Chapter Text
“You don’t have to do this,” Hunk says.
They’re given time, a brief handful of minutes to regroup. Hunk and Shiro retreat back to the archway they’d entered the enormous hall from; the Galra remain at the other side with the throne. The Clirians cluster around the two Paladins, the aliens muttering to themselves as they shift weapons in their fine-boned hands. Some have left their group to perch along the tiers on either side of the hall, slowly populating the space in a way that sends a shiver of unease down Shiro’s spine, though he can’t spare the energy to figure out why. His attention is fixed on the tier directly behind the Galra throne, where the other three Paladins watch uncomfortably.
They’re too far away to get to.
“I have to,” Shiro says. Even if the Galra didn’t have the rest of his crew as leverage, backing out isn’t an option. There’s something uncomfortable in the way the ground had murmured beneath his feet when he’d blurted out the Challenge; Shiro’s not sure if he’d imagined it. There’d been nothing in Coran’s report about stronger gravity on this planet, yet the pressure in this hall is undeniable. Shiro’s felt it from the moment he and Hunk first stepped through the door. “Hunk, I need you to listen. I’m not trusting that Galra to keep his word. If you see any opportunity to get to the others, you take it. Do you understand?”
Hunk’s bayard is still formed, the cannon gripped tightly in his hand. “I got it, but I don’t like this. Do you see how big that guy is?”
Yes. Shiro glances back over his shoulder. The massive Galra’s still seated on the throne, speaking to some of his minions. His posture is unworried and languid as he gestures across the hall with one enormous hand. Shiro wonders what he’s saying. Maybe Keith or one of the others could hear, but without their helmets there’s no way for Shiro or Hunk to get a hold of them.
Shiro can’t lose this.
“We’re here for you,” Allura says, in his ear. “The Galra are pulling back from their aerial attacks.”
Hunk frowns. “That’s great, don’t get me wrong, but - why? I thought they had the numbers. Did they get scared?”
“Of course they got scared,” Coran says. “We were winning!”
Shiro’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “You guys okay up there?”
“We’re fine. The sky’s clear.” Allura’s voice is tight with worry. “Shiro - do you want us to come?”
“No,” Shiro says, sharp. “The last thing we need is either of you to be caught up in this. It’s my challenge. He accepted that. I can do this.”
“Black Paladin,” the leader of the Clirians, High Priest Filorn, interrupts. He and his junior priests remain closest to Hunk and Shiro on the step, having pushed their way to the front of the group. Filorn’s knuckles are white where he grips his staff. “How did you know the ancient words? How did you know exactly what to say to force Bretak to accept?”
“Ancient words?” Hunk repeats.
“I didn’t,” Shiro says, blinking. In the heat of the moment he’d meant to say something entirely different. Surrounded by Galra, with Hunk and the Clirian attack team just behind him, with Pidge and Keith and Lance helpless and looking on, Shiro’d locked eyes with the Galra-King and said I Challenge you instead of absolutely everything else. Instead of Let them go, instead of we don’t surrender, instead of everything sensible and sane he’d said I Challenge you, for my people and for this land and for the stones under your feet. I Challenge you to single battle until one of us cedes or falls. By rite and ancient law you cannot refuse me.
The words had just….come.
Filorn huffs, unconvinced. His gaze upon Shiro is serious. “You must be very careful. Bretak has ruled our planet for decades. He’s rooted in it very, very deeply. I have no doubt he’ll try and use that against you. This will not be an easy fight to win.”
“Gee, thanks, that’s real encouraging,” Hunk mutters. A breeze shivers in through the open roof, tumbling ash-red pebbles between the two Paladins and the throne on the other side. Bretak still has not moved, his black cloak billowing feebly in the wind. He doesn’t so much as glance their way.
