Sheith thread incoming!

Keith was found out as half alien at a young age au.

Featuring angst that will make you SAD, whump, hurt/comfort, and happy ending cause it's meee.

Also: Galra Champion Shiro.

Here we go~

Keith doesn’t actually know how old he is.

Oh, there are records, he’s sure, just like there are records for everything else about him. What he weighs, what he eats each day, how fast his hair grows.

The amount of electrical current it takes to shock his body into purple-tinged skin and yellow eyes.

Keith had had an “incident” at sixteen. He barely remembers it, cause he had mostly whited out the experience, but the long and short of it is that he’d experienced enough unpleasantness to make his body...change.

He’d changed back. It’d been too late, though. Too late and too public. He’d been happily turned in for the good of mankind or some shit and has been a different sort of ward of the government ever since.

Keith cooperates. He gives them whatever they want, because he doesn’t want to be dissected and he knows that’s where he’s headed. Being a good little alien prolongs that, for whatever his life is worth.

(“My dad was human,” he used to say, eyes blurring with tears. “He was human! I promise–”)

At least they educate him. Math, Languages, Sciences… it’s all the one thing he gets out of being a conspiracy theory. They want to see what he can learn, how fast he can learn it, how complicated an equation he can understand.

Still... Keith honestly doesn’t know why he’s kept alive anymore. He’s pretty sure they’ve taken all the samples they could possibly ever need. He’s been under constant observation since they took him (and he used to think the group homes were bad in terms of shit privacy–).

He tries to keep some things to himself though. Has tiny acts of rebellion. Gives them incorrect data. Something, anything, to remind himself that he’s a person. That he has even just a molecule of control.

They think he’s allergic to raw tomatoes, when he really just doesn’t like how they feel in his mouth. He won’t eat anything with raw tomato in it, even if it means going hungry.

They don’t know how sensitive his nose really is. How he can tell each one of them apart by smell alone. Even in the dark. Even if he’s strapped down.

They don’t know about his dad’s old shack. If they did, they’d have ransacked it. Brought him things. Asked him questions.

And they don’t know he can turn purple all on his own, even without pain or fear.

But he won’t tell. They’re his little secrets. He only has a few.

***

Keith’s room is a box made of windows. Clear walls on all sides, so he can be observed from any angle. He imagines it’s a little like living in a zoo, except in zoos, the animals usually have a place to go if they don’t feel like being seen.

He has a bed though. Or a bunk, rather, attached to one wall. And blankets. He normally sleeps underneath it these days, in a blanket cocoon. They haven’t punished him for it yet.

They used to get mad if he hid from the incessant, prying eyes, but he gets a little more leeway now.  He figures it’s because he’s been with them so long. There’s not much left for them to see.

He’s curled up, just starting to drift off, when he hears frantic conversation going on outside his room. He keeps his eyes shut and his breathing regular and Listens. It’s White and Rogers on shift.

“--knew we should have just disposed of it! It’s not as if we have anything left to learn–”

“--the specimen is perhaps the reason we still have a chance, we can’t–”

Keith has to work harder to keep his breathing even. He’s the specimen. The one they’re talking about disposing of.

“When are they coming?”

/“Now.”/

When is who coming? The… the ones who will finally finish the job? After all, they’ve gotten all they could from a live specimen.

Maybe now they want a dead one.

Keith swallows and realizes, with no amount of shame, that his cheeks are wet. He doesn’t know why. He hasn’t particularly enjoyed living. Had grown out of thoughts of escape.

He’d known he would die here.

Still, it… it hurts. The certainty.

The intercom crackles to life, and a voice demands, “What are you doing to it?”

Sanda, Keith thinks bitterly. Of course it would be her. There have been a few scientists where he was more than an “it,” but she was never one of them.

“The specimen is asleep in his usual position,” White says, her voice threaded with nerves.

"Our guests,” Sanda’s voice is nearly dripping with rage. “Have informed me that it is in distress, and now–” she’s cut off and the sound cuts out.

Keith tries to curl tighter into a ball. He wonders how old he is. How old he’ll be, when he’s cut open on some exam table.

