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pumpkins-s · 6 years

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Stormbreaker / Coffinmaker

Read On AO3 Here

When Pidge is offered the spot as communications officer for the Kerberos Mission, to accompany her father, and her friend and former classmate Shiro, she’s expecting eight months of quiet, beautiful cosmos, ice samples, and—if she’s lucky—some broadcast signals to support her alien life theories.

She is not expecting to end up the prisoner of a fascistic race of alien cat-lizards hellbent on apparently reenacting the ugliest parts of the Roman empire, down to the massive enslavement and expansion effort and the gladiators as entertainment shtick.

But, if she’s going down, she figures she might as well go down swinging.

(Or, in which Pidge is the third Kerberos member, is decidedly not a damsel in distress who needs protection—thank you very much Shiro—is very much done with this crap, and fully intends to make it home to her little brother, no matter what it takes.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: platonic Pidge & Shiro, Pidge & Matt, Pidge & Sam Holt

Characters: Pidge, Shiro, Sam Holt, Matt Holt, Thace, Ulaz

Rating + Warnings: Rated Teen; trigger warnings include graphic violence, blood, combat, murder, and systematic transphobia on the part of the Galra. I recommend checking AO3 for a more extensive list.

Stormbreaker was written for the @pidgebigbang, and is accompanied by art from @anime7otaku7artist7.

Chapter 4: Dahlia

It comes first as a ringing in her ears, echoing and distant, like surfacing from underwater.

“—ing like this is a bad idea.”

“Nonsense, with all the ruckus of earlier—“

“Ruckus these two caused—“

“—no one’s going to notice you sneaking in here. And if they do, it’s hardly going to be something they pay much attention to.”

“Really? You think no one’s going to notice my being here when your little patients are the subjects of the biggest upset the arena has seen in a good year?”

“…You’re a good liar. You can spin something about just wanting a look if anyone asks. Everyone’s been trying to sneak peeks, finding excuses to come in here.”

“…One day, when you get both of us killed, I’m going to find some way to posthumously make sure it gets back to Kolivan it was all your fault.”

“Dull.”

“…You really think they’re that special?”

“A couple first time gladiators taking down the reigning champion and not even losing a limb doing it? Yes. Creatures like Myzax do not just die, not unless it’s planned ahead of time. And we both know this was not planned. They’ve stolen the attention of all the slaves—“

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. They won one fight.”

“I know a leader when I see one. That one, the big one, he has a…presence. He will change things, inspire hope.”

Somewhere above Pidge, there’s a snort, quick and dismissive.

“You’re always like this, seeing a savior in every survivor. There’s no legend coming to save us, Ulaz, no powerful allies. Have you not figured that out by now?” A pause. “Besides, I like the little one. I saw real grit out there, and true intelligence. Cleverness.”

“…I suppose he’s got spunk to him.”

Blearily, Pidge opens her eyes, squinting against the bright lights that instantly assault her. Her visions swims, and she whines, trying to lift her arms to shield her vision and finding her limbs heavy, unmoving. From her side, there’s a rustle, and then a face appears above her, between the lights, streaks of light and dark purple and two yellow eyes peering down, sharp and critical. “Easy, easy.”

Recognizing the voice as one of the ones that had been speaking, Pidge blinks, trying to bring his face into focus, unsuccessfully. Behind him, she sees another flash of purple, darker, with the same bright yellow eyes, hovering just behind the first’s shoulder.

“Easy,” the first repeats, and she narrows her eyes, remembering his earlier words.

“Not a boy…” she slurs, the words tired and quiet, barely escaping her mouth, and the fuzzy outline of the Galra frowns, leaning in closer. At the edges of her vision, Pidge sees the darkness creeping in again.

“Pardon?”

“’M a fucking girl, you uncultured dick,” she mumbles, and then, relenting, closes her eyes against the swimming colors of her vision.

“…Well, Ulaz,” she hears the other voice say, right before sweet unconsciousness reclaims her. “I did tell you that one was smart.”

A sigh. “Thank you for your thoughtful words as always, Thace.”

When Pidge next opens her eyes, it’s to the view of the by now familiar grey ceiling of the cell she and the others had been kept in for the days before the fight.

There’s a sharp, aching pain in her head that she’s aware of the second she wakes up, and she groans, closing her eyes once more and bringing a hand up to press against her forehead tiredly. Her skin is warm, but not overly hot to the touch. Not a fever then, just a headache. Wonderful.

“Pidge,” she hears a voice quietly murmur, and she sticks her other hand out in its direction, her fingers brushing up against the ridges and planes of a face she knows all to well.

“Shiro,” she says, patting loosely at what she thinks might be his cheek, and he snorts.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You’re not dead, then,” she sighs. “Good. Good. And neither am I, apparently.”

“No, neither are you.”

“Lovely,” she mumbles. “Help me up, then.” She relinquishes her hand from Shiro’s face, going to push herself up, and as she does so she feels hands on her back, steadying her as she sits up. Slowly, she opens her eyes, and does a cursory sweeping glance of the room, finally settling on Shiro, who offers her a lopsided smile.

“Where’d they go?” she asks, and Shiro’s smile falters.

“Who?”

“Those two Galra—“ she frowns, and then shakes it off. “Never mind. Where’s everyone else, though?” She looks around the conspicuously empty room pointedly, this time picking up just the slightest variations in its appearance—missing marks and scratches she remembers from the old room—and Shiro shrugs.

