Pidge Gunderson, self-proclaimed "deadliest assassin" and the Milky Way Galaxy's number three most-wanted criminal, hated the smell of the city.

Well, mainly just the lower part; the part that hosted Steel City's biggest lowlifes, top criminals, and every other shady bastard that Pidge ever encountered. The Rust District, it was so affectionately nick-named. Trash littered the sides of the empty roads, tumbling over itself in the hot, sticky wind, wafting fumes that smelled older than herself into her face. Dark alleys with men wearing battered leather trench coats and hats tipped over their bloodshot eyes beckoned, offering their wares—drugs, weapons, poisons—to anyone who gave them a passing glance.

Pidge pulled the thick hood she wore farther over her head, obscuring the face she knew looked too young for this part of town. Information streamed over the shiny lenses of her glasses, invisible to everyone except her. Records over anyone stupid enough to show their face from under torn hats and hoods; names, addresses (if they even had one), and any warrant out for their arrest.

A catcall sounded from one of the alleys, a man with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a grin missing at least four teeth. Pidge grimaced and kept walking, paying him no heed, but his calling continued.

She let the knife hidden up her sleeve slip into her hand, light reflecting off the steel and into his eyes. His calling stopped abruptly and a small smile graced Pidge's lips. Serves you right.

A flickering neon sign signaled she had arrived. The arrow, bent awkwardly at the end, pointed at a battered door. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The smoke hit her before anything else did—a mix of cigarettes and bliss, the newest underground drug on the market, the sickly-sweet scent blending horribly with the bitter tang of cigarette smoke. The air was so thick with it that she could hardly see, and the dim lighting did nothing to help. A bar tender poured drinks at the dinky wooden counter, covered in scratches and chips where countless fights most likely broke out on the daily. Patrons of all shapes and sizes sipped drinks and listened to the staticky music crackling out of the speakers mounted to the walls.

The air was sticky with the thick smoke. It clung to Pidge's skin like oil and weighed down the already-stifling cloak she wore. The clothes she wore—thin, durable leather that would hold up in a fight—didn't help.

Pidge sat at the counter, the stool creaking as she settled onto it. She grimaced as the scrawling words on her lenses informed her that the smoke concentration in this room was far above optimal and would start to affect her head soon. She had to make this quick.

Someone in a similar cloak settled into the stool next to her and flagged down the bartender with a gloved hand. "Old-fashioned, please."

Pidge straightened ever so slightly. "One for me as well."

She felt the other man's grin rather than saw it, and her shoulders tensed. The knives strapped to her—under her sleeves, pants—and the mini blaster hidden under the folds of her cloak suddenly felt heavier.

"So, we meet at last," the man said after the bartender walked away. His voice was soft and velvety, the voice of a man who knew who he sat with and still felt safe.

Pidge said nothing, opting to let him talk instead. Get a feel for them, her brother's voice whispered in her head, a distant memory of a time long ago, let them reveal more than you.

"So quiet," the man observed. "You and I will get along just fine."

The bartender brought their drinks. The man grabbed it with delicate fingers and swirled the coppery liquid around the glass. Pidge watched his movements, trying to glean anything she could from them. He took a sip. "Not very good, but better than I expected." He eyed her hands, still resting on the counter. "Not touching yours?"

She had to keep her head clear. Her alcohol tolerance was low because of her age and size, but she couldn't look suspicious. She took a careful sip of the drink.

The man smiled. "Shall we take this somewhere more private?"

Pidge suppressed a shudder. His voice unnerved her, and the way he spoke… "yes."

He dropped his payment for the two drinks on the counter and led her to a table in the corner of the bar, far less smoky than the counter. They sat facing each other, neither removing their hoods. He took another drink of the whiskey. "I have an important job for you."

Pidge chuckled. How dramatic. "I would assume so, considering the hidden identity."

His mouth, the only part of his face Pidge could see, tightened. "I could say the same about you."

She laughed again and took a deliberate sip of her drink. Stay relaxed. "It shouldn't surprise you that I don't show my face."

