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?”