Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is ending. Or so it’s said, by everyone and no one, whispered like a prayer and screamed like a curse across the millennia. Every war, every famine, every time the oceans rose to swallow the land, someone pointed to the sky and declared the end. But it never comes.

The Earth spins, indifferent.

Even when chaos reigns. 

Even when Nancy McClain’s hands are caked with blood, dirt, and something that feels perilously close to despair.

”We’re at full capacity! Triage the overflow to the east wing!”

”And do what? We’ve got nowhere to put them!”

The stretchers keep coming; a sea of dark reds, sickly greens and dingy purples. Nurses dart from room to room, some clip past each other but don’t utter pleasantries. The power flickers intermittently, backup generators groaning with restraint. The faint whirring of the machines feel fragile, barely holding the hospital together. 

Body after body squirms inside the hospital, crammed together in the waiting room— swarming outside the doors. Their faces are pale with dread, marred. Patients spill into hallways, some slumped against walls, others practically lying on their deathbeds. They all have similar injuries: Ruptured eardrums, bowel perforations, chemical burns ranging from two to three hellfire, bones crushed and skin raw. 

To put it simply, our Lord and savior shat in His hands, clapped and made a shitstorm blow through the very ER where Nancy works.

Too many patients, not enough beds, and nowhere near enough time.

She has it down to a grim science.

Body wheels in, assess, address, pressure, stabilize, move.

Body wheels in, assess, address—no signs of life—move.

On and on, a metronome of misery, until—

“McClain!”

Nancy jerks her head to the call, greeted by thin lines etched with worry. A coworker and her senior, Dr. Reyes, voice cuts through the din,“More incoming—five. Crater site.” 

Her hands close the last suture, cutting the thin thread from skin. Pulling off her gloves as she stood. The void she leaves is quickly filled by another nurse, “Are they stable?”

Reyes hesitated, tired eyes flickering with something unspoken. Nancy hates that flicker, “Stable..but strange. Just—Get to the ambulance bay.”

.𓄒

The air outside the hospital was heavy, clinging to her skin like wet cloth. There’s no distinction from her sweat and the night’s mist. The streets are in similar disarray, policemen shouting orders or denials. They’re guarding the main streets, due to the influx of bodies trying to see if their loved ones fell victim. And, of course, the buzz of news reporters desperately lapping at the entire situation like it’s honey.  Nancy stands on the curb, eyeing three ambulances as they line up, one door slamming after another. 

Five stretchers were rolled towards her, and immediately Nancy’s stomach tied itself.

For the first time tonight, her hands truly shook. 

They didn’t look injured—at least, not in any obvious way. Scratches here, a bruise there, but nothing that explained the stillness of their bodies. Rag dolls, they were: limp and hollow. 

“We found them together,” One of the paramedics said, his voice strained. “South side of the crater. They’re breathing, but won’t wake up. And there’s..well.”

Her eyes are glued on one face in particular- angular and freckled to the nines. Expression soft as the day he was born and first held in her arms. Impossibly, utterly and terribly her son. 

Her boy.

Her Lance.

Reel it in. She painstakingly rips her gaze, eyes searching for the paramedics' hesitancy. If she had any air left in her lungs, she'd gasp. There's a man and his arm– his left– is glowing.

Not in the dull, sterile way of medical equipment but in a brilliant magenta hue; alive and pulsating. The limb was clearly mechanical, impossibly sleek, with veins of light tracing delicate patterns across its surface.

“What the hell?” Is all she could muster.

“Yeah.” The paramedic hums grimly, “That's what we said.”

..𓄒

Inside, the five were placed in the same room. There was no choice, the hospital was drowning, and the staff couldn't justify separating patients found together. Beds are stacked dominos, monitors singing in the dim light. 

If Nancy was naive and twenty years her junior, she'd let out a sigh and express how it's quieter in the rooms. That only brings trouble, masses of it.

Though, she selfishly thinks it. To slump against the second bed lined up and reached her hand outward to cup her son's face. And as if that single contact of touch was a sledgehammer, warm slips down her cheeks. Despite herself, she smiles weakly.

Because of course, Lance would be the type to find himself in such situations. Trouble maker.

Nancy tuts, “Oh, mijo,” she whisks away any dirt her hands can reach, “¿En qué te has metido?”

Pressing a kiss against his forehead, willing him to come back. To be with her. Lingering before looking up, finally making room in her mind to consider the other souls lying quietly amongst her. Two, she already recognized.

They're practically her own, and have been glued at Lance's side since middle school. Nancy dusts her fingers across two hands, pale pink and sunkissed brown. Pidge & Hunk. There's a bruise blooming over Hunk’s right shoulder, and Nancy had to gently move Pidge's messy bangs to dress their forehead. 

Her heart aches anew. 

She's going to have to call their families—If they aren't barreling their way already. 

She hopes she reaches them first. It's a terrible thing. To hear a stranger speak your loved ones names like they have a molecule to understand, to know.

The others, she's not quite sure. The man, who's arm has now reduced to being lilac rather than bright magenta, appears to be virtually fine. At least, for his standards. According to his previous charts and history, a sickness clings to him. He looks familiar, like she's seen his face on the kids magazines when cleaning up around the house. Takashi Shirogane, the name is a little foggy.

Then the boy, unruly. Nancy can tell just by looking at him, it radiates off his body even unconsciously. He has hair from the mid 2000s, and Nancy wants to trim it. The boy's forearms are wrapped tightly, due to an arm sprain. Likely from trying to brace himself from the fall. Keith Kogane, and she'd call his parents. If his listed primary caretaker wasn't in the same exact condition.

She sighs with heavy pockets, pulling her phone out. Well, time to be the bearer of bad news.

 …𓄒

Twelve hours later. 

Nothing had changed.

Hunk's parents are out of town, and his younger brothers were sent to summer camp. They frantically informed her that they're booking return flights.

It makes sense, Lance & Pidge always ran to his house nowadays. No parents, unsupervised. 

Yeah, checks out.

Matt came by, much earlier. And Nancy saw herself in him when he crumbled over his sibling, whispering that she'd better wake up. It wasn't long before his phone buzzed, and he hurried out the door with a pained expression. Popped his head back in, hurriedly spitting out a thanks. With that, he was out.

So it's just Nancy. Who's checked Lance's vitals for the hundredth time in the past hour. No one can figure out what happened- just what is. The numbers are blurred together. Fatigue slowly creeps into her bones, making a home in her marrow. But she stayed. She had to.

It came in quietly. Like a breeze rustling leaves. 

A soft hum threaded into the room, softly pulling. She thought she imagined it's tugging. But then the monitors flickered, five steady heart beatings drumming. 

It’s purring and threads through the room, soft and insistent. The monitors flicker. Then it grows louder, resonating like a tuning fork in her chest. Nancy blinks, her hand frozen on Lance’s wrist.

The lights shudder—once, twice—and from the depths of silence, five bodies claw their way back into the world.

Violently.

Keith sat up, a lightning rod, eyes wild and breaths coming in desperate sips– like he wanted more air his lungs couldn't take. 

Her son let out a strangled noise, the kind when drowning victims hack out water from flooded airways. Wet and bewildered. Pidge has flung herself to the side, legs brought up tight to their chest with a shiver the north would envy.

The bedrails screamed under Hunk’s grip, metal groaning as his fists crushed it in desperation, his knuckles white as death, his face paler still.

And Takashi—

His arm ignited the room in a spectral violet, the glow splitting shadows apart. His body arched in a grotesque curve, spine bent, chest wracked with brutal convulsions. The surge of power hit him like a defibrillator, and for a moment, Nancy swore she could hear the snap of electricity tearing through him.

Nancy stumbles back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. “¡Coño!”

All five sets of eyes snap to her at once.

There’s something wrong with how they move—too sharp, too synchronized, like a single entity inhabiting five bodies. For a moment, they stare, and Nancy feels like prey. Waiting to be pounced on and torn apart. 

Whoever, or whatever was wearing Lance's face slipped and familiarity sunk into his features. He squinted then croaked, 

“Mom?”

Nancy started forward, relief surging through her. “Lance, oh my God, you’re awake. You’re—”

“Step back,” a cold voice snapped.

Nancy turned sharply as two figures strode in, their presence cold and unyielding. They wore black uniforms, pristine and adorned with gaudy insignias that gleamed under the flickering lights.

Okay. 

   What the hell is going on?

“What the hell is going on?” She echoed, exasperated. 

“I’m Commander Iverson,” the man said, flashing a badge she didn’t bother to read. “This is Agent Sanda. We’re with the Garrison.”

Nancy narrowed her eyes. “The Garrison?” Skepticism laced her words, even if the proof was right in front of her. If there was a unicorn shitting rainbows in the corner, she'd need a DNA sample proving it. 

“The ILID.” Sanda asserts. Like that explains everything. It doesn't and truly it's starting to raise Nancy's blood temperature. 

Sanda stepped forward, her sharp gaze cutting through the room. “These individuals are now classified as assets. Effective immediately, they’re under Garrison custody.”

Nancy’s stomach flipped. “What are you talking about? They just woke up—you can’t take them, they need medical attention!” 

And something about this felt too calculated. Had they been standing outside the door, waiting? Vultures.

Sanda’s expression didn’t waver. “This is no longer a medical matter.”

Nancy stepped in front of Lance’s bed, her voice rising. “Like hell it isn’t! That’s my son—you’re not taking him anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Iverson barely glanced at her. “You’ll be briefed later. For now—”

Keith stood abruptly and Nancy looked over her shoulder to find eyes so intense that if her blood wasn't boiling before, it is now.

His eyes glowed faintly, a deep amber radiating from his irises, unnatural and electric. And his teeth—canines sharp and just a little too large, clicking against his lips as he snarled, low and guttural.

“You are not…taking us anywhere.”

The lights above them flickered violently, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath her feet. Nancy’s pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the hum of the room, louder than the storm in her chest.

Oh, you've really shat the bed, Lance McClain. Nancy shoots a glare at her son, one that declares ‘When we go home, you are grounded for however long I stay mad at you.’

When we go home. 

When.

Chapter Text

Keith’s body burned with the memory of the light. It was still there, lingering beneath his skin, thrumming in his blood like a second heartbeat. Every nerve felt too tight, might snap at any moment.

The room around him was chaos: Lance shouting questions, his..mom? holding her ground, Shiro's examining his glowing arm with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces refused to fit– fair. Hunk is starkly quiet and Pidge's hands are balled to their temples. Keith couldn’t focus on any of it for too long.

His eyes stayed locked on Iverson.

The man stood tall, broad-shouldered, his voice a cold rasp that scraped against Keith’s frayed nerves. He wasn’t even really looking at Keith—just glancing at him, the way someone might glance at a problem they’d already solved, something beneath their notice.

It was a look Keith knew too well. One that always set his blood alight.

Keith’s hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

“You’re not taking us anywhere,” he said again, his voice lower now, but no less dangerous.

Iverson’s lip twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Is that so?”

Keith stepped forward, closing the gap between them. The lights cast the room in strange, uneven shadows. Behind him, he heard Lance’s voice—droned, sarcastic.

“Ohhhh great,” Lance muttered. “Here we go.” 

He's ignored, immediately.

The man didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He just tilted his head slightly, as if observing something faintly amusing.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who doesn’t understand what’s happening to them,” Iverson said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Tell me—do you even remember what you were doing before the explosion?”

Keith froze.

For the first time since he woke up, his anger faltered, just slightly. The edges of his memory were blurry, like trying to grab smoke. The explosion, the beach—it all came back in flashes. Disjointed, too bright, too loud.

But before that?

Before the crater?

𓄒.

The roar of the motorcycle engine was the only thing louder than his thoughts.

It screamed beneath him as he sped down the empty highway, weaving through the shadows of desert rocks and the occasional cactus. The cool night air rushed past his face, whipping his hair into his eyes. 

Adrenaline hummed in his veins, numbing the frustration that gnawed at him like a dull ache.

Shiro’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and frustrated from earlier that day. “You can't keep doing this, Keith."

He tightened his grip on the handlebars, jaw clenched. Shiro didn’t understand. How could he?

It was always the same. Keith would come home late, dirt smudging his face, the scent of engine oil clinging to him. A wad of cash stuffed into his jacket pocket—the only proof of his night’s recklessness. And there Shiro would be, waiting. Always waiting. Arms crossed, disappointment carved into his features like weathered stone.

When did that replace the proud smile? When had pride turned into that unbearable look of disapproval?

Keith wants to scratch the image away with his bare nails until they crack.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” Shiro had said, his voice low and steady in that sickening patient way. 

Keith had scoffed, clipped. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” Shiro snapped, “Because I’m trying, Keith, but you’re not making it easy.”

Keith had bristled at that, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t get to lecture me about risk,” he’d shot back. “You’re the one who’s always going on missions, putting yourself in danger—”

“That’s different,” Shiro had cut in, voice a knife. “What I do is calculated. What you’re doing—this racing, these fights—it’s reckless.”

Keith’s hands had curled into fists, his throat tightening with something he couldn’t put into words. “It’s helping, isn’t it?” he’d muttered. “The money—”

“We don’t need your money, Keith.”

Keith had looked away then, his jaw set, his chest burning. Shiro’s words rang hollow. Keith knew better. He saw the bills, the stress, the way Shiro winced when he thought no one was looking. It's a different type of despair, when insurance can't cover the wounds left in the bank.

He’d left after that, making sure to slam the door behind him just to hear the pictures raddle. 

And maybe to imagine the look of defeat on his brother's face. 

The road stretched endlessly ahead of him, the distant city lights a faint glow on the horizon. Keith kept riding, faster, harder, until the engine roared loud enough to drown out Shiro’s voice in his head.

That’s when he saw it.

