Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sniper whimpered where he hung by his wrists in the punishment chamber, mangled toes barely brushing the floor.

He’d failed.

He’d failed Sir and Mistress.

He’d failed them badly. 

Sniper couldn’t remember the last time he’d failed like this and the punishment as Sir broke his body and Mistress tore through his mind was just pain pain pain that had no end. 

He couldn’t even recall what exactly he’d done as the code sleep made those details slip away. It was for his own good, Mistress told him of how the code sleep worked, as that information would no longer be applicable for his next mission. He just needed to remember the feeling of failure so he could learn from it.

And he had failed.

He knew that. 

He hadn’t completed the mission as ordered, but…

But it was something more than that.

Sniper couldn’t explain it but there was something different about this failed mission. Not just in terms of the violence, the severity of his punishment, but…

But there was a memory of the sound of a sob that was not his own and a whisper of a word that no matter how hard he tried to hear it clearly it slipped away and he’d stopped trying as Mistress had punished him for it when she’d caught him.

He didn’t understand.

It scared him.

Who had been crying?

What had that word been?

Why did he remember them? 

Why did he still remember them even after Mistress had punished him again and again and he shouldn’t remember them? 

They were just whispers now in Sniper’s ears and he didn’t know what they meant, didn’t know why there were there, and he was scared of them but more scared of Mistress punishing him again for something he couldn’t seem to forget.

But more terrifying than that…

He didn’t know why they made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his punishment. He didn’t know why there was a tightness to his lungs, a tremble to his hands, and why these things meant so much when they should mean nothing.

He shook, sending the chains above him clinking and new fire racing up and down his limbs as his body protested the movement and another choked whimper escaped before he could swallow it back as he knew Mistress and Sir were watching and he was to be silent unless they told him to speak.

No crying.

No whimpering.

Nothing.

Be silent, be obedient, and reflect on his punishment. 

He just…

Just hoped it ended soon.

He was sorry.

He hadn’t meant to disobey.

He hadn’t wanted to fail.

He would do better.

He wouldn’t fail them again.

Are you sure? Mistress’ voice echoed inside his head and Sniper trembled at the searing heat accompanying her words but no sensation of probing.

Yes, he whispered silently in his head.

He was sure.

He wouldn’t fail them any more.

He didn’t want to be punished.

He didn’t want them to be disappointed in him.

We shall see , Mistress hummed. 

He felt her presence disappear in the same moment the door opened and Sniper squeezed his eyes shut as too bright light after the darkness assaulted them even as he tried not to let out any sound of relief.

He knew there would be pain as Mistress healed him, but…

But after that there would be none.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” Mistress’ voice was low and there was only the sound of the slither of her robe as she crossed otherwise silently into the room.

Sniper managed a nod.

“Tell me.”

“I,” he swallowed, tasting blood and acid bile on his tongue, “I failed.”

“You did,” Mistress confirmed. “You failed to both kill your target and failed to kill the soldiers that attacked you rendering the mission a complete and total loss.”

Sniper trembled.

That…

That was a lot of mistakes.

He didn’t normally make mistakes like that.

“You failed the Galra Empire, Sniper,” Mistress continued and Sniper flinched. “And I question whether you have what it takes to be our perfect soldier and help us complete our mission of peace.”

Sniper’s breath caught.

No.

She, she couldn’t be saying…

“Your failure is not useful to me,” Mistress said, “and therefore you are not useful.”

Sniper’s heart skipped a beat.

No.

Please, no. 

This, this was all he’d ever wanted. To be useful. To help. She couldn’t—

I can do anything Mistress interrupted inside his head. And if you even dare presume to think to tell me what I can and cannot do…

Sniper frantically shook his head.

No.

No, he hadn’t meant it like that.

Mistress could do anything. She was strong and powerful and she helped the Galra Empire in ways he could only dream of one day doing.

He just…

Just…

Please.

Please don’t take this from him. 

“Ask me politely,” Mistress said.

“Please,” Sniper rasped, keeping his head lowered, “pl-please. Let me be useful to you.”

Without warning Mistress’ hand landed on his cheek and he fought not to pull back as sharp nails dug into his flesh as she gripped his chin.

“Then,” her breath was warm on his face, “show me what you can do.”

And Sniper’s world exploded with fire.

xxx

‘Cold’ was the first thought that trickled into Shiro’s mind.

‘Tired’ followed it and that was accompanied by the sensation of his legs going out beneath him and a loud, “whoa!” and then a set of arms — both strong and warm — catching him about the middle and for the moment Shiro was content to slump in them, shivering.

“Here,” a quieter voice said and Shiro felt a cold whoosh of air and then something heavy and warm — blanket — settling over him and he let out a heavier breath, forcing his eyes open.

The too bright white of the castle’s infirmary greeted him and Shiro immediately closed his eyes even as his mind immediately put together that he was not only in the infirmary but had clearly just come out of a cryo-pod and how had he gotten—?

Shiro jolted up so fast he stumbled right back over and would have fallen had who he was now realizing was Hunk along with Keith reached out to catch and steady him respectively, heart racing.

Lance.

Lance was…

God, Lance was…

“Easy, Shiro,” Hunk’s voice was warm on his ear. “You lost a lot of blood, man. Come on,” and Hunk bodily pivoted Shiro, “let’s get you sitting down.”

Shiro couldn’t have protested if he’d wanted to and a moment later felt himself being lifted up — and Hunk’s simple shows of strength, both physical and mental, never failed to amaze Shiro — and set down on what felt like a cot and the blanket being rearranged and tucked around him with little fussing noises.

Shiro let them wash over him as everything started to come back in the proper order. 

The mission.

The attack.

The, he winced, way he’d practically been ripped open.

And then the discovery that the Galran assassin…

Was Lance.

He was alive.

And he had no idea who they were.

Shiro pried open heavy eyes at that to reveal blurred visages of Hunk and Keith above him along with an image of a water pouch in Keith’s hands and his throat gave a sudden, painful ache at the sight.

Keith was lowering it down before he could even ask and Shiro had it drained in a matter of seconds, licking still dry lips but there wasn’t time right now for another pouch.

“Lance,” he rasped and just like that Hunk’s entire face morphed — bright eyes and a wobbling lip — while Keith inclined his head, confirming it wasn’t some insane hallucination.

“All this time,” Hunk whispered, and the guilt in his voice felt like a knife in Shiro’s chest. “All this t-time.”

“Don’t,” Shiro pushed the word out, giving a small shake to the next water pouch Keith was holding out. “We all thought…”

They’d all seen the body.

They’d all believed without a doubt that Lance had been tortured and killed and left as a message for Voltron. 

It had all made sick, horrible sense and they’d never thought to question it.

But, apparently, in the six months they’d grieved and made themselves move on, Lance had…

Lance had been in Galra captivity and given what Shiro had seen he’d not only been trained — Lance had been an amazing shot but he had not had that kind of hand-to-hand skill or weapons knowledge at least so far as Shiro was aware — but he’d forgotten about them, believed himself to be someone else.

Shiro’s own head ached at that and he would bet his left arm that Druids were involved some way.

“Coran is examining the body,” Keith said quietly, shooting a look at Hunk who had his lips pressed into a thin line, guilt still pouring off of him. 

Shiro gave a nod. 

After they’d found Lance’s mutilated body they’d put it to start into a cryo-pod for preservation as while Shiro could feel in his heart that Lance would never want his family to see him like that… they deserved the truth of what had happened to their son.

Hunk and Coran had cleaned Lance up, washed away the blood and the gore and closed empty eyesockets and brushed Lance’s hair. They’d dressed him in his favorite baseball tee and jeans, armsleeve neatly pinned at his bicep, and Voltron had held their own, small, intimate funeral before they’d put Lance into a pod, sealed and froze it, Lance hidden behind a wall of frost, and it had been placed in a private storage room that Hunk had practically turned into a small shrine for Lance with items from his bedroom and covered in blankets and pillows from Lance’s collection to sit on when they visited.

The room was small and windowless, but Coran had set up a projector that bathed the room constantly in stars as Lance had loved the stars, had loved space, and its endless possibilities so it didn’t feel quite so small. 

Shiro visited weekly, in the beginning sometimes three or four times, to whisper out his apologies, to be there for Lance in ways he hadn’t made the effort to do so before. Too little, too late, but…

But as the months went by the guilt lessened some. Shiro learned to live with it. He promised Lance he would make sure everyone else made it home safely, that he would protect them. And that promise had finally allowed him to lead again, to move on, because as Hunk had said, it was what Lance would have wanted.

That room though had become sacred, Lance’s body undisturbed. 

And the fact that the mutilated body might not even be Lance’s…

But the fact it somehow could also be and they were disturbing it like this…

“How long?” Shiro asked in place of any other questions.

“He’s running a full DNA sequence,” Hunk sniffled. “I, I gave him,” his voice was growing high and tight, “L-Lance’s favorite p-pillow—” the one that Hunk had moved into his own room and slept with Shiro knew cuddled to his chest “—in case there’s anything there. And, and his slippers.”

Of which Shiro knew for a fact had never been washed where they’d sat next to the cryo-pod and should easily have dried skin samples. 

“May, maybe three more hours,” Hunk whispered. “He’s been running it since we got back after you got in the,” he gave a jerky nod at the pod. “Fourteen hours,” he added to Shiro’s unasked question and Shiro’s eyes widened and he felt Keith’s hand that had taken up position on his shoulder give a squeeze.

He’d been in the pod for fourteen hours? 

It sent a shiver rocketing down his spine at how close it must have been and the fact he didn’t even remember getting to the castle let alone into a pod backed up that realization. 

“We don’t need the DNA,” Keith said, eyes narrowed ever so even as like Hunk there was clear guilt and hand still tight on Shiro’s shoulder. “We know what we saw. That,” he swallowed, “that person was Lance.”

Shiro felt the same.

If Lance’s face had been revealed from the start he’d be more likely to believe it was a cruel, psychological trick of the Galra Empire. But the Empire should both never have known Voltron was even on Rylan and Lance had been masked and it had been sheer luck Shiro had managed to reveal him.

Still, confirmation was good.

If they’d done that previously…

Shiro banished the thought.

What ifs would not help Lance. 

And they couldn’t let themselves go down that rabbit hole.

“It’s good to be sure,” Shiro said. “Just,” he went to sit up, “in case this is a tric—”

“Uh uh,” and Keith was pushing down on his shoulder, “you’re not getting up yet.”

“Two more water pouches, a juice pouch, a bowl of food goo, and a bowl of soup,” Hunk said and he turned to the small table beside the cot that had those exact items.

Shiro’s stomach twinged at the display even though in the back of his mind he knew Hunk was right and even that small motion of trying to sit up on his own power had made his head spin.

“We know it could be a trick,” Keith said quietly even as he helped Shiro to slowly to sit up with inclination of the cot and pillows, “but…”

“Pidge ran the numbers based on what happened,” Hunk said, popping straws into pouches, “and she and Green analyzed that the probability of the assassin being Lance…” he swallowed. “Seventy-one point six two percent.”

“And once we have your report of what happened,” Keith said and whether he meant to or not his gaze darted down to Shiro’s stomach — even if it was covered with a cryo-suit and Shiro sent a silent prayer to Coran as the thought of his scars from the arena being on display made him feel sick — to where Shiro had been nearly bisected, “I think that’ll go up.”

“What,” Hunk’s fingers worried the water pouch now in his hands, “what did happen? Before we got there?”

Shiro recounted the details as best he could around swallows of drink and food.

He’d been pursued through the building and quickly realized he wasn’t going to make it to Pidge with the assassin’s ability to see through the walls and his weapons clearly having the strength to reach him through them. He’d deflected several kill shots with his arm once he’d reached the conference room and was able to visually see them where the assassin had then revealed himself.

He’d spoken, Shiro remembered, voice metallic and warped through the mask, that Shiro was not the president — the target — and asked where he was. Shiro had told him he couldn’t tell him that and before he’d been able to speak further he’d been attacked.

Fast, Shiro murmured, of the attack. He’d used both his swords and his body — a kick, he added, and while Lance’s hand-to-hand had always been lacking Shiro could say that Lance’s best physical strength had definitely been in his legs and kicks — that Shiro had taken advantage of and…

He winced.

He’d activated his prosthetic and burned the assassin. 

His hands trembled at the reminder of smell of burnt flesh and the show of violence and God, he’d done that.

He’d done that to Lance. 

It hadn’t stopped the attack though although it had slowed him to the point where Shiro had been able to reach up to disable the mask — not so much to get a look at his attacker but to remove any advantage the helmet tech was providing as Shiro, sans helmet, was operating on only his own power — and he’d…

He’d revealed Lance.

There’d been zero recognition on Lance’s end, even when Shiro had called out the boy’s name and told him his own. Shiro had also stopped his offensive, he crumpled the juice pouch in how stupid that decision had been, and Lance had taken advantage of it. He’d got Shiro with his sword, sent him to the ground…

And Keith and Hunk had arrived before Lance could deliver the finishing blow. 

But not to be forgotten after that was the fact Lance had had every opportunity to kill them when he’d deployed a flash grenade and he…

He hadn’t.

They’d been defenseless, at his mercy, and it would have been a matter of seconds to pull a blaster and shoot them all before he made his escape.

And he hadn’t.

He’d paused only to scoop up his mask and then flee.

And that was what gave Shiro hope.

Lance, despite his lack of recognition, his words identifying them as the enemy and his own affiliation with the Galra Empire, was not lost.

They’d found him.

And they weren’t going to lose him again.

“So,” Shiro leaned forward, empty bowls and pouches next to him and feeling far steadier than he had not even fifteen minutes ago and he could tell as Keith and Hunk straightened up they saw it too.  “What’s our next step?”

Chapter Text

“Again.”

Sniper swallowed back the taste of bile as he lifted his head up from where he’d had it tucked down, hands braced on his thighs, and struggled to breathe from the non-stop training course. 

He knew asking to stop would only be met with punishment, but…

But he wasn’t sure if he could do another round as exhaustion shook his limbs and his vision went in and out and he felt sick and dizzy.

“And I question whether you have what it takes to be our perfect soldier and help us complete our mission of peace.”

Mistress’ words floated through his mind and he forced himself to straighten up.

He knew this was training but it was also a test and if he failed…

He’d never be useful again.

He’d be a failure and useless and not worth anything. 

He shakily unholstered his rifle once more, arms trembling at the weight.

“Go,” Sir ordered.

Sniper went.

It was the same set up as always.

One tick for stationary targets, three ticks for moving ones. Failure to make a killshot or eliminate the target in the required timeframe resulted in punishment, added up to be delivered when he was finished with training.

Sniper already had eight infractions.