The mission was supposed to be simple. Voltron had landed with the original intent to liberate this planet from the Galra interlopers. The urgent needs laid out by the Clirians had been straightforward: reclaim the capital, kick out the Galra, take back the planet’s sacred grounds. Shiro had been on board with every part of the plan up until Pidge and her team missed a check-in. Up until Shiro and Hunk burst through the archway straight onto the sacred ground, only to be confronted with the remnants of the Galra army. Up until the gravity in this room tugged at him, up until Shiro had blurted something he’d never heard before, up until the Galra who clearly fancied himself a King accepted it, and now…
Now here they are.
“What do your people say, before you go off to battle?” Talorit, the junior priest, inquires politely. “Are there ritualistic words of encouragement that you speak before a sacrificial duel?”
“Before a what?” Hunk gapes.
“It’s fine,” Shiro says, quickly. “And - no. Not really. A ‘good luck’ would do, I guess, but we don’t really…do this.”
“Then I wish you ‘a good luck’,” Filorn says, and he and his people bow low over their staffs. Every Clirian clustered near their group does as well, a wave of thick-shouldered, long-limbed people. Shiro should be touched by it. Should be honored. His heart’s not in it.
Did you know? he can’t help but wonder, as Filorn straightens up. Why didn’t you tell me the only way to retake your hall was through a Challenge?
Either way, it’s too late now. The Clirian priests and their contingent retreat back to the archway, taking position along the wide, low step that graces their end of the hall. A half-wall of stone surrounds most of the level, providing a perfect viewing location. Odd.
Their retreat leaves Hunk and Shiro alone on the floor. Shiro reaches up to tap his helmet’s microphone off, gesturing for Hunk to do the same.
“Hunk,” he says, quietly. “There’s one more thing.”
“Name it,” Hunk says. Across the way the Galra King roars with laughter at something his minions said. The noise echoes around the hall.
Pressure bends down on Shiro’s shoulders, curls up at his temples like sweat. If Hunk feels it too he gives no sign.
“Hunk,” Shiro starts. “If I don’t make it out of here -”
“No way, man, no way,” Hunk interrupts, vicious and immediate. “You don’t get to -”
“Hunk, listen,” Shiro snaps. His tone cuts right through Hunk’s panic. “I mean it. If I don’t make it out of here, I need you to get the others out. Whatever it takes. Get to them, get them out, keep them safe.” He swallows. “And tell them I’m proud of them.”
Hunk shakes his head, eyes wide and shining. “No, Shiro. I can’t promise that.”
“Hunk -”
“I’m not promising because you’re going to be fine,” Hunk says, just as urgent, just as low. “You can do this, Shiro. I know you can. You’re going to win. You always do.”
“Hunk, I need you to,” Shiro says, and lays his hand firmly on Hunk’s shoulder. “I need to know you’ll do this for me, if this goes badly. Promise me.”
The anger drains from Hunk in the slightest slumping of his shoulders, the quiver in his chin as he clenches his jaw resolutely. He gives a short, sharp nod.
Shiro squeezes his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. And for the record, I’m proud of you too.”
“I am, too,” Hunk says, clapping Shiro on the shoulder as well. His grip is firm, his eyes hard with determination. “All of us are. You can do this, Shiro. Don’t make me keep this promise, okay? Keith’d never forgive you. And -”
Keith. Shiro glances across the way again, towards the tier where Keith and Pidge and Lance are being held. He can’t get close enough to them. This is the only way.
Keith will understand.
“I’ll do my best,” he says.
“Do more than your best,” Hunk commands, and squeezes Shiro’s shoulder too before letting go. “Kick. his. ass.”
Shiro nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice. Without looking back, without looking around, and without turning his microphone back on, Shiro pulls away and walks towards the center of the hall.
The Hall’s long and deep; three of the Castle’s ballrooms would fit in here with plenty of room to spare. The walls curve around the sacred ground, tiered in deep platforms that widen the space significantly from near the floor all the way up and out. The tiers were empty when Shiro and Hunk first burst into the hall; now the Clirians have taken over some of them, holding position, keeping court. The remainder are filling with a chatter Shiro forces himself to ignore. He can do this. He will do this. He can’t afford distractions.
