I was so excited to hear that Shiro Week was being rekindled and so I started working on the prompts. They’re all short, and I’ll be collecting them on AO3 a bit after they’ve been on tumblr. But here’s the first go! Space/time was the prompt. I went with both haha.
somewhere a clock is ticking
Shiro spent most of his academic career surrounded by concepts of time. The perceived increase when he’s locked into the simulation, flying, soaring; the molasses slowness when he’s being dressed down for once again following Keith out into the desert after hours; falling asleep only to awaken immediately to the incessant scream of an alarm. The annuals of time wrapped around everything humanity did. It clutched at Shiro like a particularly petulant child.
Out in space, there was no concept of time. Shiro counted at first, because biology dictated so, but that was soon overridden by the disregard the Galra had for time holders. He spitefully etched perceived days into the floor of his cell. First, with a hard spork and later with the metallic and unfeeling metal of his fingers. Over and over. Tallied them up into bundles and created days, weeks, months. A year? Perhaps. Regardless, time was an illusion, one that Shiro clung to with tooth and nail.
The return to Earth shook loose his perceptions. Difficult to reassert oneself when you were immediately drugged after being slammed into the ground in an alien pod. He woke to morning. He woke to the quiet tick of Keith’s clock in his home. Five thirty two. A time he hadn’t witnessed in years.
And then space. And then aliens. More mismatches of time and space and everything Shiro clung to. He put it behind himself. Time was an illusion. The war was not.
The Black Lion revelled in time. And yet she disregarded it. Time fluctuated when Shiro was in the pilot seat, the Black Lion wrapped around his thoughts, around his essence, in a new smothering hold. She dictated the roll of the clock. She slowed and sped up their movements based on algorithms Shiro couldn’t yet grasp, speeding by on his screen in squiggles of lines only she could understand. But soon, she promised, he would learn it. Soon, time would roll through his fingers. Soon, he would be in control.
Control lasted all of three seconds, three hours, three years, while Black warped the very fabric of reality around herself with a roar and brilliant bloom of blue wings. Zarkon’s machine was broken into fractures of light, of dimensions that Shiro was suddenly thrust into. Perception altered. His breath stuttered. Shiro took hold of the stream of time and understood, immediately, the formulae Black always played with. He manipulated the stream. Black barrelled forward. Time was an illusion and Shiro was its master.
And then -
Time was broken and Shiro was disconnected.