At first, it was just a flicker in the sky—a streak of light cutting through the stars. Keith thought it was a shooting star, or maybe a plane.

But then it got brighter. Closer.

The light grew until it filled his vision, brilliant and overwhelming. His bike skidded to a stop as the object streaked overhead, a soundless explosion of color lighting up the desert like daylight.

Keith stared, frozen, as it crashed somewhere in the distance, the impact shaking the ground beneath his feet.

His chest tightened, his instincts screaming. What were they screaming? Run? Hide? Go home? No, go towards. Towards, towards-- he turned his bike to the horizon.

.𓄒

Keith blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. The sterile white of the hospital burned his eyes, a sharp contrast to the desert night still fresh in his mind.

Iverson was watching him, one eyebrow raised. He must have noticed Keith’s hesitation.

“Interesting,” Iverson said, smooth and condescending. “Looks like you’re still trying to piece it together.”

Keith gritted his teeth, his fists tightening at his sides. “I remember enough.”

Iverson smiled faintly. “Do you?”

Keith took another step forward, his blood burning hotter with every passing second. He didn’t know what was happening to him—why his body felt like it was on fire, why his vision kept swimming with flashes of color—but he didn’t care.

“What I remember,” Keith said, voice at the bottom of his throat, “is a giant crater. A glowing rock. And a bunch of idiots in suits like you trying to take control of something you don’t understand.”

The room went still. Even the purr of the machines seemed quieter.

Iverson tilted his head slightly, his smile fading.

“Well,” he said finally. “That’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

The hum pressed against the hospital walls, a restless tide battering a fragile dam. It thrummed, a beast pacing in its cage, eager to shatter its confinement and spill into the open air.

Shiro struggled to anchor himself in the present, his breath trembling. His chest tightened, the pressure mounting with every heartbeat. His arm—it pulsed faintly with light, alien energy syncing to the rhythm of his life’s blood. The glow wasn’t just a reminder; it was a question. A demand.

He’d awoken in chaos, torn from oblivion into shards of sound and light. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, longed to slip back into the void where the hum couldn’t reach.

He stared at his arm—this ghost of a limb that shouldn’t exist. Once, his left arm had ended cleanly, smooth scars mapping the story of its loss. Now, it was something else entirely. The sleek mechanical plating shimmered faintly with magenta light, casting strange shadows across his face. It was his, and yet not. A phantom fused to his flesh.

The Garrison agents in the room weren’t helping.

Commander Iverson and Agent Sanda stood like statues, their faces unreadable, their black uniforms polished to an unsettling sheen. He recognized them both immediately.

ILID. The Garrison’s Intergalactic Liaison and Investigation Division.

Shiro had crossed paths with the ILID before, though always at arm’s length. Their job was to investigate anomalies—strange occurrences on Earth and beyond. They were efficient, secretive, and utterly uncompromising. Shiro had never trusted them. 

 He finds himself faintly surprised, pleasantly, even, that Keith hadn’t lunged the moment the word “problem” rolled from Iverson’s lips.

Mrs. McClain did. 

”You’re not taking them!” She’s stepping forwards, each word punctuated by the staccato click of her sneakers. Her frame was small but unshakable, and her tone laced with feverish defiance. “They’re not your property, and you have no right!” 

Iverson blinks slowly, momentarily closing as if she was a growing headache and he’s trying to will her away, “This is not your concern.”

Mrs.McClain flew to her chest, slamming against it with an energy so frantic, it’s a wonder if it hurt, “Not my concern? That’s my son, you heartless—“

”Enough.” Iverson’s tone was colder now, sharper, but she held steadfast.

Beside him, Sanda’s gaze was scalpel sharp. “They’re stable. That’s all that concerns us. Effective immediately, they’re classified as assets.”

The word sent a cold jolt up Shiro’s spine.

Assets. Not people. Hell, he would've even taken soldiers.

Keith bristled like a wolf scenting blood, his muscles coiled and trembling under the weight of barely restrained fury. Shiro saw the flicker of his march forward, the clench of his fist, the lock of his jaw.

There it is. 

Before Keith could strike, Shiro stepped forward, voice firm. “Keith. Stand down.”

Keith’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious? They’re trying to take us!”

“Not trying,” Sanda interjected coolly. “We are taking you.”

“Shut up,” Keith snarled, his glare whipping back to front.

Shiro stepped between them, his body a barrier, his presence a plea. His not-arm– he was not used to this– gently on Keith’s shoulder, the glow of it catching the edge of Keith’s anger. Dawn slipping into a stormcloud.

“Keith,” Shiro murmured, his voice low and steady, “look at me.”

Keith’s eyes snapped to his, the fire simmering just beneath the surface. Anger warred with something quieter, something raw and tender. Fear.

“I know,” Shiro said, keeping his voice steady. “But this isn’t the time to fight. We don’t know what’s happening and we can’t figure it out if we’re at war with them.”

Keith hesitated, his fists loosening slightly. Good, Shiro was slightly concerned his nails would draw blood if the pressure didn’t let up.

Shiro pressed on. “Trust me. Please.”

For a moment, the world balanced on the edge of a blade. Then Keith’s face softened, his fire dimming.

Shiro let out a breath, tension bleeding from his frame. His heart, it seemed, was determined to test its endurance today.

Lance broke the silence with a low whistle. “Wow, look at you. Mullet-whisperer.”

Keith’s glare shot his way, but it lacked its usual venom and fangs. 

Shiro turned to Iverson and Sanda, his expression hardening. “If we’re going with you, I want assurances. No harm comes to them. No experiments, no invasive tests. Nothing without my approval.”

Iverson clicked his tongue. “You’re not in a position to make demands, Commander.”

“I’m making them anyway,” Shiro grunted.

The two agents exchanged a look– one he adamantly did not like– before Sanda spoke. “We’ll follow protocol. But they’re coming with us. Now.”

Shiro turned to the group, his gaze sweeping over each of them. Hunk was pale, his hands still trembling slightly, but he nodded. Pidge looked tense, their arms crossed tightly over their chest, they didn’t protest. Lance gave a half-hearted shrug, though his nervous glance toward Mrs. McClain betrayed him.

“Fine,” Keith gritted out.

.𓄒

He never thought about it before, most people don't until it happens but Shiro hated the sound of handcuffs.

The metallic click echoed sharply, louder than it had any right to be. He flinched as they latched around his wrists, tying themselves to his front. Cold and unyielding. His mechanical arm resisted briefly, the energy humming faintly beneath the surface, but Shiro forced himself to relax.

Across the room, Keith growled under his breath, his shoulders taut with barely contained anger.

“This is ridiculous,” He hissed as the agent behind him locked his cuffs into place.

“No,” Lance shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is totally normal. We wake up in a hospital, the Garrison shows up, Shiro suddenly has a glowing purple arm and now we’re being arrested. Happens all the time.”

It looked like Keith's neck should've snapped with how hard he yanked to the side to look—to scowl at lance. How that boy managed to push every single one of his brothers buttons was unknown. It should be an artform, at this point.

Shiro closes his eyes– praying, pleading, groveling to the Lord for strength–“Enough. Both of you.”

The two mumble, making a point to look anywhere else but each other.

Pidge clung to Hunk’s arm like a lifeline, their face pale, their glasses missing from their nose. It looked odd, their face being so bare. Hunk hadn’t said a word, not before and not now as the cuffs were placed on him. His breathing was shallow, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

Shiro’s teeth ached.

“Let’s just get through this,” he said quietly, his voice still, though his stomach churned.

Mrs. McClain’s voice rang, sharp and furious,“My son is not some kind of criminal!”

Sanda didn’t even blink. She turned on her heel, her boots clicking against the linoleum. “This is not up for debate, Mrs. McClain.”

Mrs. McClain stepped forward, her fists clenched. “He’s not going anywhere with you unless someone tells me what the hell is going on!”

Shiro caught the flicker of annoyance in Iverson’s eyes as the man raised a hand, signaling for silence.

“We’re wasting time,” Iverson said curtly. He turned to the group, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “Move.”

Lance hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground. His bravado was gone now, his usual smirk replaced by something raw. Shiro definitely wants his smile to be back on his face. 

Mrs. McClain reached for him, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly.

“Lance,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Mijo, you listen to me. You keep your head up, you hear me? And don't let them push you around.”

Her son flashes a smile, a millisecond of reassurance. It doesn't even reach his eyes, “Don’t worry, Mom. I'll be back home soon and then you can ground me for months.”

Nancy’s lips quivered, a hushed laugh and before Lance could stop her, she pulled him into a fierce hug.

“Te amo,” she whispered, and Shiro feels like he shouldn't be looking at a moment meant to hold space for two.

Lance swallowed hard. “I love you too.”

When they separate, she cups his face with graceful fingers and Lance hovers, before he turns slowly.

Mrs McClain is looking at Shiro now, eyes wavering and dark. ‘You bring him back to me. I'm putting my whole world in your hands. You bring him back.’

Shiro tries to hide the knot in his throat, before curtly nodding.

‘I will.’

..𓄒

The van was sleek and black, its exterior unassuming, but the interior was something else entirely.

The back had no windows, just smooth walls of reinforced metal that felt more like a cage than a vehicle. Benches lined either side, and the group was ushered in one by one, their cuffs clinking as they settled awkwardly into place.

Shiro was the last to climb in. He ducked his head slightly as he stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the others.

Keith sat with his arms crossed, his cuffs digging into his wrists. His glare could have melted steel, and he kept his eyes locked on the door as if daring someone to come back in. Shiro hopes for everyone's sake, they don't.

Lance slouched on the opposite bench, his legs stretched out, though his usual nonchalance was absent. His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, his gaze darting to the sealed door every few seconds.

Pidge hadn’t let go of Hunk since the hospital. They clung to his side like a koala, their face buried in his arm. Hunk sat stiffly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Shiro settled between Lance and Keith, his shoulders brushing against both. The van doors slammed shut with a finality that made Shiro’s chest tighten.

The purr of the engine filled the silence, low and unsteady, as the van began to move.

It was Hunk who spoke first.

“Okay,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “This is...fine. This is totally fine. We’re just in a creepy black van with no windows, being taken who-knows-where by the Garrison. Nothing weird about that.”

“Hunk,” Pidge mumbled against his arm, their voice muffled. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Hunk snapped, his leg bouncing nervously. “I’m just—okay, fine, I’m spiraling. Is anyone else spiraling? Because I feel like this is a spiral-worthy situation.”

“Hunk,” Shiro said gently, “Breathe.”

Hunk let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Breathing. Great idea. Breathing is good. Breathing is—oh God, where are they taking us? Do our families even know?”

“Relaxxxx,” Lance drawled, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “It’s probably just...I don’t know. A debriefing or something.”

Keith snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what this feels like. A little friendly chat.”

“One. You wouldn't know what friendly is besides the textbook definition. Two. Would you rather they left us back there?” Lance snipped, leaning forwards– like he wants to make sure Keith sees the annoyance etched into his features.

Keith does, and he shows gums.

“Maybe,” Keith said coldly. “At least we’d have answers.”

“Stop.” Shiro interjected, hands gripping his knees.

The tension in the van was thick enough to choke on, but Shiro wasn’t about to let it boil over.

“We’re going to figure this out,” he said, “But we can’t do that if we’re at each other’s throats.”

A gruff sound comes from Pidge, lifting their head up that was once tucked into Hunk's forearm. Her gaze falls onto Keith and Lance, then to him, “Asking for the impossible here.”

Shiro chooses to not address that.”Right now, the best thing we can do is keep calm and stick together.”

Keith muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t argue further. Lance took the cue, thumping his head against the wall and draping an arm over his eyes.

Shiro leaned back as well, his mechanical arm resting heavily in his lap. The faint glow of ..whatever this energy was a reminder of how little control he had over this situation.

He glanced at Keith out of the corner of his eye.

He’d chased after the boy that night—after the argument, after the explosion. He hadn’t reached him in time. Failed all of them, really.

The weight of that could drag him down to Earth's core.

…𓄒

The buzz of the engine shifted, the van beginning to slow. Shiro straightened, his body tensing as the vehicle came to a stop.

The doors opened, blinding sunlight flooding the interior.

“Out,” Iverson barked.

Shiro stood first, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared.

Whatever was waiting for them, he's making sure he's the first to be there. Not them, not again. 

Chapter Text

𓄒.

It came in the night.

All bad things do. They creep under the cover of darkness, silent and inevitable. Abuela used to say that the night had its own hunger—something primal that even candles and prayers couldn’t stave off. She would laugh at the glow of nightlights and call them false hope. Mijoooo, she’d tease, you think the monsters care about a little light?

He remembers the sting of embarrassment when her laughter chased him, remembers begging his mom to leave the hallway light on anyway. She always did. “Mamá, déjalo en paz,” she would say, her voice brushing off the weight of another dollar added to the electric bill. “He's only fourteen! Let him be a kid.”

The night.

Lance woke to footsteps, too heavy, too loud. In their crowded house, where space was stretched and footsteps were a familiar music, he had memorized the rhythm of everyone’s tread. These were his mother’s feet, but wrong—her usual rolling heel replaced by frantic thuds. Each step an urgent scream.

He kicked his blankets off, scooting to the edge of the bed. He heard voices next, broken. Ma and Pa were both awake and by the sounds of it, so were Veronica and Marco.

His eyes peer into the corner of his room, Rachel's lying eerily still as if she knew that the world was spinning slightly slower. Lance doesn't say anything to her—when he finds himself standing over her bed momentarily and contemplating shaking off her lie of sleeping.

But the voices are growing louder. His body moved before his mind could follow.

Through the pillars of the railing, he sees. All of them. Veronica’s voice rose like a cracked bell, repeating “¿Qué pasa?" Marco clung to her, eyes wide and pleading.

