Jul 2, 2025
If Klance were aliens, what would their alien names be...?
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Sweden
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
If Klance were aliens, what would their alien names be...?
Everything is burning.
For too long he doesn’t move. His limbs are leaden, pulled heavily to the ground, and his neck is too weak to keep up his head. Smoke curls in the air and settles sleepily into his lungs. Shredded metal and broken glass glint and shine under the full moonlight, and through his half-lidded eyes it looks like stars. Every inhale is laborious, but the churned earth feels shaped to the contours of his body, like a mattress designed specifically for him. He could close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest, recover from the strain of the crash before moving forward. It would be easier. Just a short rest, a moment to sleep, to heal.
Sounds of a forest surround him. A steady chirping that must be crickets, a hooting that can only be an owl. If he strains his ears farther, there’s the chittering of something scurrying up and down trees, and the heavier thumps of something bigger stomping about. Behind that, there are voices.
Shouting. And the bark of what has to be dogs, and the ever so faint revving of vehicles, slamming doors.
Get up, urges a voice in the back of his head. Get up now.
He tries to comply. He cracks open his eyes – when did he close them? – and hisses at the onslaught of light, of beams of searching torches and painful flashes of red and blue. All of a sudden he’s made aware of the flames inching closer to his legs, and the wing of his ship, torn off the body, pressing him into the ground.
“Not good,” he croaks, trying to wiggle his toes. Thankfully, he can, although movement reminds his body of itself, and the aches and pains start to come alive – his entire head pounds, and nausea coils around his stomach, and something burns and pulses in the meat of his calf.
But still he can move.
Forcing his arms to function, he grounds his hands under him, pushing upright. His body feels heavier than it has ever felt before; the task feels herculean. The unrest in his stomach becomes violent, swirling, and he has to stop before he’s even sitting upright, eyes stinging, teeth clenched, breathing deliberately and sharply through his nose until the nausea settles again. The world spins, when he’s finally sat upright, and he has to give himself a moment for that to pass, too, but the shouting voices and stomping feet get louder, and he knows he doesn’t have much time.
“Okay,” he whispers to himself, praying that Perseus and Ursa and Leo guide him. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
He curls his gloved fingers under the ruined edge of the wing, careful of the sharp shards of torn metal, and heaves, pushing and biting back a loud cry as the effort of freeing his legs tears something in his shoulders, hurts something in his back. The wing is heavy and he’s lucky he’s merely trapped under it rather than pinned; if the ground wasn’t supporting so much of its weight then the onus would be on his legs, and he’s sure he would lose them. His body is sorer than it has ever been in his life, and everything hurts, but he is grateful for that at least.
With the freeing of his legs comes the hard part. He doesn’t trust them to hold them, at least not at first, and he’s scared of what might happen if his brain tells them to move on their own. So he wraps his hands around his ankle and pulls, so his foot slides close to his rear and bends his knee, and does the same with the other, so he is sitting with his knees nearly pressed to his chest and his feet flat and steady on the floor.
“Okay,” he whispers again to himself, shaky this time. He bites off any other words, snapping his mouth shut, focusing on breathing. Okay. He braces his palms on the cracked and sparking remains of the control board the pushes with all his strength, steadying himself on wobbling legs and knocking knees. He holds himself steady, breath held in his lungs, for the count of fifteen ticks, carefully testing with his hands still steadying himself, the ability of his legs to hold him up.
Carefully, nervously, he lifts up his hands. He sways, for a moment, but manages to stay upright. On the high of that success he straightens to the best of his ability and surveys the smoking remains of his crashed ship. It’s not very salvageable. Scrap metal, maybe, but everything else…
He swallows. It has been two deca-phoebs since he left home. Six pheobs since he last passed a satellite up to date enough to talk to his family face-to-face. He hasn’t seen home in so long that sometimes he struggles to remember what it felt like to lie in his bed, not just the nest he built in the cab of his ship. The ship, with its purple glowing lights and well-worn buttons and weird old sounds and familiar walls is the only piece of home he has left. Maybe forever, now.
He shakes himself. The voices are closer, now, the barking of dogs closer still. He doesn’t have time to dwell. He forces himself to shift around some of the ruins, digging through cracked polymer and cracked glass to find anything salvageable and portable; anything he can find in under thirty ticks. He manages – thankfully – to find his pack, half-burned as it is, that he knows holds some clothes and supplies. He finds his comm, too, although it’s cracked clean in half. He brings it anyway.
His head swivels to the treeline as he hears a barked order that sounds like it’s barely out of eyesight. He has to go. He doesn’t have any more time.
Choking back tears from two different kind of pain, he stumbles his way out of the wreckage and sprints for the trees, as far away from the voices as he can manage. He only hopes that he’s not trailing blood – and that the humans aren’t faster than he is.
———
Keith grew up on stories of Earth.
