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Chapter Text

Something slimy was wetting his face. Lance tried to wipe his face, but his body did not respond to him. He was tired, to the point that he couldn't even lift his eyelids.

He moaned, "Hunk, tell your stupid dog to stop licking my face... it's disgusting..."

Hunk didn't answer, and Lance repeated, "Hunk, really, it sucks..."

His voice died with a sharp pang of pain in his chest. He gasped, feeling as if someone was sticking a thousand needles into his body.

With a herculean effort, Lance's eyes finally cracked open. The light pierced through his eyelids, sending shockwaves through his skull. He tried to blink, but it was as if his eyelids were made of lead. The room around him was a blur of colors and shapes. The pain grew more intense, spreading through his body like wildfire. It felt as if every bone was shattered into a million pieces, yet somehow, they were knitting themselves back together at an impossible speed. His muscles spasmed and twitched, a symphony of agony playing in his body.

Breathing required an enormous effort, his eyes felt moist with tears of pain. As it had begun, the pain ended suddenly, leaving him lying on his back on what was definitely not the bed in his dormitory.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he was able to sit up, feeling all his muscles protesting the movement. To his horror, he realized that the stickiness he had perceived earlier was blood. He was completely covered in it, his clothes torn, leaving his chest partly exposed and a good portion of his thigh bare.

Clothes that, by the way, were not his. Lance would remember if he had a very tight and uncomfortable shocking blue jumpsuit in his closet.

The room he was in was definitely not the dorm. The walls were covered in what looked like metal panels with wires sticking out of them, sparks flying everywhere. The floor was a mess of shattered glass and twisted steel, the smell of burning plastic and something chemically noxious made him want to retch. The lights above flickered erratically, casting eerie shadows across the floor. The place looked like a tornado had hit a robotics showroom and decided to throw a rave.

To his left, a giant computer console lay on its side, screens smashed, lights blinking in a panic. Above it, a large pipe had burst, water dripping down onto the fried circuitry, creating a sad little waterfall of destruction. To his right, a row of cages stood open, their former occupants nowhere in sight. The cages looked like they were designed for something much larger than the average house pet. There were burn marks on the bars and a smell of ozone that suggested they had contained something far from ordinary.

Lance felt an unpleasant feeling of déjà-vu that he could not explain. He struggled to his feet, his legs shaking under his weight. His head was spinning as if he had been on a roller coaster for too long and was just getting off.

He took a few unsteady steps, ending up on his knees again after a few seconds.

"Where the hell did I end up... Hunk, are you here? Hunk!"

His friend didn't answer, and Lance began to panic. He tried to remember what had happened during the last few hours, but what he got was a deadly headache.

He bent slightly. Let's recap: he had woken up covered in blood in a strange place, completely alone, dressed strangely and very weak.

Now, there were two things: either he had been kidnapped and taken to some strange place, or he had attended a very strange costume party.

Both options were absurd.

He didn't have time to dwell on the impossibility of the situation when a gasp echoed through the room, freezing him mid-thought. Lance whipped his head around, expecting the worst.

A man in purple armor stood about ten feet away, his eyes locked onto Lance with an intensity that was both alarming and intriguing. He looked like Beast from X-Men, but his skin color was a deep purple that almost seemed to glow in the dim lighting. The yellow eyes sent a shiver down Lance's spine, a stark contrast to the crimson blood seeping from a gaping wound in the man's ribcage. The armor looked to be made of some sort of organic material, flexing with each of the man's movements, as if it were a part of him.

The man pointed a kind of sawed-off shotgun at him, only with many more lights and futuristic, growling at him, "You."

"Um... this is a great place," Lance tried to joke, because what else was he supposed to do with a gun pointed at him? He wasn't even sure if he could run!, "It just needs some repair, maybe a touch of color... I know an interior designer who maybe..."

"Stop your stupid jokes, Blue Spirit," the other interrupted, causing him to jump. Wait, had he called him Blue Spirit?, "You and your companions can... destroying Haggar's lab, but that's not the end. She... will bring Zarkon back... and there's nothing that you... damn paladins... you can do..."

Big words for someone who seemed on the verge of suffocating to death. Lance didn't know whether to call the police or an ambulance. Maybe both.

But that gave him the answer he was looking for earlier: Lance had definitely ended up at a costume party that got out of hand – probably organized by James Griffin, that guy had too much money and little common sense, and Lance hated him, but at least he was in the right circles and Lance desperately wanted to be part of the kids who mattered, because they were the ones who had the best chance of impressing teachers and recruiters and then becoming real pilots, not cargo pilots – where, despite the age of the participants, the alcohol had been there and had flowed freely, so much so that it had knocked out Lance, certainly not a heavy drinker, and convinced that guy he was really in Paladins, the graphic novel that Hunk and his sisters adored and that he certainly didn't read because,  duh, he wasn't a nerd.

Except maybe he might have read something, and he understood why he had chosen to come dressed as Blue Spirit.

"Dude, I'm not Blue Spirit," he tried to reason, "I'm just a guy in a costume. I know you're probably a little confused..."

"Shut up!" the guy yelled. "I won't make myself... deceive... by you! Faces... your destiny... paladin!"

And with that, the man in purple armor pulled the trigger of his futuristic shotgun. Lance reacted instinctively, throwing his arms up in front of his face in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the impending onslaught. The sound of the weapon firing was like a thunderclap in the room, the force of the shot sending a shockwave that rippled through his body. But there was no pain. No impact.

Peeking through his fingers, Lance saw that the man was looking at him with horror. The purple-skinned man's hand was still tightly clutching the gun, but his eyes had gone wide, and his mouth was agape as if trying to form a word that his dying throat could no longer produce.

Blood spurted from the man's mouth, painting a gruesome picture against the stark metallic background of the room. He coughed violently, sending crimson spurts into the air, which fell like morbid confetti onto the already ruined floor. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the gun clattering against the metal floor, the lights on it winking out like a dying star.

Lance remarked, speechless. It took him a good minute to realize what had happened, and scream (a very manly scream, he certainly didn't look like a panicked middle school girl, thank you very much!)

"Shiiiiiit... Where the hell is everybody?! I need a phone... maybe he's not really dead... what the hell am I saying, of course he's dead, dead dead! And now the police is going to arrest me, send me to jail without trial because I'm not even an American citizen, and throw away the key. I'm going to get out the prison when I'm eighty!"

He was not lucid enough to realize that 1. there were not his fingerprints on the weapon and 2. the guy clearly had a very bad aim because of all the alcohol he had drunk and shot himself.

What kind of idiot carried a loaded weapon to a party?!

A good 60% of the American population, that's who!

He took a trembling breath, trying to calm himself. Which was not very easy, when there was a body a few steps away from him, and the concrete possibility (only in his mind) that he would be convicted of murder.

"I have to find a phone, and call an ambulance," he muttered, getting up with difficulty, "There must be a phone in this damn place... or... wait a minute..."

Patting himself down, Lance attempted to find his phone, hoping he hadn't inadvertently destroyed it during whatever damn madness he got involved in. If it had happened, his mother would have killed him! Do you know how much  phones cost? A lot, that's it!

But instead of the cold touch of the device, his hand encountered something else. Something hard, metallic, and definitely not part of his body. He stared down at his right arm in disbelief, his fingers tracing over the unfamiliar contours embedded within the sleeve of his costume.

It was a bracelet.  It was a sleek, hyper-technological device with glowing blue lines that pulsed with an eerie light, reminiscent of the Zords from Power Rangers.

"Where did I get this costume? Was it on sale? Did I rent it?! God, the shop owner will want my head as soon as... Whoa!"

As soon as the last word left his mouth, the bracelet on his wrist began to glow brighter. Lance felt a sudden jolt, like a thousand volts of electricity coursing through his veins. He jolted back, stumbling and almost tripping over his own feet. A blue light grew from the bracelet, coalescing into a holographic image of a majestic lion, its mane fluttering as if caught in an invisible breeze. The creature's eyes met his, and he swore he could see intelligence in those digital depths.

"Hi, Blue Spirit," the hologram greeted him condescendingly, "How can I be of any use to you?"

Lance's eyes widened, "This is... it's really well done. “

"Thank you. Dr. Alfor created me," the hologram said, and looked annoyed, as if he meant as you should already know.

Lance ran a hand through his hair, moaning as he realized there were clots of congealed blood there too, "All very convincing, thanks, but I really should call an ambulance."

"Ambulance?"

"That man is dead," he pointed to the body, "And, I don't know, in these cases people called ambulance and police, aren't they? I've never been in a situation like this before."

It should have been impossible, but the hologram was staring at him with open judgment at the time, as if he were stupid, "Blue Spirit, that's a Galra."

"Yes, great costume, by the way. Putting all that purple paint on must have been a real nightmare."

"No one will accuse you of anything. You've done your duty as a paladin," the hologram continued, ignoring him completely, "But you're unmasked. You have to leave, before anyone sees you. I'll show you the safest way to..."

"Wait," Lance interrupted it, "Isn't it, like, failure to provide assistance? I can't leave him here!"

"He is already dead."

"But..."

"You have done your duty. Altea is grateful for what you have done. Now, you must leave, before Haggar or other Galra arrive. “

He wanted to protest. He didn't know who had programmed that devilry to look so much like Blue, the holographic guide of Blue Spirit, but he wanted a refund!

However, he had to keep quiet when an earthquake shook everything, causing the walls to sway dangerously.

"Earthquake magnitude 7.5," Blue recorded in a monotone voice, "I suggest you run away, now, if you don't want to be buried alive, Blue Spirit. I'll show you the way."

And when a hyper-technological hologram spoke to him like that, what should he do? Ignore it?

Blue guided him through a series of narrow, dark corridors that were creepy as hell, and that made Lance think, James, what the fuck, over and over again!

However, he had to reluctantly admit that he was starting to doubt that it was just a party gone bad, but thinking about any other hypothesis at that moment would have made him more agitated, and he preferred to avoid it!

When the shakes finally stopped, Lance breathed a sigh of relief and dared to ask Blue, "Hey, is anyone else here?"

Blue scanned him, "Are you referring to the other paladins?"

"No, actually..."

"Besides you, I don't register any other life forms in this place," was the hologram's curt response.

"So they're all already gone..." he muttered to himself, reflecting. Hunk must have been so worried.

He didn't like parties, even if sometimes he followed him to make sure Lance didn't get into big trouble, but he couldn't do it all the time; he had tough exams to study, he wanted to become an engineer, and the pressure was even more than what the pilots were subjected to...

"Lance, I don't think it's a good idea..."

"Hey, Veronica gave me the keys. She wants me to learn. And who better than you can keep me company?"

His eyes widened, his head throbbing. Where did that come from? Blue was quick to say, "Don't stop, Blue Spirit. It's not long before the exit..."

But Lance's legs had frozen. The memory was so vivid, it couldn't just be his imagination; it must be a memory, it must be...

"Lance, he's provoking you. Forget it! Lance... Lance, slow down, Lance!"

The words echoed in his head as he stumbled down the corridor, trying to shake off the disorienting flashback. His heart raced, and he could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins again.  The taste of fear on his tongue was palpable.

There had been an argument, he remembered now. Lance had foolishly accepted a challenge, and Hunk had begged him to stop, and for once, just once, to listen to him, but... Lance had not done so.

"That's your problem, Lance! You are selfish! You want to be the center of attention, always! You don't care a damn if others have to study or if they have other things to take care of! For you, only you, you and you count! I'm tired of your antics, you big idiot! You're a failure, that's what you are! At seventeen you are still in limbo, and you have not understood that you will never be a real pilot, because you do not have the skills and ..."

Lance put his hand to his mouth, stifling a cry. Now he remembered. He had not ended up in an absurd party gone wrong, nor had he been kidnapped.

He was... he and Hunk were...

"Blue," he called, his voice broken by the too many emotions he was feeling, by the memories that had come back to him, by the guilt, oh God, what had he done, what..."Blue, where am I?"

"You're just a few miles from Altea, Blue Spirit. You don't have to fear..."

"I didn't mean that, Blue. I..." He paused, uncertain, because now that he knew, there was only one possible explanation for all this mess, and he was afraid. "Get me out of here, now."

The hologram nodded gravely, and the blue light grew around him, enveloping him in a cocoon of energy. Lance felt himself being lifted off the ground, the corridor walls blurring around him. His heart raced faster than ever before, and he was sure he could hear it echoing in the vast emptiness of his mind.

In moments that felt like hours, the light faded, and Lance found himself standing outside, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face. He staggered, taking in the scene around him. The towering trees stretched up to the heavens, their branches reaching out as if trying to pluck stars from the sky. The moon cast eerie shadows across the underbrush, and the distant skyline of a city, gleaming and majestic, loomed ahead.

It seemed sparkling and full of promise like Metropolis (for this reason, DC had sued the author of Paladins several times, accusing her of plagiarism), but Lance knew better.

It was Altea. He couldn't be wrong.

He pinched himself to make sure he was awake.

It was all real.

At that point, he burst into tears.

Blue didn't understand his sudden burst of tears, "You're safe and sound, Blue Spirit. Why are you crying?"

"This... this is not my home..." Lance managed to sob, covering his face with the palms of his hands. He's messing up with all the dirt and blood on his face, but he couldn't care less.

Now he remembered. He was dead. He had died from a stupid race and had Hunk killed too (oh my God, Hunk, it was no surprise that he hated him, it was all his fault, Lance was responsible, he was...)

And, somehow, he had been resurrected. Like Blue Spirit. One of the Paladins. The worst of all, the weakest, the stupidest... the traitor who condemned Altea to destruction.

Chapter Text

Lance didn't know how long he knelt crying, ruining what little dignity he had left with a tattered suit and a hologram lion watching and judging him.

He didn't care about the impression he gave.

He died. At seventeen, without becoming a fighter pilot (not that he would ever become one, Hunk was right...), and killing his best friend.

And somehow he had ended up in the body of a cheap villain from a graphic novel.

How right was all this? What on earth had he done to deserve such a thing?

Was he a dictator? Was he in Epstein's files? Was he an arms dealer? No! He was...

He was a murderer.

Perhaps being reborn in that world was a kind of just divine punishment for what he had done.

In the end, he had no more tears to shed.

His eyes were swollen and burning. Altea in the distance was too bright for his taste, almost as if to make fun of him.

"Do you feel better?" Blue asked him, without any particular inflection in its voice. He doubted that Dr. Alfor had even put empathy into his programming.

Lance pursed his lips. He was tempted to say "absolutely not, fuck," but he didn't think the hologram would understand. 

He certainly couldn't tell it that he wasn't the original Blue Spirit and that he didn't know what to do in a world and body that wasn't his, much less when, in theory, the plot wanted him to become a villain who worked for the paladins' enemies, the Galra, and destroyed the city.

He certainly didn't want to kill anyone else!

Either Blue wouldn't believe him, blaming shock or a head injury, or worse, it would believe him and swoop the Paladins on him to... he wasn't clear what the Paladins could do, but White Witch was a kind of Hermione Granger and she would surely find something to send him back...

And then, if she did, where would Lance return? In his body? In the afterlife? Would he go back to his life as before? Or would he simply remain dead?

In any case, it was over.

He would never see his mother, Veronica and all the others again...

Well, a little voice whispered to him, too similar to Iverson's for his comfort, that's what happens when you're a selfish bastard. Here are the consequences of your actions!

He knew he didn't deserve a chance, not when Hunk couldn't have one, and what kind of selfish was he to want to go home when his best friend (former best friend) wouldn't have the same chance?

He already missed all of them, but wasn't it the consequence of his actions? Hunk had warned him, and he hadn't listened, too caught up in his eagerness to prove his worth, to be up to something.

Nice job, McClain, you got yourself killed! Fortunately, you never became a fighter pilot; otherwise, you would have made more trouble than you were worth!

"Blue Spirit?" Blue called him again, and Lance swallowed, mustering up courage.

He had to proceed in small steps, gradually. You couldn't expect him to solve all his problems in less than an hour; he wasn't a genius. 

"How do I get back to Altea?" he croaked to the hologram, who immediately replied, "Easy, contact the Tower and..."

"No!"

Blue tilted his head, confused, "Why not?"

Lance slurred. He knew it would be convenient to have help, especially since he was in an unknown world with no guide other than a hologram of a puppet lion that he would not look out of place as an anime mascot in Japan.

 But, and this was important, the chances of him being discovered were very high - there were at least two geniuses to be part of the team, plus a super-powered witch, there was no way anyone wouldn't understand that something was wrong, even with Lance's exceptional improvisation skills, and shit, wasn't Dr. Alfor some kind of human lie detector or something? - he didn't want to end up in a cell because the Paladins believed him to be a Galra spy or an interdimensional parasite!