His father stood like a statue, frozen in the liminal space between the kitchen table and the sofa. A man who never stopped moving, paralyzed.

And then his mother. Oh, his ma.

She was slipping on her outside shoes, one hand yanking a coat over her shoulders while the other fumbled with car keys. Her face—God, her face. Lance didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the way her eyes bulged with dread so sharp it might cut her to ribbons, "¿Te vas a quedar ahí parado?" She howled, "Dios mío—Help me!"

His father twitched back to life, chasing her out the door without his shoes. Marco and Veronica scrambled after them, their small bodies folding into the backseat like shadows.

They didn’t come back until dawn bled into the sky, pale and lifeless.

Lance woke to a kiss on his forehead.

It was Pa. He lay beside him, stroking his hair with a tenderness that felt alien on his calloused hands. Lance didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wet tracks cooling on his cheeks. He shut his eyes tighter, pretended to sleep.

Pa let him.

At the funeral, Lance sat still, his face dry while the world around him drowned. His eldest brother’s casket lay open, but Luis wasn’t there. Not really. 

Luis would never sleep like that. Perfect and composed, hands folded neatly over his chest. Luis slept like a hurricane, limbs sprawled in impossible angles, drool painting the pillow. 

This is a stranger wearing his brother’s skin.

When they lowered him into the earth, Lance stayed silent. He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. The drive home was quiet, and the house quieter still.

Later in the endless day, he opened the fridge and saw it.

It's an open carton of chive cream cheese.

The foil is peeled back because Luis always forgot to put the lid back and the white is stained red from crumbs of hot Cheetos turned soggy.

Ah, yeah.

He's not coming back to finish the rest of it.

The feeling wreaks through his entire body, as if the air got sucked out of him and he doesn't realize he's wailing until arms are wrapped around him. Can't hear the whispers Veronica kisses into his hair. All he can hear is himself and the hum of the fridge.

That night Lance slept with the lights off.

.𓄒

He doesn't know why he's thinking about that now. Maybe it's the dampness of the air, similar to that morning. 

The seven agents marched them in a rigid line, their footsteps echoing like a dirge. Lance’s wrists ache beneath the cuffs, their bite tightening every time his pulse spiked.

The walls loomed ahead, smooth and sterile. A mausoleum for the living. Lance’s chest tightened as they moved deeper into the belly of the building.

Or maybe, it's being lined up in a singular file. Like the way you carry your loved one down in a coffin. It's eerily similar. This facility feels like it's a grave—that he's walking himself right into the hole into the ground, lying nice and neat so these agents can dump dirt on his still warm cheeks.

"This way," one of the agents grunted.

Lance swallowed, his gaze glued to the back of Hunk’s head. He wanted to say something. Anything. A joke, maybe. He was good at that, wasn’t he? Good at filling the silence. But now the words curdled in his throat, sticky and sour.

So, he watches. 

The hallway ahead was endless and sterile, lit by cold fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly. The group walked in tense silence, the air between them heavy. Lance wants to fill it, so badly. Like he always does, talk, talk, and talk until silence dreads his voice. 

The hallway split ahead, and Lance’s stomach twisted when the agents began separating them, herding them like cattle. 

“Wait, what?” Pidge yelped, sharp and incredulous. They stumbled slightly as an agent tried to guide them toward a door. She dug her heels into the floor, eyes wide. “You’re splitting us up? No, no way. That’s not happening.”

“It’s standard procedure,” the agent replied coolly. A part of Lance knew this would've happened. He's watched too many movies where a ragtag group gets apprehended and shoved into different cells. Just so they couldn't get their stories straight. 

Maybe they should've, when they were crammed into the back of the van. But what story? Fuck, Lance couldn't even remember what he had for breakfast yesterday!

Keith bristled, the next words bursting out of his lips—almost like he didn't mean for it to come out, "You can’t.”

Keith. Always the lone wolf, always fine on his own. But now his eyes darted between them, frantic and unsteady.

       He was scared. 

Lance had almost forgotten Keith could feel that.

“Please don't,” Hunk’s voice trembled, but his expression was resolute as he stepped forward. His frame blocking Lance's view, “We’ve already been through enough together—Please? I…Please?” His eyes darted to Shiro, then to Lance, pleading for backup.

"Hunk, Pidge." Shiro says, his eyes close for a brief moment before hardening. A distant thought worms into Lance's head, when did he tell them their names?

Shiro rolls his square shoulders, "We’ll figure this out, but we have to cooperate."

They're still tense, biting. Lance licks his lips, once, twice then cracks a smile. It's one of his worst attempts at one but he's great at grinning. "Guys, it's fine. We just get through this whole weird CIA thing, and then be home before the next season of Startica airs!"

His friends—his best ones—search his face. And Lance knows it's weak. Yet, they buy it and he can't tell if it's for his sake or theirs. Either way, Lance is grateful for when their shoulders sag and their fight bleeds out of them. He likes to believe he's just that good at faking. 

Hunk's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his feet. And it's so unlike Pidge—to react purely based on her own emotions. Well, maybe that's a lie. There's one thing they don't take lying down and that's their family. Lance knows he's been a part of that now for years, but it still makes his heart warm.

They were led into another hallway, each step heavier than the last. The agents opened doors one by one, working to slide him into padded cells like pieces on a chessboard.

Lance was the first to be nudged, more like pushed, to his cell. He doesn't know why he does this to himself—when he looks over his shoulders and sees their faces twisted. 

Fuck. 

Before he could torture himself further, the agent shoves him forwards. The door sliding shut with a mechanical hiss and his fate, at this point.

The silence was deafening.

Lance stumbled to the center of the room, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The walls pressed in on him, too smooth, too sterile. He spun in place, searching for something—anything—that would tether him.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s—Fuck!" 

The cuffs around his wrists dug deeper with every frantic movement. They couldn't have at least uncuff them? What was next, a straitjacket?!

Looking at this... room, that may be a possibility. His friends—God, where were they? Were they behind the same lifeless doors, alone and suffocating like he was? His head throbbed, each pulse sending shockwaves of heat down his spine. The air felt thin, like he was breathing through a straw, and his thoughts unraveled into a chaotic mess.

He kicked the floor in frustration, the dull thud ricocheting up his leg. His head hit the wall with a muted bang, and for a moment, the cold seeped into his feverish skin, numbing him. He let his eyes fall shut.

He couldn't hear anything, no footsteps, no voices. Not even that persistent hum that's been following him since he woke up with his mother looking at him with..something he closely registered to fear. 

Lance pushes that away.

God, he's so hot. Why is he so hot? And his neck—his neck?

He has an urge to rub the back of it, because it's currently aching—throbbing.

This is miserable, standing in this nothingness. Nothing is horrible.

…bzz…cc…

Lance breathes, slow and deliberate, trying to steady the tremor in his chest. His heart thuds loudly in his ears, the sound almost drowning out the faint static crackling at the edges of his awareness.

…bzzzzz…an’t…breaa…

“What…” His voice is barely above a whisper. It kisses the shell of his ear, a sound too close and intimate to be harmless. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand rigid, and dread pools in his stomach like ice water. The noise isn’t just there; it’s inside, burrowing.

Despite himself and all the horror movies he's seen, he whispers, "...Hello?"

The reply is deafening.

Have you ever heard the chaos of an orchestra misfiring, every instrument blaring at once with no conductor? Bowstrings snapping, horns howling, keys smashed beneath frantic hands. It’s a sound with no rhythm, no harmony—just pure, unrelenting discord.

That’s what explodes inside Lance’s skull.

By instinct, his hands fly up to his ears, desperate to block out the noise, but it’s no use. The sound isn’t external. It vibrates in his very bones, clawing at his mind, loud and invasive. It feels like his teeth might rattle loose from his jaw.

Can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!

The voice isn’t his, yet it scrapes through his thoughts like nails on glass. Familiar, but wrong—distorted, warped beyond recognition.

One, two, three, four,

The numbers are rhythmic, relentless, hammering into his skull with the weight of a metronome gone mad.

Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupid—

It’s overwhelming, crushing, and Lance doesn’t know whether the voices are screaming or crying. Both.

Five, six, seven, eight,

Softer, trembling, but just as despondent. I want to go home, I want to go home…

Lance’s chest heaves, and panic surges like wildfire through his veins. “Shut up! Shut up!” he screams, his voice cracking under the strain. He stumbles and falls, knees hitting the floor hard, but he barely notices.

He curls on his side, pressing one ear to the floor while his hands clamp over the other. His breaths come in shallow, jagged gasps, his entire body trembling as though the sound is ripping him apart from the inside out.

The burning in his eyes forces tears to the surface, blurring his vision. He squeezes them shut tighter, as though that might shut out the chaos invading his mind. The voices—God, the voices—keep crashing against him, a tide of thoughts and emotions that aren’t his but feel so agonizingly close.

“Shut up,” he repeats, over and over, a broken mantra that falters with every repetition. Time distorts, stretching and collapsing in on itself. Seconds bleed into minutes, maybe hours—he doesn’t know anymore.

And then, just as suddenly as it began—

It stops.

The silence is immediate and absolute, so much so that it rings in his ears. Lance stays frozen, his chest heaving as he tries to pull in air, his lungs aching. His entire body feels like a taut wire that’s just been snapped, trembling with leftover tension.

Slowly, he lifts his head, his gaze darting around the room as if expecting the walls to move, the voices to come crawling out of the cracks. But nothing is there. Nothing except the sterile white of the padded walls.

He swallows thickly, the sound loud in the oppressive quiet. His throat is raw, his voice barely a whisper as he croaks, "¿Qué me está pasando?"

The room doesn’t answer.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, his muscles going limp as the adrenaline drains from his body. For a moment, he closes his eyes, welcoming the emptiness.

Because if this is nothing, (silence) then nothing is good.

Nothing is great.

Chapter Text

Tick, tick, tick. It was almost mocking in its rhythm, a taunt that time is going to continue marching on while she sat here. With hands clasped on the cold table in front of her. One she's come very friendly with since they've arrived. They had been in the room for what? Maybe an hour? Two? Before being whisked away here.

The cuffs around her wrists weren’t necessary—she wasn’t going to attack anyone—but they were there anyway, digging into her skin every time she twitched.

Across from her sat the man she’d decided to hate. His uniform was a symphony of rigidity, pressed so perfectly it seemed carved from stone. They imagined him spending hours hunched over it, a martyr to perfectionism, ironing out every rebellion in the fabric. The silver insignias on his chest caught the light occasionally, flashing like a blade, making them squint in irritation.

He tapped a pen against a file folder, his expression blank but his eyes sharp, dissecting her like a bug pinned to a board.

"Let’s start again," he said, his tone measured. "What happened?"

Pidge rolled their eyes so hard they swore they saw the back of their skull. "For the fiftieth time, I. Don’t. Know." They leaned back in the chair, crossing arms despite the way the cuffs pulled painfully at her wrists. "You’re wasting your time, and mine."

The interrogator’s lips pressed into a thin line, a crack in his porcelain mask. He flipped open the folder with a practiced nonchalance, shuffling through papers she couldn’t quite see—deliberately, she was sure. “Hundreds of people died that night,” he said, his voice low, each word a hammer against her ribs. “And yet, here you are. Four teenagers and one seasoned officer. Alive. Virtually unscathed.”

Pidge’s irritation flared into anger. Their arms dropped to the table as she leaned forward, glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Do you think we planned this? You think we know why we’re alive?" She slammed her cuffed hands against the table. "We’re not unscathed. Something’s wrong with us!"

The man didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Part of Pidge—buried deep beneath her—wanted him to. Needed him to. She wanted to see fear crack his impassive veneer, to force him to feel what she felt. He should be afraid. Pidge was.

Of the thing that pulsed inside her—drumming in her chest like war drums. Of the static that prickled at her fingertips, making her feel like her skin might splinter and reveal something monstrous beneath.

They could make him scared. Should...

The thought came unbidden, twisting her stomach into knots. She squeezed her eyes shut, banishing it. No. That’s—No.

The pen stopped tapping. It began twirling between the man’s fingers, an elegant distraction. “And that’s what we’re trying to figure out, Katie.”

Yuck. 

Pidge opened their mouth to retort, but he held up a hand, cutting them off. 

"You're not leaving this room until we get answers."

They barked a humorless laugh, eyes upturned out of spite, "I want a lawyer."

Her mind flickered to her friends. Times like this made her miss them fiercely. She would say this for them—because, well, no offense, but they could be... stupid . Not stupid, exactly, but careless. Hunk got rambly when he was nervous, spilling everything, and Lance would crack a joke as a shield, deflecting until he said something he shouldn’t. At least, with the bare minimum that she knew of them, Keith seemed to live in defiance; Shiro— The Shiro was an adult. Smart, wise, and brave.

But they didn’t think the way she did. They didn’t see the threads connecting everything, didn’t turn the puzzle pieces over in their heads a hundred times. Pidge did. And now she could only hope they were saying the same thing, wherever they were—demanding lawyers, refusing to speak.

The man tilted his head, a predator studying prey, and something tightened in Pidge’s throat. He hummed thoughtfully, rolling his next words in his mouth like he was savoring them. “That won’t be happening."

Pidge jolted, the motion so sharp their chair nearly toppled. “Excuse me? I know my rights.”

Just because she was sixteen and looked like a gust of wind might blow her away didn’t mean she was naïve. She wasn’t stupid. Far from it.

“You had rights,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual. “Out there.” He gestured vaguely, as if the world beyond this room were some hazy, unreachable dream. “In here, things are different.”

Pidge stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Her voice dropped, slow and measured, her disbelief wrapping around every syllable. “We’re still in Santa Monica, right?”

“Adjacent,” he said, a flicker of amusement in his tone.

“Still in the United States of America?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come my rights just went poof?” The word tasted childish on her tongue, maybe a little like Lance.