His father told him hundreds. It’s like a hundred planets in one, he liked to say, and when Keith was young and still fit in the crook of his father’s arm he’d look at him with wide eyes and try to imagine it. Dozens of nations all trying to coexist in one space. All the culture and language you could ever dream of, naui jag-eun tamheomga, everywhere, at once.
When Keith was a kid he couldn’t get enough of it. When he was a teen he couldn’t, either; he’s never not been fascinated with the heritage he’s never shared with anyone he’s ever known. His bedtime stories were of scientific discoveries his father witnessed in real time, of athletic feats of which Keith could barely conceptualise. And when he ran out of real stories, he told Keith stories of thousands of years of myths, of gods and angels and monsters. And of course when Keith had the first inkling of an opportunity he packed a ship, kissed his mother goodbye, and flew off on a several hundred million lightyear journey, his field journal blank and begging to be filled and his father’s voice echoing in his head.
His father prepared him for everything. Keith knew every star on the journey, recognised the curve of every planet in the solar system. Upon sight of the Great Blue Dot he could barely contain his excitement, thrusters at full force.
His father told him everything. As far as Keith knew and has always known, his father knew everything.
His father didn’t tell him that the second his ship showed up on government scanners, he’d be shot out of the sky.
Keith found that one out the hard way.
———
There’s a light up ahead.
It’s yellowed, and old. The bulb has not been changed in a long time, and dead moths pile inside the class lamp cover. Cobwebs wrap delicately around the iron frame. The light seems out of place with the cottage it guards; not in appearance, but in liveliness: the cottage is dark and well-maintained. The ancient beckoning of the lamp post seems at odd with the sleepy youth of the red-bricked little house.
Keith is starting to get a little delirious, maybe.
Stumbling, he approaches the cottage. He has long since lost the voices and hunters, if that’s what they were, distracted no doubt by the remains of his ship. He hasn’t heard them in hours.
But the moon crests higher and higher overheard. And the torn flesh of his leg – cut deeply by a shard of shrapnel – bleeds sluggishly with no sign of stopping. And he is tired, and every step is harder, and the adrenaline only continues to fade, and the point in which he will no longer be able to go on is rapidly approaching.
And, most damning. Humans are pursuit predators. As far as he goes – if he is not sheltered, they will find him. Now or days from now, he cannot stay hidden.
He’d like to choose the terms in which he is discovered.
He forces himself to the cottage, injured leg dragging behind him, vision getting blurrier with every step, breaths getting shallower and shallower. The steps are real wood, cured and stained and worn, and Keith mourns for a moment that he is about to ruin them with the spill of his own blood and the tracked mud and grease on his clothes. His father wore a necklace, every day of his life, a leather cord with a rubbed-smooth charm of carved wood. In all the many planets Keith has visited, he has never seen real wood. Dried plant matter, in abundance, and every kind of polished stone, polymers created from nothing and glass melted from every kind of sand, but wood is, at least as far as anyone knows, completely unique to Earth. Keith has always been fascinated by it.
His strength leaves him at the door. Like his strings were cut, he falls to his knees with a heavy thud, and must claw his way close enough to knock. The tap of his fist against the worn green door is hardly loud enough to be audible, but it is all he has strength to do. He slumps against the doorframe and mentally apologises to whatever old lady lives in this house, because she is going to have the fright of her life seeing his corpse on her doorstep when she wakes up in the morning. That, or a trail of blood from where the people who shot him down are going to drag him away.
Either way, not good.
He’s sad, as he lay there dying. That is of course not a revolutionary feeling to have, but it’s of no consequence. He wishes he saw more of Earth. He wishes he got to stop at all the places his father talked about so fondly. He wishes he was able to tell his mother goodbye. He wishes, perhaps most urgently, that dying hurt less. He had been too shocked to hurt, when he first crashed, but it’s been hours now and his body won’t let him forget it. Everything hurts, and his throat is dry. He hates it when his throat is dry. The wooden doorframe digs into his back, at least, and it’s not a pleasant sensation but he reaches out and strokes the grain of the wooden door anyway, feeling the chipped away pent, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending he’s running his thumb around his father’s pendant.
The texture of the wood suddenly disappears, and his back hits the ground. His eyes flutter open, whole seconds after he is laid flat on the ground, and hovering above him is the blurry silhouette of a man glowing gold; curls of hair shining flinted silver in the bright light of the moon, stars dotting the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose, mouth curved like the arm of the Milky Way, and eyes the deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.
“Oh,” are Keith’s dying words, faint and echoing and awed. “Dad was wrong. Angels are real.”
———
The tips of cool, uncalloused fingers brushing under his hairline rouse him from slumber, frowning. Mom must be wearing – gloves? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s never seen her wear gloves before, even when he’s been sick. Her claws tear right through the fingers. It doesn’t make sense.
