Shiro samples

Walking into Commander Iverson's office didn't rattle Shiro the way it did any other Garrison resident with a shred of self-preservation in them. The commander was stern, yes, but always fair when the chips were down, and there was nothing he'd done to earn the ire of the top brass. Well, not that week, anyway. (Alright, so he might have needed a talking to about giving newer cadets access to the training deck after hours; there was no harm done and the greenhorns needed all the extra practise they could get.)

After knocking, entering, and standing at a soldier's ready, Shiro finally got a good look at his commanding officer. Though the change from his normal gruff expression was minute, he could tell that Iverson was trying very hard to keep something under wraps, and finally, Shiro allowed himself to worry.

"Shirogane," he said by way of greeting, causing Shiro's spine to straighten out in an instant. "You've been doing well here at the Galaxy Garrison. Aside from a few minor infractions," Here, Iverson didn't miss the answering flush of embarrassment, "but for upstanding reasons, it seems you've been quite the model cadet."

"Yes, sir." Was that what he was supposed to say? Or would that count as bragging? "High praise that I don't deserve."

"Oh, and I suppose you believe that, puffed up like a prized bird? Take the praise you know you've earned, Shirogane, don't go modest on me."

"Yes, sir." He was turning into a broken record at this rate. "If I may, you did call me in here--"

"Yes, I did, and it wasn't just to make your head swell up to the size of Jupiter, either." Iverson crossed the length of the room, Garrison-issued boots clunking with every step, and settled heavily at his desk. "You're about to use that head of yours and it's for a very important mission." At that final word, Shiro's heart skipped a beat, and he fought to keep his features perfectly smooth.

"Sir?"

"Our sensors are detecting some foreign elements trapped inside the ice of Kerberos. All the way out on the edge of the solar system, boy. We've got the Holt duo ready to ship out in two weeks' time, but they're going to need a damn good pilot for the job." Iverson's gaze sharpened, as if sizing Shiro up for the first time since he arrived, and it took everything he had not to squirm underneath that keen eye. "I recommended you personally."

"I--" Mouth suddenly dry, Shiro took a moment to clear his throat. "This is... It's an honour, sir, but I don't--"

"Stop me if I'm wrong, but I've got a pretty good idea of your protests. You've only just graduated, the youngest servicemen in Galaxy Garrison history. You need time to prove yourself. There are others more deserving. This is your time. I'm taking a chance on you, Shirogane, and if you're not determined to live up to your own legacy, you may not get a chance like this again." With a grunt of effort, Iverson rose once more and drew himself up to his full height, dwarfing Shiro's own. "So what'll it be?"

This was no time for hesitation. Whatever his own thoughts about his worthiness for this assignment, if his commander thought he was ready to take on deep space travel fresh from the Garrison, Shiro owed it to him to prove that he was. Anxiety and indecision were replaced by sure-footed determination, and his resolve was immediately apparent in the stubborn set of his jaw.

"I'll do it."

As if on cue, Iverson offered a rare grin, clapping Shiro on the shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. "I knew you would. You're cautious, boy, but not stupid. I'll take care of the paperwork and you can meet up with Samuel and Matthew Holt in the morning. You have two weeks before you set out," Here, his grin turned rogueish, "so make them count."

"Yes, sir." Something in his chest was giving him a sudden ache. "Thank you, sir." He ducked his head so that his commanding officer wouldn't see the sting of overwhelmed tears as he excused himself.

Gratitude. Dread. Confusion. Joy. Anxiety. Determination. More dread. How was it that he could be experiencing so many emotions at once? And then, like a strike of lightning hitting him square in the chest, how was it going to explain it to the others? To his peers that resented him? To his superiors that distrusted him?

"Oh, no, no, no," Shiro groaned, pressing his fingertips to his forehead in dismay, "What did I just agree to?" Four months of space travel one way, and who knows how long spent chipping away at ice samples of all things during the actual assignment. Maybe he had been too hasty. Maybe he'd gotten in way over his head. Maybe--

Maybe his feet had just taken him all the way to the residential wing and right in front of somebody else's door while he was lost in his own head. Right before it slid open. Oh, god. It was too late for him to turn back now, but maybe if he crept away with his very best stealth moves-- Yeah, no, that wasn't going to work. Sheepish, he ran a hand through his bangs, an old nervous habit he had yet to grow out of. "Sorry for just, uh, showing up out of the blue here. Guess I was really spacing out." To put it lightly.



