Chapter Text
He dreams of a storm. Vaster than the mind can comprehend, it spans star systems, extinguishes supernovas in its downpour, plugs black holes with its storm-cloud fists. Barely lucid, Keith thinks of Earth. He thinks he misses it. He knows he’s dreaming but the rolling thunder feels real, and as it drowns out the universe, he wonders why he can’t wake up.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
When at last he comes to, there is a brilliant, blinding light skewering his eyes.
For a long moment, the light burns so brightly he can’t remember his name. It summersaults through his vision, vibrant and white, and blearily he raises a hand to block it. He sees his own pale fingers and thinks: I’m Keith.
Then he thinks of the others. Before his age, or status, or purpose has even returned, he thinks of the others and fear rips through him like an electric shock. He can’t remember where they are. Not where he is, where they are.
He sits, dizzy, and finds the source of the light: a spotlight, like one he’d see on a theatre stage, grinning at him from the darkness. He’s confined within a small white cubicle, just big enough for his body. It feels like coming to in a tight little tomb. Extending his arms, Keith’s fingertips trace the walls on either side of him. They’re cold and white, but shimmer when he touches them. Black veins appear in the icy wall in the wake of his fingers, and he quickly withdraws them. The fuck?
Keith shudders, rubbing his head. How the hell did he get here? And again, importantly, where are the others?
He tries to recall his last known whereabouts as he struggles to his feet. His legs are heavy and disorientated; he has to support himself against the wall, and cringes as black veins spring to the surface where his flesh meets the strange white stone. Visions of his dream spiral through his head, and the black veins remind him of the lightning bolts, large enough to shatter nebulas.
There’s only one way for him to go. Keith staggers from the tomb-like room and into the spotlight. Its heat hits his head, but the heat doesn’t feel like warmth—it feels like a cold sticky liquid dripping down his back.
More light appears ahead, and the hall widens, but he’s too disorientated to see what it all means. He only staggers forward, hoping the others will be there.
Abruptly, Keith’s legs hit a blockade. He stops, swaying, frowning down at the milky white tabletop blocking his way. He rubs the spots from his eyes, letting them adjust. Abruptly the spotlight sweeps away from him, allowing him to see the room.
Before him is a podium that reaches his waist, and when he cranes his head left and right, there are four others, two on either side of him. They form a semi-circle around an open white stage. Beyond the stage, the bright lights quickly dissipate, but Keith swears he sees rows of seats—an audience—lingering in the shadows. A faint buzz infiltrates the air, the distant roar of a crowd.
He strains to remember anything—where was he last? What was he doing?
Flashes of their recent encounters buzz around in his mind—their Battle with Lotor, losing the castle, heading for home. But the last memory he has is merely travelling through space in the black lion. Excluding his strange dream, there’s nothing unusual, nothing untoward. Are they safe, then? Are they with allies?
Keith’s head snaps to a new source of noise; feet shuffle forward from the direction he came from. Shielding his eyes from the light, Lance comes stumbling from the pitch-dark passageway. Relief sears through Keith’s veins, so overwhelming he almost misses that a door slides shut behind Lance, sealing him off from the tomb-like rooms.
“Lance?” He calls out, but his voice is rough. Rubbing at his throat, he tries again. “Are you okay?”
Lance finds the podium next to Keith and hunches over it, ill.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles, head cradled in his hands. “I feel so sick.”
“It passes,” Keith offers. “Do you know where we are?”
Blearily, Lance raises his head. He looks fine, albeit a little washed out, but that could be due to the lights.
“No idea,” he breathes. His eyes widen as he drinks in the room. “What the hell is this?”
“I don’t know,” Keith replies. “Last thing I remember is flying in Black.”
“Same here. But my memory was shot when I woke up. Couldn’t even remember who I was.”
They turn their heads at the sound of another door opening. Allura comes staggering out into the light, fists raises, ready for a fight.
“Hey, Allura,” Lance calls.
She drops her fists, frowning. “Lance? Keith? What–”
“Guys?”
Pidge emerges on Keith’s left, soon followed by Hunk, who staggers out the passageway before all three doors seal shut. They dissolve back into the cold white wall, and Keith suppresses a shiver.
“What the heck is happening?” Hunk whimpers, craning his head around the room.
“I don’t know,” Keith breathes. “But it doesn’t seem…bad?”
“Is anyone hurt?” Allura asks. “Does anyone remember anything?”
“Flying in the lions,” Pidge says. “That’s it.”
They all nod.
“Right,” Lance says. “Right, so, I have a question. Maybe a dumb question but, uh, why… Why were we in the lions?”
Keith waits, expecting someone to answer. He waits, and thinks, and realises he doesn’t know. And no one else is answering. “Uh,” he says. “We… We’re going home.”
“Home?’ Hunk interrupts, as though he’s shocked to hear it. “Weren’t we responding to a distress call?”
“What?” Keith asks, puzzled. Surely he’d remember if they were midway to aiding someone.
“No no no,” Lance chimes in. “It’s coming back, now. Coran and Shiro, they were having technical problems? Remember? Cause… Cause Pidge was talking about it. We were on our way there.”
“I never talked about that,” Pidge says, frowning. “And I’m pretty sure Keith’s right; we were heading for Earth, via the Sharagon Nebula.”
“Sharagon Nebula?” Keith blurts. “What? No–”
“I think it’s obvious to see we’re all wrong,” Allura cuts in. She inhales deeply, but the anxious movements of her fingers betray her worry. “Something’s tampered with our memory.”
“We’re safe though, aren’t we?” Keith asks. He’s trying to placate them, he realises. But at the same time, a warm calmness slips through his veins like a tranquilizer. “We’re together. No one’s hurt. We… We’re okay.”
“I do feel calm,” Allura admits. “I haven’t… I don’t think I’ve felt like this in a very long time.”
“Maybe we’re just dreaming,” says Hunk. “A lion mind-meld.”
“Funky mind-meld,” Pidge mutters.
She raises her arms to inspect them, as though trying to spot an inconsistency in herself, something to prove this is a dream. Only then does it occur to Keith that they aren’t in their armour; each of them is dressed in identical white clothing—long sleeves and pants—and each has a colourful armband embroided into their shirt. Keith’s is black. He looks at Lance and sees his is red. Everyone’s band matches their lion.
“What do you think–” Lance begins, but is cut off by a sudden flourish of trumpets.
The stage lights flare, burning gold, and spotlights begin to swivel around the room. The ceiling is impossibly high, and the stage lights form a sort of barrier, an impenetrable haze that masks the true height of the room. Now Keith can see rows of audience chairs around the room, but they’re wrong, flat. They’re simply 2-D drawings, he realises, painted onto the walls.
He tenses as a crack sounds above them, and an object begins descending slowly toward the stage from up high. It’s a spherical disk, made of the same white stone as the walls, but as it descends lower Keith sees it houses a chair. More gold lights shoot from the edges of the chair, bathing the room in disorientating beams. Punchy music fills the air, and the invisible crowd roars as the chair rotates, exposing the green figure seated in the centre. Smaller than Pidge, the alien sports a too-wide grin and too-wide eyes, and though he appears kind of…cute, by definition, something about him gives Keith the creeps.
“Welcome!” a crackly voice bellows through the theatre, though it isn’t coming from the green alien. “To another exciting episode of the craaaziest game in the galaxy!” The crowd roars, almost drowning out the commentator. “Garfle Warfle Snick!”
Keith looks to his friends for guidance. The best he gets is a shrug from Lance.
“And now,” the invisible commentator crows. “Here’s the host of Garfle Warfle Snick!” The chair rotates, and the alien throws four hands up to drink in the cheers. “Bob!”
“Bob?” Pidge mouths.
Keith frowns as the alien, Bob, flies about on his disk, waving to the non-existent crowd. He angles a wink toward a camera affixed to the wall, but has no-one else to present to. The announcer continues—something about this being the universe’s best show—but Keith’s head is spinning. Something’s off, but he’s too hazy to determine what. There’s an ache in the back of his skull, and an itch in his skin telling him there’s something he’s forgetting. He presses his eyes shut, trying to recall their last known whereabouts, trying to recall what they were doing–
“Hello? Is this thing on?”
A round of forced, prerecorded laughter ripples through the theatre. Keith peels his eyes open to find the alien, Bob, right up in his face.
He flinches, and an ineloquent, “Huh?” punches from his chest.
“I said,” Bob drawls, in an tone disturbingly reminiscent of a game show host, “tell us your name, son.”
“W…What’s happening?” Keith asks, squinting to see past Bob.
Bob swerves his chair back into Keith’s line of sight, leaning in until they’re almost nose to nose. “That’s a funny name.” More laughter erupts from the absent crowd. “How about your real one?”
“Uh, I’m Keith. Who… Uh, who are you?”
“Looks like someone didn’t polish their ears today,” Bob sing-songs. He spins away on his chair, just to throw his arms up and exclaim, “I’m Bob! I’m the host of Garfle Warfle Snick!”
“Uh, I think what he means is, how did we get here?”
Keith glances to his right, where Lance has thankfully picked up the slack. Why does Keith feel so…slow?
“I hope not the same way I got here,” Bob replies, and waffles on through another aimless joke.
Keith can barely pay attention, especially not to garbage like this. His eyes rake the theatre as Bob coaxes another laugh from the audience. It looks like a studio, albeit bigger and…stranger. More alien.
“Okay, Keith.” Bob slides back into view, and props two of his four arms on Keith’s podium. “I’m sure you know how to play our game.”
“No,” Keith stutters.
“It’s simple!” Bob exclaims. “You’ll learn as we go.”
“Shouldn’t we…” Allura drifts off, frowning slightly. “I don’t think we’re meant to be here.”
“And where should you be?” Bob enquires, chipper as ever. “You didn’t double book yourself, did you?”
“How long does the game last?” Keith asks. Yes, there’s a question that makes sense.
“As long as I want it to,” Bob answers, grinning. It doesn’t feel like an answer one should be grinning about, but who’s Keith to argue. “Now, who’s ready for Round One?”
In his heart, Keith wants to say no, wait. But the problem is this doesn’t seem wrong. It doesn’t scream danger. He sees no reason for them not to be there. It’s a game show, a tacky, studio game show. His mind is too foggy to protest.
“Let’s get cracking!” the invisible commentator bellows. Keith shields his eyes as the stage lights go chasing after the audiences’ cheers and whoops. “Round One,” the commentator announces. “Colouring between the lines.”
Keith frowns as the podium before him glows brightly. When the light dies down, a sheet of paper is revealed, alongside a pack of coloured markers. There are six colours: red, blue, yellow, green, pink, and black. Is Bob for real? Are they…colouring in?
