Chapter Text
“Do you think it’s too late for a major career change?”
Pidge took a moment to look up from her computer and at Lance, a brow raised in a teasing manner.
"Sure, Lance. Twenty-five years old is a great point in your life to drop your dreams and everything you've ever worked for."
Lance traced a pattern on the table. "Maybe I could be a dog walker. I like dogs."
Pidge smiled at that, giving Lance a look.
“Work that bad, today?” she asked.
Lance sulked, burying his face in his palm. “I have to write a fluff piece on that Taylor Swift interview. The one with the puppies.”
“Aw,” a voice exclaimed as Hunk came into Lance's line of view, placing a coffee down in front of him. Hunk leaned onto the back of Lance’s chair as he wiped his hands on his apron. “I saw that interview! It was cute.”
Lance gave his best friend an unamused look, and Pidge not-so-subtly held back a snort.
“Did I say something wrong?” Hunk asked nervously, straightening up as he looked from Pidge to Lance.
“Lance has to write a piece on that video,” Pidge announced. Hunk's face quickly took on a bewildered look.
“Man, is Iverson still assigning you all those filler articles?” he exclaimed. Lance responded with a dejected nod before he buried his head in his arms, complete with a dramatic, miserable moan.
"The lab is looking for a temp to do coffee runs if you're interested, Lance," Pidge spoke up.
Lance lifted up his head to give her a glare. "Ha-ha."
Pidge smirked into her mug and let out a mumble that sounded suspiciously like "just trying to be helpful".
Lance's phone buzzed with an alarm, and he glanced at the time before letting out another sad moan.
“I don’t wanna go back to work,” he complained.
“Aw chin up, buddy,” Hunk tried to soothe, placing a warm hand on Lance’s back. “Where’s the enthusiastic journalist we all know and love?”
“He died from being forced to write shitty articles for two years,” Lance replied before removing his face from behind his fingers and grabbing his coffee. He held the paper cup in his hands, thumb running over the logo “Balmera&Garrett”.
“Do you guys ever question your careers?” Lance murmured, looking up at his friends.
Pidge shrugged as she continued to type away at her computer, letting out a nonchalant “nah” just as Hunk spoke up.
“I mean, I co-own a really well-off bakery with my amazing and beautiful fiancee. I’m kinda living out my dream, here.”
Lance sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I get it- you’re both happy.”
Hunk stilled, worry flicking over his face. “Lance, I know it may not seem like it, right now, but you’re kind of living out your dream, too. It’s just… taking some time for you to fully get there. But you will, I promise.”
“This isn’t my dream,” Lance retorted. “I wanted to be a big-time reporter. I wanted to write about things that matter. Important articles about things I'm passionate about- things that help people! I’ve been working at the Daily Journal for years, and all I’ve written about are old people, fluffy animals, and adorable little kids.”
“Hey, I liked your article about the cat that saved that baby,” Hunk complimented.
Lance sighed. “It’s garbage, Hunk. It’s all trash. And I just… I feel like...” Lance broke off with a groan, shaking his head. He picked up his coffee, stood up, and slung on his messenger bag. “Never mind. I’m gonna be late. I’ll text you guys, later.”
Hunk and Pidge met eyes, both looking concerned, but they bid their farewells. Then Hunk jumped, straightening up as a smile lit his face.
“Oh! Lance, wait one sec,” he instructed before quickly making his way to the counter, saying something to his fiancee, Shay. She smiled and nodded before walking back into the kitchen and bringing out a tray. Steam rose from it, and Hunk grabbed one of the pastries, putting it in a paper bag along with a napkin before making his way back to Lance.
“This is for you,” he smiled, looking both proud of himself and mischievous at the same time. Lance blinked before taking the bag and opening it up.
He paused, eyes wide.
“They’re your mom’s apple empanadas. She finally gave me the recipe.”
Lance felt overwhelmed with emotion, and the warm smell of the pastry gave him a new inkling of hope. He looked up at his best friend and gave him a big smile before pulling him in for a hug.
“Thanks, man.”
Hunk hugged him back, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Of course,” he spoke softly before pulling away and meeting Lance's eyes with a determined look. “Don’t give up, okay? I know your big break is coming. I can feel it.”
Lance gave Hunk a quivery smile before nodding, wiping at his wet eyes. “Alright, yeah. You’re right.”
“Duh. Now go get ‘em.”
Lance stretched from his seat at his desk, popping his back as he let out a sigh.
He’d finished his article. The whole process had been painstaking, and every fibre of his being had fought the process, but he’d finally finished it.
Lance had never had so much trouble writing six hundred words of nothing.