Takashi Shirogane knows that he's dreaming.

He knows because there's no wolf's teeth in his mouth, no claws itching to slash and tear, just tender human skin where there once was thick fur. His nose is no longer so keen that he can smell his own fear, but what he does pick up is the sharp copper tang of blood. A lot of it. His own? It hardly matters, not now.

"Shiro," says Zarkon, and that's wrong, because his familiar human nickname is as unknown to the emperor as a night without dreams is to his favoured gladiator. "You have done well to surpass every challenge set in front of you." The hand on his shoulder is warm, its grip firm, almost fatherly, and Shiro's stomach rolls at the thought. "But I cannot help but think that your loyalties may be starting to... Stray." On that last word, his grip tightens and white-hot agony lances through his arm. The mask of pain on his face apparently pleases Zarkon, because he releases his hold and the feeling begins to ebb.

Shiro is dreaming, but he has no control even while asleep, because even while his mind is screaming at him to keep silent, his traitorous mouth moves all on its own and speaks some treason he barely remembers. The words aren't important. What's important is the minute change in Zarkon's smile, the self-satisfied smirk of a suspicion that was just confirmed, and how Shiro is able to pinpoint the exact moment he decides to take Shiro's arm once more and rip, just before he does so.

He comes apart like a ragdoll leaking stuffing, he comes apart screaming, jaw locked in a howl so raw that it leaves his vocal cords as much of a bloody mess as the rest of him. His vision goes white, every nerve-ending is on fire, and through it all, he can hear Zarkon speaking. Shiro clings to those words, no matter what they are, he sharpens his focus and puts everything he has into listening because otherwise, his death is a certainty. "--... prove yourself--" Hadn't he? "--... loyalty--" The word is meaningless to him now. "--... a test of your--" No more.

 "Mine."

That provokes a reaction. His body, a breath away from shutting down completely, gives one final jerk. His remaining arm, slick with his own blood, trembles as he presses it against the cold metal floor and pushes. "No." Just one word, barely above a whisper, but his defiance is certain.

What follows is so etched into his memory that his subconscious hardly needs to rehash it, and so the beast wakes with its master's words pounding through its head, chest heaving, eyes darting, heart about ready to give out. It takes precious minutes for it to calm itself down, but finally, he is himself once more. Rather, as much of himself as he can be, for there are the wolf's teeth, the claws, and the fur. One thing he can be thankful for when it comes to this transformation is that at the very least, his arm no longer ends abruptly after his shoulder, and there is no instillation of cold metal where flesh should be.

That is the only thing that Shiro can be thankful for.

His bones creak unhappily as he rises from his bunk on all fours, the ache down to his marrow telling him that at the very least, soon it will be over for another month. Shiro isn't sure how long he can keep up the ruse that he's bedridden at the Castle of Lions with everybody and their mother attempting to shove him into a healing pod. Now that he's finally escaped the Galra, he doesn't want to lose the one place he could call his own. The thought of the other members of his fledgling team seeing him in this state turns the pit of his stomach into a yawning chasm.

Paladin of the Black Lion. It doesn't feel real, sometimes. It feels even less real while he's stuck as a beast.

All at once, he's struck with the powerful urge to go see his lion. It's wildly out of place, out of nowhere, but it's a fierce desire all the same. As the Paladin most in-tune with his lion's senses, their mental bond was as strong as it could be without the experience that came from decades of flying together. When he had begun the gradual change, that connection weakened until he could no longer feel the electric hum not unlike a purr, always in the back of his mind but silent to the wolf's ears. Afraid to feel the string of rejection, Shiro had cloistered himself away in his quarters, pleading overwork to the concerned faces of his teammates.