“Mom?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, trying and failing to force open his heavy, heavy eyelids.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, not sounding like herself at all. She must be sick, too. “You’re still all fucked up. You need it.”
Keith’s eyebrows furrow. He wanted to talk to her. There was something he wanted to say to her. There’s something faint and muted pulling at the back of his mind; something about his mother, about talking, about pain and sleep and sorrow. He needs to wake up.
But he’s so tired. And his eyelids are so heavy. And sleep pulls, at every corner of his mind.
“Okay,” he sighs, and sinks back into it.
———
“Whatever the hell you are, you’ve made a mess of yourself. Dumbass.”
———
There are voices again. Arguing. Fear pricks at Keith’s veins, and it’s enough to propel him out of whatever blackness he’s been resting in, enough to force his eyes open. He squeezes them shut again on reflex, hissing at the onslaught of sunlight pouring in from the wide, open window, counting to three before opening them again under the shield of his hand.
He doesn’t recognise the room he’s in.
It’s strangely shaped. Almost cave-shaped, really, with rounded edges instead of sharp corners. Except the window is so big it bleeds light into every single crevice of the room, leaving no room for any cave-like impressions. The walls are painted with soft, muted murals, of hanging vines and falling leaves and ants marching a line on a tree. Dozens of shelves are filled with more rocks than Keith has ever seen in one place, even in his godfather’s labs and archives. The bed itself is huge, taking up half the room, enough so that Keith could sprawl if he pleased and not touch any edge. The comforter is huge and thick and almost stiflingly warm. The door is contrasting to the energy of the rest of the room, covered in vibrant stickers and sprawled in messages and almost graffiti-like lettering. It’s cracked open slightly, and through it Keith can hear two voices arguing: one stiff and demanding, the other angry and shrill.
“I have no idea what the hell you’re on about,” hisses the angry voice, defensive. “No one has shown up at my door. I’ve seen nothing strange. Everything is as normal as it always is. The only odd thing is the slew of trespassing assholes dressed in uniform who won’t leave me the fuck alone –”
Keith’s head lolls backwards, strength seeping out of his body. The sunlight is warm and smells good. The fear that had dragged him awake has ebbed, somewhat, because the voice – the angry voice – is protective. There is someone guarding Keith’s six.
He lets sleep swallow him again.
———
He dreams, finally, of flying on wings of hollow bones and stretched skin, and being shot out of the sky. And of a bright yellow canary, snatching him from his freefall and floating him gently to the earth.
———
“If you woke up soon I’d appreciate it, you know. I’m running out of excuses to buy saline bags. Shit is getting suspicious and if the local town thinks I’m a vampire trying to keep my personal bloodbag alive, I’m fucked.”
———
Keith awakes, finally and fully, in the middle of the night. A half moon shines bright into a bedroom that feels unnervingly familiar, like the watercolour memories from a dream. The cloudiness that’s been ever present in his head has finally faded, and the only thing rolling in his stomach is hunger. There’s still a heavy ache in his leg, but it’s manageable. It’s dark enough that his eyes don’t sting.
His mouth tastes like something died, then was revived, then shat on his tongue. It’s unpleasant.
Nervously, fully expecting a half-movement to crumble his body to dust, he peels back the disgustingly fluffy comforter, slowly pivoting his half-upright body until his feet are planted on the rug-covered floor. He rests there a moment, frankly a little breathless, but braces on palm on the nightstand and one on the bedspread and readies himself. Teeth grit in determination, he pushes, leaning on shaky arms until he trusts his legs to hold up his body.
They do. His one leg aches in a pain he’s only felt in Marmora training, but it holds him, and when he tests a tiny step forward, it holds him then, too.
Slowly, conscious of his space and his body, Keith inches forward.
It takes him longer than he would like to cross the minimal space between the bed and the door, but he does it, and he ignores the sardonic voice in his head that wants to do anything but celebrate. He rests again at the door frame, hand clutched at the top of it, stretched out in a way that feels unbelievably good (well, as stretched out as he can be with his head brushing the doorframe). His lips quirk up when he realises it’s made of wood, half-remembering his dying internal rambles. He wonders if building with wood is a common Earthen practice, or if whomever owns this cottage is just unbelievably wealthy. Maybe all Terrans are.
Once his breath has evened again and he thinks he’s good to go, Keith peeks down the hallway, nerves dancing down his spine. The two rooms branching off are dark and soundless, but there’s a small light on at the end of the hall where it opens up, and the soft sound of clinking glass. Someone is awake.
He closes his eyes, pulling back from the doorframe and closing his shaking hands into fists. “Just do it,” he whispers to himself. It’s not like they don’t know he’s here – someone has been keeping him alive, after all. He didn’t just recover – well, half-recover – from a massive crash by himself. That kind of thing kills a person, actually. “Stop stalling.”