"Is there nowhere I can go?" he asked weakly, biting his lower lip, "Like, you know, a safe house for... for emergencies?"

It didn't seem so crazy to ask. In the comics, a lot of heroes had safe houses scattered almost everywhere, just think of Batman, Red Hood, or Green Arrow. 

If you were a hero, and for some reason you found yourself in trouble and unable to contact your teammates, you needed a place to lick your wounds without the villain on duty coming to bother you.

He hoped that the author of Paladins had thought of borrowing that from DC in her world-building as well.

"Safe house?"

Crap, he didn't like the tone it was using. He explained, almost bordering on ranting, "Yes, where do I go when I'm not at the Tower and I want to relax for..."

Blue interrupted, "Oh, you mean your apartment."

"Do I have an apartment?" he asked, feeling a little silly asking, but hey, the author never showed the private lives of her heroes, so it was normal for him to be a little surprised. He thought they all lived permanently at the Tower of Lions, taking off their costumes only when they were in their rooms and there was no need for them to go kicking the bad guys' asses.

Of course, being in costume was almost always annoying, but it was to protect one's secret identity, since the Tower of Lions was also frequented by many employees who worked for Dr. Alfor, many journalists and various students of the Academy, who one day hoped to join the Paladins. Lance was convinced that the excessive secrecy for the whole secret identity thing was just a narrative device of the author to hide her laziness and not have to delve into the civilian lives of her heroes, but when he said it, Rachel accused him of not understanding the depth of the author's storytelling. Veronica, on the other hand, made fun of him, ''You know a lot about someone who says they don't read it."

He liked the idea of the Academy; in a world where 30% of children were born with powers, it was necessary to prepare them in some way and be sure that they did not become bad, and Dr. Alfor had the brilliant idea of establishing the Academy of Tomorrow. A way to keep people with powers under control and be sure not to find a new Lex Luthor in the way. Oh, and there was also the thing that they wouldn't join the Galra in this way. A win-win situation.

Also, it was partly Alfor's fault that there were so many people with powers now; the Academy and the Paladins were the least he could do to fix it.

"Of course, you paid for it with money from your first job."

Lance blinked, confusion growing, "What first job?"

"The cover of the Altea Gazette, four years ago," Blue patiently explained, "Afterwards, you fought with Dr. Alfor, who didn't think it was appropriate for you to have a job in your civilian identity. You replied shut up, old man, I can do what I want, I'm of age now."

"So I'm what, a sort of a model?"

His vanity was tickled – in fact, he wasn't in such a bad place – before he remembered that Blue Spirit was the model; he was already lucky if he could get Nadia's attention and not be too clumsy to talk to her or one of her friends.

"We can say so, even if you have been repeatedly urged not to continue with this professional choice by both Dr. Alfor and Red Warrior, even if with different tones."

Lance turned up his nose. He could only imagine how Red Warrior had commented on Blue Spirit's choice to be a model.

Red Warrior was the first to not miss the opportunity to criticise Blue Paladin, and it didn't help that the leader, Black Bolt, was always on Red's side.

Not that he could do otherwise: Blue Spirit went looking for trouble, a mouth too big for someone who didn't even have such an impressive power, and Red Warrior always reminded him of it.

Fuck, Lance understood why Blue Spirit was always so antagonistic. He was dismissed every single time just because he hadn't been as lucky with the genetic lottery as the others.

"Well, where is this apartment?" he asked, trying not to think about how similar he felt to a second-rate villain.

"Don't you want to let others know you're okay?"

"No, at the moment... I'd rather to be alone," the lie came out of his lips all too easily, and well, was it really a lie?

After all, he had to figure out what to do in that new world, and to do so, he had to start with a first, fundamental thing: to find out who Blue Spirit really was.

From there, things should start to get easier (at least, that's what he hoped.)

"If you want it that way," the hologram said, reticently, "Your bike is nearby, where you left it before entering the lair with Red Warrior, Black Bolt and Green Light."

Lance gasped, "Do I have a bike?"

"How do you think you got here?"

"Er... along with everyone else? You know, as usual?"

"That's usually the case, but you had a fight with Red Warrior before the mission, and you didn't want to be with him more than necessary..." Blue narrowed its eyes, "Your memory has several holes. You should get checked by Dr. Alfor."

"I'm fine," perfect, he almost got caught by Blue, he already imagined how well it would be if he met the others, "I just need some rest and to be alone for a while."

Blue still didn't seem entirely convinced, but since he was the boss, it relented, "If you say so. Do you want me to get your bike here on autopilot?"

"Can you do that?"

"Of course I can!" Blue looked almost offended as it said it, and Lance gave a half-smile. It was pretty cute. "In fact, I have already done! Look!"

At that moment, Lance heard a loud noise of an engine, and a blue metallic MV Agusta F4 came out of the bush, a 4-cylinder engine with 195 horsepower, and he almost fainted.

That was the stuff of rich and cool guys: James once came back from vacation with an MV Augusta F3, and it was nothing compared to the wonder he had in front of him.

Lance felt the desire to drive that little gem ... until he remembered how it had gone the last time he was driving, and felt a sudden cold that made him shiver.

"Hey, Blue... Could you also set the autopilot up at my apartment? I'm really, really tired, and I could collapse at any moment.”

"Of course, Blue Spirit."

Half an hour later, and with his heart bursting at any moment, Lance walked through the door of what had been Blue Spirit's apartment.

And he was amazed.

"Is this place mine?" he asked Blue for the umpteenth time, "Really mine? No roommates? No relatives or..."

"This place is yours alone," Blue confirmed again, flying past him, "Not even Dr. Alfor knows about it."

"Not even him? Really?" he asked, with a hint of surprise. Doctor Alfor always gave this impression of being like the Dumbledore of the situation, a bit eccentric, very wise, who you could always go to if you needed help, especially if you were the more or less recognised protagonist, even though Paladins was supposed to be an ensemble story where everyone had equal importance, but hey, the author played favourites.

Above all, Lance assumed that Dr. Alfor always knew everything. So, the fact that Blue Spirit had managed to hide a whole apartment under his nose was incredible.

"Your sister helped you: she took care of the necessary paperwork and helped you with the bank account where you paid a share of your money to ensure economic independence."

His heart sank at the mention of a sister. Blue Spirit had a sister, someone who had to love him very much, if she was willing to go behind Dr. Alfor's back and not be a spy, who trusted that out-of-the-box and drifting brother...

"Please, Veronica. I swear I'll be careful, and Hunk will be with me too, and you know how cautious he is!"

Veronica just sighed. Lance knew he had worn down her resistance: the eyes of a beaten puppy always won. On the desk, there were open books, but she bet that they were only there to make a scene: somewhere, there was the latest issue of Paladins waiting only for her.

"An hour, and then you go back to your dorm," the young woman said, trying to look stern but failing, "Don't be smart and don't try to go to town, don't bring the false documents I know you asked Marco for the last time he came to visit us to enter God knows what club..."

"Jeez, Veronica. Who did you take me for?"

She grinned, "I know you too well, Lance. Trouble doesn't come looking for you; you call them with the megaphone."

"Hey, I know perfectly well to stay out of trouble!"

"Yes, of course," he chuckled, and tossed him the car keys, which he managed to grab on the fly, "An hour, no more. If you are a second late, I will bring Rachel's wrath upon you, and you really don't want it."

"Yeah, I get it... see you later!"

"Blue Spirit? Blue Spirit, are you listening?"

Lance shook himself, his heart aching at the memory. It had been his last conversation with Veronica. Had he told her that he was happy to have her as a sister? Had he at least thanked her?

Those were his last fucking words, and fuck, they were horrible. There was nothing nice to remember, he had been petulant and annoying until the end and...

Veronica will be the one called to recognise his body.

The thought hit him like a freight train. Veronica was his closest relative, their parents were in Cuba with Marco and Luiz, Rachel was in New York for the internship, and this left Veronica with the task of...

God, she's going to hate him so much right now, because She warned him, damn it, more than once.

She had told him to be careful, not to get into trouble, and he hadn't listened to her.

His chest tightened violently, a sudden wave of dizziness making the walls sway. Lance stumbled backwards, his back hitting the cool surface of the door. The air in his lungs seemed to evaporate. He gasped, clawing uselessly at his throat, vision tunneling into pinpricks of light against a spreading darkness. The apartment, felt like it was collapsing inwards, crushing him under the weight of his own stupidity and loss. Veronica's face swam in his mind – her exasperated smile, the stern glint in her eyes that always softened for him. Gone. He won't see her again.

A raw, soundless scream built in his constricted chest.

Lance crumpled against the door, the world narrowing to a suffocating point. Blue Spirit was instantly near him, its holographic form shedding soft, cool light onto his sweat-slicked face.

"Blue Spirit!" Its voice, usually smooth, held an edge of command. "Listen to me. You are having a panic attack. It is not real. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me. In... slow and deep, through your nose. Fill your lungs."

It demonstrated how to do it, its light pulsing gently with each simulated breath, a visual anchor in the drowning dark.

Lance forced air through his clenched teeth, matching the rhythmic pulse of Blue Spirit’s light. The cool glow washed over him, a lifeline in the suffocating dark. Slowly, the vice around his chest loosened. The roaring in his ears faded, replaced by the faint hum of the apartment’s environmental systems and Blue Spirit’s steady, synthesised breathing. He blinked, the tunnel vision receding to reveal the stark reality of the space he’d now live in.

He pushed himself shakily upright, leaning heavily against the door as he finally took it in. The apartment was large, undeniably spacious compared to the Garrison dorms, yet it felt so cold in comparison.

 His room at the Garrison was full of his own things, photos of his family, clothes scattered around, even models from when he was a child and only dreamed of being able to enter the Garrison and become a pilot. There was also a guitar in the corner, but it made him miss less his home.

He couldn't say that there was much personality in that apartment. It was very tidy, to begin with.

The walls were painfully empty—no photographs, no posters, no evidence that anyone had ever lived here beyond the sterile elegance. Everything spoke of Blue Spirit's practicality: a low-slung sofa in deep navy fabric, a sleek black armchair angled toward a minimalist coffee table. Above, a chandelier—a cluster of geometric glass droplets catch the light—but its beauty felt cold, impersonal. Like a showroom, not a home.

His gaze drifted toward the kitchen, separated by a polished steel breakfast bar. The elegant but practical design—all gleaming steel countertops, integrated appliances hidden behind panels—felt like a spaceship galley. Efficient. Soulless. A pang hit him: Rachel would've filled this place with mismatched mugs, herbs wilting on the sill, the smell of caf brewing.

"You're in shock," Blue said, almost frowning, "You had to go back to the Tower!"

"Believe me, it's better this way," he found the strength to say, chasing away ghosts that didn't exist, "I just have to... I don't know... rest and then..."

Then deciding what to do with a life that wasn't even his.

"Look, Blue... Who is this apartment registered to?" he asked, opting for a seemingly neutral question and not at the risk of turning off all Blue's alarm bells, like hey, who the hell am I?

Yes, it would have been fine if he had asked it!

" It’s registered under the name of Leandro Sanchez, although it is not your real name, but according to your sister, it was a convenient alias. It would have been even harder to find you."

An alias. Great. He had no idea what Blue Spirit's real name was!

Author, secrecy is fine, but show the civilian identities of your heroes now and then! Otherwise, it just seems to see the Power Rangers at work 24 hours a day!

He ran a hand through his hair, and grimaced. He needed to take a shower, he didn't mean to go to bed dirty and that he looked like walking death.

Lance gasped as he hit a new depth. His gaze drifted to the mirror—and froze. A stranger stared back. Lean muscle defined unfamiliar shoulders and arms, skin kissed by sun and sea salt, hair bleached messy gold at the tips. The sharp angles of the jawline, the confident set of the brows—utterly alien. This wasn't his reflection. This was Blue Spirit's body, borrowed without permission. He traced a finger along the unfamiliar collarbone, a tremor running through him.

"How old am I?" he murmured in the mirror.

He was certainly not a teenager, even if, given the logic of comics, he could not say for sure.

At a cursory glance, he looked like he was now in his twenties, twenty-two at the most, and he was damn fit.

Is it thanks to the training as a hero? Who knows, Lance also often trained at the Garrison but had never been able to have such a physique.

"I don't need false documents anymore if I want to go drinking at the bar," he said again, halfway between horror and wonder, feeling like a lost kid who had to learn to be an adult. God, he couldn't do it. He didn't want to have deep reflections at that hour... He just wanted to sleep and forget about all that mess for at least a couple of hours.

Was it too much to ask?

He walked to the shower, unable to help but think, "I bet they're celebrating at the Tower. No one could stand Blue Spirit, not even Dr. Alfor... They didn't even go back to see if he was... that I,  if I was actually dead... urgh, I'll have to start thinking that Blue Spirit, Leandro or whatever the hell he was, now it's me... But since he used an alias, why shouldn't I do the same? Why should I stop being Lance? I like this name, it's mine. I may live in a stolen body, but..."

Lost as he was in his thoughts, he had forgotten Blue Spirit's superpower and accidentally destroyed the shower head as soon as he picked it up.

"Oh, are you fucking kidding me?!"

The silence of the room was unbearable, interspersed only with the noise of the machines to which Alfor's daughter was attached.

 Alfor sat beside Allura's bed, his posture slumped, his fingers curled around her motionless hand. Her skin felt cold beneath his touch, a stark contrast to the vibrant warmth she'd always carried. He traced the line of her cheekbone with his thumb, whispering ancient prayers under his breath—words he hadn't uttered since her mother's passing.

The door opened with a soft click, startling him. Shiro stood silhouetted against the hallway light, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He wore his Black Bolt uniform, the obsidian armour polished to a dull gleam. His expression remained hidden behind the helmet's opaque visor, but Alfor saw the tension in his jawline, the slight tremor in his gauntleted hand as it gripped the doorframe. There was a stillness to Shiro that spoke louder than any alarm klaxon.

The man took off his helmet and put it under his arm, a posture that made him look twenty years older and too tired.

Alfor sighed, "Don't beat around the bush. I know what you want to tell me. He's dead, isn't he?"

Silence. Then, Shiro exhaled softly, "Yes."

Alfor's gaze didn't waver from Allura's pale face. A tremor ran through his shoulders—a silent earthquake tearing apart his careful facade. When he spoke, his voice was gravel scraping against bone, "How?"

The single word hung heavy, sharp as a scalpel poised to cut open the unbearable truth. His thumb kept tracing Allura's knuckles, as if memorising the map of her existence before it faded entirely.

Shiro hesitated too much, and Alfor misinterpreted, "He disobeyed your orders, right? He thought he knew better than you what to do, and he threw himself into a much more delicate situation than he did..."

"It wasn't him."

Shiro's voice was clear as he spoke, and Alfor looked at him without understanding. The hero continued, "Blue Spirit obeyed my orders. The situation got out of hand after..."

He paused, swallowing, signs of discomfort evident on his face. Alfor pressed him, "After what? What happened?"

"After Red Warrior responded to a provocation about his origins, ending up injured and in need of assistance. Green Light and Blue Spirit have got our backs, but... Haggar had installed a bomb, and it exploded... I couldn't save them all, I..."

"Black Bolt," Alfor interrupted, voice steady, refusing to look at him, "Are you telling me that Blue Spirit died because Red Warrior didn't listen to you?"

"No, doctor, I'm saying there was a bomb..."

"Blown up by Haggar after Red Warrior disobeyed you," Alfor blurted out, barely holding his anger in check, "I know Haggar, she doesn't act rashly. If she detonated the bomb, it's because Red Warrior left her no choice. That's it, isn't it?"

Shiro's silence was the answer he needed. Alfor closed his free hand into a fist and put it in front of his face, "Was Green Light also involved in the explosion?"

"Yes."

"He's alive," wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Shiro... answer me sincerely... Have you decided who to save? Did you choose to leave him behind?"

"There was nothing to do, I couldn't..."

"Did you recover the body?"

Shiro pursed his lips in a thin line, "It couldn't be recovered, doctor. It was beyond recognition and..."

Alfor motioned for him to stop. He didn't want to listen anymore. Shiro obeyed and waited.

Silence filled the room like a pall of lead, slipped between them and oppressed them.

Suddenly, Alfor spoke, "Get out."

"Doctor..."

"Shiro, I don't want to see anyone for the next twenty-four hours. Warn Coran, and tell him to... to announce the loss of Blue Spirit on the news. The funeral will be held as soon as the body is recovered ..."

"Doctor, I don't think that..."

Alfor looked at him with a look that one could only describe as infernal, as if at that moment he was a demon whose flesh was being torn apart and not a human being.

"I will not bury my son except worthily, Shiro," Alfor insisted on the word son, pain that pierced him like so many small knives, feeling like Mary at the foot of the cross.  "Find his body... or what's left of it... I want him to rest next to his mother..."

