#but i think its better that they were caught or kidnapped while building rapport with the locals

[promsielhk]

Klance Alien Stage au where Lance is Till and Keith is Ivan in Round 6, but imagine if it was Lance who sang Black Sorrow instead, while Keith sang Unknown (Till The End)

I’ve been thinking about it and it makes sense for their characters to sing those respective songs since Keith has always been the rebellious one while Lance is the type to sing his feelings out and we live for the Lance angst

Imagine they got caught and are now forced to sing in this alien karaoke competition where they have to sing to live. Imagine Lance singing in the round before Keith’s, expressing his sorrow for being not enough, the 7th wheel, out of place, homesick, all the angst. Lance, who loves to sing, putting all his heart into such a song that resonates with him. Imagine Lance singing so passionately that he won and can’t help but feel guilt as he watches his opponent get terminated right next to him, thinking that his opponent could’ve had loved ones waiting for them to return.

The competition moves on to the next round and now its Keith and he’s singing a completely different song from what was planned like what Till did. Like Lance, Keith also puts his emotions into the song. But Keith dedicated that song to Lance, about developing feelings and the like.

Then round 6 happens :)

#and did Lance get Keith’s memo? yeah probs not #its the gameshow ep all over again but worse #originally was gonna include allura as mizi #lotor as luka ofc #idk who’s gonna be sua or hyuna #but i think its better that they were caught or kidnapped while building rapport with the locals #instead of the whole Promised Neverland-esque setting #alien stage au #vld keith #vld lance #klance #idk where i was going with this #keith cant handle losing his everything again #lance mcclain #lance voltron

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (24/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

“As you can imagine, Doctor, the Council’s alarm at these leaks continues to grow.”

She tucks her hands into the pockets of her sweater. Yes, the base is always a consistent temperature, but that temperature is consistently not warm enough.

The few days away have made a difference. She can stand before the Spokesman if not confidently than at least absent the crushing sense of impending doom, the belief that there is a cell in some dark prison waiting for her.

“And I can assure you that I appreciate the Council’s concerns. Dr. Shen and his team are continuing their analysis, and as soon as we have a working theory, I will bring it to the Council’s attention.”

“Surely, Dr. Shen has offered potential explanations.”

She fights the urge to smirk. Of all the questions she has prepared for, this is the best case scenario.

“While it is purely speculation pending a thorough investigation, at this point, Dr. Shen and his team believe the virus used to gain access to the files has been in our system for some time, and was likely implanted upstream before installation into the base.”

The Spokesman’s shoulders grow tense. “You’re certain?”

“It’s a preliminary hypothesis,” she says. “Dr. Shen’s team has been swamped as of late --- between the massive systems burn and now this, they’re putting in the same amount of time as they were at the height of the invasion. But yes, that is his current theory.”

“You will keep us informed.”

“Of course.”

The screen fades to black before her and she lets out a slow, even breath. The implication of potential espionage from within the ranks should be enough to keep them occupied for some time. There is something to be said for sowing a little chaos, rather than being caught up in its wake.

They’ve settled on a strategy of distraction and misdirection. Keep the Council focused somewhere else while Shen and Vahlen continue their work with the Fog Pods, while John’s backchannel contacts begin reaching out, word of XCOM and its successes beginning to spread.

The wheels are in motion; they just need time to let them spin.

She feels strangely light, relieved. It’s entirely premature; there are still hurdles, significant hurdles, to overcome. The gambit is risky and likely still to explode in their faces. The call was a victory, yes, but it was a skirmish, not even a battle.

Still, she allows herself the momentary happiness.

If she has learned anything in her time with XCOM, it is the importance of permitting yourself the time to celebrate small wins. Yes, the path is long and they have only just begun to travel it, but they have made it past this particular challenge. They will be ready for whatever is coming.

Or so she hopes

She steps out into Mission Control, and offers Central a wink when she catches his eye. He hides his grin behind a coffee mug.

It is a new year. A fresh start. The world is rebuilding and the comms are quiet. They know what they’re up against now, and they’re working to counter it. They have designs on the Council.

This time last year, she’d been on a plane back from Rome; the year before, she’d turned down a job offer from one of the world’s largest security consulting firms; the year before that, she’d resigned a tenure track position: all in pursuit of XCOM.

She’s not who she was --- and it’s not a bad thing. There are challenges, yes, but there were challenges. There were challenges teaching. There were challenges consulting. There were challenges researching. These ones just give her satisfaction to overcome.

Everything finds a balance.

--

There are several small crates waiting for her in her quarters, discovered in the storage area now being transitioned into a war room, after being left there some time ago.

She knows, on some level, that someone has returned to the old base at least once. There are enough relics floating around to remind her of it at every turn. That there are crates containing her personal effects should not be surprising.

She would like to find her necklace. She is positive she wasn’t wearing it during the attack and she misses its familiar weight around her neck.

She undoes the lid on the first crate and begins to sift through it, the flotsam and jetsam of her old life. She’s greeted by several neatly folded blouses and a pair of pajama bottoms. She digs in further to find a handful of hair ties and an two hair clips --- souvenirs of a trip to Tokyo in the course of her PhD research. At the bottom is one of Central’s old Naval Academy tee shirts, stolen sometime between Zurich and Berlin.

She tries not to dwell on it.

The second crate is a hodgepodge. There are some clothes, some books, pencils, pens, her trenchcoat, and most interestingly, three external hard drives. Her duct tape labels still hold: movies, music, tv. She wonders if there’s a way to pull the data off, and makes a note to ask Shen.