Shiro walks forwards on the rock-scattered, red-tinted pale soil. Nothing grows here. He can imagine vividly how dark this hall must have been until only an hour ago, clouded over with the purple energy barrier that guarded the capital city from all intruders before Voltron arrived. How the Clirians had been forced away from their sacred ground, thirty years ago. How the battle must have gone, the Clirian King standing in alarm from the throne as the Galra army advances through the door Shiro’s come from. A wicked grin on the face of the interloper as he throws the body of the then-priest to the ground. The smug victory dripping from the Galra’s voice as he says I Challenge you; you cannot refuse me -
Shiro blinks, hard. The vision clears. Where had that come from?
…he doesn’t have time for this. The sky through the open roof is pale, not washed in purple. Pidge had brought the barrier down. Clever Pidge; with Keith and Lance to guard her back, the team was supposed to be subtle and swift and meet them here.
They had, just not in the way any of them had planned.
Shiro walks. He’s going to get them all out of this.
Including himself.
“And so the Challenger arrives,” Bretak the Galra-King says, once Shiro’s close enough. The Galra is massive, seated in the stone throne made entirely of the same gray-red ash as the soil. He’s too big for it, fur and fat spilling out of the chair where he perches. Nothing marks him as a king other than his position in the seat Shiro promised the Clirians he’d overtake: no crown, no ornaments, nothing. The pitiful breeze twitches the hem of the Galra’s jet-black cloak. His yellow eyes gleam, sharp and glinting.
“Shiro!” Lance cries, from above. “Shiro, no!”
“Everything’s going to be fine, Lance,” Shiro calls. Lance, Keith, and Pidge stare down at him from up behind the Galra-King, trapped shoulder to shoulder. “You guys alright?”
“We’re fine,” Pidge calls back tightly. She’s unharmed, her eyes wide and scared behind her glasses. Lance is the only one visibly bleeding, crusted blood drying along the side of his temple. Shiro can’t tell if there’s more damage than that, but Lance is standing, alert, and that’s all Shiro can ask for. Keith -
Keith is frozen next to Pidge, unharmed too except for the flat, trapped terror and rage in his eyes.
I’m sorry, Shiro doesn’t say. Keith’s eyes widen. He leans forward across the stone rail, but one of the half-dozen Galra guards yanks him back.
“Shiro!” Keith yells, and it tears through him like a shot.
“Sit tight,” Shiro orders, and forces his gaze away from his team back to the interloper-King.
“Brave words,” Bretak says. “I admire that. I’ll give you one chance: back out now, and I’ll spare your crew. The five of you can leave this planet unharmed, if you leave now and take your challenge with you.”
The air presses down on him, urging.
“I can’t,” Shiro says. Where the confidence comes from he isn’t certain. It’s like he’s watching himself speak, the words flowing through him without permission. There’s a distance between him and what’s happening. “And neither can you. You accepted my challenge; you know the laws as well as I do. The only way either of us is leaving is if you cede your claim to that throne, and I spare your life. Take your Galra and go. This is your only warning.”
Laws?
Shiro blinks. What laws? Why had he said that, too?
The Galra just grins, yellow eyes gleaming. “Then the only way you’ll leave will be dead.”
“No!” Pidge cries.
“Be quiet,” the King orders. One of the Galra guards raises their electro-staff. Quick as lightning, Keith pushes Pidge aside by slamming his shoulder into hers, sending her sprawling into Lance as Keith takes the blow instead. He screams as the electricity courses through him, harsh and jerking.
“Don’t!” Shiro yells, over Lance and Pidge’s angry shouts. Pidge springs back up; the guards grab her and Lance, yanking them back from Keith. “Stop! Let them go!”
“You’re not in a position to make demands,” the Galra-King comments idly. “Do you even know what laws you’re playing with?”
“Shiro,” Keith gasps. Shiro stops short. Keith looks down at him; Keith’s angry, frustrated, trapped, but most of all he’s desperate. Shiro nearly flinches from the resolute terror in his best friend’s eyes. Keith’s begging. “Don’t do this. We’ll be fine, don’t do this -”
“Touching,” Bretak drawls, and waves his hand. The guard strikes. Keith cries out again.