“Colouring between the lines,” Bob repeats. “In this round, players will have to colour in a picture based on the colour they think it should be. And today’s picture…drumroll please!”
From the absent audience comes the thunder of feet, counting down to Bob’s big announcement.
“Paladin Keith!” Bob cries. A cheer goes up, the lights flare, and when Keith looks down at the paper, there’s a black and white line drawing of…uh…well, it looks kinda like him.
“We’re colouring in Keith?” To his left, Pidge is frowning at her paper. “Is this for real?”
“There’s five doboshes remaining,” Bob sing-songs. “Colour in his suit the colour you think it should be.”
“This is so stupid,” Keith mutters.
“Just colour the picture,” Hunk hisses. “Maybe he’ll answer our questions after this.”
Stifling a sigh, Keith goes to select a marker. Red, blue, yellow, green, pink, and black. He selects the black marker and begins to colour between the lines, glowering the whole time. What’s the point of this, colouring in a stupid picture of him in his armour? He digs the marker in too hard, crushing the head into the paper.
“Aaand, time’s up!”
Keith glances at his drawing. It’s nothing impressive, but that wasn’t a hard task either. What the hell is going on?
“Let’s see the results,” Bob calls, and with a click of his fingers, a large projection of their drawings appear on the wall behind them.
Everyone’s done much the same, although Pidge’s colouring-in abilities are notably worse than anyone else’s.
“Wow, Lance,” Hunk muses. “Yours is so good.”
“Pros of having a niece and nephew,” Lance boasts casually. “You get pretty good at colouring in.”
Lance, Pidge, Keith, and Allura have all coloured his suit in black. Only Hunk’s is red. Keith doesn’t think anything of it, but Bob descends on the yellow paladin immediately.
“So, Hunk, tell me,” he drawls, propping his elbow on Hunk’s podium. “You’re the only one who chose red. Is it because you don’t view Keith as the leader?”
Hunk’s reaction is instantaneous. “What?” he splutters. “Wha- No! What? That isn’t what I- I coloured it red cause he’s the red paladin!”
“But I thought he was the black paladin,” Bob asks, spinning away on his chair. “Was I wrong?”
“No!” Hunk squeaks, horrified. “He’s the black paladin, I just meant., like- H-he’s always been red. Keith,” he pleads, turning to him. “I didn’t mean it like that, I-”
“It’s okay,” Keith says quickly. “I mean it, it doesn’t even matter-”
“What a wild start to the first round!” Bob interrupts. “One paladin who doesn’t think Keith’s the leader, and one who does! But with such divided opinions, how do we know the rest are telling the truth? Ooh,” he taunts, and scandalised gasps erupt from the audience.
“Hey,” Lance calls. Arms crossed, he frowns up at Bob. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but Keith’s our leader. And I think I speak for him and all of us when I say we’d like some answers.”
“Answers?” Bob asks. “How about the answers to the next round!”
Music blasts through the theatre, and Keith’s head spins with the lights. Laugh tracks overlie the music; he’s beginning to hate the sound.
“Is this guy for real?” Lance mutters.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Bob’s voice booms across the studio. “What has two hands, wields a gun, and doesn’t know who the leader of Voltron is? That’s rrrright! It’s the yellow paladin!”
To Keith’s left, a blinding light envelopes Hunk. He and Lance both open their mouths to cry out as Hunk vanishes. A moment later, the blinding light bursts to life before them, in four separate patches. As the light clears, Keith’s left staring at not one, not two, but four Hunk’s.
For a second, the team falls into paralysed silence. Hunk—all four Hunks—blink away the blinding light, craning their heads to see where they are.
“Uh,” Pidge begins.
“Oh my god,” says centre-right Hunk. “Is there four of me? Why is there four of me?”
“What’s happening?” says left, followed by centre-left saying, “What the hell, guys?”
“Do you see this!” cries right-Hunk. “Is everyone seeing this?”
“We’re seeing this,” calls Pidge.
“Just stay calm,” Allura orders. “Bob, what have you done to him?”
“I haven’t done anything!” Bob exclaims. “And you’d know that if you knew which was him.” He chuckles at the sight of their puzzled faces.
“Round Two!” cries the pre-recorded commentator. “Who Are You?”
“This game’s simple,” Bob says cheerily. “Simply deduce which Hunk is the real one, and press the buttons that correspond to the imposters!”
A cheer goes through the air. Right on cue, four buttons appear on the podium before Keith, and momentarily flare red before fading to dull.
“Oh,” adds Bob. “And do it before the time runs out.”
A timer appears on the screen, counting down from ten doboshes.
“Ok,” Pidge says immediately. “We can do this, just ask him something only he’d know.”
“But they’re clones!” Lance cries.
“Guys, I’m me,” says left-Hunk.
“What!” right-Hunk exclaims. “No, no no no, I-”
“I am literally me,” centre-right says.
“Guys, I’m scared,” says centre-left. “I’m me-”
“All of you be quiet!” Pidge snaps. “Arguing isn’t going to help, the real you knows that! So, help me get to the bottom of this.”
All Hunks hesitates, before nodding in sync.
“Right,” Pidge breathes. “Lance, you know Hunk the best. Any ideas?”
“Uuh,” Lance hesitates. “Some, I guess. But how do we know what the fake Hunks know?”
“They’re projections,” Pidge says. “Not the true him. There’ll be inconsistencies.” She adjusts her glasses, glaring at the Hunks in warning. “You can’t perfect that process so quickly.”
“You’re making me nervous,” right Hunk mumbles.
“Good,” says Pidge. “Cause this is an interrogation.”
“Oh, I’ve got one!” Lance announces. “Hunk,” he says, speaking to all four. “What was the name of the teacher in seventh grade who made us sit apart in English?”
All four Hunks blink. One goes to open his mouth, but Pidge cries, “Wait! We need them to write it, else they’ll all copy the first guy.”
“Of course,” Allura mutters. “Bob, can he write?”
“Sure he can,” Bob calls.
In a flash, four tablets appear in each of the Hunk’s hands.
“Alright,” says Pidge. “Answer the question there.”
The team waits in silence as all four Hunks write their answer onto the tablet. When everyone stops, Allura orders them to show the screens at once.
Centre-left Hunk holds a sign that reads Mrs Simmons. Every other Hunk has written We met in 8th grade.
“Damn,” says Lance. “I really thought that would work better. Well, you’re out,” he says, angling a finger at centre-left Hunk.
“What!” the Hunk exclaims. “But it was Mrs Simmons! Eighth grade, seventh, what does it matter!”
“Uh, it matters cause you never forget our friend-iversary,” Lance says, looking away in disdain. “Bye-bye, fake friend.”
He hits the centre-left button, and that Hunk disappears in a flash of light.
“This is perfect,” Allura says. “Lance, see if you can come up with another question. Pidge is right, there are inconsistencies.”
“On the day I became black paladin,” Keith blurts. “You found me in the hangar. What did you say to me?”
“Damn, are you sure he’d remember something like that?” Pidge asks.
“He’d remember,” Keith says with conviction.
He stares straight into the centre of the Hunks, avoiding eye contact with any. They hesitate a moment, before solemnly beginning to write on the tablet. When they turn the screens this time, three different things are written.
You’re the black paladin to me, says left Hunk’s.
All that matters is that you’re Keith and you care about us, says the middle Hunk’s.
You aren’t Shiro and you’ll never be, says right Hunk’s. That Hunk looks down sadly, eyes averted from Keith.
Frowning tightly, Keith hits the left-most button, and that Hunk vanishes just like his counterpart. Two remain.
“Well,” says Pidge. “Which one’s right?”
“He said both those things to me,” Keith says softly. “They’re both right.”
“Wow,” Lance whistles, looking between the ‘All that matters’ and ‘You aren’t Shiro’ signs. “Mixed bag.”
“He was honest,” Keith says. He glances quickly at right-Hunk. “And I needed that.”
“Four dobashes remaining,” Bob reminds them. “And we still don’t know who the real Hunk is!”
“I do,” says Lance. “It’s him.” He points directly at the Hunk on the left.
“What?” Allura exclaims. “How do you know?”
“Cause he’s been acting out our secret signal all this time,” says Lance. “See his right hand?”
They all squint, including the Hunk to the right. Left-Hunk, conscious of all the eyes on him, looks to Lance in relief.
“The finger-twisty,” Lance announces confidently. He raises his own hand, acting out a convoluted, one hand gesture, mirrored by left-Hunk. “A subtle warning. All culminating in…boom,” he finishes, as left-Hunk proudly hoists up three fingers all crossed over one-another.
“Perfect,” says Lance. He hits a button, and instantly left-Hunk vanishes into light.
“What!” Pidge blurts.
“I thought you said that was the real Hunk?” Allura cries.
“I lied,” Lance says. “Hunk, man, good to have you back.”
“Hoooly shit.” Right-Hunk, literally the right Hunk, mops sweat from his brow. “I thought you were serious for a second there, man.”
“You kidding? You think I’d mistake your secret code with David fucking Lamb for our secret code? Man, I hate that guy.”
“I know, I know, I promise you’re my best friend,” Hunk says, trudging back toward his spot.
The others watch the friends reunite in shock.
“Uh, well done?” Keith offers.
“Yeah, well-played, guys,” says Pidge.
“Ah,” Bob chimes in, unwelcomed. “But the game is far from over.”
“Are you kidding?” Pidge growls. Her mouth snaps shuts as Allura disappears in a pulse of light. “Oh, shit.”
She rematerializes a moment later in four replicates, just like Hunk did.
“Oh for crying out loud!” Lance exclaims.
“This is tedious,” snaps right-Allura.
“Tell me about it,” mutters left-Allura.
The clock springs to life on the screen, but this time only displays five dobashes.
“What! Five?” Keith barks. “That isn’t fair!”
“That’s the game,” Bob sing-songs. “You either like it, or you love it.”
“Ugh, fine,” Lance snaps. “Allura, what colour did the mice wear on my birthday?”
All four Alluras instantly scribble something down on their tablets. They hoist them up, showing four identical answers: Blue.
“Alright, that’s on me,” Lance sighs. “Too easy.”
“Come on, come on,” Pidge mutters, mostly to herself. “Oh! How many moustache brushes does Coran have on his nightstand? I remember he showed me,” she says smugly, arms folded.
All four Alluras immediately scribble something down. They reveal their signs, which are once again identical: One. It’s a multi-tool.
Left-Allura taps the sign to emphasise her answer, and as a way of telling them to hurry up. The team hums and haws, until Hunk blurts out, “At the ball on Earan, you showed me a dance your father taught you. Not the waltz,” he warns. “The other. What was it called?”
“That’s a good one,” Pidge murmurs under her breath, as the Alluras’ eyes light up.
