A Swallow’s View
Shiro isn’t lost after the season 2 finale; he’s suspended in a version of the astral plane, unable to communicate with the Paladins as they mourn his passing.
This was originally written back in August 2017 for the Aphelion Zine! @aphelionzine
[On AO3]
Shiro’s awareness trickles back drop by drop. He awakes to a vast blackness.
It’s like his cells have turned to dust motes. For a moment, Shiro can’t tell whether he still has a body. Then he looks down, and he sees clothes and skin. He’s still solid, though his limbs feel vague and distant.
Shiro commands his arms to move. A firecracker of pins and needles erupts under Shiro’s skin. The sensation prickles down his torso, all the way to the tips of his toes. Shiro’s fingers twitch once…a second time.
Shiro grits his teeth. He forces his flesh hand outward, and combs through the void for some hint of texture—some tether to reality.
As he fumbles around, a light pulses somewhere on Shiro’s periphery. Shiro slows his frantic search. He finds that he can turn his head, and he watches as a speck of light unfurls, then blooms all at once like sunrise. Shiro moves to shield his eyes from the glare.
There’s a great shift of planes, and the dark void vanishes.
Real air hits Shiro’s face. He chokes on an exhale. The rapid thud-thud of his heartbeat pounds a path through his ears; Shiro clutches his chest and doubles over. Never before has he been so aware of the thrum of his pulse, or the taste of the roof of his mouth, or the way his skin tingles where his hair stands up on the back of his neck. Shiro’s lungs fill and deflate, fill and deflate. For a moment he lets the relief crush him. He sits hunched with his right hand still outstretched, and indulges in the simple joy of existing.
Shiro starts at Keith’s voice. He looks up, and blinks at the sight of Black’s dashboard. He’s seated in Black’s pilot chair, slumped forward with his hand wrapped around Zarkon’s Bayard. It takes Shiro a moment to loosen his grip around it. He lets the weapon rest in its holster, arm falling limply onto Black’s armrest.
There are a series of clicks as Black’s systems grind to a halt. Her screen flutters, then fades to black. There’s not even enough power to sustain the warning lights; the purple colors flicker out right as the cockpit door opens.
It’s the other Paladins, bunched around Black’s doorway like they’re afraid to enter her cockpit. Shiro, braced over the edge of his seat, turns to give a feeble wave.
“Is everyone all right?” he asks.
There’s a pause. Team Voltron enters the cockpit slowly. The Paladins’ boots rattle against the floor as they surround Shiro’s chair.
“I’m okay,” Shiro assures the group, at the tense atmosphere. He takes in everyone’s shocked faces. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Lance is staring down at Shiro’s chair, seemingly at Shiro’s middle. “He’s gone,” Lance says.
“What?” Shiro says. “Who’s gone?”
“That’s not possible,” Keith says, thickly. “He was right here.”
“Who?” Shiro demands, feeling lost. Why won’t anyone look him in the eye? “Me? Keith, what’s going on?”
“Did Zarkon connect with the Black Lion? It’s ejected Shiro before.”
Pidge’s fingers dig into Shiro’s chair. “But he didn’t radio us for help!”
“He could’ve been unconscious…”
“Everyone, back to the bridge,” Allura says. Keith is already halfway out the door. “We’ll track Shiro’s energy signature.”
“Wait!” Shiro is stumbling out of his chair. “I’m right here!” He reaches out to grab Pidge’s shoulder as she races by—
—and his hand passes right through her armor.