“Stop it!” Shiro yells, “Leave them alone. Your fight is with me.”
Bretak gestures again. To Shiro’s relief the guards stop. Pidge rips away from the grip on her arms and rushes back to Keith. Shiro can’t hear what she says.
“Yes,” Bretak says, slowly. “Yes, it is.”
The Galra stands. As large as he was sitting down he’s even more massive standing up. He towers above Shiro, larger than Sendak was, taller and wider and fiercer. He unfastens his cloak. Thick red armor wraps around his torso and limbs, protective and strong.
Shiro’s heart sinks somewhere down to his feet.
“I’ve heard of you,” Bretak continues, casting the cloak aside. The fabric flutters to the ground, unaffected by the gravity pulling at Shiro’s bones. “The Champion, most favored in Zarkon’s arena. Undefeated. Escaped. What luck.”
A murmur rises from the Clirians gathered behind and around.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Shiro says.
Bretak shrugs, a ripple of his wide shoulders. His armor’s well-plated even at the joints. Shiro will have to be careful. Bretak’s not exhibiting any signs of genetic modification like Sendak had, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing up his sleeve.
“Tell me, Champion,” Bretak says. Shiro’s reluctant title in the Galra’s mouth is an insult. “What is life like outside of this planet? Is it everything you thought it would be? I can’t imagine much has changed in three decades.”
“Cede and find out for yourself,” Shiro says. The gravity tugs at him, insistent. He’s done. “Last chance.”
“You’ll regret not doing the same.”
Shiro shifts his weight, preparing. “I’ve beaten your kind before.”
“So you have,” Bretak says, with a simple grin of sharp, feral teeth. He raises his hands. “Shall we make you more at home?”
The ground trembles, minutely at first, tiny ash-red pebbles bouncing at Shiro’s feet. The stones quiver, faster and faster as the shaking picks up speed. Visible power flows from Bretak’s fingers, tendrils of grey light reaching from the ground to his fingertips, dripping from his open palms, wrapping around his feet.
He’s rooted in it, Filorn’d said.
Oh, no.
That’s all the warning Shiro has. The floor bucks, a visible wave. Shiro barely manages to keep his footing. Something crashes to his left. A pillar of stone rises from the floor some several feet away, growing taller and stretching for the sky as Shiro stares, jaw agape. Something crashes to his right - a second pillar, just like the first. Two more join them: in total four pillars rise from the ground, shaking and groaning from the force of Bretak’s summoning. The four pillars hook at the top, jagged curves several stories high, and halt.
The stones settle. Shiro gapes.
“Is that better?” Bretak practically purrs.
He’s seen those pillars before.
How many times has he seen pillars like this before.
The four pillars mark corners of a perfect square in what used to be an uninterrupted floor space, trapping him, locking him in. The pillars are the wrong color but the jagged curves are distinctive. Shiro’d know that shape anywhere.
He’s taken a step back, staring wildly. The pillars are ash-red and white; they overlay with the purple and reflective columns Shiro’s seen countless times until he can’t distinguish between the two of them. The wall surrounding the floorspace is tall, too tall to climb. The stands are full of aliens frighteningly diverse, a raucous mix of bloodthirsty languages and screaming voices. He’s the challenger; he’s the defender. He’s coming through the challenger’s hall with the rest of the prisoners; he’s in the middle of the arena told to defend or die, he’s not here, he’s on Zarkon’s ship, he never left -
“More your natural habitat, I think,” Bretak says. “What will you do when I’ve sent you back there?”
His voice breaks through the flashback and Shiro tries to grasp it, tries to root himself back in the here and now. It’s not the same. He’s not back there. This isn’t an arena, this is -
Voices reach his ears, clamoring for his attention. Breathing fast, too fast, Shiro finally, finally turns to the rest of the tiers surrounding the curved walls. Before they were nearly empty, filled only with a steadily growing scattering of Clirians. Shiro had assumed the hum of noise was them.
It’s not. The tiers are full almost to bursting, bodies clustered on each level all the way up the walls. They’re not all Clirians.