She didn't like this, these cosmic unwritten laws. Ones he pulled out of the ether. Pidge guided herself on proof, Tangible proof. Something she could put her hands on and test its validity ten times over. Whatever the hell this is, does she simply have to follow for the sake of following?

Yeah, no.

𓄒.

The sun filtered through the blinds that morning, spilling golden streaks onto Lance’s cluttered floor. The room was loud with the sound of life—blankets crumpling, muffled yawns, and the faint thud of Hunk rolling over in his sleeping bag. It was always like this when they were together, chaos wrapped in a blanket of comfort.

Pidge dangled upside down from the bed, her legs hooked over the edge of the railing while her hair brushed the floor. She scrolled through her phone, half-paying attention to the endless cycle of posts and updates.

“Kaaaaatie,” Lance’s voice broke the quiet with a syrupy whine.

Pidge tensed for half a second before letting out a slow breath. She could handle it when Matt called her Katie. When her parents said it, it was warm and familiar, like an old sweater she didn’t mind slipping into once in a while. But when Lance said it…

“What do you want?” she muttered without looking up.

Lance flopped onto his knees beside the bed, his hands clasped together in mock prayer. His hair was a mess, flopping to one side, and there was a dried streak of drool on his chin.

“Come with me,” he pleaded, his voice melodramatic.

“No.”

“Pleeeeease.”

“Still no.”

He leaned closer, his face now blocking her screen entirely. She could see every detail of his expression: the hopeful tilt of his brows, the faint redness in his cheeks, and the shadow of something deeper hidden behind his big, blue eyes. 

Jesus Christ, get him some brown eye contacts, please!

“Pidge,” he said, softening his tone. “Please. I don’t want to go by myself.”

Pidge lowered her phone with a sigh, squinting at him. “To where?”

Lance’s hands dropped to his lap, and he fidgeted, his fingers twisting together.

 “Church.”

“Nope. If I knew I'd be going, I would've just had Matt pick me up. Don't you have ten billion siblings?"

“Rachel's at another sleepover, Veronica and Marco are probably at work and—Just hear me out,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear.

“I don’t do church,” Pidge replied, crossing her arms and sitting upright. “I’m not the kneel-and-pray type, Lance. Do I look like the kneel-and-pray type?”

Lance winced, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe not, but… it’s not for that. It’s just… my parents suggested it, and I think it would, y’know…”

“What? Make me a better person?” Pidge’s tone was sharper than they intended, and Lance’s shoulders hunched.

“No!” he said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. “No, it’s not like that. They just… thought it would be good. For you.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

Lance swallowed hard, and Pidge’s sharp eyes caught the way his fingers tightened into fists. She tilted her head slightly, watching him closely.

“Why do you really want me to go?” she asked, her voice softer now.

Lance hesitated, his gaze darting to the floor. Like the answer would rise out from the carpets. “I just… I don’t want them to think… weird things. About you.”

Pidge frowned. “Weird things like what?”

“Like…” He trailed off, running a hand through his messy hair. “Like you’re not normal.”

A beat.

Chest tightening as a million thoughts fought for space in her mind. Not normal. The words echoed louder than they had any right to.

“Not normal,” she repeated flatly, as though the phrase were some foreign language she didn’t understand.

Lance’s face crumpled further. “That’s not what I think,” he said quickly. “I mean, you’re normal. You’re more than normal—you’re like a genius!”

“Lance,” Pidge said, cutting him off. Her voice was calm, but her gaze was sharp and unyielding. “They think I'm confused, right?"

Lance swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t answer, but his silence spoke louder than words ever could. When Pidge had first met his parents, they could see the flicker of 'huh?' on their face. 'Katie' gave it all away, but the way they held themselves, just…them...was enough. 

Pidge let out a slow breath, leaning back against the bedpost. “It’s fine,” she said finally, "Maybe I am. Maybe sometimes I like it when people think I'm confusing. It's complicated."

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. Being Katie was easy when she was younger, when the world didn’t ask questions she didn’t have answers for. But as the years passed, as they turned 14 “Katie” ecame a pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit. 

Lance’s voice pulled her back. “You shouldn’t have to pretend,” he said, his voice firm in a way that caught her off guard. “You’re Katie, or Pidge, or whoever you want to be. And you’re amazing. They should just get that.”

Pidge stared at him, her chest tightening again—not with anger this time, but with something softer, warmer. “You’re not so bad, y’know,” she muttered, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

Lance grinned, wide and unrestrained. “Does this mean you’ll go?”

Pidge groaned, throwing an arm over her face. “Fine. But only because Hunk would be sad if I made you sad."

The sentence, 'I'm going because you obviously need me to. I'm going because I know if I don't, you'll get the worst of it.’ goes unsaid.

"Understandable!" Lance laughed, shoving Pidge's knobby knees so they almost fell off the bed. 

The door creaked open then, and Hunk waddled in, a towel draped over his face. When did he leave? "Did they say yes?" He hums, a soft smile on his face. 

"They said yesssss!" Came singsong Lance, hands clasped together and swooning.

Of course they talked about this before, "Jesus Christ." Pidge snorted, sinking back into the mattress. 

Both of the boys giggled at that.

..𓄒

The memory flickered in her mind like a glitching screen, bits and pieces flashing vividly before fading into the sterile reality of the interrogation room.

“Yeah, no,” she said finally, her voice sharp and steady.

The interrogator arched an eyebrow.

Their words were venomous, each syllable laced with exhaustion and anger. "Do you want me to just start making stuff up? Because I can do that. Want me to tell you aliens abducted us and gave us superpowers?"

The man didn’t flinch, didn’t react in the slightest. Somehow, his lack of response was worse than anything he could’ve said.

"You know what? Forget aliens," Pidge continued, leaning forward now, their tone sharp and cutting. "Maybe it was Bigfoot. Or the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe we got sucked into some interdimensional—"

"Enough."

The single word grabbed a hold of her tight.

Pidge blinked, their rant faltering as the man straightened in his seat. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto theirs with a precision that made the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end.

"Hundreds of people died that night," he said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with accusation. "Families torn apart. Do you know what that looks like? For you —" His finger jabbed toward Pidge, sharp and unyielding. "—to walk out of there alive while so many others didn’t?"

Her throat closed, the air around her thickening like molasses. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Her mind spiraled back to the chaos of that night: the crackling fire, the screams that clawed at the night air, the endless cacophony of sirens. The pier—its skeletal remains barely holding together, splintered wood jutting into the sky like broken bones.

She bit down hard on the anger rising in her chest, hot and sour like bile.

"You think I wanted this?" Pidge spat, swallowing the growing lumps forming in their throat, "Trying to figure out why we’re alive and they’re not? Something’s wrong with us. And if you’re so smart, maybe you can figure out what!"

The interrogator tilted his head, his pen still in his hand but forgotten. The movement was too slow, as if he were savoring her unraveling.

“I don’t think you wanted it, Miss Holt,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk over steel. “But I do think you’re hiding something. That you know more than you’re letting on.”

Pidge’s breath hitched, her fists curling against the table. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

The man leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the table and swallowing hers whole. “And yet here you are, alive, with not a scratch on you. The youngest of your little group. And while everyone else has bodies to bury, we don’t even have a body count for the people directly in the blast radius. Convenient, don’t you think?”

Pidge clenched her jaw, the heat in their chest rising. “We were lucky . That’s it.”

The interrogator’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Lucky,” he repeated, his tone dripping with disbelief.

Her fingers twitched against the table, that buzzing hum beneath her skin returning. She hated that word—lucky. It didn’t feel lucky when she’d briefly woken up to chaos, to a pier in ruins and people screaming. It didn’t feel lucky when she’d looked at Lance’s face, pale and stricken, or when Hunk’s hands had been shaking so badly he couldn’t form a coherent sentence. 

Lucky was a lie .

Her voice cracked, the words spilling out faster, louder. “Something happened to us. Something we don’t understand. And instead of helping us figure it out, you’re sitting there, accusing us, treating us like we’re the ones who did something wrong!”

The man’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed, “You’re emotional,” he said simply, like it was a flaw. “Understandable, given your age.”

The buzzing surged, sharp and electric, as his words settled like stones in her stomach.

“Do you even hear yourself?” she hissed. “You’re talking about pulling us apart—dissecting us like lab rats—!"

“You’re an anomaly,” the interrogator interrupted, and Pidge can't read any emotion besides cold. “And anomalies need to be understood. If you won’t cooperate, we’ll take the answers from you. Piece by piece.”

Piece by piece?

Get out.

"Now, I don't want to do that, Katie. I want a clean conscience when I go to bed."

Get out.

"But I have a job to do. People to answer to. And if that means restraints, if that means blood and tissue samples. Well.."

GET OUT.

Her eyes widened, her heart pounding as the voices overlapped, tangled in a chaotic symphony of fear and panic. In picture perfect clarity, the small part of her knew that it wasn't just her mind. The voices buzzing in her head, bouncing in the walls so powerful that Pidge felt like she had to hold her head to keep it still. 

They were impossible to not listen to. To not lean into and let them take utter control of her limbs. 

The voices, they were close. They were hurting. And Pidge had to get to them.

The hum under her skin turned violent, electric energy racing through her veins like a wildfire. The lights overhead flickered, buzzing erratically, and her cuffs sparked against the table.

The interrogator frowned, his calm facade faltering for the first time. “What are you—”

The lights exploded. The entire room drenched in darkness, dripping with it. 

Glass shattered, raining down in sharp fragments as the room plunged into darkness. Sparks danced through the air, illuminating the chaos in brief, jagged flashes. 

For once, she did not think. She moved.

The cuffs on her wrists melted away, the searing heat barely registering as they clattered to the floor. She stumbled to her feet, breaths shallow and ragged as the buzzing inside her grew louder, stronger.

The interrogator shouted something, but his voice was drowned out by the screaming in her head.

Get out.

Her hand shot toward the door, and Pidge didn't know what she expected to happen. But all they could think was pain, was the surging desperation clinging to their skin and the folds of their mind. She placed her hand on the scanning print, it sparking violently to the reaction dancing on her skin. With a creaaakkk, and a mechanical click, Pidge bolted into the hallway.

Her legs felt unsteady, heart hammering against her ribs so hard it felt like they might break, but she didn’t stop. Her legs dart outwards, taking frantic leaps down the hallway. 

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, fear and determination warring for control.

She didn’t have a plan. 

She didn’t know how she’d get them out.

But as the alarms blared and the building trembled beneath her feet, one thing burned clear in her mind.

She wasn’t leaving without them.

Chapter Text

Crimson trickles, slow, thick, hot.

It drips down the length of his arm, a single pearl trembling on the curve of his elbow before falling, silent and unnoticed, into the drain beneath his feet. Joining the others, swirls down and down, leaving streaks. 

Hunk doesn’t move.

His eyes are focused on the tiles on the wall, as another needle presses into his skin. The rubber gloves bite into his flesh, the scent of antiseptic cloying in his nose. It should hurt. It does but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. 

The beeping machines, the hushed voices, the flicker of fluorescent lights reflecting off polished tile— he’s seen it all. Lived it. At least in the walls of a hospital, nurses and doctors cooed at him. Almost winced for him when they dabbed cotton on the dip between his biceps and forearm, and sunk metal into the blue of his veins. 

They’d repeat how brave he was to do this, to lay beside his baby brother and give up a part of himself to make the other whole again.

And Hunk at twelve always said, of course, of course I would. How could he not? When tiny hands, soft and frail, gripping his own with a strength that belied. Sefa with his big eyes that took half of his face, even more so, with the hollowness of his cheeks. “It’s okay,” Hunk had whispered, “It’s gonna be okay, Sef. I’m here.”

He was always there, always willing.

The snap of latex pulls him back to the present. The scientist, because this is no doctor, withdraws. Inspecting the vials of blood like he’s nothing more than a resource to be drained, tested, cataloged. Hunk’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t fight it. Even when his heart feels like it’s trying its hardest to crawl out of his throat.

He’s already given up.

Not because he wants to. But because his friends are still out there, and if rolling up his sleeve keeps them safe, staves off their time to be strapped to a cold table, keeps bandages from being wrapped too tight—

Then what’s one more needle?

He doesn’t remember when he was shoved back into the cell room, as far as he’s concerned, he’s been in this prison for eternity.

The walls press in. The room isn’t small—not really—but it feels like it is. Like it’s shrinking around him, like the walls are breathing, like they’re exhaling closer with every heartbeat. Hunk tests the theory of holding his breath, maybe that’ll make it stop. News flash, it doesn’t. His heartbeat is fast, too fast. Thundering like a drum against his ribs, loud enough that he’s positive the guards outside can hear it too. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls in tighter, knees pressing to his chest, arms wrapped around himself. His skin is raw, bandaged from the countless needles that have turned him into a pin cushion. This is familiar, and familiar should be good, it should hug him like a warm blanket. Yet, he’s still cold.

Because, there’s no Sefa waiting for him.

Sefa, with his small hands and brave smile. Brave, that’s what Sefa is, that isn’t Hunk. He had been so small at five, squeezed Hunk’s fingers so tight. “Squeeze as hard as you want, okay? It’s not scary if we do it together.”

But Sefa isn’t here. He’s twelve, sick again, and Hunk isn’t there to tell him it’s going to be okay.

His breath stutters, catches. He buries his face against his knees, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at his throat. He tries to focus on something else— anything else— but all he can feel is the memory of something terrible.

Because before anything, he felt it. 

A pulse. A zap of static through his chest, like someone dragging their feet on a carpet and touching his skin, but deeper. Maybe like hands found their way inside of his chest and dusted their fingers against the valves of his heart. 

It had only lasted a second. A blip, a breath. But it was real.