Each begins to write, and Keith holds his breath as the clock ticks down from three dobashes. Once complete, they raise the tablets again. Keith’s heart sinks.
“The Lightning Fly dance,” Hunk sighs, reading from them. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“This isn’t working!” Pidge despairs. “Come on guys, dig deeper!”
“She’s a reserved person!” Hunk cries. “That was me digging deep!”
All four Alluras roll their eyes, but nod to a little of the truth at the end.
“Ah hah!” All heads snap to Lance in the wake of his exclamation. “You!” he says, angling a finger at the Alluras. “You can braid hair.”
“And?” right-Allura asks.
The other three look equally confused.
“You might know what our Allura knows,” Lance says. “But can you do what she does?”
“Two dobashes,” Pidge warns.
“Pidge! Keith!” Lance snaps. “You’ve got the longest hair. Go, go! Left two Alluras, you’re braiding Pidge’s hair, right two, you’re on Keith.”
“What?” Keith blurts.
“There’s no time to argue!” Lance practically grabs Pidge and Keith by the arm and drags them toward the line of Alluras. “Stay in position,” he warns them. “I want to see a braid from each of you. Stat!”
Before Keith can argue, or enquire what the hell is going on, the right two Alluras swarm him. One grabs the left half of his hair, the other the right, before they frantically begin braiding it.
He nearly snaps at them to stop pulling, but realises Lance will tease him for eternity, and swallows his protests as they tug uncomfortably at his hair.
“One dobash,” Hunk calls.
Lance hovers before them, eyes like a hawk, watching their fingers work. Out the corner of his eye, Keith sees Pidge grimace as her own hair is tugged at. This would be comical if he knew why the hell they were doing it.
“Thirty ticks!” Hunk calls.
“Everyone stop!” Lance orders. The Alluras draw back, and Keith resists the urge to feel over his hair. Lance inspects their work, frowning. “Hunk,” he says. “Real Allura is centre-left.”
There’s a zap, followed by a burst of light, and three Alluras vanish in fast succession.
“Oh, thank the skies,” real Allura exclaims.
“Well that was…weird,” Pidge says. Keith catches her eye. “Wow,” she comments dryly. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” Keith mutters. “So do you.”
“That half of her, yes,” Allura says. “But look at my half.” She turns Pidge to show them all the perfect braid down half her hair.
“I see the difference,” Keith grimaces, eyeing the other half.
“Yeah, let me just-” Lance reaches forward to tousle Keith’s hair, undoing the pathetic attempt at braids. Keith’s freezes, hoping Bob won’t magically detect the sudden spike in his pulse.
“Excellent effort!” Speak of the devil. “If only that was the last task to solve!”
“Wait,” Lance says, narrowing his eyes. “What do you-”
With a snap, Lance vanishes from view.
“Seriously!” Hunk cries.
“Oh my god,” bemoans Pidge. “Are we gonna do this all day?”
“Reset!” Bob calls, ignoring them.
The same gold light that guided them to their places in the first instance springs to life around them. Keith curses as it traps his ankles, spiriting him away back to his place behind the podium.
“It’s the final phase of Who Are You?” Bob announces, soaring around in his chair. Lance is yet to materialise. “Thus far the paladins of Voltron have vanquished the illusions, revealing the real Hunk and Allura. But will they advance to Round Three?”
“Get on with it,” Pidge says, smacking her head to the counter. “We have a universe to save, dude.”
“That’s what you think,” Bob sing-songs. “Now, without further ado, heeere’s Lance!”
“Oh, yippee,” Pidge deadpans, as four Lances burst to life before them.
“It just had to be me,” centre-left Lance exclaims.
“Uh, and me,” says left Lance.
“Would you guys shut up,” says centre-right.
“Let’s just get on with it,” the final says with a resigned sigh.
“Lance!” Hunk exclaims. “Don’t worry, I’ve been preparing questions in case he did this.” He clears his throat. “What was the star sign of my first pet turtle?”
Four blank faces stare back at him.
“Uh,” says centre-right Lance. “I don’t know that, dude.”
“What?” Hunk exclaims. “But I told you on our first ever sleepover!”
“Could you ask me literally anything else about our first ever sleepover?” asks left Lance.
“Ugh,” Keith growls. “This is stupid. Lance, what was my Galra name going to be?”
“You told him that?” Pidge blurts.
“You have a Galra name?” Allura asks, wrinkling her nose.
Keith ignores them, stifling a sigh as he watches the Lances write. They’ve only got eight dobashes left, but at least Bob gave them more time. He doesn’t know why this phase is meant to be any harder, considering Allura only got five dobashes, and she’s the toughest cookie to crack.
Keith’s brow twitches as the Lances hold up their tablets.
“Yurak?” Hunk blurts, flabbergasted.
“Or is it…Yorlac?” Pidge asks, frowning at the fourth sign.
“It is not,” Keith sighs.
He brings his finger down on the centre-right button. The button clicks, but nothing happens. It doesn’t light up, and when he glances back, the fourth Lance is still there. Keith jams the button again. Still nothing.
“Uh oh.” Keith already wants to punch Bob in the face. Hearing him say uh oh like that only intensifies the urge. “Looks like someone forgot the rules of the third phase.”
“What rules?” Keith barks. “There were no rules.”
Before Bob can answer, a panel opens in the counter beside the buttons. Rising slowly from within is a small metal object, which glints as it meets the lights of the studio.
“It’s the elimination phase!” Bob announces. “Real elimination.”
In a state of disbelief, Keith picks up the object. It fits snug in his hand, cold as ice, and heavier than it looks.
“Woah woah woah,” says centre-left Lance. “Is that a gun?”
“A what?” blurts right Lance.
A gasp leaves Allura’s lips. Keith can’t even look at the others, too fixated on the small blaster in his hands. “What?” he asks numbly.
“Seven dobashes remaining,” Bob reminds them. “Hurry hurry!”
His teammates burst into chatter around him, but it’s all white noise to Keith. He looks between the gun and Lance—all four Lances—his head spinning. Dazed, he attempts to press the centre-right button again.
“Man,” Bob mocks. “You really are dumb.” He swoops down to be right in front of Keith, and points to the buttons like he’s explaining calculus to a toddler. “Those don’t work in the elimination phase,” he says. “You’ve got to eliminate them! But that isn’t a problem, cause you know who the real Lance is,” Bob chuckles. In an instant, his tone drops lower, and he leans in close. “Don’t you?”
“I’m not…” Keith trails off. “I’m not shooting him.”
His teammates look on with wide eyes, but nod when he says that.
“He’s right,” Allura says. “This is a game. We’d never risk hurting one another.”
“Oh, this isn’t a risk,” Bob assures them. “It’s sheer necessity.” He spins about on his chair, opening his arms to the non-existent crowd, who holler with excitement. “Should we remind them what happens when the timer runs out?” he asks. The cheers rise until they deafen. “Good thinking!” cries Bob.
He snaps his fingers, and a fifth Lance appears suspended in the air beside him. Keith knows this one’s a fake, but the sight of Lance up there, afraid and confused, sends a bolt of fear through him.
“Five, four,” Bob counts down playfully, waggling his finger. The suspended Lance looks around in a panic, feet hanging motionless in the air. “Three, two, one-”
Bob clicks his fingers. For a moment, nothing happens. In the next, every muscle in Keith’s body goes rigid as Lance’s neck snaps with an audible crack.
Keith stops breathing. The sound vanishes from his ears, until all he hears is that snap played over and over and over again. Still hanging suspended in the air, Lance’s lax body twitches, head turned entirely the wrong way. Bob floats beside him, laughing and tapping his finger in time to the music. Lance’s body plummets to the ground, where it lands with a sickening snap, then dissolves rapidly into gold light.
Sound hits Keith like a truck. There are nails digging into his arm where Allura has grabbed him, panting through her teeth as she stares at the place Lance fell. To Keith’s left, Pidge has buried her face in Hunk’s chest, and the pair cling to each other.
“Five dobashes,” Bob calls.
Keith blinks, his vision swimming. He just… He just saw Lance die. Yet there he is, there all four of him are, staring back in stunned silence.
“You monster,” Allura breathes. Still clinging to Keith, she raises her furious eyes to Bob. “You monster!”
“Allura,” he tries. His voice comes out hoarse.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the princess continues, furious. “What kind of sick game-”
“Allura!” Keith snaps. “We only have five dobashes.” She looks to him, tears in her eyes. “Please,” Keith croaks.
“Time is tick-tick-ticking,” Bob calls, flying lazily by.
Keith picks up the gun he dropped. His hands are shaking.
“We can’t,” Allura whispers. “We can’t! What if we’re wrong?”
“You already knew which one to eliminate,” Bob calls, his voice echoing from across the studio. “You already tried to push the button.”
Keith raises his eyes to the centre-right Lance. What the fuck. It felt easy before, but now the eyes staring back into his are Lance’s. He starts to breathe faster, and faster, and faster.
“Keith.” It’s left-Lance, he’s speaking. “Hey, Keith. I-It’s okay. Ask me a question, alright? Just ask us a question.”
“I-” Keith stutters. “I-I-”
“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” Bob chants.
Keith can hear Lance’s neck snapping with each click of his tongue. He raises the gun, aiming it at centre-right Lance.
“Keith!” the Lance cries. “Keith, what are you doing? Slow down, man, please, slow down. I-I have a bad memory, you know that!”
“You know it’s not him, don’t you?” Bob asks.
“Keith!” Pidge cries. “What are you doing?”
“How sure are you?” Bob asks, gliding closer.
“I- I’m sure,” Keith stutters. His hands are trembling where they brace the gun.
“Keith, don’t do this,” centre-right Lance pleads.
“Stop it, man,” Hunk says. “We don’t know yet, we don’t know-”
“Four dobashes remaining,” Bob calls. “And four Lances standing!”
“I just couldn’t remember, Keith,” centre-right Lance pleads. “Come on, ask me again!”
“Put the gun down, there has to be another way to resolve this,” Allura says.
“I-I’m thinking of something else to ask,” says Hunk. “Please, give me a minute, give me–”
“Don’t shoot him!” Pidge cries. “It could be him, please don’t–”
“I thought you said you were sure,” Bob exclaims. “What’s the hold up, Keith?”
“Please, Keith.”
“It’s me, oh my god can’t you see it’s me, can’t you–”
“Put the gun down-”
“Tick-tock–”
“It’s me, Keith, it’s me! I–”
A crack echoes through the studio. The voices fall silent. The gun vibrates in Keith’s hands, and golden light flickers out in the place centre-right Lance stood.
No one speaks, not even Bob.
A choked noise escapes Keith’s lips, and his hands tremble as he lowers the gun. The three remaining Lances stand dead still.