“I think we’re in some kind of solitary confinement. I guess between the fight with Myzax and uh—“ he coughs, “particularly the altercation preceding it, they’re a little worried we might try and kill anyone we’re put in with. Not sure why that thinking isn’t applied toward keeping us in the same cell but…”

“We worked together during the fight and didn’t go after each other following it,” Pidge points out bluntly, wincing as she shifts carefully so that she can lean her back against the wall. She’d been expecting bruises after all the tumbles she’d taken during the fight, but damn if it still doesn’t hurt like hell, and from the looks of Shiro, his face all scattered with half-healed cuts and scrapes that travel down his neck as far as her eyes can see, he can’t be in much better shape. “They’ve probably realized we’re not likely to actually kill each other, no matter what dumb shit you pulled beforehand.” She blinks, squinting at him. “Speaking of…”

Shiro flinches, looking away and scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly, before crossing his arms, fingers gripping tightly at his biceps. The entire move is defensive, vulnerable, and it makes him look oddly small. “Look, I—“

“Save it,” Pidge says, holding up a hand. “I get why you did what you did, Shiro. I may not like it, but I get it. I would have done the same for you—metaphorically speaking, at least. I don’t think my first instinct would have been to try and chop off one of your limbs or something but…” Shiro, somehow, only shrinks in on himself more, and Pidge groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay, not helping, I know. I’m just—I’m not mad.”

Hesitantly looking up, Shiro casts a skeptical eye at her. “Really?”

Dropping her hand, Pidge glares halfheartedly at him. “No. Frankly, mostly because I don’t have the luxury of time or circumstances that make it an option to be mad.” A confused look crosses over Shiro’s face, and she sighs, holding out her hand to him. “Look, for better or for worse, we’re in this together. We haven’t got anyone else we can rely on here, and even with your little…episode…before, there’s still no one else I’d rather have watch my back. Deal?”

The relief on Shiro’s face is palpable when he takes her hand. “Deal.”

“But!” Pidge announces once he lets go, crossing her arms firmly, a sign of stubbornness for her where it signals defensiveness for him. “Just to be clear: if you try that shit again, I’ll cut your goddamn dick off.”

Shiro winces. “Fair.”

“Right,” Nodding her head once, Pidge stands, ignoring the protesting creak of her bones and the pull of all her bruised muscles as they shift, and Shiro follows her, wobbling unsteadily on his feet for a moment. He’s definitely not in much better shape than her. “Glad we’ve got that sorted out.”

“…Now what?” Shiro asks after a moment, looking around the empty room and then to her unsurely.

“Honestly?” Placing her hands on her hips, Pidge takes her own survey of the room, cataloguing all the same thick, metal walls, and thin marks where the door might be, as their previous cell. “I have no idea.”

It takes an eternity for anyone to come for them.

By then, Pidge has already worked herself through the many stages of being driven half crazy by pacing, then by sitting, and then by checking every inch and every crack of the room over, even knowing from the moment she starts just by looking alone that the contents to be found won’t be any different from their last cell. When the door finally, finally opens, she’s gone back to pacing, steadily drumming her fingers against her crossed arms as she continually repeats the eight steps it takes to cross the cell, pivoting sharply every time she reaches the wall.

It’s not until the noise of the door opening startles her from her pattern that she realizes the rhythm of her fingers is Morse code—her father’s last message to her, those five, final letters—and she shakes her arms from their hold irritably. She turns, expecting and ready to face whatever troupe of Galra guards has been sent to round up her and Shiro, and blinks when instead Mazlo slips in, accompanied by only a singular guard, who casts what Pidge guesses would be a suspicious look at her and Shiro from under his helmet before muttering a terse “Ten minutes,” and turning back around to face the hall as the door shuts once more, leaving only the three of them in the room.

Slowly, Shiro stands from where he’d been sitting against the wall, previously following Pidge’s pacing with tired eyes. “…Mazlo?”

“Oh thank fuck,” Mazlo gasps, leaning against the wall and panting as if he’d been running, out of breath. “You two haven’t killed each other yet.”

“What are you doing here?” Shiro asks, his eyes wide and looking completely boggled. “How are you here?”

Mazlo gives Shiro a look that makes Pidge think if he could roll his eyes, he currently would be. “I blew one of the guards, duh.”

“Oh.” An unreadable look passes over Shiro’s face, and when he next speaks, it’s clear he doesn’t really know what to say. “You didn’t uh—you didn’t have to do that.”

“’Course I did, wasn’t about to let Delphine do it. Better me than her.” When Shiro says nothing in response, still looking faintly alarmed, Mazlo throws his hands up uncomfortably. “Look, everyone does it around here! The cells have to get cracked open a few times a week either for fights or for hygiene shit, and that’s when business happens! Won’t get you out of a gladiator match, but if you want a small favor, something a guard can fulfill without getting their ass court-martialed, it’s the fastest means to an end.”

Pidge decides that’s probably the best time to intervene, sliding between them and holding her hands up in a placating manner. “It’s okay, Mazlo, we understand—nobody’s judging you, promise. We’re just not sure why you’d put yourself through that just to see us.”