She opens the third crate, and immediately regrets the decision. The photo of her parents stares up at her, their smiles still bright. More faces follow: Strike One, engaged in a high stakes game of Crazy Eights; Will, Jane curled up on him as if she were a lapdog instead of a full grown German Shepherd; Tanya, glowering over a mug of piping hot tea; her grandparents, standing proudly outside their shop on Orchard Street.

She almost cannot bring herself to look at the last photo.

A woman who looks like her and a man who looks like a younger Central stand arm-in-arm under an enormous umbrella. She beams at the camera, caught mid-laugh. He smiles down at her.

It feels strange to look at them, to claim them as her past. It feels more like the memory of a movie she’d once watched, rather than her own life.

She sets the image aside.

She reaches in again, and her fingers find an overstuffed leather notebook. More photographs jut out from within its leaves. She pulls it out and traces her fingers over the embossed lettering: Neither a wise man or a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him - Eisenhower.

Her necklace is not inside the crate.

She settles with a huff on the ground, and turns her attention to the notebook. She thinks back, and attempts to take stock of the past several weeks. Yes, they’ve interrupted some sort of ADVENT operation, and yes, Tygan’s team is hard at work on its analysis, but she can point to no concrete measure of progress. They are floundering. She is floundering, reacting and overreacting to events, allowing them to dictate what she can’t bring herself to call her strategy.

Of course they’re not gaining any traction.

She knows that she can be better than this, that she can do better than this. She just has to get up off the goddamn tracks.

She’s never been a fan of digital, not when she’s really needed to think. She’s vaguely aware of the science behind it, but if she is truthful, she suspects it is because she has always held a fondness for pen and paper.

Unfortunately, the latter seems to be in awfully short supply.

Her gaze turns to the books lining the shelf. She grits her teeth, and takes one down, then extends the lead on her mechanical pencil. If this sacrilege is the price, so be it.

She doesn’t worry about order at first, just lets the words flow onto the end paper. There is the matter of rescuing the Skirmisher, yes, and also of the canister recovered from the black site, but the wheels are already turning on those fronts; there is nothing she can do at present.

There is the matter of the alien who kidnapped Mox, the Assassin, and if she’d heard Dragunova correctly, the others just like her.

She knows, though, that if she hopes to deal with the monsters, they’ll need alliances --- which brings her to the problem of Volk. She’s set herself at a disadvantage; she knows that. If she wants any hope of yanking him into line, she’ll need leverage. Leverage, naturally, requires intel, a resource she sorely lacks.

Even then, there is a long road ahead. She has no idea what to expect from Skirmisher leadership and they presently lack any actionable information on the locale of the Templars.

Then, there is the matter of holding potential tense allegiances in balance, but it’s a problem for another day.

She rubs her face. It’s obvious that her first job is filling in the pieces she lacks, but she can’t do that on her own. She knows Sally has those she’s friendly with in Reaper ranks, and she doesn’t doubt that Central could tell her a thing or two. Still, she needs a wider net, and that will require face time.

She’s learned that the best cover stories are rooted in truth: if she really intends for her people to be working with the Reapers, they’ll need to build rapport. The sooner they start, the better it will be. A few days of mingling at Reaper HQ might begin to give them the in she needs --- especially if it comes without restrictions with regards to leisure activities.

She reserves the right to put her foot down about the food, however.

She weighs her options. She should deal with Volk herself, but that feels uncomfortably like supplication. She could put Central up to it, give Volk the message that she has other priorities, other matters to attend to. It might be enough to send a message.

The request might also be better received.

She nods. She can do this.

There are yet other problems. Long term viability of havens with regards to physical security and stability. Counterpropaganda. The Lost, and the vast sweep of the contagion. She will address them in time.

She sits down next to Central the next morning, and takes a deep breath. “I think we should be building better relationships with the Reapers.”

He nearly loses his lukewarm coffee. “Excuse me?”

“You and I both know we’re at a personnel deficit. If we’re gonna work with them, we need to build rapport.”

“And this is how you want to address it? You and Volk didn’t exactly hit it off.”

She nods. “Training fresh recruits out of the havens takes time, time that we don’t have. Reapers are marksmen with ample combat experience in hostile terrain. We’d be stupid not to press for assistance, but we can’t do that without rapport. I’m thinking we take a few days to learn from one another while the team is out following up on where they’re holding Mox.”

He considers this for a moment. “It’s gonna be a tough sell.”

“Spin it as mutually beneficial.”

“You want me to make the ask?”

She nods. “Think you’re better suited right now. Volk trusts you.”

“He’s not dumb.”

“He still thinks he has leverage.” “Regan, I---“ “If I had concerns about your loyalty, I wouldn’t ask.”

He eyes her over his coffee cup, confused but not suspicious. “Alright. Whatever you need.”

She passes Sally later that day on her way down to check on Tygan’s progress in the lab.

“Ma’am,” she starts. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”

“And?”

“I’d still rather be in the field than anywhere else.”

She nods considering this a moment. “I’ve been thinking, too. And we’ll be lucky to have you --- in three weeks.”

Sally’s face falls. “Three weeks?”

She nods. “As far as I can tell, you’re highly competent. You kept a cool head, even when things went pear shaped. You’re gonna be a real asset on the field, if that’s where you truly want to be. But you’ve got three weeks til I’ll honor that choice.”

“Did Central---“

She shakes her head. “This one’s on my head. He and I haven’t even talked about it.”

Sally considers this, then nods. “You mean it, though? Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

#xcom #fic #every exit an entrance