His body trembled unrelated to the exhaustion at the pain he knew was coming, at the fact he’d be spending the night strung up in the punishment room rather than in his bed with his blankets.

He was so tired.

He wanted to stop.

He couldn’t stop.

This was his punishment for being weak, for being a failure.

He had to be better.

And shoot.

The targets fell one by one to him, perfect circles between their eyes or through their necks or chests. 

Over and over and over.

One tick.

Two and a half ticks.

Two ticks.

The end of the course was in sight and Sniper put on an extra burst of speed as sometimes if he was fast enough there weren’t as many targets.

A flash to his right had him whirling, finger on the trigger to find the kill spot on this enemy.

His breath caught, finger stilling.

This alien…

He was in black and white armor with hair in the same colors and a scar across his face.

And he…

He was…

The whisper brushed his mind.

Sniper strained to hear it, to hear what he thought this man he didn’t know had said to him.

It, it was saying—

Failure Mistress’ voice hissed inside his head.

And it was followed by an explosion of pain and Sniper’s ragged scream.

xxx

The black and white man was back again.

Every single time Sniper ran the training course he was there.

And every single time…

He paused.

He didn’t know why.

He knew he was going to be punished.

He just…

Why was…?

Why couldn’t he kill him?

Mistress had put him to sleep with his code so many times now that Sniper felt a different sort of sick when he heard her or Sir begin to recite the words as the forced sleep was leaving him shaky and nauseous, but each time he awoke…

He heard the unknown man’s whisper.

He still heard a sob.

Mistress had demanded him to tell her what he knew and he’d told over, over and over, and he didn’t know what it meant, he didn’t.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to forget it.

He was sorry.

He was so sorry.

He begged Mistress to make it go away, to make him forget.

But he still remembered.

And he’d been punished for it.

Sometimes the man wasn’t on the target, but he was replaced with another similar alien in matching armor in different colors. 

Sniper’s finger always hesitated on the trigger then too.

And he was always punished.

Sniper couldn’t even recall the last time he’d slept in his bed with his blankets as every time he woke up, even from the code sleep, he was in the punishment room.

His body hurt.

His head hurt.

His chest and stomach and every bit of him ached and felt too tight and all if it was too much.

He begged and pleaded and apologized and screamed but he couldn’t explain why he kept hesitating on these colored armored aliens and he couldn’t explain why he remembered a whisper and a cry he didn’t even recall.

But he knew he needed to stop.

These, these aliens…

They were the enemy.

They were bad.

He had to eliminate them.

Just like every other enemy of the Galra Empire.

And failure to do so…

Made him a failure.

And then he was useless to Mistress and Sir and he served no purpose.

And…

And selfishly…

He didn’t want to keep being in pain. He didn’t like the pain. He didn’t like feeling so sick and exhausted and always hurting.

So he had to…

Had to…

The target popped up.

It was the yellow and white armored alien this time.

Moving.

Three ticks allowed.

Sniper’s hand trembled on his gun.

Just…

Just shoot.

Two ticks.

He was the enemy.

And he needed to die. 

Sniper pulled the trigger.

A perfect circle in red appeared through the orange band across the alien’s forehead, the timer on the hologram indicating .5 ticks left.

He’d done it.

Sniper shuddered out a breath.

He’d done it.

He’d actually done it.

Good job, Sniper Mistress crooned in his head. But and there was a hint of heat you are not done yet.

Sniper gave a short nod.

He still had half the course left to go. 

Plenty of room for failure.

His hand tightened on his gun.

He would not fail.

The next targets were not the armored aliens, just regular targets and enemies.

The final one though…

It was him.

The black and white armored alien.

Sniper’s hand shook as he raised his gun.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

And he took the shot.

Even without seeing, with the target moving, he knew it had been a perfect kill.

He opened his eyes as he passed by it, forcing himself to look.

The man pictured there…

He was the enemy.

And he meant nothing to Sniper. 

What, whatever that whisper was, whoever had been crying…

They meant nothing to him.

It was a trick. 

He would not fall for it again.

He was here to serve the Galra Empire. And anyone that got in his way…

He would stop them.

His hand tightened on his gun.

Permanently. 

xxx

Sniper ran the course three more times that day.

He completed it successfully each time.

No hesitation.

No missed shots.

No matter who appeared he took them out.

That was his job. That was his purpose. 

He would not forget it again.

No hesitation.

No mercy. 

Just make a clean, quick kill and keep going.

He would not make them suffer.

And now he wouldn’t suffer either.

And each time he took the shot on the colored armored alien the whisper faded, the sob quieted.

They were going away.

Until even if he’d wanted to recall them (and he didn’t, they were bad things) Sniper couldn’t. They were a faint memory and he could feel when he next awoke he wouldn’t even remember that.

It let him draw in a full breath, peace restored.

He knew Mistress was pleased too as she gently pet his hair now that he’d finished, letting him use her lap as a pillow while she’d trailed heated fingers down his head and along his spine, soothing some of the trembles away with not quite hot fire. 

You did an excellent job, Sniper Mistress’s words entered his mind. You have shown me your worth today.

The words were accompanied with pride and Sniper felt his lips curving into a small smile that grew as Mistress did not reprimand him for such. 

Pride was good, she and Sir said, but too much led to mistakes. 

And mistakes led to failure. 

And… she let the word trail off but an image took its place.

His bed.

Piled high with blankets and pillows.

Your reward, Sniper Mistress murmured.

And Sniper wanted nothing more.

But…

But he’d failed today. So many times.

You did, Mistress confirmed. And you will still be punished. Her hand grew painfully hot on his head and Sniper couldn’t fully swallow the whimper. But your success shall be rewarded too. That is fair, is it not? 

Sniper tentatively nodded.

Whatever Mistress thought was fair was fair. 

“Then up you go,” Mistress gave him a gentle nudge, “to meet with Sir for your punishment.”

Sniper didn’t want to go.

No matter how much he’d been punished before it never stopped hurting and even though he wasn’t scared anymore as he always knew Mistress would heal him, especially now that he’d proven he was worthy again, so he didn’t need to fear death, he still…

Sometimes he was still scared.

Especially when Sir would cover his eyes. Sniper didn’t like that, didn’t like not being able to see. 

He didn’t like not seeing the strike.

Which, in a sick twist of irony, is what he did to his enemies so Sniper told himself this was fair. It was just another form of training.

And the pain…

He deserved it. 

And so he had to go.

His limbs were shaky beneath him as he pulled himself to his feet, exhaustion nearly sending him back down but that would be considered disobeying an order and result in more punishment.

It would be over soon though.

And then he could sleep in his bed and cuddle with his pillows and blankets and everything would be right again.

And without further delay Sniper made his way to the punishment room.

xxx

Shiro resisted the urge to curse as the database finished its search and like every other time “no results found” flashed across the screen on the darkened bridge.

Lance, for all intents and purposes, was gone again. 

And they had nothing to go on.

The only thing they knew for certain was that the body in the cryo-pod…

Was not Lance.

It was his in every sense of the word, Coran had said as he delivered the results, as every molecular fiber that made up Lance was accounted for. But that body…

It had never been alive.

There was no sign it had ever been touched by Lance’s quintessence signature — a blue quintessence, Coran had said, and very easy to determine — but instead there were remnants of a thick, black stain.

Druid magic.

That was it. That was the only life that body had ever contained was whatever poisoned quintessence a Druid had pumped into the figure — very likely some type of organically created robot — to transform it to look like Lance. It was a husk.

And it had been under their noses the entire time.

The guilt at the realization had been near crushing, but, in hindsight, Shiro had to admit that even had they known right off the bat Lance had been spirited away…

There was nothing they’d have been able to do.

They could do nothing now. 

They had nothing to follow to find Lance. DNA samples had gone nowhere, there was no evidence left behind on Rylan to indicate even what kind of ship Lance had been in and odds were it would have been cloaked in some capacity anyways. The only lead they had was that Lance had been wearing armor with the Galra Empire signature on it and given his brainwashing and the manipulation of a fake body it was very likely a Druid was involved. They could also determine Lance’s original flight path as he worked his way through the quadrant, but given that Rylan was the last planet they had no idea where his next target was located or if he’d been on assignment — even that played down word made Shiro shudder at the stark reminder that Lance, who had always avoided violence and having to make kill shots, was now being forced to do so again and again and again — prior to where they could even gauge what direction he’d arrived at the first planet.

That was all the information they had.

And it was useless. 

Their last ditch effort was trying to find a path, some history that might tell them something, as now that they knew Lance was behind the killings if they could find similar ones in the past month or so then maybe it’d give them something.

But so far it hadn’t. Every keyword they’d incorporated failed at every search and this last one, the third that night, was no different.

And the more time that passed — now on the fourth day since the incident at Rylan — the slimmer their chances grew. 

They might already be gone.

Shiro squeezed his eyes shut as surely as he did his fists as despair he’d been holding back in front of the team tried to squeeze out. He had been remaining strong despite the lack of leads, had been encouraging their searches — although when Pidge had fallen asleep at the console and Hunk had been slumping over he’d sent them all to bed and said he’d stay up to make sure it finished as he didn’t deserve to sleep, to rest, when Lance was out there in the Galra’s hands— but now…

Where did they go now?

What could they do now?

“Godamnit,” he whispered, nails cutting into his left palm as the “no results found” continued to blink on the display. “Godamnit.”

Shiro knew the answer.

Nothing.

There was nothing they could do. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he felt the sob of frustration, of exhaustion he hadn’t let himself fall to despite his body’s cries for rest, building, a hot heat behind his eyes. 

The unexpected sound of footsteps had Shiro’s head jerking up and he frantically wiped a hand across his stinging eyes, trying to settle his face into something more composed before he turned to look over his shoulder at his visitor, prepared already to send them back to bed as while he might not be resting they should be.

Coran’s visage, expression soft and sad and so so knowing, greeted him. 

Shiro’s eyes for some reason stung anew and based on Coran’s reaction he saw such.

“You need to rest, lad,” Coran said softly as he continued his approach. “You do yourself or Lance no favors like this.”

Shiro looked away, back to the computer and it’s message of failure blurring under his gaze.

He wasn’t doing Lance any favors no matter what he did. 

Coran’s steps came to a stop, Shiro sensing the man more than seeing him next to his chair with a soft sigh.

“We will find him.”

The words were quiet but they were firm, the same as the hand that came to squeeze Shiro’s right shoulder. “We will find him, Shiro.”

“How?”

Shiro’s voice didn’t even sound like his own; so small, so broken, so lost. 

“I do not know,” Coran answered, “but we will. I can feel it. Right here.” There was the sound of a soft tap and Shiro looked up to see Coran’s other hand resting atop his heart, and as their eyes met Coran smiled at him. “I know you can feel it too.”

Shiro though shook his head.

He wasn’t an optimist. He couldn’t afford to be. And the reality of finding Lance in this vast universe…

He didn’t need Pidge to run any numbers to tell him how impossible it was. 

“Listen to your heart, Shiro,” Coran chided gently, “and get out of your head. Do you think it was Lance’s mind, that it was logic, that stilled his hand on Rylan? No,” Coran shook his head. “It was his heart. And for as long as his beats we have hope. And we will find him. Whether it is this quintant, the next, perhaps even another deca-phoeb, Lance is out there, waiting for us to find him. He is waiting to be found, to be brought home. And no matter what odds there may be, we will find him, Shiro. I believe that. And you must believe it too.”

Shiro wanted to. God, he wanted to. 

It couldn’t be a coincidence that after all this time they’d found Lance. It had to mean something that Lance hadn’t killed them when he so easily could have. 

Shiro could not let the cruelness of reality and improbabilities stop him from believing that. Because the moment he gave up…

That was when Lance was truly gone. 

And Shiro would not do that to him. 

Shiro gave a small nod, eyes stinging again. “Thank you,” he managed, bringing tear-lined eyes up to Coran’s bright jewel ones. “I, I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, my boy,” Coran gave his shoulder a squeeze. “And with that…” he leaned past Shiro and turned off the power to the screen, plunging the bridge into near darkness, “I think it is time you allowed yourself to sleep.”

Shiro nodded again, realizing the moment Coran said it that he hadn’t been allowing himself to sleep or rest. He’d been punishing himself.

And Lance…

Lance would never have approved. 

“Come,” Coran gave his shoulder one more squeeze before offering his hand to pull Shiro from his chair, “I shall walk with you.”

And while nothing about the situation had changed… 

Shiro could feel it as he placed his left hand over his heart, a soft thud greeting his fingertips.

Hope was not lost.

Lance was not lost.

And no matter how long it took, they were going to find him.

Chapter Text

Missions resumed.

Sniper made sure each one was a success. 

He would not give Sir or Mistress any reason to doubt his worth and he would do all he could to help the Galra Empire. And, selfishly, success was rewarded with the tasty food and his bed with its pillows and blankets and there was no punishment.

He hated punishment. He understood it and he accepted he deserved it but he’d much rather be rewarded. 

Today Mistress had promised him juice in his favorite flavor — it was sweet but tangy — if he completed the mission successfully alongside his protein meal that tasted bland but he knew was good for him. 

And five bodies later Sniper was excited to know he would be earning his juice.

Or, well, he would after he finished the second part of the mission: data collection. 

The base he’d infiltrated belonged to members of a group called the Coalition, and they were the new biggest threat to the Galra Empire. This location Sir said was believed to have important communication logs and classified information that would help the Empire and it was Sniper’s job to gather up the computers and consoles to bring back so Sir could distribute them to those who could access the data. 

It was an easy enough task, minus Sniper needing to clean up the gore and brain matter all over one of the laptops as its owner sat slumped over it where Sniper had killed her through the back of her head and he was saving it for last as he hated touching blood and he hoped Sir didn’t punish him for potentially damaging it,  and he’d done it tons of times before, but…

But this time something felt off.

There was a prickle on the back of his neck that almost felt like when Sir or Mistress were watching him via the cameras when he hung in the punishment room.

Like someone was watching him.

Sniper looked up from the console he was loading, eyes flicking around the edges of the room. He’d already checked it for cameras — and he knew what they looked like, he’d disabled the six he’d seen before they’d even had a chance to see him — but was it possible he’d somehow missed one?

His stomach clenched at the thought. 

But a second later he confirmed there were no cameras anywhere in this room.

So then what was…?

His breath caught as his gaze landed on the open laptop computer covered in gore and more particularly the soft white light that indicated a video camera was in use.

This enemy member had been conversing with someone and they were still recording.

Sniper had his blaster pulled and firing within a blink, the entire machine flying backwards to hit the far wall in a shatter of sparks, all lights extinguished.

Sniper stared after it, pulse beating far too quickly in his ears. 

