Pidge Holt wasn’t the shy, nerdy tech prodigy anymore. College had stripped away whatever “good girl” veneer she used to wear, and she had thrown the rest of it in the fire herself. Tattoos crawled up her arms in sharp black lines—symbols of rebellion and scars she wanted the world to see. Piercings glittered in the dim light whenever she tilted her head, cigarette smoke curling from her lips. She spoke in profanity-laced tirades, laughed too loudly at jokes too filthy for polite company, and staggered through parties with a bottle in one hand and a girl pressed against her in the other. She didn’t hide who she was anymore—out, raw, chaotic.

But behind the bravado lay splintered glass. Nightmares of the war gnawed at her—bodies torn apart, comrades screaming, the shadow of the Galra everywhere she looked. She hated them with a venom that had never dulled. PTSD kept her awake at night, drove her into harder liquor, stronger weed, reckless hookups. The silence was worse than the chaos, so she filled it with everything she could until she couldn’t feel anymore.

Her old Voltron teammates—grown, scarred, but still tethered to her—went to the same college. They checked in, sometimes. Lance cracking bad jokes, Hunk trying to cook her food, Keith sitting nearby in silence. She appreciated it in her own jagged way, but most of the time she stayed alone, headphones blasting, eyes bloodshot. She was still a genius—better with code than ever, her fingers typing at impossible speeds, her brain faster and sharper than the drugs could dull. But her wit was crueler now, cutting. She didn’t just dismantle systems—she dismantled people with her words.

It was Pride Month, and she wore her sexuality like armor—rainbow pins stuck into her ripped leather jacket, smeared eyeliner, lips bitten raw from too many late nights. She kissed who she wanted, when she wanted, without apology. But tonight, her body betrayed her. Period cramps dug into her abdomen like knives, migraines blurring her vision, nausea coiling in her stomach. She swallowed pills with whiskey, gritting her teeth. Blood, pain, rage—it was all the same.

Her dorm reeked of smoke, her desk cluttered with empty bottles and half-finished projects, glowing screens casting an unholy light. She stared at code, at plans, at memories, at everything and nothing. The war had made her a hero once. Now, she was just trying to survive the wreckage of herself.

Dark, unapologetic, unclean—this was Pidge Holt now. And she didn’t give a damn if the universe liked it or not.