Most of them are Galra.
Galra soldiers and officers blur together in a sea of dark purples and blacks too many to count. That’s why the city’d fallen silent. That’s why the airships had stopped their attacks on the castle. They’d all come here. They’d come on command after all, to fill up the tiers, to watch -
No.
Those aren’t tiers, either.
They’re seats.
They’re gradated seats for people to watch whatever happens down here on the floor. That’s why they have railings. That’s why either end of the hall has a long box for immediate family or team of the Challenger, of the Royalty - it’s all there on purpose. This is a sacred ground of rituals, sure, but the throne at the hall’s other end is there by position only, because.
Because.
Shiro can’t breathe.
This isn’t a hall.
This is an arena.
And he’s dead center in the middle of it.
“Vrepit sa,” someone shouts from the Galra conglomeration, a chant that picks up speed and volume as voice after voice takes it up. Bretak steps down from the throne, cracking his knuckles. His weight shakes the floor, a shock-cloud rippling from where he sets down each foot. Shiro can’t tell if that’s real or if it’s just his doubled imagination. “Vrepit sa, vrepit sa, vrepit sa!”
The noise of the crowd rings in Shiro’s ears. He staggers back; he’s frozen; he can’t get away from the screaming. The wall of sound wraps around him and tears him between two realities: purple stands, fluorescent lights. Ash-red floor, white sky. Dark armored bodies, screaming for blood; pillars stretching up in the enclosed space. No light, no light, a sword in his hand, a throbbing stump, the burning heavy weight of a new arm - not mine, not mine, voices yelling, hollering for blood and death and he can’t, Shiro can’t, he can’t tell -
A shrill whistle slices through the noise. It cuts straight into Shiro’s panic; he stumbles, physically thrown. The noise sounds again, so distinctly different that it slams Shiro viciously back into the here-and-now. He blinks. The arena’s colors settle back to ashen and stone. The light’s white. Shiro looks up.
Lance has raised both his bound hands to his mouth and lets out another wolf-whistle, loudly piercing through the Galra chant. He grins when he sees Shiro watching, waving his hands and shouting something Shiro can’t make out. Keith’s shouting too, actually, and Pidge is pointing -
Bretak’s charging across the arena floor straight for him. Shiro leaps to the side and Bretak’s punch smashes into one of the pillars instead. Shiro pops up a good distance away, lightly dusted with ash but unharmed thanks to his team’s quick thinking.
“VolTRON!” Lance shouts. Now Shiro can make it out. “Vol -”
“- tron!” Pidge yells. “Vol -”
“VOLTRON,” Keith hollers at her side.
“KICK HIS ASS, SHIRO,” Hunk bellows.
Bretak readjusts, turning. Power drips from his closed fist, grey-black and sickly. Shiro activates his Galra prosthetic with a quick flick-straighten of his fingers. It hums to life, glowing. If it’s an arena fight Bretak wants, it’s an arena fight he’ll get.
“That’s what the Druids saw fit to give you?” Bretak asks, crude skepticism in every syllable. “Thirty years, and that’s the best they could come up with? And for you?”
An arc of clear energy splits the air above, curving over their heads like a domed barrier from the throne to the challenger’s door. It seals them in, sizzling, fading to translucence, affecting neither sound nor light. The stands are still perfectly discernible. So are the cheers. The crowd’s roaring. His friends chanting, calling his name. The whisper of the ground, pulling down on both of them. Shiro’s not here to play.
Fight. Fight. Fight!
He’s here to win.
He has to.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Shiro says, and strikes.
Bretak’s fast and Bretak’s powerful. He uses his size to his advantage, pivoting out of Shiro’s hit and punching hard. Shiro dodges. Bretak’s fist slams into the ground, which trembles from the impact. Shiro keeps his footing, driving forwards. The problem’s not Bretak’s strength so much as it is that armor. As long as Bretak’s protected Shiro won’t be able to take him down.