It was unlikely the camera had captured anything of note; he’d just been boxing up technology and moving about the room.

But still.

He knew he’d have to report the fact he’d been on view in a camera for at least five dobashes at that point when he was supposed to leave no trace he’d ever been there other than the bodies.

And that meant…

He trembled.

That meant punishment. 

For the barest of seconds he thought about not telling Mistress, keeping his error a secret. He squashed it immediately as not only would she find out the moment her mind brushed his own but if he had in any way assisted the enemy and he tried to conceal it…

He’d never forgive himself.

It was what made him finish packing up the technology, including the now ruined laptop but perhaps it could be salvaged, quickly despite the fact his hands were starting to shake at the realization that this punishment…

It would be awful. 

It was going to hurt so much.

And he deserved every last bit of it.

xxx

“Marta!”

Pidge’s terrified scream had Shiro’s knees slamming into the underside of his table at the bridge where he’d been looking over paperwork in what was supposed to be a quiet (for Voltron) day as everyone worked on various projects with Keith and Hunk down at the local market gathering supplies and groceries.

It was hard to do so, to put the search for Lance on hold, but it was necessary as the universe continued on and it needed Voltron to too. It was almost three weeks now since they’d last laid eyes on Lance, but they were still looking, following up on every lead that might give them a clue — so far none had panned out but what was important was they kept trying and didn’t give up — but they were back on active duty, on working and collaborating with the Coalition and doing whatever they could to work towards and end of this war. 

Shiro and Pidge were the only ones on the bridge as Pidge had wanted to check in with a Coalition contact at a communications base and Shiro had heard Pidge’s side of the conversation for nearly the last thirty minutes even if he only understood every fifth word or so, while Shiro found it easiest to focus sitting at his command station there and while bright the overhead lights of the bridge didn’t hurt his eyes like Earth fluorescent did. 

It had been peaceful, quiet, and productive.

But now…

Shiro was on his feet within a breath and practically stumbling his way over to Pidge, who had both of her hands over her mouth in a clear display of horror the young girl didn’t normally outwardly show, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes that were laser-focused on the screen in front of her where she’d been video-chatting.

Shiro followed her gaze.

And his breath caught as what remained of Marta’s head appeared in view where she was slumped over against the computer still wearing her headphones, speckled gore covering part of the lens and revealing a blurred image of what looked like a control room behind her.

Dead.

Murdered, Shiro corrected, stomach clenching along with his fists, and God, who…?

Who had done this? 

His brain hinted at an answer that Shiro couldn’t bear to entertain as horror and hope crashed in equal measure as the murder weapon was most definitely a gun and—

And a figure appeared in the corner of the laptop camera’s view wearing, dark, sleek but matte armor and a mask and in the process of putting away a blaster on his holster.

And he knew that figure, mask and all.

“Lance,” Pidge breathed, entire body trembling. “L-Lance.”

Lance took no notice of them as he set about activating a hoverboard-like transport and looked to be collecting technology from around the room as he disappeared off screen in their live feed and returned with a laptop before disappearing again.

Pidge’s hands were already flying on her keyboard even as they shook as she pulled up what Shiro could only guess were supposed to be camera feeds except every single one was dark and based on Pidge’s curse that wasn’t supposed to be the case.

Lance had disabled the cameras, hiding his movements — and was this why they had no record of him anywhere? He moved completely undetected? — but he had no idea about the livestream camera. 

This…

This could be their only chance.

“Where is this?”

“Xeada,” Pidge responded, fingers still flying over keys, “three days out.”

“Not with a wormhole,” Shiro countered, pulse starting to race.

This was it.

This was their chance. 

Lance continued to move silently on the screen packing up equipment. 

Pidge turned to him, hope replacing the tears in her eyes.

“You, you think—?

“I know,” Shiro said, conviction settling upon him as heavy as his armor. 

He was bringing Lance home.

Whatever it took.

Pidge nodded before she bit her lip. “No one’s responding at the base. There, there were six people there and none of them are…”

It didn’t take a genius to know why that was.

It meant there would be no backup and Shiro wasn’t about to endanger anyone else.

“I’m heading to Black,” he announced. “Contact Allura,” who should be somewhere in the castle, “and get that wormhole up. Keep an eye on the camera,” Lance still packing technology and not aware he was being watched, “and let me know if anything changes.”

Pidge started. “What? No. I’m coming—”

“I need you to stay here,” Shiro said and God, he knew it wasn’t fair to Pidge and he knew he was being selfish, but he would never forgive himself if he knowingly put her in danger. This was not their Lance and Shiro could not take the chance that whatever had stilled Lance’s hand three weeks ago would happen again.

“You’re not going alone,” Pidge’s eyes sparked even as she didn’t insist on herself. “No fucking way.”

“I won’t,” Shiro promised.

He knew exactly who he was taking with him. 

Because if there was anyone currently aboard the castle who had a chance of getting through to Lance…

And with that he was sprinting out of the room, hauling his phone out and dialing Coran’s number.

Chapter Text

“He found the camera,” Pidge’s voice echoed over Shiro’s comms as his left hand was white-knuckled beneath his gloves as he clenched Black’s steering console as she hurtled them through the skies for the wormhole Allura had just finished activating. “I lost my visual, but I don’t think he’s going to be there for much longer.” 

“Can you obtain any other angle on him?” Coran replied via the pink and white colored Paladin helmet and armor he’d borrowed from Allura as he needed the cloaking the Paladin armor had and they hadn’t had any time to configure another set. 

“Negative,” Pidge said. “All other cameras are still disabled and looks to be an EMP; they aren’t coming back online no matter what I do. 

“Pidge, can you tell which cameras were taken out first?” Shiro asked, voice far more even than he felt as Black plunged into the wormhole and he knew in less than two minutes he’d be landing on Xeada and then…

Then engaging Lance. 

And any advantage they had; which door Lance had used to enter as there were too on the base and therefore would use to exit, where his ship might be parked, could make all the difference.

“Um…” there was the sound of furious typing, “based on timestamp it looks like two-forty-seven went offline first. Which is located here,” and Shiro saw in the corner of his eye the map Pidge had just sent to his visor blink and Coran let out an upbeat that Shiro knew hid the man’s own nerves, “Got it, Number Five, thank you.” 

“We’re shutting down outside comms,” Shiro said as the exit to the wormhole appeared, as he both couldn’t afford the split attention and while amazing the comms did have range issues over large distances and once they exited the wormhole it would just be a distraction as static hissed. “We’ll be back in touch soon.”

“You better,” Pidge said, voice both hot and yet watery. Shiro audibly heard her swallow. “Bring him home, okay?” 

“We will,” Shiro promised.

He wasn’t leaving without Lance. 

The comm shut off with a ringing silence that even the vacuum of space had nothing on.

“We go in cloaked,” Shiro said as he approached the base on the moon down below, no visible ship that belonged to Lance anywhere, “and try to subdue him. But if we’re forced to engage, I take point.”

“Understood,” Coran said softly. “I shall follow your lead, Shiro. But if I see an opening…”

“Take it.”

The Black Lion landed with barely a thump and Shiro silently instructed her to signal him if she saw any sign of someone emerging from the building; it was unlikely given this was the door Lance would have gone in and therefore indicating his ship — likely cloaked and they didn’t have time to check and Shiro didn’t dare instruct Black to sweep the area as it was more likely to send the underground base collapsing than it was to help them stall Lance from leaving — and it had only one way in and out so Shiro and Coran should encounter Lance before he exited, but just in case. 

Shiro’s heart thundered in his ears as he and Coran sprinted over to the hidden door, Coran crouching to input the access code and the entire thing opened with a soft hiss into a decontamination chamber.

This would be their most dangerous point as if Lance was in the vicinity he’d see the hatch open and know, even though Shiro and Coran were invisible, someone was there and he’d take aim. 

But as Shiro stuck his head in there was no sign of Lance and no gunfire and Shiro hurriedly made his way down the ladder aware of Coran behind him and for the interior door that led into the actual base.

The door posed the same problem as the hatch and so Shiro opened it quickly even as he braced himself on the inside, peering around.

Nothing.

And even if Lance’s armor was cloaked it was highly unlikely the box of tech items he’d been loading would be and so they should be able to easily see him, at least in proximity. 

Shiro’s hands clenched into fists, even his prosthetic trembling. A prosthetic he could only use as a last resort as the moment he activated it his cloaking disappeared. Coran was fighting with a staff — not the option Shiro would have picked for the tech-savvy Alten but he was grateful for it — so his at least would not disrupt the invisibility. 

The preferred plan of attack would be to incapacitate Lance before he could even fight back, remove his armor — they couldn’t run the risk of it containing tracking— and then bring him back to the castle where they could secure him, even though Shiro winced at the thought of restraining Lance in anyway as he knew waking up to that would likely only exacerbate the situation but he also knew how dangerous this Lance was in close combat and they couldn’t take that risk.

There was a bit of a problem with that plan — one they’d worked out as a team weeks ago in various contingencies so when they did find Lance — though as Coran had proposed, horrific as it was but not something would put past the Empire, that it was entirely possible Lance could have a tracker inside of his body. For that purpose, Coran and Hunk had designed a scanner that they could quickly use to locate anything foreign and just like the pulse Lance seemed to have used to deactivate the cameras, it would temporarily disable until they could get him back at the castle for a more through check via the cryo-pod. 

But all of that depended on being able to knock Lance out without incident. 

Otherwise they would need to talk Lance down and that, Shiro feared, was not going to be such an easy thing to do. 

But Lance was in there. He’d shown that once already.

Shiro jerked his head to the side — able to see Coran through their linked armor — and proceeded into the hallway, Coran a few paces behind and staff raised. Based on the control room Lance had been in he was at a quick walking clip about a minute from this entrance and—

And Shiro encountered the first body.

The alien had not even had a moment to draw his own weapon where it was still holstered at his hip, a dark puddle of blood spreading out from the hole dead center in his forehead. 

It was a stark reminder of not only Lance’s skill but his complete lack of mercy and if given the opportunity he would do the same to them.

Shiro would not give him such again.

He kept moving slowly down the hall, as silent as possible, as stealth was going to be their one advantag—

Shiro ground to a halt as Lance appeared around the curve of the hallway, a floating hoverboard with a crate no doubt containing the pilfered tech behind him, his own steps quick and light and giving them maybe twenty seconds before they intersected.

The best place to incapacitate Lance was from behind, a pressure point in his neck, and the hallway was wide enough to where Shiro could easily sidestep Lance, which is what he did, heat thundering once more in his ears as Coran took up opposite him and Lance continued to walk.

He’d have one chance.

If he missed, if he didn’t get a good enough grip, Lance would attack and Shiro…

Shiro could not afford to hold back this time.

Any injury he gave to Lance they could heal and while that wouldn’t go very well in trying to establish to this Lance they were not his enemy, it could be a necessary evil.

Shiro still hoped it didn’t come to that, especially as the moment he activated his prosthetic he would lose his cloaking.

Lance continued his approach.

Shiro held his breath.

In three…

He bunched his legs, preparing to spring forward as Lance drew even with him.

Two…

His right hand extended, Lance passing him by and a few seconds of space between him and the hoverboard.

One!

Shiro lunged.

And Lance whirled around, sword drawn in a blink.

Shiro’s arm clanged against the blade with a bevy of sparks and he staggered back, ducking, as Lance drew a second blade and swung it where his head had just been.

Shiro’s chest heaved beneath his armor as Lance paused, both arms raised and back now to the wall Shiro had just vacated and head cocked ever so, eyes wide at both the near miss and the fact for all his cloaking and quiet Lance had sensed him.

He’d done that too on Rylan, Shiro remembered, hearing and sensing both Allura and Pidge’s approaches and attacks and only the unknown of Pidge’s bayard able to literally trip him up. 

But the fact Lance wasn’t pressing his attack meant for the moment he wasn’t entirely sure where Shiro was and he wasn’t going to expose his back. 

Neither of them moved, Coran equally still even as he met Shiro’s gaze, lips a thin line and inquiry clear.

Should he attack?

Shiro gave the barest shake of his head.

Right now Lance was only aware of one assailant and they needed to keep it that way, especially as Shiro, with a close-ranged attack, would no longer have any surprise advantage now that Lance was aware of him.

“Who are you?” the metallic, warped sounding voice of before sounded.

Shiro didn’t answer, not willing to give away his position yet. 

“Refusal to answer means you are an enemy of the Galra Empire,” Lance continued, “and you will be eliminated.”

The words, even accounting for the voice distortion, were delivered without any sense of inflection, any emotion.

It made Shiro’s blood boil at what had been done to Lance.

But the query was also an opening.

Lance wanted proof he wasn’t the enemy? Shiro would show him. It was time to move to Plan B where Shiro became the bait and Coran took over incapacitation.

Shiro let out a slow breath…

And turned off his cloaking.

Sniper’s eyes widened behind his mask.

This, this man…

He was the one from the training course.

The black and white armor with the black and white hair.

Sniper trembled, his hand tightening on his swords.

This man.

He, he was…

He was dangerous. 

The man’s mouth opened—

And Sniper threw one of his swords, not as accurate as his knives but Sir had made sure it was accurate enough, at the man’s head.

It didn’t strike him as a shield of teal pixels sprung up, intercepting the blade, even as it dissolved a second later confirming it was like most shields he’d encountered that were meant to take laser attacks, not physical ones.

And it left this dangerous man defenseless.

Sniper didn’t hesitate as he replaced his remaining sword with his blaster, whipping it up without even checking the heading as he never needed to and pulled the trigger.

The man dodged a shot that should have hit his head dead center with a speed Sniper had not been expecting.

He fired again.

This time the man didn’t dodge but threw up his right hand — it along with most of the man’s arm now glowing purple — and blocked the shot.

Just…

Just like…

A trickle of a memory of the same motion, the same flaming purple light following the path of the strike.

But…

But Sniper had never fought this man before. 

Had he?

Why, why was—?

“Lance,” the man spoke softly.

Lance.

Lance.

The word echoed in Sniper’s mind for reasons he didn’t know.

Lance.

Lance.

What, what did that mean?

Why did it sound so familiar?

Why was it making his stomach and chest hurt?

Was…

Was this magic? 

Was this alien using magic on him?

“Lance, it’s Shiro,” the man spoke, slightly lowering his purple-wreathed — Galra Empire purple, their colors but not their insignia, was this man a traitor? Is that how Sniper knew him? — arm slightly. “I’m not your ene—”

Sniper took another shot.

That time it found its target, dead-center in the helmet right where the black line curved down to form a sort of ‘V’ shape.

Shiro staggered backwards at the impact, pulse roaring in his ears alongside the now sharp ringing, heart thudding at the fact he’d just completely missed blocking the shot that he had, ultimately, known was likely to come.