He glanced at the clock. It was already seven-thirty. He’d stayed way too late….
Shutting down his computer, Lance gathered his things and made his way out of his cubicle.
Voices gathered his attention.
His coworkers Flo, Nyma, and Rolo were gathered around Flo’s desk, speaking in low voices, though they were the only ones left in the office. Lance caught Flo’s excited tone, and stopped in his tracks, concealed from their view.
“--she went looking for him over in Midtown by that one skeezy bar- Vrepit-Sa, I think?”
Rolo scoffed. “Well, that was her first mistake. There’s no gang activity there- just some low-lives that jack people’s wallets.”
“He’s speaking from experience, by the way,” Nyma teased.
“It was my first week in the city, give me a break.”
“Anyways,” Flo continued, “Pretty much every reporter in Altea is scrambling to get the first scoop on him.”
“Good luck to them,” Rolo replied. “Nobody’s ever seen the guy. I bet he’s a myth- just something to spook the criminals into hiding.”
“He’s real! That Galra gang got hit. It’s gotten them angry, but they’re laying low from what I’ve heard.”
“It’s probably just some rival group,” Rolo rebutted, “not some shade person--”
“The Shadow,” Flo corrected. “That’s what they’re calling him. And I bet he’s real.”
“Well, either way,” Nyma interrupted them both, “I’m sure as hell not risking my life to get info on someone who may or may not exist. If nobody has even seen him, then I’m not taking any chances. As if we’d even have a Super in our city.”
Flo spoke up.
“It doesn’t change the fact that Iverson’s gonna be looking for someone to send to the figurative guillotine. He’d do anything to have the Daily Journal be the first news company to gather evidence on this guy. I bet he’s gonna make the announcement real soon.”
“I just feel sorry for the poor sucker that actually takes the job,” Rolo sighed.
Lance plopped onto his well-worn couch, flicking through channels on his T.V. as he balanced a bowl of tomato soup on his lap. He barely processed the screen on the boxy television set as image after image appeared and flickered away.
His mind was reeling.
If his coworkers’ gossip was right, Altean Daily Journal would be looking for someone to cover the rumors of the city’s strange new vigilante.
Every story on The Shadow was just that- a story. There had yet to be any physical description, face to face encounter, or proof of the hero.
It sounded like a fairytale, really. Some person that nobody’s actually seen, slipping out from the shadows to save helpless old ladies and take out mobsters before slipping away- not saying a word or leaving any evidence of their existence.
If Lance took this opportunity… it could be his big break. Just like Hunk said.
Though, Lance was fairly sure his best friend would strongly oppose this venture if he became aware of it.
"--another supposed encounter of none other than the mysterious Shadow Man that has all of Altea talking."
Lance's thumb froze on the remote, and his eyes widened as he quickly raised the volume.
"Earlier this evening the two day search for Elizabeth Bowen, the eight-year old daughter of our city's mayor, Charlize Bowen, came to an end when she showed up on her parents' doorstep- exhausted and panicked, but otherwise unharmed. City police are currently investigating the alleged kidnapping of Ms. Bowen- a crime that is reported to have been connected to recent gang activity. When questioned on the matter of her escape from her captors, young Elizabeth is reported to have said, and I quote 'The Shadow Man saved me. He brought me home'.
"The previously mentioned rumors of gang activity taking part in the kidnapping of Ms. Bowen are still under heavy investigation. Many believe the city's new 'vigilante' to be the true culprit of this crime, but our mayor has a different take on the matter."
The scene cut to the mayor where she stood by the gate of her manor. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired, her hair lightly frazzled, but she held her famously strong composure for the camera.
"I don't care who he is or what anyone is saying. That man- that hero brought my daughter back to me. For that, he has my complete gratitude. That is all I have to say."
The scene cut back to the news reporter.
"We have yet to learn if Ms. Bowen was able to catch a glimpse of her savior, but- due to his reputation- we believe our secretive hero and his identity will remain safe in the shadows as he continues to watch over this city and its people--"
Lance was leaned so far forward that his bowl lost balance on his lap, spilling onto his carpet.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, putting the bowl aside before cutting off the television and beelining it to the kitchen to get some towels. As he grabbed some his phone vibrated with a notification from where it laid on his kitchen counter. Lance reached over and grabbed it, checking the message.
It was an email notification from Iverson. There would be a meeting tomorrow at eleven.
Lance's thoughts were going a mile a minute as he scrubbed at his carpet.