He hopes it isn’t in lab three. Lab three is always colder for some reason.

He jerks at a violently loud sound echoing out through the room, nearly hitting his head on the bottom on his bunk. Instinct has him clawing his way out of his blanket pile and blinking under the bright lights that rarely dim.

There is a hole in the wall. A sizable one, where the door normally is, as though someone was too impatient with how long the door takes to open. White and Rogers are standing at attention and people are pouring into the room.

Only a few of them are obviously human. The rest are huge and masked.

Some of them have tails.

Sanda is talking very quickly to one being in particular. The being--alien?--isn’t as large as some of the others, but they’re definitely the one who exudes the in-charge aura.

They turn their masked face towards him and stills, holding out a hand. Everyone stops moving and falls silent.

Except for Sanda, who keeps talking, face twisted like she’s smelling something rotten. “As we’ve said, we’ve been providing it with the best of care. Protecting it from those that might fear something… different.”

Keith pulls the blankets around his shoulders and glares at her. Why not? He’s got nothing left to lose.

The masked being doesn’t look away from Keith, huddled on the floor in his blanket pile. “You and those in this compound are alive because I am in need of information. Lying will not make me more compassionate.”

The voice is deep and smooth and sounds masculine, considering the person speaking is probably for sure an alien. It's...almost familiar.

But mostly Keith has no idea what’s going on. He knows enough to be terrified though. His survival instinct is good like that.

“Lower the walls,” the alien says. When White hesitates, the words turn into a snarl. “/Lower the walls/.”

Rogers pushes the button that has one of the clear walls sliding up into the ceiling. Keith shivers, uncertain what to do with the barrier gone. Normally this only happens when he’s strapped to a gurney.

When he’s allowed to walk in and out (accompanied, supervised, collared) under his own power, there’s a perfectly normal door.

The alien stalks forward. Keith’s eyes widen impossibly further and he stumbles back a step before he stills. It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go.

He is looked up and down, and Keith isn’t sure what he sees. A scared human (not quite human) in grey, ill-fitting clothes. He feels regarded. Judged. Sized up, maybe. “Come here.” It's… almost gentle.

Keith rolls to his feet and steps forward, shivering and clutching his blanket. There is a time to have his little rebellions and now is definitely not it.

The alien raises a hand, as if making to touch. Keith braces himself, but the hand just clenches and drops back down.

Keith darts a look over the alien's shoulder to where Sanda is standing, lips pressed tight together. She’s been joined by Iversson, who looks tired. Resigned.

Keith doesn’t like Sanda, but has mixed feelings about Iversson. He’s always been gruff, but he was also the one who suggested an exhausted, hollowed-out Keith be given music lessons. Supposedly another way to test his coordination, memory, and retention.

Keith has him to thank for the electric piano firmly bolted into the floor in a corner of his box. For the lyrics that live in Keith’s head. Another small, private thing.

"How old are you?"

Keith startles. It's not a question he was expecting. He doesn't like that he doesn't know the answer. "I don't know."

"What's the date?" The--man?--barks not looking away from Keith.

Keith panics. "I-I'm sorry, I don't--"

"Not you," the alien says, not unkindly. He motions over his shoulder.

"It's May eleventh," Sanda grits out.

"The /year/."

Looking like she's swallowed a lemon, Sanda answers.

Keith blinks hard, staring at the floor. He’d become an /it/ just before his seventeenth birthday. So now...

Almost three years. He's lost almost three years of his life to this place. To these people.

"Huh," the leader mutters. Almost to himself. Too quiet for anyone but Keith to hear. "Made it to seven."

Keith sucks in a breath. That's… that's more than just familiar.

Before he can say anything though, the leader once again fixes him with a masked stare. "How long?"

"W-what?"

"How long have you been in here?"

Keith doesn’t know what to do. So he tells the truth.

“Right,” the leader says shortly, voice hard. He turns to look over his shoulder. “Round up the humans. Once we’re out, burn it to the ground.”

Iverssons’s lips tighten, like he was expecting this. Sanda is purple with outrage. She steps forward. “You can’t—“

The leader spins to face her, holding out his right arm, palm out. It glows dangerously white. “By all means,” he growls. “Tell me again what I can’t do.”

