Chapter Text
On a black market trade planet, five years before the creation of Voltron
“Emperor Zarkon, now that we have obtained what we needed we should return to the ship. It’s dangerous for you to be out here for too long with so few guards,” the Galra soldier next to Zarkon said.
The emperor didn’t look at the soldier, but instead focused his gaze towards the loud cheering of the gladiator pits. Gladiator fights were common amongst the galra, but the participants were always willing. On these black market trade planets, out on the fringes of the system outside of galra control, the planet lords kidnapped aliens from around the galaxy to create exciting matches. He detested it, but the galra were not in a position to take down the planet and its savagery just yet.
“Emperor Zarkon?” the soldier questioned.
Zarkon ignored him – he was inexplicably drawn to the vicious cheering, so he began to walk. His guard made an alarmed noise and may have said something, but the emperor kept moving until he had to shove through cheering spectators.
Although no one knew they were in the presence of the actual galran emperor, they still swallowed their protests when they saw the massive purple skinned man who had pushed them aside. Galra were well-known to be vicious fighters and no one was eager to start a brawl with one, especially one so large.
When Zarkon got to the edge of the pit, his brows furrowed. On one side of the arena was a massive alien hound that Zarkon couldn’t immediately identify. It was covered in grotesque spines that oozed some sort of muddy yellow substance. The creature wasn’t of much interest, there were horrors similar to it on planets all over.
The one fighting the creature, however, was of interest. He was just a boy, younger than Zarkon’s own son. He was some sort of alteanoid, though he lacked the distinct markings of an Altean. He was also missing an arm that had been replaced with a crude biotic limb.
As Zarkon watched, the creature charged at the boy who quickly dove out of the way, but not before grabbing firmly onto one of the thing’s spikes. The thing whirled, but the boy held on tight. He brought his legs up and firmly planted them against the creature’s flank and pulled. Zarkon could see the strain on his face, even from his perch high above the pit.
The creature let out of screeching yelp as the boy pulled the spine free and landed on the ground. The creature whirled on him, it’s maw opening to reveal sharp, jagged teeth as it prepared to end the boy’s life.
Zarkon felt a twinge as he realize he was about to see the poor boy die, but instead the boy surged to his feet as soon as the creature’s mouth opened and thrust the spike into it’s mouth. Despite the spines, the creature must have had a fairly soft mass because the spike easily broke through the back of its head. The boy backed up, his gaze never leaving the creature.
For a moment the thing stood there, it’s four eyes blinking as if it didn’t realize yet that it was dead, and then it went crashing to the ground. The crowd erupted into cheers and they began to chant.
“Champion!” they shouted over and over.
Zarkon remained silent. He stared down at the battered boy, saw the huge scar bisecting his nose bridge, the scarred skin around the edge of his biotic arm, his limp black hair. He was so young and judging by his title ‘Champion,’ this wasn’t his first fight.
“Captain Morek,” Zarkon said. The soldier at his side snapped to attention.
“Emperor,” Morek replied.
“Where do they take the gladiators after a fight?” he asked.
“If they fight willingly, they are free to go after a match. If they aren’t, there are usually cells near the arena,” Morek said immediately.
Zarkon watched as armed men hustled into the arena and dragged away the exhausted looking boy.
“We are taking that boy back with us.”
“Emperor, I don’t think they will allow that. Skilled gladiators bring them too much money.”
“We are not going to ask permission, Captain Morek. Let’s go,” Zarkon replied.
The captain knew better than to argue. They had gone to the black market planet secretly to obtain an artifact needed by Emperor Zarkon’s close friend and ally, King Alfor of Altea. The Emperor wouldn’t jeopardize that if he didn’t think this wasn’t of the utmost importance.
When the pair arrived at the ramshackle building where the unwilling gladiators were held, Zarkon wasted no time stealing around the back. There was one armed mercenary guarding a back door, and the Emperor himself broke his neck before the alien could even register he was being attacked.
Captain Morek stepped in front of his emperor before he could enter the building first, and opened the door and did a quick sweep before motioning the emperor inside.
There didn’t seem to be any actual guards inside the building, probably because the planet lords didn’t believe anyone was stupid enough to try and jailbreak a gladiator on their turf.
It was easy to find the boy among the cages – he was huddled at one corner of his cell, eyes straight ahead, staring at nothing and seeing nothing. Zarkon recognized that faraway look – it was the same look that prisoners of war had on their faces when they came home. It was as if they shut down every emotion they’d ever had to protect themselves from the horror they had faced.
Zarkon knelt by the bars of the boy’s cage, ignoring the worried growl of the captain behind him.
“Boy,” Zarkon said softly. The boy didn’t move, and Zarkon had to call to him twice more before that distant gaze turned to him.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Emperor Zarkon of the Galra Empire.”
“Galra,” the boy’s said as his eyes widened. “I’ve heard of you. Why are you here?”
“It doesn’t matter. Right now I plan to get you off of this planet. Will you come with me?”
“Why? Why are you helping me?” the boy asked.