Now, though, the castle is silent. It's the middle of the Arusian night, and the sounds of bickering and mechanical whirrs of a ship at work have faded, leaving only stillness in its wake. Surely just for a moment, Shiro can slip into the hangar unseen, if only to scratch that itch and see for himself what awaits him. He isn't sure he wants to think about what awaits him and which is worse, pacing the edges of his lion and hearing its snarl filling his head or hearing nothing at all.

The corridor feels endless as Shiro slinks out of the room assigned to him, shoulders hunched, ears pricked for any sign of a disturbance. He keeps low to the ground and feels all the more like an intruder, even when he should be able to walk these halls with ease. Claws clicking on the metallic floors, he carefully picks his way through the main deck, unease and apprehension growing with every step. Before long, he's sweating beneath his fur and the realisation comes like a bucket of ice water that unease isn't all he's experiencing.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

Where the transition from human to monster is gradual enough that he has some chance of hiding it, the reverse is anything but. The reverse is an explosion, of bones snapping and healing twisted beyond normal means, of teeth grinding together in order to fit into a smaller jaw, claws retracting and fingers taking their place. He tries with all his might not to scream, bites down hard to muffle the wail his beast's body wants to turn into a howl, and rides out the agony on the very edge of losing consciousness.

Seconds or minutes or hours pass before the worst is over and he's left a sweating, shuddering heap on the floor. Everything aches as if he'd just been slammed into the side of a mountain and he can't catch a deep breath, every exhale coming in sharp puffs of air as he tries in vain to gather enough strength and force his exhausted limbs to move.

Now is the worst time, the worst place, out in the open for anybody to stumble upon, and through the bone-deep weariness, even though his keen senses are dulled, he can still pick up on movement from nearby. Shiro doesn't even have the energy to feel terror or wonder how much of him had been seen. His voice is feeble from the shift and hoarse from disuse, but he can just manage to force out the one thing his sluggish mind can think of, "Help."



It didn't feel real coming home. Months later, he still expected to wake up to the sound of gunfire, to soldiers bellowing orders with everything they had while the world fell apart all around them. It was always jarring remembering that he was back, that he was safe, and Shiro always felt on the knife's edge between relief at being home and grief at what he had lost before the trip back. This was normal, he'd been told, every vet experiences a sense of displacement, but somehow it feels like admitting defeat.

The dog helped, greeting Shiro with a tail wag and an enthusiastic lick the moment he opened his eyes. He had always adored animals and upon coming home, they'd made some arrangements to help with the transition, give him goals, something he could keep an eye on and care for. Max was a big ball of energy and Shiro fell head over heels instantly, taking him with on runs and bringing him with to physical therapy visits. If his physician had a problem with a gigantic German Shepherd puppy slobbering all over her office, she chose not to comment, and the visits continued as is.

"Alright, alright," he said now. "I'm up, gimme a second." The onslaught of puppy kisses didn't cease until he sat up good and proper, Max's tail going at a mile a minute. Shiro started reaching over to give him a fond pat but stopped short, the sudden reminder leaving him cold. Right. Okay. That would take some getting used to. He had to remind himself that this was an adjustment period, right before reaching with his other arm to the nightstand in order to grab his prosthetic.

He still fumbles in attaching it from time to time, forgets to stretch or apply lotion to keep from damaging his skin. It's a process, one he's getting better at, but it will take time for the routine to feel truly normal. After a couple of test movements to make sure the prosthetic was limber and functioning properly, Shiro caught a noticeable stiffness in the elbow joints. The smooth mechanical whirr that normally accompanied each movement stuttered in places. Alright, this was a problem that needed solving. It was time for a trip to the Holts.

"Max, buddy, you up for a walk?" Asking sent his hyperactive pup into overdrive, so without any further preamble, Shiro rose from bed, threw on the first thing that looked clean enough to wear, and tried in vain to fix his hair on his way out. Max retrieved his own leash and Shiro kept a firm grasp on it (always had to be careful in case he decided to bolt), but walking to the Holt household was hardly a chore. Maintaining relationships was an important part of keeping some piece of normalcy, so he often dropped by during his free hours for tune-ups, check-ins, and hang-outs.