Sanda falls silent.

“Round up the humans,” the leader says again, to the room at large. “I want them alive for interrogation. Destroy everything else as you go.”

“This is years of research!” Sanda bursts out. “You said that if we cooperated—“

“Kill her.” It’s said mildly, as the leader turns away. “Maybe seeing her corpse will make the other humans come more quietly.”

One of the others step forward, raising a shimmering blade as Sanda’s eyes widen.

"Wait!” Keith has no idea what he’s doing—he’s probably asking for death, speaking up at all. He doesn't--he hates Sanda. 

But turns out there's a difference between wanting someone to disappear and wanting to watch someone get murdered.

The man holds up two fingers. "Wait." The alien with the blade stills.

The leader tilts his head. “You don’t wish for her death?”

“I-I don’t want to see anyone to die,” Keith stammers. /Me included/.

“Very well.” He turns once more to Sanda. “Know that you still breathe because your captive is merciful.” A pause. “How lucky I wasn’t.”

There are rumbles from the other aliens in the room. It takes a second, but Keith realizes they’re /laughing/.

“Your orders then, Conquerer?” 

“They stand,” he says. “Get the humans out alive. Everything else can burn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Everyone hurries out of the room, Sanda and Iversson herded along with them.

Leaving Keith alone with the leader. Conquerer. Fuck, what a name.

/What happens now?/ Keith doesn’t want to ask. /What happens to me?/

Conqueror holds out his left hand, palm up. “Come along, Keith.”

Keith shivers and takes his hand.

He hasn’t heard someone use his name in almost three years.

***

Everything feels like it happens very fast. Keith is escorted through the facility by Conqueror as the sounds of breaking things and shouting erupts all around him. He flinches at the noise of it all and just keeps walking.

Conqueror’s hand is warm, through the glove he is wearing. Keith tries to focus on that, to ground himself. It’s almost easy, what with it being the most non-clinical touch he’s gotten since he was brought it.

When he’s finally led outside, into a cool evening, into fresh air, he nearly bursts into tears, feeling the wind on his face. He hurriedly tries to swallow around a clogged throat, tries to disguise the emotion.

He can’t look up at the sky, at the stars, for fear the tears will fall.

Conqueror stops walking and squeezes his hand. “It’s okay,” he says. His tone is gruff but gentle, and it’s at odds with the blank mask and the cold-hearted efficiency from before. “I remember what it was like, my first moments free.”

“Am I free?” It drops from his mouth before he can keep it in. He doesn’t think so.

“No,” Conqueror says. He sounds regretful. “None of us ever truly is.”

Keith nods. It had seemed like too much too hope for anyway. It’s been a while since he put much stock in hope.

A being so large it towers over them both approaches and gives some sort of salute. “Evacuated, sir.”

Conqueror nods. “Good. Turn it to ashes.”

“Yes, Conquerer.”

“I will be on my ship. If there are no further complications, proceed as planned.”

/What are the plans?/ Keith wonders. /What’s going to happen?/

/What's going to happen to me?/

Another salute, and the giant strides away.

Conqueror tugs gently on Keith’s hand. “Come. This way.”

Keith goes.

It’s like moving in a daze. The air is so fresh it stings his nose and lungs. The uneven terrain hurts his bare feet. The stars seem too bright. Too judgemental.

He hisses in pain when he steps on a jagged rock and cuts the bottom of his foot. Conqueror stops walking and turns to him. Looks down.

“You don’t have shoes,” he says, as if he’s just noticed. Maybe he had. “They didn’t give you shoes.” His voice is low. Angry.

Keith ducks his head, trying to school his expression. He’s usually much better at it. “I can walk.” He can’t be weak.

Conqueror lets go of Keith’s hand. Then he goes down on one knee.

He… he removes one boot. Then the other. Keith can’t help staring at his ten, incredibly human-looking toes.

Still kneeling, Conqueror gestures at Keith’s left foot.

Keith looks around, terrified that someone’s going to see Conqueror kneeling in front of him and think--Keith doesn’t even know what. But there’s no one around to pay attention.