If, if the Altean armor wasn’t the quality that it was…

He’d be dead.

God, he’d be dead.

Lance hadn’t even hesitated, hadn’t even given a split-second of warning.

Shiro had seen the barest tremor to the boy’s arms once he’d said his name, the way his entire body had otherwise tensed, and even without the visual cues of his face Shiro could imagine those dark blue eyes focused on him and mouth parted.

He was hearing Shiro.

He was listening.

And then he hadn’t been.

And Shiro was now wondering if Lance had heard a word or if the entire thing had been an act, a way to get Shiro to lower his defenses and God, it had worked.

But there was no time to ponder it as Lance was firing again and Shiro couldn’t trust the now compromised armor to take another direct hit.

And that meant…

It meant it was time to fight back.

Shiro flung his prosthetic up, incinerating the laser blast, and charged. 

Lance might be far more skilled than Shiro was used to in hand-to-hand and he was certainly faster than Shiro ever would be, but Shiro was stronger and, like it or not for reasons he tried not to dwell on, more experienced.

And he’d promised to bring Lance home.

He refused to break that promise.

Lance ducked the first swing, gun exchanged now for a knife, and Shiro barely danced backwards in time as it tried to cut a swathe through his stomach and he tried not to flinch at the reminder of how differently that had gone last time.

Lance pivoted and Shiro could sense it before Lance finished that he was going to go into a roundhouse kick.

Shiro reached out in a sick parody of their last fight and caught the extended leg with a burning-hot hand.

Lance screamed. 

And just like last time he went to pivot even while in that kind of intense pain to a horizontal hold, other foot snapping out—

But this time Shiro leaned his head sideways and the foot struck only empty air instead of Shiro’s chin and without the impact Lance’s entire body swung down, collapsing to the ground with his left leg still held in the air above him in Shiro’s searing grip.

Shiro felt a thrill that he was actually—

Lance drew another gun, a pistol.

And at this range it was impossible to miss.

It was Shiro’s turn to shout as the shot went directly into his less-protected stomach — a fact Lance had no doubt observed of the armor — and his body screamed at him to back up, to get away from the threat.

Shiro grit his teeth and only held on tighter to Lance’s leg and instead heaved upwards with all of his strength and flinging Lance into the air before slamming him with a sick crack back down.

Lance went completely limp, gun skittering down the length of the hall.

Shiro’s breath came in a whistling hiss through clenched teeth as his brain still screamed there was danger and not to let his guard down despite the fact his body was begging him to let go, to retreat, to take care of the growing pain emanating in his stomach.

Lance did not move, didn’t so much as twitch as Shiro’s grip tightened on the captured leg in an action Shiro knew had to hurt as he squeezed on burned flesh.

Acting even through the pain?

Or was Lance actually unconscious? 

There was one easy way to find out.

Shiro leaned forward in the same motion dragging Lance closer to him, left hand angling down to the mask he’d removed once before.

Lance’s hand shot out and latched about Shiro’s wrist and with a yell of equal parts pain and attack Lance kicked out his other leg straight up and into Shiro’s chest and to Shiro’s alarm he was sent somersaulting as Lance’s toes dug into his ribs.

It was his turn to hit the ground, losing his grip on Lance’s leg in the process, and a horrific sense of deja vu struck him as he fought to get to his feet before Lance could try to gut him again.

The blam of a blaster going off at near point-blank range had Shiro recoiling.

But there was no pain.

His first thought was he’d died so quickly he hadn’t felt anything but reality was better as he opened his eyes — and when had he closed them? — to see that Coran had joined the fray, his staff striking down atop Lance’s wrist and shoving the gun down, a giant scorch mark on the floor a testament to what could have just been Shiro’s head.

Again.

Lance for the briefest of moments was pinned down by his arm and Coran was already leaning forward, free hand descending upon the back of Lance’s neck.

But the boy didn’t collapse.

Instead Coran was flinging himself backwards as Lance used his pinned hand and his legs to push off and backflip, a foot snapping out at Coran and using the momentum to land back on his feet, chest heaving beneath his armor and left leg trembling violently beneath him, but standing and a knife — his last one, as far as Shiro could see with both of his guns and the sword now on the ground — raised in front of him.

Shiro shakily pulled himself to his own feet, pressing a hand against his stomach where he could feel blood but nothing close to fatal this time, in line with Coran, who remained cloaked. They had the distinct advantage now, Shiro knew, as Lance was literally cornered and down to one weapon.

Although he’d be an idiot to forget that Lance had flash grenades and he had to be prepared for that tactic and even more of one to know that a cornered, desperate opponent was always the most deadly.

And just as concerning…

Why hadn’t Lance been knocked unconscious? He’d seen Coran’s hold, it should have worked. 

But for the moment they had a stalemate and Shiro had to take advantage of it. Whether it was an act or not, Lance had reacted to the sound of his name. Shiro had to use that.

“Lance,” he called the boy’s name again and while Lance didn’t visibly react that time other than his head turning the barest inch in Shiro’s direction, he didn’t let that deter him. “That’s your name,” he continued quietly. “Lance.”

And Lance gave the barest shake of his head.

“My name,” his voice was low and not just from the mask distortion, “is Sniper.”

“No,” Shiro countered, heart breaking at the name that had apparently been forced upon Lance but at least Lance was talking to them, not attacking (yet), “It’s not. It’s Lance. Lance Esposito. The Blue Paladin of Voltron.”

If Lance recognized his name, his title, even Voltron he gave no indication. 

“We’re friends,” Shiro said as Lance remained quiet. “We—”

“We have no such relationship,” Lance interrupted and Shiro’s eyes widened.

That was the exact same thing Lance had said before.

Sniper felt his own eyes widening the same as the black and white armored man’s as the words passed his lips, an echo of the same ringing in his head.

What?

When, when had he…?

It didn’t matter.

“You have made clear you and your partner,” his gaze darted to where he knew there was a second person hidden there, his wrist aching at the strike and based on the steady pulse of pain he feared it may be broken, “are enemies of the Galra Empire and as such you must be eliminated.”

How he was going to do that though he didn’t know.

This man…

He was as dangerous as Sniper had thought him to be. 

And he…

His leg trembled not entirely related to the pain and balance.

He was scared. 

Scared in a way that Sir and Mistress’ punishments didn’t frighten him any more because this…

This he didn’t understand.

He had never met this man before and yet he felt like he had, he could remember whispers.

A sob.

Someone had been crying.

Who?

And that word.

Lance.

Why did it make his heart hurt so much?

Why was he not attacking them?

He needed to attack them.

He—

There was a flicker of light to the left of the man and only the fact this was his last remaining knife kept him from launching it, although as the figure of a new man emerged — willingly shedding his cloaking  — he wondered if he should have.

This man was dressed in the same armor but in a pink that clashed horribly with the bright orange facial hair beneath his nose, and while he was armed with a staff he did not look outwardly dangerous.

Something about him though…

It made his trembling worse, his heart race with a new layer of fear.

“Lance,” the new man spoke and his voice was accented like Mistress’ but where hers was sharp this was soft and it sent a new shiver down Sniper’s spine, “we are not your enemy.”

Magic, Sniper realized as he stared at the man, at his strange but enchanting shifting-colored jeweled eyes, at the power he wielded in his words and voice that made his chest ache for reasons he didn’t otherwise understand.

This man had magic, just like Mistress.

And that made this man the most dangerous of them all.

He was trying to put a spell on him, to control him, to—

“Please, lad,” the man’s voice cracked, “listen to me. Hear my voice. Remember us.”

Sniper gave a sharp shake of his head.

No.

He couldn’t listen.

This man was a threat.

They were both threats to the Empire. 

They had to be eliminated.

Even though…

His chest tightened, his lungs feeling like they were seizing.

Even though…

A sob.

A whisper.

Lance. 

My boy. 

No.

Sniper’s hand tightened on his blade.

This man had to die. 

And he threw his knife in a perfect spiral at the man’s head.

The magic man intercepted it with his staff, sending it pinging away but that was all right as Sniper had never expected to hit him. He used the second worth of distraction to dive forward and scoop up one of his downed guns and without any of his usual finesse he slammed his finger down on the trigger.

Cover fire was not what he had been trained to do, but in circumstances like this it was sometimes the only option. The blaster had enough charge for almost three quintants of solid coverage and no matter what shield, no matter what armor, it should be enough.

He would kill them and he would not hesitate.

And then, maybe, the unknown whisper, the sob, the fear , would finally, finally go away.

Chapter Text

Shiro threw himself to the ground, hands over his head, just as the gunfire ripped where he’d been standing, peripherally aware of Coran summoning Allura’s still intact shield.

His heart lurched into his throat as Coran charged at Lance with a ragged scream, shield raised in front of him like a battering ram as Lance continued to hold down on the trigger. 

He seemed to realize that Coran was not stopping despite the barrage and just before Coran reached him he turned the blaster into a blunt-force weapon, thrusting it out where it impacted with a sharp crack against Coran’s shield and sending the pixels scattering.

Shiro was on his feet within the next breath, joining the fray as Lance launched out a kick with his injured leg at Coran, striking Coran’s staff he’d dropped the shield for, and using the momentum to once push himself off of it in a flip over Coran and within a hand’s breadth of Shiro.

He landed with a stumble and a sharp gasp of pain, limb nearly collapsing beneath him, but he still raised his gun.

Shiro’s own breath caught even as he raised his arm up, prepared to catch whatever shot he cou—

The shot went wide, zooming right between Shiro and Coran, in a way that Shiro had not expected as they had been sitting targets and even injured there was no way Lance should have misse—

The explosion was deafening.

Shiro’s scream was swallowed up by the wash of heat and buffeting blast and blinding light from behind him as he belatedly realized Lance’s shot hadn’t missed at all.

It had struck its target, the hoverboard’s engine, perfectly.

Shiro crashed into the ground, vision going in and out and ears ringing even more violently than before.

He was vaguely aware of Coran sprawled a few feet from him, armor singed, helmet badly dented and man so still with smoldering pieces of debris — what had likely been both the pilfered technology and the hoverboard — lying about him.

Shiro’s stomach clenched as ice trickled down his spine because he truly had no idea if Coran was dead or alive from the blast.

He had no time to check.

Because Lance, now at the end of the hall, was standing before the door that led to the exit chamber with a gun in hand aimed directly at Shiro’s head.

One shot.

It would take one shot.

Lance raised the gun, the barrel glowing purple.

There was nowhere to go.

Nowhere to run.

Nothing to block with, his prosthetic trapped beneath his body and even with ice now running down his spine as he was about to die Shiro could not seem to move it to even try.

He was about to…

After, after he’d promised Pidge he’d bring Lance home. After he’d promised to protect them. After he’d promised no one else would die.

Coran might already be…

And, and now he…

Lance fired.

The shot struck the ground inches from the black and white armored man’s face, sending up chips of flooring that pattered his helmet and visor, but not…

Not where it was supposed to go.

Sniper stared, trembling, at the man’s very much intact face, no hole punched through the semi-intact glass visor that he should have aimed at the first time rather than the helmet.

But he hadn’t.

Why hadn’t he shot there?

Why hadn’t he shot him now?

He…

He didn’t know.

Why didn’t he know?

What was wrong with him?

He had to take the shot.

His finger trembled on the trigger.

Take the shot.

Take the shot.

Take the—

“Lance,” the black and white man whispered, stretching out a shaking hand towards him before it fell to the ground with a soft thump and the man moaned in clear pain. 

Lance.

Lance Lance Lance.

That wasn’t his name. His name was Sniper. He served Sir and Mistress. He served the Galra Empire.

And this man was the enemy.

And he had to die.

His hand remained frozen on the trigger.

He could already feel Sir’s claws on his back, Mistress’ fire as she tore through his mind.

Failure.

Punishment.

Worthless. 

And yet…

Yet…

Sniper swallowed thickly. 

And the ground gave a rumble beneath him, a groan of metal echoing in the hallway.

His eyes widened.

The base.

The explosion had compromised it.

It was going to collapse.

And if it collapsed…

Then the enemy would surely die.

He swallowed.

It was wrong.

It was right.

He looked one more time at the fallen pink and orange man and then to the black and white one, his pain filled eyes staring at Sniper with something he couldn’t identify. 

Sniper swallowed.

And he fled.

xxx

Shiro grunted as he took another staggering step up the ladder, hunched over as much as he could to keep Coran from slipping off his back where he’d secured the man, as the very air shook around them.

One more rung, Shiro chanted at himself, back straining and he could feel blood dripping down his front far quicker than it had been and his vision still going in and out and body aching with every movement. One more rung and then another and another.

Because no matter how hard it was, how impossible it might seem as he hauled Coran’s dead weight — but alive body, confirmed via a shaky check to Coran’s pulse point on his wrist and Shiro had almost started crying right there in the hallway but there was no time for that —as everything shook around them, Shiro was alive to do so.

Lance, for the second time when he had him dead to rights, had left him alive.

And no matter what justification he could have made — Shiro bleeding out the first time, now left behind injured in a collapsing base — Shiro was pretty sure an assassin was supposed to make confirmed kills.

Not ones left to chance.

Lance had hesitated. Maybe not each time — Shiro could easily be dead from the shot to the head — but he’d also taken that shot through the thickness of Shiro’s armor helmet rather than the glass of his visor.

It was a kill shot, but…

But at the same time it wasn’t.

Even the explosion, choosing to shoot at the hoverboard and use its cargo as dangerous projectiles, wasn’t necessarily fatal while a shot to both himself and Coran could have been.

But for all that, for all those hesitations, all those openings…

Shiro had failed.

He’d said he was going to bring Lance home and he hadn’t.

And if Coran hadn’t been there to stop the, as far as Shiro could tell, would have been absolutely fatal shot, all that would have happened was they would have a real body to add to their count. 

They still could.

Shiro grit his teeth and reached for the next rung, the hatch tantalizingly close.

Almost there.

Almost there.

“I’ve,” a hot, panted breath brushed against Shiro’s neck through the undearmor, “got it, lad.”

Shiro craned his head around to see Coran, his eyes open and a strained but visible tight smile beneath his moustache as he caught Shiro’s gaze.

A moment later Shiro felt Coran shift and then there was a creak as the hatch opened up — and something Lance could have easily further compromised to keep them trapped and he hadn’t — and Coran was pulling himself out and rolling onto the still shaking ground and Shiro, breathing a little easier without the extra weight, emerged a moment later.

They said nothing as they slowly made their way to where Black revealed herself from her cloaking and boarded, quiet still as Coran pulled the emergency kit off of the wall and offered Shiro a compress and retrieved an icepack for himself, wincing as he pulled his helmet off and then pressed the icepack to the back of his neck and slid down to rest on the floor against Black’s main console.

