Lotor samples

Strategy meetings with the Emperor's top advisors were an ancient and time-honored tradition, but stars above, were they ever tedious. Endless quibbling about this galaxy or that star system, empty posturing about Galra might, and always, always, veiled slights at the unwelcome guest of the table. Lotor took each inelegant jab in stride with a smile that showed more tooth than necessary, but by the end of it, he was about ready to suggest that he and Yeemick settle their differences in the ring. He was starting to understand what prompted Zarkon to be so harsh with his underlings, not that it made him any less of a stone-cold bastard. The trials of keeping an Empire stable when it seemed determined to devour itself were heavy on his shoulders, but Lotor had it in him to keep walking with no hesitance to his step.

Ever forward and ever strong, that would be his way.

As he exited the advisor's chambers, the sound of his singular footsteps turned into a pair, a fact that he took without acknowledgement. That would be his little shadow, barred from entering all but the highest-level spaces in the main fleet and Lotor's constant companion for over a phoeb now. His triumphant return was the subject of much fanfare, and an event where Zarkon's witch had seen fit to give him a gift, Lotor's own pick for a personal guard. "Befitting of an heir's status," she'd said with a smile that held no warmth, like she was playing a joke on him. Moments later, he had seen why: washouts and scoundrels the lot of them, some looking fresh out of training and shaking in their fleet-issued boots. About to leave in disgust and tell Haggar to throw them all out of the airlock, only one had given Lotor pause. Scrawny and foreign, looking comically breakable in the face of pure Galra.

An outcast.

A joke awaiting its punchline.

'Mine,' Lotor thought, and meant it.

No one else was allowed in his personal rooms, not Zethrid or Narti or any of his chosen generals. Only this one, only his single guard bound to protect him was permitted into his private space where the clever, cunning heir to an Empire and an entire universe finally had a place all to himself. It was the closest to freedom one got when serving under the main fleet, and Lotor savored it like nothing else. He might bear the dishonor of exile once more if he had to spend another dobash listening to Klaarg's clumsy hints at a promotion or bear Orok staring daggers at him. Once inside, Lotor let out a long breath, hearing the doors whirr shut behind him as he collapsed onto the utilitarian settee.

"Attend me," he said without sparing a glance to the room's other occupant. Arms outstretched, he waited for his ceremonial armor, the product of pomp and circumstance with no true function beyond looking impressive, to be removed piece by piece. No one would expect royalty to handle his own garments, but while Lotor could manage the task of undressing himself just fine thank you very much, it had become routine for him to try and get some mileage out of having an extra pair of hands around.

"It must have been torturous, spending all that time just standing around, waiting for me to exit." Here, his brow furrowed as though in deep concern, then smoothed out following some grand epiphany. "I know! Why don't I send you in there next time, see how you handle diplomacy for a change? You'll be called all sorts of loving titles: prince, exalted one, bastard of the main fleet, guttersnipe, the list goes on and on." A delicate pause. "If you make it past the front door, that is."



Touching down onto Naxzela, its towers and spires still pulsing violet with the witch's energy, had Lotor feeling the first few tendrils of apprehension creeping across his skin. That's what it was, apprehension, the calculated pause between one swordstroke and the next where you gauged an enemy's strength, not anxiety or terror or a hundred other adjectives that would turn him milk-soft. Galra were never ill at ease even when outmanned and outgunned, and as the greatest of them, he had to stay a pillar of strength. Victory or death, that was their way. Right now, he'd have to settle for keeping his hide intact and call that a victory. Preferable to the alternative, at any rate, but it still chafed knowing that his best-laid plans had led to this sorry state.

Fugitive, traitor to the Empire, murderer of a trusted comrade, honorless coward that turns tail and runs to its greatest enemy the moment things look to be going belly-up. He knew what his people would say of him, knew what he must look like to the members of the resistance crowding around his ship. At the very least, it would help if Lotor had company; without his generals flanking each side it left him feeling as though someone had hacked off a limb and kept it just out of reach, teasing him with its nearness and stringing him further away from his path, even while they were a galaxy away. The opportunity to make amends would have to wait; for now, it was showtime.

As the protective cover of his cruiser slid open and exposed him to Naxzelan air that radiated the heat of an explosive blast only just fended off, Lotor stood and stepped onto firm ground, back straight, shoulders squared. Off came his helmet, allowing his locks to fly free and the whole of the rebellion to see the face of their oppressor's kin, once exalted, now disgraced. Surveying the crowd, it was hard not to stare at its main centerpiece up-close and personal, but Lotor made the effort to look at each individual face of the masses before finally turning his attention to the spectacle that all but demanded he bear witness: Voltron, and the Paladins that commanded it.

Even if he were at his peak, it would be hard not to feel dwarfed by the sheer scope of it, and despite his famed ego rivaling the size of a supermassive black hole, Lotor could admit to having a hell of an off day. If this functioned as a show of arms, any reasonable creature would be deterred from causing trouble, but underneath the gravity of Voltron's appearance and the misery of his own rotten luck, something stirred within him. Something covetous and wanting, a predator licking its chops at the challenge of a meal that still galloped.