"I see..." he lowered his head, and started to leave, when Alfor stopped him, "Shiro, I want to remind you of something. I always know when people lie to me. And I don't know what about, but you lied to me. God help you if I ever find out what you lied about."

Keith woke up feeling broken. He did it slowly, his head empty as if he had been stuck with his head under the water one too many times.

The infirmary room was sterile and dim, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. He was lying flat on his back, his body heavy and uncooperative. There was an IV line taped to his left arm, and the steady beep of a heart monitor filled the silence. He tried to push himself up, a groan escaping his lips as pain lanced through his chest.

Matt was sitting next to him, in a wheelchair. He was looking at Keith with a concerned expression. Keith tried to sit up, but Matt stopped him. "Don't," Matt said quietly. "You've got several broken ribs, a pretty bad head injury, and they had to put your foot in a cast."

"What the hell happened? The last thing I remember..."

"It was you attacking Sendak, " Matt sighed, tired, "I had to admit, that bitch deserved it...but it was a trap."

“A trap?”

"Yes... there was a bomb, and Haggar detonated it," Matt continued to explain, shaking both hands, "Thankfully, you and Shiro weren't close, but Blue and I were..."

Keith uttered a mocking cry, "What, Blue used you as a human shield or something? That coward..."

"Keith..."

"Did he leave you under the rubble and forget he had super strength? Not that it's of much use, he's barely able to lift a car, let alone rubble..."

"Keith..."

"Where is he now? Or is he too cool to be in the infirmary like the rest of us and thinks he doesn't have to mix with..."

"Keith!" Matt's voice was sadder than Keith had ever heard. And she looked at the boy with an expression that Keith could describe as simply destroyed, "I lost consciousness, and I don't remember much, but Shiro told me... Blue Spirit took the full force of the explosion. He tried to protect me, he..."

An unpleasant feeling made its way into Keith, "Matt, where's Blue Spirit now?"

Matt looked away, and Keith blurted out, "Matt, don't treat me like a child. Where is he?"

"Where do you think he is, Keith? I told you, he took the whole explosion."

Keith opened his mouth, but closed it immediately. It couldn't be true. Because if what Matt was implying was true, it meant Blue was dead, and it couldn't be, because he didn't know anyone more selfish and self-centered than Blue Spirit, and that asshole would never die that way, ever.

He tried to get up, but Matt held him back, "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"You're all wrong," Keith growled, trying to remove his IV and being restrained by Matt, "Blue Spirit isn't dead. I'm going to look for him."

"Keith, don't do that..."

"Matt, you know him as well as I do. Blue Spirit can't be dead, not like this. Someone like him seeks glory, and there is no glory when you are dead!"

"I know," the boy whispered shyly, "I know though when I woke up, I was covered in blood, and it wasn't mine, Keith."

He felt his stomach tighten. He vehemently denied, "It must have been from some Galra. You can't know, you were unconscious. I have to go..."

"Shiro saw it all," Matt interrupted, gloomily, "He said that... Blue Spirit was in very bad shape. Really bad. There was nothing more for him to do..."

Keith wanted to scream. He would have meant that Shiro could also be wrong, he wasn't a doctor, what did he know?

But Shiro had been a paladin since he was sixteen. He had seen a lot of accidents and fatal injuries. Shiro had lost an arm and was saved at the last minute by Allura.

Shiro wasn't stupid. He knew how to recognize a desperate situation when he saw one.

And if Shiro said there was nothing more to do...

"Where is he?" he croaked, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

"Shiro is talking to doctor Alfor..."

"Not Shiro. Where is Blue Spirit’s body? I want to see it."

"Keith..."

"Don't tell me bullshit like it's not recognizable or anything like that. We weren't friends, it won't affect me..."

"Keith, it's not possible, because Shiro wasn't able to get him back."

Keith heard his ears ringing, "You mean you left him there?!"

"It was not an easy choice, but with the two of us injured and me dying..."

Keith wanted to slap him in the face. He had no idea what Haggar would do if he had the chance to get his hands on the bodies of one of them.

Well, not that there's much to work on, a sneaky little voice reminded him, and he had to fight the urge to scream.

"Let me go."

"Keith, you're not in a condition to walk..."

"Then I will fly," he said, raising his chin proudly, "I can fly there and bring him back to the Tower."

"Keith, you have a head injury that has yet to heal," Matt had to remind him, "You don't have a regeneration factor like Yellow Taurus, you can barely use your powers when you're injured so badly."

"So what, let's let Haggar do what she wants with his body? Do we give up like this?"

"I'm sure Shiro and Yellow are already working on something to bring him back," Matt said conciliatory, "You know Blue Spirit and Yellow Taurus were friends, Yellow wouldn't stand the thought of leaving his friend in a Galra base."

Keith had always wondered how a person like Yellow Taurus could tolerate Blue Spirit. He'd even asked him once, and Yellow Taurus  had looked at him as if Keith was in the wrong, and said, "If you stopped antagonizing him, maybe you'd realize he's a good guy."

It was just the demonstration that Yellow was too good and Blue Spirit had taken advantage of his naivety.

Should he stop antagonizing him? It was Blue Spirit who never missed an opportunity to remind him that he was only there because Shiro had brought him, and that it was a charity case.

To which Keith replied, ''At least I'm powerful, you are a joke, and your powers are useless. Why should we have you on the team when I'm here?"

At least now there will be no more useless discussions...

Immediately after thinking it, he felt disgusting. If what Matt had said was true, Blue Spirit had died a hero, sacrificing himself to save Matt...

But Keith couldn't believe it. The rescue must have been an accident, and Blue Spirit had been unlucky, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now Matt, out of guilt, saw what had happened in a different light.

It made a lot more sense that way, rather than for Blue Spirit to sacrifice himself. Why would he ever do it? He didn't care about anyone but himself.

Sacrificing yourself for someone else was totally out of character, and... No, it just didn't sound good to him.

Maybe it doesn't sound good to you because if Blue Spirit has always been able to do these things, it would mean that you misjudged him, and that you treated him unfairly. How did you call him before entering the base? Don't you remember? Wait, I will help you remember...

"Stop," he almost yelled, and Matt blinked, confused, "I didn't say anything. Are you hallucinating?"

"No, just... Nevermind, maybe I need to rest and... I don't know..."

Matt put on a serious expression, "I'm going to call Coran. He definitely has to take a look at you."

He started to push his wheelchair away, when Keith called him back, "Hey... your legs..."

Matt stared down, then smiled at him, "Oh, don't worry. Soon I will be as good as new!"

Keith wanted to feel relieved, but he couldn't.

Matt had lied to him.

Narti and Ezor were two silent presences behind him, while Haggar observed the camera footage of Laboratory 626.

Everything had gone according to his plan: Sendak had followed the script as planned, and Red Warrior had fallen into the trap.

It would have been perfect if only Black Bolt hadn't stepped in and saved Red Warrior. She clenched her fist.

She had been one step away from finding the perfect body, and the opportunity had slipped from under her nose. Damn Black Bolt, Alfor's loyal watchdog, always willing to do whatever his master ordered him to do.

"I thought Black Bolt was the perfect solution, but I was wrong... Red Warrior's powers are a cut above, he is practically a god. He doesn't realize it yet, but he could have the world at his feet... and I want that power for Lotor... I want to..."

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sight, caught out of the corner of her eye. She would almost have lost it.

She went back and looked at it again. And she looked at it again, again, again, until...

"This is very interesting," she smiled, leaning forward, "It seems that the Alfor puppy is much more interesting than I thought... Narti!"

The girl was immediately next to her. Haggar said, "Go back to the lab, and take some samples. Anything useful. I need to do some analysis."

"Yes, Lady Haggar."

"Ah, and while you're at it... I want you to destroy everything. There must be nothing left to prove that Blue Spirit is still alive."

"Got it, Lady Haggar," Narti nodded, and disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

Haggar leaned her back against the chair.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Alfor had taken a son from her, and she will return the favour.

Chapter Text

Lance was in the center of a stage, the lights all focused on him. He couldn't see the audience, the room was completely dark, but he felt the eyes on him: judging, hungry, predatory eyes.

He held one arm in front of his face to protect himself from the light, and took a few steps back, ending up against someone's chest.

He tried to turn around, but felt hands rest on his face and force him to look ahead.

"Don't turn around," the voice was masculine, and unnecessarily cloying, sweet but hiding poison, "I'm here for you, for the star. Show up."

"I'd really rather not," the boy said, trying to free himself, but if possible the grip on him became stronger. Suddenly, it was no longer just a pair of hands that blocked him, but dozens, which kept him anchored in place, handling him as if he were nothing more than a toy.

"Stage fright? Don't worry, that's normal," the voice said again, and Lance felt a visceral hatred towards her, but also fear, "Let me help you. Let's give them what they came for."

And without waiting for an answer from Lance, with a sudden gesture, he tore his shirt, showing him half naked to the invisible audience.

"Everyone wants a piece of you, Leandro," the name was unpleasant, wrong, but Lance couldn't move, it was as if all his muscles were petrified and he couldn't do anything, "Smile, Leandro. Look happy. No one wants a sad star. Do you want this to be your umpteenth failure? Then, do what you have to."

"No," he thought, feeling his hands caress his chest, possessive, lascivious, "I don't want this. No, no... I don't want to..."

A long, prolonged ring poured into the bedroom, waking Lance. The young man had the sheets tangled around his legs, lying on his back on a much softer bed than the one he was used to at the Garrison.

"Hunk, turn off that damn thing, before I..." he paused, remembering with painful clarity that this was no longer his world.

He sat up on the bed, running his hands over his face, feeling dead tired. The ringing went on and on, and Lance had no idea where it came from.

"Is it an alarm? An anti-theft device? What the hell is it?!" he snapped, irritated, unable to understand the source of the noise.

He tried to get out of bed, but his legs were still blocked by the sheets, and he ended up tripping face down. In an attempt to avoid the fall, his hand ended up on the bedside table, but he accidentally destroyed it and, with nothing to stop it,

"Urgh... I bet that never happens to Red Warrior," he moaned, face down.

He had already accidentally destroyed the shower gargoyle the night before, and now this one. How much was strong the real Blue Spirit?

Not much, according to what he remembered from reading Paladins: the role of Blue Spirit, in the first issues, was more that of a comic sidekick who got in the way of the real protagonists, Red Warrior in the first place, and it was often emphasized that oh yes, he was strong, but Red Warrior was even stronger, and he could fly. Could Blue Spirit do it? No! And he couldn't do a lot of other things that his rival could.

Like, Red Warrior could fly. Wasn't that great?

"It must be handsome, he's also almost invulnerable, he could fly at least beyond the Earth's atmosphere and be just a little cold."

The thought immediately made his heart clench. He would never fly like Red Warrior.

He will always stand with his feet firmly planted on the ground, space forever unreachable.

There was no fucking way he could become a pilot now, not when all people with superpowers had to register if they wanted to aspire to some military career and attend Dr. Alfor's Academy.

Blue Spirit was registered – probably, though he had no idea under what name – and had attended the Academy.

Perhaps, Lance could have ... No, he nipped the idea in the bud.

Forget the bureaucracy, but the Paladins wouldn't leave him alone. Or maybe they would have been happy to get rid of Blue Spirit once and for all.

God, if it weren't for all the chances of getting caught, and for that damn fucking corruption arc...

"Are you awake, Blue Spirit?" Blue's little voice above him made him raise his head. The hologram looked at him, it not at all impressed. The ringing stopped.

"Was it you?" Lance asked, trying not to yawn.

"Exactly. You won't make it in time for your morning workout... again."

Being judged by a hologram was a new low for him too. Lance sat up on the floor, scratching the back of his neck, "Yes, by the way... I don't think I'll go to the Tower."

"Why not?"

"Because... Um... I don't want to," wow, congratulations, really very convincing. "I still haven't recovered and... I prefer to stay alone."

Blue looked at him annoyed, "You can't avoid your obligations just because you don't feel like it. You didn't even do your post-mission report."

"Um... By the way... I don't think I'll write any reports anytime soon... or never, for that matter."

The hologram looked at him in shock, "This insubordination is so bad, Blue Spirit, more than usual."

Lance stood up, stretching his back, "Yes, tell me something new."

"Dr. Alfor won't be pleased."

“When is he ever with me?” he asked, and it was a very good point. Dr. Alfor was a great mentor to everyone except Blue Spirit. Never a word of encouragement, never smiles to say hey, it's okay, you're doing great, keep going.  

The man was cold towards the hero, and it was clear that he made obvious preferences, giving the most important missions to Red Warrior and Black Bolt. Blue Spirit obviously meddled, but it didn't change that the doctor was always on Red Warrior's side for everything, and honestly he didn't know if it was bad writing or the author really didn't like his character.

"You have to understand it, Dr. Alfor cares about your health and safety," Blue continued to speak, as Lance headed into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, and it was distressing to find it empty, except for bottles that contained liquid with a very unappealing color. He closed it and said, "Sure, as you say. Every now and then he might, I don't know, remind you that there are not only Red Warriors and Black Bolts."

He rummaged around, looking for something to have breakfast with, while the hologram continued, "Your rivalry with Red Warrior is silly."

"I wouldn't exactly call it rivalry," he muttered, full of disappointment at the fact that either Blue Spirit was a wellness enthusiast, or he ate only and exclusively at the Tower, "To be rivals, you would have to recognize that the other is your equal. Red Warrior just sees me as a nuisance."

"It would help if you took things seriously..."

Wow, Blue, thank you for the solidarity. Lance didn't need to be reproached for his lack of seriousness barely after twenty-four hours in a new body. He had not yet done anything worth being reprimanded for.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the television remote control on the table. He took it and turned on the TV. Who knows, maybe if he keeps the volume high enough, he won't have to continue to hear Blue's reproaches.

He put a channel at random, hoping to find the music channel. Instead, it ended up on the news.

"Dr. Coran, what happened to Blue Spirit?"

Lance froze, with his arm raised.

He didn't dare turn around. Really, what were the chances that he would turn on the television just as he was being talked about? And were they really already talking about it? The news ran fast. And of course it wasn't Dr. Alfor who broke the news, but his trusted right-hand man, Coran – a sort of Alfred Pennyworth, to be clear, only he wasn’t a butler and was Australian. Dr.Alfor probably hadn't even noticed that Blue Spirit was dead, too busy worrying about his beloved Red Warrior.

"Blue Spirit died last night during a mission in a Galra base. He heroically saved the lives of his comrades..."

Had it gone like this? He frowned. He didn't remember anything about it, Blue Spirit's disappearance was treated very briefly, his death treated off-screen, and then simply... life went on. New villains to defeat, kittens to save and things like that.

It was an insult that the death of one of the main characters was treated in this way, as if it didn't count for anything.

As if Blue Spirit didn't matter, and could be easily replaced (and hated that, in a way, that's what had happened. Lance was there, and Blue Spirit... it was somewhere else.)

Then, in perfect Jason Todd fashion, Blue Spirit had come back from the dead, and he was furious.

“… the funeral will be held..."

Lance turned to turn off the television. He barely glanced at the television, he didn't even see what Dr. Coran looked like at that moment. He did it too eagerly, and now the remote control was little more than a shapeless mush in his hand. He didn't worry about it.

His chest hurt, as if someone had placed a boulder on him, and now he couldn't breathe. He placed his hands on the table, waiting for the pain to go away. Why he felt that way?

It was a familiar but foreign pain, many small pins that were pierced in his flesh and were never removed.

Did that mean that a part of Blue Spirit's consciousness was still there?

"You should have gone back to the Tower," Blue said at the time, and Lance was grateful for the interruption, "Now everyone believes you're dead! It’s incredibly atrocious and… "

Blue didn’t know, but  Blue Spirit was dead, and Lance was there in his place.

 The fact that Dr. Coran had made the news official made things a little easier, in a way. Sure, he'll have to discard the idea of becoming a pilot regardless, but hey, hadn't he already done it after yet another failed exam?

He will be fine in the end.

He could just keep making it look like he was dead, and not make an Under the Red Hood-style comeback. Black Bolt won't die, and he won't destroy Altea. Yes, it seemed like a good plan.

However, if he wanted that new life to go well, he needed one fundamental thing.

"Hey, Blue... exactly, how much money do I have?"

Black Bolt entered the tunnel with the gloomy calm of someone who was heading for the scaffold. The air was thick, heavy, and the silence was oppressive.

He already knew what he would find on the other side, and he was ready.

He heard a ringing in his ear, and touched the receiver. On the other end, Matt's voice was tense, "I had to stop Keith from getting out of bed again. Why didn't you leave me a pair of locking handcuffs?"

"I didn't think it would be necessary," he sighed, using his powers to light the tunnel, "He and Blue Spirit didn't get along."