“I am sorry,” Coran said into the silence. “I could not stop him. The armor on the back of his neck did not allow me to pinch his nerve as planned and then my appearance to him… it did not help in the way I had hoped.”

Shiro shook his head against his better judgment as black spots danced, refuting it. “Neither could I.”

“He was scared,” Coran murmured. “I could feel it in his very essence. He was terrified, Shiro. Of us, of his handlers, I do not know, but that young man… I have never felt someone so afraid.”

“You could feel that?” Shiro asked, interest piqued despite the dark picture Coran had just painted. He’d observed Lance’s trembles, his hesitation, but scared had not crossed his mind.

Coran gave a short nod and then winced at the action. “I have orange quintessence,” he said quietly. “It has affinity towards healing, which extends to emotional reading. It is what,” his lips pulled into a humorless smile, “allowed me to be such an effective advisor to the king.”

Shiro gave a slow nod, a newfound respect for the man in front of him. He’d always thought Coran was more than what he appeared, but…

But he was something else. 

“He does not know us,” Coran continued, “but at the same time… he does. Something prevents him from, for all intents and purposes, literally making a kill shot upon us once he has engaged and speaks with us. Unless, that is,” and Coran’s expression pinched, “his fear encompasses him fully. Whatever he is frightened of… it is something truly horrific.”

“What do we do?” Shiro asked.

“We wait,” Coran said softly. “On Lance’s end, the confrontation today will no doubt result in some type of consequence, some further action on the Empire’s side of this equation, as that is twice now their assassin has not performed. I fear the Empire may choose to escalate.”

“You mean make us the target,” Shiro said, Coran inclining his head in confirmation.

“But if we play our feet right,” Coran said, smile wan but genuine and Shiro quietly kept the correction to the phrase to himself, “this could be the break we have been looking for.” He leaned forward and pressed a hand to Shiro’s knee, giving it a squeeze Shiro somehow felt through his armor. “This,” his smile grew, “is how we bring Lance home.”

Shiro felt an exhausted smile pull on his own lips as a real sense of hope began to blossom in his chest.

Yes.

Lance would come to them. 

And they would be ready.

Chapter Text

Sniper had thought he’d known pain. He thought he’d found the reaches of agony, the final threshold before it consumed him.

He hadn’t.

Because he knew it now.

He knew it as Sir stripped off layers of his flesh, dangling them in front of his face, shaving muscles and tendons and carving into him as though he was a piece of meat, claws raking and knives flashing and blood splattering the air. 

Mistress* followed behind with her fire that seared his skin, his insides and sent his blood boiling and skin bubbling, all while her flames ravaged inside of his mind as she pulled it apart.

There was no end.

There was no reprieve.

It was just agony layered over agony on top of more.

And all of it was accompanied by their disappointment, their rage, their disgust and Sniper had never felt more worthless, more of a failure, as they would not let him forget what he had done.

He’d lost the data.

He’d revealed himself.

But, most of all…

He hadn’t killed the enemy.

They could be dead, buried in the collapsing building.

But it wasn’t for sure.

He hadn’t taken the shot.

He hadn’t followed through.

He’d failed. 

And the only thing that rivaled the pain and the sensation of failure was fear that Sniper could not fully explain as to why he was remembering things he had no recollection of.

Both the black and white armored man and the orange-haired one.

He knew them even though he didn’t and he was hearing that word now — Lance, Lance, Lance — over and over and the sound of someone crying and the phantom memory of fighting that man before but he hadn’t and why?

Why?

What did it mean?

Who were they?

Why did he care?

Why hadn’t he killed them?

He didn’t know those answers no matter how many times Mistress asked, as she tore him open looking for the reason.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

He swear he didn’t.

He was sorry.

He was so so sorry. He was sorry he’d failed. He was sorry he was weak. He was sorry for being worthless and useless and a failure. 

It didn’t matter how much he apologized though. Apologies couldn’t fix this, couldn’t make it better.

Only punishment could.

And so the pain continued.

Mistress demanded he report, again, as Sir continued to slice him apart, about what had happened.

To describe the men.

Their weapons.

Anything they’d said to him.

And Sniper did.

Over and over and over.

He didn’t know them, he’d sobbed. He didn’t. 

He didn’t know why they seemed to know him.

He didn’t know why he didn’t kill them.

He was sorry.

Pleas—

He’d cut the plea off before it could fully form but it was too late.

Mistress heard it.

And she did not tolerate it.

Begging was for the weak and he, she burned into him, was not supposed to be weak.

He was not supposed to beg or plead because there was no mercy for failures.

Just punishment.

And refusing to accept he deserved punishment would only be met with more.

And the pain without end continued. 

xxx

Something was different.

Different was bad.

Sniper trembled where he was perched, ramrod straight, on the edge of the chair, bare toes curling against the ground and trying not to shiver at the cold air as he wore nothing save his shorts and the scars of his weakness. 

Mistress and Sir hadn’t put him to sleep with his code following the conclusion of his punishment and healing.

They hadn’t left him strung up for him to reflect on his failures and weakness.

Instead he’d been hosed down for a shower to remove the blood and gore, given both a water pouch and a food bar with the order “you may eat” to give him permission to do so and even though his stomach was too upset to be hungry he’d eaten it as commanded, and told to take his seat in the briefing room where they would assign him his missions.

Sniper had been here by his best guess for the last two hours and no one had come to talk to him.

He knew they were watching him though through the cameras and it was why despite his body’s desire to hunch forward, to curl up, to try to find warmth, to sleep, he did not. He forced himself to remain sitting fully upright, no longer in active pain as Mistress had healed him, but body still sore and exhausted.

He wondered if this was a test.

He hoped he didn’t fail it too.

All he did was fail them and Mistress and Sir had given him so many chances, been so kind to forgive all of his errors, but eventually…

Eventually they wouldn’t and when he became worthless to them…

Sniper shivered unrelated to the cold.

Whatever they decided to do with him though was entirely Sniper’s fault. Failure should be punished and if he was hurting the Empire, stopping them from their mission of peace…

Then he was no better than the enemy.

And he would need to be eliminated.

But…

Sniper’s hands curled into fists atop his knees, trying to hold back another shiver.

He didn’t want to be.

He didn’t want to d—

The door opened and Sniper sat even more at attention as Mistress and Sir both entered and took their seats at the table across from him.

“We have a new mission for you, Sniper,” Mistress said in her soft rasp and Sniper’s eyes widened.

A mission?

After he’d just failed so badly?

“If you fail to complete this mission,” Mistress continued, yellow eyes boring into his, “it shall be your last.”

Sniper swallowed.

He, he understood.

“But before we discuss your mission, we must first discuss your history,” Mistress said. “In particular, your relationship with the two men you encountered yesterday.”

Sniper’s eyes widened.

What?

He, he did know them?

Mistress knew he knew them?

How?

Why?

What was—

“Sniper,” Mistress’ eyes narrowed and he realized he’d been loudly projecting his thoughts and he tried not to shrink back. “Patience.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sniper whispered.

“Those men are a part of Voltron,” Sir rumbled, pausing as though waiting for Sniper to react but that word meant nothing to him.

At least…

He didn’t think it did.

“Voltron is the Galra Empire’s single biggest threat to our mission of peace,” Sir said. “Moreso than even the Coalition. Their members are merciless, ruthless, and,” his fangs flashed, “they are led by the largest traitor the Galra Empire has ever had: Champion.”

And as Sir said the name Mistress flashed an image of the black and white armored man into his head and Sniper couldn't fully hold back his inhale.

That man was a traitor.

He’d thought so.

“Champion leads a team consisting of five individuals,” Sir said and he tapped the tablet he’d brought in, creating a projection image.

It was all the aliens in the white and colored armor. 

“They are called the Paladins of Voltron. They are a formidable force all their own but their greatest threat lies in this man.” And an image of the man with the orange facial hair — no longer in armor but in a fitted suit — appeared. “Speaking his name gives him power for he is Voltron’s sorcerer, and he will be referred to as such.”

“When Champion turned traitor you were sent to stop him,” Mistress picked up his history. “But as you might be able to infer… you failed.”

Sniper trembled.

So that was why he remembered fighting Champion. Why Champion had weaponry of the Empire. He had once been one of them.

“We recognized it was not entirely your fault,” Mistress said. “Champion is a formidable foe and, to you, he was as close to a friend as you had. You were a team, Sniper. And he betrayed you.”

A hot burst of anger flooded Sniper’s mind borne of Mistress but he did not deny it as a strange sense of hurt filled him up.

They’d been a team?

And, and Champion had betrayed him? Betrayed the Empire?

And now…

“He betrayed you,” Mistress repeated. “He betrayed all of us. He was working in secret with Voltron and when he fled he tried to convince you to go with them and they tried to force you. But you were strong, Sniper,” and there was rare pride in her voice, and Sniper tried not to show his own pleasure at it, “and you resisted. And for your safety we helped you to forget him, to forget the cruelty of his betrayal and the tactics he used.

“However, he is still trying to turn you,” Mistress said softly, “for he sees the worth you have. He has now invoked their sorcerer to assist and while you are strong, Sniper,” her voice grew soft, tender, “their magic and the history you share is too. Sir and I were trying to protect you, Sniper. We did not want you to have to face such an enemy.”

Her words washed over with a warmth, a gentleness Mistress did not normally show, and Sniper soaked it in, feeling a pleasant heat to the coldness of the room. 

“But it has reached the point where we can no longer ignore Champion and his sorcerer and his Paladins of Voltron,” Mistress continued, “for they grow too strong and they are interfering with the Galra Empire’s mission of peace. And so after much reflection, Sir and I have decided that you will help us to stop them once and for all.”

Sniper nodded.

Yes.

Absolutely.

He would do anything.

“That is what I wanted to hear,” Mistress smiled at him. “You will be given one, final chance, Sniper, to show us your strength, to prove that you cannot be turned, and in doing so take out the Empire’s greatest enemy. You shall be a hero, Sniper, and you shall turn the tide of this war.”

Sniper trembled.

Him.

They, they were looking to him to help the Empire in this way. 

They believed in him. 

“But if you fail,” Sir’s fangs flashed, “if you are unable to complete your mission after all this time and after all the training you have received… you will become a liability. And the Empire cannot afford liabilities.”

Sniper nodded.

He understood.

“Then your assignment,” Mistress said. “You are to kill all members of Voltron. And this time,” the heat became a touch too hot in warning, “you will not fail.”

“I won’t fail,” Sniper promised.

He refused.

He was going to kill these Paladins of Voltron and their sorcerer and he was going to bring peace to universe.

Chapter Text

Training resumed.

But this time it was specialized training, even moreso than layouts and schematics of bases and compounds Sniper was sent to infiltrate, faces to memorize of his targets.

It was pouring over all of the information Sir and Mistress provided to him of his targets.

Champion; his former partner, attacking primarily with his Galra Empire arm and extremely skilled in hand-to-hand combat.

Pink; an Altean who had magic but didn’t tend to use it offensively. Her weapon switched but was most primarily a staff or a whip.

Yellow; physically large with strength to match, a long-distance fighter with a heavy artillery cannon that he could also use as a battering ram in close-combat and who Sniper for unknown reasons found the hardest to strike despite being the largest target.

Red; part-Galran and could slip through security systems, quick and fast, skilled with both a sword — of which he used a luxite blade as well as another sword that he could change the length of the blade — and also in close combat.

Green; small, quick, and technology based. Fought with a mixture of holographic technology and a shock katar and grappling hook.

Sorcerer; also an Altean and proven history of shapeshifting. Weapon was a staff but his words were his most dangerous weapon. Sniper was to avoid listening to any of them speaking at all costs. 

All had cloaking abilities but as Sniper had observed, they disappeared when the majority of their weapons activated (but not tech-based ones, his wrist still having a phantom ache where Sorcerer’s staff had broken it but the attack not revealing the man), and their armor provided them communications, tactical logistics, and defense. 

Sniper looked and memorized every weak spot. 

He watched every video the Empire had recorded from hallway and base cameras of the Paladins fighting Empire soldiers and sentries, the way they moved through hallways and who took the lead and who provided cover. 

Mistress gave him a bit more of his and Champion’s history. She told him that Champion had called him by the nickname “Lance” after Sniper had had a training accident with one such weapon and it was why he did not fight with them now. She said they had been close, that he looked to Champion as a mentor.

And she said Champion would use that. All of the Paladins and the sorcerer would. They wanted to use him to hurt the Empire, she whispered, to control him and make him forget who he really was. 

He could not let them do so.

Sniper promised he wouldn’t.

He would refuse to listen to anything they said.

He would not pause.

He would not hesitate.

These people were bad. They were the enemy.

And…

He stabbed his sword straight through Champion’s chest in his current training simulation, sending digital blood flying.

He would kill them all.

xxx

Shiro’s nerves were shot.

It had been almost two more weeks since the encounter with Lance and despite the consensus that Lance would be very likely coming after them, he had yet to do so.

They could not be obvious about it as the Galra would smell a trap a mile away. But wherever they could they were dropping hints about upcoming locations, quadrants, and making plenty of public appearances to promote the Coalition.

Lance hadn’t taken the bait yet.

And it meant every time they left the safety of the castle — Coran increasing all security features and, belatedly as they realized a gaping hole as they’d never taken Lance’s fingerprints out of the system and that had been corrected immediately — they took the chance a sniper’s target was literally painted on them.

They had a partial solution to that.

The shields that Pidge had designed for Rylan were incorporated into a circlet that they all were required to wear at all times, helmet or not, that would activate just as they had to save Shiro’s life the first time. It still wouldn’t hold up to multiple barrages, but it would obviously give them a literal head’s up. 

More than the pain of the waiting and the tension from the attack not yet coming, was the guilt that had settled hot and heavy in Shiro’s stomach.

He’d promised Pidge he’d bring Lance home…

And he’d failed.

Having to admit that to her, to Hunk who hadn’t even had a chance to try to save his brother, had made Shiro feel like the lowest of the low, like a failure of a leader as how could he have made a promise he couldn’t keep? How could he have let them down again?

But Hunk had only hugged him tight and whispered ‘ next time ’ against Shiro’s ear and then, in a mothering way that Shiro had at first resisted but now found comforting, had ordered Shiro into a pod and said he’d have soup and blankets when he came out along with another soft squeeze and a just as soft ‘glad you’re okay.’

It didn’t make anything better but it helped, a little bit.

Shiro still felt like he’d let them down.

He’d let Lance down.

Shiro couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors Lance was being put through — terrified, Coran had said, Lance was terrified — and no doubt if Shiro thought he’d failed then Lance’s handlers would belive that of Lance a hundred times over.