The weather was clear and pleasantly cool as he kept up a brisk jog to help burn off some of Max's boundless energy. Shiro's modest studio apartment was nestled just shy of the downtown area, walking distance to everything he needed without it taking a huge chunk of his monthly pension, so there was no fussing with transportation. It felt nice, getting the fresh air, watching his dog snuffle at every new smell that came his way, until something caught his interest and he shot away, pulling Shiro off-balance and sending him stumbling.

He hit the pavement hard, metal palm scraping against the concrete with a horrific screech, and-- yup, there it went, his elbow gave out, no longer supporting his weight. With one final "oof" as the rest of him hit the ground, Shiro struggled to rise to his feet, working his right arm and finding that it hung limp at his side from the joint, swaying pathetically as he tried to get it to move with no results. This was perfect, all the work that went into making sure that he was able to function as close to normal as possible, and the moment he takes a spill, he breaks the thing.

With enormous effort, Shiro held back the urge to scream until his throat was raw. Inhale. Exhale. He could fix this. This was no time for him to lose his head. First things first, getting to the people with the skill and know-how to get him back in working order. Shiro went to grab for the leash, figuring he had dropped it in his fall, only to find it was nowhere to be found. Neither, for that matter, was Max.

"Oh my god," he muttered, pressing the knuckles of his real hand against his forehead. What a sight he must be, hulking brute of a man with a useless prosthetic arm, looking like he just finished a movie shoot in a grimy tank top."Has-- Uh, did anyone see which way my puppy went?" Today was so not his day.



Morning dawned clear and bright, the skies turning from steely grey to soft pinks and golds. There was no better time than early morning, when most of Altea slept and all was still quiet. Shiro found this was when he was best able to think, keeping his mind clear while he began his daily routine of patrolling the Castle of Lions, checking and double-checking that his armor was spotless, and hearing reports from the palace guard that served under him. This morning in particular was different, with excitement palpable in the air, and it felt as though the entire country was holding its breath as their cherished national holiday had finally arrived.

The Day of Lions was a spectacular event. Every Altean dressed top-to-bottom in red, blue, yellow, and green, with candied sweets and fried festival food aplenty. Each of the five Lions would be represented by the general public save for one, since only members of the Royal Guard were permitted wear the fifth Lion's customary black. Amid so much bright color, the peacekeepers would stand watchful, protective over the public they served. This would be Shiro's role once the ceremonial fanfare was finished, but for now, he could avoid the sweltering heat as the day was just beginning.

Summer was technically the Red Lion's season, just as there was spring for Green, autumn for Yellow, and winter for Blue, but the Day of Lions was held during the longest day of the year and so today only, the Red Lion would have to share it with its brethren. Originally, he'd heard in stories that there were once two holidays during the longest day and the longest night, but legend told of the Blue Lion growing jealous and refusing to allow the celebration to take place. During those stories, Shiro merely shook his head and said it was unlike the Blue Lion to let jealousy rule it.

It seemed that childhood tales were all that were left to them, since the great lions still slept, just as they had since before Shiro was born, their slumber stretching on and on for hundreds of years. Tamed by the very first King of Altea, it was said that they had come together to face a disaster that threatened the entire world, some even called them the defenders of the universe. Once their duty was fulfilled, they had separated, scattered, and slept, ready to be woken once more should a catastrophe ever strike again. It was a story Shiro had loved as a child, staring up at the stars and imagining that he could see a lion's silhouette etched into the heavens.

There would be many more tales where that came from. The festival was always an explosion of color with mesmerizing light shows, bursting bouquets of flowers, and the rare chance for the royal family to walk among the public. The Altean people adored its monarchy, this much was true, but it was always a stressful time for their guard only because they had to be constantly vigilant for any potential threat. Their Galra neighbors had been growing greedy in these past few months, and Shiro worried that they would soon set their sights on more prosperous lands.

That was enough to worry any man, particularly one whose entire job hinged on securing the safety of his charges. If he had his way, the royal family wouldn't step foot where he couldn't adequately prepare for accident or attack, but given that today was special and it would be unfair to deprive the people of their rulers, all Shiro could do was sit back and hope for the best while being as cautious as he dared. Maybe one last check of the preparations just beyond the castle walls would give him some peace of mind.