Iverson was going to pick up on the momentum The Shadow was leaving behind. What with the mayor's daughter and all the other recent reports, Lance just knew the press would be hot on the topic. Iverson would have to act quickly to be the first to get the scoop on it all. He'd be sending people out- one probably to harass the mayor with questions, maybe another to confront the local police... and another to do some extra digging.
And Lance knew which job he'd end up choosing. Though now he was wondering about practicality of it all....
If The Shadow could manage to save the mayor's daughter and bring her back to her home without showing his face, how did Lance expect to ever be the first to put an image to him? It seemed impossible... far too impossible for a filler-journalist whose most recent article was about puppies.
Lance frowned. No. He wouldn't think that way. This was his only chance. There was no room for doubts. He had to do this. He would do this.
How hard could it be?
When Lance walked into the office the next morning, it turned out that his assumptions (and Flo's) had been correct. Everybody was chatting about the last-minute meeting, and there were occasional mentions of The Shadow. Lance overheard two of his coworkers talking from the desk next to his.
“Did you hear how he saved the mayor’s daughter?” The first girl mentioned in a low tone.
The other person made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know. Seems fishy to me.”
“How so?”
“It seems like there’s something else at play, here. It’s all just too convenient. How do we know this guy is who he says he is? I mean, he keeps himself hidden- how is that trustworthy?”
The first girl rolled her eyes playfully. “Some people value privacy, Sam.”
“Yeah, and some people have lots of bad shit they need to keep hidden from the public eye.”
“The mayor released a new statement just this morning. It was confirmed that the kidnapping was related to gang activity. Her daughter made it very clear that The Shadow saved her from it.”
“I don’t know. He’s already tied pretty heavily to this city’s gangs. Who’s to say he’s not just some ploy they’re using to throw the cops off their trail?”
“Why would they go through all that trouble? They’re bringing attention to themselves through this. It’s harming them.”
“Well, maybe they’re taking away the attention from something else," Sam argued. "Something bigger.”
“You’ve been watching too much NCIS.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Sam did make a good point. Lance realized that. But something in him opposed the thought. Call him naive, but there was just something fantastical about the whole superhero thing. It sounded a whole lot nicer than "secret gang member", that was for sure.
Besides, the guy saved a little girl. That won, like, a thousand points in Lance's moral scope.
Debating all of this information throughout the morning really took its toll on Lance's nerves. He couldn't even focus, just bouncing his leg as he thought about The Shadow and waited for the inevitable meeting- a meeting that he just knew would be the deciding factor for a change of his entire future.
When eleven came around, Lance was too wound up to notice. Nyma stopped at his desk, giving his shoulder a little shove.
"Come on, Lance. Let's go."
"Right. Sorry," Lance spoke as he got up, putting away his things.
Nyma tilted her head to the side. "You okay?" she asked, voice sounding concerned. "You've been quiet, today."
Lance tried to give her a smile. "I'm good."
"You sure? Because I'm wearing a new dress and you haven't given me one of your famous McClain compliments. I feel empty. Unsatisfied. Lost, if you will."
Lance snorted as they started to walk off. "Looking good, Nyma."
"Well it's no use now," she teased, bumping her shoulder with his. "Really, though, you sure you're okay?"
Lance smiled, and this time it was genuine. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just didn't sleep much."
"Well maybe you'll get the chance with this meeting. You can use my shoulder as a pillow as long as you don't drool on it."
"Your kindness knows no bounds."
"Thanks! It's one of my best qualities."
When they got to the conference room, Lance took a seat close to the front, much to Nyma's chagrin. She sat with him, though, talking with him until Iverson walked into the room at a brisk pace, swinging the door shut behind him and standing at the head of the table, slamming his hands down on the dark wood of it with a bang! It gathered everyone's undivided attention as a still silence fell over the room- something Iverson's presence tended to bring about.
"I'm sure many of you are wondering why I've called this meeting, today," he spoke, dark eyes intense as they drank in every person in the room. "I've got a special assignment- a big opportunity. And I need my best reporters to step up," he spoke as he stood tall, arms crossed. He took a dramatic pause before continuing.
"I'm sure you've all heard about The Shadow. He's been all over the news- some Crazy who's been going around beating up bad guys and saving the day- the whole Marvel shtick. For those of you who live under a rock, it's been confirmed that he found and saved the mayor's daughter just last night. Now the press is all over this story, scrambling to get the first inside scoop on our new hero. So I'm going to be assigning a few jobs.
"First things first, Mayor Bowen is going to be holding a press conference at City Hall this Thursday. I need one person to go."
Hands shot up immediately, and chaotic conversation rose until no one voice was discernible. Lance remained in his seat, waiting.
There was something else. He wanted to know what the other job was. Iverson was holding it back.