And such he knew would be addressed in some way and, given what he knew of the Galra, of his own fragmented memories, it would involve pain.

A lot of pain.

He could have spared Lance that.

But his attack hadn’t been enough. 

Shiro’s words had not gotten through to him, even if he had received a response and, not that he had been able to see Lance’s face, the boy had seemed to realize they’d had that conversation before.

But otherwise he hadn’t seem to recognize Shiro at all and that made Shiro’s stomach lurch as it confirmed Lance’s memories were most definitely being suppressed.

Lance had reacted some to Coran’s words, freezing in place and Shiro wondered if he should have tried to act then, to take advantage, but before he could even react Lance had, launching into a full on assault and forcing Shiro fully into defense. 

But then…

Lance had had him defenseless. He’d raised his gun…

And Lance, who never missed a shot, had missed. Badly.

Shiro hadn’t needed to see Lance’s face then to know that hadn’t been the plan. Lance, or Sniper as he’d called himself, had fully intended to kill Shiro while he was collapsed from the explosion.

But he hadn’t.

He’d fled instead and while it had been close — the base now a tomb that Voltron had returned to to have a service for the six slain Coalition members that were buried beneath — he’d left open that chance when he didn’t have to. 

And that was what gave Shiro the most hope. Lance was in there, whether he could remember Shiro or not. 

Emotional memory, Pidge had theorized. His procedural memory was clearly intact — the ability to do tasks, to understand actions and words — and given the fact multiple times now he hadn’t actually followed through on killing them he still had an emotional link, something holding him back.

Allura had put up a different theory: the bonds Lance had formed with Voltron. When they connected their Lions to form Voltron their minds merged, she’d said quietly, and no matter the Druid’s meddling and whatever other conditioning Lance had experienced, bonds of that nature could not be broken.

Coran though believed it was a combination of Pidge and Allura’s but it was tied to a third item: quintessence. Quintessence was in a way was related to both of Pidge and Allura’s in that there was an emotional component holding Lance’s hand back and no doubt Voltron had something to do with it — as they were the only people he hadn’t killed — but it had to be beyond that as otherwise Lance, who had never formed Voltron alongside Allura and Coran had never been a Paladin, would not have spared them. 

Lance had blue quintessence, Coran said, and blue quintessence belonged to those who had high affinities for love, for compassion, and for kindness. And it was strengthened by protecting others, by loving them. So for the Druid to so cruelly cut Lance off from that, to twist him and force him to hurt, to kill… it would no doubt darken it. But, and here Coran had managed a small, tight smile, blue quintessence was adaptable. It flowed and morphed and no matter how much one might try to smother it, it would find a way to survive so long as its owner didn’t give up. 

And Lance’s actions, his refusal to kill them..

It meant a part of him, even if it was a buried sliver, still clung to his blue quintessence.  It had not all been tainted. And it meant Lance hadn’t given up.

And they would not give up on him. 

They just needed him to find them because the last time had been a complete, random fluke and they could not count on that again. 

Nor did Shiro want anyone else coming in harm’s way, which is why they were keeping this mission completely within Voltron and not reaching out for assistance or even alerting the Blade or Rebels or other Coalition heads of their plans. They were the only ones Lance had showed hesitation in killing and that courtesy would not be extended to anyone else. 

“Paladins,” Coran’s voice crackled over the speaker system and Shiro looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bench in the training hall, body covered in sweat from running laps as he tried — and failed — to outrun his nerves and the constant, pressing feeling of failure, “we will be landing on Zlato in forty-five dobashes. Please meet in the entrance hall to disembark.”

Shiro let out a ragged sigh and pulled himself to his feet.

It was time for another highly publicized public appearance. 

And that meant it was time for both another hour of pulsing hope that Lance would show and an hour of sick dread as he waited for a sniper shot to come out of nowhere and attempt to kill himself or one of his team. 

It never got easier.

But it was necessary and the best plan they had to lure Lance out so it was what they had to do. Shiro tried to comfort himself that even if Lance didn’t show the last three speeches they’d given had been well attended and the message of the Coalition well received. Zlato was a major trading hub and would have aliens from all walks of life and planets and was a great outreach opportunity. 

But before the speech could begin, Shiro gave his underarm a gentle sniff and recoiled, he very badly needed a shower or rather than attracting attention he’d be running it off.

He let out a low, amused huff, picked up his sweat-soaked towel to drop in the laundry hamper, and headed for the shower.

Chapter Text

Shiro was not by any means a sniper, but if he was this was absolutely the place he’d pick. 

Zlato was not only crammed full of people — especially around the raised stage the Paladins were on, “Coran” further back in the shadows of the banners flapping in the wind in Voltron’s colors — but there were buildings of varying height levels and lots of windows and roof access and a sniper could be anywhere and looking down at the stage.

His hand went again to where the circlet was firmly across his forehead, ensuring it was there.

His helmet wasn’t.

They’d found in their trial runs the shield from the circlet worked best when it wasn’t behind the helmet and in order to wear it without the helmet it had to be made smaller for their head shape. What it meant though was if the shield broke they would have no protection and as proven once already the helmet could stop at least one shot. 

They were nearly twenty minutes into their presentation — Allura now speaking and giving the history of Voltron and turning what was legend for many into reality — and there had been no sign that anything was going to happen.

Shiro supposed that was the point of an assassin though.

It was why Voltron was prepared to turn the tables. Snipers operated on the concept of stealth and surprise, and Voltron was in place to return the same. Coran was currently shifted to look like a nondescript lizard-like alien and was prowling along inside of the crowds looking for any sign of Lance while a dummy designed to look just like Coran was posed on stage.

Pidge was also missing from the stage. Her holograph was there, as lifelike as the real thing and her interactive part of the presentation cut to avoid any mishaps, but Pidge herself was cloaked and perched on a parapet above the stage and armed with a low-tech grappling hook that wouldn’t disrupt the cloaking. The idea was she’d have the best view, in the event there were incoming shots, to judge the angle and then engage Lance by propelling herself to him.

Shiro hated it as it put Pidge directly in the line of danger in a one-on-one matchup with Lance, but he’d already put his own fears ahead of her skill and he still wondered if things would have been different on Xeada if she’d been there too.

Lance could be back with them already. 

But dwelling on what ifs only made the guilt worse and there was nothing that could be done about them. The only that could be done was not making the same mistake and so Shiro was putting all of his faith in Pidge’s own abilities that she’d proven time and again and trusting her as he should have before. 

He still didn’t like it.

So far though it had amounted to nothing as Lance had not shown and Pidge hadn’t had to engage. 

Shiro shifted on his feet, letting out a soft breath, eyes scanning the rooftops in front of him once more with nothing to show for it.

Lance might come.

He might not.

And no matter what…

Shiro’s prosthetic creaked as he tightened his hand into a fist at his side.

He would be ready.

xxx

Sniper had his target in sight.

Pink was in front on the stage and while she’d be the easiest one to hit, he wanted to take out Champion first.

His partner who had betrayed him.

Who had betrayed the Empire.

He needed to die. 

Easy, Sniper Mistress crooned in his mind, do not let hate cloud your reason.

Sniper let out a slow breath and nodded.

He knew that.

And he had Mistress here to remind him as she and Sir had come with him on his mission — Sir had done so before but Mistress had never accompanied him and Sniper felt both comforted and nervous by her presence just a few feet away from him — while Sir was on the ground hidden in the crowd.

They would not interfere, Sir had said, as this was Sniper’s mission, but they would step in if the Paladins proved more difficult than anticipated, and given there were six of them including the sorcerer that could be the case.

But Sniper planned to shoot them all from here. Sniping was what he preferred, his true specialty, and, selfishly, it allowed him to avoid all of the blood.

He still didn’t like the blood.

Sir had warned it was highly likely his targets had shielding of some sort even if it wasn’t visible, but Sniper knew all shielding could be broken with enough direct hits.

And, his lips pulled up into the barest smirk, he was more than capable of making multiple direct hits. 

His finger lighted on the trigger, lining up his sniper rifle to Champion’s head, aiming dead center at the man’s forehead where a thin black circlet that he would bet activated the shield was placed.

It was time to take the shot.

His finger didn’t move.

Sniper let out a soft breath.

No.

He wasn’t going to hesitate this time.

He knew now why he recognized Champion, he knew what stayed his hand.

But they were not partners, not friends as he’d tried to claim. 

They were enemies.

And Sniper wanted him dead.

He inhaled.

His hand tightened.

He exhaled.

And he fired.

xxx

Shiro staggered backwards at the recoil of the shield activating to intercept a laser aimed point-blank at the center of his forehead, barely able to hear the crowd’s screams start up over the roaring of his pulse.

Lance.

Lance was here. 

And he’d just shot to kill.

The thought had barely crossed Shiro’s mind when he felt the shield take another impact, directly on top of where the first shot had been despite the fact Lance wouldn’t be able to see any damage.

He was amazing.

And at this rate Shiro was going to be dead. 

“Shiro, move!” Pidge snapped in his ear, voice sharp with fear, just as a third shot struck and that time Shiro heard the crack as the shield began to fracture under the assault. 

He flung himself to the side as while he was still completely out in the open it forced Lance to shoot in a different spot where the shield was still fully intact and prolonging it’s life.

Prolonging his.

Although unless something changed…

Shiro summoned his shield before the fourth strike could hit, throwing it over his head and feeling it reverberate from the strike but unlike the head shield it wasn’t shoving him backwards from the force and Shiro was able to pick his head up and look at the scene.

The crowd was in a full panic as they rushed to get away and while normally a Paladin’s duty would be to protect them Shiro knew with one hundred percent certainty none of those people were the target.

He was.

And he was grateful for it.

Let Lance target him first, keep the the other Paladins safe for the meantime. 

He clambered to his feet and dodged to the left, aiming for a set of decorative pillars and flowerpots that would at least provide him a little cover.

“Galran!” Coran’s voice, more breathless than Shiro had ever heard him sounded in his ear comm. “I spot a Galran in the crowd!” and Shiro knew that if Coran was calling out such a figure he wasn’t some innocent bystander who just happened to be the universe’s most feared race. “Forty-five degrees to your left, Princess.”

And that meant…

That was no doubt one of Lance’s handlers. 

Shiro didn’t have time to spare a look as his shield took another hit, having to trust Allura’s,  “Coran, Keith, with me,” and the two Alteans and Keith to take care of this additional threat.

But if the Galran was here as insurance — and for what purposes, exactly? To make sure Lance completed his mission? To provide backup due to Voltron’s sheer numbers? — then it stood to reason that the Druid they suspected was here also.

And that was not something they would be so easy to contain.

Shiro made it to the pillar, chest heaving beneath his armor and faintly hearing Pidge cursing in the background that she hadn’t yet located Lance. 

“Hunk,” Shiro called over the comms, “Assist Coran and Keith. Allura, pull back.”

“Sh—”

“I think there’s gonna be a Druid here,” Shiro interrupted her and he heard Allura’s sharp inhale before her quiet, “copy,” as they all knew if there was going to be a fight with a Druid then Allura was the best equipped. “Look for them.”

A second later Shiro head the unmistakable crack of stone breaking and he jerked his head up to see an ugly line wrapping around the pillar he’d taken cover behind, chips of stone flying as Lance barraged it. 

“There!” Pidge’s shout nearly burst Shiro’s eardrum with the static. “I see him!”

Shiro’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Eight-story building in green and gray,” Pidge said before he could even ask where. “Seventh floor, fourth window from the left. I’m going in.” 

There were so many things Shiro wanted to say to that.

He settled on the one he knew was right.

“Be careful.” 

They had a plan worked out. Pidge could be silent when the situation called for it and she’d be moving in cloaked before she pulled out her shock katar as that, they’d calculated, should be strong enough to knock Lance unconscious and Pidge was to bind him before he could regain it.

But to give her the best chance…

Shiro once more needed to play the role of bait just as he had on Rylan.

And he would do so.

He dodged out from behind the pillar just as it started to crumble, going into a roll across the stage and leaping to his feet, careful not to look directly at where he knew Lance was and give away his spot.

What he did though was bellow Lance’s name.

Despite the fact Lance, this time, was most definitely trying to kill him… he was still in there.

And Shiro was going to find him.

“Lance,” he shouted again, shield still raised but his right hand, which Lance knew was his weapon, spread at his side, “we want to help you!”

Lance’s answer was a barrage of shots against his shield, the force driving Shiro’s feet backwards and he grit his teeth, holding on.

These were not physical attacks.

The Altean pixel shield could bear a few more hits.

“We’re not your enemy!” he called. “We’re friends!”

“Almost there,” Pidge panted in his ear and without his helmet on Shiro couldn’t see her but he was betting she was scaling down the building and likely planning to swing and drop in through Lance’s window. 

Another shot.

And another. 

Shiro’s arms shook at the force of the blows, as his shield began to fracture.

“Lance, it’s Shiro!” he tried again, wondering if the boy could even hear him. “I don’t want to fight you!” 

“In three,” Pidge was barely audible, voice a breath. 

Two, Shiro internally counted, holding his breaking shield steady and remaining Lance’s sole target as the barrage continued.

One.

And while there was no noise, no indication of anything, the gunfire came to an abrupt halt and Shiro finally looked to the exact window Pidge had identified.

There was nothing there.

No sign of a shock katar lighting up the room, no glimpse of Pidge’s armor as doing so would make her visible, no sign of Lance or any ensuing fight.

Just nothing.

“Pidge!” he roared, dropping the handle of the barely remaining shield, the entire thing shattering on impact with the ground.

No response. 

“Pidge!” he screamed again and God, God she had had the element of surprise, Lance had been engaged, there should be no way—

“Druid!” came Pidge’s panicked shout. “There’s a —”

Shiro’s blood ran cold as Pidge cut off with a crackle of static. 

A second later Pidge appeared, hurtling herself out of the window — fully visible meaning either she’d used her bayard or the Druid had somehow forced her appearance — with her thrusters activated and in her hands…

Was a sniper rifle.

And behind her appearing in the window…

Was a lavender-skinned woman with soulless yellow eyes, red markings on her cheeks… and a gathering ball of black lightning in her hands.

She, she was going to…

Shiro was sprinting forward although he knew there was no way to reach Pidge in time, that the Druid’s attack was going to hit her and—

A battle cry on both on his comms and outside had Shiro’s heart doing another leap as Allura, propelling herself upward on her own thrusters and with a ball of pink-tinged magic in her hands, appeared. 

The two energy balls collided in with a thunderous crack feet above Pidge while Allura practically tackled the smaller girl in mid-air and sent them flying through a large window of an adjacent building. 

Shiro let out a breath.

