Word Count: 1,225
They were everywhere.
They were just- everywhere.
Even in the dim light of his room, he could see the small scars littering his chest, crisscrossing across his arms, making some sick collage of pale flesh.
A particularly large one traced down his left leg.
A thinner one ran across his neck.
Dammit, why couldn't he remember?
The first thing he remembered was when he'd tumbled out of a pod- thing, head fuzzy, startling as hands ran through his hair when he'd fallen into a warm body, and he'd pushed them away, backing up on shaky legs, startled breaths leaving his mouth as he took in the figures in front of him with wide, scared eyes.
One was small.
One was large.
Another one was tall and thin.
Two of them had weird marks under their eyes.
And there was another one, holding a hand out to him, metal fingers so- so unnatural to him as it tried calling his name.
His- name?
What was his name?
He couldn't remember.
He'd ran then, the door to the room he was in with all those people opening up for him without anyone there to do it, and he'd stumbled in surprise for only a moment.
What the fuck?
Where- where was he?
What was this place?
He let his feet take him after that, arms pumping, breath heaving as the sounds of feet pounded behind him, the voice chanting one name over and over and over again mixed into different sentences and he didn't know what to do.
He'd tried losing them then, and after a few minutes, he was running alone, coming to a sudden stop as his feet halted in front of another door, this one sliding open to reveal a much darker room, a feeling of safe, enveloping him as he stepped inside, his fingers almost immediately going for some mechanism embedded in the wall without his consent, and pressing some unfamiliar symbol as the heavy sound of a lock snapping into place sounded in the door.
A- a lock.
He was safe.
They- they wouldn't be able to reach him in here.
His eyes had adjusted fairly fast to the room then, a bed sat in one corner, the sheets rumpled and unmade, a red, yellow and white jacket hung on a wall next to the door, a thin layer of dust coating the fabric.
Was that his jacket?
He wasn't sure.
He'd reached out to touch the fabric before a faint glimmer of light had caught his attention, and he hesitantly walked towards a doorway nearly hidden in the far corner of the room, surprised to find it opened up into a small bathroom, a pretty large tup sitting against the far wall, while a mirror and sink greeted him as he walked inside.
Wait.
A mirror?
He'd turned to look at himself then, taking in the pale skin and dark hair of the stranger that stared back at him, his limps were lanky, too thin, thin enough to see every joint that stuck out of him as skin stretched across bones. His eyes were dull, he looked like he hadn't eaten in days.
Who- who was this?
He didn't know.
Why didn't he know?
Shouldn't- shouldn't he know who this is?
Who he was?
What had happened to him?
He- he couldn't remember.
His eyes caught hold of what he was wearing then and in a mad scramble to get the unfamiliar thing hugging his body off, fingers began grasping at the zipper nestled on his back. His fingertips just barely grasped it before, sliding it down, pulling his arms and legs out of the sticky white thing before kicking it aside, watching as it fell to the ground with a sticky plop, the cool air of the room now assaulting his skin and making him shiver.
He'd noticed the scars then.
Lots of scars.
Small scars littering his chest, crisscrossing across his arms, making some sick collage of pale flesh, some even disappearing below the waistband of his boxers.
A particularly large one traced down his left leg.
A thinner one ran across his neck.
Dammit, why couldn't he remember?
He was supposed to remember, wasn't he?
Why?
Why couldn't he remember?
He backed up against the wall then, head hitting it as he slid down to the floor, thin, bony arms going to grasp his knees to his chest as he rocked back and forth on the cold floor, goosebumps covering his arms and legs by this point, but he just didn't know what to do.
Should he cry?
Scream?
Yell?
Was yelling even the same thing as screaming?
If he knew who he was, would he scream, or just sit numb on the floor like he was doing now?
He didn't know.
He- he didn't know.
He couldn't remember.
Why couldn't he remember?
He startled as he ran his fingers aross his upper arm, fingers brushing against something that wasn't the smooth, pale flesh he'd been feeling. With a small inhale of breath, he uncurled from his little ball just enough to notice a thick, jagged scar running across his upper arm, it didn't look as clean or as sharp as the others, the edges instead looked wobbly and uncertain, small dots lining the sides every few centimeters, the skin looking unsure of how it healed over the faded wound.
Was that- stitches?
Did he get stitches?
It looked- familiar for some reason.
But why?
Why would it be familiar?
He gasped as something sharp pricked his conscious before a memory (oh God, an actual memory) flowed into his head. He could remember riding over desert sand, with someone, the wind whipping through his hair, the feeling of freedom that came with it. He remembered the jerk of the handlebars, the fall onto rocky ground, the pain, the stitches, Shiro, holding his hand while they sewed his skin back together-
Shiro.
He mouthed the name, the action feeling familiar over his tongue like he'd been saying that name his whole life. He- he knew that name. He could feel the sense of security that came with it, the feeling of comfort and safe and trusting.
And then his thoughts snapped together as his mouth opened in shock.
Shiro he'd- he'd fallen into Shiro when he was released from the thing-
No.
Not thing.
A cryo pod.
A cryo pod in- in a castle. In space.
He was in space.
And all those people standing around them, they- they were his family. Pidge, and Hunk and Lance, Allura and Coran, and Shiro.
They were there for him.
He- he remembered who he was now, he recognized the scars littering his body, the fights they won and lost, traveling the universe as paladins of Voltron, defeating the Galra, and taking down anyone who challenged them. They protected for the good of the universe-
And Red-
Amethyst eyes widened as he felt her presence fill his head at the thought of her, the warmth of her fire, the heat of her strength, the need to protect much like his own-
He- he remembered who he was now.
He-
He was the red paladin of Voltron. A defender of the universe, a hard-headed teen who never gave up, and would always fight for what's right.
And his name, he-
He was Keith.