Something not quite a lion's roar, but a rumbling growl that warned of action still yet to come.

Lotor smiled, showing more tooth than was strictly necessary. "I daresay we've gained a common enemy, Paladins. News travels fast, but in case you hadn't heard, I've been written out of the will." With a flick of his wrist that turned from a dull ache to a sharp lance of pain, he ran a hand through his hair, a picture-perfect show of drama. Whether it was playacting or speech delivery, Lotor knew how to work a room, that much hadn't changed during his series of unfortunate events. "My father's reign has gone on ten thousand years too long already. Uniting forces under Voltron's banner has taken you from a thorn in his side to a sword between the eyes. Now," Here, Lotor's eyes flashed with triumph as he stepped forward, hand extended, "It's time to run him through. Join hands with me and I can take that final swing with you. What will it be?"



If his father thinks that Lotor is just going to take his exile like a good little pup, bowing and scraping and saying his pretty pleases the whole way through, then 10,000 years on the throne have truly driven the old buzzard senile. Little excursions like this are becoming so common that it feels like routine for him to slip away from his post in the Askyria system and take a detour to the nearest fleet on patrol. If his generals hold any suspicions about his disappearances, they said nothing and dutifully kept his cover whenever he'd be missed.

There are few people he'd cross the universe for, but those girls make being cast out to the furthest reaches of the Empire bearable, and for that, he's forever grateful.

When it comes to stealth missions, there's no such thing as subtle for a unit like that, so it falls to Lotor to take these trips alone, something he savors in the privacy of his own thoughts. Moments of solitude come few and far between at the edge of the universe where a disgraced heir is no better than the rest of these scoundrels and slackers; everybody thought to try their hand at testing his patience and there was no end to the challengers in their pathetic excuse for a gladiator ring.

Which brings him here. It's a rare occasion having the Emperor's own fleet within a day's flight from Askyria when more often than not, father dearest preferred to forget the frozen chunk of space where he'd tossed his failure existed at all. There was no way he'd let the opportunity pass him by. Getting onto the ship poses no issue; after the first few dozen times he'd tried this stunt, Lotor had collected the credentials of plenty of officers eager to give up a uniform or a hand when he needed one. Lesser nobility whose rank didn't permit them to stick with the main fleet full-time are forever coming and going to spectate, and all Lotor has to do is pull up his cowl and join the flow as eager Galra of every color and stripe race to pack the stands.

Before he even enters the massive chambers, the roar of the crowd filled his ears, their chants indistinct but carrying an undercurrent of hunger that has Lotor swept up in a wave of uncharacteristic giddiness. Now this, this is entertainment done right. Backwater imitations could never hope to compare to the glory of combat held in an arena with so much history, thousands of matches fought, lives lost, victories forever immortalized long after its immaculate stage had been swept clear. In that instant, everything in him itches to shove past all in his way and take his place in the center of the ring where he belongs--

Right as his gaze flits to the topmost box, best seat in the house if there ever were one. The Emperor doesn't often make appearances at gladiator matches, but when he does, the results are guaranteed to be extraordinary. That must be what has the crowd more riled than usual, and just like that, the eagerness that was building in him disappears, leaving only a hollow bitterness that claws at the confines of his stomach, seeking release. The space around Lotor expands; evidently his foul change in mood is garnering notice. For a split second, it seems as though Zarkon's gaze has turned on him, making Lotor's blood run frigid, before the sensation passes and he can manage to clamp a tight hand over his temper.

Patience. There will be plenty of time for that later. Brick by brick, he's going to take his father's legacy out from under him and send the whole thing toppling into the dirt. Patience.

A deafening roar pulls him from the tangle of his own thoughts, signalling that the first contender is about to make their entrance. Despite himself, Lotor presses forward to catch a better glimpse, and leans back again disappointed with what he finds. Some kind of alien or another, battered and pale, fragile by any Galra's standard. He looks for all the world like a sneeze would topple him and Lotor waits patiently for the fevered shouts to turn to a murmur of confusion, but it doesn't come. If anything, they're getting louder, and any idiot could deduce that this one has a reputation.

Now there's a thought. Looking closer, Lotor can just manage to make out the flash of a metal prosthetic. This would be the Witch's handiwork, or crown him Emperor right then and there. If he were closer, he might be able to smell the magic coming off of it, burnt ozone in his nostrils. Then this must be Zarkon's pet fighter, another show of might for the old codger to parade around, all while he's too milk-soft to get in the ring himself. Lotor has half a mind to turn heel and leave in disgust, but then this pet's opponent, big as a weblum and looking twice as nasty, lumbers out to bellow its challenge. The cries grow louder until finally, he can manage to make out the word: "Champion! Champion!"

And Lotor falls, hard and fast, into the kind of fascination any warrior would recognize.

