Chapter Text
He had gotten too comfortable out in space.
They had won a few fights and he must have let it go to his head, thinking he was good and capable of anything and safe.
He was wrong.
One of the worst parts was not having any memory of what happened. The last thing he remembered was being on the castle and they were making plans to do a supply run on a nearby planet. He was pretty sure he had woken up that morning and gotten ready, he assumed he'd arrived on the designated planet and he had the sinking feeling he had wandered too far off on his own.
But.
But they were looking for him, right?
He had said something to that effect to his captors early on; that his team would come for him.
Something about the way they laughed told him that they had heard things like that before. They would see, soon his team would come.
But as time went on and he was kept in a much too small cage as they poked and prodded at him through the bars, he started to wonder.
Were they not looking for him?
Not only not looking, but relieved to be rid of him?
In the cage next to his was a young alien about Lance’s age. One night, the alien shuddered out a story about his family selling him to their captors to pay off some debt.
Lance had been horrified at the idea, the fact that someone’s family could sell them off....
But time dragged on. His muscles cramped from crouching low in his cage for so long. The few prisoners around him began to grow quiet. Weak from thirst, hunger, and the consuming darkness; he soon stopped hearing them cry.
Surely. Surely, his team hadn't given him away?
Lance didn't know how long it had been before his captors finally ripped him from his cage.
He tried to struggle, but they were a lot bigger than him and, while he had only been managing sips of the brackish water that dripped from a leaking pipe and down onto his cage bars, his captors were well nourished and rested.
He ended up on the floor with nothing.
Not a stitch of clothing between him and the cold ground.
And when they turned harsh, cold water against him, he was ashamed at the way he licked the calmer droplets that settled near his lips.
Lance didn't think he passed out, but he lost time.
One moment he was being pulled off the floor and the next he was laying on some sort of thin cot, wrapped in foreign fabric.
"Not working class is he?"
Voices floated above him.
"Not much of a decorative piece either."
"With some adjustments…"
"He'll bring in more money as a display than a slave."
Rough fingers scraped against his face.
"He just needs a pinch of something here…"
Lance shook under the touch.
____
Lance had been waiting to regain his strength, his senses, his courage, before he tried to make an escape.
But his strength never returned, his senses remained muddled, and his courage was muted in his chest.
He knew he was in a plain room, sitting on the cot with a thin mattress. Not really a bed as it was raised off the floor just a few too many inches to be considered appropriate for sleeping.
Kind of like the examination cot in the castle's medical bay, his brain slowly supplied.
Examination. Lance swallowed thickly.
They had wrapped him in loose garments and allowed him to eat. He could have refused to eat. Could have said he would rather starve than go along with things.
But he was hungry and he thought it might help him think clearly. After his meager meal, he felt detached and so, so tired. He figured out they must have slipped something into his stale bread and he had been too stupid to notice.
When they returned, he was laying down, watching the room slowly spin.
He had been expecting them to hurt him. He didn't know what to do with the calm voice that just asked him questions. Nothing about Voltron or who he was.
Just about his appearance.
Could he change colors? Could he grow his hair longer in a few vargas? Was he considered a pretty thing on his planet?
He snorted at that.
His mother had always said he had pretty eyes.
He must have said it aloud because a hand was grasping his chin, tilting his face up. Fingers pulled back his eyelids and Lance tried to flinch away too slowly.
The alien laughed at him and Lance winced at the sound.
"For your mother’s memory, you can keep them then."
Lance blinked at the words and he all at once found the sense to twist out of the rough grasp. He wasn’t successful.
The alien laughed harder.
His captors seemed set on criticizing every inch of him. Talking about improvements they would need to make. They asked if he could grow taller or shorter and he bit out a clipped "no."
When they got to his hands, they asked what the point of his fingernails were and he stared dumbly, having never had to describe such a thing. He eventually stuttered out that they were to protect his fingers.
They decided he wouldn't need that kind of protection where he was going.
His nails ended up being the first things that they ripped away from him.
And when he screamed, they called the noise unpleasant.
Soon they would fix that too.
His consciousness was a blur of pain and hands pulling, pinching and hurting. He knew he had passed out when he was awoken to rough fingers down his throat.
He did try to struggle then, but he was being restrained by more rough hands holding him down. They were cursing his movements as they forced his mouth to stay open.
When the fingers left his throat, he freely gagged, bringing up thin bile, but nothing more.
There was something in his throat.
Something. Something making it feel like he was about to choke.
He swallowed and gagged again.
A hand clapped him on the back.
"He will grow accustomed to it."
Lance screwed his eyes shut, praying he would fall unconscious once more.
More harsh laughter echoed in his ears.
He had forgotten thoughts of escape. His mind circled the idea of a rescue coming for him, but his brain couldn't get a hold of the thought long enough to really hope.
They said they would make him valuable. Somebody would want him when they were done with him.
The words went around his head. The statements of his inadequacy. His imperfections.
His worthlessness.
He slipped away.
He would come back to see the changes made. The platinum color dusting his entire body, the shining jewels embedded into his skin. They were like diamonds and they ranged in size from the small studs starting at his wrists to the more golf ball sized ones marking his shoulders. They made a sort of outline, being placed along the outside of his arms, legs and up past his hips, working their way towards his armpits.
He must have tried to roll over onto his back because pain exploded there.
Lance had a starburst scar on his back. A souvenir from saving Coran from that explosion. An event that seemed like a lifetime ago…
That was right. He had saved Coran. So surely, his team would save him too? Lance’s thoughts skirted away from him, replaced by burning pain now.
They roughly rolled him over onto his stomach once more, remarking that he needed to give the jewels time to set and time for the flesh to heal.
They had adorned the scar on his back with their largest gems. Making it look like a proper shining star.