The alarms scream now, loud and shrill, but Hunk barely hears them over the white noise in his brain. His fingers grip his sleeves, knuckles white. He rocks slightly, biting his lip to keep from spiraling further, but it isn’t working. It never worked, because he is alone and Sefa is sick and something is happening to him that he doesn’t understand and—

The air shifts.

It’s subtle at first. A whisper, crawling along his skin like static before a storm. The hairs on his arms rise. His stomach flips. 

Then, the door unlocks with a sharp click.

Hunk barely has time to lift his head before the door bursts open, and a shape moves inside— small, fast, wrapped in the flickering glow of emergency lights. 

Pidge?

Hunk feels them before he truly sees them.

The same buzzing, the same pulse he’d felt in his chest—it’s coming from them. It radiates off their skin, crackling in the air, turning their curls wild and sending tiny sparks skittering along their fingertips. Their glasses are missing, their eyes sharp and frantic.

They’re panting. Trembling. But they’re here.

“Hunk,” Pidge gasps, stepping forward, eyes scanning him like they’re checking for injuries. “Are you—”

“Pidge!” His voice cracks, and suddenly he’s moving, scrambling up from the floor so fast he nearly trips over himself. His arms wrap around them in an instant, squeezing so tightly that if they weren’t already breathless from running, they definitely are now.

“Oh my God, oh my God, you’re here!” Hunk babbles into their hair, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like they might disappear. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, right? What happened? How did you do that?!”

They groan, arms pinned uselessly at their sides. “Hunk—“

“Yes! Yes, Pidge?”

“Hunk, love your hugs,” they wheezed, “But we need to move. Like. Now.”

The words barely leave their mouth before the distant pounding of boots echoes down the hall.

"HEY!" A voice booms. "STOP RIGHT THERE!"

"Okay, yeah, we’re leaving," Pidge grits out, shoving Hunk toward the door.

"Yep, moving, definitely moving!" Hunk squeaks, releasing them just in time to dodge the guards barreling toward them.

They bolt in the exact opposite direction, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as they sprint. The alarms wail, the flashing lights casting their shadows in jagged streaks along the corridor.

"This way!" Pidge yells, grabbing Hunk’s wrist and yanking him down a side hallway.

"Are you sure?" Hunk huffs, barely keeping up.

"Not even a little bit!"

"Fantastic!"

Footsteps thunder behind them, shouts filling the air. Hunk’s heart is going to beat out of his chest, his lungs burn, but somehow, they’re still running. The corridor twists, turns, splits—

And then it really splits.

"Shit!" Pidge spits, skidding to a stop where the hallway forks in two directions.

Hunk stumbles to a halt beside them, panting. "Uh."

They both glance down either hallway. No time to think. No time to plan.

Pidge grips his arm, eyes sharp. "We have to split up."

Hunk stiffens. "What?! No! That’s literally the worst idea—"

"They’ll catch us both if we don’t!" Pidge cuts in, urgency bleeding into their voice. "We meet back at the exit, okay? Just go!"

Hunk swallows hard, panic clawing up his throat. Meet up at the exit? How?? His legs feel locked in place, but—he trusts Pidge. He has to. 

He hesitates for only a second before blurting, "How did you even find me?"

Pidge blinks, their mouth opening—then closing. They shake their head. “I don’t know! I just—felt you?"

"...What."

Something hot and loud whistles past. It crackles when it hits the wall behind them, a wired net unfurling with a blue energy. Hunk scrambles back as more are fired from a distance, the small army of guards hurtling towards them.

"JUST THINK REALLY HARD ABOUT THE PERSON!"

Pidge’s voice rings out, barely cutting through the wail of sirens, the pounding of footsteps. Then they’re gone—bolting down the furthest left hallway, swallowed by the buzzing lights.

Hunk watches them go, frozen in cold terror.

“PIDGE!” he howls. But the answer of silence he gets isn’t reassuring

A net slams into the ground by his feet, so close the heat licks at his ankles, makes his stomach lurch. Move, Hunk. Move now.

He picks a hall to die in and sprints.

Everything looks the same. Too much the same. Sterile walls, cold tile, the hum of unseen machines. No signs, no labels, no markings. Just endless, looping corridors designed to make people forget where they’ve been. A carefully crafted maze with no exit.

If that was the plan, it’s working.

Hunk sprints down one hallway, then another. And another. Each turn blurs into the next until his brain fogs with exhaustion. His thighs burn, his ribs feel caged, his chest is heaving with every desperate breath.

“This is—this is ridiculous,” he wheezes, slowing to a jog. Which is so much worse. The second he eases up, the full force of his exhaustion slams into him. His legs feel like bricks, every step a new kind of ache.

Hunk wasn’t built for this.

He was meant to be in a kitchen, standing over a stove, flipping something golden and crispy, maybe (definitely) sneaking a taste before plating it. Not sprinting for his actual life through the cold, metallic corridors of some twisted human experiment facility, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape before the rest of him could.

But here he is.

And he’s lost.

”Okay, okay—“ Hunk gasps between ragged breaths, pressing a shaky hand to his chest, like that’ll do anything to calm the stampede inside. “Feel them. That’s what Pidge said. Feel them.”

Yeah. Cool. Super helpful. He has no idea what that means.

But it’s all he has.

So he tries.

He squeezes his eyes shut, reaches outward— not with his hands but with something stretching far past the edges of himself.

And feels.

And feels…

And feels—

Nothing. 

"Cryptic. Real cryptic, Pidge." He groans, pressing his back against the wall, the chill of it seeping into his sweat-damp shirt. His pulse is an erratic drum solo, rattling through his bones, and shaking his skull. He focuses on the sound of blood rushing through his limbs. On the reassurance of his own existence and a rhythm of his own. As he strains his ears to listen, there’s a whisper under the track.

Underneath his pulse. 

A flicker of something else, a heartbeat. Thudding behind his, not in sync—off tempo. A different rhythm that rocks. If his heart is the staccato press of saxophone keys, this one is something else entirely—guitar strings shredded raw, no pick, just calloused fingers pressing too hard, dragging, tearing, until they bleed.

He latches onto it.

Feel, feel, feel—

A wave of heat surges up his spine.

"Hot—” Hunk recoils, pushing off the wall, but the heat follows him. Creeping into his bones, pressing against his skin, flooding his mind. It’s there. A presence, something alive, something burning. The guards’ shouts echo down the halls. The footsteps grow louder. But Hunk isn’t listening.

He’s hearing.

He’s hearing him.

Hunk’s eyes fly open. His gaze snaps left, toward the heat.

It shimmers in the air like oven waves, pulsing with every frantic beat of his heart. He swallows hard, pulls in one last shaking breath— And runs.

Doubt creeps in even as the heat rises. Higher. Hotter. Like someone’s cranked the dial up, past the boiling point, past what should be possible. But it’s real. He knows it’s real because—He sees them.

A wall of guards. Waiting for him to round the next corner. Hunk nearly twists his ankle slamming himself backward, skidding to a stop. "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Of course. Of course. Because if anything could go wrong, it would. That’s just the kind of luck Hunk has. Cosmic, ironic, kick-you-while-you’re-down kind of luck.

But there’s no mistaking what he sees when he dares to peek around the corner. The heat, the fire, that unrelenting force. Because through the tiny, insultingly small window of the locked door—

Keith.

Standing tall despite the restraints. Staring through the glass, face cast in deep shadow by the lights, but his eyes—his eyes burn. Not just with determination. Not just with rage. A shade of violet-grey that shouldn't exist. Were his eyes always that color? Hunk never knew eyes could even be that shade.

Focus, focus. No time to gawk at Keith’s weirdly mysterious, possibly supernatural eye situation. Hunk crouches lower, heart hammering, ears tuned to the guards stationed in front of the cell.

“-crazy kids, man,” one mutters, shifting his rifle. The silver of his armor catches in the red sirens, turning pink in the pulsing light. “First, they survive a crater explosion. Now two are out and short-circuiting half the damn facility?”

That’s gotta be Pidge.

“Yeah, I don’t get paid enough for this sci-fi bullshit.”

“Cameras should be back online soon,” another one grumbles. “We’ll finally get some eyes on ‘em. At least the security room is still running.”

Bingo. And people say being nosey doesn’t pay off.

Hunk peeks again, just in time to see a guard peel off from the group, stalking down the hall. Patrol shift. One of them is heading to security. Which one?

“Hey, make sure you don’t fall asleep again, Jon.” A teasing lilt, followed by the glint of a keycard dangling in front of another guard—who snatches it, scowling.

“That was one time, piss off.” The shorter one—Jon?—spits, storming off. A jeering chorus follows him, one voice yelling after, “You only talk like that when Klara’s around!”

“Shut up!”

Moments like this make Hunk want to clasp his hands together and thank the universe for throwing him a bone. He takes a deep breath. “Alright, Hunk,” he mutters. “Time to be a shadow. Stealth mode.”

He hugs the wall, moving in sync with Jon’s steps, careful to keep away from the faint glow of ceiling lamps. Shadows make great cover, but visibility is absolute garbage.

Jon stops at the security room, punches in the keycard. The door beeps, slides open. Hunk scrambles. He’s got seconds. He moves, crouched, a tangle of long limbs trying to be small—God, why is that so hard?

The door is closing.

Nope, no, gotta go, nope nope! Hunk sucks in his chest, dives forward, and—

Trips.

And absolutely body-slams into two other guards.

One faceplants. Hard. Like a truck hit him, not a very panicked Hunk. The other flies backward into a metal shelf, sending a cascading landslide of binders, wires, shelves, and—was that a coffee mug?—crashing down on top of them. The table they slammed into breaks, and the guard crumples in the wreckage.

Hunk freezes. Hands out. Mouth opened in horror.

He did not mean to do that.

The guards are out cold. Hunk looks down at his hands. “What is happening to me?”

A spiral is coming. He can feel it creeping in, but he rips his gaze from his traitorous palms to the cameras lining the wall. The security room is dim, powered by emergency generators. Some monitors flicker, feeds rebooting, but the facility’s eyes are slowly coming back online.

He scans the screens—

Keith’s cell. Still surrounded by a small army of guards. Hunk doesn’t know why he was hoping, by some miracle, that they’d just disappear. He grimaces. Okay. Can’t just storm in. Need a distraction…

His eyes land on a microphone. A label reads: INTERCOM SYSTEM.

Hunk whispers a “thank you, God,” and turns to the closest unconscious guard. Nudges them with his foot. Then jumps back, fully expecting them to lurch up like a fresh dirt-covered zombie. No movement. “Sorrryyy, just… gonna steal your badge number…” He flips them over with his foot, squinting at the insignia on their chest.

Well, here goes.

Hunk grabs the mic, clears his throat, and in the deepest, most authoritative voice he can muster: “Attention. This is B511 reporting. All units report to—uh—” Frantic scanning. Empty hallway, empty hallway— “Sector A-7. Immediate backup required.”

Silence.

Then a garbled response: “Jon?”

Hunk’s brain short circuits. He flounders, then coughs, “Yes..?”

Why did he say it like a question? He wants to kick himself.

A long, long pause.

Then, finally, “You seriously have to stop talking like that. Copy, en route.”

The guards start moving, and Hunk wheezes out a relieved, “Oh my god. I can’t believe that worked.”

He watches the majority of the army clear out, but, of course. Two guards stay behind. Hunk mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the monitor. He watches them, guns still in their hands, standing guard outside of the cell. Curse you, protocols!

New plan.

Violence.

Hunk hates violence. Violence is bad, duh. But getting shot? Objectively worse.

His eyes darted around the security room. Think, think, think.

Fire extinguisher.

Well, if it works, it works. 

He breaks it from the case with his elbow, pain fluttering like a ghost. Grabbing the cylinder, he steps into the hall, hugging the walls, extinguisher tucked under his arm as he inches back toward the cell. When he spots his two unfortunate targets, he takes a steadying breath.

Then he bursts from the corner, fire extinguisher raised. The guards whirl, guns lifting, but Hunk pulls the trigger first. A blast of thick, white foam erupts out, chemicals biting his fists as he sprays wildly.

"What the hell?!" One of the guards yelps, stumbling back, arms flailing.

"Sorry!" Hunk yells, still holding down the trigger.

The second guard fumbles with their gun, foam slicking the metal from their grip. For a fleeting second, they regain control—and fire. A bullet whistles past Hunk, burying itself in the wall behind him.

Hunk screams, and in a panic— sheer, and utter panic, he whips the extinguisher at them. It connects, metal banging directly into their skull. He blinks, and they’re on the floor, “Oh my god—”

The remaining guard gasps, lungs wheezing through the chemical cloud. Wiping at their eyes, they desperately clear their vision, their free hand scrambling to clean off their weapon.

Hunk drops the fire extinguisher, mind a rush as he grabs the first weapon he sees— a discarded taser gun nudged under an unconscious body. He pulls it out from under them, aims, and clicks it once.

Nothing happens.

Click. Click. Click.

“What am I doing wrong!?”

The guard finally clears their vision, raises their gun—

Hunk’s eyes flicker down, twirling the taser around and fumbles with the lever. A tiny red light blinks on, “Oh.”

He fires and the taser wires whip out from the chamber, unfurling and capturing its target. The guard tenses, their entire body seizes violently as they let out a garbled scream and then collapse in a twitching heap.

Hunk pants, stares at the laser, breathless. Then down at the two unconscious guards. He wonders if this will go on his criminal record. God, he’s a criminal now! A juvenile, someone who just attacked government officials. Tinā is going to kill him. What type of food do they have in big boy prison? Will he have to join a gang?

“Hey.”

He looks up, and finds Keith staring at him through the small window. Right, right. Keith. With his adrenaline spiking, Hunk rushes over. He digs into his back pocket, pressing the keycard against the scanner. Green light sings hope and the door opens. 

