Chapter Text
Altea’s Rising Stars
Week Four Poll
No. 1: Voltron
No. 2: Blade of Marmora
No. 3: The Garrison
No. 4: Lions, Witches, and Spaceships
No. 5: Paladins
For the second week in a row Voltron is on top of the leaderboard in arguably the most important musical competition to ever exist; Altea’s Rising Stars. A battle of the bands hosted by the city's most popular venue and bar, Altea. It’s been around for nearly twenty years and for the last ten they’ve hosted the competition, one basically securing the winner a record deal and a slingshot into the mainstream. Probably just as an added bonus there’s a cash prize of $25,000 for the most popular band as voted by the public, the world's most notorious critic. For the last four weeks indie pop band; Voltron and emo indie rock band; Blade of Marmora have been jumping back and forth between first and second place. Each week barely edging the other out hoping to hold onto number one for the full six week voting run to the headline show. Lance wants nothing more than to win and prove that he can make it as a musician and Keith was entered on a whim and wants nothing more than for this to be over with.
“Lance! You better hurry your ass up, we're on in two!” Voltron bassist, Pidge Holt, a short blonde with choppy hair, baggy jeans, a cropped green t-shirt, and a bright green Squire 4-string bass slung over their shoulder. They yell to the singer in the greenroom from the stairs heading to the stage. The screaming of fans echoes down the hall backstage, muffling further as the greenroom door closes.
“Give me a minute Pidge, trust the process!” Lance shouts up the stairs through the closed door and goes back to his extensive vocal warmups and affirmations. It’s a ritual he’s had since the band formed and first started playing live shows, its tradition and call Lance superstitious but the spotlight will fall from the ceiling if he doesn’t do it.
He strums a quick scale on his showtime navy blue Fender Stratocaster guitar testing the tuning. The man nods satisfied, glancing in the mirror at his reflection, his tan freckled skin, dark brown hair falling over his forehead, ripped blue jeans, and boxy white short sleeve button up. He straps the instrument over his shoulder with one hand and runs a hand through his hair with the other, he straightens the turquoise and leather bolo tie around his collar while smiling to himself.
“You’re a star, Lance McClain,” with one last wink to himself and a deep breath he throws the door open and joins his bandmates in the wings.
“It’s about time McClain,” a taller man with shaggy hair, long cut-off jorts, and brown tank top claps Lance on the shoulder.
“When have I ever been late for a show Holt?” Matt Holt, pianist and second guitarist, shakes his head and adjusts his wood grain Gibson guitar.
“Thirty seconds,” a stage manager points to the group and the band starts to hear chanting.
“Vol-Tron. Vol-Tron. Vol-Tron.” The crowd steadily gets louder and louder as the seconds tick past.
“I really am never going to get used to all that,” a massive man with dark skin, yellow bandana around his head, black cargo shorts, and an orange-yellow tie dye shirt comes up behind Lance nervously twirling drum sticks in his hand, “all the chanting and people looking at us.”
“Hunk, buddy, we got it! We always do, the people love us. I mean you alone have a massive fan club, look at that,” Lance leans over the curtains and points out a group in the crowd with yellow Voltron merch and signs that say, “We Love Hunk!”.
“No, you’re right.”
“You’re on in, three, two,” The lights dim and the pre-show music fades out, the crowd hushes for a moment before the band walks out on stage.
Voltron takes their places, there is silence, darkness, palpable tension, electricity.
“How’s everyone doing, Subterranean!” Lance’s voice cuts through the silence and the crowd erupts in cheers, spotlight shines on each member, then music. A solid drum beat cues the first song, Eye of the Storm, a dance beat. The crowd is jumping, all their energy being funneled into the band on stage. Lance soaks everything in and lets it fuel him, he is more at home on a stage than anywhere else. The words come naturally, his voice carrying over the crowd through the microphone, his lyrics being shouted back at him from his fans. He moves around the stage like a dance, connecting to each of his bandmates. At the end of the first song, cheers erupt louder than ever.
“Thank you! We are Voltron!” Pidge speaks into their standing mic pausing for the screams at the name, “Welcome to the show tonight, we are thrilled to have you! And trust me do we have a fucking show for you!”