Mazlo snorts. “Told you, didn’t I? Delphine’s been half-crazy with worry ever since the fight yesterday, especially once she heard you two’d been chucked in solitary together. If I didn’t promise to come check you were still breathing, she’d have found her own way in here.”

“Oh,” Pidge says quietly, and Mazlo scowls back at her. “I guess I just—“ She glances over unsurely to Shiro, who looks to her with just as much confusion. “I guess we just don’t understand. Why she cares so much, I mean. She’s only known us for a few days, after all.”

Something in Mazlo’s expression softens, and he sighs. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Cautiously, Pidge shakes her head, and he grumbles. “You give her hope. Don’t ask me why, as far as I can see you’re just another couple of unlucky fucks who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but your being here means something, to her.” He shifts unsurely, crossing his upper set of arms and shrugging. “We’ve been surrounded by nothing but…death and suffering for what has felt like forever, at this point, and we’ve only had each other. All her friends, all our family, they’re either dead or gone who knows where. Delphine hasn’t even had another girl to talk to in months. And then you show up, another woman—another woman like her—and you’re just…filled with all this anger, this refusal to just give up and wait to die like most of us have done by now.”

Pidge blinks, trying to wrap her head around Mazlo’s words. “But I’m just…me.”

Mazlo makes a noncommittal noise, and Pidge isn’t quite sure if it’s in agreement or not. “So what? She likes you. You make her think she doesn’t just have to die down here, that there’s a purpose to fighting back. Whatever reason that is, that’s goddamn worth something. She’s had more life in her since you showed up than she has in weeks, and like hell I’m going to let that get destroyed so quickly all over again.” He cuts a skeptical look at Shiro, and grunts. “You? She just thinks you’re too pretty to die so soon.”

“…Thank you?” Shiro says unsurely, and the look that crosses over Mazlo’s face is pinched and uncomfortable.

“Whatever. Look it’s just—“ Mazlo furrows his brows, all six eyes squinting in unison as he puzzles out whatever it is he’s trying to say. “Down here, everyone runs the risk of dying any day. We don’t have the time or the ability to shop around for friends and get to know them over lunch and all that. You’ve got to just go with your gut and if someone feels like they matter, then they matter. Well, congratulations. You two idiots matter to my sister.” His nose scrunches up. “And me, I guess.”

There’s a long moment of silence after Mazlo finishes speaking, the three of them just looking at one another awkwardly, before Pidge sighs, and says the only thing she can think to: “Well, alright then.”

She swallows down anything else she might offer. In truth, she likes Delphine, who most certainly showed Pidge and Shiro a kindness from the moment of their arrival she wasn’t required to, and she really doesn’t have anything against Mazlo, but something about his words still scratches at her uncomfortably. All she’s seen here is that it’s dangerous to care about others—useful to have allies, sure, but in the long run, still dangerous. There’s no guarantee you can protect anyone but yourself down here, and when she already has Shiro to worry about, Pidge feels it’s a bad idea to let herself get too invested in the health and wellness of anyone else.

To a certain extent, she suspects that’s Mazlo’s thinking as well—he’s much more here for Delphine’s sake than for his own, or theirs, for that matter. He’s trying to look after his sister, do what he can to keep her spirits up, and Pidge can understand that.

God knows she’d walk through flames to protect Matt, if she had to.

Mazlo looks more relieved than anything when she says nothing further, and that alone is enough of an indication that she’d taken the right approach. They’re not here to discuss the deep bonds of friendship, neither of them.

“Right. Well,” Mazlo says quietly, eventually. “I’m guessing you two haven’t been told shit about what’s going on outside, so whatever you want to know, you better ask fast. I don’t doubt that guard was serious about that time limit, and we already wasted plenty.”

“I don’t even know what to ask,” Pidge admits. “I don’t remember much of…” she thinks of the two galra, and the bright lights, and pushes it aside once more, “…anything between the end of the fight and waking up here. I’m not even completely sure where we are.”

Mazlo shrugs. “Solitary confinement, it’s what they use for some of the gladiators, once the arena gets to them and they’ve hit the point they don’t know when to fight and when not—or if they’re just the nasty, violent type that doesn’t care. After the upset you two caused, it’s not much of a surprise they shoved you in here.”

“Upset?” Shiro asks.

“Myzax was the fucking champion,” Mazlo says tersely. “Gladiators of that breed don’t just die, especially not to a couple of new slaves thrown in for sport. Monsters like that only get taken down by other monsters.” He laughs, one part nervous, one part bitter. “No offense, but no one was expecting you two to survive.”

“None taken,” Pidge murmurs, crossing her arms as she thinks again on that overheard conversation. Mazlo’s words echo it too well for either to be a lie.

“Not to mention you did it together. Teams are a big no-no in the arena—at least, any that aren’t strictly set up by those running the show are. Any other situation, they probably would have forced you two to fight after, just as some kind of way of regaining control of the situation, but given you both collapsed immediately after the fight…well, they couldn’t exactly let the both of you die, not when everyone who’d watched knew what you’d become—“

“What?” Pidge asks sharply, cutting him off. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t…” Mazlo blinks, eyes wide, and then gives a surprised, half cut-off laugh. “You’re the champions now. That’s the rule here. Kill the champion, become the champion. You two are now the stars of this whole goddamn attraction, both of you. It’s…to say it’s unprecedented is an understatement. All the slaves talk, you know, down the grapevine. No one’s ever seen anything like what you did, and some people have been here a long fucking time, well before Myzax was champion.” Mazlo shakes his head, looking begrudgingly amazed. “You two broke so many damn unspoken rules with what you pulled, and no one can do shit now because of the rest of the rulebook.”