Alive.

The Druid disappeared in a crackle of black lightning that Shiro saw a second later reform behind the jagged glass of the room Pidge and Allura were in. 

For now.

“Shiro,” Allura crackled across his comms, voice far more even and laced with a line of hard determination. “Save Lance. Pidge and I shall take on this witch.” 

Before Shiro could even respond Lance — fully masked — was appearing in the window, clearly planning to jump out of it.

But thanks to Pidge he didn’t have a sniper rifle and while his aim might be impeccable his other guns he had were unlikely to pose a threat from that distance, which meant that Lance would need to get closer.

Shiro raised both of his arms, prosthetic glowing deadly purple.

He knew he had the disadvantage — a major one as no matter how close Lance had to get it was still not close enough for Shiro to attack himself — but he’d failed Lance so many times over.

He would not fail him today.

And Shiro charged into battle.

Chapter Text

Sniper propelled himself out of the window in a controlled fall, wind whipping at his cowl as he dropped, looking far more in control than he felt.

He’d, he’d almost…

Green had appeared out of nowhere, invisible feet crashing into his chest and sending him toppling into the room.

There’d been a burst of light and a hot burst of pain — shock, he’d faintly realized, not unlike Mistress’ lightning during punishments coursed through him — but before it could become overwhelming — even if he had dropped his rifle — Mistress had been there. 

Sniper still wasn’t entirely sure all that had happened but Green had thrown herself out the window, Mistress had pursued and…

And then Mistress was gone.

But then her words had crossed his mind. Kill Champion, Sniper. I’ll take care of these two. 

Sniper had felt a hot burst of shame at the fact he was failing in his own mission, that Mistress — after Sir had already been engaged by Sorcerer and Red and Yellow — had to get involved too.

Peace Mistress murmured. It is all right. This mission is difficult, Sniper. And as I told you before… we are here to protect you. Now go. Kill the traitor. 

And so Sniper went.

It wasn’t quite according to plan but he would adapt.

That’s what he did.

And he would win.

Champion was moving quickly as Sniper touched down several hundred feet away at the base of the building. Champion was strong, but he had one major weakness: long-distance combat.

And that was Sniper’s specialty.

He was unholstering both of his pistols, one in each hand, and firing within a breath at the approaching man and not willing to let him get any closer and take away Sniper’s own advantage.

Champion swiped his arm through the air and stolen Galran and Druid technology intercepted the shots aimed for his head.

Sniper kept that barrage going while his right pistol trained itself on the man’s less protected stomach.

And he fired.

His lips pulled up into a barely there smirk as Champion would be forced to make the choice of protecting his head or his stomach and they both knew which one he would do so.

It fell though as Champion did the unexpected; blocking his stomach while letting the shot aimed at his head strike.

Neither landed.

Champion deflected the one aimed at his midsection and the kill shot fizzled out against a glimmer of particles that turned to shards and crashed to the ground.

Sniper’s lips pulled up again while Champion’s eyes widened even as he didn’t stop his forward charge.

That was his last shield. 

And now…

“La—”

Sniper took the shot before Champion could even try to call him by that name, that lie, spew any more poison from his lips, audible now from the barely there faint shouts he’d been easily able to ignore before. 

Champion though lived up to his name and managed to deflect both by raising his arm up and taking the lower shot with his back armor as he curled over and dove into a roll to the side, momentum broken.

Sniper pursued. 

Just keep firing.

Take him down.

Kill him. 

Champion was back on his feet in a moment though despite the blasts aimed at his head and he was charging with a roar that wasn’t unlike that of a beast of that cursed name again.

Or…

A lion.

The thought was as fleeting as the sudden stillness that had taken over Sniper’s limbs and he gave his head shake of his head.

No.

This was the enemy.

A traitor.

Sniper had let him live before and he regretted it.

He would have no regrets today.

He would make Mistress and Sir proud.

He fired both guns.

The fatal one once more aimed at Champion’s head was knocked away but the second…

It cut right into the unprotected part of the man’s thigh, blood splattering the white armor and air.

He stumbled on his next step.

And kept coming. 

Sniper fought back the shudder.

But it was fine.

He had more than a hundred feet still and the next shot would be enough to stop him.

And then he would finish him.

Champion had no choice but to protect his head and that meant everywhere else was fair game.

Sniper did not waste it.

He fired a second shot into the same leg, peppered a line all down Champion’s chest and stomach, singeing white armor and going right through the black. 

Champion still didn’t stop.

Eighty feet.

Seventy.

Sixty.

Fifty.

There…

There was no stopping him.

Champion was riddled with holes now, blood dripping his legs, his left arm, his chest, and he still kept charging, kept his flaming purple arm up to protect his head and neck, his chest angled low so Sniper couldn’t get a good hit to puncture through the armor.

And…

Sniper’s breaths were echoing behind his mask as a shiver of fear went down his spine.

If, if he failed here…

If he failed again… 

Then he…

He would…

Forty…

Thirty…

And Sniper was out of time.

He dropped both useless pistols and drew his knife and sword.

Seconds later Champion was upon him, his arm clashing against the raised sword in a shower of sparks and his armored forearm blocking the knife strike at his gut. 

Sniper pivoted out of the exchange, kicking out low.

Champion jumped over his limb and threw out his own leg.

Sniper took it straight in the chest.

His blades cut down, sliding off the armored leg, as he stumbled backwards, ache in his chest and lungs struggling to draw in a full breath.

Shiro didn’t let him.

It wasn’t how he wanted to fight, but it was how he needed to. He couldn't afford to be a Paladin of Voltron right now.

He had to be Champion, the human who had survived the bloodbath of the Arena through any means necessary. 

It terrified him.

That person terrified him, those memories terrified him, and giving up any measure of control to that side of him…

But losing Lance scared him more.

Not again.

Not ever again.

And Shiro roared. 

Pain was motivation, it was proof he lived, it fueled him, charged him, and he embraced it.

Physical pain didn’t matter, it didn’t last, it was fleeting.

The pain of Lance disappearing again, of being forced to be this cold-blooded assassin for any moment longer, hurt so much more.

And so Shiro took the cut across his arm, the kick to his stomach, the elbow to his ribs.

He gave back a burning wound on Lance’s extended left arm, twisted the arm around even if he wasn’t able to make it snap as Lance turned with him and freed himself with his own well placed kick.

He didn’t try to speak, didn’t try to get Lance to stand down.

The young man in front of him today was different that the one on Xeada.

He had no hesitation.

And the moment Shiro missteped it was over.

The fight continued, silent save for the grunts and moans and shing as Lance’s blades encountered Shiro’s prosthetic and the soft thuds as they hit at each other’s armor and slammed feet into the ground to keep their balance. 

And then Lance’s knife found a home in Shiro’s stomach.

Deja vu hit him full force as Lance yanked it free with a spurt of blood and Shiro felt himself falling, knees and hands slamming into the ground.

No.

God no.

This couldn’t—

A sharp kick snapped beneath him and Shiro’s choked scream was swallowed as he flipped over onto his back, Lance lowering his now blood-covered boot and advancing with his sword.

“L-Lance,” Shiro whispered, tasting blood along with failure.

Again.

He’d failed again . 

His own desperation was no match against whatever fear drove Lance forward and his handicap of having to refrain from an attack that could kill while Lance this time had no such qualms…

He stared up at the faceless person looming above him, sword shaking ever so.

“My name isn’t Lance,” came the distorted voice. And then, a sneer. “Champion.”

Shiro’s eyes widened.

What?

What had Lance just called him?

“You betrayed the Empire,” Sniper said, alarmed to hear his voice shaking, alarmed more that he was engaging with Champion when he should just kill him why wasn’t he killing him why was he stalling? “You betrayed me.” 

And it was time he ended this.

No more hesitating.

No more stalling.

No more feeling a twinge of something for this man collapsed before him.

He was the enemy.

And enemies died.

Sniper raised his sword, just as he had in the simulation—

And a ball of yellow-tinged white light slammed into him.

He flew backwards with a shout, head over heels and preservation instincts told him to drop the sword before he impaled himself, pulling the knife flush against his chest, shoulders slamming into the dirt, his head, and he felt his mask fly off, his cowl fall back.

When he came to a final stop he was flat on his back, chest heaving, entire body aching and now overbright sun without his mask’s shielding blinding him.

It was that last one that had him struggling to his feet, listing sideways even as he lifted his remaining blade, in the direction of the newest threat.

Yellow.

Yellow, who Sir had been fighting. 

But, but if Yellow was here then where was…?

“Lance,” Yellow spoke that false name, but his tone was soft, trembling, and despite the fact he easily had the advantage with a long-range cannon, he did not fire it. 

Instead he was stepped in front of the downed Champion while Sorcerer along with Red — and sick fear shot through Sniper because if they were both here then Sir… then Sir… — knelt next to him, Red with a folded jacket pressed to the open stomach wound and Sorcerer with one hand supporting Champion’s back.

Sniper remained where he was, trying to catch his breath.

He would not fall for their fake mercy but he would take advantage of it.

Twenty seconds.

In twenty seconds he’d catch his breath and find the strength to finish his mission.

“Lance, it’s me,” Yellow continued, taking a slow step forward. “Hunk.”

His words meant nothing.

Just more lies.

More trickery.

“We’re brothers, Lance,” Yellow said. “Tu…” he swallowed thickly. “Tu eres mi hermano.”

Sniper’s breath caught at the last word.

Hermano.

Hermano.

That, that word…

Laughter trickled across his memory, but it wasn’t cruel like Mistress’ or amused like Sir’s.

It was innocent.

Kind. 

“Tu eres mi hermano,” Yellow said the strange phrase again, stepping closer despite the advantage it gave Sniper.

Why?

Why was he coming closer?

Who, who was this person?

Mistress had said he was with Voltron, that Champion had defected to them, but…

But why did this person speak to him so familiarly?

Why…

A soft sob sounded in his head.

A sob he couldn’t explain.

Sniper’s eyes widened.

That… that was the sob from his memory.

He’d forgotten it.

But it…

It…

It was…

It was him. 

It belonged to Yellow.

Why?

Why did Sniper know that?

Why did he care?

Hermano.

Hermano.

“Te quiero, Lance,” Yellow said.

The words made Sniper’s chest ache.

Not with pain, but…

But… 

Te quiero.

What, what did they mean?

His hand shook at his side, blade clattering against his own armor.

Yellow was coming closer.

His cannon was gone now, a sort of disc in his hand.

Behind him Sniper could see Champion trying to struggle to a sit, a broken sounding plea — a sob, another sob — while Sorcerer held him and was staring at Sniper with those shifting magical eyes.

But he did not speak.

Only Yellow did.

“Lance, hermano,” he was so close now Sniper could make out the sheen of tears gathering in the corners of dark honey colored eyes. 

He was crying.

Not in pain though.

Not in fear.

He was crying because of…

Of Sniper?

No.

The thought, strange as it was, struck without warning.

He was crying for Sniper.

“I know you’re in there,” Yellow whispered, drawing even closer.

Sniper’s hand remained at his side, blade pointed down.

He needed to move.

He couldn't seem to move.

“You’re my brother, Lance. Tu eres mi hermano. Te quiero, hermano. Ahora y siempre.”

Sniper did not know those words.

And yet somehow he did.

They meant…

Brother.

I love you.

Now and always.

How?

How did he know those words?

Why was Yellow saying them?

Why…

Why was he listening? 

He couldn’t seem to stop. 

“Soy Hunk,” Yellow was not even a foot away now, well within striking distance. “Tu eres Lance, mi hermano. Y te quiero.”

Sniper’s pulse roared in his ears.

He didn’t move.

He was frozen.

Hermano.

Brother.

I love you.

This…

This was…

He…

KILL HIM! Mistress screamed in his ear, order accompanied by a searing heat that had Sniper both screaming…

And lunging forward, blade raised.

Yellow let out a gasp as Sniper drilled his knife through the armor on his chest and sank the blade in his ribcage.

But rather than backing up, trying to disengage, to fight back…

Yellow lifted up both of his arms, wrapped them around Sniper’s back and squeezed. 

The action wasn’t painful at all.

It…

It felt…

“Pidge,” Yellow croaked. “Now.”

And then Sniper was the one screaming — Yellow screaming with him — as lightning sang through his veins, crackling and burning and blackness stealing away the edges of his vision.

Faintly he could hear Mistress screaming, her fire interlaced with the never-ending lightning.

And everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Shiro stared in a sort of numb, blood-loss induced horror as Lance and Hunk collapsed in a tangle of limbs, revealing Pidge — black blood splattered across her armor — standing behind them with her shock katar looking just as horrified.

What had just…

What?

His brain was moving too slowly for his liking, trying to piece things together.

Hunk had saved him, blasting Lance away.

Hunk had pursued Lance but not with his bayard.

With words.

Shiro had gone to try to follow, to stop him, but Keith had been there, pressing Coran’s torn but heavy jacket to Shiro’s stomach and Coran holding him both up and down with a murmur to believe in Hunk. Truly, he’d whispered, if anyone had a chance at getting through to Lance it would be his brother.

And Hunk…

He had. 

Lance’s face had been revealed but it did not contain the hot narrowed, calculating, heartless eyes that matched the sneer of when Lance had called him Champion.

They were small and pinpricked and scared — fear, just like Coran had said he’d felt before — and focused both on Hunk and…

And something beyond all of them.

Most telling was he had not attacked.

He had remained frozen as Hunk approached, trembling growing worse and not from his injuries. 

Like…

Like he was hearing Hunk.

And Hunk had been almost to him when Lance had violently reacted, whipping his blade up out of nowhere and Shiro would have thought it had all been an act, a ploy, to lure Hunk in close, but…

But the sheer fear and flash of pain that had filled Lance’s face in the split-second before told him that was not the case. 

And Hunk…

Hunk had reacted to taking a knife to the ribs by pulling Lance into a hug and then… then Pidge had been there — not cloaked, but Shiro hadn’t even seen her coming up behind — with her shock katar and she’d just knocked both boys out. 

What had happened to the Druid she and Allura had been fighting?

What had happened to the Galran that Hunk and Coran had engaged with?

“No time,” Coran’s voice was sharp but not unkind and Shiro faintly realized he’d been mumbling his thoughts aloud, and then he moaned as Coran bodily picked him up, cradling him in oversized arms. “Keith, can you—?”

Shiro watched through bleary eyes as Keith was already sprinting away and kneeling on the ground next to Lance to hoist him into a fireman’s carry, while Allura — covered too in black blood and that had to be the Druid, God, what had happened? — with Pidge’s assistance and a groan pulled Hunk onto her back.

And then they were running.