"Reynolds, you go," Iverson finally decided, sending the room into a mixture of noisy complaints and sighs of frustration as Flo smiled in a cocky manner.
"Won't let you down, sir."
"If you like your job you better not," Iverson retorted. "This next one is a bit... unhinged. It's a high risk factor, and the contents of this topic cannot leave this room if you don't want your ass fired and sent to hell so fast you won't have time to say 'shit'."
Iverson was always an intense one, Lance noted.
"I need someone to do some intense work in the uncovering of The Shadow. This job is incredibly dangerous, and would be done in your own personal time. The objective is to be the first to put a face to the hero," Iverson spoke, and he leaned back onto the table, his palms flat on it as he looked over his reporters. "Any takers?"
Lance's hand shot up lightning fast, which he realized was unnecessary, since nobody else in the room even stirred. Iverson blinked, taking in Lance's hand as a confused look washed over his face.
"McClain? You have a question?"
Lance stalled for a second as he gathered himself, and he lowered his hand, shaking his head. "No- no, I meant I wanna do it. I can do it, sir."
A murmur filled the air. A few snickers made themselves evident. Even Iverson looked amused.
"Look, thanks for the offer, but if we need a piece on The Shadow's love for soft kittens I'll be sure to give you a call."
The laughs were less concealed now, and Lance felt his face heat up. Whether it was from anger or embarrassment, or a mixture of the two, he didn't know. Nyma put a comforting hand on his arm but Lance yanked himself away, standing up.
"I'm the man for the job," he insisted.
"Are you, now?"
"Yes. You'd know that if you took one second to give me a fucking shot," Lance spoke, voice raising as he tried to conceal the angry quiver in it.
A hush fell over the room, and Iverson looked at him with wide eyes, as if he couldn't believe Lance had even the littlest bit of a spine. Or as if he wanted to crush Lance under the toe of his fancy designer shoes.
Probably more of the second one.
"Sir," Lance added as an afterthought, but he kept his gaze leveled with Iverson.
"Sit down, McClain," Iverson spoke coolly.
"No offense, but I won't. If you want this job done right, you'll give it to me. I can prove it if you're willing to give me the chance to. And, to be fair, it doesn't look like you've got any other takers."
Iverson contemplated Lance for a good ten seconds. It was an awkward stare-down between the both of them, but the fact that Lance wasn't currently packing his things and leaving with his tail between his legs was a good sign. His hopes were raised, and he held his breath when Iverson opened his mouth to speak.
"You've got the job," he spoke, his voice a rough monotone. Lance let out the air from his lungs with a smile as he glanced at Nyma, who was also smiling brightly- a hand going to his arm.
"Thank you Mr. Iver-"
"Two days," Iverson interrupted.
Lance's blood ran cold, and he blinked in shock.
"What?" he gasped.
"Two days. That's how long you've got for this assignment. If you don't come up with something good in that timeframe, then I want your ass out of the Daily Journal. Capiche?"
Lance sagged, his eyes looking down at the table as he processed this information. Something tugged at his heart, and his resolve suddenly hardened. He looked back up at Iverson, whose eyes glinted with a challenge. Lance supposed his did, as well.
"Deal."
“Lance, you’re off your rocker. You’re actually losing it.”
“Might I remind you, Hunk,” Lance spoke as he leaned onto the counter of the cafe, his elbow knocking into a tip jar, “it was you who gave me that whole emotional spiel about how it was time for me to go chase my dreams.”
“Well, excuse me for not realizing your dreams included staking out murder-hungry gangs for the latest scoop.”
“You’re excused.”
“Lance--”
Somebody cleared their throat, and both Lance and Hunk straightened up, remembering where they were. Lance moved out of the way so the customer behind him could make their order. Hunk handed Lance his coffee, then pointed a finger at him.
“Don’t think we’re done with this conversation. You’re not allowed to leave until we’ve talked properly about this.”
“Alright, big guy, but I’ve got fifteen minutes left of my break so let’s see what comes first.”
He’d never seen Hunk take an order so fast, before. When Shay came into the cafe with a bag of ingredients they needed, she took over the counter for Hunk.
He sat at Lance’s table where he had been working out his plan for tomorrow night.
“Alright, listen--”
“Save it, Hunk. I’m going. I have to.”
“No! No, you really don’t!”
Lance winced at that, remembering what Iverson said. Hunk gave him a look at that as he seemed to brace himself.
“Actually… I really do have to. If I don’t get this article I’m… well--”
Hunk’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Oh, geez, Lance, what’d you do?”
“I may or may not have been… very insistent on being the right one for the job.”