“If we don’t do this, he’s going to kill Lance!” Keith cries. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t give a shit. “We have three dobashes,” he stammers. “Which one’s Lance?”
The others have frozen into ice. His eyes wide as saucers, Hunk steps up to the counter.
“Uh,” he breathes shakily. “L-Lance. What’s your favourite flavour ice cream at Marvel Moo’s in Space Mall?”
“Ice cream,” Pidge whimpers. “We’re saving Lance’s life with fucking ice cream.”
Hunk pats her shoulder, but his eyes remain fixed on the Lances. They begin to write, and Keith holds his breath, lower lip quivering.
Left holds his sign up first: None. I get whatever flavour your second choice was.
Right is next: I get the one you want but don’t get, so we share it.
Hands shaking, centre-right holds up his sign: Blueberry.
Hunk releases a tight breath. “Keith,” he says shakily. “Centre-right is not Lance.”
Keith raises the gun, breathes out slow, and fires straight for Lance’s chest. He bursts into gold light instead of blood, and Allura muffles a sob into her fist.
Two dobashes remain on the clock.
“Think think think,” Keith overhears Pidge muttering to herself. Tears are streaked down her cheeks, and continue to fall despite the frown she wears.
“What’s your favourite food?” Hunk squeaks, clearly panicked.
“That’s not a good enough question,” Allura says, shaking her head.
“What’s the only thing we argue about?” Hunk asks.
The two remaining Lances scribble furiously onto the tablets. Poached versus scrambled.
“Fuck,” Hunk whimpers.
“What’s the sport you joined in Garrison?” asks Pidge. “Just so you could help me score?”
More scribbling. Basketball.
Keith sees one dobash appear on the screen, and begin counting down by ticks.
“Lance,” Allura says sternly. “At a ball on Ni’tula, I got upset talking to a diplomat, so, you snuck into the palace kitchens with me. You made me your favourite dish. What was it?”
Keith holds his breath as the Lances start writing. Beside him, Allura is stiff as steel. The countdown continues in the corner of his eye, making him flinch with each passing tick.
Left Lance holds up his sign: Chocolate chip cookies.
Right Lance holds up his: Raspberry pancakes.
Allura releases a sigh that turns into a sob. “He made me pancakes,” she breathes. “It’s him.”
Ten ticks. Keith raises the gun, aiming it at left-Lance.
“Please,” he begins. “Wait–”
Keith fires. Golden light explodes across the floor. Keith shifts his eyes to the one remaining Lance, as his teammates cry and sag in each other’s arms.
“That’s your favourite?” he asks. “Really? Raspberry pancakes?”
“Of course,” Lance says, trembling.
Five ticks. Lance smiles.
Keith raises the gun and fires.
A piercing cry tears from Allura’s throat as the shot hits Lance. Behind them, the timer freezes on two ticks. The final Lance stumbles, clutching his chest as he falls to his knees, then to his back, dead.
“Oh my god!” Pidge cries. “Oh my god, what did you do?”
“That isn’t Lance,” Keith says numbly.
“What did you do?”
Keith’s ears are ringing, and he stares and stares at Lance’s body, waiting.
“Keith.” Allura stares at him, mortified. “What have you done?” she whispers.
“Lance hates raspberry,” Keith says evenly. “He only made it cause he knew it’d make you happy.”
A tear slips down Allura’s cheek, and she looks between Keith and Lance’s fallen form. “What?”
Lance’s body fizzles out in a shower of gold light. Keith’s knees almost give out in relief.
A shuddering sigh escapes his body, and he presses the gun back into its hatch within the podium. A dull clap sounds from above, and all eyes drift upwards as Bob slowly circles down from the ceiling.
“Well done, Keith,” he says. “Very well done.”
Hunk and Pidge cling to each other, their eyes nervously darting between Keith and Bob. Their host abruptly changes direction, heading for the far wall. There, he touches his palm to the wall, which opens to reveal another tiny alcove, much like the one Keith woke in. Within it, Lance stares back at them, shellshocked.
Bob clicks his fingers, and the gold light drags Lance out. Grabbing a handful of his hair, Bob tilts Lance’s head back to inspect him.
“Would you look at that, Red?” he taunts. He taps his finger to Lance’s cheek. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
He releases Lance, who stumbles, before the light winds around his legs and hastily deposits him back between Allura and Keith. They stare at him as if seeing a ghost.
“Congratulations, paladins!” Bob cries. “You’ve advanced to Round Three!”
The music turns celebratory, and confetti rains down on them. Keith stares at Lance, unsure if his tongue is still attached. Eyes blown wide in terror, Lance stares back as horns blare and the crowd oohs and aahs over the confetti. Keith’s heartbeat is in his throat. He feels weak; if they were called to fight now, his opponent’s fist would go through him like butter.
“You okay?” Lance stutters.
Keith’s chest clenches. “A-am I?”
“Gather up everybody,” Bob announces. “Cause here comes Round–”
“Wait!” Allura’s cry cuts through the air. “We aren’t here for you to play with!” she snaps. “Tell us who you are, immediately!”
“But I already told you,” Bob says, shrugging his hands. “I’m Bob.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Allura growls. “Why did you bring us here? What do you want?”
“Bring you here?” Bob asks. He chuckles. “You came here! You’re contestants on Garfle Warfle Snick; don’t you remember?”
“Don’t try and fool me,” Allura snaps. “What do you want with Voltron?”
“Questions, questions, questions,” Bob exclaims. “Hey folks, little miss here thinks she’s running the show.”
“Answer her,” Lance says coldly, fists curled.
Bob lowers his eyes to Lance, and smiles darkly. “You want the truth?” he asks. “But why does that matter? It doesn’t matter how you got here, or where you are. You’re here now, playing by my rules. Oh, don’t pull that face. We’re here to have fun!”
‘Well, we’re not,” Hunk chimes in. “Uh, having fun.”
“You almost killed him,” Allura seethes, thrusting her hand toward Lance. “This isn’t a game anymore. We’ll talk, but we won’t play.”
“If you won’t play, you won’t leave,” Bob says. “Simple, isn’t it? And listen closely to this, paladins; you’re two rounds in! Another three, and there’s a big reward waiting for you. A reward you’ll definitely want to get.”
“We won’t be bribed,” Allura snaps.
“What is it?” Keith asks. “The reward?”
Bob chuckles. “Now, you’ll just have to wait and see. But believe me,” he purrs, winking at Keith. “It’s worth your cooperation.”
“You’re playing with our lives!” Allura cries.
“Oh boo hoo,” says Bob. “Look at it this way: even if you lose one paladin every round, that leaves two of you free to reap the rewards!”
“You absolute–”
“What if we refuse?” Keith asks, cutting Allura off.
Bob’s gaze swivels to him. He flies closer, until he hovers just above Keith. He looks larger this way, looming over him, or is he actually growing?
“Then you stay here,” says Bob. “For a very, very, very, very long time.”
Keith swallows, waiting for Bob’s looming presence to retreat a fraction before speaking.
“Can we discuss as a team? Just for one minute?”
Bob taps seven fingers to his chin, considering. “Alright,” he says with a shrug. “Start the timer!”
The time returns to the screen, counting down from one dobosh. Not wasting a second, Keith calls the group in.
“This is madness!” Allura hisses.
“I don’t think this guy’s messing around,” says Hunk.
“We should plan something,” Pidge says. “He’s gotta have a weakness, let’s-”
“Hey,” Keith interrupts. “This isn’t the time. We don’t know who he is or what he wants. For all we know, he could be an ally testing us. That reward? What if it’s something valuable regarding the empire? What if it helps us?”
“What if he kills us?” Hunk whispers.
“What if?” Keith barks. “What else are we going to do? If we make him angry, it’s going to make things worse. Like he said, we’re trapped here. Our best bet is to play his games and try for the reward. If that fails, delay long enough for Coran and Shiro to find us.”
“That’s a huge risk,” Allura says, frowning. “I can’t even remember where they are, if they’re alright.”
Keith swallows thickly. She’s right; they have no idea what state their companions are in.
“Lance,” he says. “You know exactly how serious Bob is. What do you think we should do?”
All eyes swivel to Lance, who stares back in shock. He wets his lips, hesitating.
“You’re the leader, Keith,” he says. “I think we should do what you say.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Keith hisses. “We have to decide as a team–”
“Then as a team, we’ve got to keep playing,” Lance whispers. “There’s nothing else we can do.”
Allura bites her lip, furious.
“We can’t get stuck here,” Lance murmurs. “We have to get out, and fast. We don’t know what’s happening out there. People might need us.”
“He’s right,” Pidge sighs. “And what if–”
“Timeee’s up!” Bob cries.
A buzzer sounds, starling the lot of them, and the spotlights go chasing across the room after Bob.
“Round Three!” announces the commentator. “Checkers.”
“Like…like Checkers Checkers?” Hunk whispers.
“Something tells me no,” Lance mutters.
“In this round, participants must successfully cross the playing board, using only the directions provided by the leader!”
The group exchanges a nervous look. The stage glows, and as it fades, a checkered board is revealed. It’s not dissimilar to an actual checkers board, but only has six squares to either side.
“Uh,” Pidge begins.
Her mouth snaps shut as the golden light rematerialises around their feet, trapping everyone but Keith. In an instant, the team is dragged toward the checkers board by the light, while Keith’s podium glows. He blinks down at it, shaken by the abruptness of it all. The podium displays a replica of the game board. When Keith looks up, the team is lined up before the board.
“Rules of the game are simple,” Bob announces with flair. “The leader must navigate all players, or should I say as many players as he can,” Bob smirks, and shoots Keith a wink, “to safety!”
On Keith’s podium, the space to the right of the board glows green. Safety, he guesses.
“You can move players one at a time, one square at a time,” Bob explains. “Forwards, backwards, sideways, diagonal. But be quick,” he warns. “Any players left on the board when the time runs out, well…”
Keith watches the game board glow red and vibrate. He flinches as the image shatters into blackness. It restores a moment later, settling into a normal black and white board.
“Well what?” Pidge demands.
Keith’s wavering gaze leaves the board projected on the podium, looking out over the actual players. Most of their eyes are angrily tracking Bob, but Lance meets his gaze.
“We know what, Pidge,” Lance answers. “So let’s just…play carefully, alright?”
“Your half a varga begins now!” Bob cries, and spirals skyward in his chair.
The glow of the podium’s game board intensifies for a moment, and when the light dies down, new patterns have emerged etched into the squares. In addition, four colourful circles pop up in place of the paladins: yellow, red, green, and blue. Hunk, Lance, Pidge, and Allura. It corresponds to the colour on their armbands.
