My Commander Took a Plasma Blast For Me, So I Took His Heart

The air in the grand chamber on Xylos was thick with the scent of alien blossoms and the low murmur of diplomatic negotiations. It was a sound Shiro was still trying to get used to, a far cry from the clamor of battle and the hum of a warship's engine. Peace felt… quiet. Unnatural, almost. He stood at the edge of the circular room, a silent observer in his formal Coalition uniform, the stark white and black a sharp contrast to the vibrant silks of the Xylotian delegates. His role here was one of symbolism, a living monument to the victory that had made this alliance possible. But the soldier in him was restless, his senses still tuned for threats that no longer existed.

A sudden, jarring alarm cut through the serene atmosphere. The delegates startled, their peaceful chatter ceasing instantly. On the large holographic display at the center of the chamber, the serene image of Xylos’s twin suns was replaced by a crackling, static-filled feed. A voice, distorted and panicked, broke through the noise.

“—call… repeating, this is mining colony 734… under attack! They came from nowhere… ships are just… gone! We can’t see them… oh god, the main generator—”

The transmission dissolved into a piercing shriek of feedback before cutting out entirely, leaving the chamber in a stunned, heavy silence. Whispers erupted among the Xylotians, their faces painted with fear.

Shiro moved before he consciously decided to. He strode to the central console, his prosthetic hand resting on its cool surface as he replayed the last few seconds of the transmission. He isolated the background energy readings, the faint signature of the enemy weapons fire flickering behind the static. It was a pattern he hadn't seen in years, a ghost from his darkest days as a prisoner of the Empire. The rapid, unpredictable bursts, the specific frequency of the energy disruption designed to bypass standard shields—it wasn't just Galra. It was the mark of Dru'zal's splinter fleet, a ruthless commander who specialized in cloaking technology and psychological warfare. They never engaged in open battle, preferring to pick their targets apart piece by piece, sowing terror and confusion.

“This wasn't a random attack,” Shiro said, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising panic. It was the voice of the Black Paladin, the leader of Voltron, and the room fell silent once more, every eye on him. “I know this tactical signature. It’s a remnant of the Empire, a faction that relies on stealth and fear.”

One of the Xylotian ministers looked at him, his expression desperate. “Then you must call for Voltron! Your Lions will destroy them!”

Shiro shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “That’s exactly what they want. A full-scale response from Voltron would be useless. They’d simply cloak and vanish, only to strike somewhere else. We can’t fight an enemy we can’t see with a show of force.” He straightened, the weight of command settling over him like a familiar cloak. “This requires a delicate touch. A small, covert infiltration team. We need a scalpel, not a hammer.”

The bridge of the Atlas was a stark contrast to the opulence of the Xylotian chamber. Here, the air was cool and sterile, smelling of ozone and recycled air. The faces of the Paladins, illuminated by the blue light of the central holographic display, were grim. Shiro’s assessment, relayed from Xylos, hung in the air between them.

“A splinter faction that uses cloaking tech?” Lance leaned forward, his arms braced on the console. “Sounds like a job for five giant robot lions, if you ask me.”

“Lance is right,” Hunk added, his brow furrowed with worry. “We can’t just leave those colonists defenseless. We should go in, guns blazing.”

“And fly right into their trap,” Pidge countered, her fingers flying across her own datapad. “Shiro’s intel is solid. The energy signature from their weapons has a dispersal pattern designed to counter large-scale shields, like the ones on our Lions. A direct assault would be… messy. And likely ineffective.”

All eyes turned to Keith. He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. As the current leader of Voltron, the final decision was his. He had been silent throughout the discussion, his gaze fixed on the data Shiro had sent, but his focus was absolute. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, carrying an authority that left no room for debate.

“Shiro’s right,” he said simply. “A full Voltron deployment is off the table. It’s too much of a risk, and it plays right into their hands. We’ll send a two-person team. Infiltrate their ship, identify their objective, and neutralize the threat from the inside.”

Shiro’s live image flickered on the main screen. “I should lead the mission,” he stated, his tone firm. “I know Dru'zal's playbook. I’ve been on his ships. That knowledge could be the difference between success and failure.”

Before anyone else could respond, Keith’s head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto Shiro’s image. “I’m going with you.”