And Keith—yeah. Keith is seriously chained up like some kind of wild animal. Thick metal cuffs encase his hands, bolted to the floor. He looks ragged—hair wild, shoved left, lip busted. Hunk’s pretty sure that injury is new.

Keith looks from the knocked out guards to the taser still clutched in Hunk’s grip.

Then back to Hunk.

An eyebrow quirks. "...Huh."

Hunk is still catching his breath when Keith shifts his bound wrists. The chains clink. Expectant.

Hunk grimaces. "I don’t have a key for that. Uhhh… uh,"

"Break them."

Hunk blinks. "Break them?"

Keith nods.

A laugh rips out of Hunk. A short, slightly hysterical laugh. He rubs his face, “Oh, sure, yeah! Let me just Hercules my way through solid metal real quick. No problem. Easy-peasy!”

Keith tilts his head, hair falling into his face. He hums noncommittally, gaze flicking to the unconscious guards.

Hunk sputters, "Okay, first off, that was an accident."

Keith says nothing. Just keeps looking at him, blank-eyed.

Heat crawls up Hunk’s neck. "I mean—okay—technically not an accident because I did tase that guy on purpose—but the fire extinguisher? Pure panic."

Keith’s nose scrunches. Disbelief? Disgust? Either way, Hunk is slightly offended. "Can’t we just find the key for those things!?" He tries.

"And how long would that take? The guards are gonna figure out the lie any minute now. Then what?" Keith presses, brow furrowing.

Hunk glances at the restraints. That’s pure metal. Sure, he knocked some people out—four, to be exact—but this? That’s… insane. Keith’s glaring again, a flicker of impatience twitching at his lips. Hunk inhales sharply. Okay. Gotta do this.

Cracks his knuckles. Shakes out his arms. Flexes his fingers.

Keith spits, anger coiling in his voice, “Oh my god, just do it!”

“I’m having a moment!”

Keith gestures grandly at the chains. Hunk exhales, plants his feet, grips the chains and pulls.

And they pop.

Easily. Like twisting off a bottle cap. Zero resistance. He barely tries and Keith’s free, and Hunk’s holding two massive, solid restraints in his bare hands like some kind of deranged blacksmith.

This is a problem.

Realization crashes into him, stomach plummeting. "What the hell?"

Keith, now unshackled, rolls his shoulders. "You almost ripped my arms off."

Hunk yelps, dropping the chains like they’re radioactive. "I’m so sorry!"

Keith flexes his wrists. "Relax. I still have both arms."

"Yeah, but what if you didn’t?!" Hunk gestures wildly. "What if I accidentally de-limbed you?!"

Keith squints, gaze slicing up through his eyelashes. "You didn’t."

"But I could’ve!"

Keith sighs deeply, ignoring Hunk’s spiraling, and instead cracks his knuckles like he didn’t just witness a metal-shredding feat of terror. It’s kinda cool, kinda scary.

"How’d you find me?"

Hunk flounders. Because yeah. Great question. One he himself does not have a proper answer to. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about what Pidge said.

And suddenly understands why they struggled to explain it.

Finally, he shrugs. "...I felt… youuuu?"

Keith deadpans. "What."

"Okay, don’t look at me like that, I’m just as freaked out as you are!"

Keith does not stop looking at him like that.

But before he can grill Hunk for answers (that he doesn’t have), the distant pounding of boots echoes down the hall. Guards. Lots of them. Keith turns, cracks his neck, steps toward the doorway.

And if Hunk were none the wiser, he’d think, oh, we’re going to leave and find the others!

But judging by Keith’s widened stance, his fists raised—

They’re definitely not running.

Chapter Text

"Oh my God, we're so fucking dead!"

Bullets whistle as they whisk by, slamming into the floor and walls behind them. The too-small metal table they were using as cover shuddered with every hit.

His knees were practically up to his chest, tangled limbs barely fitting behind their makeshift barricade. It'd be a hilarious sight if Lance weren't actively fearing for his life. His mom used to lecture him about eating more, fretting that he'd end up as skinny as a barren tree. 

Well, she'd be thrilled to know his stick-like frame was the only reason he hadn't been shot to death already. That might be dramatic, they weren't lethal rounds, but Lance doesn't want to find out how much they hurt. Probably enough to think, yeah, this is it, death.

 Pidge was curled up next to him, hands clamped over their head as the storm of hellfire rained down. How did they even get here? One second, Lance was locked in a cell. The next, Pidge had busted in like the goddamn Kool-Aid Man, and now they're both hiding behind a collapsing desk while guards tried to apprehend them like rats who escaped their spinning wheel. 

Fantastic, this is how Lance loves spending his free time.

"Pidge, do the—the thing!" He shouted, curling up impossibly tighter as another blast rocked their cover.

Pidge let out a frustrated grunt, the kind that Lance hears when their coding won't work after the hundredth test run, "I can't!"

Lance made a noise that couldn't be classified as human. If there was a diagram, it'd be in-between a lion seal clapping its fat and a lion cub trying to roar for the first time. He waved his hands wildly, mimicking what he thought electricity looked like. "Come on! Got no more juice?! Like—zap, zap, do the zap!"

Bullets aren't the only thing shot at Lance, Pidge narrows their eyes, "I'm not Emperor Palpatine!"

The table lurches and so do they. Pidge inhales sharply, "Listen. We're going to have to take this table and just run with it."

Lance gawked at them. He dragged both of his hands down his face so hard; he was surprised his soul didn't peel off. " Usa la mesa, dice ," He muttered, " Claro, claro, claro ."

"Lance," Pidge hissed. "On three—"

"You're insane."

"One—"

"I hope you know if we die, I'm going to be your personal hell punishment,"

"Two—"

"Pidge, aren't you supposed to be smart?"

"Three!"

The table scraped violently against the ground as they shoved it forward, using it as a moving shield. They couldn't really run, not exactly. Instead, they're crawling like toddlers, scrambling. Actually, toddlers would leave them in the dust. They've got practice, you know? Lance's crawling skills have greatly diminished since, oh, he doesn't know, two years old?! 

His knuckles are blanching a sick white as he squeezes the leg of the table, he can't see—or rather he isn't looking. Lance has his eyes shut, occasionally shooting them open to make sure he hadn't ended up in the afterlife. "Almost there!" Pidge yells, and oh, thank God.

"Why did I agree to this!?" Lance screeched, wincing when a bullet singed the top heel of his boot. 

They didn't answer him, hate that. But he doesn't hate them finally reaching an exit, and Pidge is fumbling to their feet, whirling around and yanking Lance up by his elbow. Without a pause, they both launch their hands out to flip the table horizontally, there's still a wide gap at the top half of the entryway but anything to slow down the heat licking at their ankles.

"Move!" Pidge yells. 

Do not tell Lance twice.

Call him a runner, a track star. Maybe after all of this, he found his new hidden talent. Maybe he could go pro, with how sharp he's taking these corners and hurtling down the hall. The alarms have gotten oddly muted, like he ducked his head under water and let the liquid fill his canals. Pidge is right beside him, no hesitation, no shared looks, no " hey, this way" . Just—

Left. Left. Left.

The words pounded in his skill. His own voice, repeating in a frantic loop. And for half a second, he swore— he swore —he could hear Pidge's voice chanting it too. A hiss of a thing, like they're speaking through their teeth.

They weren't speaking, though.

Their mouth only twitched to squeeze out a grunt or so when they took a corner too hard.

Lance had exactly zero seconds to process this before another pair of voices shouted the exact opposite thing, a tambourine clap of,

RIGHT!

Lance and Pidge took the corner at full speed and slammed into two solid bodies. Instant carnage.

Lance yelped as he collided head-first into someone's chest, momentum too strong to stop. He went down like a sack of bricks, tangled limbs everywhere. Something gets pulled taut in his left shoulder when it folds underneath him, and he almost bites the tip of his tongue off.

He only saw a blur of reddish brown—probably Pidge—bounce off the second person with a pained grunt, stumbling backward before inevitably falling right on their tailbone.

"OW—" Lance spat, eyelids pushed shut and red from the white lights shining through the thin skin. There was a scuffle—a weight rolling off him, someone else scrambling to stand and when Lance opened his self-admittedly pretty blue eyes.

A fingerless glove fist came swinging at his face.

Lance screeched, "FRIENDLY, FRIENDLY, FRIENDLY!"

When no searing pain came, his heart politely went back to where it should be, in his chest. The punch had halted an inch from his nose and gritted teeth slacken. Mullet hovered over him, his fist still cocked, face wild with adrenaline. There's a deep purple forming over the right of Keith's locked jaw, all the color draining from the warmth of his skin and getting sucked into all the bruises and cuts. His breath comes in bursts, and all Lance can do is stare at the magenta dancing with maroon swirling in Keith's eyes.

Then something slips or maybe clicks. Recognition makes Keith's expression flicker, just for a second—surprise, maybe even relief if Lance knew what that looked like on his face—before he muttered,

"Oh. It's you."

Lance didn't realize he wasn't breathing until he wheezed out air he didn't have. "Oh my God, you were about to deck me!"

Keith lowers his fist, it lands squarely next to Lance's shoulder as he scowls, "You ran into me. I acted on instinct."

"Your first instinct is to punch things? You know what, don't answer that."

"It works. Most times." A pause, purse of his lips. "Sometimes."

"Yeah? If sometimes means like zero percent."

"GUYS!" Hunk, ( Oh my god, Hunk! ) cut in. His hair is wild, instead of being parted it's standing up all in different directions. Lance doesn't like the matching bruises Hunk's sporting with Keith. Hunk doesn't ever, ever deserve to have his skin broken, "Not the time!"

Right. 

They were still being chased.

Keith pushed himself up, whipping his hair back (unnecessary) as he found his footing. Hunk hurries over, wrapping a strong hand around Lance's forearm and pulling him up with such an ease, Lance's feet almost leave the floor. He considers his friend, mustering his lips to curl upwards, "Hunk, buddy, it's so good to see your face."

"You too, man, but like, let's go." Hunk jutted his thumb behind.

Pidge huffed, ducking behind Keith as footsteps thundered from around the bend. "Great escape plan, the issue is where."

Not a beat of silence, Keith grunts. "Wherever Shiro is."

Lance threw his arms out. "Yeah, Sherlock, and how exactly do we do that? You got a GPS in that mop of a head?"

Keith twitched, definitely about to lunge, but Hunk cut in, raising a single finger like a divine nerd oracle. “Okay, wait. At first? I completely thought Pidge had finally lost it—like, brain-fried from too many hours inhaling solder fumes.”

“ Wow , okay,” Pidge snapped, offense sharp in their tone, but noticeably not denying it.

"But," Hunk pressed on, eyes wide, "I can feel you guys. Like—I know I'm not the only one. You feel it too, right?"

Lance blinked. “What are you even—”

And then it hit. Not like a lightbulb—more like a static shock to the brainstem. When he was first thrown into that cell, it felt like someone cracked open his skull and dumped a radio tower in. Voices, shrieking static, thoughts that weren’t his, all blaring over one another. It’d knocked him flat, left him gasping on the floor like the air had teeth.

And just now—running through the corridor, the chant of left, left, left pounding in his brain like a war drum. But Pidge’s mouth hadn’t moved.

Then— Right!

It hadn’t been him. Or Pidge. Or—

“...Wait,” Lance said slowly, like the realization had weight, and it was settling across his shoulders. “That was you. That was you guys in my head. What the hell!? So now I’ve just got you rattling around in there like a broken toy box—?!”

“No one wants to be in your head, Lance,” Pidge hummed sweetly. That name and 'sweet' shouldn't be caught dead in the same sentence. 

Keith didn’t even miss a beat. “Nice.”

Lance scowled. “You two deserve each other.”

"Obviously, we don't know what's going on," Pidge said, ignoring the sniping. "And we don't have the time or the space to figure it out right now."

Keith tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking toward them like a dog catching a scent.

“So,” Pidge continued, gesturing toward the hallway, “we’re taking a page from your book—pure, stupid instinct. Lead the way.”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa—” Lance threw his hands up. “Are we really putting Mr. Punch-First in charge?!”

“To be fair,” Hunk drawled, “he did take out at least fifteen guards on the way here. So maybe him being in front makes sense.”

“What?!” Lance squawked. 

“I just let him do his thing, man.”

“Keith?” Pidge prompted.

Keith nodded once. “Fine. You guys said—feel?”

They all nodded, though Lance’s was more like a begrudging neck spasm.

Boots thundered in the distance, shouts bouncing off the walls. Keith shut his eyes. One breath. That was all he needed.

Then he moved.

“Wait, what?!” Lance yelped, stumbling after him.

Keith was already down the hall, fast and fluid, like his body was chasing something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Lance scrambled to follow, Pidge and Hunk close behind. Their boots slapped the ground in an unplanned, chaotic rhythm that somehow synced. Four people who’d never trained for this—but felt the same direction.

Didn’t matter.

They didn’t get far.

A full squad of guards rounded the corridor ahead, black vests gleaming under the flickering lights. Lance skid to a stop. “Are you kidding me?!”

To be fair—again—there was no right direction. They were being surrounded.

Keith didn’t slow. If anything, he accelerated. And then he was in it, weaving through the group like he’d studied their playbook. His fists landed sharp and efficient, body a blur of motion. One guard’s weapon flew from his hands. Another went down from a sweep Lance swore should’ve required wires and choreography.

And any guard that got through Keith’s first wave?

Hunk was there. Like he’d been summoned. Lance barely saw him move—just a blur of sleeves, a flash of steel. One guard lunged and got yeeted backwards like a sack of potatoes launched into the arms of gravity and regret.

Lance ducked a stray buzzing bullet, neck snapping to avoid it. “WHEN did this become your thing?!”

Hunk just shouted, “I watch him, then I do the thing!”