Keith focuses in on the etchings. Each square is unique, thirty-six illustrations that at first glance appear unfamiliar. He frowns, studying them. Something about them…
“Keith,” Hunk calls. “What’s our first move?”
“Yeah, not to rush you or anything, but he’s probably gonna kill us if we just stand here,” Pidge adds.
“This can’t be as simple as crossing a board, right?” Lance asks. “We have half a varga.”
“It’s not,” Keith replies, frowning. “Just… Give me a second.”
“Make it a quick second, yeah?” Pidge says, before she’s silenced by the others.
“There’s patterns on the squares. The ones I can see,” Keith amends quickly. “Symbols. They look…familiar.”
“Another language?” Allura asks.
“Maybe,” he mutters.
“Keith, just pick something!” Pidge cries. “I’ll go first.”
“Give me a minute–”
“Keith, we’ve gotta try something,” Lance calls. “Just go with what feels right.”
“Fuck,” Keith curses under his breath. He scans the symbols. Why do they look so familiar? He hones in on what Lance said, trying to pick one that feels right. Safe. “Okay,” he breathes. “In front of you the squares are numbered one to six. The other edge is A through F. That means Hunk, the square in front of you is A1. Everyone clear?”
The team nods.
“Good,” Keith breathes. “Lance, go to A3.”
Lance’s eyes flicker from Keith to the board, before he steps forward without a word. The square glows brightly gold beneath him, and silence consumes the grip as they collectively hold their breath.
A click emits from the square. It turns green beneath Lance’s feet.
“Weeell done!” Bob cries. “You’ve chosen Alaphon Huulth, who you did save!”
Alaphon Huulth? Keith frowns, squinting furiously at the inscriptions on that square. It’s turned green on his little board, too.
“Maybe we need something to jog your memory,” Bob suggests cheerily. Rolling his r’s, he trills out, “Rrreplay!”
Keith jumps as a screen springs to life on the wall behind him. The team watches with wide eyes, so he whips around in time to see a video of…him.
He’s racing along the top of a boundary wall of a palace that looks somewhat familiar, but they’ve been to so many planets and places that so much has begun to blur. Keith watches himself spring from one broken section of wall to the next. Bayard drawn, he’s just in time to slice through a Galra who has their sword drawn on a smaller alien. The Galra crumples, the small grey alien applauds, and Keith helps them to their feet before the video fades to black.
“Alaphon Huulth was saved,” Bob beams.
“They’re names,” Keith says numbly.
“You remembered that guy’s name?” Lance asks, shocked.
“I– No, I didn’t,” Keith says. “But these symbols, they’re…” He curses. “They’re names written in Galactic Pidgin. Which I can’t–” He stops, pressing a frustrated hiss through his teeth. “Which I can barely read.”
“But we know these people, the one’s named?” Lance questions. “Are they all people you saved?”
Bob chuckles. Keith clenches his teeth, eyeing their sadistic host.
“Should I give them a clue?” Bob asks, spreading his arms to their absent crowd. A competing chorus of boos and cheers goes up. “I’m gonna give them a clue!” he booms, as if he’s some saint. “Written on the board are those you saved,” he drawls. “And those you didn’t.”
“That’s it?” Pidge asks dryly. “That’s the clue?”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say we need to cross using the ones you saved,” Lance says, eyeing his green square.
“What if–” Keith shuts his mouth. He knows what if. “I don’t know if I remember all these people,” he admits.
“Do your best,” Hunk calls. “You’ve got this.”
Keith doesn’t know if he does got this. He scans the names. It’s bad enough trying to read Galactic Pidgin, let alone trying to remember who belongs to the names he can barely make out.
“Okay,” he says. “Pidge, join Lance on A3.”
An aggressive buzzer sounds, stopping Pidge in her tracks.
“Not so fast,” Bob sing-songs. “You’re toeing a delicate line, remember? Too much weight on one square…” He sucks in his teeth, and the sound effect of shattering glass fills the room.
Keith fixes Bob with a cold glare. “Fine. Lance, move to B3. Pidge, once he’s moved, go to A3.”
“You sure about this one?” Lance asks.
“Yes,” Keith nods. “It feels safe.”
Inhaling deeply, Lance steps onto the next square. It glows gold, same as before. At the same time, the square he left also begins to glow. Keith blanches as the name etched into A3 shifts, changing right before his eyes.
“What the fuck?” he murmurs.
B3 turns green beneath Lance’s feet, while A3 returns to its blank state, boasting a different name.
“Um,” says Pidge. “Do I still go to A3?”
“No!” Keith cries. “N-no, don’t move yet, Pidge.”
“B3? Good choice!” calls Bob. “Let us see.”
The screen reignites, and Keith watches himself tear burning timber from a blocked door to free a family of aliens trapped within. He can barely pay attention to the video though, obsessed with the checker board before him. How many more names are just waiting to spring up?
“Keith,” says Hunk. “Any ideas?”
Heart in his throat, Keith tries to mouth the names he can read, wracking his brain for any memory of them. Just like all the places they’ve been, he’s forgotten the names and faces of so many. Even the ones who died. Keith bites his cheek until he tastes blood.
“Hunk,” he croaks. “Go to A2.”
The yellow paladin obeys, and Keith chokes on a sigh when the square flashes green beneath him.
“Nice,” calls Lance. “Keep it up.”
The screen lights up again, though Keith tries to ignore it, replaying whatever supposedly heroic act lead to the saviour of the next alien.
“Allura,” says Keith. “Go to A6.”
Allura steps up, fists balled as the square glows gold beneath her. Keith watches, heart in his throat. The square clicks. It flashes red.
For a moment, all he can do is stare. It doesn’t compute.
“Allura! Move!” Lance yells.
Keith snaps back to reality, a red-hot wave of panic overtaking him. “No,” he croaks. “No, no–”
The square glows angry red, and Allura breathes faster and faster as a hum emits from the floor.
“Move!” Lance yells.
“I can’t–”
The sound of shattering glass booms across the stage. A yell lodges in Keith’s throat, and he half lunges across the podium before realising that Allura hasn’t fallen. She stands in place, panting from fear, her watery eyes scanning the ground beneath her.
“Allura?” he croaks. “Are you okay?”
“Whoops!” calls Bob. “Looks like someone lost a life.”
The podium vibrates, drawing Keith’s attention downward. He sees two small circles appear beneath each of the four colourful dots—the ones representing his teammates—and twitches as one of the circles beneath Allura’s blue dot fades from existence.
“Keith?” the princess calls. “How many lives do we have?”
“Uh,” he says shakily. “Two.”
“Remaining?”
“No. Two total. You… You’ve got one remaining.”
“Right,” Allura breathes. “So after the next one I’m…”
“Yeah,” Keith says.
“Right.” The princess nods tightly. “S-So, where to next?”
Keith’s knees are ready to give out. He grips the podium, gritting his teeth. “I think–”
“Don’t get carried away yet,” Bob calls. “Wait for the replay!”
Keith’s stomach sinks like a stone. Cold light bathes his back as the screen comes to life. It chills him to his core, the sticky tendrils of light running down his back like honey. He’s sweating. The others stare at the screen, transfixed, so how can he not?
He turns, heart sticking in his throat, to confront the replay.
He’s on Olkarion. He knows where he is, yet somehow he still can’t remember this. They’re fighting in the forest, he and the Galra. One battle out of so many. Keith watches himself sprint through the smoke and remains of houses on the forest floor. He wishes to feel numb, but his heartbeat is overwhelming him, dragging him back into that moment of life or death. Of someone else’s death.
He scrabbles up a rooftop, sprinting along it to try and ambush a Galra below. He trips at the last, critical second, and tumbles. He lands hard on the ground, losing his momentum and the element of surprise. The Galra he was trying to sneak up on smirks, wide and dark. There’s a blade in the Galra’s hand, and a young Olkari huddled on the floor before them, and then before Keith can find his feet there isn’t a child, anymore.
He looks away from the video with a wet gasp. It plays on for a minute, while Keith collapses in a heaving mess over the podium.
“Keith!” Lance’s voice dances about in the back of his skull. He sounds muffled. Is he having a panic attack? Is he dying? “Keith, don’t pay attention to that. Look at us, look at me.”
Keith drags his eyes from the ground. The team stand frozen on the board, all eyes on him.
“Let’s keep going,” Lance says calmly. “Let’s just keep going. Can you do that?”
Keith nods shakily, sick to his stomach. Ignoring the itching desire to look back at the screen, to look if it’s still there, he fixes his attention on the board. Come on. He has to remember some of these people.
“Allura,” he says unsteadily. “B5.”
Allura doesn’t hesitate, or stop to question him. Steeling herself, she steps across to B5. It glows, and Keith fights to keep a whimper within his throat. With a click, the square turns green.
Keith’s sigh of relief mixes with Allura’s own.
“Excellent,” the princess says shakily.
Another replay begins, but Keith ignores it, focused on the board. Strangely, the red square Allura left doesn’t change the way the green ones did. It remains red, an obstacle in their path.
“Pidge,” Keith says. The youngest paladin raises her head, eyes boring into him. Exhaling slowly, Keith glances once more over his decision. “Go to A3.”
“Isn’t that the one you said not too?”
“I know,” he says. “I panicked, cause it changed. But… It’s safe, Pidge. I… I think I remember them.”
Hesitating, Pidge steps forward. Just behind Lance, she looks imploringly to the red paladin, like he might be able to save her if things go south.
The square clicks, and turns green.
“Oh, thank god,” Hunk mutters.
“We can do this,” Lance calls. “Keith, you’ve got this.”
Steadying his racing heart, Keith nods. “Hunk, B1.”
Time thickens with each call Keith makes. Vaguely, he remains aware of the count down in the corner of his screen, but is more concerned with the milliseconds between each call, where he awaits the green or red light.
“Hunk to C1.”
“Pidge to B4.”
“Allura to C6.”
“Lance to C2.”
Keith heart plummets as the light flashes red.
“It’s okay,” Lance shouts, even before the sound of shattering glass punctuates the air. “Keith, it’s okay!”
One of Lance’s lives fades from existence beneath the red dot, and Keith presses his eyes shut in anguish as the screen springs to life behind him. It’s easy enough to ignore the replays that follow the light turning green, but when it’s red, he’s drawn to it like a thrice-burnt moth to a very hot flame.
“Don’t, Keith,” Hunk warns.
But he does. He does, and he sees the the Krellion he was trying to save succumb to the noxious fumes of the thick, tar-like sludge set upon their town by the Galra. He’s an idiot. He’s a failure. He should have remembered that one. He passed their name on to their family. He softened the details, but he knew from the way he delivered the news they knew he was lying.
Keith watches himself on screen, covered in the black sludge, tugging uselessly to dislodge the alien from the tar. He feels just as helpless now.
