Nostalgia

Prologue

Nostalgia

[nɒˈstaldʒə /noun/ A sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past.]

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There was just so much blood. Why was there so much blood?

His hands shook as the red, red, red liquid trailed towards his knees, and slowly pooled around him.

It wasn't- nothing was supposed to be like this. Nobody was supposed to die.

They were supposed to defeat Zarkon and save the god damn Universe. And then they would go home; a little scarred, worse for wear, but alive they would be.

"Lance." Their voice is hoarse, whispered and tired as they lay a battered, sparking and twitching arm- their only remaining one- onto his knee.

"Get to Black."

And he would've listened, back when everyone was alive, and he hung onto his every word, because he was their leader. But with everyone gone and their ship, their castle; their home lit up in a blazing fire that just wouldn't stop; he couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Lance, snap out of it!"

A shuddering cry wracked his body, and he raised a bloodstained hand to his face.

"We failed, Shiro," he whispered, hiding behind his hand as he grit his teeth and just let go. "We failed, and I-"

"D-Do you remember Beta Traz?"

It wasn't the words that made him pause in being pathetic and weak enough to cry; but the soft, resigned, almost nostalgic tone it was said with that made him remove his hand from his face.

"Yeah," he sniffed, watery eyes red and sore as they stared down at his lover. "Yeah, I do. It's where we rescued... Slav, right?"

Shiro let out a breathless laugh at his skeptical tone, and shifted his eyes open to stare into the very same blue eyes he fell in love with, just as endless and enchanting as he remembered them to be.

"Well-!" A cough clawed at his throat, and he felt his stomach clench in pain as a metallic liquid filled his mouth.

"S-Shiro!" Lance panicked, hands flailing around with wide eyes as he busied over trying to fix what was wrong. "I-"

He tilted his head away from Lance and spat the liquid out "I'm ok." Shiro breathed, chest shaking from the aftershock. "Do you remember what Slav went on and on about?"

Lance nodded. "Alternate universes-"

"What's this? More than one of you are still alive?"

An angry, vicious snarl that sounded nothing like him, had already left his lips by the time he stood up and readied his sparking bayard.

"I'll have to rectify that." They mused, dusting off their pants and looking at the two of them down the bridge of their nose. "Father would be most displeased if I didn't."

His hand hovers over the trigger, and if he aims it just right, he could make his last shot count and then it'll all be over-

But then a heavy hand comes down onto his shoulder and his head is left blank. The familiar weight and feel to the hand clenching his bruised shoulder, was the only thing that stopped him from turning around and shooting on sight.

"Get to Black."

He takes a breath, looks at the man who's leaning more on him than standing up, and almost, almost smiles when he recognises the look in his eyes.

(It was a look of promise. One that guaranteed victory, triumph and glory. This, this was the man he chose to follow. The man with a plan.)

And he knows what he has to do.

Lance McClain. The Tailor. The Class-clown. The I'd-rather-charm-my-way-out-of-a-problem Paladin; turns around and runs.

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He makes it. But not before he sees the way Shiro drops to his knees with a gaping hole in his chest.

Black chooses then to close her mouth and save Lance the sight of her paladin being decapitated.