“You are strong, and brave, and talented, and far too young to have had to prove any of those things. We don’t have much time, you must decide now if you want to come with me.”
“Alright,” the boy said after only a brief moment of hesitation.
Zarkon nodded at Captain Morek to slice through the lock on the cell with a glowing purple blade. The boy stood, and wobbled slightly, before straightening his back.
“What’s your name?” Zarkon asked. “Takashi Shirogane. Shiro.”
“Well Shiro, welcome to the Galra empire.” Zarkon held out his hand, and the boy accepted it immediately.
---
Back on the galra home planet, Daibazaal, Zarkon led the boy to the science bay that had been built near to the rift caused by the comet that had crashed into Daibazaal so many years ago. The boy looked better after a few days of rest aboard Zarkon's ship, and a much needed bath, but he was still weak.
At the science bay, they were met by Zarkon's wife, and as always he was left breathless at her beauty. She had changed somewhat after years of studying the rift that had been left on Daibazaal, she was colder somehow, but her love for Zarkon had not diminished.
“Honerva,” he said affectionately. The Altean woman didn’t smile as much anymore, but she smiled then at the sight of her husband returned.
“Husband,” she replied. Zarkon allowed himself to drink in the sight of his wife for a few long moments before he pushed the boy forward.
“This is Shiro, the newest member of the Galra Empire. He lost his arm fighting as a gladiator and this replacement is too crude. Can you design him something better?”
Honerva stepped forward and grabbed the crude biotic limb. Her face pinched in concern, and Zarkon was happy to see the emotion on her face. He was happy to see any emotion on her face recently.
“You poor boy. You’re so young. I can create something far superior to this. Husband, have the medical team remove this thing from his arm and have them heal him to the best of their abilities. I’ll have something new ready in three days.”
“Are you sure you are okay with taking time away from studying the rift?” Zarkon asked.
Honerva gave a firm nod. “This is important.”
“Alright. Shiro, follow me.” Zarkon turned and walked off.
He led the boy to the medical bay and turned him over to the galra healers. They put him into a healing sleep then set about removing his biotic arm, hissing and clucking at the how crude it was and how much it must have pained the boy.
Zarkon left at their assurances that the boy would be fine. He didn’t return to Honerva – he knew his wife and she would be oblivious to the outside world while she worked on this project. Instead he received reports from his people, attended meetings, and attended to his duties as emperor.
Three days passed so quickly that Zarkon was startled when a healer came to him saying Honerva was in the medical bay and ready to help the boy.
Zarkon arrived and smiled at his wife. She smiled back and for a moment she looked like the woman she’d been when they had first met. Softer, kinder, expressive.
“Alright, Shiro,” she said to the boy who had just recently been awakened from his medical sleep. His wounds were completely healed, though most had scarred including the large one across his nose bridge, but he looked better.
“To let this limb truly become a part of you, we will need to infuse it with some of your own quintessence.”
“I’m not sure what that is ma’am,” Shiro said.
“Quintessence is your life force, the energy in all living things. Pure life energy. We will channel your quintessence into the limb so that it bonds to you completely. However, it will strain your body to have your quintessence manipulated, it may hurt and there might be some physical changes to your appearance.”
“That’s alright, ma’am.”
“Alright, let’s get started.” Honerva nodded to the healers nearby, and they pulled a cloth off the table to reveal a beautifully designed biotic arm. It was elegant and perfectly proportioned to Shiro’s body.
They fitted one end of it to the small stump of Shiro’s severed arm, and once it was in place Honerva hovered her hands over where the flesh met the metal. The alchemist’s hands began to glow, and Shiro’s body stiffened. His eyes fluttered closed and his face pinched, but he made no sound.
The glow from Honerva’s hands spread to Shiro’s entire body, and after a long moment it slowly began to filter into the biotic arm. Zarkon’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched the long fringe of Shiro’s hair in the front begin to lose its color. The white patch of hair grew as his quintessence filtered into the arm. When the glow reached the end of the fingers, the glow flared brightly once and then snuffed out.
Both Shiro and Honerva were panting, and the boy now had a pure white section of hair at the front, but when he opened his eyes he started smiling. He sat up and lifted his new arm. The fingers flexed, and the happiness on his face grew.
“I can feel it,” he said breathlessly. “It doesn’t hurt, and it feels so real.”
“The arm is a part of you now, and once you get used to it, it will be so much more. It can be used as a weapon to defend yourself – you will never be without protection now, wherever you go,” Honerva said.
“I…” Shiro trailed off. “I don’t know how to thank you.” The boy seemed overcome with emotion.
Honerva put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked at him with a fondness Zarkon hadn’t seen on her face since Lotor was a child.
“You don’t need to thank me. You are a part of my family now and you won’t experience hardship like that ever again.” There was a dangerous edge to Honerva’s voice, as if she were ready to kill anyone who tried to hurt the boy. Zarkon hadn’t been planning to adopt the boy, he had planned to turn him over to his commanders to nurture and train, but seeing Honerva’s sudden affection, Zarkon decided that he now had another son.