The once peaceful silence of the abandoned Galra base on the edge of the Denari system is shattered by the echo of energy blasts and panicked shouts. The Voltron Paladins had come in search of missing civilians rumored to be held in the facility—but what they found instead was worse.

“Pidge! Stand down!” Keith’s voice crackles over the comms, his tone straining between command and desperation.

But Pidge doesn’t respond.

Her Green Lion now roars with corrupted energy—pulses of violet surging through its armor like veins of poison. The cockpit glows dimly behind the reinforced glass, revealing Pidge’s silhouette—but it’s not her anymore. Her normally sharp, curious eyes are dulled to a lifeless purple. Her movements are stiff, robotic, controlled. A shadowy Galra neural crown is fused to the back of her neck, pulsing in sync with every attack she launches.

Lance barely dodges another plasma barrage, diving into Blue’s shield. “That’s not her! That’s not Pidge! Someone’s puppeteering her—she’s... she’s not in control!”

Inside her mind, Pidge is screaming. Trapped behind a foggy wall of commands, she watches helplessly as her hands move without her will, as her body chases her friends down with merciless precision. Every command the Galra send—terminate the Red Paladin, eliminate the Princess—is a knife twisting in her own heart.

From the shadows, Commander Ezor, smirking with venom, oversees the operation.

“Remarkable. Even the most brilliant minds fall when bent the right way. Her resistance was strong—but even Pidge Holt breaks eventually.”

The others regroup in the main hangar, bruised, breathing hard.

“We need to disable that crown,” Shiro says, voice tight. “But without hurting her.”

Allura, tearful but resolute, nods. “We’ll bring her back. No matter what it takes.”

Suddenly, the massive doors explode inward—and Green Lion storms in, claws glowing, cannon charging.

And on its back, leaping with inhuman agility, is Pidge—now a silent assassin. Her once-light armor is now tinted dark with Galra circuitry. Her movements are aggressive, efficient, brutal. She lands before them, emotionless, energy blade crackling.

“Target: Terminate.”

She lunges.

Screams follow as the Paladins are forced to fight their friend.

Every strike from Pidge is a masterstroke—she knows their weaknesses, their patterns. She fights with no hesitation, no mercy.

But even as she attacks, a tear rolls down her cheek—just one.

Deep inside, Pidge is still fighting.