“Focus, Keith!”
Lance’s order brings him back to reality.
“We have eleven doboshes,” the red paladin says, firm, but not unkind. “Focus.”
Keith draws in a long, slow breath. Lance is right. They’re less than halfway across, and already the majority of their time has elapsed. He puts his head down, focusing.
A familiar name—Keith knows he laughed with that name after a battle.
“Lance, go to D2.”
Another name—he swears the second half is familiar. Did they cook for him, when it was all over? Or give him a gift, perhaps?
“Pidge, C4.”
The next name, as well as he can read it, tickles something in his brain. They tried to…marry him off to their grandchild?
“Pidge, D4.”
“This is a lot of 4’s,” she calls nervously.
“Do it.”
“A famously unlucky number.”
“Do it, Pidge,” Lance sighs.
Keith glances up at the actual playing board. Lance and Pidge lead the way in row D, with Hunk and Allura trailing just behind. Keith anguishes over the next name. There’s one in front of Allura that is achingly familiar. So familiar, it almost feels recent. Yes. Keith resists punching the air. He knows this one is safe.
“Allura, go to D5,” he says.
She obeys, comforted by the confidence in his voice. The square glows gold, clicks, and–
“What?” Keith croaks.
He stares and stares at the red square.
“I–” Allura croaks. “I still have a life, don’t I?”
Keith cringes at the sound of shattering glass. Gasping, he stares at Allura, fearing she might vanish. Instead, the final circle beneath the blue dot fades.
“Fuck,” Keith breathes. “Fuck, Allura, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” she says, trembling.
“But it–” Keith fights his tongue, trying to find the words. “But I saved them. I–I saved them, it’s wrong. I remember.”
He whips around as the screen lights up. Olatar, a planet in the outer system, just as he thought. He knows he remembers this. He knows the game is wrong.
He watches himself run through the rubble of a city, skidding to a stop when he comes across an Olatarin half-buried by stones. Keith feels his chest swell with hope as he watches the replay, where he lifts aside the rocks, helps the elderly alien from the ground, and hobbles with them toward safety. He remembers every detail of this; it happened only recently.
He watches himself struggle to get the elderly Olatarin over a wall, and winces when their leg catches in the barbed wire. Nevertheless, they make it over the barricade and into the arms of the waiting recovery unit.
“You see!” Keith blurts. “He’s alive! I saved him! Her square should be green–”
“Uh uh uh,” Bob tuts. “Not so fast. Didn’t you see what happened?”
“What happened?” Keith breathes, aghast. “I saved him!”
“Faaast forward,” Bob calls.
Keith’s pulse climbs as the replay dives into super speed. When it resumes its normal pace, it reveals a hospital upon Olatar, where the same alien Keith helped is lying in a hospital bed. They aren’t sleeping, either; their vitals show–
“What?” Keith barks. “What the fuck is this?”
“Passed from his injuries,” Bob laments. “Aaw.”
“What the fuck,” Keith whispers. “T-That isn’t fair, that’s–”
“That’- That- That-” Bob mocks. “Heebers Jeebers, Keith. You have one slow processor up there.”
“This is bullshit,” Keith argues. Heat rushes to his eyes. No. “He was fine,” he croaks. “He was fine!”
“Keith!”
His eyes flicker down to Lance. The red paladin looks shaken, but holds Keith’s gaze firmly. “Focus,” he mouths. “Please.”
Keith pinches his eyes shut. “How can I even–” A million arguments build on his tongue, hut he swallows them. Bob won’t listen to him. He just has to be smarter. “Pidge,” he says shakily. “E5.”
Keith waits until the square flashes green to say, “Now F6.”
Pidge’s eyes flicker to him. It’s the last row. Keith nods steadily, and Pidge steps forward. The entire team tenses as the square glows gold. With a click, it turns green.
“Yes!” Lance cries.
Allura bursts into relieved laughter, and Hunk whoops alongside Lance. Stunned, Pidge stumbles off the board and into safety.
“Holy shit,” she breathes.
“Well done,” Allura cries. “Both of you.”
“We gotta keep going,” Lance reminds them.
Keith nods shakily. “Allura,” he says. He eyes Pidge’s old square, E5, and the new inscription on it. Allura doesn’t have any more chances. “E5.”
The princess takes a deep breath. Holding her chin high, she steps onto E5. Pidge watches like a hawk from the other end of the board.
The square turns green, and Allura sobs.
“Okay,” Keith whispers. “Okay, okay. It’s okay.” Raising his voice, he calls, “F5, Allura. Finish it.”
“You sure?” Hunk calls. “Let’s not rush–”
“I’m sure. F5.”
Allura nods shakily. She steps forward. The glow seems to drag on forever now, eating into Allura, stealing the air from their lungs. The click of the square sounds like a gunshot to Keith.
It turns green.
He can’t focus very well on their celebration. His head spins, sounds melting together in his ears. When he looks up, Allura has Pidge in a tight embrace. Two safe. But Lance and Hunk remain stuck in the middle.
“Hunk,” Keith calls. “D1.”
Hunks steps up, riding the high of Allura’s triumph. His joyous expression evaporates as the square flashes red.
“Uh, Keith–”
“Shit!” Keith cries.
He buries his head in his hands a moment, breathing shallowly. The screen illuminates, tempting him.
“Don’t fucking look at it!” Lance cries.
But he has to. This time, they’re in space. Keith’s aboard the red lion, which hurtles after a shuttle falling toward the surface of a red planet. The shuttle’s crashing, he remembers. Faster and faster it falls, hurtling for the ground at terminal velocity, or a faster equivalent. Keith remembers this, but watches anyway in captivated horror as he tries to catch up to the falling shuttle. He pushes Red into overdrive. His vision blurs as they hurtle for the surface.
Pull up!
He hears it barked over the comms.
Keith, pull up!
He reaches for them, Red’s paws extended, so close to grabbing, to grasping, to saving–
The shuttle strikes the red rock with a resounding bang. Red pulls up on instinct, the abrupt change nearly knocking Keith out. An explosion paints the surrounding earth black, a plume of smoke and splattered material strewn across the ground.
“Fuck!” he yells.
He punches Red’s controls, expression one of furious agony.
Keith turns from the replay, panting. He’s going to be ill. He can’t fucking do this.
“A little more,” Lance pleads. “We’re nearly there, Keith. Go with your gut.”
His gut isn’t telling him fucking anything. It clenches, threatening to turn over the contents of his empty stomach. Keith shuts his eyes, breathing in, out, in, out.
The names swim before him when he pries his eyes open, and he settles on one. It feels so…safe. Unlike any other. He can’t quite decipher it—his Pidgin is too poor—but it calls to him. It feels like home, that name. It feels like everything.
“Lance,” he says. “Go to E3.”
Without hesitation, Lance does. The square glows. Keith swears it feels warm. Safe and warm. It clicks.
His world crashes down when the square flashes red.
“What?” he croaks.
“Oookay,” Lance breathes shakily. “Okay. One life left, it’s good, it’s good–”
“I thought–” Keith chokes.
“It’s okay,” Lance says. He looks to Keith over the sound of shattering glass, and as his last circle vanishes from beneath the red dot. “It…”
Lance trails off. His eyes have shifted to the screen behind Keith, where the replay’s begun. Keith turns fast, desperate to know, to understand–
His heart shrivels in his chest. A hot flush rushes to the surface of his skin, making him sweat and sway.
“No,” he croaks.
In the replay, Keith sees a burning house. Not from some far-off planet they visited—he knows this house. He remembers the paint colour, and how it peeled as it burnt. He remembers watching the curtains burn through the open window, how they billowed in the gusts of wind created by the blaze. It was the first time he’d ever seen so much smoke. He didn’t realise things burnt like that, that smoke grew like that. Thick and grey, stifling, expanding like an ever-growing beast.
Keith watches the replay and sees those thoughts appear for the first time in the eyes of a boy who stands out on the road. Keith is seven, and is watching his neighbour’s house burn like paper. He’s seven, and he’s realising there’s more smoke than fire but the fire’s still burning. He’s seven and he’s realising his dad’s not coming out the house.
His lips part, soundless. He remembers everything, and now he’s watching, waiting like he did back then as a child and–
Keith goes down in a dizzy spell. Clinging to the podium, he manages to fall to his knees as a burning ember embeds itself in his throat. He gasps for air, but all he tastes is hot ash off the ember. How is he seeing this? How is Bob showing him this?
“Hey!” He hears Lance yelling. “That isn’t Voltron! This isn’t fucking fair, that’s not even Voltron!”
Keith presses his eyes shut as a shudder passes through him. He can still hear the house burning and burning and burning, and listens to his younger self scream. The ember nestles deeper into his flesh, scorching his mouth, dripping hot fluids into his lungs. It isn’t there, he tries to tell himself. But all he tastes is iron and ash. He’d cracked a tooth that day, grinding his teeth waiting for his dad to emerge from the smoke. His tongue finds the tooth now, and he swears it oozes blood.
“Turn it off!” Hunk shouts.
“This isn’t fucking Voltron!” Lance accuses. “Turn it off!”
The replay winds to a close, but not due to their demands.
“Ouch,” Bob calls. “Two in a row! Someone’s off his game.”
“Keith?” Lance calls. “Keith, you okay?”
Keith shudders, back pressed to the podium. The screen has gone black, but in its place remains a small ticking timer. Four doboshes. Fuck.
He releases a sigh that turns into a sob, and scrapes himself from the floor. Four worried sets of eyes track him as he gets back to his feet. He clears his throat.
“We’re with you,” Lance calls. “You with us?”
Keith nods. He white-knuckles the podium, trying to focus on the remaining squares and not the red inscription Lance stands on. Is that what his name looks like in Galactic Pidgin? Keith pinches himself, forcing a decision.
Three doboshes. Hunk’s still two squares back; he needs to make progress. Keith looks to the square directly ahead, and something tingles in his spine. Something bad. Diagonally ahead to the right is another, this one also somewhat familiar. Keith grits his teeth. What happened last time he trusted the familiar? But ahead is a dead-end, it has to be.
“Hunk,” he says. “E2.”
Hunk glances at Lance, before stepping into the square directly beside his best friend. It glows, and Keith’s stomach ties itself into knots. Please, please please–
A click, and the square turns red.
A half-formed protest tears from Keith’s chest. He watches the final circle disappear from beneath Hunk’s yellow dot as Bob chants, “Third time unlucky! My, my, my, you are tearing through them.”
A shiver wracks Keith’s body as he turns stiffly to the screen. The others watch too, shocked into silence. Keith frowns at what unfurls on the screen. It’s…them.