Tracking his every movement is difficult when there are thousands of other spectators getting in his way, but whenever his vision is obscured by a pumping fist or standing ovation, the Champion doesn't disappoint. He moves in a way that Lotor has rarely encountered before, accustomed to the traditional Galra technique of Charge, Hack, Slash. One really has to give it up for the classics, it doesn't get more basic than that, but this is something more. The Champion does not aim for glory, hard and fast, but strategy. He ducks under cover, waits for an opportunity, then darts out to take shots, weaves underneath two massive legs to find his opponent's blind spot, and always, he thinks two steps ahead.

Over and over again, he battles, his enemies growing bigger, stronger, more crafty. One hard-won victory after another, the Champion makes his mark in the gladiator ring, and Lotor can feel his increasing exhaustion as if it's his own. He knows the acute burn of muscles extended far beyond their means, knows the acrid taste of sweat from exertion that seems without end. Still, he doesn't want this to end with his Champion reduced to a bloody smear on the stage, and just when he looks about ready to keel over, Zarkon rises.

A hush falls over the crowd. No one dares speak. Again, Lotor feels the same knot of hatred in his stomach, but with it comes relief as his beloved father waves a massive hand and a pair of Druids slink into the ring to retrieve their prize. He resists, at first, then slumps into their iron grip, the fight gone from him now. Zarkon watches their escort with his impassive, reptilian stare before he turns and disappears into the exit at his back. With their Emperor out of sight, the people can voice their discontent without courting execution, and boos fill the air.

It's not worth it to see what other pathetic show they might put on as a replacement. There's no substituting that, not in a million quintets. Lotor can still feel the remains of electric energy thrumming through his veins, urging him to push through the throng of Galra eager for a followup. It stays with him as he steals into tucked-away corridors, pulses in time with his count of the sentry patrols, and trails after him like an eager yupper at his heels. When he finally deems it safe enough to enter, the doors of the med bay whirr open and shut.

Whatever he was envisioning, a friendly exchange of combat techniques or even the clumsy scaling of a language barrier between two aliens, Lotor is afforded neither. For one, the Champion is under heavy sedation, making chitchat nigh impossible. For another, either this pet fighter is under much higher security clearance than he gave Zarkon credit for, or the witch can taste his presence in the air, but whatever the case may be, he's just tripped an alarm.

In a situation like this, there is nobody too well-bred to let the opportunity for a timely, "Quiznak!" pass them by.

The lights pulse furious red as a siren blares, telling every member of the main fleet to stay on high alert, and Lotor knows that sentries and soldiers won't be far behind. Images of him kneeling before his father, stepping onto the gallows, the anguished faces of his girls regretting ever letting him leave, all flashing through his head in the same instant that he makes his decision.

Nowhere in the universe is safe. The Emperor's hand extends far, but there are places his gaze had yet to touch, and his one hope of getting there laid right in front of him. With a grunt of effort, Lotor rips off the restraints holding the Champion and tosses him over his shoulder; now is no time to be delicate. They have to move, fast.

Carrying a bundle of dead weight is a challenge even for the greatest among them, but his skill with swordplay rivaling the best in the universe is no idle boast. With one touch of his armor, a sword appears in his hand and out the door he goes, cutting hunks of robotics to ribbons.

Granted, he suffers more than his fair share of grazes and his legs are burning both with effort and the heat of a lucky laser by the time he manages to find an unmanned cruiser standing by. Shoving the Champion inside poses an issue that costs him precious ticks of escape time, but finally, finally, they achieve liftoff and Lotor can breathe.

With his getaway vehicle's DNA recognition system, he learns a lot about his sleeping passenger on the way to where records indicate he was captured. For one, this Champion, better known as Prisoner 117-9875, is actually called Takashi Shirogane. Lotor recalls with grim recognition that the torturers in charge of prison sects will force a captive to give up their name, just so it can be stripped from them.

"Well then, Takashi Shirogane," he says to empty air, "let's see what planet could have possibly come up with you." The tiny speck of rock that serves as his first stop can't possibly be the one he's looking for. There are no signs of life on this or any planet nearby, and it's with resignation that he goes down the line until he finds what he's looking for-- a blue planet teeming with life, a veritable fountain of quintessence that Lotor can't fathom how his father's witch hadn't sunk her gnarled claws into it yet.

But as with all things, his luck has a way of turning sideways just when he thought himself out of the asteroid field. As soon as they begin their descent into this planet's atmosphere, a problem makes itself known the only reasonable way: by screaming at him. The engine that had held out all through their journey in empty space couldn't handle the sudden change in atmospheric pressure with the number of holes shot into them he hadn't noticed until now.

A passionate encore, this time with feeling: "Quiznak!!"

If he were lucky, Takashi Shirogane wouldn't feel a thing as they plummeted to their deaths. If Lotor were lucky (and he won't count on that), he might at least slow their descent enough not to earn them a spot as a gruesome splatter on the surface of this watery planet.

For once, Lotor didn't like his odds.