Jaw set and shoulders square, Keith stalks forward. It’s hard to stalk with a heavy limp, but he thinks he manages. His cousin has always told him that power comes from audacity, and she has plenty, so. He should be fine so long as he emulates her, which he would rather crash from space again than admit but he does often.
He turns the corner at the end of the hallway and it opens up into an open kitchen and living space. There are no overhead lights but lamps and candles litter the space, making everything glow quietly. A light floral scent fills the air, but Keith isn’t sure if that’s from the candles or the bouquet of purple flowers that might be lavenders placed carefully on the centre of a – wooden – table. More shelves line the walls, filled with more than just rocks this time, and the walls are painted with bright swatches of colours; muted in the low light but visibly more sunshiney and abstract than the bedroom. The fridge is covered in photos so thickly that the door isn’t even visible. The counters are a mess of opened ingredients, some of which Keith recognises, and a slew of utensils and bowls in various states of disarray.
A man stands at the centre of it all, back turned to Keith.
Keith clears his throat.
The man whirls around, startled, and when he sees Keith he screams at the top of his lungs, mixing bowl clattering to the ground and splattering batter all over the floor and half the cupboards. Keith steps back, heart pounding in his ears, hands held defensively in front of him, mind screaming with various iterations of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He’d thought he was safe, that his presence was known, that –
“Oh my shitballs,” the man wheezes, hunching over slightly. “Oh Joseph and Mary and Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck. My heart just clawed its way up my esophagus and threw itself out of my mouth, actually. Holy shit.”
“What,” Keith croaks, still frozen in fear.
For a moment there’s silence. Then the man still stands crookedly, but straightens enough to look Keith in the eyes. And Keith –
Keith stops breathing, because he knows those eyes.
The deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.
“I am. So sorry,” he says, “for yelling. That is my bad. That is On Me. Probably freaked you out good.” He sighs, bending back down and scooping up the mixing bowl. He stares for a long moment at the mess of batter, weighing, then sighs again and more deeply and reaches for a rag. “I don’t mean to be xenophobic, promise. I swear I knew you were there. I just. Haven’t slept. In so many days. Would’ve screamed if anyone popped out, promise.”
“What,” Keith repeats, a little desperate.
The man doesn’t seem to pick up on his tone, though, continuing to work on the rapidly drying mess and rambling.
“– and it’s not your fault, anyway. Been a rough couple of weeks. You really freaked the hell outta the military, huh? I’m glad you’re up now because there was only so much I could do to keep them away. I’m sure they’ll come knocking again eventually, but we’ll figure it out then. Or you’ll go home? I’m honestly not sure. Whatever works. You can stay. I dunno. My brain’s on three percent at this exact moment.”
“You’re…not sleeping?” Intentionally, Keith avoids the whole military thing the man mentioned, because. Well. That freaks him out, if he’s being entirely honest, and he really doesn’t want to hear it. Right now he’s pretending that’s a problem for someone else. He has enough shit to deal with.
The man sighs. He looks dejectedly at the mess. Slowly, so as not to startle him again, Keith walks over to the sink, careful to avoid smears of whatever the man was making, and wets a rag to help him.
He figures it’s the least he can do.
“Yeah, well. I’ve never slept great outside of my bed. It’s cool, though. Sometimes I blink for a few seconds longer than usual and it’s like a micro-nap.”
Keith looks at him in concern. He’s staring off into space, rubbing at a spot that’s been clean for at least two doboshes now. Keith’s not even sure if he’s noticed him beside him. “That seems bad.”
“Eh. Now that you can move around, I can sleep if you’re ever up. All is well.”
“...Wait.” Keith shifts so he’s deliberately in the man’s space, which makes him startle, proving Keith’s earlier guess. “I’m sleeping in your bed?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious.
Keith flushes purple. “I didn’t know I was in your bed!” It’s not that he’s…you know…never slept in anyone else’s bed before, but usually he knew he was doing it. And never a stranger’s, as evidently kind as this stranger has been.
The man blinks. “I have a guest bedroom, but you’re too tall for it.”
“Still!”
“Dude. You showed up at my door in the middle of the night after crashing into the woods so hard the trees shook, bloodied to hell and back and near death. I couldn’t just – shove you in a bed too small for you. It was my bed or the floor, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to make an injured person sleep on the floor.”
“That’s…fair, I suppose,” Keith concedes. But he’s still a little troubled. “But I’m good, now. I can – sleep in the guest room?”
He trails off a little as he suggests it, realising, abruptly, how absurd this whole thing is. He doesn’t know this person. He’s shown up as an unexpected guest to his home – hell, to his planet. And now they’re…making sleeping arrangements? Arguing about sleeping arrangements? Is Keith even planning on staying? What are his other options? How is he going to get home? What happened to his ship?
His head starts to pound again. The man must notice, because he softens.