It would be hours before the public would begin to gather for the festival in earnest, but the shopkeeps, the craftsmen, and the performers were all preparing well in advance, hard at work so that the day could run as smoothly as possible. The sounds of hammers pounding and food sizzling had yet to be drowned out by the crowds of people, and Shiro enjoyed the period of relative quiet.

After begging for a sample of something sweet to perk him up and helping to hoist a wooden beam for one of many last-minute construction projects, Shiro spent a moment listening to the early-bird musicians tuning their instruments and chatted with a few of the local sellers about their wares. His was a familiar face around these parts, but they'd have people coming in from all over the country for today's celebration, so it wouldn't just be the same folk he'd grown up with. The thought was both exciting and frightening for many reasons.

A quick glance at the position of the sun told him he'd spent far too long socializing. He had to get back to the castle before he'd be missed, because today of all days, he needed to be on top of things. About to take his leave, Shiro stopped short at the nagging feeling that there was something he was missing, before another person caught his eye. Whether they were familiar or unfamiliar, he couldn't yet tell, but as soon as he began approaching them, the nagging feeling vanished, so he pressed forward with self-assuredness that was supposed to come natural for a captain of the guard.

"Excuse me," Shiro began, voice firm but cordial enough. "I'd like a word." Alright, so far so good, but now he had no idea how to follow up when he'd boldly accosted somebody out of nowhere. Maybe he could claim that word was 'goodbye' and run in the other direction, or pretend to faint, or maybe a gigantic mythical lion would swoop down and swallow him up before he made a fool of himself? Yes, perfect, plans A, B, and C outlined right there. Nailed it, Shiro.



It was a little astounding to Shiro how he'd been able to come so far. After so long spent crawling inch by inch toward his goal of the Grand Prix Finals, once he had finally reached it, everything seemed to pass in a blink. He'd skated his hardest, put every ounce of feeling into his performance, pushed himself toward limits he might have thought impossible years ago, all for this moment. People all over the world had their eyes on him the entire season and he could feel the audience's eyes boring into his back as he took his place on the ice, hear their cheers over the roar of blood in his ears.

It wasn't enough to prove himself.

There was only a small margin standing between Takashi Shirogane and bringing gold to his country, his family, and all of the people who supported him. Three years since his senior debut and he had finally made it to the final stop on an international stage, but the position on the podium that he'd spent years working toward was still out of reach. Silver was still respectable, still commendable, and he knew he'd disappointed nobody but himself when there were other skaters who had far more right to be upset than he did.

No matter how he tried reasoning the hurt away, it still remained.

"--.8 points more, and you could have had it. I'm sure you must be going through a lot of emotion right now, Skater Shirogane, but tell us, how was your first taste of the Finals?"

Blinking once, twice, and here he was, back to the present. "Uh, excuse me?" The question popped out from his mouth before he could process what it was he'd been asked. The reporters in front of him, clearly exasperated at getting stuck with such an inarticulate subject to interview, repeated it for him, and finally he could gain his footing. "Well, um, it was definitely... Definitely a learning experience. I guess I didn't realize until now how much... bigger everything is, in the final stretch. I, ah, hope that next year, I'll be more prepared for what's to come."

Clearly, that was enough for them, since he was mercifully released and the next phase of his obligations could commence. Wearing his best suit and tie, something tasteful chosen by his mother who had deemed his picks too plain, he was wracked with nerves, and while they paled in comparison to the crushing pressure of stepping onto the ice for his free skate, it still had Shiro shaking in his metaphorical boots.

"Stop hunching over like you've got an ache and for god's sake, stand up straight," a gruff voice hissed to his left. "Better to at least look proud you got something out of your miserable performance." That would be Coach Zarkon, his no-nonsense tone easy to pick up even among the murmur of dozens talking at once. Seems he wasn't the only one he disappointed by getting silver after all.