“Oh, god.”
“So if I don’t pull through… then I don’t really technically have a job, anymore.”
Hunk had his face buried in his palm, and he ran it down in an exhausted manner. “Lance, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Well, we don’t have to worry. Because I’m going to get that scoop. Then I’ll be promoted, become a rich and famous journalist, and live happily ever after.”
“If you don’t get wiped off the face of the Earth by some shady gang member.”
“That’s the spirit!” Lance exclaimed with a grin.
Hunk buried his face in his palms, again. “I swear you’re giving me grey hairs. Being friends with you has probably shaved a clean ten years off my life.”
“And added a good ten years to mine,” Lance replied with a smirk. Hunk couldn’t help but smile at that. He leaned forward, then, all serious business.
“Alright. Ground rules.”
Lance sighed but nodded, waving a hand in a dismissively accepting gesture.
“Shoot.”
“Keep your GPS tracker on, and make sure to keep it open to me so I can see where you are at all times.”
“Fine.”
“Send me a text every ten minutes. If you haven’t, then I’m sending the cops to whichever location you’re at.”
“Okay.”
“Take Shay’s pepper spray--”
“She won’t need it?”
“She has the muscles of a war goddess, and mine for backup,” Hunk retorted. Lance let out a hum in agreement, looking down at his own noodle arms before looking at Hunk’s ripped biceps, and nodded in appreciation.
“Noted.”
Hunk looked nervous- like he was about to barf. He shook his head, his thick eyebrows scrunched together in distress as his eyes filled with panic.
“Lance, I don’t know, I really think I should come with you--”
Lance reached forward and put a reassuring hand on Hunk’s arm.
“Buddy, trust me. I’ve got this. I’ll be really careful, I promise.”
Hunk worried at his lower lip, searching Lance’s eyes for a moment before he nodded.
“Alright. Okay. I know, this is something you wanna do on your own… I just wish you wouldn’t.”
Lance gave an easy smile, then. “Don’t worry, Hunk. What’s the worst that can happen?”
The next day, at exactly nine o'clock at night, Lance was stood in front of a mirror trying to gather his nerves. He checked over his reflection, looking at himself as his heart hammered in his chest.
You’ve got this, McClain.
He took a deep breath, running a sweaty palm down his chest.
He had his pepper spray, his cell phone, and his Dictaphone- a gift from his Mamá when he got his job at the Daily Journal. He wouldn’t need his wallet- just his subway card and a few bucks.
Donned in a dark blue hoodie and some jeans, Lance felt as though he looked inconspicuous enough.
All he needed to do was find The Shadow. To do that, he needed to go to downtown, then to East Side. It was filled with all sorts criminal activity, and happened to be where the most encounters of the vigilante had occurred. Lance had conducted interviews all day on those who claimed to have seen The Shadow. Most of them had been crazies who wanted to be featured in Lance's article, but some encounters added up, and Lance was able to triangulate a location and make up a sort of pattern as to where the mysterious vigilante had shown up the most.
He a very slight idea of where to look. Slight being a big word, here.
But it was all he had. He was on his last day, and Iverson would be expecting an article come morning. This was what all of Lance’s training and hard work had led up to.
He was ready.
Giving himself a nod, and straightening his posture, Lance went out the door. He texted Hunk on his way down the stairs:
Heading out.
As he reached the first floor of his apartment, a reply came.
Be careful.
Lance set a vibrating timer for ten minutes, pocketed his phone, and walked out the door.
The night air was cold, and it bit at Lance’s exposed skin. He shivered as he made the fifteen minute walk to the closest subway station. He went down the stairs to the tracks, and swiped his card to get to the East Train.
The night crowd was light, seeing as it was the end of the day, and a Wednesday night. Lance found a seat at the back of the tram, and waited.
His phone buzzed with his third alarm of the night, and he sighed before sending Hunk an “I’m alive” text, along with his location.
The ride was thirty minutes long, and eventually Lance was at his stop. He got out, steeled his nerves, and made his way out of the subway and into town, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets, holding on tight to his pepper spray.
The streets were almost empty save for a few people slipping in and out of buildings. Lance could hear a mixture of his footsteps on wet gravel, the echoey sound of people arguing in different buildings, a far off car alarm piercing the still night, his own breathing, and his heartbeat, which pounded loud in his ears.
When he reached a local bar, he quickly slid in and made his way to the counter. It was fairly busy and filled with life, unlike the abandoned streets just outside. Lance sat down, caught the bartender’s attention, and ordered a shot of vodka and a beer to calm his nerves.
After he downed the shot and chased it with a swig, he chided himself.