He steps into the boots. They're big, but they'll protect his feet. Conqueror does up the boots, then stands and takes Keith’s hand again.

***

The ship is… awesome. It's smaller than some of the others--perhaps the smallest. But it's sleek and looks fast, and the inside gleams with tech Keith can't even begin to comprehend.

Conqueror leads him through it and through a sliding door into a room that is clearly a sleeping area. There is a large bunk on one side, with pillows and blankets that look downright opulent.

A desk and set of drawers are across from it, along with a plush looking chair and long, low couch.

There is no clutter, but there are things hanging on the walls. Decorations. Weapons.

Conqueror's personal ship, Keith can't help but think.

“Sit,” Conqueror says, directing Keith to the couch.

Keith does, absently realizing that he’s begun to shake. It’s the first time he’s been outside the facility in three years.

He has dirt on his feet, in the too-big boots.

He saw the stars. 

He’s somewhere new.

He’s still alive.

Something tugs on his foot, and he looks down, startled and a little unnerved to see Conqueror kneeling before him again to remove the borrowed shoes. He sets each one on the floor and then turns his attention to Keith’s dirty, bleeding feet.

Keith’s breath hitches as Conqueror wraps a hand around his ankle. The touch is shockingly gentle, and the cloth he uses to wipe Keith’s foot is slick with some sort of oil that has the dirt vanishing without a trace.

Once both of Keith’s feet are clean, he applies a strip of what looks like tape to the cut on the bottom of Keith’s foot. It stings for a moment, then soaks into his skin, as though the cut was never there.

“That’s amazing,” Keith stutters, focusing on this one thing that he can comprehend, among the dozens of things he can’t. He’s fantastic at compartmentalization.

“Yes. It’s nice having access to the good stuff. Perks of the position.”

It’s so familiar.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Keith shakes his head. He’s all healed up from his last surgery.

“Let me—“ a pause. The demanding tone changes. “I’d like to see. Please.”

It’s so unusual to be asked. Even stranger by someone who clearly has all the power. Keith wordlessly pulls his shirt over his head. Any modesty he’s ever had was left behind ages ago, for the sake of his sanity.

Conqueror stands, walking a slow circle around him. Keith wonders what he’s seeing. If he’s more than a pale body littered with scattered scars.

He flinches when a gloved hand touches the left side of his back, where he has one of his largest scars. “What is this from?”

Keith ducks his head. He's not sure why he feels ashamed. Maybe because the answer shows how obvious it is, that he wasn't considered a person. “One of the lead scientists wanted to see if I needed both kidneys.”

There is a snarl that has Keith huddling into himself as Conqueror strides around to face him. “Which one of them?” This question is definitely a demand.

"Doctor Falcon," Keith stammers, in the face of it.

Another wordless snarl. "I'll slaughter her."

/How do you know she's a her?/

Except Keith thinks he knows.

He doesn’t want to be wrong. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it, if he’s wrong.

But.

"Shiro?"

It’s barely a breath of an exhale, and at first he thinks Conqueror hasn't heard him.

But then Conqueror's shoulders sag.

Moments later, his mask slides away.

There’s a scar slashed across his nose and his hair is streaked with white. His expression is older. Harder. Sadder too. 

But it’s Shiro.

This time the tears do fall. “You’re here,” Keith whispers. Saying it makes it more real. “You’re alive.”

On instinct he holds out his arms, wanting the touch, wanting to feel him. He feels desperate with the need, but it’s Shiro who falls into his arms and clings as if he’s the one starving for contact.

“You’re here,” Keith sobs. “You came back.”

“That’s right.” Shiro’s voice is hoarse as he pulls Keith in closer, cradling the back of his head, threading his fingers through Keith’s hair. “I came back for you.”

(1/2)
Hopefully I don't get eviscerated for this, but I think I'm going to leave it here, at this hopeful-happy ending.

I honestly could write a novel of this concept, but I don't want to leave people hanging at a more crucial moment and I have other things to work on too ;;

(2/2)

I have a kofi if you enjoyed this thread and want to toss me something, but also if enough people want more, I could definitely do my best

Thank you for reading along! https://ko-fi.com/justwritins