the side of his bed like they were supposed to be. Instead they were clear on the other side of the room. Which was strange; Keith always left them by the bed. The floors of the base were metal and cold, and his socks were thin.

Keith got up to cross the room and shove them on his feet, and finally opened the door.

“Yeah, I am,” he greeted Thace. His superior was looking at him curiously.

“Do you remember your own name today?” The Galra asked, and… was he smirking?

“Um…” Keith’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “...Yeah?”

Thace made a sound that was something like a sigh. “Good,” he said, “Don’t forget, you have training this morning. Meet at the deck in one varga. You’ll be practicing with Regris today. Kolivan wanted someone to remind you, considering your… recent behavioral… changes. That is all.”

“Er, okay,” Keith said, even though only about half of what Thace told him made any sense, “I'll be there.”

Instead of leaving, Thace spent another moment looking at Keith curiously, like he was trying to find anything out of the ordinary. But he must not have been able to, because eventually he only nodded and went on down the hall to do… whatever else he had to get done.

Once Thace was out of his sight, Keith let the door slide shut and leaned against it.

“That was weird,” he mumbled. “But whatever.”

Alone again, Keith reached under his pillow to grab his knife and slipped it onto the belt of his uniform.

It was a ceremonial blade, rare and incredibly valuable. Each member of the Blade of Marmora carried one--hence the name--and Keith was no different.

The Blades were a secret organization aimed solely at taking down the Galra Empire that ran the universe. Keith had been with them all his life, or at least as long as he could remember, and that was all he really cared about. Galra blood ran through his veins, just like all of the other members.

They raised him, despite the fact that he was only half of their race. The other half was apparently “human,” but Keith didn’t know exactly what that meant. Only that it was the reason why he wasn’t purple. And why he was so small compared to the other Blades, and why his teeth weren’t as sharp as theirs.

Keith had never seen another “human” before. But he assumed they looked at least somewhat like him.

Already in his uniform, Keith barely spared half a second to check his reflection--just a glance, really--and ran his fingers through his hair before leaving the room. Behind him, the door closed automatically.

He made his way to the training deck. It was still early, but he liked to get a little extra time practicing on his own. Kind of like a sort of warm-up before he had to worry about not getting thrown halfway across the deck by one of his training partners.

On the way, he passed by a couple of other Blades. He spared them no mind, preferring to keep to himself like usual. But the halls were quiet and their whispers carried easily.

“At least he remembered his knife today.”

“Be quiet. His ears are small, but he can still hear you.”

Why is everyone acting so strange?

The Blade members stared at him, unashamed and curious. Whatever he apparently did yesterday was enough to make them completely forget whatever sense of stealth they had ingrained into their brains.

In away, Keith was impressed. In another way, he was also annoyed because he still couldn't remember a single thing.

Well… there were a few things. Not even things; just shadows, faint wisps of a dream, really. Keith only knew that they were there, and they were fading more and more by the second.

For some reason, the words garlic knots went through his mind.

Even though Keith didn’t have the slightest clue what “garlic” was. Maybe it was some sort of poison Ulaz told him about while he was helping out in the med bay once.

Despite the stares and poorly-whispered conversations, Keith made it to the deck in one piece. Regris wasn’t there yet, just like he had predicted. No one was, actually. That was odd. The Blade of Marmora ran a tight ship, with regular schedules that guaranteed you could almost always find someone training.

That was until he spotted something on the other side of the large room; a very huge something, actually. Keith was certain it hadn’t been there before.

Keith crossed the deck to get a better look and stood in front of it with his arms crossed.

It was a hole; huge and gaping, the edges charred like it was shot at with some sort of a blaster. But the Blade of Marmora didn’t fight with blasters. They were called the Blade of Marmora for a reason.

So who the quiznak shot a hole in the wall?

Keith must have been staring at it for some time, because after a while a hand came down on his shoulder, large and clawed. It startled him, almost making him jump out of his skin before looking back.

Regris stood, his mask off for the moment to reveal a pair of large ears pale purple markings. A scar ran down the right side of his face, the skin dark and long-since healed as well as it will ever be, although it cost him sight in his eye. People often thought he wore his mask because of his scar. Eventually Keith learned it was actually because of his ears; he had exceptional hearing and was sensitive to loud sounds.

“You look confused,” was all Regris said, his tail winding around himself.