Shiro frowns. “Then why not just make us fight now, if they don’t want the both of us in this…position?”

“Oh, believe me, I’m sure a lot of whichever ring of generals runs the arena would love that,” Mazlo says bluntly, “But they can’t have you fight each other publicly, now that time’s passed. You’ve got fans; it’d be a disaster. No, if they want to get rid of one of you, they’ve only got two options: put you back in the ring and hope one of you gets killed, or find a convenient accident. Probably why they stuck you two in here together, honestly. Might have just been hoping one of you would kill the other and solve them the fuss.”

“Yeah, well,” Pidge snorts, “that’s not going to work out for them.”

“No,” Mazlo says. “Which only leaves one option.” He grimaces. “I hope you two are ready to go back in the arena.”

The words, while expected, still hit Pidge like a blow to the stomach. She knew one fight could never be the end of it, but every part of her still hurts, she can still taste the blood on her tongue and feel the chain catching against her skin. She’s not ready to relive that nightmare again.

“What?” Shiro asks before she can say anything, his voice loud and panicked.

“That’s how being champion works!” Mazlo snaps, his entire posture defensive and uncomfortable. “What did you think was going to happen? Losing means death, but winning has its consequences, too. The better you are, the more you fight, and like it or not, you two put on a goddamn show yesterday. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but I can promise you that with all you two pulled, it’s very possible a lot of people in very high places will be looking at this as an excuse to get rid of you. Prove that you weren’t really champion material. You will not be walking into something easy, so we all better hope you’re capable of repeating whatever the fuck you did to take down Myzax.”

“I can’t—“ Shiro takes a step back, wide-eyed and wheezing as he shrinks, arms wrapping around himself defensively. “I can’t do that again. Not again.”

“You don’t have a choice—“ Mazlo begins, and Pidge holds up a hand, shaking her head.

He means well, she gets that, especially as someone who likes to skip the bravado and lay things out bluntly herself. Really, she almost appreciates the fact that he’d skipped the theatrics and given them the most honest version he could about what they’d be facing, but it’s clear that him saying any more is not going to help Shiro.

To a certain extent, she wonders if she shouldn’t be reacting the same way as Shiro. The arena is still fresh in her mind—the scrambling desperation of it, the feeling of expecting any moment to die—and god knows it still scares her. But they can’t both be breaking down right now, they don’t have the time, and so she takes her panic and shelves it, pushes it as far away from the thinking part of her brain as she can. Her mind is her truest ally, and she mustn’t squander it on fear when her and Shiro’s lives may very well rely on its being rational and forward-thinking.

You know how to be brave, even when you’re afraid, her father had told her. She must be brave.

She must.

“What are they having us fight?” she asks, grabbing Mazlo’s arm, and is proud when her voice comes out steady and firm, unyielding. No one will have her fear as theirs to witness. Not the Galra, not the arena, not even Mazlo, regardless of his questionable status as an…ally.

“I don’t know,” Mazlo admits, and he actually looks regretful. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t. Only so much of the talk makes it down as far as our cell.”

“But—“ Pidge begins, and then there’s the noise of the door opening, the singular Galra guard still standing irritably outside.

“Time’s up,” the guard says, and Pidge slowly lets go of Mazlo’s arm. Mazlo hesitates, a conflicted look crossing his face, and then just nods to her, going to the door.

“…Mazlo, wait!” she calls, and he stops.

“What?”

“Do you think—“ Pidge pauses, thinking over her words. “If we win again, if we prove we’re cut out to be these…champions, will they put us back in the old cell, with you and Delphine and the others?”

A lopsided smile flickers over Mazlo’s face for a moment, just a moment, before vanishing, and he shrugs. “Pidge, when you’re the fucking champion, I’m pretty sure you can have any cell you want.”

And then he disappears, the door shutting behind him as he follows the guard back down the hall, Pidge watching the last sliver of light from the outside of the cell with longing until the moment it’s gone.

There wasn’t even time to say thank you.

For Pidge, her first winter break after she enrolls in the Garrison can’t come soon enough.

When it finally arrives, she doesn’t waste any time. She practically sprints back to her dorm room, well aware that her father’s last meeting ends only half an hour after her after last class. By the time her father finally knocks on her door, politely sticking his head in and asking her what time she thinks she’d be ready to head home, she’s already waiting by the door, bags packed, laptop under her arm, and headphones around her neck.

While her father looks slightly disconcerted, he doesn’t say anything as he helps her load her stuff into the car, and that she’s grateful for. They pull out of the still half-full parking garage—some professors have already left, but others won’t until tonight, and Pidge has overheard enough to know many students won’t leave until tomorrow—in silence, her father’s fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel for a moment, before he asks, “Do you…want to pick out a CD for the drive?”

Pidge glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “Dad, we live like…twenty minutes away.” Her father shrugs, not looking away from the road, and she sighs. Popping open the glovebox, she pulls out her Dad’s stack of CDs, snapping off the rubber band and flipping through them. “Florence?” she asks, holding up the artist in question’s CD, and her father beams, nodding.