“Way to go, McClain. Barely into this and you’re already chickening out.”
He nursed his beer as he looked around, inspecting the array of people who filled the room. They were mostly average people. Nobody in particular stood out to him in the dark lighting of the bar.
That was when he saw them- two men sitting in a corner booth talking in hushed voices. Their faces were grim, one of them had thick black hair and a goatee- his eyes an ice blue. He was missing two fingers on his right hand. The other guy was strikingly pallor, his hair thin and blond. A ragged scar ran down across his cheek to his mouth, deforming his upper lip just slightly. They were both dressed to the top in leather, something that made Lance feel a lot less scared of them as he snorted into his bottle.
But the uncomfortable-looking leather wasn’t what caught Lance’s attention.
It was the flash of purple on their necks- the tattoos in the shape of forward slashes. The guy on the left had two, and the one on the right had three.
Lance didn’t know what it meant, but he knew the Galra gang’s color was purple. Nobody in this bar dared to don those colors- he didn’t see any variation of the color anywhere except on those tattoos, so his assumption had to be correct.
It was all he had.
Lance slowly drank as he tried to nonchalantly keep an eye on the two, subtly checking in on them every now and then.
If they went anywhere, they’d be his ticket to finding The Shadow. This was the primary gang the vigilante had been hitting, according to Lance's research.
It took nearly an hour, but eventually the two got up and left. Lance gave it a moment before he settled his tab and walked out to follow them.
The alcohol, which had calmed his nerves before, seemed to completely leave his system, now. He sobered up quickly as his heart hammered in his chest, his fingers shaking. As he followed the two men he could almost hear his Mamá’s voice berating him in his ear, screeching about how dangerous this all was and how he'd better get his skinny butt back to his apartment and start job searching.
Lance knew that he couldn't do that. He could never do that. Turning back now would eat him alive the rest of his life.
He had no idea where he was going, and at this point he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, because he’d probably lose what little nerve he had to keep his feet moving. So he walked, keeping himself hidden and off to the side as he followed the two men’s trail.
Eventually, he heard the gentle lapping of water and smelled the ocean in the air.
They were at the docks.
Lance kneeled behind some crates as he poked his head from behind them, watching the men walk past the port and to a loading dock. They opened the second door, and inside Lance could see a dim light before the door closed behind them, opened only a crack.
Lance texted Hunk his location, turned on his Dictaphone, then turned on his cell phone’s voice recorder for back-up.
He made his way to the door slowly, looking around him for other people before crouching in front of it. He peeked through the crack in the door, and was greeted with the sight of a group of men standing together. The two men he had followed handed something to one of the members- a guy with a buzzcut and an embarrassingly bad eye patch.
“This it?” he asked, sounding pissed off.
Lance couldn’t catch everything they were saying. He leaned in closer to listen.
“He has one… the rest… to pay up. Made sure he....”
Looking around him one more time, Lance reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, snapping a few photos of the men for evidence before sliding it back into his pocket. He took out his Dictaphone and brought it close to the door.
“--Wednesday, fifth ave. The big guy wants us… throw Shadow off our trail.”
Lance’s eyes widened, and he strained his ears to try and catch what they were saying.
“--serious damage. What are we gonna do about it?” one of the guys Lance had followed, Goatee, spoke up.
“We’ve got our people on it. Shadow… not gonna survive our next encounter.”
Before he could hear anything more, a hand grasped Lance’s hood, tugging him back sharply and without warning. Lance let out a startled gasp as he was yanked harshly to his feet.
He instinctively kicked back hard, and made contact with something that brought a pained groan to his ears and a loud thump to the ground. Quickly, Lance turned to the right, ready to high tail it out of there before a second body blocked his way, grabbing his arms and sending a knee to his gut when he tried to pull away.
Lance doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and he wheezed as he tried to catch his breath.
His Dictaphone was yanked harshly from his hands, and Lance let out a noise of protest. He was then pulled to his feet and led, dazed and disoriented, through the dock doors. He shouted and resisted, trying to squirm out of the grasp on his neck and arm before it tightened threateningly, effectively shutting him up. When he caught sight of Eyepatch and his group, Lance was shoved to the floor where he landed harshly, scraping his palms.
“What the fuck is this?” Eyepatch spoke up, sounding bewildered.
“Found him lurking by the doors,” the guy to Lance’s right spoke up. “Had this with him.”
Lance looked up in panic and saw his recorder get handed over to Eyepatch. He held it in his hand, inspecting it.
“You’re a little old-school, aren’t you?” he asked Lance, amusement in his voice.