“I am,” Keith responded with. No sense in lying about it. “How did… what… what happened? And why is everyone acting so weird? It’s annoying.”

Regris made a huffing sound that could have passed for laughter. “You tell me. You were the one who shot at the wall. I didn’t even know we kept blasters in the training armory.”

He had only been up for an hour, and already Keith could feel himself beginning to get a headache.

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not. Did you forget? Antok was with you yesterday when you dug it up and insisted on using it instead of your blade,” Regris explained.

Keith shook his head. “I don’t even know--”

The older Galra cut him off. “You must have picked it up somehow. Almost sent him to the med bay.”

It was time for Keith to go back to bed. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together like it would help all of this make sense, but the hole in the wall was still there and Regris was still watching him.

All of Keith’s questions were only leading to more questions instead of answers. What exactly happened yesterday? When did Keith learn how to shoot?

Chapter Text

“Lance! What are you doing?!”

“Um, what I'm supposed to do? Duh,” Lance answered.

“You’re going to get us killed!”

That was Hunk this time, gripping onto the seat like his life depended on it. Lance spared a glance over his shoulder only for Pidge to yell, “Keep your eyes ahead of you or we’re gonna crash!"

This, Lance knew, wasn’t true in the slightest, given that the “ship” they were controlling was just the flight simulator that he hated with a passion. But technology had gotten pretty good in the last few years, making the simulation feel… well, like it wasn’t a simulation at all. Students had a habit of forgetting about that when they were caught up in the middle of it.

It wasn’t an accident, of course. The idea was that the more realistic the simulator felt, the more seriously students would take it.

Lance knew that, just like everyone else did, and he took it as seriously as he possibly could (partially because it was a large portion of his grade and would ultimately lend a huge hand in determining whether he would make it as a pilot.) But it didn’t make things any less frustrating when he had his two best friends screaming in his ear about certain death that wasn’t actually certain.

Besides, Lance knew what he was doing. He was going to be a fighter pilot for a reason, and a damn good one, at least if he had anything to say about it. And Lance had a lot to say.

The flight simulator was difficult, as it always was. No run was ever the same twice; there were always changes, differences, surprises when no one expected any. It was designed to keep fhem on their toes. No one should ever get too comfortable.

It was a challenge and everyone knew it. Getting zeroed in and focused could be a huge help, or it could be a huge disadvantage. Too much concentration on one thing could mean not being prepared for the sudden change that was sure to happen eventually, and it would end in a failed simulation. Being a pilot meant you had to be ready to adapt to changes at any given moment.

Fortunately Lance had always considered himself rather talented in that department.

Which was why it was so frustrating to have Pidge and Hunk yelling at him. Lance knew what he was doing. It was like having two kids fighting in the backseat while trying to drive. Only he wasn’t driving. And Pidge and Hunk weren’t fighting with each other, they were trying to argue with him. Lance suddenly felt bad for his parents back home and all the fights he and his siblings had that they were forced to endure.

“Both of you, shut up!” Lance snapped eventually when it seemed like they weren’t going to stop on their own. “I can’t focus with you two arguing like that. It’s going to make us crash, and then you'll really be upset.”

Pidge and Hunk fell into silence after that, and it gave Lance time to continue on with his little speech.

“We’re going to land on the right spot, in one piece and not dead, and we’re going to work together on this to prove a point to Iverson because he’s a huge--”

“Uh, Lance?” Hunk spoke up helpfully. “I feel like this is a good time to remind you that everything we say and do is recorded. And also that Iverson is right outside, listening to everything we’re saying.”

Lance tried his best not to flush in embarrassment as he lost a little energy in his speech. “O-of course. Um. Thanks, Hunk.”

“No problem,” Hunk replied, “We’re all graded as a team and I don’t really want to fail because of your loud mouth.”

“True friendship,” Pidge muttered.

Things settled between them after that, and they fell into pattern; Pidge gave out the data, speeds, coordinates, and all sorts of other information Lance needed to make sure they got to the ground safely. Hunk made sure that nothing on the “ship” was going to fall apart, and when there was some sort of panel-thing that Lance knew nothing about but threatened to kill them all by breaking he was on it in less than a second.