Opening the case, she takes out the disk, sliding it into the CD player slot on the dashboard. After a moment of fiddling with the dials, a woman’s loud, rambunctious voice wheezes out from the car’s old, perpetually tinny-sounding speakers. The one on Pidge’s side of the car starts to crackle within a couple minutes, and she frowns, thumping at it with the palm of her hand until the audio clears up. “The speaker’s acting up again.”

“I’ll fiddle with it over the break,” her father promises.

“You do realize…” Pidge says, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms, eyeing the other CDs in her lap skeptically, “most people wouldn’t buy up a half-wrecked antique and refurbish it just for the sake of having a CD player in their car. There are easier ways of getting music.”

Her father sniffs delicately. “It’s not the same, though! Everything these days is just stored digitally—and don’t get me wrong, that’s definitely handy—but there’s not the…” he pauses, mulling over his words as he stares out at the road, “the physicality you get with the old stuff—CDs, records. Things you can hold in your hands and look after and keep.”

Pidge decides against pointing out to her father that a lack of physicality is rather the point of digitalizing everything.

He’s always been a collector of the old forms of media, ever since she was a child. Some of her first memories are of their house filled up with shelves upon shelves of everything he’d amassed—DVDs, VHSs, books as high as the eye can see, and the music, always the music. Her father has more CD racks than most people do storage cabinets, and his prized possession has always been his record player and it’s accompanying selection of records. If nothing else, it’s all always left Pidge with no doubts about which side of the family she inherited her hoarding tendencies from.

She’d always found it funny that the man who dedicated his life and career to research that pushes the boundaries of space-exploration technology has such a fondness for what are essentially useless antiquities.

Though, admittedly, some of her fondest memories of growing up are connected to her father’s ridiculous media collection. She was raised on dusty VHSs and the outdated, rubbishy anime they showed, on old movies from her father’s childhood stored in cracked and lovingly tape-repaired DVD cases, and, of course, the music.

“You know,” her father says cheerfully, drawing her from her musings, “I wanted to be a musician when I was your age.”

“I know.”

“I kept telling my parents I was going to run away to LA rather than finish school, go to the place where so many of the greats got their break.” Her father grins idly. “And I probably would have, too, if it weren’t for one thing. Do you know what that was?”

“Yes—“

“I fell in love. Not with a person, but with the stars, and then all I wanted to do was be up there, in space, one day myself—all your Uncle Charlie’s fault, of course. If he hadn’t dragged me out to that open house the Garrison was hosting to try and attract new recruits, I never would have ended up applying.”

Pidge groans. “Yes, Dad, I know. You’ve told me this story a hundred times.”

Her father chuckles, giving her a quick, amused glance before turning his attention back to the road. “It’s a good story!” He falls silent for a moment, fingers drumming along on the steering wheel in time to the music still playing on the speakers. “Point is, I may not have known all my life that I wanted to work in space exploration, but I got there eventually.” Her father sighs, a small smile on his face. “I won’t lie, when you first told me you wanted to go to the Garrison, I was a little worried you were just doing it because you felt obligated—following in the family footsteps, and all that. But you’ve loved the stars since you were little, I should have known it’d be the right place for you.”

“…I guess,” Pidge says quietly, slumping down in her chair, and her father shoots her a knowing look.

“So, you want to talk about whatever it is about school that has you so down in the dumps?”

“Not really,” she grumbles, and her father just nods.

“Alright, fair enough.”

“…It’s just…” Pidge sits up, gesturing expansively with her hands, as if she can somehow wish her thoughts into existence just so that she doesn’t have to try and make sense of them enough to actually explain. “I thought it would be…different, I guess.”

“Different?”

“Yeah, you know, like…” She wrinkles her nose, trying to find her words. “I really thought, a place like the Garrison, I’d actually be normal for once, be around other people who think like me, who aren’t going to judge me for my brain or my interests. But even here, I still just…clash with people. Nobody wants to work with the youngest person in the room, especially if they’re doing better than them.”

“Pidge—“

“And it’s not just that!” She waves her hands, accidentally knocking the CDs and sending them scattering to the floor. “They treat me differently! I have no idea if it’s because of my age, or my brain, or because I’m trans, or—even if it’s just because I’m a girl. Some of those engineering students are so pig-headed, they hate a girl being top of the class—“

“Katie,” her father says firmly, and she falls silent. “It’s alright, you’re allowed to be upset. You don’t have to convince me.”

“I’m just…” Pidge sighs. “The work is amazing, Dad. It’s so amazing, but that doesn’t make any of the rest of it any easier.”

She falls silent, and her father remains quiet as well for a long moment, eyes on the road and teeth worrying his bottom lip as he always does when he’s thinking hard about something. “…Do you want to be a Garrison officer one day?”

“What?”

“Well,” her father glances at her awkwardly. “Do you?”

“I—“ She shrugs. “Yeah, I do. I really do.”

“Then that’s enough to make it worth sticking out,” her father says with a decisive nod. “…I can’t promise it’ll all get better immediately, sweetheart, but it will. The older you get, the more you understand that unpleasant people are just…unpleasant. The ones that really matter, those are the ones who stick around: your real friends, and you’ll find them eventually. And if anyone in your classes gives you rubbish for your age, or your gender—any aspect of it—you report it. You don’t have to take crap from anybody.”