"He refuses to accept that Blue is dead," Matt sighed, "But you have to understand it, he wasn't conscious when it happened. He doesn't know..."

Black Bolt didn't hear the next sentence. He heard a long white noise, his mind zoomed elsewhere.

Keith was unconscious. Keith was injured, unconscious in her arms. Matt was dying, there was blood everywhere, his back broken... and Blue Spirit...

She had asked him for help. Blue Spirit had called him, bleeding, exhausted under the weight of all that metal, resisting only because he had to, because Shiro had ordered him to.

He had never been as strong as Keith. Foolish, idealistic, crazy. A madman who saw Shiro and saw his hero, and trusted, believed that he would save him.

Shiro hadn't done it.

Dr. Alfor was right. He hadn't told him everything.

"Shiro?"  Matt called him back, worried.

"I'm on a mission, no real names," he reminded him, his tone blank, his gaze blank, still seeing blood, blood, blood.

"I call you what I want, man. Are you still there? It seemed to me that I was... I don't know, absent."

"I'm fine," he lied, and maybe he could even believe it, "Is Dr. Alfor back?"

"Not yet. I think he went to argue with Coran about the details of the funeral..."

"Funeral that he will hold only when he has the body of Blue Spirit," Shiro concluded for him, his stomach turning.

"Yes... I don't envy you at all, dude. I wouldn't have the strength to bring back a body... especially when there is not much left."

Shiro swallowed. There was an answer on the tip of his tongue that he was fighting to get out, an admission too big for someone like Matt, who knew him better than anyone, not to understand its true meaning.

Therefore, he remained silent, reaching the end of the tunnel, finding what was left of the laboratory exactly as he had left it: destroyed, reduced to complete chaos, and with the stench of blood and death.

Black Bolt ignored the rapid beating of his heart, wandering with his gaze in search of what remained of Blue Spirit.

With his foot, he bumped into something. He looked down, and felt a selfish relief to see that it was not Blue Spirit, but a Galra. But then he frowned.

"Did you find it?"

"Not yet, but it has to be..."

Black Bolt's words died in his throat as a sudden, brutal force slammed him sideways. His communicator clattered to the rubble-strewn floor, Matt's frantic voice instantly muffled. Pain exploded through his shoulder as he impacted the wall. Before he could react, a fist encased in Galra armor blurred towards his face.

He twisted instinctively, the blow grazing his temple. Stars danced in his vision. Standing before him, shimmering with residual energy from a teleport, was a tall Galra.

He knew her. She was one of Haggar's experiments: Narti.

His blood ran cold.  Her presence meant Haggar knew about Blue Spirit's death – and she wanted to take advantage of it.

Horror wafted through him at the thought of what Haggar wanted to do with Blue Spirit's body.

Black Bolt pushed himself off the wall, ignoring the throbbing in his temple.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice tight. Inside, a frantic prayer echoed, Please, God. Don't let me be late.

 His eyes scanned the chaotic lab, searching desperately for any sign of Blue Spirit amidst the wreckage.

Narti stepped forward, her feline features impassive beneath the hood. Her tail flicked once, a silent command.

"Do not ask unnecessary questions," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "You know why I am here."

Her gaze drifted pointedly towards the scorched, twisted metal where Blue Spirit had made his final stand. The implication hung heavy in the stale air: Haggar wanted the body.

Maybe to conduct experiments. Maybe as a final insult to Dr. Alfor.

Whatever the reason, he couldn't let her take it.

(At least he owed Blue Spirit that little bit of grace.)

Black Bolt didn't hesitate. "You're not touching it," he snarled, the raw command cracking through the oppressive silence. Before Narti could react, his hands snapped up, crackling with violet energy. A blinding bolt of lightning lanced across the ruined lab, aimed squarely at her chest.

Narti vanished in a ripple of distorted air, the lightning passing harmlessly through the space she'd occupied. The bolt slammed into the scorched mega-computer console behind her with a deafening fizz.

Sparks erupted in a shower of molten metal and acrid smoke, the ruined machinery groaning as circuits overloaded and panels blew outwards.

The violet energy dissipated, leaving the air thick with ozone and the stench of burning insulation.

Black Bolt didn't care about the sparks raining down or the fresh tongues of flame licking at spilled coolant. There was one more urgent thing to think about: finding Blue Spirit. There was no trace of the body, however, and this seemed to confirm Black Bolt's worst fears.

"WHERE IS IT?" he roared, whirling, scanning the shifting smoke and debris. His voice cracked with a desperation he hadn't felt since Matt lay bleeding. "Where is the body?"

Narti materialised inches from his flank, claws raking towards his ribs.

 "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" she hissed, her voice a chilling monotone beneath the hood.

Black Bolt jerked back, the claws tearing through his uniform sleeve instead of flesh. He felt the sting, the warmth of blood welling. Too slow.

 He pivoted, lashing out with a lighting -charged fist. It slammed into her armored forearm with a dull thud, forcing her back a step.

The impact sent sparks cascading onto a pool of spilled hydraulic fluid near the shattered console. Instantly, flames erupted, hungry and orange, licking up the slick surface.

Black Bolt didn't pause. He fired another bolt, deliberately wide, aiming not at Narti but at a dangling, sparking power conduit overhead. It exploded in a shower of white-hot sparks that rained down onto piles of flammable insulation foam stacked against the wall.

Within seconds, the entire section of the lab was engulfed. Flames roared, climbing the walls, devouring the remnants of Haggar's work. Heat washed over them, thick and suffocating, warping the air. Smoke billowed, stinging Black Bolt's eyes and clawing at his throat.

"Where is the body?" Black Bolt roared over the inferno's roar, his voice raw. He advanced through the flames, violet energy crackling around his fists, ready to unleash another bolt. The heat seared his skin, the smoke choked him, but he didn't care. "Tell me!"

Narti stood silhouetted against the blaze, untouched by the flames. Her laughter cut through the crackling fire, a sound like grinding glass shards.

"The Paladins are fools," she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. "Haggar sends her deepest condolences to Dr. Alfor. She understands the pain of losing a child." The words were a knife twist, deliberate cruelty aimed at Alfor. Black Bolt got angry.

He lunged, violet energy blazing around his fists. Narti met him head-on, claws clashing against his crackling gauntlets in a shower of sparks.

The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke and ozone. They traded brutal blows amidst the inferno—Black Bolt's lightning strikes scorching metal, Narti's claws tearing gouges in his armor. Each impact jarred Black Bolt's bones, driving him back towards a crumbling support beam groaning under the fire's assault.

He stumbled, coughing violently as smoke seared his lungs. Narti saw the weakness instantly. She kicked him hard in the chest, sending him crashing into the weakened beam.

 The structure screamed, buckling overhead. Black Bolt rolled desperately as tons of flaming debris crashed down where he'd stood, showering him in embers. Temporarily blinded, choking, he didn't see her move.

Pain exploded—white-hot, consuming. He screamed. Narti stood over him, a jagged shard of rebar dripping crimson in her clawed grip. His left arm lay severed below the elbow, cauterized instantly by the heat yet pumping dark blood onto the scorched floor. The agony was blinding, nausea twisting his gut. Through blurred vision, he saw her cold, triumphant eyes.

"Haggar sends her regards," she hissed, raising the dripping metal shard again.  Black Bolt gritted his teeth, agony and rage warring. He had one chance—one desperate move left.

With a guttural roar fueled by sheer will, Black Bolt surged upwards with his remaining arm. He swung wildly, aiming for Narti's throat. But the severed limb threw off his balance; the agony made his movements sluggish. His fist missed by inches, whistling uselessly through smoke-choked air. Narti didn't flinch. She simply stepped back, her expression chillingly dismissive.

 "Pathetic," she murmured, vanishing in a ripple of distorted air. Black Bolt was alone amidst the roaring flames, clutching his ruined arm, the stench of his own burning flesh thick in his nostrils.

He staggered towards the tunnel entrance, a dark rectangle barely visible through the swirling smoke and heat haze. Every step was agony, fire licking at his boots, embers stinging his face. His vision swam, tunneling.

“Must warn Alfor. Must get out.”

 The thought was a desperate mantra. But his legs buckled violently. He crashed to his knees on scorched concrete, the impact jarring his spine. Smoke clawed its way down his throat, triggering a hacking, wet cough that tore through his chest. His lungs screamed for clean air that wasn't there.

The world tilted violently. The roar of the inferno faded into a dull, distant thrumming, like waves crashing on a faraway shore. The searing heat became a numb chill spreading from his core. He fought it, clawing at consciousness, trying to drag himself forward inch by agonizing inch. His remaining hand slipped in something wet and warm—his own blood pooling beneath him.

“Can't... stop...”

 The thought fragmented, dissolving into meaningless static. His head felt impossibly heavy, lolling forward.

Through the swirling, choking smoke, a shape materialized. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with deliberate, heavy strides. It advanced towards him, unaffected by the flames licking at its boots.

Black Bolt squinted, his vision blurring and doubling. The silhouette seemed familiar—solid, dependable, radiating a quiet, immense strength. Recognition flickered, weak and desperate, like a dying ember.

“Yellow… Taurus…” he stammered with trembling breath, fainting shortly afterwards right in the arms of the other hero.

Lance sat groggy at a table in a bar that was a few steps from the bank. Yes, he had gone to the bank. Alone, without his mother or father to keep him company, or Hunk or Veronica as moral support.

He had gone to the bank because Blue had told him to do so, to check his bank details and his super-secret bank account (a term that apparently Blue Spirit had used himself and that Blue didn't like at all) and find out how much money he had.

He had been a nervous wreck, with no idea what he was doing, but smiling and pretending to be in perfect control of the situation. Because duh, he was a young adult with an apartment and a job as an adult person and he knew what he was doing.

All bullshit, but as long as no one called his bullshit, Lance pampered himself with a sense of false security.

The final blow, however, was to discover that he had 10,000 dollars in his bank account.

It was a lot of money. How much did the original Blue Spirit make modeling? Was he good? Should he continue?

No, what nonsense. The aim was to keep a low profile, and modeling certainly didn't fit into the low-profile description. The Paladins would surely have recognised him if an ad with his face on it had been skipped.

"Great, great... So, I got some money... An apartment... I should find a job... and I have no idea what the hell I should do since I don't exactly have a CV here and no real experience or..."

His stream of thoughts was abruptly interrupted by an intense burning in his arm. He jumped instinctively, while the maid, a young blonde woman with pointed ears like an elf, looked at him mortified.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," the girl bowed several times, in an understandable panic. Lance tried to smile, but the burning in his arm made him grimace which frightened the girl, "Oh my God, I have to call for help right away. That coffee was piping hot!"

"You don't have to..."

But she had already sprinted away, running to get a first aid kit or call an ambulance directly, who knew, leaving Lance with one arm in mid-air and extremely confused.

"I apologise for Romelle," a man in his thirties told him, approaching him. He had a beautiful amber complexion and brown eyes, glasses that didn't want to stay in their place. " It's a bit difficult to manage everything you have as developed senses as she does."

"That's not a problem," Lance replied, hoping he wasn't making any faces now, "I guess she went to the Academy too."

"Yes, and it's also recorded. For a while, she dreamed of joining the Paladins, but after yet another rejection due to incompatibility with the team, she decided to give up and do something else," the man explained, bowing next to him and checking his arm. He looked at him with a serious frown, "Ah, this is quite expensive... if you want, we will repay it, I'm afraid it's ruined..."

"It's just a sweater," Lance reassured him, "It's not a big loss."

The man looked at him warily, "This is a cashmere sweater. “

"Yes, so what? Is it worth making Romelle pay just for a stupid accident?"  he asked, because come on, just put it in the washing machine and then it will be as good as new. At least, that's what he believed.

Still, he didn't think it was worth making a scene just for a coffee stain on a sweater.

"Ah, if everyone were so reasonable," the man sighed, then asked, "Can I check what the arm looks like? That coffee was really hot, and I wouldn't want you to burn."

"It wasn't that hot," she tried to reassure him, only to receive a raised eyebrow in response. "Romelle makes coffee that could melt metal. I'm not kidding. People come here who want it extra hot, because otherwise they don't feel how strong the coffee is, and they can't stay awake."

"College students."

"College students," the other nodded, "Romelle's extra coffee keeps them awake until they finish working on their projects. And there have already been burns because someone drank it too quickly. So..."

"Yes, better check," Lance relented, and the man gently lifted the sleeve of his sweater. He was amazed to see the completely immaculate beauty of the young man's arm. Maybe just slightly warm, but other than that, it was fine. Lance sighed with relief. At least he won't have to worry about going to the hospital. He even had no idea if he had health insurance. He will have to ask Blue for that too.

He hoped that Blue Spirit's sister had gotten him a lot of false documents; otherwise trying to build a new life for himself will be a hundred times harder.

And yes, even doing it under the name of Leandro Sanchez was better than nothing... but personally, he would have liked to be able to use his name, his identity.

It was stupid to even think about it.

"Romelle will be glad she didn't send a client to the hospital," the man commented, looking at him strangely, "Although I would have preferred to have known earlier that..."

At that moment, the blonde girl arrived, almost tripping again, with a first aid kit that seemed to have seen better days, "Adam! I think everything is there, but you should check first..."

"Romelle..."

"I tried to call the hospital, but they said to check that there is actually a burn, and to take it in case it is really bad..."

"Romelle..."

"I said it was an extra hot coffee, but they didn't want to listen to me! They said there was another call and..."

"He's fine," Adam finally interrupted, showing Lance's arm, "There's no burn."

She blinked several times, "But it's not possible. It was my extra-hot coffee..."

"Well, obviously not for him," and Adam looked at Lance warily, almost studying him.

"I'm sorry I scared you," Lance tried to say, feeling rather awkward under the gaze of both of them, "And for getting you to call the ambulance."

"Oh, we call you at least twice a week," Romelle reassured him, "We're near a bank, you know. And to a jewellery store. And to a pawn shop. In fact, it's an area where it's easy for crime to occur at least once a day!"

"The owner chose really well," Lance commented, wondering if maybe the owner wasn't an avid fan of the Paladins who had decided to open in such an area to watch the exploits of his heroes from the front row. It would not be strange, at least not in the logic of a comic book.

At that comment, Adam coughed in his fist, and turning to Romelle said, "Put the kit back in its place. And brew coffee again for table 13."

"Yes!"

"Ah, and the order to..."

"Lance."

"Lance's order is from the house," he added, and Romelle nodded without question, returning immediately to the back.

Lance swallowed, "It's very kind, but there was no need."

"Hey, that's the least. You were kind not to yell at Romelle and demand that she pay you back for the sweater," Adam shrugged, going to the counter. "Besides, you don't seem to be having a good day. Bad news?"

"Something like that," he muttered, because how else could he explain to a stranger ah yes, I died during a stupid challenge, lost my best friend and woke up in the body of a class B villain in a matter of hours, and now I have to decide what to do with myself.

It would certainly have been a fun conversation.

"You came from the bank. Bad news?"

"Not really," he scratched behind his neck, embarrassed, "I mean, I have at least ... Um... a little..."

"Good for you. God only knows how much I need to manage this place, between bills and everything else. Ten thousand dollars would not be enough for me!"

Lance turned pale, "You say ten thousand dollars isn't enough?"

Adam shrugged, "Don't get me wrong, they're a nice amount to put aside. But there are a lot of expenses to consider. If you have a job, that's fine, but if you don't... but where is the rag? Damn, Romelle..."

Lance's brain registered nothing else. His mind was in a loop. Ten thousand dollars was not enough. Ten thousand damn dollars wasn't enough if you didn't work.

Okay, calm down. Lance will find a job... How difficult could it be?

How difficult can it be? Ah, listen to him, a little voice whispered to him, with all the malice of a Garrison teacher, You don't even know where to start. You're not even a real adult! You studied to become a pilot, and you don't have any real skills for anything else. You know how to run a farm, but can you really spend all your money to buy land somewhere and start cultivating the land? You? Even if it were a good idea, and it is not, there are documents to present for the purchase, and you don't even know if you have them. You are such a loser.

Lance groaned, resting his hand on his forehead, looking defeated. Even his subconscious was against him.

He heard Romelle's worried voice ask him, "Oh, are you okay? Does your arm hurt?"

Somehow, he doubted what to say, I just realized that I've been trying to become a pilot all my life, and I don't think I know how to do anything else. Actually, I don't know what I can do, and now I should support myself and find a job, but I don't even know where to start!, if it was a good idea.

He sighed, "I have quite a few things to think about."

"Really? Like what?"

"My life," and he felt dramatic to say it like that, but it was the most sincere and summarising way to describe his situation, "I... I just lost my old job... and I decided to reinvent myself..."

"It's not easy," the girl said sympathetically, "I was in a similar situation when I left the Academy a few years ago."