He twists up and in, striking at the elbow where the armor might be weaker. Bretak jerks backwards so Shiro’s hand only grazes, doesn’t cut. So much for a first hit. Shiro flips head-over-heels out of the way. There’s no time to stand: Bretak can take one step for every three of Shiro’s. But Shiro’s smaller, and Shiro’s faster. He skids to the side. Bretak’s punch rings back into the pillar, cracking it again from the impact. Shiro’s already up and striking for the Galra’s back; Bretak turns but too late. Galra armor is not invincible to Druidic steel. Shiro scores a deep purple line into the armor from waist to shoulder.
First hit. The Clirians go wild.
“Voltron, Voltron, Voltron!”
The armor doesn’t connect at the shoulder; Bretak jerks free before Shiro can cut into the fabric. The Galra pivots to strike at the bug on his back. Shiro slides in the same direction, ducking under the Galra’s arm and all the way around. He rips his hand up and along the front of the armor, a sharp gash that again shines purple from the heat. Second hit.
“Voltron, Voltron, Voltron!”
Bretak swings; Shiro leaps out of the way, activating his jetpack for that last extra foot of space. Bretak’s fist collides with the ground instead, sending rock and bits of dirt flying.
“You miss the world outside?” Shiro taunts, landing clear. “Thirty years is a long time to be stuck in a crater.”
“It is an honor to serve the will of the Emperor,” Bretak snarls. Shiro’s hits have left two stark slashes in the armor, front and back cuts still glowing with the aftershock. Shiro can’t tell how deeply he cut. “He rewards me well for sending him this planet’s gifts. Imagine the riches when I have returned to him the Paladins of Voltron and their escaped rat of a leader.”
“You’re one to talk about rats,” Shiro comments, and they lunge back at it.
It’s hit after hit, dodge after dodge. Strike, fall back, repeat, yes. Shiro scores a third hit, not in the same locations as before but across Bretak’s chest. Deeper, but not through. Again he dances out of range with the jetpack, squeaking just clear of a kick.
But Bretak didn’t come to play, either.
“Enough,” the Galra-King growls, and slaps his massive palm down into the ground.
The ground screams. Soil shatters.
Debris flies everywhere, rocks and ash clouding the sky. Shiro’s helmet activates automatically so he can breathe, but he can’t see. The cloud’s too thick. Where -
A boulder hurtles towards him out of nowhere, easily twice the size of Shiro’s chest plate.
Shiro dodges. He leaps out of the way of a second rock, following immediately after from a different angle. But turning to avoid the third means Bretak gets in a lucky shot. The fourth enormous rock slams into Shiro’s back, sending him sprawling to the ground just as the dust cloud clears.
“SHIRO!”
“Vrepit sa!” chant the Galra, cheering. “Vrepit sa!”
Groaning, Shiro picks himself up. He’s not hurt; his armor took the brunt of the blow. His armor - oh no. Shiro twists. One of the thrusters on his jetpack sparks at him, an apologetic smash of wiring and smoke. Useless.
Oh well. He hadn’t had a jetpack in the arena. He doesn’t need one now. What he does need is a way to break through the rest of that armor.
“Shiro!” someone shouts, again. It’s Lance. Shiro’s landed on the side of the arena by the throne, nearly under where his team’s being held. If Shiro looked up he’d see their worry, their concern, their fear.
“I’m fine,” Shiro calls, already turning back. He can’t spare the time.
Bretak stands in the middle of a new crater, grey smoke rising from its surface. He’s frowning, a deep crease on his furry fat face. “That should have killed you.”
Shiro shrugs, spreading his hands wide. “Humans. You missed, basically.”
Bretak steps up from the crater. Shiro shifts slowly to the left; Bretak keeps pace, circling around the crater’s edge to the right. He’s close to it. Close enough to push? No. “Humans indeed. I can see why Zarkon was so fascinated with you. You must have put on quite the show.”
“Foolish to keep going, then.” Shiro picks his steps carefully, scanning the new additions to the floor. Giant hole. Large scattered boulders. Debris. There must be something -
His gaze lands on one of the pillars, damaged from the first hits.
Ah ha.