Pidge snorts. “Okay, Dad.”

“I’m serious, kiddo. I’ve never known you to take a hit lying down in your life, and you don’t have to start now just because you’re in a place where you want to stay. Nobody ever got anywhere very fast without rocking a few boats, and goodness knows you’re headed for the top.”

“…You really think so?”

“Of course!” he father says, as if it isn’t even a question, and Pidge smiles just slightly, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. The song on the speakers has just changed, all drums and fire-filled energy, a woman promising her own ability with every word, as if daring the world to question her, question what she’s capable of.

“…Thanks, Dad.”

Pidge remains awake long after Shiro falls asleep.

She understands, objectively, that she needs her rest. They have no idea when this call to return to the arena will come, it may even be tomorrow—or would that be today? Every “day” spent in captivity with only artificial lighting to turn to only further confuses her sense of time, and trying to factor in how the concept of hours in a day and night cycle may change for the Galra only gives her a headache. Not to mention how time may move differently here than on Earth.

That is the thought that scares her most: time passing differently. It has haunted her since it first came to her mind, that first night in their original cell. She has no idea how many days, weeks, or months it may be before she finds a way to escape. What if two months here is years on Earth? Decades?

What if she finally finds a way home, to find everything gone?

To find Matt an old man, or just another headstone set against cold ground.

She doesn’t think she could survive it. Not without something to return to.

They’re thoughts she pushes aside every time they arise, because she knows if she loses the belief her life can be returned to, she will lose her will to keep going, to survive.

The only thoughts, scenarios, more frightening are the ones where she dies, where she never makes it home at all, and she banishes those even more forcefully than the other ones, when they come unbidden to her mind.

She will survive. She must survive, in order to bring herself, and Shiro, and her father home.

Regardless, her original point still stands. To survive, she must win every fight placed in front of her, and to do that she needs rest.

…Which is easier said than done.

Her mind rushes, here in the dark with only Shiro’s snoring to distract her, obsessing over their situation and what will come. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the arena, feels the gravel cutting into her skin and the pain of dodging, falling, rolling, as she strains with every step to stay ahead of Myzax and his club.

Sees herself grabbing the chain, tugging him down to his death.

Pidge tells herself constantly that she’d only done what she had to, in order to survive, but it doesn’t help much. Not with her fear, or with her guilt. There are some things even her rationality can’t work through, even if it can keep them under the surface. Even she is not that good.

She’s lost somewhere in these thoughts, fingers digging into her knees as she sits, and eyes closed as she envisions the arena, tries to picture what she may have to face next, when Shiro starts screaming.

It cuts through her muddled mind instantly, and she scrambles to his side as quickly as she can, faltering when she realizes he’s still asleep. She touches his shoulder gently, unsure of what to do.

Matt used to get night terrors, when he was younger. She would hear him from down the hall. He would always wake himself up, though, by the time she got there, sometimes before she’d even gotten out of bed. He’d always insist on sleeping in her room, those nights, would either find his way there himself or she would carry him back, if she’d already been on her way to wake him. They’d sleep curled up back to back on her bed, all sharp spines digging into each other as they breathed but not moving an inch, and he’d have no more nightmares for the rest of the night.

Somehow, she doubts the same strategy will work here. She hesitates, and then touches Shiro’s shoulder again, shaking him more firmly. “Shiro!” she barks, and is relieved when his eyes snap open, entire frame heaving as he gasps for breath.

“Are you—“ she begins to ask, before he suddenly sits up and turns, slamming her against the ground in one smooth movement, forearm pressed against her neck. His eyes are wide and unseeing, teeth bared in a wild snarl, and she scrambles, fingers clawing at his arm as she gasps for air. For a long moment he doesn’t relent, and when her vision begins to go black at the edges, she can’t help but think it’s ironic, having survived an alien abduction and a literal gladiator match, only to be taken out by her best friend.

Poor Shiro, he’s going to be devastated when he comes to his senses and realizes what he’s done.

Then, right when she’s about given up, hands going limp, Shiro’s eyes clear, terror filling them, and he jumps back. Pidge wheezes as the weight against her throat is suddenly gone, desperate to bring in as much air as possible, and then rolls onto her side, hacking and coughing as she tries to bring her body back to some kind of equilibrium. When she can finally breathe easy again, she sits back up slowly, and finds Shiro staring at her in unabashed horror.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking faintly sick. “I’m—shit. I’m so sorry, I thought—“ He cuts off when she leans forward, pulling him into a hug that he relaxes into for a fraction of a second before catching himself, and attempting to scramble further away from her. Pidge just hangs on stubbornly, waiting until he gives up. He doesn’t hug her back, arms still limp at his side, but she decides to count her wins where she can. “I—“ Shiro starts, and then falls silent again.

“You were back in the arena, weren’t you?” Pidge asks softly, and Shiro shakes, a small, cracking sob echoing out of him before he brings a trembling hand to his mouth, stifling the sound. “It’s alright,” she says, and Shiro tears away from her, expression thunderous.

“It’s not alright! I—fuck, Pidge, I nearly killed you!”

“But you didn’t,” she points out calmly, and Shiro scowls.