“Man, just sleep in my bed,” he says. “You’re still hurt.” He gently pries the rag out of Keith’s hand, tossing them both into the sink and standing. Hands still gripped together, he pulls Keith up too, careful of his hurt leg and generally aching body. He begins to tug Keith back to the bedroom, guiding him around the mess on the floor.
Keith squares his shoulders stubbornly. “No.”
“Oh, for the love of –”
The man pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at Keith in exasperation.
“This is what I get,” he says, shaking his head. “For not listening to Hunk about the light. I deserve this. This is Karma.”
“I’m not just going to steal your bed and let you be sleep deprived,” Keith insists.
“Well, I’m not going to let you not steal my bed! And it’s my house, so checkmate!”
“Not doing it.”
“I’ll drag you,” the man threatens. “I did before. I will do it again, do not test me.”
“You dragged me when I was a deadweight,” Keith points out. He straightens to his full height, ignoring the screaming burning in his leg. He has a Point to make. “Go ahead and try when I’m actively resisting.”
The man glowers at him, arms crossed over his chest and fingers drumming on his bicep. He has very long fingers, Keith notices. Kind of – elegant. In a scrawny way. Keith kind of gets those vibes from him as a person.
“Oh,” the man says triumphantly, standing to his full height, too – although he still has to look up to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’ll just sleep on the floor. So you’ll have to use my bed. Ha.”
Keith shrugs. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, too.”
The man glowers at him for several doboshes. Keith stares right back, eyebrows raised.
“Are all aliens this annoying?”
“Are all humans this stubborn?”
A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s mouth. “This is stupid.”
“It is,” Keith agrees, smiling back.
“Just – sleep on the bed.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“What if I sleep in it, too? Compromise.”
Keith’s cheeks heat again, although this time he doesn’t look away. That would be – embarrassing. Far more embarrassing than simply sleeping in someone else’s bed – sleeping with them in it.
But it would get them both to sleep faster. Plus, Keith would be unconscious, so how embarrassing could it be, really? And the bed is huge, so double plus! They probably won’t even be that near each other.
“Compromise,” Keith relents, finally. The man beams, but notably there’s a bit of a flush to his ears, too.
“Come on,” he says, reaching down to grab Keith’s hand again. He does it very easily. Keith tries not to notice. “God, I’m so pumped. I love sleeping. This is going to be the best.”
“...Right.”
Keith follows him, meekly, down the hallway, straight through the second door on the left, and into the bedroom. It has remained unchanged – the comforter is turned over as Keith left it, and the light curtains are swaying, slightly, in the breeze from the open window. The man wastes no time crawling right in, on the right right, sighing loudly as he sinks into the soft mattress. Keith is much more hesitant.
“There,” the man says, as they’re finally settled side by side. “Hopefully it’s not – the worst.”
“It’s not,” Keith tries to assure, voice strangled. He lies as stiffly as he can, careful to keep his limbs to himself, not to crowd. He doesn’t want to – suffocate the man, or something. Who knows. This is a real-life human. Mom says they are largely fragile.
“Goodnight,” the human whispers, several doboshes later. His voice is hushed, sleep-thick. Keith chances a look, and finds him melted into the pillows, eyes closed, face lax. He doesn’t seem to be – bothered. By Keith. By his clawed hands, or big ears, or height. Or proximity.
Keith exhales, and lets himself relax.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and sinks back into unconsciousness.
— — —
next
later in the universe
Completely self indulgent but:
What if Keith wasn’t half Galra, but something else...
Area 51
Read Here
I regret nothing
Specimen
“Where did they find this one again?”
“At the police station. They caught it attacking one of the students.”
“Jesus. Is the kid okay?”
Keith moaned, shivering as he came to. He could barely hear the voices over the high pitched ringing of his own ears. His ears hurt, his head hurt...everything just hurt.
When he attempted to inhale, he immediately gagged, the stench of chemicals and latex invading his senses like a virus. His entire body shuddered painfully, and he could barely keep himself quiet at the way his empty stomach convulsed.
“Oh hey, I think the sedative is wearing off.”
Keith’s heart skipped a beat at the voice, suddenly much more aware. He tried to open his eyes, but the lights burned like salt water. With a pained grunt, he tried to move a hand to block his eyes, only to have it stopped a few inches up. He yanked at his hand again, but it was held firmly in place.
Groaning, he made another attempt at opening his eyes, squinting tearfully through the light. Strapped down to where he lay, he could only see the white ceiling above him.
Keith tried to sit up, but the restraints around his wrists held strong.
“What's going on?” he called out weakly. “Where am I?”
Despite his pained efforts to speak clearly, they didn’t answer. It was like they didn’t hear him.
Something told Keith that volume wasn’t the issue.
The voices spoke among themselves.
“You made sure those restraints were secure, right?”
“Yes, it’s fine. The specimen is pretty small anyways. He’s not going anywhere.”