"You seem to have adapted well."

"Oh, I'm still so clumsy," Romelle scoffed, "There's not like they're going to teach you how to be a secretary, a doctor, or a teacher. And I'm not particularly interested in being in the military or becoming a policewoman."

"Yes... neither do I..."

"So, here I am. Preparing hot coffee and trying not to spill it on customers... By the way, I'm still sorry."

Lance made a vague gesture with his free hand, "No damage done."

Romelle tapped a finger on her chin with a meditative air. Then her face lit up, "If you need a part-time job, maybe you could come here... we would need a new cashier..."

"After you give us your CV," Adam specified, passing by them carrying the order to another table, "And only if you are interested. It's okay to try to help others, Romelle, but we can't afford to do charity."

"But if you basically hired me when you knew I had zero experience!" she reminded him, and Adam sighed, "Yes, and look how well it went! You're lucky that the guys like your coffee, even if it's a deadly weapon!"

"Don't listen to him," she said, turning conspiratorially to Lance, "He wants to be grumpy, but deep down he's a softie. Anyway, think about it. You would have time to understand what you want to do with your life, and we would have an extra hand! It's a win-win for everyone!"

"I'll think about it," Lance replied through gritted teeth, not having the heart to spoil Romelle's enthusiasm.

He stood abruptly, taking his jacket and leaving without ordering anything. He felt a little guilty about leaving without even taking advantage of Adam's offer, but he had a lot of things to think about and needed air. The bell above the door jingled sharply as he stepped into the afternoon glare, the sudden brightness making him squint. Ten thousand dollars suddenly felt like pocket change—enough for rent and groceries maybe, but nowhere near the safety net he'd imagined.

He walked aimlessly, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. Every storefront seemed to scream experience required. He didn't know how to stock shelves or operate a cash register. He could pilot a freighter through asteroid fields, but that skill was useless here—and worse, dangerous. If he slipped up, used jargon from another life, someone might notice.

The weight of his ignorance pressed down. Back home, failure meant extra chores or disappointed looks. Here, failure meant hunger, eviction, exposure. He’d never needed a backup plan because the Garrison was supposed to be his future. Now, stranded in a stranger’s body, he had nothing but stolen cash and borrowed time.

Romelle’s offer echoed—a lifeline disguised as part-time work. But Adam’s sharp reminder about a CV cut deep. Lance couldn’t fabricate job history like forged ID papers. One background check would unravel everything. He kicked the pebble harder, sending it skittering into the gutter.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Panic tightened his throat. He’d spent years training for a cockpit, not a coffee machine or a spreadsheet. What was he supposed to put on a CV? Proficient in evading drones? Skilled at recalibrating ion thrusters mid-combat?

They’d think he was delusional.

The crisp autumn air did little to clear his head. Every passing face seemed effortlessly competent—people who knew how taxes worked, who understood leases, who didn’t flinch at the price of groceries. He’d never felt so out of place.

"Just to start a new life in the right way," he muttered to himself, shrugging. He should do the shopping to have some stuff in the fridge. He refused to drink the stuff Blue Spirit had left. And then after...

He didn't see the girl until she crashed into him. She was a teen of fourteen, maybe, with tangled short brown hair and eyes wide with panic.

 "Watch where you're going, idiot!" she spat, shoving past him. Her sleeve rode up as she pushed him away, revealing a deep purple bruise blooming beneath her left eye. Lance caught her wrist instinctively. "Hey, that looks bad—"

"None of your business!" She tried to wrench free, but he held firm, his gaze locked on the injury. Before he could press further, the rumble of engines cut through the street noise. Two men on chrome motorcycles pulled up, blocking the sidewalk. They wore leather jackets adorned with a snarling wolf patch. The larger one, bald with a thick neck tattoo, dismounted slowly.

 "Step aside, pretty boy," he growled, his voice like gravel. "This doesn't concern you."

Lance didn't budge, shielding the girl slightly behind him. "She's hurt," he stated flatly, keeping his voice low and steady despite the adrenaline prickling his skin. The bald man snorted, cracking his knuckles. "Told you," he muttered to his companion, a wiry man with greasy hair. "Just some dumb kid playing hero." The wiry man smirked, pulling a short metal baton from his jacket. "Easy takedown."

Before the baton could swing, Lance pivoted. His foot snapped out in a precise arc, catching the wiry man squarely in the temple. The thug crumpled like wet cardboard. The bald man roared, lunging, but Lance was already moving. He sidestepped, grabbed the man's extended arm, and used his momentum to slam him face-first onto the sidewalk. The crack of bone meeting concrete echoed sharply. Silence followed, broken only by the sputtering engines of the motorcycles. Lance stared at his hands, then at the two unconscious men. A wave of nausea hit him—not from violence, but from the terrifying ease of it.

Oh god, he thought, heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. I just did that without blinking. They were Blue Spirit's reflex?

The girl stared at him, eyes wide as saucers.

"You... you took them down like they were nothing," she breathed, clutching her bruised cheek. Lance swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady.

"Are you okay? That bruise looks nasty. Should we get you to a hospital?" She shook her head fiercely, brown hair whipping across her face.

"No hospitals. They ask questions." Her shoulders slumped. "But now I gotta find a new shelter. Those creeps  took the place where I was."

"What? Where were you?"

"Oh, an abandoned warehouse. No mice, no dogs, no smell of piss. A real luxury."

Lance ran a hand through his hair, "A little girl like you shouldn't live in a warehouse."

"Do you think I don't know? It's not like he can go somewhere else," she pointed out, and well, Lance understood the difficulty.

"Are you running away from home?" Lance asked gently, kneeling to her eye level. The girl stiffened, her wary gaze scanning his face. "Why? Are you a cop? You got that upright look." She mimicked standing at attention with mocking precision.

Lance shook his head. "Just a guy who worries too much."

He started to turn away when he caught the subtle hitch in her step—a limp she’d been hiding. Instinct kicked him. He could not fail to do something to help her. She had just run away from angry bikers. She needed help.

"Hold on," he said, stopping her. "How about some food? My treat."

She eyed him, suspicion tightening her features. "Why? What do you want?"

"Nothing," Lance said, keeping his hands visible, palms open. "Just... food. And maybe cleaning up that bruise. There’s a crowded bar nearby—windows everywhere, lots of witnesses. You won’t be alone with me for a second."

He nodded toward her leg. "And I know someone obsessed with first aid kits. She’d lose sleep if she saw you limping.”

The girl began to think about it. Then he shrugged, "What the hell, when could this happen to me again? But if you do something strange, I'll bite you."

"I don't dream of it at all," Lance reassured her, "Anyway, my name is Lance. You are..."

"Pidge," he replied, without shaking his hand, "Pidge Gunderson."

Matt watched as his best friend slept, lying like a lifeless doll in the bed with immaculate sheets. The doctors had performed a real miracle, stopping the bleeding.

For the arm, there was nothing to do. The cut had been clean; it was impossible to reattach it, and the nerves were gone.

He had to force Keith into bed to prevent him from being next to Shiro, without worrying about his health first. Shiro wouldn't forgive himself if something happened to his brother just because he was worried about him.

Matt felt like crap.

If Allura were awake, she would have been able to save Shiro's arm. If she were awake, Matt would walk, Shiro would have his arm, and Blue Spirit would be alive.

But Allura wasn't awake. No one knew if she would ever do it.

"What did the doctors say?" Yellow Tauros asked, arriving at that moment, his armour still stained with Shiro's blood.

"The arm is gone, but he'll survive," Matt said, not hiding his relief, "If it wasn't for you, he would have burned to death. Thank you."

"I wasn't there for him," Yellow retorted stiffly, "I was there for Blue Spirit."

Matt's expression fell off, "Ah, I figured... You were good friends. I'm sorry for your loss."

"You don't care that much. You considered him a nuisance."

"I wasn't a fan of his, but he died to save me and..."

An amused snort interrupted him. Yellow Tauros turned to Matt, "Do you think he died to save you? Really?"

"Shiro said Blue Spirit died a hero."

"Yes, because he had no choice."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, confused by Yellow Tauros's sentence. The hero, however, did not answer. Instead, he said, "The body wasn't there."

Matt blanched, "Crap. Does that mean the Galra have already taken him?"

"Perhaps," Yellow replied, hesitantly, "I have yet to inform Dr. Alfor."

"Yes, he doesn't want to see anybody," Matt muttered, running both hands over his face, "God, he's going to be doubly destroyed. He will not even be able to give him a real funeral. And if Haggar now has the body... luckily, he's already dead!"

He didn't want to be so cynical, but he had seen Haggar's laboratories with his own eyes. He had destroyed quite a few in his career as a hero. He had seen what he did to his human experiments, and yes, Blue Spirit was not so nice to him, but he did not deserve such a fate.

"You'd prefer it."

"What did you say?"

Yellow Tauros made a vague gesture with his hand, "Nothing important, Green. I'm going to take a shower. I feel like crap."

He was about to leave when Matt's voice stopped him, "Did Dr. Alfor instruct you to retrieve the body?"

"No," Yellow replied, without turning around, "I was there to save a friend. I failed."

Matt swore that Yellow Tauros had whispered again at the end, but he must have imagined it.

Chapter Text

The familiar noise behind her made her immediately realize that Narti had returned. Haggar didn't turn around, remaining focused on her experiment. One hand began to move, as if trying to grab her head, but an electric shock from several volts interrupted the movement.

"Did you take what I wanted?" the woman asked, taking the scalpel.

"Yes, Lady Haggar. Also, I met one of the Paladins."

"And?" Haggar pressed her, carving a first incision at the height of the right temporal lobe.

"I cut off his arm and destroyed the place," Galra replied, with a hint of pride that was not out of place at the moment, "I left no trace behind me."

"Fate of the Paladin?"

"If the hemorrhage doesn't kill him, the fire will," Narti replied with brutal practicality, "The Paladins will lose their leader."

A smile escaped Haggar. That was very good news. Given recent developments, Alfor will not be very careful, the pain will make him clumsy, manipulable. It was perfect for his plans.

"You have done a great job," he complimented, a very rare compliment from him, "Now go back to your duties. I'm busy."

"Yes, Lady Haggar," and the Galra teleported away, leaving Haggar with his experiment. And for the first time in years, Haggar smiled.

From Romelle's expression, it was evident that she did not expect to see him again so soon, nor that he would take anyone with him.

However, a glance at Pidge's injuries was enough for her to understand that the girl needed help, and she immediately went to get her trusty first aid kit.

Romelle led them to a secluded booth tucked behind a fake potted fern, its plastic leaves brushing Lance's shoulder. He slid into the cracked vinyl seat, acutely aware of Pidge's wary gaze scanning the café's patrons. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a steaming bowl of tomato soup for her. Romelle nodded, her pointed ears twitching slightly as she scribbled down the order. Without a word, she hurried off towards the kitchen, leaving them alone in the hushed corner.

"So," Lance began to speak, one thing that had remained unchanged between death and reincarnation in another world was his inability to be silent, "What is a little girl like you doing in the middle of the street?"

"It's my business," Pidge muttered, taut as a violin string. He couldn't imagine her running away at the slightest hint of a problem. Honestly? It was a smart thing. You didn't follow strangers, unless you was cornered.

"I didn't want to get in the way..."

"Then don't do it!" the little girl said irritably, but he ignored her, "But if there is a place I can take you back, after you have eaten, and not a random storehouse... maybe a safe place..."

"Of course I don't have a safe place, genius. Where should I go, mhm? At the Academy? Newflash, they do not welcome strays without powers. And if you try to call social services, I swear I'll kick you and cut off your bloodline."

Lance could totaly believe she would.

Romelle returned swiftly, her pointed ears angled forward with concern as she placed the steaming bowl of soup before Pidge. She knelt beside them, her gaze immediately locking onto the girl's swollen wrist. "Oh, sweetie," she murmured, gently probing the tender area with careful fingers. "Does this hurt? And what about..." Her hands hovered near Pidge's bruised cheekbone.

"Nah, I'm fine," Pidge lied, pulling her wrist back sharply. "I wasn't fast enough, and an idiot grabbed me."

Romelle's frown deepened as she noted the unnatural puffiness beneath the grime. "This isn't fine. The angle looks wrong—could be a bad sprain, even a microfracture. You need X-rays. We should get you to the hospital." Her voice held the quiet authority of someone who'd seen too many untreated injuries. Or someone with a little brother or sister.

Pidge recoiled as if burned, clutching her wrist protectively. "No hospitals! They'll call the cops, or CPS, or... just no." Her panicked whisper cracked, betraying the exhaustion beneath the bravado.

Lance leaned forward, palms flat on the sticky tabletop. "That's why I brought her here," he admitted to Romelle, avoiding Pidge's glare. "I didn't know where else to go." The confession felt heavy, jagged. He couldn't explain the terrifying void—no memories of Blue Spirit's contacts, just this borrowed body and stolen cash. Every option felt like quicksand.

Blue had spoken of a sister. Lance would have liked them to have at least shown it in the graphic novel, or a hint, but nothing. It would have been helpful to have his help, at least he would have known what to do with Pidge – and what to do with his new life, but now the most important thing to think about was Pidge.

Romelle studied Pidge's grimy face, then Lance's tense shoulders. Her pointed ears dipped slightly. "Right," she murmured, snapping open the battered first aid kit. "Well, hospitals aren't the only places with ice packs and bandages." She gently pressed a cold compress against Pidge's swollen wrist, ignoring the girl's flinch. "This needs elevation. And rest. Lots of it."

"Easy," Pidge pouted as she spoke, and Romelle looked at her worriedly, "I guess you don't have a friend to ask to host you for a while."

"I didn't have time to make friends, I had... things to do," Pidge said, remaining as vague as possible.

Romelle raised an eyebrow, "And these to-dos are the reason you got hurt?"

"Not really. I didn't anticipate that someone else would be interested in where I spent the night, and that they would want to evict me permanently."

Romelle froze mid-wrap, her fingers tightening on the gauze. Her gaze snapped to Lance—sharp, questioning—before settling back on Pidge’s bruised cheek. "Evicted?" she repeated softly, her voice tight with rising alarm.  "Who would...?"

"Nobody important," Pidge said, without a trace of worry, "They won't try again. He took care of them."

"You?" Romelle asked to Lance, who felt a bit embarassed while Pidge continued,"Yeah, he knocked out two of the dudes that forced me to leave. It was hella crazy."

"It wasn't, really."

"Dude, I heard a crack. Someone will go to the hospital, and won't be me," Pidge said, with a twinkle in her eyes. Her contentment, however, was short-lived. "I had to run away without being able to take all my things. It will be difficult to replace them."

Lance leaned forward, careful not to disturb the makeshift splint Romelle was applying. "What kind of stuff did you lose?" He kept his voice casual, but Pidge's gaze flickered away, tightening her lips into a thin line. "Some trash," she muttered, vague as fog. "Personal projects. Stuff."

Romelle secured the last strip of medical tape with a sigh, recognizing the deliberate evasion. Her fingers brushed Pidge's bruised cheekbone—already purpling—before she packed away the kit. "Right," she said softly, standing abruptly. "Soup's getting cold. I'll fetch your grilled cheese." She vanished toward the kitchen, leaving behind the scent of antiseptic and unspoken tension.

Lance drummed his fingers on the sticky laminate tabletop, studying Pidge's guarded posture—the hunched shoulders, the way she cradled her splinted wrist like a broken bird. The name clicked faintly in his mind. Pidge Gunderson.

 His brain offered nothing concrete, just the vague echo of a tech prodigy mentioned in passing within the graphic novel's early arcs. But that Pidge was taller, older, with wire-frame glasses and a hacking streak that crippled corporations. This kid? Scrawny, bruised, and radiating street-smart defiance.

“Definitely not matching the panels I remember,” Lance mused. “Unless...”

A cold prickle crept up his spine. Had the comic shifted timelines? Skipped ahead? He hadn't touched the latest issues, too busy drowning in midterms before... everything. Maybe this was that character, shrunk by artist error or narrative whim. Or maybe he’d stumbled onto someone entirely new, a ghost scripted into the margins. Either way, the coincidence itched like a poorly healed scar.

Romelle returned, balancing a tray laden with Pidge's steaming grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She slid a thick another sandwich towards Lance and dropped a hefty slice of lemon-glazed pound cake beside it.

"For earlier, when you go away without eating something,'" she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. Lance opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him off. "House rules still apply." Her gaze flickered pointedly to the cake. "Besides," she added softly, leaning in so only he could hear, "You look like a stiff wind would knock you flat. Eat."

 Lance wasn't that skinny. That is, Blue Spirit was not so thin, Lance in his past life was slender, too tall, too bony, too general. And it wasn't that he didn't eat, it was that unfortunately everyone in the family was too thin, which was the cross and delight of his abuelita and...