The replay shows them in their exact positions: Allura and Pidge safe on the side, Keith before the podium, Lance and Hunk each one square from the end. Is it a mirror? No, Keith decides quickly, because those on the screen act independently to them.
“Lance to F2,” the Keith on screen calls.
Lance obeys. In the replay he steps onto F2, the final square, which glows beneath his feet. A moment later, it flashes red. On the screen, Keith gasps, and Hunk utters a broken yell. Lance looks around, petrified, as a loud crack reverberates through the studio. His gaze finds Keith, tears in his eyes, before he plummets through the ground he stands on. Screams fill the replay, Lance’s body lost to a deep, black crack in the board.
“What?” Keith whispers, stunned.
The replay ends, screen fading to black.
“That…”
“That’s not true!” Hunk cries.
He looks to Lance, just to confirm the red paladin is still there, that he isn’t insane.
“That hasn’t even happened!” Keith cries. “That… That’s bullshit! You can’t–”
“Noise, noise, noise,” Bob mutters. “The game is based upon the most probable outcome,” he shrugs.
“Most probable?” Keith asks, aghast. “What the fuck? Lance is still here, how can Hunk lose a life on– That’s wrong, that’s just wrong!”
“Keith!” Lance barks.
Keith’s eyes snap to him. He motions to the clock. One fucking dobosh. Keith swears aloud.
“Just do it,” Hunk pleads. “Oh my god, just do it.”
Heart racing and mind swimming with rage, Keith fixes his gaze to the board. Lance cannot move directly forward. Absolutely not. It’s a name he recognises and he knows the story does not end well. As for Hunk…
Keith eyes the lack of circles beneath Lance and Hunk’s red and yellow dots. Zero lives left.
“Hunk,” he says. “F1.”
“Are you sure?”
Keith swallows thickly.
“Breathe,” says Lance. “Trust your gut.”
“F1.”
Trembling, Hunk steps onto F1. The yellow paladin shuts his eyes, awaiting the inevitable. Keith’s eyes bore into him, heart stopped as the square glows.
“Hunk,” Pidge breathes. “You’re good.”
Hunk’s eyes flicker down to the green square. He lets go a shaky laugh. Allura and Pidge practically pull him over the finish line.
“Tick tock,” calls Bob.
Ignoring the replay, Keith consults the squares before Lance. He can’t go forward. Diagonally down is risky. Diagonally up seems safe but…
Keith swallows. F2. That’s the square Lance stepped onto in the reply. It’s the one he fell from.
“Fuck the game, fuck Bob.”
Keith’s eyes flicker up, meeting Lance’s. He must’ve read his mind.
“You know which one’s right,” Lance continues. “Nothing else matters, Keith. Only you know.”
Keith clenches his teeth. Twenty, reads the countdown. Nineteen.
He scans the names again. Three choices. He can’t send Lance backwards and around—there’s no time. Breathing faster and faster, Keith weighs between F2 and F4. He pictures Lance’s body plummeting into the darkness. He hears his own scream.
Ten. Nine.
“Lance,” he says. He meets Lance’s eye, a silent apology. “F2.”
“F2?”
Keith nods.
“Okay,” Lance breathes.
He steps forward. It glows.
“I’m sorry,” Keith blurts. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
A click.
Green.
Hunk and Allura yank Lance from the square and over the finish line as the time ticks out.
They collapse in a heap on the safe side as the entire board begins to glow an eerie red, and the sound of splintered glass fills the room. In a flash, the board crumbles in on itself, pieces dissolving into nothing and falling into a black abyss. It seals over a moment later, until no traces of the board remain.
“Holy shit,” Pidge breathes.
Keith’s entire body trembles, the sound of broken glass still ringing in his ears.
“What a wwwhirlwind of a round!” Bob goes soaring past, laughing to the audience’s relentless cheering. “Was anyone else watching those last ticks tick away? Oh, it gives me shivers! Were they going to cross the line? I don’t know! No, seriously I didn’t know? Did you know?”
Keith tries to tune out Bob’s incessant laughter, shivering as he braces his hands on the podium. The checker board has disappeared, replaced by a gold, glittery message that reads Congratulations! It’s a slap in the face. You win! at the conclusion of a game designed solely to showcase every time he didn’t. Keith bows to the podium, resting his forehead to his quivering hands. Fuck.
“I’m so excited I could sneeze,” Bob continues to ramble. “But before we advance to Round Four, a message from our sponsors!”
He clicks his fingers, and Keith’s stomach lurches as he drops abruptly into the floor. The recent round has planted terrible ideas of falling in his head, and he loses his cool as he plummets down. He swallows the mounting scream a moment later, when he realises the floor is moving with him, and steadies himself until the room stops spinning.
The sounds of the audience evaporate. The studio lights have died down, and instead Keith stands in what looks like an office’s break room. He blinks, stunned. The podium is gone, replaced by a coffee table and a set of plush green couches, though something’s definitely off about them. Perhaps the designer did their best to replicate an Earth couch without having ever actually seen or sat on one.
“What the fuck.”
Keith’s head snaps to the voice, and he fights the tears that rush to fill his eyes, obscuring his view of his teammates. He doesn’t need them to know how upset he is, or how relieved he is they’re here too; if he breaks now, it’ll kill the already comatose moral.
“What the fuck,” Hunk repeats. “What is going on?”
“Coffee break.” Without a hint of emotion in her tone, Pidge collapses atop the nearest couch, cringing when the cushion doesn’t give as expected. “Jeez, what’re these made of? Enamel?”
On the wall, a tv chatters away with commercials, showcasing alien products that Keith would never in his wildest dreams have imagined, or have found a use for.
“Keith, dude, you good?” It’s Hunk, frowning at him from across the coffee table.
Swallowing the smoking wad of embers that have been stuck in his throat since the second to last replay, Keith nods. “Yeah,” he croaks.
The embers squeeze their way down, down, down. Swallowing them doesn’t rid him of them, only plants them in his stomach where they glow with renewed vigour. Control yourself. He has to, else he’ll fail at the next crucial moment, maybe this time for good.
“I’m fine,” he reiterates, firmer, cause the team’s all watching him. “We don’t know how long this break will last, let’s think of a way out.”
“A way out of the room where they’re definitely watching and listening to us?” Lance asks. “Or a way off the show where they know everything about us?”
“And move us around like puppets,” Hunk adds.
“Fine,” Keith growls. “Then we do nothing, and die.”
“Everyone sit down.” Allura’s order loses its punch on the way out, as she tiredly rubs her eyes. “I need to think.”
“Plenty of room on this nice enamel,” Pidge suggests, patting the couch’s rock-hard surface.
Allura doesn’t hesitate—maybe she’s not so particular about couches—and collapses beside Pidge. Reluctantly, the rest follow suit. Keith grimaces as his elbow knocks a stone-cold cushion, glaring at the imitation of a couch.
“We have two rounds left,” Allura begins. “Before our reward, at least.”
“And what’ll the reward be?” Keith sighs. “Probably a doozy.”
“We have to decide if it’s worth playing for,” Allura says. “Risk another two rounds, or act now.”
“Say we act,” Lance interrupts. “Bob has the upper hand. The upper everything. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.” He laces his fingers, anxiously bouncing a knee. “One of us will be dead before we can lay a finger on him.”
“All four of you nearly died,” Keith says, failing to keep the chill from his voice.
“But we didn’t,” Lance argues back. “We didn’t, cause you figured it out, and got us through it.”
Keith laughs. He locks eyes with Lance, but isn’t expecting that level of concern in his eyes. It strangles the laugh, makes him feel small, makes him feel, ridiculously, safe, for just a fleeting second.
“So what?” Keith asks roughly. “You want to keep playing?”
“No,” Pidge says immediately. “Playing is letting him outsmart us. We’ve got to outsmart Bob.”
“Do we vote?” Hunk suggests.
Allura gnaws on her lower lip, pensive. “Vote on what?” she asks. “If we don’t play, we have no other plan.”
“I say we play and we do it smartly,” says Lance. “Keep watching Bob. There has to be clues as to why we’re here. Bob probably wants something from us, we’ve got to keep pushing until we find out what.”
“What if he wants us to die?”
The team all turn to look at Keith. He swallows, feeling the embers quiver and hiss within his stomach.
“Then he would have killed us,” Lance says with finality. “We’re still here because he wants something. When we go back, let me talk to him. In my style, please, none of your hard-ass demands.”
They lapse into silence, listening to the boisterous chatter from the tv. Mindlessly, Keith watches advertisements pop up on the screen, skits acted out by aliens overlaid with text in Galactic Pidgin. There’s something uncanny about the adverts, about the actors; everyone feels like someone he’s seen, though he can’t put a single name or memory to a face.
The team thinks in silence, pensive gazes studying the tv, the walls, the seemingly mismatched artwork that adorns the sparse space. Hunk stands to circle the room, running his hand along the wall. They’re coated in a stiff wallpaper, but when Hunk presses his hand firmly to the plaster, black veins show through. He withdraws his hand with a gasp.
Allura stands, moving straight for the wall. “That,” she says. “That happened when I woke up.”
“Same here,” Keith says. “The walls reacted to my touch.”
“You all woke in a tiny room, right?” Pidge asks. “Like a coffin?”
They nod.
“Strange,” Allura says. “I couldn’t determine what material the walls were, but I have a feeling everything here is made from the same substance. Very malleable. Intelligent, even. Everything reacts perfectly to Bob’s desires.”
“Not weird at all,” Lance mutters.
Tentatively, Allura runs her fingers over the wall, and the same spider veins glow black through the wallpaper. Her frown deepens.
On the verge of asking if she might be able to identify the anomaly, Keith’s spine straightens as the tv abruptly gets louder. Their gazes flicker to the screen, seized by Bob’s booming welcome.
“Get rrready!” he cries. “The craziest game show in the galaxy is returning to your screen in ten…nine…”
Keith tenses as the floor begins to rise. The ceiling peels back, and the piercing stage lights flood in like starving dogs. The couches dissolve into the floor, leaving Pidge flat on her back, and the tv folds in on itself.
“Seven…six…”
Tv gone, Bob’s voice carries loudly through the studio. The lights chase up and down as he counts, and Keith flinches as a small bot hurtles toward him with what looks like a hairbrush. His suspicions are confirmed as it tries to rake the brush through his hair, while a similar bot attempts to powder Allura’s nose. She sends hers flying in the direction of the wall as Bob finishes his countdown.
“Welcome back!” Their host materialises in a burst of gold fireworks, which rain down on the unlucky participants below. “To Garfle! Warfle! Snnnick!”
The roar of the audience and lights are no less disorientating than they were the first time around. Keith squints as a spotlight crosses his line of sight, and clenches his jaw against the nervous jitters that run through him. His limbs are made of lead; how the fuck are they meant to pull off another round? Another two rounds?