He wriggled a wrist uselessly in his binds, letting out a shaky sigh. Somewhere in his heart, he knew trying to make himself heard was pointless...but there had to be something he could do. He couldn’t simply ignore the panicked desperation building in his chest. He was helpless and trapped and he couldn’t even be heard, and that made Keith want to scream and cry until they were forced to acknowledge him. Yet he knew that would most likely not be enough to make them hear him.
Keith let out another shuddering breath.
“Why am I here?” he spoke louder, fighting to keep his voice from trembling.
Yet his efforts were fruitless. The only response he got was another harsh light flushed directly into his eyes. He jerked his head with a whine, but a hand grabbed him by the chin and went to pry an eye open.
"Careful, Ben. He's dangerous."
His other eye was forced open for a moment, before the hands and light were drawn back. The light remained etched stubbornly into his retinas, making him feel even blinder than before.
“The specimen seems stable right now. Besides, he's tied down. We're safe."
Keith clenched his fists, hating that he couldn't move. Whatever these people had in mind for him, he was helpless to it all.
He propped himself up on his elbows as far as he could, and saw two men in lab coats, before registering the other man at his bedside. None of them seemed to have noticed that Keith had moved.
"What are you gonna do to me?" No response. “Please...I just want to know what's going to happen to me.”
One of the men looked his way for a moment, but before they could even make eye contact, the man returned his attention to the clipboard in his arms, scribbling something down.
Defeated, Keith sank back down against the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears of frustration to himself.
“You're okay,” he thought to himself. “Everything is going to be fine.”
Yet he couldn’t convince himself; his thoughts were bound to the tightness around his wrists and ankles.
Suddenly, he heard a door open, and an extra set of footsteps entered the room.
"Good evening, Admiral Sanda. The specimen is awake."
"Good," a new voice spoke. "You know, it almost looks like a person."
Keith clenched his jaw.
"Yes. It appears to be able to retain a human form, unless startled."
There was a sudden sharp pain to his forearm. Keith, already on edge, couldn’t help the loud cry, as he tried to pull away from the fingers clamping down hard. In a desperate panic, he fought against his binds, his breathing coming out in short gasps. There was a small itch of fur starting to grow at the base of his neck, and the light became much brighter as his eyes morphed.
"It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it. An extraterrestrial species, able to camouflage itself in a foreign environment. I wonder if there are any more out there?"
A set of footsteps came up to his bed. Keith’s eyes met with a set of hazel ones.
"I sure hope not,” the woman Sanda spoke. "This thing is dangerous."
"I'm not," Keith said quickly.
The only form of response he was allowed was the harsh glare of the admiral. Keith’s breath hitched in his throat. All he was able to do was squirm beneath the gaze, suddenly feeling as if he were being pinned down even further into the bed. He was too petrified to even look away.
"It's good that we found it," the admiral continued. "God knows how many more people it could have attacked if we hadn't."
Keith bit his lip.
Was he really that dangerous?
He had gone all of these years, able to blend in with society, able to blend so well that even he was fooled. Yet something within him had finally escaped from deep inside.
Was it possible that he wouldn't have stopped at Adam if the cops hadn't arrived?
Sanda stepped away.
"Be careful with that thing."
Keith listened to the footsteps trail out of the room. He wished that he could simply melt into the bed beneath him. It hurt to lay in that bed. He felt guilty for being alive.
"We should make sure that we tag the specimen now, before we forget.”
Keith stiffened at the word “tag.”
"W-what are you doing?"
When he was once again answered by silence, he pushed himself as far as he could from the bed, just in time to see one of the doctors pick up a needle, which was attached to a small mechanical box with what looked like ink inside of it. The tip of the needle gleamed under the bright light of the room, as if snarling at him.
He shook his head with a whimper, trying to back away from the man coming towards him. If he could just rip off those cuffs...
"What number is this one?"
"Hold on, let me check.”
He tugged desperately at his restraints, his breathing once again becoming rugged and shallow. The doctor locked him into an icy scrutiny, staring Keith down as if he was a disobedient dog.
"Bring me the anesthesia. He's obviously not going to sit still for this."
One of the other doctors pushed a large machine towards his bed. Keith started yanking even harder at the straps, putting everything into his struggle.
Deep inside, he knew that it was a fruitless fight. However, in that moment, he was too terrified to acknowledge the fact, even as a possibility.
"Harold, Ben, hold him down."
The man holding the needle set it down and followed his partner up to Keith. They grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back against the bed.
"Stop!"
Keith thrashed and bucked hard against the solid sets of arms. A mask was placed over his face, and he shook his head away from it.
"NO!"
They held the mask down around his nose and mouth, and Keith started to scream.
He knew it was a losing battle. No matter how much he thrashed against the hands of his captors, he couldn't break free. His cries for help echoed sharply off the walls, but no matter how hard he screamed, he remained unheard.
It was not long before his world began to grow dark. As the anesthesia took hold of his system, invading every inch of his body, he became limp and heavy, as if he was being filled with lead.