Shiro tried to swallow back his whimper as well as the sudden bout of nausea even as his brain went on a circle as he looked to where Keith was just a few paces to Coran’s left.

Keith with Lance over his shoulders.

Lance.

Lance was…

He was coming home. 

They’d done it.

His eyes slipped closed and Shiro tried to focus on breathing, on pulling himself together, his own hands gravitating down to the jacket compress and forcing himself to push down, to apply the pressure his body needed on the most grievous of the wounds even though he could feel blood trickling down from nearly everywhere.

He didn’t have time to pass out now.

He refused. 

When they reached the castle a few minutes later Shiro was by no means better but his vision was steadier as he opened his eyes, the castle hallways rushing past in a blur.

He knew exactly where they were going.

The infirmary.

A minute later they were practically skidding into the chilled room and Shiro was being lowered down onto an infirmary bed, peripherally aware of Allura practically dropping Hunk on the other one while Keith hesitated at the threshold before Coran beckoned him over to the exam table that Pidge was throwing a blanket atop the metal surface.

Keith, as gently as possible, slipped Lance off of his shoulders and onto the table, the boy completely limp and face slack.

Shiro’s heart jolted.

They hadn’t accidentally killed him, had they?

But Lance’s chest rose a second later and Shiro shuddered out a breath.

His body took that moment to remind him he’d almost been gutted again and the breath turned into a moan, drawing every conscious person’s eye.

“‘m fine,” Shiro tried to wave a hand, swallowing and trying again. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m the queen,” Pidge retorted, although it lacked any sort of fire.

Just exhaustion.

“You need a pod, Shiro,” Allura more reasonably said, slumping against Hunk’s bed, the larger boy still unconscious with Lance’s knife sticking out of his armor like a sick flag. 

“No,” Shiro gave a stubborn shake of his head.

He didn’t have time for a pod.

He needed answers.

He needed to be here.

His gaze flicked from Hunk and Allura to Pidge at his side to Keith and Coran, who…

Who he found was activating glowing teal restraints from the underside of the table to wrap around Lance’s body, pinning him to the table.

“I do not like it either,” Coran said, his voice low and sad, “but for the moment it is a needed precaution. And you, lad—”

“Stitches,” Shiro interrupted him and Coran’s brow furrowed. “I just need stitches.”

“What does sewing have to do with—?”

“He means stitches in his skin, Coran,” Pidge answered with zero snark, guilt still painted on her face and eyes darting between Lance and Hunk.

Coran paled. “Stitches in the skin? That… that is barbaric.” 

And under any other circumstance Shiro might have tried to reassure the Altean that while it wasn’t quite the technology Alteans were used to it wasn’t quite so bad, but he could feel himself starting to fade again and he needed this done now.

He just…

His hand shook.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to—

“I’ll do it,” Keith said, shifting over to Shiro’s side and meeting his gaze with shared knowing, expression tight. “Coran, I just need a needle and thread.”

Coran gave a small nod. “Number Five, would you be able to fetch that for us? There should be a sewing kit in the tapestry room.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pidge said.

She practically ran from the room.

“Princess, we need to be in the air,” Coran said. “Unless, of course…?”

“Not dead,” Allura said quietly, guilt bleeding off of her too and Shiro tried his best to follow. “She teleported away just as I made to move in. She suffered wounds,” she gestured at the black blood decorating her armor, “but nothing fatal.”

“The Galran’s dead.”

Keith said it bluntly but this close Shiro could see that his hands, clenched into fists at his sides, were trembling.

Shiro’s heart broke.

Killing was not new to any of them. They avoided it where they could, but not all aliens could be allowed to live, and Keith and Shiro, both with close combat weapons… they tended to be the ones most involved in messy deaths. 

“I shed no tears,” Coran said, voice like ice. “That praxia…” he trailed off, looking over to Lance. “I shed no tears,” Coran repeated, softer. 

Quiet echoed in the infirmary as they all stared at Lance’s still form.

Allura pulled herself out of it first with a small shake of her head.

“I shall report to the bridge and get the castle into space and then cloaked. I shall also reach out to Kolivan and alert him as to events so he may update the council, perhaps send representatives to Zlato given our abrupt exit.” Her gaze went back to Lance. “I shall return as soon as I am able.”

And with a flutter of hair long fallen out of its bun, Allura headed for the exit. 

“Number One, you remain there,” Coran said, making his way over to Hunk. “But tell me, are there any immediate wounds I should be concerned of for Lance?”

Shiro gave a mute shake of his head.

Nothing he’d done was anywhere near fatal nor damaging.

Coran hummed and returned his attention to Hunk, gently ordering Keith to start addressing Shiro’s other wounds and Shiro aided as best he could by trying to remove armor without actually moving, holding down compresses as Keith tightly and efficiently wound bandages around the numerous gunshot wounds littering his body.

He said nothing as he worked, eyes narrowed and hands shaking slightly, and Shiro tried his hardest not to distract him. It was far from an actual fix and the pain hadn’t really lessened much, but Shiro felt better knowing that for the moment he wasn’t losing any more blood in those particular areas and when they had the time a pod would heal them.

By the time Coran was stuck on how to best remove the knife — Hunk not so much as stirring during the entire armor removal process — lodged inside him but, thankfully Coran had murmured, not looking to be anywhere near his lungs or heart — Pidge was returning with the requested items.

“I could use your help,” Keith said to her quietly as he unpacked the kit, emerging a moment later with a pack of needles and Shiro tried not to tense as the sudden image of needles and syringes accompanied by cold hands flashed through his mind.

He breathed deeply out through his nose and when Keith turned worried eyes he mustered up the best smile he could and grunted out, “Ow.”

Keith’s expression didn’t quite lighten but the worst faded away. 

Shiro tried to focus on breathing.

He was fine.

He was okay.

He, he was himself.

Shiro.

Shirogane Takashi. 

Not, not Champion.

Not a slave.

Not a medical experiment.

And Keith wasn’t going to do anything he hadn’t asked him to.

It was just pai—

Shiro shut the thought down, the mantra that had carried him through some of his darkest days.

Not here.

Not now.

Pidge had left the bedside to retrieve a bucket of water and clean towels while Keith had lit up a small burner on the counter that Coran used for a tea kettle — why run to the kitchen for tea for sick patients when they could brew it right here? he’d pointed out — and was sterilizing needles in the flames.

When they both returned — Keith forcing a water pouch upon him that Shiro had reflexively drank — Shiro had schooled his face to as even an expression as he could make it, although it pinched as Keith went to cut away his ruined undersuit.

Keith didn’t offer empty platitudes and Shiro didn’t ask him to stop, tensing as the fabric was removed and the ugly wound was on full display, along with the peek of another scar that he tried not to think too much on.

“Oh, Shiro,” Pidge murmured, already reaching out with a damp towel and Shiro bit his tongue to hold in the hiss. She looked up at him. “You really should go in a pod.”

Shiro gave a sharp shake of his head. 

No.

Not at least until he knew Hunk and Lance were going to be okay and… and after Lance woke up.

His eyes drifted back to the boy — still in the exact same position but chest steadily rising — and Pidge followed his gaze before her eyes lowered.

And while there was a lot Shiro could not fix he could fix this.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured and Pidge’s head jerked up, denial already on her lips.

“I hurt him,” she choked out. “And Hunk. They, they were screaming and, and I didn’t stop shocking them and…”

And in doing so…

She’d done what Shiro hadn’t been able to.

“You brought him home, Katie,” he said softly. “And that’s all that matters.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she gave a shaky nod.

“Okay, I’m going in,” Keith announced a minute later as Pidge cleaned up as much of the blood as she could, his skin glistening and a hint of pink where it was pulled apart and Shiro averted his eyes, a question in the statement.

“Do it,” Shiro whispered, closing his eyes.

His nails dug into his left palm as he felt the needle dive below his skin.

A second later a small hand was prodding at his fingers and slipping between, holding tight. Shiro squeezed Pidge’s hand back as tight as he dared.

“What,” he gasped, needing to focus on anything else right now, “what about the, the tr-track—” he cut off as Keith moved towards the deepest part of the wound. 

“Any tracking he had in the armor got fried,” Pidge said, “and if he does have anything internal it should be offline for a while. Plus, if Allura’s getting the castle cloaked that should throw off most signals. And even if it doesn’t…” her hand tightened around Shiro’s, “that Druid is in no condition to come after us right now.”

“You’re okay?” Shiro murmured.

Pidge nodded. “Yeah. She surprised me though. She was in the room with Lance. I thought…”

She shuddered.

Shiro squeezed her hand back. 

“Allura’s a bad ass motherfucker though,” she continued on and Keith let out a huff of agreement while Shiro wasn’t sure if he should be reprimanding her or agreeing as well.

He settled on both.

“She is… and language.”

Pidge stuck her tongue out at him but just like that the worst of the tension in the room disappeared.

It lessened even more as across the room Hunk made an audible moan and every single head whipped in that direction to see the larger boy was waking up, armor and underarmor shirt off and a large swathe of bandages wrapped about his chest that Coran had finished just in time.

“Laaaancce,” Hunk moaned, head rolling on the pillow. 

“Go to him,” Shiro gave Pidge’s hand one last squeeze and she darted over to Hunk’s side, picking up one of his hands and holding it between her own, murmuring something too soft for Shiro to make out.

Hunk calmed a moment later though even though it was followed by a sob and an “easy, lad,” as he tried to move and Coran held him to the bed, “lie still for a few minutes please.”

“Done,” Keith and the sound of scissors snipping a thread summoned Shiro’s attention. 

“Thank you,” Shiro murmured.

“You still need a pod,” Keith replied with, curt in tone. “But that should hold for now.”

“Keith,” Shiro reached a hand out, wincing at the movement, but brushing it against Keith’s elbow and bringing a sharp purple gaze to meet his own.  “What’s wrong?”

“Other than the fact you almost died again?” Keith snapped before a flush stole over his cheeks and he pointedly looked away. 

And Shiro was hit with the sudden realization that in his desire to save Lance, to redeem his own failures in previous attempts to do so…

That he’d scared his own brother in the process.

“Come here,” he tapped the small space of bed on his left side that no one except maybe Pidge should be able to squeeze into but Keith had always somehow managed to get himself into and out of the smallest of spaces.

Keith hung back.

“Keith, come here,” Shiro repeated.

Keith paused for only a moment to remove his chestplate and arm guards before he moved, carefully and well aware of Shiro’s still undressed wound, and snuggled against his side, Shiro painfully but determinedly looping his left arm over him.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of the dark head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know,” Keith whispered back. 

Shiro pressed another kiss to Keith’s hair. He couldn’t promise it would never happen again, but…

But he’d do his best to make sure that in trying to save one life he didn’t destroy another. They were all finally back together, and they were going to stay that way.

And as if on cue Lance let out a soft moan and his head rolled on the table.

Keith tensed at Shiro’s side and Shiro was aware of Coran putting the scissors back into the drawer and shoving it closed.

Removing any sharp objects and potential weapons, Shiro realized.

Although given the fact Lance was restrain—

Lance woke up with a gasp, entire body jerking as he tried to sit up and encountered resistance, and he jerked again, eyes flying open.

They were as pinpricked as Shiro had seen them before.

And this time…

They were the cause of that fear as Lance’s head swung wildly about the room, harsh breaths echoing in the silence before his gaze landed on the closest bed.

Sniper’s eyes widened.

Champion?

And, his eyes darted to the figure next to the traitor.

Red?

What?

What was going on?

What had—

His breath hitched.

Yellow.

He’d, he’d said something.

He’d used magic — humans didn’t have magic, that was impossible, but what else was it? — and then there had been pain and—

No.

No, before that Mistress had—

Mistress!

But there was no sensation of Mistress brushing against his mind in a caress, in a sear of heat, no whispered word or command.

Just silence.

She…

She was…

She was gone. 

What, what they done to her?

Where was Sir?

What had happened to Sir?

“Lance.”

The word came from the left and Sniper whipped his head as far as he could — he was restrained, he was tied up, he was being punished, he was going to be hurt — and his sight settled on Yellow — bandages across his front, he’d stabbed him, he’d stabbed him, he’d screamed and Yellow had screamed and he’d…he’d hugged him? — sitting up in a bed with a small girl — Green — next to him and behind him was Sorcerer.

All of them save for Pink were here.

And it was Yellow who had spoken, his eyes filling once more with tears.

“Lance,” he repeated. “Hermano.”

And that word Sniper started at again.

Hermano.

Brother.

It was a magic spell.

But…

But why would Yellow use magic on him now?

He was already restrained, he—

He was restrained.

Punished.

Sniper gave another wrench of his shoulders, feeling energy cords pulsing into his skin and he let out an involuntary whimper as the movement pressed on the burns he’d gotten from Champion.

“Lance, lad,” Sorcerer stepped forward, “you are hurting yourself.”

Hurting.

Hurt.

They were going to hurt him.

They were going to torture him and interrogate him and…

And Sniper knew what he had to do.

He’d been captured by the enemy.

He was a liability to the Empire.

Sir had gone over what he was to do if he ever were to be captured and could not escape.

And Sniper…

He gave another wrench of his shoulders.

He did not think he was escaping.

Not with the magic wielded here, the strength in numbers, the fact he was wounded and unarmed and against all of them, all alone…

He was no match.

It was no wonder he had been unable to take down Champion on his own before when he’d first turned traitor.

It was an impossible task.

And so the only thing Sniper could do…

He pressed his tongue to the back of his mouth, pushing at his back molar.

It had hurt so much when Sir had done the surgery, forcing Sniper to stay awake during it. Practice, he’d said, for interrogation. He could handle a little pain, couldn’t he?

And Sniper could, absolutely.

But these aliens had magic. 

And Sniper would rather die than help them in any way.

He faintly heard his enemies calling him that fake name, voices rising in pitch, a background of sound over the growing sound of his pulse.

It would be the last time he heard it.

He popped the fake cap off, tongue feeling out the poison pill stored there…

And hands — Red’s and Sorcerer’s — were suddenly in his mouth, pulling at his lips, diving at his throat and Sniper gagged, throwing his head as though that would dislodge them, but it just made them cling harder and he felt the moment a hand landed on the pill he was desperately trying to swallow down.

The hands retreated a moment later, the small capsule pinched in Sorcerer's fingers and his expression pale and horrified.

Sniper could only stare at him, breaths still coming in sharp pants.

He’d failed.

He’d failed.

The punishment for this level of failure was death.

And he’d failed in even that.

And now…

He trembled as he became aware of everyone starting to crowd in, to gather around where he was restrained and helpless. 

They were going to hurt him.

They were going to torture him.

They were going to punish him.

And all it meant was after all this time, all the good he’d tried to do…

Sniper was worthless after all.