“Let’s hear it for our contestants!” Bob calls, and splays his hand to showcase their ill-prepared group. “Well, well, well,” he muses, flying closer. “How do you feel about the next round?” He pokes the microphone toward Pidge, who glares coldly at him. “Hm? Not going to give us a taste of you thoughts?” he prompts, and laughs as he wiggles a finger at Pidge’s ear. “Don’t make me poke around in there with a glozabeam!”
The audience roars with laughter, and Pidge flinches away from Bob’s finger.
“Hey Bob?”
Bob swivels, bug-eyes locking onto Lance. “Yes, Lance?”
“Can we talk?” Lance asks, keeping his voice light.
He’s matching Bob, Keith realises, giving in to the flow of his show. On cue, Bob’s face splits into an enormous grin.
“Of course!” he booms. He spreads his hands, and a plush chair erupts from the ground. It knocks into Lance’s knees so he falls back into it. Bob’s own chair descends to the ground, and he crosses his legs at the knee, leaning back and laughing. He and Lance now resemble figures on a celebrity talk show. “Oh, Lance,” he chides playfully. “Don’t you know I’ve been dying to talk?”
The others stand back and watch, tension thick, as Bob procures a stack of papers from thin air and shuffles them about in his lap.
“I mean, where do I start?” he exclaims.
“I was hoping–” Lance begins, but is cut off.
“Favourite Earth recipes, the stunt you pulled on Klaxon-3, how you managed to jumpstart a Voxom Hypercruiser,” Bob rattles on, flicking through the pages. “Oh!” He wrenches one from the stack, chuckling. “A little vacuum-bird told me that you’ve had your eye on someone. Someone special,” Bob drawls. “Someone…” he pauses, and gasps. “Someone on the team?”
“I– Uh– Haha,” Lance stutters, anxious as hell. “I actually wanted to talk about the game, Bob.”
“The game?” Bob makes an exaggerated show of sighing, and the invisible audience bubbles with soft laughter as he rolls his eyes. “Alright, Lance,” he drawls, bored. “Let’s talk about the game.”
“Okay,” Lance stammers. “Thanks, Bob. So, uh, I guess I’m wanting to know who… Who recommended us to the show?”
“Recommended?” Bob blurts. He looks to the empty audience with brows raised, as though they’re all in on the joke. “You came to me!”
Lance’s eye twitches as his follow-up is drowned by the laugh track. Keith curls his fists, lacking the patience Lance possesses. He still feels quivery and weak from the last round, but watching Bob needle Lance with his stupid jokes is reigniting something hot in his veins.
“Thanks, Bob,” Lance says forcefully, as the laughter drains. “But say we changed our minds, about being on the show. Surely there’s something we can do. A deal we can strike?”
“You struck a deal when you joined Garfle Warfle Snick,” Bob explains, bleeding sincerity. “It’s not easy getting on the show.” He angles a finger at the camera and whispers, “Text in on 3535-BOBSAWINNER for a chance to secure your spot.”
“Please,” Lance says suddenly. “I… I would really like to know why we’re here.” He smiles nervously as Bob laughs through his teeth. “What do you want? We’re… We’re all listening. Please.”
“What do I want?” Bob drawls. “I want you to win!”
Lance’s eye twitches again, a sure sign of frustration. Keith’s pulse rises, emotions tied to Lance’s own; at present their fate rests on him.
“Alright,” Lance says, chuckling. “But c’mon, Bob. Jokester to jokester. What do you really want from us? We’d love to help you, I mean that.”
“Aaw.” Bob draws back, faking an expression of hurt. “They don’t believe me,” he laments. A chorus of sympathetic boos arise from the audience. “I thought I made it clear. Do I need to spell it out for you again?”
Lance’s hopeful gaze hardens, lips pressed shut in a tight line. “We could help each other,” he says.
“Help?”
Bob’s laughter booms through the studio. It’s loud, louder and deeper than usual, and Keith swears the lighting shivers. A hum fills the air like a live wire, and Keith blinks as his vision clouds over.
“What do I want?” Bob asks. His voice is in everything—clogging Keith’s throat, chasing through his veins, whispered from the veins in the strange white walls, vibrating as part of the air itself. In an instant, Bob seems to grow in size, the cells of his being loosening and dispersing in a hazy mist that bears down on them.
“I want you,” he growls, voice deepening on each word. “To play my games.”
The words bite at Keith’s skin like acid, and black spots dance in the corners of his eyes, as though Bob’s proximity is a toxin. The air thins, and Bob’s smile spreads and spreads, teeth growing pointed, eyes drowning in black, morphing, mutating–
“So!” In a flash, Bob withdraws. The lights stop quivering, Keith’s vision clears, and the momentary monstrous entity that was Bob snaps back into the body of a small green alien. Back to his normal size and proportions, and possessing his same tacky voice, he spins around in a circle. “What say you to Round Four!”
Keith gasps for air as trumpets sound throughout the theatre. By the looks of things, Bob has the same effect on his teammates, who scratch at their throats or rub their eyes, similarly horrified. Lance is the most shaken, and staggers from the interview chair back to the others.
“What the hell is that thing?” he mutters, hoarse.
“Skies,” Allura hisses. She’s blinking back tears the same way Keith does when cutting an onion, like Bob’s act physically stung. “He’s connected to everything.”
“Does anyone else feel really, really sick?” Hunk asks, looking green.
“It’s like he’s radioactive,” Pidge mutters.
“He might as well be,” Allura warns. "Don’t provoke him.”
“I hope you’re chit-chatting about your special reward.” The team goes rigid as Bob descends toward them. He smiles widely and announces, “Only two rounds to go! So get ready, boys and girls: Round Four is a solo player game!”
“Do we get to choose who plays?” Lance asks.
“Of course,” Bob answers. “But quickly now,” he warns.
The screen unfolds from the wall, revealing a new timer that quickly runs down.
“I’ll do it,” Keith says immediately.
“No,” Lance barks.
“We should vote,” says Allura.
“Everyone’s gonna vote for themselves,” Lance argues.
“Shouldn’t we find out what the game is first?” Hunk asks nervously.
“I said I’m doing it,” Keith snaps. “I’m the leader and–”
“You’re incapacitated,” Lance snaps.
“What the hell? No I’m not.”
“You kind of are, Keith,” Pidge admits. “The pressure’s been on you these past rounds.”
“No,” Keith splutters. “It’s been on you, watching you all face death and–”
“We’ve got ten seconds, tops,” Lance says. “Leader’s out, meaning right hand man goes forward.”
“That’s not how this–” Keith begins.
“Stop fighting this!” Lance snaps. “Five seconds, everyone stop arguing and think. Leader’s out, it’s me next. I want to do this.”
“I’m not out–”
“Lance,” says Allura. “It’s Lance.”
“Lance,” Hunk agrees solemnly.
“There’s no time,” Pidge says apologetically. “Lance.”
Keith squeezes his fingers into fists until they tremble.
“Tiiime’s up!” Bob cries. “Who have you chosen?”
“Me.” Lance steps up, purposefully ignoring Keith’s smouldering glare.
“Ah!” Bob exclaims. “You and I again, Red. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Through the fanfare, Keith grits his teeth. The gold light returns to yank he and the others back. He flinches as something slams down around them—glass walls. They’ve been put in a fucking box. In an instant, the sound from outside extinguishes. Lance remains by the podium, where his eyes flicker nervously to the others. They’re got chairs to sit in, like those at a sports game, though Keith hates to compare this to some stupid match.
“Can you hear us?” Pidge calls.
Her voice reverberates around the small glass box. The team flinches back as abruptly the glass walls turn ashen grey, plunging them into darkness.
“Remember,” an automated voice reminds them. “Any attempt by the audience to signal or communicate with the player will result in censorship.”
“Uh,” Pidge stutters, panicking.
The ashen colour lifts, revealing the theatre again. Lance stares at them, stunned. Are you okay? he asks, but the sound doesn’t breach the glass walls. Very subtly, Keith inclines his head yes. He fears the ash colour will consume them again, but the walls remain clear. If they want to see Lance, they’ll have to be quiet.
A speaker crackles to life, feeding them audio from outside the box.
“Round Four,” says the electronic commentator. “Recall.”
“In this game, the contestant must answer five questions correctly to advance to the next round,” Bob explains. “The contestant may withdraw at any time, but unless five correct answers are given, they won’t move to Round Five!”
“So we lose,” Pidge says dryly.
She’s quickly shushed by Allura.
“Answer a question correctly, and you advance,” says Bob. “But answer incorrectly…”
“And we die,” Pidge mutters.
“Pidge,” Keith says. “Shut up.”
“For every question you can’t recall,” Bob says, and pauses for laughter from the audience. “You’ll lose something you can recall!”
Keith frowns, as does Lance. His eyes track Bob attentively, fingers clenching the podium. He looks like he’s plotting something. Keith’s stomach twists and tightens.
“Each question must be answered within thirty ticks,” Bob says. “Otherwise…” A buzzer sounds, comical and negative. “You get recalled!”
“What does that mean?” Lance speaks, and Keith’s surprised to hear him through the speaker. Bob must be feeding them outside audio, while muting those within the box.
“Uh oh,” Bob says. “He doesn’t know what a recall is.” The audience laughs. Bob procures a book from nowhere, flipping through the pages. “Think about it this way, Lance,” he says. “You are a book. Each page, a memory. Now, somewhere tucked away in this book is the answer to the next five questions. It’s your job to find the answers. And if you can’t, well…”
Bob trails off, considering the page pinched between his fingers. Abruptly, he rips it from the book. The audience cheers, and Lance pales.
“You,” he stutters. “You’re gonna take my memories?”
“Recalled!” Bob cries.
The audience falls into hysterics. Lance’s horrified gaze shifts from their host to the team, where he finds Keith.
“We have to switch,” Keith blurts. “We have to switch who’s playing, I–”
He stands, rushing for the glass. Instantly, it plunges them into darkness.
“Keith!” Hunk hisses. “What are you doing?”
“We have to switch players,” Keith insists. “It’s Lance, he can’t–”
“He’s got the best memory,” Hunk snaps. “Sit down, else we’ll be here forever! I need to see what’s happening.”
Heart racing, Keith takes his seat. After a long moment, the glass lightens again. With it, sound also returns, and he hears the audience overflowing with chatter. Lance breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the team again.
Bob relishes the excited chatter of the audience. Lacing his fingers, his expression only brightens as a screen unfurls from the wall, bathing them in white light. Lance locks eyes with Keith, the stinging white banishing the colour from his skin. He cracks a tiny smile, which vanishes into thin air when a timer trills, signalling the start of the round.
Bob smiles widely. “Question number one.”