“Oh my GOD.”

Lance joined the fray—if “dodging like he was on fire and praying he didn’t die” counted as joining the fray. They fought, they stumbled, they kept moving. He couldn’t tell if they were actually surviving or if they’d just learned to fall forward really well.

They're running again. Keith is blazing ahead, Pidge tight at his heels, Hunk’s low breathing steady behind Lance as they bolt through a tangle of metallic corridors that look more like a maze designed by someone who hated doors and loved corners. And then—

Keith stops so fast, Lance nearly eats his back.

The hallway spits them out into a dead end. No—not quite. A towering metal door dominates the end of the corridor, big enough to fit a drop ship through, all matte black and ominous like it’s guarding the final boss.

Keith plants his palm on it, breathing hard. His voice comes out rough, “He’s in there.”

Lance throws his hands up. “Oh, sure! Of course! Massive evil door? Shiro’s totally behind it, why wouldn’t he be!”

Keith doesn’t even flinch. He presses closer to the door, like proximity alone will open it. His fingers curl against the grooves. “I know he is.”

Pidge’s brow creases, looking between the door and Keith like they’re trying to x-ray the metal. “Would make sense. It’s secure, isolated. If IILD wanted to keep him locked down, this is where they'd do it.”

Hunk’s voice went tight. “Explains the pressure. I’ve felt like something’s been sitting on my chest for the last ten minutes.”

Lance lets out a short, frustrated laugh. “Okay, hold on—everyone’s just, what? Psychic now? We’re doing mind-links? What’s next, fusion dancing?”

Another honest to God, deadly, side eye comes from Pidge. "No one's dancing with you, Lance."

"Not about thinking, it's about knowing." Keith grumbles, stupid fingerless gloves swiping against the metal like he's searching for those secret passageways. His face is screwed up, canines tugging at his lip.

Lance rolls his eyes so hard he might sprain something. "Yeah, that clears it up. Super helpful." Then he's thinking, which some may call dangerous, he'd say useful. Lance furrows his eyebrows, "Maybe it's an emotional thing. Bonds. Like...the stronger the connection, the louder the pull. Like Wi-Fi signals. Or Bluetooth." 

It'd make sense, in theory. Because honestly? Lance couldn’t feel much from behind that door. There was a buzz, sure—like a string pulled taut in his chest—but Keith? Keith looked like he’d chew through the damn wall to get in.

"Did you just compare love to Bluetooth?" Pidge murmurs.

"I'm workshopping the theory , Pidge."

Before anyone can answer, there's a sharp hiss in the distance. Voices. Boots. Shouting.

Pidge immediately snaps toward the hallway. “We can’t open this now, there’s no interface—no keypad, no biometric, nothing. We’d need a detonator, or—”

“A miracle?” Comes from Hunk. 

“Basically.”

Keith steps back from the door, jaw so tight it might break. “Then we come back for it. We find another way in.”

And just like that, they’re moving again.

The hallway Pidge leads them into forks like a snake’s tongue. They take the left, and the walls start shifting—less prison grey, more military clean. Then, a flash of open space through a side panel.

Pidge skidded to a stop, peering through the glass. “Wait, wait. This is—” They slid the panel open. “A hangar?”

The group spilled in behind them, footsteps echoing across polished concrete.

Rows of matte grey fighter jets lined the floor like sleeping beasts, sleek and dangerous, each edged in sharp angles. Military insignias shone from their painted positions on the plane’s main body. Military insignias gleamed on the fuselages—some newer, some scratched and worn like they’d seen a fight or two.

“Whoa,” Hunk breathed. “These are the real deal.”

Lance’s jaw dropped, but it wasn't in surprise—it was reverence. His mouth parted in something between awe and muscle memory. “They’re jets,” he said softly, like he was greeting old friends. “Luis used to take me around the base after shifts. Showed me how they worked.”

He jogged up to a bulkier frame, eyes lighting up. “This one’s an SP-99 Phantom. Built like a tank, fly-by-wire assist, but turns like a drunk hippo. Still—she’s reliable. This beast can glide home on one engine if you nurse her right.”

Then he turned, breaking into a half-run toward another. Sleeker, leaner. “And this—” he breathed, running a hand along its side, “this is the X-9 Interceptor. High thrust-to-weight, delta wing design, variable-geometry air intake... she’s fast as hell, handles like a dream. Sassy too. You pull too hard on her and she’ll throw you into a flat spin just to prove a point.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You name planes now?”

“I named her in my heart, Keith. Don’t be rude.”

Pidge slapped the side of a nearby jet with a flat clang. “Unless one of these comes with a ‘fly me out of prison free’ card, what are we doing here?”

“Looking for an edge,” Lance replied, already climbing up the wing. His boots clanged against the airframe as he pulled himself up to the side hatch. “Luis said emergency gear is sometimes stashed in the cockpit. Overrides, security keys, ejection protocols. And—”

He crouched beside the panel under the passenger hatch and grinned. “Manufacturers love putting the airstair lever in the same place. Nestled just under the lip. You’d think after a century of R&D, they’d switch it up.”

He jammed his fingers behind the third step, feeling for the latch. “Sometimes—if you’re lucky—someone connects the entry lever to the secondary avionics' bus. Like a shortcut.”

Click.

The canopy hissed, then rose with a pneumatic sigh.

Lance flashed a grin, all teeth. “Bingo.”

Stepping into the cockpit of the X-9 was like slipping into a memory that didn’t belong to him but lived in his bones anyway. Lance ran his fingers along the console as he slid into the seat, reverent. The HUD flickered dimly. Dust clung to the corners of the display system, and the side-stick controller felt cool and real under his hand.

Luis never got to fly one of these.

God, he’d be so jealous.

Lance’s hands moved on their own, flipping switches in a sequence he’d watched his brother drill into him since he was ten. “Battery on. Avionics master—check. Inverter switch... green.”

He scanned the primary flight display. “Altitude zero. Heading 220. Internal oxygen’s still pressurized... good. Nav systems are running cold, though. Must’ve been in standby mode.”

He flipped the Mission Computer Power switch, then pressed the aligning button—motion sensors so pilots don’t fly blind. The jet shuddered faintly as systems came online. A soft hum vibrated under his seat.

“Okay. Avionics are online. Flight control system’s responding—barely. We’re in pre-start mode,” he muttered. “But where’s the weapons master…”

“You’re doing great, sweetie!” Pidge shouted from below, squinting into a panel like they were trying to download it with their eyes.

Lance flicked a toggle and the whole jet groaned like an old man getting out of bed. “That didn’t sound friendly.”

“Try not to explode anything,” Pidge shot back.

Then—click. A deeper rumble rolled through the belly of the jet. Systems started lighting up. Lance felt it in his spine.

From beneath the fuselage came a very uncomfortably loud snap-pop-hum.

“Uh…” Hunk’s voice drifted up, sounding sheepish.

Lance twisted in his seat to see Hunk crouched near an open access panel in the jet’s undercarriage. His hands were deep in the guts of the wiring—thick fiber-optic bundles, power relays, and a frankly concerning number of bypassed fuses.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Their hangouts used to include aviation museums, where Hunk would get sucked into the guts of every engine display. Eventually he moved on to aircraft salvage yards—piecing together rusted wiring harnesses like puzzles. Military-grade junk was his holy grail.

Still. This?

Lance’s mouth fell open. “Hunk, what did you do?”

“I rerouted the battery coupling through the armament relay!” Hunk said brightly. “Maybe. I think. There was a secondary breaker loop labeled WPN-A, so I figured that had to be weapons... right?”

The screen in front of Lance pinged. Then flashed red.

ARMED

Lance whooped. “Hunk, you beautiful genius!”

The vehicle purred. Alive now. Ready.

The aircraft lurched as Hunk climbed into the copilot seat, the frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. Lance twisted the side-stick yoke and felt the hydraulics engage—sluggish, cranky, but working. The jet shuddered forward, tires squealing faintly against the smooth hangar floor as the nose rotated to face the corridor wall.

The same wall backing the giant locked door. The one Keith swore held Shiro.

Pidge had moved several— several —steps behind the jet, arms crossed, expression already screaming "this is stupid."

Lance could feel it too. Not just nerves—something deeper. The buzz in the air before a lightning strike. The smell of burning circuits, even before anything had caught fire.

Keith stood just outside the cockpit, to the left of the nose, body squared and steady. His eyes didn’t waver. His jaw locked.

It was written all over him.

Fire.

“Wait—no!” Hunk’s voice cracked. “This close, the backblast—”

But Lance had already slammed his hand down on the fire control.

The jet roared to life.

Muzzle flares bloomed like white-hot suns, and the M61 rotary cannon mounted under the fuselage spun, belching rounds faster than the brain could count. The sound wasn’t a bang or even a boom—it was a scream, a mechanical howl that rattled Lance’s teeth.

The wall didn’t stand a chance.

It vaporized. Steel peeled backward like wet paper. The impact points glowed molten for a breath, then collapsed in on themselves. Concrete exploded behind the steel plating, chunks flying like shrapnel into the unknown.

Then came the fire.

A chain reaction deep inside the wall caught—probably fuel lines, or maybe something classified and combustible. A fireball detonated through the opening, curling into the hangar like a living thing. It bloomed red, then white, licking the walls, setting off every alarm in the building.

Sirens shrieked. Warning lights spun like carnival rides.

“Too much gun!” Hunk shouted, arms thrown over his face. “ I told you it was too much gun! ”

But Keith?

Gone.

Already sprinting into the flames like a goddamn man possessed.

“SHIRO!”

Lance could only stare, stunned by the sheer velocity of it—the recklessness, the need. It was the kind of desperation that burned out logic. It was raw.

It was familiar.

“Every time,” Lance muttered, slapping Hunk’s arm. “Keep her warm. I’ll bring back the idiot.”

“Lance–!”

He vaulted from the cockpit, ducking low as he bolted toward the flames.

The heat hit like a fist.

It rolled off the corridor in waves, warping the air into glassy mirages. Lance yanked his shirt collar up over his nose, but it barely helped. Smoke thickened instantly, clawing at his lungs with hot fingers. Pipes overhead groaned like dying animals, valves bursting one by one in sharp metal shrieks. The ceiling cries desperately, trying to drown out the flames.

The floor was scorched black, slick in places, glowing in others. Sparks danced through the air like fireflies gone rabid. And still—Lance pushed forward, eyes squinting through tears, lashes fluttering furiously to clear the smoke.

The air tasted like metal and fear.

And then—

A silhouette.

Broad shoulders. Forward-leaning posture. Dragging something—someone.

“Keith!” Lance shouted, voice raw.

He stumbled the last few steps before grabbing Shiro’s other arm. Keith looked up, face streaked with soot and sweat, his hair singed at the ends. But his eyes—

His eyes were steady. Sharp. Focused.

“Cell blew open with the blast,” Keith rasped. His voice was shot, his breath coming in broken gasps. “He’s alive. Unconscious. Breathing, but—”

“Save it,” Lance said quickly, shifting to brace Shiro’s dead weight across his shoulder. “We’ll get emotional when we’re not roasting alive.”

Together, they hauled Shiro’s limp body forward.

The metal floor underneath them hissed where their boots made contact, heat still radiating from the explosion. Shiro’s clothes were scorched, blackened along the edges, but intact. His head lolled, face slack with unconsciousness, but his chest rose and fell in a rhythm Lance held onto like a lifeline.

They staggered toward the opening—Keith gripping under Shiro’s arm, Lance locking his elbow under Shiro’s shoulder. Their boots slipped more than once, dragging across melted steel and scorched paint, but they didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

And behind them, the fire raged.

By the time they drag Shiro clear of the wreckage, the hangar’s no longer theirs.

Guards are flooding in like a wave. Tactical vests. Rifles up. No hesitation. Lance doesn't need to count—he can feel it in the press of the air, the rising tide of bootsteps, the kind of sound that means game over.

Keith jerks forward at the sight, lips pulled back, teeth bared. Not at the guards—at the delay.

Hunk’s already at the top of the jet’s stairs, arms out, catching Shiro’s weight like he’s nothing. He hauls him inside with a grunt, careful but quick, vanishing into the body of the plane. Lance stumbles in after, dragging himself up into the cockpit, hands shaking. It’s like his nerves are misfiring, his system still trying to decide if they’re in a fight or flight—or crash and burn.

Shiro’s slumped into the copilot seat now, out cold, while Hunk hovers near him like a golden retriever crossed with a trauma nurse. Lance crouches down near the console, Pidge pressed beside him, both of them half-hiding like that’ll help.

He shakes out his hands like he’s resetting something. “Okay, okay. We got him. He’s alive. No one’s crispy. Everything’s chill.”

“No, it’s not,” Pidge fires back. “Guards just keep coming.”

Lance’s head jerks toward the hangar bay. Through the windshield, the hallway is lit up in flickering red, a strobe of emergency lights and muzzle flashes. Voices are shouting. Boots stomping.

And right at the front—

Commander Iverson.

And Sanda.

“Cool,” Lance squeaks, voice climbing to uncomfortable altitudes. “Love that for us.”

Keith pulls himself into the cockpit with a scowl, bracing on the side rail like the whole jet is his to command. “Can we fly this thing?”

Pidge’s fingers are already flying across the control panel. “If Lance can get it off the ground, yeah. The bigger issue is the hangar doors. They’re still closed.”

“I’m sorry ,” Lance snaps, turning on them. “Did we skip the part where I say I’ve never actually flown anything before?”

“You said you knew jets!” Hunk yells from across the aisle. “You’ve been around them basically your whole life!”

“I know them! Like, emotionally! Structurally! Not, like—spiritually, with the throttle!”

The shouting outside gets louder. Safety catches click into place.

Then—Keith.

“McClain.”