Not a moment too soon. Bretak slaps both palms to the soil. The arena sways violently as he tears open a larger crater, debris and ash flying into the air.
Shiro’s ready for it. The second the dust hits the air he abandons caution and sprints for the arena’s other side. He misjudges the distance and almost runs into the pillar, nearly cracking his nose against its hard surface. Shiro skids around the base, putting the pillar squarely between him and the threat. Just in time. The first of the boulders slams into the other side of the pillar, which shakes and cracks, but holds.
Perfect.
Bretak’s first punch cracked the surface. Shiro digs his fingers into it, jams his prosthetic into another hold, and yanks himself up.
The world overlaps briefly, purple on white, crowd on crowd as Shiro searches for handholds. The pillars in the arena weren’t this user-friendly; he’d managed to get up here once, but the surface was slick and Shiro definitely didn’t make it this far. He shakes his head. The pillar beneath his grip resolves again into ashen stone. He doesn’t have time for this.
When the debris cloud clears Shiro’s halfway up the pillar, using the Galra prosthetic to carve new holds whenever the reach is too far. He judges his distance from the ground - far enough - and waits.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. Vrepit sa blends into Voltron blends into kill him, kill him, harsh syllables overlaying in brutal words. If someone’s shouting for him, just for Shiro, all the noise of the crowd and his own pounding heart drown it out.
He can do this. Shiro’s not one for giving up.
He’s certainly not going to start now.
Shiro leans out slightly, craning around the side of the pillar. Bretak lurks in the middle of the arena, stalking outside a new crater considerably larger than its predecessor. The Galra’s confused, searching the sides of the arena, a predator hunting for prey. It’s only a matter of time. The Galra in the stands are shouting indecipherably, pointing in Shiro’s direction. All too soon Bretak’s head whips up. His yellow eyes narrow.
Come on.
“Running, are we?” Bretak calls. “Is this how the famed Champion won in the arena? By running away? No wonder your escape was successful. You’ve clearly had a lot of practice.”
Shiro doesn’t answer. His hand grips into the pillar, Galra fingers crunching into the stone. The stone whines under his fingers; no. Shiro’s imagining that. He eases, but doesn’t let go. His other glove holds up, though his fingers sting. Altean cloth is really something.
“Is this what humans do?” Bretak is in no hurry. “Is cowardice a hallmark of your species? Come down and fight!”
Shiro’s not worried. Not yet. Bretak doesn’t have an extendable arm like Sendak. He can’t reach Shiro up here. Shiro just needs him to be closer-
Bretak stops a good five feet away.
What?
Grey-black drips from large fingers, almost thoughtful. Bretak grins. “Or should I make you?”
Shiro’s eyes widen. Oh, no -
The pillar bucks, the stone under his hands coming to fluid life as it wobbles like jelly. Shiro yelps and digs his Galra hand in deeper, clinging hard. His feet kick loose, dangling out over nothing. The pillar slingshots back and forth like a wave. Shiro grits his teeth, digs in deeper, hangs on. He can’t - almost - not yet -
- but the pillar’s swaying, falling, and even Bretak can’t control all the gravity. It’ll have to do.
As the pillar leans back in Bretak’s direction, Shiro uses its momentum and the arena’s stronger gravity and leaps.
Bretak sees but too late. Shiro’s falling with a yell, striking down at Bretak’s neck. The Galra twists and Shiro’s hand slices not through his spine but the back of his armor, so deep Shiro’s fingers catch. He yanks his hand, hard, activating his half-a-jetpack at the last second and jerking loose in a barely-controlled curve.
Shiro hits the ground, rolling free. So do the two pieces of Bretak’s chest plate, weakened by Shiro’s earlier attacks. The back portion of the armor falls away with a clank; with nothing to attach to at the shoulders the front piece does as well. Bretak’s left in the dark fabric of his undersuit and the armor still fastened around his arms and his legs.
That’s it.
Shiro’s done it.
He’s done it.