And, of course, just when they got close enough to the end that even Lance was barely beginning to entertain the slightest notion that maybe, maybe the simulation would go just right, the plans changed entirely. What should have been virtual solid ground ended up being molten freaking rock and suddenly not a very good place to land a ship.

Thanks to quick thinking, they were able to get the ship down on the fake planet where the surface was only partially melted rock. Not a place Lance would ever prefer to be standing on at all, but it was the best option they had. Personally, they were rather satisfied with the way it turned out.

Iverson had another view on the matter.

So after their relatively successful simulation, they were torn apart by Iverson, threatened with failure, and sent back to their dorms with much less positive energy than they had an hour before.

Later that night dressed in their usual civilian clothes, Lance and Hunk snuck out of their dorm room like they always did every night. Pidge was already sitting on the roof, waiting for them, a telescope in her hand as she stared up at the cloudless sky.

“My brother's up there somewhere,” she said once Lance and Hunk joined her.

“Making history,” Lance agreed, “You’ll follow him soon, or my nickname isn’t the Tailor--”

“It isn’t,” Hunk said.

Pidge laughed at that leaned back on her hands. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.”

Pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head, Lance sighed. “Well, it'll happen, just as long as Iverson stops being--well. You know.”

“Himself?” Hunk offered helpfully.

“Yes! I swear, he is determined to keep me from ever meeting some pretty alien.”

Hunk shook his head. “That’s, like, the least of what you should probably be concerned about when it comes to all of this.” He gestured in a vague way to everything around him.

“But I’m serious!” Lance insisted, “I want to meet some cool extraterrestrials before I die, ya know?”

Standing up, Lance cupped his hands around his mouth to shout at the Universe. “If you don’t give me that, then at least turn me into an alien in my next life! A hot one, preferably, but I’m not going to be picky--”

Suddenly Lance was being dragged away by Hunk before he could say anything else as Pidge scrambled to grab her telescope and get back from the edge.

“Hey!” she hissed under her voice, “We’re not supposed to be out here, remember?”

The trio managed to find their way back to the dorms unnoticed; luck must have been on their side that night, at least a little. Although it did involve a handful of close calls and Pidge narrowly smashing her face against the wall because she ran around a corner too fast.

By the time he and Hunk said goodnight to Pidge and slipped back into their room, Lance collapsed on the bed. Running has taken a lot out of him, and it had already been a long day. He was just barely awake enough to kick off his shoes, drop his jacket on the floor, and roll himself into a blanket burrito.

“‘Night,” Lance tossed over his shoulder. "We'll do way better tomorrow. Promise. Or I'll do all your homework for a week."

He hardly heard Hunk mumble some sort of lazy response in agreement before drifting off to sleep.

----

The light in the room was bright enough for Lance to see it behind closed eyelids, giving him no choice but to wake up.

Which was strange; even during the day, the dorm light never…

What the fuck.

The room Lance was in now was not the one he fell asleep in last night. For one thing, it was strange, the walls and floor a strange dark gray. Lights overhead flowed purple. It was disorienting.

Was this even the Garrison? Lance was about a thousand percent positive it wasn’t; he’d never been in a place like this before. Ever. In his entire life.

Pushing back the dark gray blanket, Lance forced himself to his feet. That was when he realized with a start that he wasn’t wearing his usual clothes. Instead, his jeans and shirt were replaced by (more) gray. A skintight… uniform… thing? With glowing purple lights.

If Lance wasn’t in the middle of a crisis, he’d think the lights were pretty cool. Given the current situation, however, he was just a little distracted.

Where was he? How did he get here? Where were his clothes? How did he get into this thing?

“What--” he started to mumble, only to slap a hand over his mouth. Why did his voice sound... not like him? And the hand on his face wasn't dark and freckled, it was pale and white. Like Lance didn’t even know what the sun was. Which everyone knew was not true.

Everything about him was changed. Somehow. Somehow Lance wasn’t… well, Lance.

Just to confirm his suspicions (though he knew he really didn’t need to) Lance dug around the odd room for anything reflective he could get his hands on.

Alas, there were no mirrors anywhere to be found.

What kind of person didn’t have at least one mirror in their room? he thought, rummaging around the place.

The fates must have felt a little sorry for him, because after one last, desperate glance around he spotted something strange about pillow. When Lance moved it aside, he found that it had been concealing a knife; more of a dagger really. It was sheathed and a strange symbol on the handle glowed, guess what?

