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The quadrant was one of the earliest additions to the empire, and the first to be drained when it became apparent that such rapid growth required more quintessence than was ever produced on Daibazaal. Now it was mostly dead space, husks of planets crammed awkwardly between more active zones. Military presence was minimal, and living soldiers were rare, only present when guarding a transport. Overall, a fairly useless place—to the empire, at least.
Lotor steered the ship just close enough to the asteroid to get in range of the device. Landing would have been ideal; the connection might suffer this way, but he hadn’t planned on coming here anytime soon and thusly hadn’t checked the flight schedule through the quadrant. This vessel was not optimal for confrontation and taking off could cost precious ticks. It was already a gravesite, he’d rather it didn’t become his as well.
He began the proper procedures to open a line. The bar on the screen filled comically slow compared to modern long-range communicators, but it was a wonder the device still worked at all. It was one of his first ventures into communications—a field he likely would have never ventured into if not for his exile—hobbled together from scraps.
The little one had been handling everything rather well so far. There was the occasional grunt or twitch of an ear, but their breathing remained steady, which was usually a good sign. It’s not as though this was the first time a child has been in his care, war has a tendency to leave no shortage of children without someone to look after them, however, it was the first time he was completely alone with a baby.
He’d been lucky so far, he couldn’t keep relying on that—he and luck were never on the best of terms. The sooner they could be placed somewhere with someone more capable, the better.
But no one was answering.
Odd.
Time wasn’t the issue, he was well within the range he was given. They were usually quick to answer, with few exceptions, but he’d never had to wait this long. He pulled up the map to confirm his suspicions. It, too, was rather antiquated, but at least he’d gotten around to updating it—or rather he updated it on every other ship except this one, apparently. It took its dear time scanning for recent battles, colorful blips filling the screen after several doboshes.
The outpost was covered by a bright dot indicating there had been a battle there recently. His contact was likely dead. How inconvenient.
He sighed. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for a bit longer, little one.”
At that moment, they became restless, wriggling in his hold before making that wretched noise again that made his chest ache.
A squeak was not a clear form of communication. Perhaps their caretaker might have known the nuances—if there were any—but any knowledge of theirs was gone, and dwelling on them would be a waste of time. What problems did babies have?
He was never trained for such a thing, by Dayak or his other instructors, nor had he ever bothered to teach himself; he had no plans for any sort of fatherly endeavors, after all. And yet it had come to bite him, as everything always seems to, with the exception of natural death.
It’s unlikely they soiled themself, he would be able to smell that. He pressed a hand to their belly, but it wasn’t bloated, so constipation was unlikely. He continued down the mental list; their squeaks continued. Food—when was the last time they had eaten? It’s been several vargas since he found them.
He’s unsure of the precise time recommended between meals, but surely it had passed by now. It was highly probable they were hungry. Lotor felt a flicker of pride at figuring out what the hatchling wanted. Something childish in him took the sentiment a step further: he’d only been at it a few vargas and was already better at this than Zarkon.
The ship, not meant for long term missions, didn’t have much, but there were some rations. He was grateful as he prepared them, that he hadn’t run across a warm-blood kitten. Cold-bloods could eat adult food, just in smaller portions. Void knows how he might have made a milk substitute out here.
They ate what he prepared, albeit not very enthusiastically, and stopped squeaking, but they were still restless.
His brow furrowed as he went through the list again. He set them down for a moment to free his hands as he dug through the supplies for anything that might be of use. A chirp was not the sound he expected. When he turned back, they were laying against the metal. It was cold, why would they like it? But when he touched the panel, he could feel the heat through his gloves. It must be one of the spots where the wiring converges.
“So you were cold, then?” He picked them up; they squeaked in protest. “Forgive me for disturbing you; I have a better solution.”
It could be referred to as a room, if one was feeling generous. In reality, it was more of a storage compartment with a cot inside. Lotor squeezed in and turned on the heat lamp. This, of course, was not enough for the little one. They scratched at his armor.
He mulled it over. He was inclined to listen to his paranoia, but the scratching of tiny claws fought for their case in earnest.
This quadrant was not frequently traveled, and most would be inclined to mind their business lest their less-than-legal activities draw any unwanted eyes…
They were inside the ship…
“Alright. But not for long, do you understand?”
He removed his breastplate; it was not enough. They rubbed their cheek against the material of the flight suit and complained. Loudly.
“Bossy little thing.” Lotor set them aside and unzipped the front panel. They skittered without hesitation to the exposed area. By the time he moved his hand to cover them, they were already asleep.
It gave him the opportunity to observe.
“Who said you could be so small?” He mused. “Who gave you permission?” He ran his thumb over the still soft scales of their upper back; they chirped softly in return.
“I do not know your name, but it seems we will be in each other’s company for a while longer. I can’t keep calling you ‘little one’.”
He pondered. Throughout his lifetime, he had encountered many names, along with methods to reach them. In this case, perhaps it would be better to keep things simple, without being too literal.
“Your caretaker spent their final moments to find you, to stay by your side. You are… Auva. It is not galran, but it suits you.”
Just when he began to relax, Lotor received a notification. Would it be too much to hope that it was his contact? Obviously. Rather, a large vessel appeared suddenly on the radar. When he returned to the cockpit, he caught the final moments of a wormhole before it shut. Taking its place was a great white ship with accents of cyan—the castle of lions, he presumed, if the pieces of Voltron zooming around were any indication.
This would have been an excellent opportunity any other time, but now it was another thing for him to worry about. Hopefully, he could leave before they noticed him.
He readied the ship as quickly as he could with one arm. The display kept blinking, indicating something coming his way. Probably a lion. He’d kept the ship running, but it was taking too long to accelerate. He needed to leave the area-
The ship jerked to a stop before moving backwards. Being pulled in by a tractor beam. Wonderful. He might have started laughing, if not for Auva asleep against his chest.
He sent a message to Axca in case his ability to do so was cut off.
>You may receive a strange transmission, either from myself or the castle of lions, in the coming vargas, please play along. Their name is Auva. Do not look surprised.
The blasted ship—which was nothing if not consistent—waited to send the message until just before it was dragged through the hangar doors. He watched them close.
Why couldn’t anything be easy?