The Clirians go wild. Shiro can just barely make out Hunk’s proud yelling, Lance’s wolf-whistle piercing above everything else in mad celebration. Bretak turns, rage etched in every line of his face. “You little -”
“What were you saying about humans?” Shiro snarls, and attacks.
They strike, hit, dodge, weave. The battle’s been going for what, three minutes? Five? Shiro has to end this, and fast. He can’t afford to make even the smallest mistake.
An inch is all it takes.
Bretak pushes a little too wide and Shiro stumbles out of the way just a hair too far. The second crater’s much closer than it should be - before he can so much as blink Shiro’s overbalancing on the edge. He’s falling backwards, tipping head-over-heels in.
He never hits the ground. Bretak’s there, right there, he grabs Shiro’s leg and hauls him straight up into the air. Shiro dangles in his grip, upside-down.
Oh shit.
“Shiro!” someone screams; Shiro can’t tell who. Blood pounds in his ears. The crowd roars, a mix of syllables Shiro doesn’t have time to figure out. Bretak’s grip on his ankle is bone-gratingly tight. He drags the struggling Paladin up to eye level. Burning yellow meets upside-down grey.
“Now then,” Bretak says. “You and I -”
Shiro swings forward in a mid-air sit-up and stabs his Galra arm right into Bretak’s elbow.
Bretak drops him with a cry. Shiro’s arm slices through the weak joint of the armor as he falls. He lands hard, rolling again and again, and scrambles up. Bretak’s not chasing; he’s clutching at his arm, howling in pain. Blood drips between his purple fingers.
First blood.
“Cede to me,” Shiro orders, standing fully. His ankle’s tender but bears weight. The crowd hushes. “You and yours can leave. See the outside world again. I’ll even let you go back to Zarkon and tell him who beat you.”
“Don’t be so noble, Shiro!” Lance hollers. “He tried to kill you! Kill him dead!”
Bretak shakes his head. Fiery resolve paints his features, thunderously angry.
“Do it,” he orders, “Do it now!”
For a second Shiro thinks Bretak’s talking to him. Then every Galra in the front tiers pulls their blaster in one fluid motion, aiming them squarely into the arena.
At Shiro.
What - ?!
Shiro can’t even dodge, where would he - his feet are frozen -
“We’re done,” Bretak commands, and raises his hand.
“SHIRO!”
The Galra fire. Every shot zips straight into the arena, dead on him.
None of them hit.
The barrier shield blooms into stark visibility, a clear wave of energy immediately absorbing the blows. The blaster bolts hit it and bounce back into the stands. Aliens scream and duck for cover. The shield over the arena floor ripples and ripples. Not a single shot gets through.
“How dare you!” Hunk bellows, “Let me go - I’ll kill ‘im - let me go!”
Shiro’s too shaken to speak. Something else pulls at him, something indescribable and heavy. It insists.
Bretak growls in anger, turning to Shiro. “What kind of wizardry are you -”
Just like before the words spring from nowhere. They press up through panic, racing up from his feet through his tongue.
“You cannot interrupt,” Shiro says. Something beyond him urges the syllables free. He lets them. “The Challenge is between you and me. No one else. No one else may interfere until our Challenge is complete.”
He blinks. That’s…where had that come from?
Bretak stares, yellow eyes narrowed. Shiro’s heart is pounding, fit to burst out of his chest from the near miss. Something’s looking out for him. Something’s going on. Something…deeper…? A breeze blows between the two combatants, stronger than before.
“Fine,” Bretak snarls, and gestures his massive hand back to the throne. “Give me a weapon. I’ll end this myself.”
“That’s cheating!” Pidge yells, furious. Bretak stalks to the throne, the stone seat inside the shield with them. From behind it he picks up an enormous scythe - no, it’s a sickle, the curved blade glinting wickedly where it attaches to a long chain, balanced on the other end with a heavy globe of iron. Bretak hefts the chain in his hand, testing its weight. “That’s cheating!”
Pidge, calm down, Shiro should say, but he can’t. He can’t move. Bretak wraps the chain around his hand and turns back to face him.
He’s grinning.
“Good luck, Champion.”