Better not to take that particular train of thoughts for the moment, if he didn't want to start crying like a baby there.

"Um... Thank you," he tried to smile, accepting the food and well, he was actually hungry, and with all the thoughts gnawing at his brain, he had simply forgotten to eat.

"You’re welcome," Romelle chirped, and then went back to work. Pidge watched her go, then took her sandwich and said, "She is very kind."

"Yes, she is. She also offered me a job here, even though she shouldn't have."

"Do they need a bouncer?" the girl asked, taking a big bite of the sandwich. Her eyes lit up and she literally devoured it in a few seconds. Who knows how long it had been since he had eaten something decent, "I wasn't kidding, you were tough before."

"No, they just need a hand."

"What a waste. In an area like this, you need a guy who knows how to hit hard. “

"If you want to see the Paladins in action, that's perfect," he said after a shrug, "Maybe having droves of fans here serves as compensation for any damage."

Romelle appeared almost instantly, sliding into the seat Pidge had vacated. Her fingertips traced the condensation rings on the tabletop.

“I’m so sorry," she murmured, voice low and thick with frustration. Lance blinked—he hadn’t expected an apology. "For what? The cake?" A weak joke.

 Romelle shook her head sharply. "For her. That poor kid... I wish I could help more. Take her home, let her sleep somewhere safe."

Her gaze flickered toward the bathroom hallway, haunted. "But I can’t. Not even considering... my brother."

Lance leaned forward, “What about him?"

 Romelle flinched as if burned, her knuckles whitening on the table’s edge.

"It’s... complicated."

 She deflected swiftly, worry etching lines around her eyes. "But Lance—those men you fought? If they’re part of a gang, they’ll come looking. For her. And if they track her here..."

Her voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken dread.

He understood Romelle's point of view. Gee, he was thinking the same things too. There was no reason why that gang of bikers should continue to chase Pidge, after all, they now had their hiding place. But Pidge had talked about stuff she'd left behind, stuff she didn't want to specify what it was.

Perhaps there was much more underneath. The Galras weren't the only criminals in Altea, and perhaps Pidge had gotten caught up in a bad circle.

Instinct kicked him. He had to keep her safe, at least as long as Pidge would let him.

The restroom door swung open with a sharp creak. Pidge emerged, her determined expression a stark contrast to her disheveled appearance—chin lifted, eyes narrowed with a resolve that seemed too fierce for her bruised face. She halted abruptly at the booth, noticing Romelle rising swiftly from the seat. "What?" Pidge demanded, her gaze darting between them. "You two whispering about me?"

Lance met her sharp stare without flinching. "We were discussing where you could rest safely tonight," he said, voice low but steady. He swallowed hard, fingers tightening around his cooling coffee mug. "And... I wondered if you'd consider staying with me. Just temporarily—until that wrist heals properly."

He gestured vaguely toward her splinted arm, the gauze stark white against her grimy skin. "I know I'm a stranger. You've got no reason to trust me. But letting you wander around with a possible fracture?"

He shook his head, the words tumbling out faster now. "I wouldn't feel right about it. Moreover, you are alone and..."

He was digressing, fuck. One part of him was afraid of playing creapy, while another didn't even know why he was worrying so much about someone he had just met.

The truth was that Pidge was just a little girl, alone and with no one, and Lance empathized deeply with that. He didn't know her story and wasn't interested, but he understood what it was like to feel alone and lost in a world too vast for oneself.

Besides, she reminded him a little of his niece, and he had always been too soft with children and...

"You talk too much," Pidge said neutrally, interrupting him, "If anyone else had told me about it, I would have already sent him to hell. But you... You're not an asshole."

"Thanks, I suppose."

"A couch to sleep on for a while would actually be comfortable," the girl muttered, massaging her arm with her healthy hand, "How long will it take? Two weeks? A month? Until you get tired and kick me out?"

"I would never do it..."

"Anyway, I agree," Pidge continued, ignoring him, "After sleeping on the wet floor of an abandoned warehouse, any place will look like a five-star hotel in comparison."

Romelle seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Which unfortunately lasted for a short time, "Wait, where did you say you slept?"

Dr. Alfor seemed little more than human, more like an empty shell deprived of his soul.

His hair was a mess, the bags under his eyes were black and so obvious that they could be seen from the moon, the first three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and he had sleeves halfway up his forearm.

Despite his appearance, Yellow Taurus could not feel pity for him.

"The Galras have my son's body," the doctor repeated, his gaze lost in the void, glassy, "Black Bolt didn't arrive in time."

"No, sir."

"Now the..." he hesitated, the weight of the word too heavy for him, but finally forced himself to continue, "The body is in Haggar's hands."

"It seems so."

The doctor ran a hand through his hair, "This is worse than death. My sweet boy... he has never done anything to deserve such a fate."

Yellow Taurus remained silent, while Alfor continued to speak, "The Galra have several bases in Altea and outside the city. If we're lucky, they might have brought it to one of those bases..."

"What if we are unlucky?"

Alfor made a strangled verse, "Then he is lost. I will only have a tombstone to mourn him, I will put it next to that of ... of his mother and..."

His voice died out, his gaze shifting to the bed, where Allura slept, a prisoner of her own body.

It didn't take a telepath to understand what was going through the doctor's head: there could well have been three tombstones, soon.

"Coran is handling everything perfectly," Alfor whispered, running a hand over his face, "I don't know what I would do without him. He is organizing the... the funeral, continuing with the lessons of the Academy, monitoring criminal activities... He has always been much stronger than me."

Yellow Taurus had nothing to say about that. It was one of the few things he and the doctor would ever agree on.

"Since that's all I had to say..."

"Did he hate me?"

The question hung between them, a sword of Damocles hanging over both of their heads. Alfor turned to him, "I know he didn't get along very well with the team. He and Allura had their secrets, and I pretended I didn't know what they were doing. Now I regret not having investigated more..."

"What's the point, sir?" Yellow Taurus asked, with all due respect, since the other was still a grieving father.

"The point, Yellow... you were his friend. The only one, the best. And I wondered... If anyone does, it should be you. Therefore... Did he hate me?"

"No, sir. He adored you. He wanted me to be proud of him, for once," he said, deliberately treading the words on the last part, "You didn't make it easy for him. If anything, he thought you hated him."

Alfor's expression was destroyed, "No, I could never... he was my son..."

"Yes, it was," Yellow Taurus said slowly, "Too bad that many would assume that Red Warrior is, sir. “

"What? This is absurd."

He snorted, "Not from an outsider's point of view. Maybe Red Warrior sees you as a father too, but we all know that he has so much emotional baggage that he would never dare to say it out loud. But he should have done it, at least once. Maybe you would have understood why he was always so prone to arguing with us, instead of telling him to think about the team or that he was immature..."

"Was that why?" Alfor looked impressed as he said it, "I thought it was... jealousy for Red's powers, envy at best, not because I was less strict with Red Warrior."

"Strict is not exactly the word I would use, sir," Yellow Taurus' voice was harsh as he continued, "You deliberately ignored him many times, scolded him as if he were a child.."

“… he had not followed orders, " Alfor weakly tried to say, but Yellow would not listen to him, " ... he dismissed his plans, relegated to the background, took Red Warrior's side several times when it was obvious that he was in the wrong and not Blue, and oh, after Bob's fiasco, you didn't take a minute to reassure him about his abilities, I don't even know why, I don't know whether to call it tough love or whatever. But for Red Warrior, Black Bolt, White Witch, even for me sometimes, you've always been there. I can't say the same for him. Honestly, if I had been in his place, I would have definitely hated you. But luckily for you, he was a better person than either of us, and all he wanted was for once someone to realize that he wasn't a waste of space!"

The doctor's expression could not be defined in any other way than as absolutely destroyed. He swallowed a sob, "He wasn't a waste of space."

"Then you should have told him," Yellow retorted, feeling damn tired, "You should have said and done so many things, sir. The problem is that it didn't happen, and he died believing he wasn't good enough, also convinced because Black Bolt ..."

He paused, but Alfor had heard, "Black Bolt what? What did you mean?"

"Honestly, I think you already have your doubts, don't you? Could Black Bolt have saved Blue Spirit? Or did he choose not to?"

" Did Black Bolt tell you something?" Alfor's voice trembled as he spoke, halfway between pain and barely restrained anger.

Righteous anger, but too little, too late.

"No, sir. He didn't tell me anything," he said through gritted teeth, "Like you, however, I have good reason to believe that he didn't say exactly how things went. You can press to know more, or you can do as you always have, and put your favorites in front of everything, with a justification of your choice, and ignore Blue. Again."

He turned, walking toward the door, "Whatever you choose to do, it will show what kind of father you are. I hope for you that you like the answer, sir."

"Is this your home?" Pidge was amazed after she entered the apartment, looking around as if she couldn't believe how lucky she had been.

And since she had been living on the streets for who knows how long, it was probably so.

"Yep. I think there's some kind of guest room..."

"Do you think?" she asked, turning to him.

Lance swallowed, "Ah, of course there is, I'm not going to let you sleep on the sofa, not with your hand in those conditions... I'm going to go for a moment to..."

His voice died out. Pidge kept looking at him, unaware that there was a small hologram blue lion behind her.

Damn it, Blue!

Lance began to break out in a cold sweat, "Take a seat. I'm going to prepare... things for you, yes."

He moved towards her, gently steering her away from the holographic lion with an arm around her shoulders. She stared blankly at the couch he guided her toward, the surrealness of the apartment—clean, warm, smelling faintly of citrus—paralyzing her. Before she could register the shimmering blue light behind her, Lance was propelling himself backward toward the bathroom, Blue flickering out of sight as he swept the projection along with him.

Slamming the door shut, Lance leaned against it, heart hammering. Blue rematerialized instantly, a miniature lion pacing angrily on the tiled floor. "You reckless cub!" Blue hissed silently, the words vibrating directly into Lance's mind. "The Paladin equipment—the neural link, the comms array—it's all in the main room!"

Lance pushed damp hair off his forehead. "Relax, it's fried anyway. " He gestured vaguely toward the living room. "Just… shredded tech. Useless scrap now."

Blue's projection flickered with irritation, the low hum vibrating Lance's teeth. "You should be at the Tower right now."

"I said already. I won't return to the Tower."

"You can't! You are a Paladin."

"Here the thing, Blue...I'm not a paladin anymore."

The lion's projection froze mid-pace, translucent ears flattening against its skull as it stared at Lance in unmistakable horror. Its low hum spiked into a sharp, staticky crackle. "You can't do this! It's your duty! The doctor  worked for this, to keep everyone safe. This is...the worst thing anyone could do!"

No, it wasn't the worst thing Lance could do. Destroying Altea, killing Black Bolt, and becoming Haggar's watchdog was the worst thing he could ever do.

Which he had no intention of doing, by the way.

"I can't go on, Blue," he sighed, hoping Blue could be on his side, "I'm not paladin material."

"But if you insisted so much on joining the team! You have been granted an honor!"

"Look, I know, but things have changed and... I don't want to die," he let himself out, uncovering a jar of worms he would have preferred to ignore, "I'm not made for this kind of life. You have already seen that everyone thinks he is dead. Why correct them? It's better this way."

" It's not fair!"

"It's the best thing to do," Lance said confidently. "And if you try to contact the Tower or another of the paladins to let them know where I am, then I'll find a way to deactivate you permanently!"

It was an empty threat. Lance would never have done that. But Blue couldn't have known this. The hologram trembled slightly, "You'll regret this choice. Sooner or later the doctor will find out that you are alive."

"Not today," Lance said, puffing out his chest, "Now, disappear. We're going to have a guest for a while, and we don't want her to know about you. Got it?"

Blue just snorted and disappeared. Lance blinks a few times, "Ah, I guess that's how a cat owner feels..."

It was long past midnight. After ordering a pizza and watching a downright bad movie — and Lance was so glad that things like Disney still existed in that world — the humans had gone to bed.

It was at that moment that Blue reappeared.

"Silly boy. You can't do this to your father."

You see, unlike the other hologram partners in the rest of the team, Blue was different. It was programmed to always provide for its owner's well-being and, above all, to monitor him closely for Dr. Alfor. It was an alternative to inserting a chip while someone was sleeping, so you could always know where it was.

The doctor had done it for his daughter as well, but Allura had noticed it promptly and had Matt change White, and given a piece of his mind to her father immediately after.

Blue Spirit had never known, and it was likely that unlike her sister she would not have modified Blue, believing that it was her father's way of showing that she cared. And then, do you want to have something that Red Warrior didn't have?

That's why, despite what his owner had said, Blue couldn't help but contact the Tower and Dr. Alfor.

Blue materialized fully in the dim living room, shedding its miniature form to become a shimmering, life-sized lion construct. Its paw extended, coalescing into a complex comms array – swirling data streams and pulsing lights forming a connection interface. A low, resonant hum built, vibrating the loose screws Lance hadn't swept up from his 'fried' Paladin gear. The array flickered wildly, casting jagged sapphire shadows across the walls. Then, a harsh screech ripped through the apartment, accompanied by blinding static bursts that made Blue's form shudder violently. Connection impossible. Severe localized interference.

The static died abruptly. From the deep shadow of the hallway archway, Pidge stepped forward. Her movements were silent, deliberate. In her uninjured hand, she held Lance's discarded Blue Spirit bracelet – the sleek metallic band glinting faintly. Her gaze was fixed on the startled hologram, sharp and calculating, devoid of the earlier dazed confusion.

Blue’s form flickered, its low growl vibrating the air. Pidge didn’t flinch. She lifted the bracelet slightly. "Suspicions started when I saw him fight. Too fast, too precise to be just a good samaritan. Then," she nodded towards the scattered, scorched components Lance hadn’t bothered cleaning up, "I recognized the tech in that mess." Her eyes narrowed. "And bathroom acoustics? Surprisingly poor."

Blue lowered its head, a ripple of static passing through its mane. Its mental voice projected caution tinged with reluctant respect.

“You heard.”

 Pidge shrugged. "I don’t care why Lance hides. But I need to go to the Tower. You will be my pass."

"No."

"I don't need I don't care if it's not in your programming. I want my brother back and..."

Blue's ears flattened completely. The hologram froze mid-growl, crystalline facets locking into rigid stillness. A sudden high-pitched whine sliced through the air as its form dissolved into blinding static – not flickering, but violently unraveling like shredded data. The citrus-scented darkness swallowed blue light whole. Silence crashed down, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and the bracelet's sudden dead weight in Pidge's palm.

"Damn it!" The word hissed between her teeth, sharp as a blade. She stared at the inert metal band, knuckles white around it. Rage flashed hot behind her eyes – a useless, frustrating burn. She almost hurled the bracelet against the wall. Almost screamed. Instead, she shoved her fist hard against her mouth, teeth biting into bruised flesh.

“Idiot. Stupid, paranoid protocol.”

 She breathed in ragged pulls. The scent of ozone faded. Only her own sweat remained.

She wasn't stupid. He knew perfectly well what had happened. The hologram was in states, it had crashed as soon as he realized that she was a possible threat. Its creator did not want any enemy to access the Tower and now all data will be destroyed.

Well done, Dr. Alfor, well done.

But if you thought the game was over, you were wrong. She won't give up until she reunites with Matt, to hell with the stupid rules.

Shiro woke up slowly. It was hell; his whole body felt numb, heavy, as if a bear had fallen asleep on top of him.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as simple as having a bear on him.

His eyelids scraped like sandpaper as he forced them open. Shapes swam in the gloomy half-light, fuzzy and indistinct at first. Gradually, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of distant machinery sharpened his focus. He was staring at a high, arched ceiling he knew too well – the medical wing of the Tower. The cold, stiff sheets beneath him confirmed he was in a bed. He instinctively tried to push himself up with his right arm. There was nothing. Just a strange, profound absence below his shoulder, a phantom weight where muscle and bone should have been.

Before the icy shock could fully grip him, a dry cough sounded beside the bed. Dr. Alfor’s thin face swam into view, etched with deep lines that hadn’t been there weeks ago. His spectacles caught the weak light from a single overhead panel, turning his eyes into unnerving discs of reflected glow. Shiro’s breath hitched. The doctor’s presence, the missing limb – it slammed into him like a physical blow, dragging up fragments of old nightmares whispered by candlelight: tales of his grandmother about yokai.

At that time, it reminded him of a Hārītī, a yokai originally a rākṣasa of Rajgir at the same time as Gautama Buddha was also living. She had hundreds of children, whom she loved, but to feed them, she kidnapped and killed other people's children.

The grieving mothers of her victims pleaded with the Buddha to save them. So, the Buddha stole the youngest of her sons and hid him under his bowl of rice. After desperately searching for her missing son throughout the universe, Hariti finally appealed to the Buddha for help, and she got him back, at a cost though. She would no longer kill other people's children and, on the contrary, she would have to protect children and women in childbirth. 