“That’s not the point! I can’t believe I—“ He scooches away from her pointedly, putting several feet of distance between them. “I’m dangerous…” he finishes at last, entire demeanor miserable.

“You’re traumatized,” Pidge corrects bluntly. “It’s not your fault, Shiro. I was the one who tried to wake you up. I should have known what you were having a nightmare about.” Shiro says nothing, and she sighs, shifting enough so that she can sit with her back against the wall, wincing and touching her neck gingerly as she does so. It’ll bruise, that’s for damn sure.

Shiro watches her carefully as she does so, his expression almost painfully guilty. “I hurt you.”

“Yes,” Pidge admits, “but it’s not anything worse than the bruises I’ve already got from the arena.” Shiro winces, and she decides that was probably the wrong thing to say. “…I get it, you know,” she says quietly, changing tactics. “I’d probably be having nightmares, too, if I could sleep at all.”

“I just…” Shiro runs a shaky hand through his hair, tiredly staring down at the ground. “I can’t stop seeing it. Him. Myzax. I get he was a monster and had probably hurt hundreds of people but still—“ He looks up, eyes haunted. “I’d never killed someone before, Pidge.”

“…Neither had I,” Pidge says, even knowing as she says it that it is, in a way, different. They may have killed Myzax together, they may share the weight of the action, but the blade had been in Shiro’s hand. It was he who had driven it through Myzax’s skull. That’s a particular burden she can’t begin to understand.

At least, not yet—she has no doubt she will have to face the consequences of being the one to deal a killing blow, eventually, if she intends to survive. Perhaps quite soon, even.

“I can’t go back in there,” Shiro says hollowly. “I just…can’t. I’d rather die.”

“Well that’s your only other option,” Pidge points out bluntly, and Shiro glares at her.

“How can you be so calm about this?” he asks, and the question startles a laugh out of her.

“I’m not. Jesus, Shiro, you don’t think I’m terrified?” She holds up a hand, and Shiro’s eyes dart to it, to her trembling fingers. “I can’t sleep, I can’t calm down all I can think about is what might happen in that arena next—when I’m not just panicking about whether we’ll even find a way to escape and get home, at least.”

“But you’re not attacking people in your sleep,” Shiro says dully, the picture of abject misery. “And earlier, with Mazlo—“ He sighs. “You’re just…so controlled.”

“Because I have to be,” Pidge says with a shrug. “In a situation like this, me panicking outwardly gets us nowhere. If I give in to my fear, if I stop making myself think and try to plan ahead, then I give up, and I can’t do that.” She shakes her head. “I won’t die in here, Shiro. I’m going home, no matter what it takes.”

Shiro’s mouth quirks up in a sad smile. “I wish I could be as confident as you. I hate this…feeling, like I have no control. Like anyone could look at me and see just how broken I already am.”

She looks over him for a moment, studying the dark circles under his eyes and the solemn droop of his shoulders, and then sighs, holding out a hand. “C’mon.” Shiro hesitates for a moment, and then shuffles over, sitting against the wall next to her. She throws her arm over his shoulders, ignoring the awkward strain their considerable height difference puts on her own shoulder. “You’re not broken, Shiro. You’re human.”

“I feel broken.”

“So do I,” Pidge admits. “I feel like my head’s going to go flying off my shoulders at any moment, with how much I can’t stop thinking.”

They fall silent, and Shiro exhales slowly, leaning his head against her own. “This will probably sound fucked up given our situation, but I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if I could do this, without you.”

Pidge swallows roughly, closing her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, too.” She pauses, and then adds, softly, “I can’t make the decision for you, Shiro, about whether to fight, or to die, but I want you to live. I need you to. We’re a team, we always have been.”

“…Yeah,” Shiro says after a moment. “We’re a motherfucking team, right till the end.” He falls silent, and then sighs, long and heavy. “I don’t want to die, not yet.”

“…Then don’t,” Pidge says.

It’s the only thing she can say, really.

The walk to their second fight is a silent, solemn affair.

Pidge hadn’t thought it could get much worse than that first time, trudging the halls with the sentries roaming amongst them as they all crowded together, Delphine’s fearful whispers the soundtrack to accompany the dull thuds and rumbles of the arena above them. She was wrong, apparently.

Instead, she and Shiro walk alone, a whole group of guards and sentries accompanying them, with a gun aimed at the back of their heads the whole time. She understands. Before, they were just another couple of prisoners, dragged out to be the fodder for Myzax’s bloodbath. Now it’s different. Now, they are dangerous.

She pointedly doesn’t give the guards a single look as they make their way to the arena, eyes ahead and arms at her sides, a perfectly painted picture of relaxation. Even she can act, when it comes down to it, apparently. Shiro is much the same, and if she didn’t know him the resolute set of his shoulders and the curled fists of his hands would be intimidating. She does know him, though, and so the catch of the edge of his bodysuit’s sleeve between his thumb and middle finger, worriedly picked at, is enough to display his nerves to her. If anyone knows Shiro’s nervous habits by this point, it’s Pidge.

When they reach the tunnel that opens up into the arena, hovering just before the mouth of it, the slightest of tremors picks up in Shiro’s arms, barely noticeable, and Pidge places her hand over the wrist of the nearer one, the closest thing to comfort she can offer in this situation. Shiro glances down to her, attempting a tremulous smile that falls quickly. “It’s quiet.”