A small drum beat starts up as Lance takes his mic, “Please allow me to introduce the amazing people I have up here with me. I beg you to hold your applause until the end, but I really can’t stop you,” he flashes a smile and winks at the crowd, “to my left we have the genius, the master of the keys and the strings, one half of the dynamic Holt duo, Matt Holt!”
Matt pulls out a keyboard solo, hands lightning fast across the keys before in a split second swinging the guitar over the shoulder and continuing the solo from ivories to fretboard with precision. Even though they were begged to hold, the applause still shoots from the audience.
“To my right we have the other half of the dynamic Holt duo, one of the greatest bassists to ever live, our producer, Pidge Holt!”
Bass solo for the ages, pulling chords from a slew of different Voltron songs, a swagger emanates from them as they take a bow, adding the final flourishes. Again a thunder of applause from the fans makes its way to the stage.
“And on the deserved platform behind me, my best friend, the most solid guy I know, the legs we stand on, the beat underneath our feet, Hunk Garret!”
It’s the most insane drum solo the world has ever seen, complete with tricks and flips of the sticks, ending with Hunk standing on his chair tossing his drumsticks into the crowd. As they’re caught by a tall woman dressed in nearly all yellow, the Hunk Fan Club more than anyone else goes crazy.
“And finally, we have me, your singer and songwriter for this evening, my name is Lance McClain,” the crowd cheers as he takes a step back and bows, “and we are…”
“Voltron!” The entire room explodes in cheers and clapping; the band intros are a staple and long time fans know what to expect after so many years.
“Two, three, four!” Hunk shouts over the crowd and they launch into the next song, Blackout.
Backstage in a different green room sits Blade of Marmora, the echoes of bass and Lance’s voice bump in the room. The members lounge around tuning instruments and reading music, much quieter compared to the band next door.
“God, do those guys ever stop talking about themselves?” a tall, muscular woman, with a buzzcut, a collection of facial piercings, and black stained drumsticks slumps back in a beanbag chair, kicking her feet out in front of her.
“I know right? They only have an hour set and I swear they spend half of it talking,” a slender woman with a long pink ponytail down her back, a matching pink Offset Schecter guitar, wearing a black slip dress, and more jewelry than seems necessary paces back and forth tuning the strings.
“That’s because they only have one album and an EP released, they don’t have enough music to actually fill an hour,” a woman with a sleek dark blue bob, white jeans, and black tank top, slings her feet onto the lap of a man on the opposite end of the couch, “Hey Ezor can you tune mine too? Pretty please?”
“Acza, are you incapable of doing anything yourself? You haven’t done shit since we got here,” The pink haired woman trades her guitar for a matching black one, “I mean Keith tunes his own bass.”
“What?” The man looks up from a series of notebooks now being blocked by a pair of platform boots, “Can you not?” He pushes Acza’s legs off of him and goes back to his notes, his chucks tapping on the floor, he pushes his red and grey flannel sleeves up and runs a hand through his dark hair.
“Whatcha writing there Kogane?” the muscular woman gets up and walks over to him trying to read the writing upside down.
“None of your business right now, Zethrid,” he leans further over to block her view.
“Yeah right, let me see that,” she pushes his head out of the way and grabs the notebook he was writing in; after reading a moment she tosses it back to him, “man that shit is gibberish.”
“No it isn’t, it’s just shorthand and none of it is finished yet,” he opens the book back up and stares ahead for a moment before scribbling something down.
“Goddamn Keith, I cannot believe you’re already writing new shit, we haven’t even finished promotion for the album we just put out two months ago. Our fifth album in five years might I remind you, what else could you possibly come up with?” Ezor sits down on the floor tuning the guitar, looking at the bassist across from her.
“We haven’t released half of what I have written and half of that no one has ever seen, and no one ever will because it’s ass. So, don’t even ask me. Honestly most of it is half finished anyway.”
A statement in the room seems to fall short as Keith tells them not to ask about the contents of the six notebooks scattered around him. The group falls quiet as they listen to the muffled sounds of Voltron, the minutes pass before a knock raps the door.
“Come in!” Acza shouts from her position on the couch, unmoving, “I hope it’s the fries I said I wanted.”