The doctor at that moment was Hariti, looking for her son, but Shiro was not Buddha and could not give him back what Doctor Alfor had lost.

"Well, you're awake," the doctor's voice was cold as he spoke, "The doctors did what they could, but unfortunately, there was no way to save your arm."

"I... I was taken by surprise."

"There was already a Galra in the base, so Yellow Taurus told me," Alfor leaned forward slightly, eyes that frightened him for how intense they were. Like doubts about the dynamics of Blue Spirit's death."

Shiro flinched, the doctor's piercing gaze stripping away his numbness. Yellow Taurus had been Blue Spirit's best friend—of course, he would suspect something.   Alfor’s lips tightened into a thin line. "Tell me exactly what happened. Every detail. And don't lie. I'll know if you do."

A chill crawled up Shiro’s spine. The sterile air tasted metallic, sharp with antiseptic and dread. He swallowed hard, phantom fingers curling into a fist he could no longer make. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Shiro’s resistance crumbled. His voice emerged raspy, barely audible. "Alright. Alright."

Shiro had no strength to deny anything. He was tired.

So, he spoke.

In the end, Alfor wasn't even able to look him in the face (as he could have).

But he didn't yell at him. He didn't throw poison at him. Instead, he left, without saying a word.

When Shiro was alone again, he didn't know if it had really happened or if Hariti had really come to visit him to torment him.

Lance woke up in a good mood. He had had no nightmares, almost all night, sleeping.

And yes, he had dreamed of flying, but it was what he had dreamed of since he was a child, so it was nothing special.

He felt strangely optimistic—it was probably the night of good sleep and the knowledge that he wasn't alone, along with perhaps the possibility of being able to take care of someone.

He had a purpose, something to do.

There were many other things he had to take care of, and he will. But he had the impression that his life was taking the right turn.

Nothing could go wrong now.

This optimism of his lasted barely two minutes. Then he found Pidge fumbling in the kitchen with his Blue Spirit bracelet, the air of someone who hadn't slept at all, and the first thing she said to him, by way of greeting, was, "I know you're one of the Paladins. We have to go to the Tower."

Just to be a good day.

Chapter Text

Lance just wanted to start his day without having to worry about stolen bodies or the plot.

Instead, Pidge had thrown him such a short ball without a modicum of restraint.

"I know you're one of the Paladins. We have to go to the Tower."

"Ahah…you have a very good immagination..." Lance stammered, the optimistic steam inside him instantly turning into cold sweat.

Pidge tossed the bracelet onto the counter with a clatter, the dull glow of its holographic interface flickering erratically. "I found your holographic pet. It's semi deactivated now."

"You broke it?!"

"I didn't broke it," she said, annoyed, "A security measure was activated that prevented me from having access to the data to access the Tower, and now I'm trying to recover everything, but it would be much easier if you took me there."

"You mean you broke it trying to hack it."

Pidge shrugged, "Call it what you want. At least you're not forcing yourself to lie."

Crap. Lance wanted to slap each other for the bullshit he had just done. He swallowed, "Look, Pidge, if you're a Galra, I have to warn you..."

"I'm not a Galra," she said, offended by the accusation, "and I wasn't even considered special enough to join Dr. Alfor's fan club. But my brother did. And I want to see him again."

"Is your brother one of the Paladins?" he asked, trying with his memory to remember some of the characters on the team who had characteristics in common with the girl, but failing because, well, the author never showed their faces or dwelt on details that were not purely related to the mission of the day.

"Maybe, I'm not sure. Those damn suits make it hard to figure it out," Pidge scratched his cheek, thoughtfully, "But I do know he's pretty much being held hostage in the Tower. It has been almost eight years since I last saw him, before Dr. Alfor decided that it was safety risky to allow too much contact with civilian families. “

Pidge's words were full of bitterness and venom, all addressed to Dr. Alfor. As a reader, Lance had never wondered why only the heroic aspects of the characters were shown and not their families, friends, private lifes, in short, all the things that were needed to keep themselves sane.

He thought it was the author's laziness. Instead, the explanation was there: Dr. Alfor was paranoid with secret identities and had forced everyone in the team not to interact with their families.

It was really necessary?

(But again, why could the original Blue Spirit have a job? Did the rule apply only to contacts with civilians? But then how had his sister managed to help him? Arghhhh, too many questions, too many plot holes, his brain was exploding!)

"Anyway, get ready, we have to go," Pidge continued, distracting him from his thoughts, and getting out of his chair, risking ending up face down but standing like a champion, "I don't want to waste time, I want to find my brother..."

Lance took a deep breath, "Pidge, I can't. It's...very difficult for me."

Pidge's glare burned a hole in his chest. "Difficult?" Her voice dripped acid. "Difficult is watching my brother vanish into that godforsaken tower and getting monthly surveillance photos like he's some fucking classified artifact. Difficult is hacking government satellites just to see if he's still breathing." Her fingers dug into the edge of the counter, knuckles white. "So don't you dare stand there and say it's difficult. I have to do this because dr.Alfor is a paranoic bastard! "

"Pidge..."

She didn't let him continue,"I don't want to kidnapp him. I want to prove myself. Maybe that bastard will finally admitt me to the Academy. I'm a freacking genius, I could create weapons which will not require you to put anyone on the team in danger. And if he does not accept me among the students, I will prove my usefulness to him in some other way. But I will not leave. Matt is all I have left."

"Your parents..."

"My mother died a few years ago. I never knew my father."

Lance felt his heart tighten like a fist closing around a fragile bird. The rawness in her voice wasn't just grief—it was the sound of someone who'd learned to patch their wounds with anger and solder. He wanted to reach out, but his hands stayed frozen at his sides. "Pidge, I...I'm sorry, but I really can't."

Her shoulders stiffened, and for a second, he thought she might hurl the coffee maker at his head. Quick. He needs a plausibile excuse! He didn't want to seem a deadbeat!

He blurted it out, "I can't because...I have amnesia. I don't...I don't even remember how to get into the Tower."

Pidge's hands froze mid-gesture, her fingers still curled like claws around an invisible threat. The silence between them thickened, punctuated only by the erratic flicker of the bracelet's dying interface. Her disbelief was palpable—not just in her expression, but in the way her entire body seemed to vibrate with it, like a wire pulled taut. "Bullshit," she finally hissed. "You didn't seem like an amnesiac."

Lance's pulse hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to meet her gaze, even as the lie curdled in his mouth. "I woke up in a Galra lab," he said, quieter now. "I was a disaster. My suit was mostly destroyed, there was blood everywhere... And while I'm trying to figure out what's going on, this guy comes along and tries to shoot me but I manage to escape. And when I had finally a moment where nobody tried to kill me, Blue appeared and told me that I was some kind of hero, and that I was part of a team..."

" Where was your team? And whose blood was it?" Pidge pressed him. And well, the questions were right, but give him time to think of something plausible, "I... I don't know where my team was. They thought I was dead. And the blood... I don't even know."

The girl raised an eyebrow, "And you expect me to believe you?"

"Well, we could try to go to the Tower, find out that I don't know how to get in, and risk being kicked out unceremoniously..."

"But if I took you there, everyone would see that you are still alive and they would have to thank me..." Pidge's voice, filled with so much optimism before, suddenly faded, as if seized by a sudden worry, "Of course, this assuming that they want you back... What was your alias?"

“Blue Spirit…”

“Shit…”

Lance blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd braced for—no accusations, no skepticism, just a muttered curse under Pidge's breath as she dragged a hand down her face. She exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound almost amused. "Figures. Blue Spirit's the PR darling, but Red Warrior’s the one Alfor actually listens to." Her fingers tapped against the counter, nails clicking like impatient claws. "If you’d been him, I could’ve walked right in. Dr.Alfor adores him. He is damns powerful."

The pang hit low and sudden, a hot needle between his ribs. Lance swallowed it down, forced a chuckle. "Yeah, well. I got the impression I was... expendable. And by now, TV’s had already announced my death." He shrugged, aiming for casual, but his voice cracked on the last word. "If I show up, they'll think I'm a Galra spy..."

"And I won't have any chance to see my brother..." Pidge said, full of sadness. "Damn, I didn't calculated this! Just when I han finally a possibility to meet Matt again! Damn it!"

Lance hesitated, then reached out to pat her shoulder, only for her to jerk away like his touch burned. "Pidge, listen..."

"I don't need your pity," she snapped, turning her back to him as she began rifling through drawers, her movements sharp and erratic. "If you won't help, I'll find another way into the Tower. "

Lance sighed, watching as she nearly knocked over a stack of dishes with her trembling hands. "You're dead on your feet, Pidge. You're gonna faceplant into the floor if you don't—"

"I said I'm fine!" she snapped, just as her knees buckled. Lance lunged forward, catching her before she hit the ground. Her body was featherlight, all sharp angles and tense muscles, her breathing shallow against his chest.

"You're not fine," he muttered, carrying her to the sofa. Her fingers twitched against his sleeve—half-protest, half-desperation—before she went limp.

Pidge's eyelids fluttered, her breath shallow.

"Matt..." It was the last thing she said before she fell into unconsciousness. Lance let out a trembling sigh. What were the chances that he would meet someone with such a strong connection to the Paladins?

He stared at the bracelet lying on the counter, its flickering light casting eerie shadows across the kitchen. His fingers twitched with the urge to call Romelle: she’d know what to do, who to trust with Pidge.

Pidge was too dangerous for him, especially if she reached such a point of desperation that she would even accept to take the risk and carry him to the Tower. Not that she had the strength, but she was certainly able to build a teaser from scratch and electrocute him.

The most logical thing to do would be to call Romelle, so that she could see something else for Pidge. He can't bring himself to do it.

Instead, Lance turns to the bracelet, he picks it up, rolling it between his palms—the metal cool and heavy, like an accusation.

"I wasn't a tech genius before, and I'm certainly not now, but I could try something... with Blue, Pidge should be able to enter the Tower without any problems..."

It was a foolish thing to even think about it, let alone try to make it happen. But Lance had never said he was a rational person.

Alfor's office was in complete darkness. The only window was barred, and he was practically slumped in his chair, staring at a photo on his desk, an open bottle of whiskey, and a half-empty glass in his hand.

He raised his glass, looking blankly at him, his eyes stinging.

Black Bolt's confession weighed on his mind. Rationally, he could understand it. But his heart did not. He couldn't do it. Black Bolt had helped to uncork a piece of his heart, and to crush him without regard.

Alfor should have expelled him from the team. It would have been the least compared to what she really wanted to do to him.

However, he couldn't.

The team needed a leader. Black Bolt was powerful. Haggar was still free, there were too many Galras, the students of the Academy were so young...

"Is being young a problem for you now?"

Alfor looked up. In a corner of the room, he was there. A dark figure, covered in blood, missing an eye and having a gash on the right side of his body.

The figure resumed speaking, "How old was Black Bolt when he debuted? Fourteen? Fifteen? Wasn't he young at the time? And Red Warrior? He was thirteen years old. You raised child soldiers, old men. And look what a fine job you have done."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this... the Paladins were supposed to be the last line of defense against the Galra... people with such powers..."

"Powers such that they could be above the law, and have to keep on a leash for it," the figure said, mocking him, "Look at them, old man. You have fucked up children. They are your umpteenth victims. But that's okay, isn't it? All to protect Altea, after all. Any price to pay is fine for you."

"No," he denied, with a faint voice, his lips tightened, his hands shaking, torn between the instinct to get up and touch him, and remain seated, aware that he deserved no comfort, not even from a hallucination, "Not any price.  I would never have sacrificed you and your sister."

A giggle, small and subtle, cruel, "Hypocrite, don't you think? How many parents have you asked to give you their children so that you could raise them and send them to the slaughterhouse? Have you ever thought about them? Oh right... Your rules exist not to think about them. Your heroes are perfect machines, with no bonds, no dreams, no purpose other than to die for you."

"Don't die for me. To protect Altea and the world from the Galra."

"And who do we have to thank if there are the Galras?" the figure pointed out, approaching, and Alfor had to put his fist on his mouth to keep from screaming.

It was a horrible sight.

"I wonder if people would continue to cheer and adore you, if they knew who you really are. A man with too much ambition who condemned us, who snatched children from their families because it was the best thing for them, reneging on all the promises made for the so-called greater good. You, shameless liar, who sent away kids because they were not strong enough, barely able to face the real world. They made them believe they could be heroes, and then you unceremoniously dumped them. As you would have liked to do with me."

"Son…”

"Ah, now I'm your son?" the smile was damn wrong when that thing did it, "In the end, you remembered it. Do you think Red Warrior would like another brother?"

"Red Warrior is nothing to me, you know..."

"Did I know? Are you sure?" the tilt of the head was wrong, making it look too much like a doll whose head had been detached and then badly reattached, "Given all the times you took his parts, instead of mine, I would have said the opposite. And you weren't even interested in knowing why we were fighting. You assumed it was my fault, because I was envious of Red Warrior's powers. That was the only thing you could think about, wasn't it? To you, it was more understandable than the damn envy I felt for someone who got more attention than my fucking father instead of me. But it's too childish, right? Why would the great Alfor have to deal with it? Maybe you should have been a father, instead of the right but strict mentor. Above all, because you have never been fair to me."

Alfor opened his mouth to retort, but the words remained in place. What could he say? He was telling the truth.

The other continued, undaunted, "And now look at you, so pathetic, even pained. But you won't do what a father would do, you won't send Black Bolt away, because he's still useful, even though he only has one arm now. You won't punish Red Warrior, even though I died because of him. As usual, you'll sweep everything under the rug. You will look for new lambs to send to the slaughter, and life will go on. Yours, because mine, well, it's over now."

Alfor wanted to shout at him.

No, I can't pretend that nothing happened.

How could I continue to live when you are not there? I wanted to protect you, but I ended up pushing you away.

I love you. You are my son. You are precious to me. I should have told you, I should have ...

He couldn't. Because they would have been empty words. The man was right. Although Alfor didn't want to admit it, he already knew it would be like this, with Black Bolt still on the team, and Red Warrior unpunished. Why?

 Because the Paladins had to be strong, and the team had already lost too much. He could not send the leader away and punish one of his strongest members.

There were good reasons, but nothing took away from the unpleasant realization that Yellow Tauros was right and this was proof of what kind of father he was.

And he didn't like the answer at all.

The door was opened, a glimmer of light divided the room in two. Coran entered, dressed in black, tired, terribly tired.

The man smiled, "Oh, this is a grieving father now. He pretty much did all the work while you played God with other people's lives. If I told him the truth, I bet he'd really take matters into his own hands, and Black Bolt..."

"Coran, is there any news?" Alfor asked, ignoring the rest of his sentence (and how right he was.)

"Ah, not exactly... there would be funeral preparations..."

"There won't be."

"Alfor... Blue wouldn't have wanted this..."

"No, I wish I had a damn father to pay attention to me, but look how well it went," the boy replied venomously, and Alfor just wanted to cry.

"How can I give him a funeral if there is no body? Coran, my son will not be able to rest in peace, not when Haggar..."

His voice died out, unable to articulate what he feared most. Too bad the other guest in the room didn't agree, "Oh come on, give me this funeral. It's not that, even if I did, there would be much left of me. You wouldn't even be able to look at me. Not that there would be who knows what change, right?"

"We don't have the resources for such extensive research..."

"It means that, apart from Yellow Taurus, the others don't care so much about what happened to me, it's just that it's too kind to say it. He always sees the good in people, even in you. Which denotes a rather charming naivety for a man of his age."

Alfor shook his head, to chase away thoughts and above all ignore that voice, "The funeral will only take place when the body is found. Not before. It doesn't matter if it takes years, I'll give him a proper burial."

"Unless Haggar burns my bones to spite you. Which is very likely, don't you think? Maybe it has already done so. After all, what else did she need my body for? I didn't have who knows what powers, did I? As you loved to repeat to me so much."

Alfor pursed, "Organize what is necessary, Coran. I know how important it was to you too."

"For you. It would have been more correct to say for you. Also for you? What a liar!"

Coran nodded, though it was clear that he wasn't entirely convinced, "I'll arrange with Number 3 for the search."

"Well, and Coran as soon as possible, bring me the profiles of the best students of the Academy. I... there is work to be done..."

The figure snorted, "Already working to replace me. So typical of you, old man! You weren't so eager to find replacements for Allura when she..."

“… especially now that we have lost Blue Spirit and Green Light will no longer be able to walk.  The priority is to keep the city safe. “

"It will be done," Coran said, and took a long look at the bottle on the table. Alfor pretended not to notice, "Now you can go, Coran."

"You shouldn't be alone now..."