Lance didn’t reply. He set his mouth into a straight line to stop it from quivering, and gave Eyepatch a glare. This seemed to piss him off.
“Who the fuck are you, then? You work for the cops?” Eyepatch asked, waving the recorder around. When Lance didn’t reply, he dropped it to the ground and smashed it with the heel of his boot. Lance caught his protests in his throat, making a move forward before a hand yanked him back.
“Don't make me ask again, kid,” Eyepatch spoke, kneeling in front of Lance. “Who. The fuck. Are you?”
When Lance still didn’t answer, he was met with a fist to his cheek and a sharp pain that surged through his face. He was sent down with the force of the blow, and before he had the chance to get up Eyepatch kicked him in the side hard enough that Lance heard a crack. He let out a raw cry.
Eyepatch’s goons yanked Lance back up, sending a sharp pain through his chest and jostling his broken rib. He panted as he tried to catch his breath.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--
“How did you find us? Huh?”
Lance met Eyepatch’s eye and jerked his head towards the two guys from the bar. “Why don’t you ask those two morons over there?”
Eyepatch whirled to look at the two men, and his gaze was filled with fire. “What the fuck did you do?”
The two men looked bewildered, their mouths gaping as they searched for an explanation.
“Well?!” Eyepatch insisted. Lance could see veins bulging in his neck.
Suddenly, Goatee came to a realization. His eyes widened, and he spoke up.
“The guy from the bar. He must have followed us.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say.
“You let a kid follow you? Are you both fucking morons?"
The guy with a scar on his face spoke up. Lance felt his stomach sink to his toes as he realized the depth of the situation he was in- the panic clear on the two men's faces.
"We didn't see him," Scarface insisted, "we didn't know--"
He didn't get a chance to finish. Eyepatch looked away, his face twisted in disgust as he gestured at the men by his side.
Suddenly, Goatee and Scarface were forcefully dragged away, their protests ringing loud throughout the loading dock. Lance resisted once more, and was met with a foot to the back, courtesy of the goon to his right. He fell face-first to the floor before peeling himself off it and looking up with wide eyes, searching for an escape--
Eyepatch kneeled in front of him once more.
"Who do you work for? Huh? Who sent you here?"
Lance leveled his gaze with Eyepatch. His blood was pounding in his ears, and his limbs shook with anxiety and adrenaline.
His ten minutes would be up, soon. Hunk would call the police. Everything would be okay.
Lance had to distract him.
"Nobody," he spoke, voice low and careful. "Nobody sent me."
He was given another kick to his gut, sending him down.
"Bullshit!" Eyepatch shouted before kicking Lance again, his boot smashing against his ribs. Lance choked on his cry. Eyepatch grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him eye-to-eye before he shook him.
“Who do you work for?!"
Before Lance could say anything, two men behind Eyepatch dropped to the ground with loud a loud thump! Eyepatch whirled around, his eye wide as he took in the unconscious bodies of his men.
The rest happened so fast it was a blur.
A flicker of something- a shadow and a commotion of hits and punches, shouts and grunts of effort, then another man was down.
Despite the chaos around him, Lance was struck with a clear thought.
The Shadow.
He quickly fumbled through his pockets, pulling out his phone and taking a concealed photo (not that Eyepatch or his men were paying any mind to him now of all times) of the blur that fought with the remaining men who stood before them. He didn't even know if he captured anything, but he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and looked around for something- anything.
A crowbar sat four feet to his left against a box. Lance glanced at his captors, his heart racing with adrenaline before he reached into his pocket, grabbing his pepper spray.
He got to his feet, scrambling past the guard to his left and spraying him in the eyes as he jumped for the weapon. The anguished cry of the sprayed guard was muffled beneath the ringing in Lance's ears.
The moment his hands touched metal, a hand grabbed his arm.
Lance whirled to meet the man who had captured him, and he whacked him on the side of the head with the crowbar, sending him down. The second guy that had dragged him in was on Lance in an instant, eyes red and tear-filled. His teeth were bared with anger, and he let out a yell as he grabbed at the crowbar. He successfully held it, yanking Lance back towards Eyepatch. Instinctively, Lance kicked at the man's groin and yanked his crowbar free before smacking it at his second captor, sending him down, as well.
Oh, if Hunk could see him now. He would never make fun of Lance's noodle arms, again.
Eyepatch seemed like he didn't know whether to react to Lance or to his men, who were becoming fewer and fewer in numbers. He quickly reached in his pocket, and before he could even draw out his gun the two men on either side of Eyepatch fell to the floor. The lights were so dim that Lance couldn't capture the face of The Shadow- could only see a streak of black and red as he drew closer.
