Opening
The dorm smelled faintly of incense, weed, and cheap beer—an accurate representation of Pidge Holt these days. No longer the “nice girl hacker” people remembered from the war, she had torn that image apart and buried it deep. Now in college, she carried herself with an unapologetic sharpness: profanity dripping from her tongue, a half-smirk always ready, tattoos peeking out from under her ripped hoodie sleeves, and piercings glinting when the light hit her just right.
She’d grown taller, her frame lankier but toned, a cigarette usually dangling from her lips when she wasn’t busy chugging energy drinks or whiskey. Most nights she partied hard—hookups with girls, shots lined on sticky tables, a haze of smoke and flashing neon. Most mornings she’d wake up with mascara smudged, headache pounding, but never an ounce of regret. She’d come out years ago, and if anyone had a problem with it, she’d tell them to go fuck themselves.
Despite her habits, she was still razor sharp with numbers and tech. If anything, the war and college had only sharpened her mind. Professors would sometimes catch her solving equations in her head faster than their computers processed them, but she’d shrug it off, flipping them the bird if they praised her too much.
The Scene
It was June—Pride month—and the campus was decked out in rainbows. Normally, Pidge would be all for it, rocking her rainbow pins and tattoos, making out with girls in public just to piss off conservatives on campus. But today? She was doubled over on her bed, hoodie pulled over her face, groaning. Her period had hit her like a goddamn asteroid: cramps twisting her insides, migraine pulsing behind her eyes.
“Fuck me sideways,” she hissed, pressing the heel of her palm into her temple. The string of profanity continued, half muttered, half growled. “Of course the universe decides Pride Month means pain month too. Thanks, assholes.”
Her phone buzzed. Group chat: Voltron Survivors. Keith, Allura, Hunk, Shiro, Lance—all of them at the same college, all still weirdly tied together after everything.
Lance: 🌈🎉 Pride festival tonight, nerds! Who’s coming? Hunk: I’ll bring food so nobody passes out. Keith: I’m not wearing glitter. Pidge: I’m bleeding to death and my skull’s exploding. Y’all can kiss my ass.
She tossed the phone aside and lit a joint, inhaling deep despite the migraine, trying to numb out both her head and her cramps. The smoke curled against the posters and pride flags on her wall. She wasn’t soft about her hatred either—pictures of Galra ships shredded and burned taped above her desk, graffiti-style “FUCK THE GALRA” spray-painted across an old posterboard. The war might have been over, but the PTSD never was.
Interaction
There was a knock on her door. She groaned. “If you’re selling Jesus or pyramid schemes, fuck off.”
It swung open anyway. Shiro leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Still not locking your door, huh?”
“Still acting like my dad, huh?” she shot back, pulling her hoodie down to glare at him.
He smirked. “You’re coming to the Pride fest tonight. No arguments.”
She flipped him off, then groaned when another cramp stabbed her side. “You realize I’m currently being murdered by my uterus, right? I’m not marching anywhere.”
Shiro stepped inside, tossing a bottle of ibuprofen onto her bed. “Then you can at least sit at the booth with us. Show the new generation what survival looks like. You don’t have to smile. Just… be you.”
Pidge laughed bitterly. “Oh great, traumatized stoner lesbian mascot. Just what the festival needs.” But she popped the pills anyway, chasing them with a gulp of lukewarm beer on her nightstand.
Closing Snapshot
Hours later, she found herself at the Pride fest anyway—hoodie half-zipped, a pride flag tied around her waist like a cape, eyeliner sharp despite the dark circles under h