He sank from the force holding him in place. Hands were drawn back, and he was swallowed into a world of darkness.
…
His dreams were made up of random bits and pieces, which when thrown together, only managed to clump sloppily into one mass of confusion and grief.
At first, Keith saw one of the officers who had been kind to him at the station. Although he couldn’t understand what he was saying, the man’s voice was soft, and he felt safe simply hearing it.
As soon as he appeared, however, he quickly vanished. Before he could react, Keith was before another man who, from the moment they had met, sent every inch of his being into a state of pure terror.
The cologne the man reeked of poorly masked the equally powerful scent that reminded him of burnt rubber. He felt even smaller than usual under the man’s threatening gaze. The man began to stomp towards Keith, his voice growing louder and louder by the second.
Keith couldn’t remember what he had done wrong.
He turned around and started to run, but he bumped into another body. Stepping back, he met the eyes of Adam, which were wide with fear. Adam stumbled on his back to the ground, cowering before Keith.
“I’m sorry,” Keith tried to say, but he couldn’t find his voice. “I’m sorry!”
It was useless. No matter how hard he cried out, he could only let out a small breath, the words getting caught in his throat.
“I’m so sor—”
Keith shot up with a gasp.
It took him several minutes to stop panting until he was finally able to regain control of his own breathing. He thought to make a grab for his inhaler, until he remembered that it was long gone.
As his shoulders loosened up, the cogs in his groggy mind started to churn once more, and he began to take in the room around him.
He was sitting on a plainly made mattress. The grey covers beneath him were made of a rough material that made his palms feel dry. The walls of the room itself held a shade of white that made the grey sheets on the mattress clash in comparison; they were so white, so bright, that they almost physically hurt to look at. The door on the opposite end of the room looked to be made of steel, being the only thing that stood out from the glare of the light. When he looked down, he saw that the floors were a darker shade of grey. He placed the back of his hand on the floor, which rubbed harshly against his knuckles, like sandpaper.
He started to push himself off the bed, intending to check to see just how locked the door across from him was, but the clink of metal against concrete stopped him in his tracks.
Heart sinking, he sat back down, finally noticing the restraint locked firmly around his left ankle. The cuff itself was obviously some kind of ankle monitor. Although Keith had never worn one himself, he knew what they looked like. One of the other foster kids from his last home had been forced to wear one, after being arrested for having drugs in his pocket.
However, his own ankle bracelet had some modifications over the last one. He saw that the bracelet had a thick chain wrapped and locked around a loop of the cuff, which had clearly been put there to allow the wearer to be chained to the floor.
Keith grabbed the chain attached to his ankle and gave one testing pull against it. Although the chain had about four feet of slack, it wasn’t enough for him to reach the door.
With a frustrated sigh, he buried his head in his hands in defeat.
He only remained still for a moment, however, when he felt the slight pinch of the bandage stuck to the skin on his arm. He scanned his arms and spotted the large patch band-aid on his right bicep, right above the inside of his elbow. He paused for a moment, unsure, before ripping the band-aid off. He choked back a grunt and looked down at his arm. He immediately spotted the number etched in black ink. From his angle, it was upside down, but it would only take him an extra moment to read the numbers scrawled across his arm. This string of numbers reminded him of the numbers criminals were assigned in prison.
Keith let out a muted sob as he gingerly poked at the tender area, slowly registering each number scrawled in someone else’s handwriting across his arm.
87361-348
He shook his head, his throat growing tight, as his vision blurred with tears.
They had branded him. First, they had taken him prisoner...and then they had marked him, like a piece of property.
This was permanent. He couldn’t wash this mark off with soap and water. For the rest of his life, his skin would be the canvas to this terrible ownership of his being. His body, mind, and soul belonged to some people in a place where he didn’t even know the location. There was no way to even know where in the world he was, how far he was from home...except this place was his home now. This strange place was his new home, and he didn’t even know where he was, if he was even in the same country anymore.
Keith hiccuped. With a small cry, he put his head back in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears slip past his fingers, and stroll messily down his wrists.
“What am I gonna do?”
...
So like two years ago, I wrote and published a very early rough draft version of this within the first few days of coming up with this AU, and since then, I have been editing and revising this piece quite regularly. It’s one of the most important pieces to me for this AU, because this is the first scene that Keith is introduced to true dehumanization. As a foster child, he has not had it easy...but even he was unprepared for just how much worse things could get. Keith’s father died, but even that is almost bearable compared to being treated so less than human.
Even though I’m publishing this now, I’ll still continue to work on this piece until the full chapter that this belongs to is ready to be published. And probably even after that, because some pieces are just those pieces you can’t put down. This scene is one of those pieces.
Lololol also for those of you that read the original draft, you may notice that Iverson is no longer The Bitch. I mean, you can’t be mean to Iverson after s7 of Voltron. Even though he did strap Shiro to a table. (Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, it’d almost be funny if I had kept Iverson in this scene just for that reason.)