"Perhaps," he replied. "What is surprising is your size. I wasn't expecting an assassin so… small."

Pidge smirked. She'd heard this before. "Nobody expects that."

He shrugged and swirled the glass around in his hand. "I suppose you're right." He took a long drink, draining the last of his glass. "But I digress, I need you to… take out a particular thorn in my side. How much do you charge?"

"Depends on who the thorn is."

He sighed. "A pirate."

Pidge grimaced. A space pirate, one of the many that roamed their galaxy. Ever since the Milky Way was turned into a trade outpost for the Galra empire, long after they exhausted their use of the inhabitants as slaves, countless pirates joined the massive cargo ships in transit between systems. Most weren't super well known or successful, but that didn't mean they weren't damn difficult to track down. If she was lucky, she could catch them while they were docked on Earth, but usually she had to hitch a ride on a cruiser and wait for them to come to her. It wasn't impossible—she'd taken down a few before—but it was difficult.

"I need a name," Pidge told him.

"Lance McClain."

She froze.

Lance McClain. The Lance McClain. The Galra's number one most wanted, a spot Pidge had coveted for years. The most well-known pirate in this galaxy, maybe even on this side of the universe. The elusive, cunning, charming, and absolutely deadly Lance McClain. He had more successful heists to his name than most obscure pirates had combined. He was ruthless, and brilliant, and took down Galra cruisers and cargo ships with ease. Thousands of people had it out for him, and hundreds had died trying to take him out. Going after him was suicide.

"No."

The man tensed. "What?"

"I said no," she repeated. "You're asking for me to go on a suicide mission."

"Are you not the best?" He hissed, white teeth flashing under his cloak.

"I am the best," Pidge snapped. "And I'm smart enough to know that I will die if I try and take down McClain."

She could feel the man's anger rolling off him in waves. His grip on his glass tightened. "No one is immortal, not even McClain."

"Keep your voice down!" Pidge hissed as a man's red-eyed gaze slid to them. He blew a puff of smoke in their direction and turned back around. She leaned closer to the man and lowered her voice. "He is impossible to reach and, even if I could get past his defenses, he is a hell of a fighter. So no."

The man bared his teeth. "So you're refusing?"

"Yes," Pidge fired back. "I'm refusing. No amount of money you pay me will be enough. We're done here."

She shoved away from the table and stood.

"What if I told you I have information on where your brother is?"

She froze. Her heart skipped a beat. "What."

She heard his grin in his voice. "You kill Lance McClain, I tell you what I know about your brother."

It was impossible. No one knew where Matt was, and he was most likely dead. The Galra caught him almost two years ago and most outlaws were dead before they even hit the work camps. And on top of that, no one knew that Pidge Gunderson was related to Matt Holt. There was no way this man knew where he was, and yet… "how." She turned around.

A flash of purple skin under the delicate cloak sleeve, deliberately shown. Pidge stiffened, hand reaching for the blaster at her belt. The man chuckled. "Don't be so worried, I am breaking just as many laws as you by meeting you here."

Pidge slid back into her seat, hand still resting on the gun. "And I'm supposed to believe that."

The man reached for Pidge's drink and took a sip. "I'm not telling you to believe anything. Just know that none of my men can take out McClain, so I had to settle for… other methods."

That was her. She was always the "other method," but it was never for the Galra. Always for humans. As much as she considered herself with no allegiance to either group—rebels or Galra—she was always far fonder of her own species. Especially since she lived under Galran rule. "What's stopping me from torturing you for information now."

The man chuckled and set the now-empty glass down. "The communicator on my wrist. The uproar that would start at my death. Your head on a pike." He shrugged. "Your choice."

Pidge's mouth tightened. Going after McClain was still a death wish, and there was a very low chance that she'd even be able to get to him at all, but Matt… "I think we might be able to work something out."

That man grinned. "Perfect."

At long last, it's here, the Voltron Cyberpunk AU I've been hinting at for over a year! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are excited for what's to come.

Find me on tumblr as biplet!