"You have work to do. I'm not a child. I can look after myself," he replied, and it did not escape him how the figure rolled its eyes at that sentence, a clear sign that he did not believe him.

Coran was hesitant, but in the end, he did what he asked, and left Alfor alone with his ghosts.

 The corridors of the Tower were too bright, too clean, too indifferent. Coran walked through them slowly, his fingers brushing the walls as if they might crumble under his touch.

Blue had laughed in these halls once, loud and bright, teasing the other cadets until even the sternest instructors cracked a smile. Now, the silence was suffocating.

He felt as if something was devouring him from the inside, the pain was so heavy that it suffocated him.

No one should outlive their child. And he had already done it twice.

Blue, however, was not his son. The boy had a father. He was more like a nephew: close enough to ache, distant enough that Coran had never dared cross the line Alfor had drawn between mentor and family.

 And yet—had he tried hard enough? Had he been too careful when he should have been reckless?

"He died because of me. I should never have told him about the mission. He was always so eager to go."

Alfor didn't want Blue to participate in too many missions. He said that the reason was practical: he and Red Warrior didn't get along, they didn't work well together, and then Red Warrior's skills were enough, there was no need for Blue too.

(That is, that it was not certain, Alfor preferred to have his son under his eye, far from the real danger, where weak powers like his would have made him succumb. He thought Alfor was exaggerating, but in the end, he was right.)

Blue was so excited to help. Coran had noticed that he was quite nervous lately – much more ready to fight, not just with Red Warrior – and would winced when someone suddenly approached. Especially him or another of the instructors.

He needed to go on a mission. And Coran had thought it would be fine: Black Bolt would be there. He had always managed to calm things down between Red Warrior and Blue. Blue respected him.

Of course, it would have been better if Yellow Taurus was there too, but he had another mission, and he couldn't wait, everything was already ready, and thank you thank you Coran, you are the best...

A sob escaped him.

He leaned against the wall, trying to resist.

Blue had hugged him before leaving. Quickly, as if afraid someone would see them, but still, he had done it. He had thanked him, had promised that he would make him proud, that he would show Alfor that he was wrong to keep him away from action, and then he had run away, laughing, so happy to have obtained permission.

Coran wondered if someone would find that laugh contagious now. Would anyone ever remember it as more than a ghostly echo in these halls? He pressed his forehead to the cold wall and let himself fall apart—just for a moment, just long enough for his tears to hit the floor in dark, uneven splatters.

"Oh, my boy... I should have stopped you. You would have hated me, but at least you would still be here, alive."

The sobs seemed to never end, the only luck was that no one could see him at that moment. And even if someone had witnessed that show Coran wouldn't have cared.

He didn't know exactly how long he stayed like this, drowning in his pain. Eventually, he felt completely drained. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his wrist, and took trembling breaths.

He needed to compose himself.

Coran had no idea what he looked like, but he had a job to do, and he should have done it well.

Coran walked, trying to keep his back straight, and his steps firm. The development and research laboratories were on the lower floor. Green Light... no, Matt... would definitely be there. From... accident... Either he was there or in the infirmary.

As expected, Matt was in the lab, hunched over a mess of wires and circuits. There was someone else with him. Of course. Red Warrior was there too, his arms crossed, leaning against a table, his face twisted in barely contained fury.

""Why are you taking so long? Shiro needs a new arm, right away."

"Do you think I don't know?" Matt looked at him exasperatedly, "Do you think I can create a bionic arm with a snap of my fingers?"

"That's pretty much what you do, you're a technopath!"

"No, your ignorance..."

Coran coughed, interrupting their discussion.

The two turned to stare at him. Coran tried to look professional, "I'm sorry to intrude. Number 3, I need you. Red Warrior, you should be in the infirmary."

Red Warrior's eyes narrowed, the scar on his face twitching as he assumed that familiar annoyed expression. "I won't stay in bed while Shiro could be disabled for life." He spat the words out like they tasted bitter. "He needs his new arm." His fingers curled into fists—one flesh, one still wrapped in bandages—as if he could will the prosthetic into existence through sheer stubbornness. The smell of antiseptic clung to him, mingling with the sharper tang of burnt wiring from Matt's workstation.

Coran exhaled through his nose, understanding the young man's state of mind even as irritation pricked at him. Shiro was the only family Red Warrior had left. But part of him—the part that remembered Blue Spirit's laughter, his too-quick hug—wanted to shake the young man until his teeth rattled.

How dare he be so reckless?  Blue died to protect him and the others. How could Red Warrior spite that sacrifice? How dare he?

Coran clenched his teeth, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to remain professional. His voice came out clipped, strained. "Black Bolt's arm will be ready when Number 3 has completed it. Progression is already underway." His gaze flicked to Matt, who nodded stiffly—equally exhausted, equally hollow. "But Dr. Alfor requires assistance with another matter."

Red Warrior bristled. "What could be more important than Shiro?" His voice cracked like a whip, eyes flashing violet in the dim laboratory light.

 "Finding Blue Spirit's body," he said flatly. The words tasted like ash. "Haggar took him. We won't... we can't leave him to her.”

"Do you want to waste time looking for a corpse? When there is a very alive person who needs help?"

The outrage in Red Warrior's voice was a blade. Others would have trembled at the risk of savoring his wrath.

Too bad for the hero that Coran at that moment cared almost nothing anymore.

"Wasting time?" Coran repeated, his voice dangerously calm. He took a slow step forward, not threatening, just steady, like he was anchoring himself against the storm of grief threatening to pull him under. "Blue Spirit is the reason you're breathing right now. He saved you, at the cost of his life." He watched the way Red Warrior's throat moved—a barely-there flinch.

The silence stretched. Matt shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with a loose wire, eyes darting between them like he was waiting for an explosion. When Coran spoke again, his words were quieter, rougher, "You hated each other. Fine. But he still stepped in to do the right thing. So if you can’t mourn him…" His voice broke. He swallowed. "…at least help me bring him home."

Coran's fist came down hard on the workbench—too hard—and the jagged edge of a discarded circuit board sliced deep into his palm. Blood welled up, dark and slick. He barely flinched. Neither did Matt. The wound knit itself back together in seconds, skin sealing seamlessly as if it had never been torn. Red Warrior exhaled sharply through his nose. "Still creepy when you do that."

"Funny," Coran said, flexing his fingers, watching the last traces of red evaporate from his skin. "Blue used to say the same thing." He turned to Matt, ignoring the way Red Warrior's jaw tightened at the name. "Prep the scanners. We're sweeping the eastern quadrant where Haggar's forces were last spotted. If there's even a trace of him..."

"Wait, do we have the resources to carry out this research?" Matt asked, with a raised eyebrow, "Yes, I know Dr. Alfor is rich as hell and all, but... there's a lot of ground to cover, and we're not that many..."

"Don't worry. Alfor has said to use every resource at our disposal."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Red Warrior ready to say something, but he gave him a sharp look, which silenced him. Coran continued, "We will also use spy drones for searches. Those..."

"I'll have to fly those myself," Matt understood, his expression concentrated, "No one really knows how to use those toys, does they? In addition, my technopathy will be an advantage for data collection and agility of maneuver."

"Wait, but it's a waste of time..."

"I think you should go back to the infirmary now, Red Warrior," Coran at that point said, not hiding his annoyance, "You still have fresh wounds, remember?"

"I'm not leaving, Shiro..."

"I'll work on Shiro's arm, you don't have to fear. You know it's one of my priorities. I'm not going to sleep to do it," Matt said confidently, and something in his expression must have convinced Red Warrior, who finally left, slamming the door behind him violently.

Coran was starting to understand a little more why Blue was always arguing with the other hero.

"I'm sorry for Keith, he's pretty shaken for Shiro and he's more irritable than usual..."

"Still, Blue Spirit was his teammate," and that must have been worth something, wasn't it? Alfor wanted that team to work, he made them live so closely together to strengthen their bond. Not to have another Zarkon, "And you too, Number 3."

"What do I have to do with it?"

"He didn't ask about your legs once," Coran said, looking down at Matt's wheelchair. Matt swallowed, "There's no need. Even Keith must have realized that I will never walk again."

"Have you given up yet? Don't you think you can create something to walk again?"

"Like an exoskeleton? Oh, I've thought about it, but it wouldn't quite fix things, would it? It wouldn't take away the pain..."

"Oh, Number Three..."

"But I'm still alive," Matt didn't give him a chance to say anything else. He didn't want to feel anyone's pity at the time, "And I owe it to Blue Spirit too. I will do everything in my power to find him. Trust me. I'll take him home."

And Coran would have liked so much to believe that it would be possible.

Pidge woke up, feeling disoriented. When had she fallen asleep?

She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, then shifted her gaze downwards. She was lying on a sofa—her spine protesting as she moved. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and something metallic, probably Lance's armor left carelessly nearby...

"Welcome back to the living, Pidgeotto," Lance's voice came to her as if from a distance, and she lifted her head, looking over the sofa. Lance had not moved from the table, he was fumbling with the bracelet as if he could grasp its secrets. Which was unlikely, from what he had heard, Blue Spirit was not the brightest of the Paladins.

"You were very tired from the sleepless night," he commented without looking at her. Pidge scowled—she had not been tired, she had been *fine*. That was not the reason she had passed out. She had passed out because she had pushed her body too far, had not eaten in days, had not drunk enough water, and had probably been running on adrenaline for too long.

"What am I still doing here?" she demanded, propping herself up on her elbows, wincing at the dizziness that followed. "You know who I am now. You know what I want." The accusation was sharp, but Lance only shrugged, still fiddling with the bracelet.

"Couldn't exactly kick you out," he muttered, tapping the device against the table. "Not when you were about to faceplant into the table." His tone was light, but his fingers tightened around the bracelet—white-knuckled, like he was clinging to something far heavier.

Except Lance could have done it. The smartest thing would have been to eliminate her, even if he was a so-called hero, but perhaps the loss of memory had also changed his personality.

The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine, making her stomach twist uncomfortably. She watched him, fumbling with the bracelet like a kid trying to reassemble a broken toy—his brows furrowed in concentration, muttering half-formed thoughts under his breath. It was... endearing, in a way that made her chest ache. Stupidly, recklessly kind.

She swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making her voice rasp. "Why?" The word came out sharper than she intended, almost accusatory.

Lance didn't look up from the bracelet, his fingers still tracing its edges with a hesitant precision. "Why what?"

"Why are you helping me? It wouldn't be a problem for me to blackmail you to get what I wanted. You should know that."

"Yeah, I'm not that stupid, thank you. But...I understand. You just want your brother. I would do the same."

Pidge felt her throat tighten. Of course, that struck Lance the most. He woke up with no memory and without knowing who he was, alone, without a family. What a terrible thing. He was completely alone, except for a shrewd hologram that had given him information in bites but not who he really was. He was like her. And fuck, she was starting to empathize.

 It was not a good sign.

She approached him cautiously, glancing at the bracelet in his hands. "Are you...making things worse?" she asked bluntly, eyeing the tangled wires poking out from under the casing.

Lance grinned without looking up, fingers still clumsily twisting components. "Nah, I'm at the optimistic delusion stage. Blue should reboot any second now." The device sparked weakly in response, as if mocking him.

Pidge leaned over his shoulder, watching a loose wire graze his thumb—a hair's breadth from frying the whole circuit. "You've inverted the polarity," she said flatly. "That's literally the first thing they teach in remedial tech classes."

Lance squinted at the jumble of components. "I...disagree?" His tone was light, but his fingers trembled slightly as he nudged a capacitor back into place. "Trust me, Blue's gonna pop up any second now. Probably with a sarcastic remark about my soldering." The bracelet emitted a pathetic whine, like a dying mosquito.

"Shit..."

Pidge blinked hard, knuckling her eyes like she could scrub away the hallucination. One second, Lance's irises had flickered green, the sickly glow bleeding into the whites before vanishing. "Must be the sleep deprivation," she muttered, shaking her head. The coffee maker gurgled ominously in the corner, its burnt-plastic stench making her stomach lurch. That had to be it.

She reached for the bracelet—just as its fractured display pulsed. A jagged bolt of cyan light split the kitchen, throwing their shadows against the ceiling in grotesque angles. Blue coalesced above the counter, its form shuddering like a glitching neon sign.

Lance’s grin faltered as Blue’s voice crackled through the speakers, stripped of its usual dry sarcasm. *"Designation: Blue . Primary function: Tactical support."* The hologram tilted its head, eerily blank. "Memory archives corrupted. Reboot sequence incomplete."

Pidge’s fingers twitched toward the bracelet, brushing against the impossibly pristine circuitry. The solder joints were smooth, the wires aligned with factory precision—nothing like the bird’s nest Lance had been fumbling with moments ago. "This isn't a reboot," she whispered, dread pooling in her gut. "It’s a full wipe."

"Wait, I didn't want that!"

"Yes, it's a shame that whatever you did, you created a deluxe version of your digital cat," Pidge said, angry.

"So, first of all, Blue is a lion, not a cat. Second..."

"Are you my creator?" Blue interrupted him, and Lance felt uncomfortable, "Er... no, look, I... technically I'm your ... owner... like..."

"I am then your tactical support, and I am happy to meet you."

"Oh, heavens..."

Pidge had no time for that. He had to find the lost data. Starting with the way he could enter the damn Tower.

"Give me here," she said, taking up the bracelet.

Pidge typed furiously on the bracelet's holokeypad, her fingers moving in a blur of desperation and frustration. The corrupted data flickered on the display like dying fireflies, taunting her with glimpses of information just out of reach. Lance watched silently as her shoulders tensed—then slumped. "Gone," she whispered, her fingers curling tight around the bracelet until her knuckles turned white. "The encryption's too deep. It's...gone."

Her breath hitched once, sharp and abrupt, before she leaned her forehead against Lance's shoulder. He hesitated, then rested his hand gently on her head, fingers threading through her messy hair. "Hey. We'll find another way," he murmured. "You're not alone in this."

Pidge exhaled shakily, her voice muffled against his sleeve. "There is no other way. It could take years to recover that data…If it's even possible."

Lance's fingers stilled in her hair. The bracelet's flickering light painted stripes across the ceiling, casting jagged shadows that made the room feel smaller, tighter.

 "Then we take years. You could do it, and you could meet your brother again. I'm sure of it."

It would be so easy if he had his memories. It would be so easy if everyone didn't think Blue Spirit is dead. She would like many things to be different. But she was not the type to feel sorry for herself.

"Fine," she said, pulling away from his shoulder and wiping her nose with her sleeve. "If for you is really okay to take responsibility for a random teenager."

Lance snorted, rubbing his thumb over the bracelet's cracked surface. "Hey, at least it'll give me something to do. Right now, I don't exactly have... a job. Or a real identity."

Pidge frowned, wiping her palms against her jeans. "What do you mean?"

Lance tapped the bracelet against his knee, the hollow sound oddly final. "Technically, I don't exist. Maybe there is an ID here, somewhere, but I can't find it..."

"And without an ID, you're a ghost," Pidge realized.

"Basically, yes."

"You're going to need a job. Something to cover up the fact that you're a dude who should be dead. A safe place, to give you time to fix the train disaster that is your life..."

"A place like Adam and Romelle's bar? Well, too bad I don't exactly have a CV to give them! " Lance exclaimed, and Pidge smiled. Oh, poor, naïve fool.

"This will not be a problem. I'll get you one. "

"You?"

"And you know what? I will forge for you a series of documents to attest to your new, shaky identity. This is my payment for the troubles I have given you."

Lance opened his mouth, "Isn't it, like, illegal?"

She laughed, "Oh, sweet summer child. You really don't know how things are going here, huh? Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

And Pidge, as a woman of her word, did just that.

Thanks to Pidge, Lance became a real person in that world as well. Not that it wasn't before – after getting over the whole part before, hey I woke up in an imaginary world after I died – but there was nothing to document that he was, well, legal. 

He had an ID now. He even had health care. And also a CV.
Adam seemed sceptical at first – not that he could do him any wrong, come on, not with all the shit that happened to Altea every day – but apparently he really needed an extra hand, and Lance was hired.

It wasn't the job he'd always dreamed of, he always had to be careful not to accidentally destroy something, and heck, there were so many robberies on that street over the course of a week.

(Adam was always the first to go and see what was going on, hoping to see someone, and then he was always regularly disappointed.)

Life went on. Pidge lived with him, a rather cheeky roommate, who made him regret many life choices (but if she hadn't been there, he probably would have gone crazy, thanks to her, he wasn't alone) trying to recover Blue's data, and amnesiac Blue was much more docile to have around. It was beautiful.
Despite everything, things were going well.

Obviously, like all good things, it was not destiny that everything would continue to go well. And after a year, fate knocked on his door to remind him that there was still a plot in progress.