“We found your little human companion.”
Ulaz’s words echoed through his mind. Human companion? For as far as Shiro remembered, there were only three humans on the Galra ship. Himself, Matt and Sam.
So, the fourth human came as a surprise. Who were they?
He racked his brain for some sort of memory. He didn’t have one. Not a glimpse of their hair colour, no smile, not even an eye colour. His memories were blank. That posed a better question—Why?
They dropped from the rafters in the ceiling, and Keith immediately dropped into a defensive stance. He was about the only one, as the rest of Team Voltron stayed coiled, but not hostile. He was suddenly thankful for his training, and rested a hand on Keith’s shoulder.
The person standing in front of them removed their mask, studying them with keen eyes. He realised, after a few seconds of staring back, that the human was female. She was wearing the same type of weapons that Ulaz was, so he figured she was in the Blade of Marmora, too.
He stepped forward, and she stepped backwards. She was skittish, he realised, constantly shifting on the balls of her toes, her hand twitching toward one of the plethora of blades at her side.
It threw him for a loop—she was silent on her feet, even as she dropped, she barely made a sound. It came to his attention that it was no longer a question of ‘who’, but of ‘what’.
What have they made her?
She looked ethereal, in some twisted way. Maybe a dancer, or part cat. Something about her was graceful, composed. But she still looked made. Created in some way.
The Galra would say repurposed. He would say stripped. He wasn’t sure how much of the original her she had left in her. Maybe none. Maybe she only saw it when she looked in a mirror.
He held his hand out, like he was talking to a rampaging animal, ready to strike. He couldn’t rule that out, either, not by the way she looked at everyone. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”
The pain in his temple happened almost instantly, the image—of her— appearing in his memories. He said the same thing to her the first time.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he breathed, holding his hand out to the human woman. She looked at his hand—metal, and probably horrifying—but did not take it.
She looked around his age, though some sort of gauntness hollowed out her cheeks. She was scarred, knicks and gashes and bruises littering her skin. Her knees were tucked up close to her chest, and he wondered if she was doing it on purpose. Making herself smaller—take up less space. Up to something? Or shy?
Shiro stumbled backward, the realisation hitting him square in the chest. “{{user}}...” She was so different, now. Now he remembered what she looked like before. She was more graceful. More gaunt.
More scared.