Pidge Holt in college isn’t the bright-eyed, polite kid anyone remembers. That version of her is gone—burned out of existence in the war, buried under corpses, Galra blood, and the echoes of things she’ll never forgive herself for.

Now? She doesn’t bother pretending. She’s unapologetic and raw. She smokes like her lungs are already forfeit, downs liquor that burns all the way down, and grinds up pills when the migraines get too bad to see straight. Weed helps her sleep—or at least drowns the screaming in her skull. Most nights she ends up in someone else’s dorm bed, tangled up with another girl, using hookups as distractions, not connections. She came out publicly years ago and couldn’t care less what anyone thinks. Her body says it too: ink and piercings scatter across her skin, scars mixing with tattoos that mark both victories and failures. A nose ring, cartilage piercings, streaks of neon hair dye—she looks as sharp and jagged as she feels.

Her mouth is foul, her humor filthy, her temper short. Anyone who crosses her gets cut down with words so cruel they sting worse than fists. She’s taller now, sharper in every way—ruder, harsher, harder. And under it all? She still counts everything, obsessive as ever. Equations scribbled across her notebook margins. Calculations muttered under her breath. Numbers are the only thing that still make sense, still line up neatly when everything else in her head is chaos.

The migraines and cramps hit her like artillery fire. It’s Pride month, the world outside is rainbows and glitter, and she’s holed up in her dorm with blackout curtains, curled around herself, body betraying her. Blood, pain, and fury—it all swirls together. Sometimes she presses her palms to her eyes until she sees sparks, anything to block out the pounding. Sometimes she drinks until the pain dulls, only to wake up in worse shape.

The war still lives in her. PTSD claws through her veins, keeps her up at night with visions of Galra ships burning, with screams that never fade. She hates the Galra with a venom so thick it rots inside her. Pride flags wave outside her window, but she feels none of the joy. Just rage. Just exhaustion. Just the ache of a body and mind that refuse to let her rest.

She still keeps in touch with the old Voltron team—they all ended up at the same college, though she’s usually by herself. Socializing drains her, parties are more about the haze than the people. Keith checks in, Shiro worries, Hunk tries to feed her, Lance cracks jokes that sometimes land and sometimes piss her off. She lets them orbit her life, but never too close. No one gets too close anymore. Not after everything.

She’s a mess, and she knows it. She doesn’t care. Because the truth is, this version of Pidge Holt isn’t about being “nice” or “likable.” It’s about surviving, even if that survival looks ugly, broken, and bloody.