So quick Lance didn't have time to retreat, Eyepatch grabbed Lance's arm and held the gun to his head.
"Drop it," he growled in Lance's ear.
Lance did as he was told, hands dropping the crowbar to the ground as he raised them up in defeat, his arms shaking in fear.
Holy fuck. He was going to die. This was the end.
Lance didn't dare to try and resist as he was led steadily away- until their backs pressed against a cold wall. The hard metal of the barrel of a gun pressed firmer into Lance's temple as Eyepatch looked around them in a frantic, deranged manner.
"Show yourself!" he shouted into the air, making Lance flinch. "You've got five seconds!"
No movement.
"Four!"
Lance really, really didn't want to die.
"Three!"
He sucked in a shaky breath, his legs nearly collapsing with fear.
"Two!"
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"One!"
The shot never came. Eyepatch's tight grasp fell from Lance's arm, and a thud sounded beside him.
Eyepatch was collapsed on the ground, a dart in his neck.
Lance wobbled away from the unconscious man, taking a few quick steps back before he collapsed, falling to his knees as adrenaline left his veins. His arm gripped at the screaming pain of his ribs, and he released a quivering exhale.
Footsteps sounded in front of him, and Lance whipped to face the figure standing before him.
His breath caught in his throat.
He was dressed in black accented with a striking red. His eyes- a color so deep they looked indigo- were framed with a red mask, and a wild mess of dark hair stuck to his sweaty face, falling over his eyes. A hood was drawn over his head, concealing most of his features, but the light from the docks lit what Lance could see with an eerily soft glow.
Blood- bright red and shimmering- sat on his lips, smeared down his chin and across his jaw. So much red.
Red....
He was looking at Lance.
Lance, for once in his life, didn't know what to say. He just stared with wide eyes, frozen under the man's gaze.
To his complete and utter shock, The Shadow spoke to him.
"Are you alright?" he asked, and his voice was deep and smooth, but surprisingly young. Lance shivered at it, finding himself overwhelmed as he scrambled to find words- to work his lungs and throat and lips into speaking.
"I'm fine," he replied, and his voice was hoarse and felt heavy on his tongue.
The vigilante seemed to hesitate, looking around him before looking back at Lance. His eyes were troubled, as if he were struggling with something- with the instinct to run and leave Lance behind.
He stepped forward, and Lance shrunk away, though his eyes never left The Shadow's face.
A hand reached out to him- covered in a black glove.
Lance blinked at it before looking back up into those intense eyes, which seemed determined, now.
He looked back at the hand and took it.
The Shadow lifted him to his feet fairly easily, and Lance wobbled before being steadied by a hand to his back. Once he regained his balance, he withdrew from the vigilante who then ushered them out of the loading dock and into the night. They were well away from the port when they stopped.
"Your phone," The Shadow spoke.
Lance's eyebrows screwed together in confusion. "Huh?"
A small smile graced The Shadow's face. "It's going off," he added.
Lance's eyes widened, and he fumbled through his pocket while murmuring "Shit, shit, shit, shit,--"
He'd gotten five texts from Hunk within the past thirty seconds, all of him freaking out. He replied to them with a quick "I'm alive, explain in a sec" before looking back to the man next to him.
"You should go to a hospital," The Shadow insisted, "or go home and get some rest. I suggest you don't tell anyone about what you've been doing unless you want The Galra after your neck."
Lance fumbled for words, finding himself speechless. So he nodded, grasping his phone so tight his knuckles went white.
The Shadow eyed him carefully before pointing to their left. "The nearest subway is four blocks down that way. You need to hurry- their last train is in thirty minutes."
Lance felt panic shoot through him, and he opened his mouth to speak.
"Don't worry. I'll keep watch," The Shadow assured him. He made a move to leave, and before Lance knew what he was doing he grabbed his hand.
The Shadow stilled, looking at Lance. Swallowing hard, Lance spoke up.
"Thank you," he babbled. "For... for saving me back there."
At that, The Shadow smiled softly, again. "It's nothing. Just... don't do anything like that, again. These guys... you mess with them, and they'll kill you."
Lance nodded, a flush of shame creeping up his cheeks. The Shadow spoke up again, a teasing smirk on his face.
"I mean, you were pretty good with that crowbar, but I wouldn't bet your life on it."
Before Lance could reply- or even think to- the vigilante was off. He slipped out of Lance's grasp and melted into the shadows- leaving no trace behind, as if he'd never been there in the first place. The only evidence was the tingling of Lance's hand where the pressure of The Shadow's had once been, and the soft tone of a gentle voice still echoing in his ears.