She knows what he means. Somehow, she wants Delphine’s nervous chattering here again, Mazlo’s annoyed grumblings, and the indistinct murmurs of the other slaves. It had…made her feel less alone, reminded her that there were always others here, trapped in the same situation—others that, while not her friends, were not her enemies.

Now, it’s just her and Shiro.

In a weird way, it hurts. Maybe, she thinks, Mazlo hadn’t been entirely wrong. Sometimes people just matter, down here, even if you’re not quite sure why.

“Yeah,” she murmurs in response to Shiro. It’s all she can offer.

A few of the guards approach them, and in their arms are an assortment of weapons: one holds the sword from their last fight, and in the another’s…Pidge blinks, doing a double-take. It’s Myzax’s club, huge and unwieldy in the guard’s arms, to the point where another is not so subtly propping up the portion of the club not in the first guard’s arms.

“What’s this?” Shiro asks, his voice cracking just slightly, and Pidge isn’t sure if it’s merely in shock, or in fear.

The guards shift uncomfortably, glancing to one another. “The champion retains the weapons of those they vanquish, should they choose,” one says eventually. “It’s tradition.”

Pidge eyes the club, remembering the shattering force of its orb, the heavy pain of drawing breath from running so hard to avoid it, and then snorts, shaking her head. It’s a crude, cruel weapon; she wants nothing to do with it. Shiro just turns pale, stepping back and waving his hands in an obvious decline. Clearly his feelings on the matter are similar.

“No thanks,” Pidge says tersely for the both of them, then leans past the guards with the club to eye the others and what they hold, considering. “…I’ll take my chain back, though, if I’m allowed to have that,” she adds on, almost surprising herself with the words. She hadn’t realized she wanted it back until she’d seen it, dangling in one of the guards’ arms.

Another guard hands it to her, just as the first gives Shiro his blade, and she watches him take it with distaste. Pidge almost understands, can’t help but remember the feel of her chain’s weight in her hands as she’d thrown it over Myzax’s neck, and it’s a heavy burden, but her practicality still outweighs that. She needs something to fight with, after all.

There’s a cough, and she glances over to one last guard, his arms extended to offer her another blade, identical to Shiro’s. It must be the standard, what every slave receives when they enter the arena. She’d just been denied one last time because the two of them had been thrown in together as an impromptu punishment.

Almost unthinkingly, she takes it. It’s large and unwieldy in her arms, built for someone of a much bigger stature than her own, and even as she scowls and wonders why the hell they couldn’t have found a smaller version, she does take note it’s surprisingly light, despite its size.

Fucking alien metals. How she’d have loved to get her hands on the secrets of what this was made out of, in another life.

Right now, all she’s concerned with is whether she’s capable of wielding it.

She considers it for a moment, and then promptly drops it on the ground, ignoring the startling and aimed blasters of several guards around her at the noise. Crouching down, she takes one end of the chain and loops it through the handle in the most complicated knot she can manage. When she stands, she holds the chain carefully with both hands, using it to lift up the blade and check it hangs evenly.

“Is that a good idea?” Shiro asks lowly.

“I’m too small to handle it as it’s intended very well, but I know I can swing this decently enough. And this way I don’t have to get as close.” She looks up to him, and shrugs. “Whatever works, right? It’s not like you knew you were capable of using that thing until you got it in your hands.”

Shiro’s mouth is a thin, unhappy line, but he nods begrudgingly. “True.” He shifts to stand at her side, the both of them facing the entryway to the arena, and his eyes scan the guards carefully. “They’re different, this time.”

“They’re scared,” Pidge says bluntly. The guards know what they’re capable of now.

A roar of noise from the arena comes, signaling the end of a fight, the call for a new contender, and they glance at each other, and then back to the waiting guards as they lift their guns, blasters whirring as they aim them pointedly at their backs, a promise that there is no chance to turn back, should they be so inclined. “Still doesn’t change anything, though,” Shiro says, and Pidge inclines her head in agreement.

Her heart hammers in her chest, loud and frightened, and the glimmer of white above them is the headlights all over again, continually daring her to stop and stare rather than get out of the way and save herself.

“No, she says. “It doesn’t.”

Together, they step forward, into the light.

Delphine is up the moment they step back into the cell, exhausted and a little more than worse for the wear. There was no medical check, this time. Pidge did not see the two Galra who had whispered above her head again.

Delphine rushes forward as soon as the doors shut, throwing her arms around Pidge and nearly knocking her over.

“You came back,” she cries, and Pidge isn’t sure if the feeling in her chest is sorrow or relief, but either way, it hurts just a little.

Mazlo watches her cautiously over Delphine’s shoulder, eyes wary and careful as he studies her, then Shiro. He knows, sees what Delphine perhaps refuses to—it may not be death, but coming back has its own implications, too—and while he doesn’t judge them for it, he still notes it.

“Yeah,” Pidge says hollowly, feeling slow and clumsy to hug Delphine back, even as she reminds herself they can’t matter. Not Delphine, not Mazlo, not any of these nameless prisoners. Only Shiro.

She understands now, why they hadn’t given her their names, or spoken to her when she’d first arrived. They were trying to save themselves from the attachment.

“…I came back.”

#Stormbreaker / Coffinmaker (Voltron)#my writing #voltron #vld fanfic #pidge big bang

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