The door opens and a black and grey haired man, in a button down and tie peeks his head inside, a long, thin scar runs across the bridge of his nose, it crinkles a bit as he smiles at everyone.
“Oh Shiro, hey! Do you have my fries?” She sits up a bit at the entrance of the band's manager.
“Hello to you too Acz, yes I have your fries,” he produces a basket from behind his back and sets it down on the table, “I just wanted to drop by and wish you guys luck, not that you need it, and let you know you’re on in five.”
“Is it actually five or is it Voltron five?” The drum beat that was lightly tapping the floor pauses for a moment as Zethrid asks. A ‘Voltron Five’ is a term Blade of Marmora coined after their third show with them, as they have a tendency to go over their allotted set time because they’re talking to fans or playing another encore. A light chuckle leaves the room at the question.
“Very funny, it’s an actual five,” Shiro shakes his head and puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder, “Get your nose out of those notebooks of yours and focus on the show you have right now. The ideas will still be there when you’re done, Keith.”
The younger man puts the pen down after scratching something out and looks up, “I don’t know if this is the time for a brother lecture, Shiro. I have competition to focus on,” he punches his brother in the arm, laughing and closes the notebooks. He puts them in a backpack next to his old deep red Fender bass guitar, a gift from his brother.
Shiro glances down at his watch with the cue from cheering fans outside and the muffled words of Lance McClain, “They should be finishing up now, the crew will trade out stage equipment and you’re on in three.”
As if on cue a stage manager knocks on the still open door and pokes inside, “Blade of Marmora, you’re on in three, please make your way to stage.”
“Impressive Takashi,” Ezor stands, hands Acza her guitar and brushes out her long ponytail again.
“Don’t call me Takashi, but thank you,” he shakes his head again and moves to the door, “I’ll see you after the show, break a leg!”
Keith stands and stretches quickly before he grabs his bass, following his brother and bandmates up towards the stage.
As Keith climbs the stairs to the wings he sees the frontman of Voltron being lovingly dragged off stage by their drummer while he’s trying to stay and flirt with the front row. Marmora all looks at each other and rolls their eyes, seeming to say ‘Voltron Five’.
“Hey mullet,” Pidge comes up to Keith and offers a small wave and smiles, “sorry about this dumbass, like we didn’t do a meet and greet before this.” They jerk a thumb at Lance as he’s pulled off stage.
“Hey pigeon,” he looks down at them and rolls his eyes at Lance, “it’s whatever, we figured it was going to be a ‘Voltron Five’.”
“What the hell is a ‘Voltron Five’?”
“You guys are late cause your frontman is being a dumbass.”
“Honestly, that’s fair enough,” Pidge laughs as the pre-show music comes back over the speakers and the crew changes out equipment on stage.
Lance, seemingly high off of performing, interrupts the conversation, “You talking shit, Keith?”
“I avoid talking about you as much as possible Lance,” the bassist folds his arms and sizes up the singer as he stands in front of him. Lance’s forehead glistens with sweat from the stage lights and his voice is slightly hoarse from singing, he stands a few inches taller than Keith normally but with platform boots on, Lance is easily a head taller.
“Good luck out there, you guys are going to need it having to follow us after all,” Lance mirrors Keith’s stance, a playful smirk lighting his sharp features.
“Yeah right, the people could use the variety since all your songs sound the same,” the pair banter back and forth as their respective bands watch from the sidelines as they do every time this happens.
“I’ll have you know I have never reused a chord progression in any of my songs, unlike you,” McClain gasps offended and points a finger toward the man across from him, “the people love us, just look at the poles.”
“Blade of Marmora, you’re on in thirty seconds,” the stage manager cuts in, getting cues over a headset.
“Good luck guys, we'll see you later!” Hunk grabs Lance by the arm once again and pulls him away from the petty argument, back toward their green room.
“This isn’t over Keith!” Lance shouts as he trips down the stairs following Voltron.
“Sure thing, Lance,” Keith turns away, rolling his eyes, “Like you’d be able to shut up for that long,” he mutters under his breath and prepares to take the stage with his band.
“Going in three, two,” a point to the stage cues the dimming lights and fading music, the crowd explodes in another wave of applause as the next act takes the stage.