The declaration was instantaneous, absolute. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a statement of fact.

“Whoa, hold on,” Lance said, straightening up. “Shouldn’t you stay here and command the Atlas? You’re the leader, dude.”

“As the leader, it’s my responsibility to handle the most critical operations,” Keith replied, his voice dangerously even. He never broke eye contact with Shiro. “And I’m the best pilot for a stealth run. There’s no one better for this.”

His reasoning was sound, logical. But the look on his face told a different story. The usual stoicism was gone, replaced by a raw, protective intensity that burned in his eyes. It was the look he got when one of his own was in danger, but this was different. Sharper. Deeper. It was a look that said, I will not let you face this alone.

On the screen, Shiro’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. He saw past the leader’s justification to the man beneath, to the boy he had mentored who was now refusing to let him walk into the darkness by himself. A silent understanding passed between them, an acknowledgment of a bond that went far beyond their roles.

“Alright,” Shiro said, his voice a low murmur that only Keith seemed to truly hear. “It’s settled, then.”

Keith gave a single, sharp nod, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxing just slightly. The decision was made. The rest of the team fell silent, sensing the finality in his tone and the powerful, unspoken current that flowed between their former and current leader.

The hangar bay was vast and quiet, the cavernous space swallowing the sounds of their preparation. The Stardust sat in the center of the docking platform, a sleek, blade-like ship painted a matte black that absorbed the hangar’s ambient light. It was a vessel built for silence and shadows, a perfect match for the mission.

Shiro had changed out of his dress uniform and back into his black flight suit, the familiar material a comfort against his skin. He moved around the exterior of the ship, his prosthetic hand running along the hull, checking for any imperfections in the stealth coating. Keith was already in the cockpit, his form a dark silhouette against the glow of the instrument panels. The quiet between them was not the easy silence of old comrades, but something heavier, charged with the weight of Keith’s declaration on the bridge.

They fell into the old rhythm of a pre-flight check, a wordless dance they had perfected over years of flying together. Shiro would tap a panel on the wing, and a moment later, a light would flicker to life in the cockpit where Keith had activated the corresponding system. Keith would run a diagnostic, and Shiro would watch the ship’s vents for the tell-tale puff of pressure equalization. It was seamless, efficient, a language spoken in action rather than sound.

But beneath the familiar routine, a new current ran between them. Shiro was acutely aware of Keith’s presence. He could feel the intensity of his focus radiating from the cockpit, a tangible force. Every soft click of a switch, every low hum of a system coming online, seemed to amplify the tension. When he needed to check the port-side intake valve, he had to pass directly beneath the open canopy. He could feel Keith’s eyes on him, tracking his movement.

He finished his external checks and moved to the boarding ramp. Keith was finalizing the navigation sequence, his head bent in concentration.

“All clear out here,” Shiro said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet space.

Keith looked up. His face, illuminated by the soft blue light of the holoscreen, was serious. The hard lines of the leader were there, but his eyes held something else, something vulnerable that was reserved only for Shiro. “Systems are green. We’re ready.”

Shiro stepped onto the ramp, pausing at the threshold of the cockpit. The space was tight, designed for function over comfort. To get to his co-pilot seat, he would have to squeeze past Keith. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the confined area suddenly feeling impossibly small.

As he moved past, his hip brushed against Keith’s shoulder. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt through him. He saw Keith’s hands freeze over the console, his knuckles white. Shiro settled into his seat, the air crackling with what had just passed between them. He busied himself with buckling his harness, his own hands not quite steady.

Before sealing the canopy, he turned and met Keith’s gaze. The look that passed between them was one of profound, unnerving clarity. It held their entire history—the desperate escape from the Galra, the discovery of the Blue Lion, the weight of leadership, the shared victories and losses. But now, layered over all of it, was the raw truth of the bridge, of Keith’s unwavering insistence on being here. It was a look of fierce loyalty, of possessive protection, and a deep, aching question that neither of them was ready to ask aloud.

Shiro gave a slow, deliberate nod. I understand.

Keith’s expression softened, the tension in his jaw releasing just a fraction. He nodded back before turning to the controls. The canopy hissed shut, sealing them inside, alone together in the quiet dark.