Rather than stew in his own juices for the remainder of the night and risk incurring the wrath of his stern coach, Shiro crossed the room and made a beeline for the buffet table where flutes of champagne were set out for the banquet guests. He didn't often drink, preferring to keep his indulgence to a minimum, but just this one, Shiro figured he could allow himself to loosen up a little. One thing was for sure, official events didn't skimp on the quality of the food or the alcohol. It was a far cry from the refreshments offered during his domestic competitions in Japan, he could say that much.

Thinking of home, and of meeting the faces of his loved ones that expected so much of him, would only serve to depress him. One drink turned into two, and soon enough, Shiro was feeling good enough that his earlier melancholy seemed further away. He might even manage to mingle at this event, filled to the brim with skaters, coaches, and their visiting families and sponsors. Zarkon was always moaning that he tended to be a wallflower at official events. It was time to prove him wrong.



There was no marvel the surface world held that could possibly come close to Altea's network of artful spires and winding paths that made up a kingdom constructed as if guided by the current itself. Its palace, its people, and its princess all radiated a grace that could have been the product of a thousand stories and songs, their shared beauty and uncanny talent for spectacle unlike anything the creatures of deeper waters could produce.

Altea was his treasure, and it was one that Shiro was duty-bound to protect.

Being captain of the royal family's guard, left to one single, solitary member who could only raise her head high and lead her people as best she could, afforded him more status than he felt he was truly worthy of at times, but the embarrassment was worth the price of getting to safeguard these peaceful waters and keep his people at ease.

Shiro bore the stares of onlookers as he swam down the spiraling streets of the capital city of Arus, endured his fellow officers tensing up the moment he opened his mouth to speak, and savored every fleeting glance of concern from his royal charge when she thought he wasn't looking. It was so much like Allura to fret over putting too much pressure on him, with no regard for the weight of an entire ocean on her shoulders. If it meant taking even the smallest amount of the burden from her, Shiro would bear it gladly.

He could count on one hand the amount of times that he was called away from Arus to handle infractions that the local guards could handle, but Kerberos was at the furthest reaches of Altea's kingdom and, while sparsely populated, tended to attract unsavory characters like barnacles on a baleen whale. The pressure of the princess's favored soldier would scare most of these ruffians to scatter, but for the ones that thought to try their hand at escaping the law, it would fall to Shiro to pursue them.

It was bad luck and a lack of foresight that brought him so close to the surface, hellbent on laying hand on his target. Another reason that not many merfolk tended to make their home in Kerberos, besides the riffraff, was that it lay too close to human dwellings for most to feel comfortable. Shiro was so used to the safety found cradled deep beneath the sea where only sunken ships found their way that he didn't think to look up until he felt the brush of a net against his scales.

From there, it was all a blur. The sensation of being exposed to open air, flailing in vain to find his way back to the sea, the rough scrape of human words in his ears, and their disgusting hands all over him. Unbidden, Allura's mournful face sprung to mind, devastated by the news that another member of her dwindling family was gone. His kingdom. His people. Pain unimaginable that ripped through his arm and set his lungs blaze with how he screamed. The feel of cold, unyielding metal forever embedded within his skin. Equal parts rage and terror, longing and misery, hatred for what they made him and sorrow for what he's lost.

Finally, a moment of clarity.

"You can move?" a voice asked him, the sound hushed, filled with urgency. Shiro opens his eyes to a face that looked battle-hardened but held none of the cruelty he'd come to expect of humanity. He managed a weak nod, putting weight on his arms and finding them shaky but stable enough. "Good. We're going." And then, he felt himself being lifted into the arms of this perfect stranger, boots clunking with every step further from the confines of his prison.

A human. Helping him. What has the world come to? He only had time for that thought before his consciousness slipped away from him and didn't return until he was hit with the shock of cold, blessed saltwater. For a moment, he panicked, exhausted gills so used to being deprived of it that he tried to breathe through his lungs and choked. Seconds pass until it finally hit him that this was real, he was back where he belonged, and no human would ever put their hands on him again.

With the current guiding his path, the sea pulsing through his veins, its song filling him with strength, Shiro pushed off toward the depths of the ocean. No matter how far away he'd been taken, there was nowhere else for him to go but home.