He cried out from the pain and was surprised when his strangled voice sounded deeper than before.
His captors nodded. His cries were much less annoying now.
He was almost perfect.
Perfection didn't come with better treatment.
He was crammed into the small cage to sleep and to be out of the way until they arrived at their destination.
He had the vague sense to hope his mind would clear, but as time dragged on, the burning pain from his back spread throughout his body. He was sweating and shaking and every joint was on fire. He was in and out of consciousness and he knew nothing besides the increasing hurt that plagued him.
He was awoken to being dragged from his cage and there was arguing and cursing.
His body was reacting badly to the gems. Some kind of allergy they didn't plan for.
"Prop him up. Sell him like this. If he dies after purchase, it is of no concern. He can still be an ornament if properly preserved. The jewels still have worth, he can still fetch us a good price."
His corpse would be worth something, even if his life was not.
He could see that his arms were swelling. Under the pinch of platinum they had given his skin, the flesh had risen around the embedded gems. And if he could see under the shining silver, he was certain the skin would be an angry red.
Nausea came on suddenly and he was gagging up yellow bile again.
They cursed him, but they did not hit him, not wanting to damage their merchandise.
They cleaned him up.
Lance felt the fever raging and it seemed to him that time moved in intermittent skips.
They didn't even bother putting him in a cage. It's not like he could escape, he couldn't even sit up. He lay on the floor, trying not to move.
More than once, they forced water down his throat, determined for him to live just long enough.
Rough hands moved him through the haze. They wrapped him in shining loose fabric. A long, sort of tunic that left his back on display and was largely opened on the sides, revealing the sparkling gems that ran from his sides down to his ankles.
He was carried then. They were handling him carefully now. Lance could almost think it was gentle. And he hated that he wanted to lean into a softer touch.
With shining cords, they discreetly tied him to a short pole and arranged him so that he was sitting, leaning against it. He began to tip forward, his last effort to fight against them. To not just go along with it all.
His captor pushed him back.
"Stay or I will slit your pretty throat."
Lance blinked slowly in his haze, trying to decide what to do.
He was listening, though it hurt to move, he could still hear. A voice was calling out numbers, others were crying quietly, people moved around him.
An auction.
That made sense.
He tried hard to focus. He was tied to a pole, it was dark…
His thoughts were skittering away again.
The world suddenly jolted. Lance cried out, which earned him a last reminder to shut up, before he was being moved. He was on a platform of some kind, and he was being raised up and up until light exploded around him.
He had been raised to a stage and he couldn't see what was going on, but he felt eyes on him.
Lance looked down.
He shut his eyes against pain and terror and humiliation.
Voices were speaking loudly around him, he heard numbers being called out.
Bids.
Lance started to gag. He did his best not to move. Conscious of the pain it caused and the threats against him. He slightly lurched and a slight trickle of bile escaped from the corner of his lips.
It didn't seem like anyone noticed. Nobody yelled at him, cursed him, told him how worthless he was.
The numbers were growing.
Right. Not so worthless anymore.
Lance was pretty sure he was crying, his face felt damp at least. But the crowd must be used to such displays, it certainly didn't seem to dissuade them.
"Sold!"
A rather large sum had been called out and there was no following number that outmatched it.
"Sold to Lady Sayna! A grand piece for her esteemed collection!"
It didn't process that he had been sold, until the platform began lowering and he was cast in shadows of the stage once more.
Lance slumped forward, his restraints on his wrists protested, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
His fever was burning, he was exhausted and hurting and he almost didn't even care what happened anymore.
He just wanted it to stop.
Lance’s world suddenly grew darker and he relaxed into the expected slip into unconsciousness.
A moment went by and he realized he was not actually passing out.
Every single light had been turned off.
There was a scrambling and shouting around him. People were startled, panicking. Lance blinked in the nothingness.
There were hands on his wrists, his arms, his shoulders.
He swayed away from them, it was the best he could do, not able to really fight anymore.
“We don’t have time, we-“
"Wait, wait, I think…"
A soft voice near his ear.
A familiar voice.
Lance did his best to look at the speaker, staring up through the haze and the pain. He knew this person.
"It's him! It's him, it's him, it's him!"
"Hunk, you're sure?"
There were gentle fingers pulling at the restraints on his wrists.
"Keith, look, look at his eyes."
Hunk. Hunk and Keith. Lance choked on a sob of relief.
Lance's wrists were free and he fell into waiting arms. Pressed into a warm chest, he let out a sob and a gag. He was being held against armor, but to Lance it was the most comfortable and safe he had been in so long.
He wanted to tell them to stay with him, to not leave him, he wanted to say how grateful he was. But all the thoughts were jumbled and it had been awhile since he had spoken freely, without being mocked or hit for it.
"Help," Lance managed to mouth and using his voice made him feel like he was choking. He gagged hard.
Hunk held him close.
"We're going to get you help, just hang on. It's going to be okay." Hunk's voice cracked at the end, but he moved quickly, preparing to lift Lance to carry him. "You're going to be okay."
The motion of heaving him off the floor, sent fire through his joints once more. He cried out harshly and it was an ugly sound, but he couldn’t stop. They were moving and Hunk was saying something desperately to him, but he couldn’t hear him. There was a roaring in his ears and a fire burning every inch of him.
Hunk was trying to shush him and, yes, he should be quiet. Silence was better than making horrible noises that got him mocked and struck.
But Hunk wouldn't…
Lance held his breath. Hunk was his friend. His team had come for him. They wouldn’t hurt him.
But if they were really looking, why had it taken so long?
Lance pushed the question out of his mind. He pushed all of his scattered thoughts away and pressed his forehead against his friend’s shoulder.
Exhaustion and sickness were pulling down on him.
He let darkness take him.