Lance snaps toward him, voice cracking. “What?! I can’t! This isn’t some simulator! I’m not my brother, okay?!”

The words hang there, hot and heavy. Like they don’t want to be out in the open, but now they’re here and no one can look away.

Hunk draws a quiet breath.

Lance folds in on himself, kneeling now, fingers dug into the floor panel. He chews on his tongue. “He used to take me to the base when we were kids. Would sneak me past checkpoints like it was a game. Let me sit in cockpits, pretend I was flying while he ran preflight checklists. Probably super illegal.” He laughs once—dry and humorless. “I used to think if I memorized enough, if I got everything perfect, someone would let me follow him up someday.”

His voice softens. “But after... I just couldn’t. I only know the buttons. Not the...the feel, you know? And I’m not trying to be the reason we have a closed casket funeral.”

The joke lands like lead. No laughs. Just alarms, spinning red, shrieking like mechanical grief.

Lance doesn’t meet their eyes. Doesn’t need to.

Hunk finally speaks, voice slow and steady. “Look, man. I get it. I do. But I can’t fly this plane. Pidge can’t. Shiro’s unconscious, and Keith is—”

“Can’t,” Keith growls before he can finish.

Lance glances up, surprised.

He’s always suspected Keith had training. Some kind of pedigree. Luis used to come home from Garrison functions rambling about Shiro Takashi— The Shiro Takashi —and yeah, maybe Keith hadn’t been standing next to him in those pictures, but Lance had seen him once or twice in the back of a crowd, trying not to look like he belonged there.

Luis never formally introduced them. Maybe he never even noticed.

But Lance had.

Keith’s arms were crossed now, jaw clenched. “You know more about this thing than I do. So congrats. You finally have a one-up on me.”

Lance blinked. “Are you serious right now?”

“You’re the one always trying to compete with me. Thought you’d be thrilled.”

“Whoa,” Lance huffed, heat rising in his face. “Didn’t know this was the time for high school drama.”

Keith didn’t budge. “You always found a way to end up next to me. In chem. In physics. Gym. I thought you were stalking me.”

“I was not—” Lance started, then faltered. “I just...we always got grouped. Or whatever.”

“You’d go all in on everything I did. Always had to outdo me. Always loud about it.” Keith’s eyes flicked toward him, sharper now. “So either you fly the damn plane and prove me wrong, or I do it and you get to eat your pride cold .”

Lance knows what this is.

This is Keith’s version of a pep talk. A firestarter. A challenge with no way out. It’s the same tone that got them both suspended after a science fair. The same one that made Lance spend two straight months trying to beat Keith’s mile time—only to come up a second short.

He hates that it always works.

He hates how much he wants to beat Keith.

But what makes him sick in the best way?

Keith always bites back.

Lance stands, wipes his palms on his thighs, and exhales through his nose. “Just shocked you’re rolling over like a puppy, but yeah. I’ll fly since you can’t, Kogane.”

He smirks. “Then fucking do it and stop talking to me.”

Lance grabs the yoke.

And means it this time.

“Can you two stop flirting or whatever this is?” Pidge snipped, eyes glued to the forward mirror, their wild hair sticking up in static-charged tufts. “Only a matter of time until we’re boarded.”

Lance made a noise that was somewhere between a dolphin’s screech and a soul leaving a body. Keith scoffed. Loudly. Lance pretended not to hear either of them, clambering fully into the pilot seat and settling his hands onto the controls like they might bite him.

Outside, the hangar floor was swarming. A semi-circle of armed guards closed in, tactical lines drawing tighter like a net, rifles glowing with blue-tipped charges—fingers twitchy but frozen.

No one fired.

“Why aren’t they shooting?” Lance asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Keith leaned beside him, expression grim. “They need us alive.”

“IILD wants test subjects,” Pidge murmured, their voice distant and cold, “not corpses.”

Keith nodded once, arms folding along the back of Lance’s chair, his face now level with the side of Lance’s. “We’ve got leverage.”

Lance whipped around, eyes wide. “Oh no. I know that look. That’s your ‘I have a bad idea and I’m gonna do it anyway’ face. Don’t do that face. Pidge, tell him to stop.”

“Too late,” Pidge said, unbothered. “He’s already idea-deep.”

“We’re going to play chicken with the doors,” Keith said flatly.

And there it was. The worst idea in the room had arrived, punctual as ever.

“Nope,” Lance said, flinging himself back into the seat like he could merge with it. “Absolutely not. I would rather kiss Iverson. On. The. Mouth.”

“I—what the hell, man,” Hunk muttered from the floor between the seats. “That’s cursed.”

“Everything about this is cursed!” Lance cried.

Hunk ducked lower, arms curled around his knees. “I don’t want to do this, but uh... we don’t really have a choice. Oh god, we’re dead either way. We’re so dead.”

Behind him, Keith’s grip on the chair tightened. He leaned in, voice low, calm in that terrifying Keith way. “Exactly. So if we’re going down— we go down on our terms. ”

Jesus Christ. “ Jesus Christ, ” Lance echoed, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could press the panic back into his brain.

The jet rumbled beneath them, systems groaning to life. Lance exhaled, hands trembling as he pushed the throttle lever back to reverse taxi.

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine,” he muttered, like repetition could form a barrier between him and the full-body anxiety building behind his ribs.

The jet rolled backward, nose yawing slightly as Lance twisted the yoke. The engine growled, and the wheels shrieked against concrete. They barely missed the corner of a nearby fuel truck—Lance bit down a curse as the back wing cleared it by inches.

The guards scrambled, shifting in a wide arc. Their rifles stayed locked on the jet’s nose, glowing hotter now, more trigger-happy.

“Okay!” Pidge called out from the back. “You’ve got maybe three seconds between throttle and lift. Any longer and we’re floor art.”

Hunk made a noise like he just swallowed a full lemon. “I really wish I’d finished that anxiety course.”

The semicircle outside grew tighter. Shouts pierced the air.

A guard handed Iverson a megaphone.

“FINAL WARNING,” the voice blared, distorted and tinny. “STAND DOWN OR WE OPEN FIRE!”

Behind him, Sanda was pacing with her com tight to her mouth, barking rapid commands, her expression pure rage. Lance squinted—he could almost see the pink slip writing itself on some poor intern’s face.

The heat in the cockpit spiked. The cabin smelled like stress, sweat and overheated circuitry.

Lance gripped the yoke tighter. “This is the dumbest plan I’ve ever been part of.”

“Then make it count,” Keith said, stepping closer, hand brushing Lance’s shoulder—steady, grounding. It shouldn’t have helped. But it did.

Something slid into place in Lance’s chest. Not calm. Not confidence. Just the weight of responsibility snapping in like a gavel.

He reached for the engine throttle.

It was time to play chicken with a government that wanted them alive.

The runway is a lie.

Too short, too cramped, not built for takeoff—especially not in a rush, not in this jet, not without clearance, prep, or even, you know, an actual flight plan. It’s the kind of setup pilots laugh about in theory. In nightmares.

Lance’s hands sweat against the yoke, fingers clenched so hard he’s probably going to leave permanent dents. His breath is stuck somewhere between his chest and throat, and if he thought too long about what came next, he will choke on it.

In a few seconds, they’d either be flying—or painted across a wall.

And he’s hesitating.

Which is why Keith, the menace, reaches over him—stupid fingerless gloves and all—and slams the throttle forward.

Lance screams like he just saw a cockroach crawl across his kitchen counter.

The plane lurches.

Engines ignite with a roar that rattles through Lance’s bones. The rear turbines scream, heat waves rolling across the hangar. The wheels screech against the concrete, fighting for traction like they know this is a suicide run.

They launch forward.

The sound is apocalyptic. Lance can’t even hear the shouting anymore—just his own heartbeat thudding in his ears like a war drum. The nose of the plane bears down on the guards, who scatter like birds, uniforms blurring under the motion of oh god we're really doing this.

“KEITH!” Lance screeches. “YOU’RE GOING TO HELL, YOU KNOW THAT?!”

Keith, unbothered, grins like a damn maniac. “Eyes on the runway!”

Lance rips his eyes forward—just in time to see the hangar doors.

Still shut.

Still solid.

Still very much not interested in letting them through.

He wants to scream again. Maybe cry. He doesn’t. But his jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

In the corner of his eye, Hunk’s praying. Hands clenched, eyes wide, full-on Jesus, take the stick mode. Lance wants to join him, but his hands are fused to the yoke.

He thinks about Luis.

About standing on the tarmac in his brother’s too-big boots. Pretending he knew what lift-to-drag ratio was. Listening to pre-flight checklists like gospel.

If you pull up too hard, the wings will stall. If you wait too long, you’ll never lift.

The noise changes. A new scream—metal scraping metal.

Lance squints through the glass.

The doors are moving.

Creaking open in stuttering, angry jerks. Hydraulics whining. Sunlight spills through the widening crack, bleeding onto the hangar floor like salvation in slow motion.

“Come on, come on, come on—”

They’re not even fully open. Just barely wide enough. Barely tall enough.

But there's a runway past the hangar. A few feet. Maybe twenty. Enough.

Lance pulls. Hard.

The jet tips back. Nose lifts. Tires screech again—metal groaning under the strain. The whole frame shudders like it's being dragged out of the underworld.

And then—

Lift.

The jet rises.

Barely.

The right wing howls as it clips the edge of the hangar door frame, a flash of yellow sparks erupting past the window. The entire aircraft shudders like it’s going to tear in half, and Lance thinks his teeth might rattle out of his skull.

He yanks harder, shoulders screaming from the tension, and wind finally slices under the wings—lifting them higher.

They climb. “Gears—gears—” he mutters, fumbling for the retraction lever. He slams it, and with a mechanical clunk, the wheels begin folding into the belly of the beast.

Wind tears around them, the jet slicing upward, Lance coaxing it like a wounded animal. “That’s it. That’s it, baby girl. You’ve got wings, use ’em.”

His voice is hoarse, heartbeat stuttering, but he keeps flying.

Hunk lets out a sound that’s half cheer, half sob.

“We’re in the air!” Pidge yells from the back. “We’re in the freaking air!” 

Lance doesn’t respond. He’s gasping—lungs dragging in air like it might run out. Definitely not crying. Probably.

The death grip on his chair loosens slightly, and Keith murmurs, voice almost amused, “Look at that. Not dead.”

Lance glares at him sideways. “I hate you.”

He gets a slow eye roll in return, and watches as Keith staggers back, grabbing the wall to keep from rolling down the incline. He makes his way to Shiro, still unconscious, like he hasn’t just slept through a literal war crime.

Lance exhales. His shoulders sag, but his hands don’t leave the controls. The sky opens up around them, painted in soft gold and the quiet hum of altitude.

He should level them out.

Lance starts to murmur to himself. “Okay, flaps to ten degrees, we’re climbing through one thousand. Airspeed is holding steady—wind shear’s negligible, engine temp is in the green. I’m trimming for a gentle nose-down attitude to prevent a stall, because unlike some people, I don’t want to go out in a blaze of glory.”

The jet stabilizes, gliding smoother now, still rising.

It’s... quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just the heavy, ringing silence of four teenagers realizing they’re thirty thousand feet in the air and breathing.

Then—a groan.

Low. Gravel-rough.

Shiro shifts in the copilot seat, head lolling slightly as his eyes squint open. “Why... are we in a plane?”

Everyone freezes.

"Shiro!" Keith’s voice cracks, sharp with panic and relief in equal measure. He’s moving instantly, kneeling beside the seat, one hand already on Shiro’s shoulder, the other hovering like he wants to check for wounds but doesn’t know where to start. His jaw clenches hard, but the panic is there—in the corners of his mouth, the twitch of his fingers.

“You’re okay,” Keith breathes. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Hunk straightens like someone lit a fire under him. “You’re awake?!”

“Don’t pass out again,” Pidge pleads, practically climbing over the middle console to peer at Shiro’s pupils. “Please. You missed the part where we almost died—twice.”

Shiro blinks slowly, like he’s still buffering. Then his gaze sharpens—first at Pidge, then Keith, then outside the window.

Sky.

Clouds.

Too much altitude.

He turns his head toward the front controls and locks eyes with Lance.

“We need to land this,” he says, voice steady despite the rasp. “ Now .”

Lance gapes at him. “I just got it in the air!”

“Yeah,” Shiro sighs, already rubbing his temples like this is a Tuesday and not a post-explosion felony, “and in about two minutes, you’re gonna have company. Great job at not dying, I’m very proud."

He gestures vaguely at the dashboard, then points more directly at the radio panel.

Which is, oh yeah—still open.

Crackling faintly with static.

“—repeat, unknown aircraft currently heading northbound, identified as stolen X-9 prototype.  Unauthorized launch detected. Scramble interceptors, vector to coordinates Grid 7-Niner. Rules of engagement authorized. Intercept and disable. Acknowledge. Over. "”

“Jesus Christ,” Pidge mutters.

Shiro squints at the ceiling. “You didn’t disable the beacon?”

“I didn’t know it was ON!” Lance shrieks, hands flying off the controls like the radio might bite him.

Keith rises slowly from beside Shiro, eyes lingering on his... brother, maybe, with an expression Lance doesn’t quite have the words for. It’s soft. Uncharacteristically so. The way he straightens the strap across Shiro’s chest, fingers brushing against fabric like he needs the contact.

For a second, Lance just watches.

There’s something bitter in his throat, and he doesn’t know why.

He turns back to the console. “Okay,” he mutters, flipping through the nav menus with rapid fingers, “first of all: thanks for the ‘good job surviving,’ real morale booster. Second—guess we’re not cruising.”

Outside, the clouds thin.

Somewhere behind them, jets are already being armed.

Somewhere distant, runways are lighting up.

And somewhere below, Hell is probably preparing their guest list—just in case.