A three part harmony cuts through the room, the strings vibrate through the speakers. It’s mellow, slow, but building into something more, bass drum beating into the wooden stage. The momentum simmers through the crowd, anticipation waiting for the lyrics to begin. The instrumental cuts for a beat as Acza’s voice floats through the microphone, it’s soft but with an undeniable rasp that sets her apart. Then a percussive wave of music drops as the song continues, ebbing and flowing with ease like water down a mountain.
Blade of Marmora is a band unlike any other, it’s hard to pin them down to a single genre as they pull from so many different artists and eras. Keith’s lyricism is unmatched in the local scene and that is why the people love them, they aren’t anywhere near as flashy as Voltron but it’s the mystery that draws people. They don’t do many interviews and will likely never do a meet and greet and you’ll never hear any of the members talk about anything other than music; especially Keith. But, the fans know everything they need to know through the music and to him, that’s all that matters.
As their set approaches its end, Acza takes the mic and pauses in between songs, “Thank you everyone for being with us tonight, we are Blade of Marmora!” A cheer runs up from the audience as she continues, “I am Acza, this is Ezor, Zethrid, and Keith. I just wanted to take a moment and say thank you for all of the love on our newest album; Empire, it’s one of my favorite records we have ever done. But, trust me there is more where that came from, we can’t keep this guy from writing if we tried.” She glances over to Keith who offers a small smile and wave as the crowd cheers.
“We’ve got a couple more songs for you tonight so don’t go anywhere just yet! This is from Empire, it’s called The Hunted,” there’s a beat before Zethrid cues in on the drums and the song takes off to massive applause. A couple more songs later the hour set comes to an end and the band is both exhausted and insanely energized.
“We love you! Thank you! Goodnight!” Ezor yells over the roaring cheers to the crowd as they take their bows and leave the stage, heading backstage.
Voltron gets back to their green room to find their manager, Allura, a slender woman with long white, curly hair, wearing a short pink sundress, waiting for them.
“You guys were brilliant! I’m so proud!” She goes and hugs each member as they file in, her faint British accent filling the room.
“Aw thanks, ‘Lura,” Hunk crashes on the couch kicking his feet up, “I love playing this venue.”
“Yeah, the sound system here is fucking top tier,” Pidge carefully places their bass back into its case and sits cross legged on top of the table, grabbing a handful of chips and shoving them in their mouth.
“It would be perfect if we didn’t have to play with BoM, why the hell do you keep booking us shows with those assholes?” Lance dramatically flops into a chair at the table and steals the chip bag.
“They aren’t assholes Lance, they’re very talented and it’s not like I do it completely on purpose. You both are the most popular acts in the city right now, of course every venue in fifty miles wants you both to play for them. Besides you have that Galra Magazine interview on Monday, so play nice.”
“Oh, shit I totally forgot they’re going to be there too,” Matt finishes chugging a bottle of water and putting his guitar away before slumping onto a beanbag opposite Hunk.
" 'Lura, I hate doing interviews with them, Keith is so pretentious and has like zero personality besides thinking he’s the next Bob Dylan. Can’t we just cancel?” The singer pleads bending backwards over his chair to look at the woman behind him.
“Absolutely not you idiot, this is the biggest interview opportunity we’ve ever had! We aren’t canceling because you hate Keith,” the bassist smacks Lance in the stomach causing him to double over, “That’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever said.”
“And you’ve said some stupid shit, buddy.”
“Oh, wow thanks Hunk, I thought we were friends,” Lance fakes offense, “I just think he’s arrogant and he acts like he invented music. But I do hate his stupid mullet.”
“Well, suck it up pretty boy. This is a huge opportunity for you guys and was nearly impossible to set up. So, you and Keith are going to be best friends for a few hours, got it?” Allura’s manicured finger jabs at Lance’s chest.
He holds his hands up in defeat and sighs, “Alright fine, just make sure he knows that.”
Thank god they had tomorrow off to prepare because the last thing Lance wanted to do was be stuck in a room with Keith Kogane all day. But Allura was right, the Galra interview was a massive opportunity and if it went well, it could secure their win in the competition, which means everything to him. There was nothing in the world that would get in the way, not even Keith and his stupid mullet.