Purple. I hate purple. I just now decided.

Lance drew the dagger out of its covering, revealing a blade curved dangerously and so sharp he was genuinely afraid to touch it.

But the light of the room shone off the metal. It was reflective.

Gripping the knife by its handle with care, Lance brought it up to eye level, angling it slightly to see himself.

And then he almost sobbed.

“Oh, god, I have a mullet.”

It was Lance’s worst nightmare; thick, unruly, and black, it curled around his neck. When he reached up to touch his awful new hair, it was greasy and in desperate need of a wash.

He was so distracted by this horror it took him a moment to actually look at the rest of his reflection.

His fears were proven true. Lance definitely wasn’t the person he was when he went to bed the night before. His eyes were some unnatural color, either a pale gray or maybe violet. His entire physical appearance was different.

This wasn’t something Lance liked. At all.

This is a dream, Lance thought. It has to be. Right? Otherwise, how else could this be explained?

Yes. It was a dream. Lance was convinced of it; there was no other possibility. People don't just… somehow teleport to a place they've never been to before and find themselves in brand-new bodies. Pidge always said that science can explain everything (“except for magnets.”) He wasn’t the best at science, but he knew enough to understand stuff like this just didn’t happen.

Which meant it was all a dream.

Suddenly Lance’s new predicament was much less unbearable than it was a minute ago. This wasn’t real; it was all some weird fantasy his mind squished together for… whatever purpose dreams served. If he could make it through this, Lance would be fine.

First things first. Lance had to something about that mu--about the disaster on the top of his head.

After more digging he managed to come up with a hair tie. Unlike everything else in this weird gray room, it wasn’t glowing purple and looked completely normal. Lance didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see a hair tie before.

It was probably used at some point, and Lance had no idea when. But none of it was real, so he wasn’t too concerned about dream-lice, and pulled back the gross, dirty black hair into a tiny ponytail. The mullet was still there, but at least now it was out of his face and made him feel slightly less disgusting.

Through the entire ordeal, the idea of just using the weird glowing knife to cut the damn thing off crossed his mind more than once. But Lance didn't know the first thing about hairstyling. What if he just made it worse? Was that even possible? And anyways, he didn't want to have to touch it unless he absolutely had to; how long had it been since this weird dream… person last used shampoo?

Now matter what the answer was, it was way too long. Lance was still appalled at it.

There was a knock at the metallic door. The sound nearly made Lance jump out of his weird, new, skin. While he still struggled to get his heart beating right a voice called.

“Keith?”

Keith? Who’s Keith? This gross person that I apparently am now?

Lance sat there in silence before the voice sounded again.

“Keith, get up. Kolivan wants to speak with you.”

The unknown stranger’s voice was deep and serious. He imagined the body it belonged to was probably intimidating and terrifying. And who was Kolivan? It sounded like a name out of one of Pidge's nerdy video games.

“U-um… yeah! Okay. I-I’ll be out in a second.”

Lance’s new voice was deeper than he was used to, but somehow he managed to make it crack like he was going through puberty all over again, and after a moment the mysterious voice responded.

“Sixty ticks. I’ll be waiting in the hall. Kolivan isn’t pleased.”

Lance groaned and hoped the stranger couldn’t hear it. This dream-person, apparently Keith, must have done something to make them mad. What were they going to do? Eat him? Sacrifice him to a glowing, purple god?

It was easy to forget that it was all a dream when everything seemed so real.

This isn’t actually happening, he had to remind himself. You’re in bed right now in the Garrison, just like always, and Hunk is probably snoring really loudly.

Which meant that even if this Kolivan dude did end up sacrificing him to a glowing god, that was fine. This was all fake. So why worry?

Lance spotted a pair of boots by the bed and pulled them on. He didn’t realize how cold his feet were until they were tucked safely in the shoes. Why were the socks so thin?

The knife didn't make any more sense than before. He felt like he should carry it, but what if there were some sort of weapon regulations in... in… wherever he was? Back under the pillow was probably the best bet.

So that was what Lance did. After once last scan of the room, he figured he was about as ready as he’d ever be.

How long was a “tick”?

Lance had so many questions. He was getting sick of them.

The door had a panel next to it, which Lance cautiously pressed his hand against. It seemed to work, because the door slid open.

And, on the other side of the door waiting for him...

...was an alien.