I just feel like Sanda is more suited for this role. I don’t think she was a bad person in VLD, especially considering the fact that she died trying to save Earth, even after her major fuck-up. But she’s still pretty brutal and she did betray Voltron. I understand that she did it because she thought that this is what she needed to do to keep earth safe. But her antagonist-like role is something I’d like to take advantage of. Plus I’d feel bad disrespecting the true character that VLD showed Iverson to be.
Of course, I would like to add some more depth to Sanda, even though she is a pretty high up person in Area 51 that is more or less the one telling everyone that it’s okay to poke and prod extraterrestrial beings like they’re microorganisms in a test tube. But I’m not sure what kind of development her character will go through in this fic, if much.
One more thing, I actually don’t know yet if this Adam is “the” Adam. Again, I started this fic two years ago, so when VLD was like “GUYS HERE’S ADAM” I thought it was funny that I had an Adam in my fic that more or less is kind of the reason Keith ended up in Area 51. (Context, Keith was bullied and cornered to fight, and Keith panicked and attacked before realizing that he was exposing himself. Everyone saw what happened, and some even recorded this and posted pictures and videos online. It was a huge thing for the government to cover up, but they managed to do it.)
I feel like it’d be kinda funny and messed up if three years later, Keith is taken off the streets by the boyfriend of the guy that put him in Area 51 in the first place. Keith would feel super fucking guilty, because like, uh, wow, this was probably some psychological damage that I caused you. But to be fair you tried to punch me and got me kidnapped by the government, so fuck you.
It would be pretty interesting if that happened. But I’m not sure if I’m going to take this route or not. It might just be a different Adam. I also feel weird having Adam be someone in this role, because even though Adam wasn’t there for Shiro in the end, I don’t know how I feel about Adam as a person. We just didn’t get the chance to see him much as a character. Sometimes characters just die before you can really get to know them, you know?
Finally, there are some other references in this to the rest of the story that might not make sense, but I tried to make it as clear for possible since I decided to publish this tonight. But like if some things do seem unclear, they’re kinda supposed to because those things will be brushed back on later in the story.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed? I also like constructive criticism, so be brutal! Unlike the pieces I’ve been publishing for the challenge, this is a much more polished draft, so it’s something that I especially care about and will happily continue to work and improve on.
Can i recommend "2am on jupiter" by starlightpng? Its one of the most well-crafted and beautifully worded fics i have ever read.
one of the admins (personal thumbs up from the coolest admin on here- me -if you can guess which admin) accidentally posted this ask and we’ve just forgotten to fix it oops -alex
2am on jupiter by starlightpng (1/1 | 35,453 | Teen And Up)
Lance has always believed in aliens- but falling in love with a beautiful boy who fell out of the sky was never his plan.
Or: In which a slightly lost, sometimes sad astrophysics student meets an alien, and together they break into flower shops, stargaze on volcanic lakes, steal a van, and learn to revel in every moment of existence.
Keith’s florid, flushed cheeks glitter in the moonlight– and Lance feels like he’s swallowed whole universes, balls of fire and smoke and starswept nebulae drifting inside of his chest, like clouds.
// past abuse // implied/referenced homophobia
The Mew’s Red
So, I have a Inuyasha klance au idea, a Winx Club shklance au idea, Hart of Dixie klance au idea, but I went with Tokyo Mew Mew/Mew Mew Power. It wasn't as great as I would of liked, I had been working on my book arts project which took hours to finish so I was like, I'm just finishing this. Maybe if you guys like it, I can actually expand it. Lance is Mew Mint in case it wasn’t clear. TV AU
Lance let his body move with muscle memory of warm up classes. Plie, grand plie, stretch all around. The movements of ballet were familiar to him, something he had grown up doing. He’s made his family proud with his success at his school, one he changed his name to get into so they wouldn’t be influenced with the McClain name. As far as Lance was concerned, he’d continue on his path to success with his hard work to be accepted into a ballet company, retire when he was he was told, teach ballet himself or own a studio. He didn’t expect that his plans would be slightly derailed by the appearance of aliens and him being a chosen ‘warrior’ so to speak to battle against them. One day he was normal, the next he was changing for class when a classmate pointed out the pink wings on his back.
“When did you get a tattoo? No way your parents actually said yes to that.” With the help of said classmate and a pair of compact mirrors, Lance took in the wings that were separated by his spin on his back. That was only the beginning.
Candles
MP: It’s my favorite Paladin’s Birthday today (I knew he was a scorpio!) so I decided to write a piece in honor of Keith. However, because I’m me I’m not going to be able to do fluff without tinging it with bitterness. Sorry, that’s not how I roll.
This will be featuring my own head canons about certain things. Things I’ve argued with @makenzie-rush about.
AO3 link x