Emilio's rental property was practically a castle by Lance's standards. Veronica's house had three bedrooms, one full bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. Emilio's place had three stories, the bottom of which was largely undivided to allow for big social gatherings. There was an in-ground pool out back that currently hosted approximately two dozen women in barely-there bikinis, trailed by half a dozen men in suits that sipped at expensive beverages and eyed the women openly.

Emilio stood near the door, greeting guests as they arrived. He was wearing a tailor-made white suit, which was an unfortunate choice on his part. Lance adjusted his scope to find that Emilio was wearing several thick rings on his right hand. No wedding ring, though. As far as Lance could tell, he wasn't carrying, but there were two figures that looked to have been chiseled straight out of concrete that were both packing heat.

"Eight bodyguards on the south side," Keith said to him over the comms.

"Two up front, four more that I've seen so far patrolling the perimeter. None upstairs that I can see."

"I think they're under contract with Capstone Industries," Keith replied with a small hum. "They're well-trained, too. Not just idiots with guns."

"Roger that," Lance said, still peering through his scope. He was inclined to agree with Keith on that charge; the two bodyguards next to Emilio weren't just bulky, they were also alert. Which didn't make things impossible, just more difficult. Fine by him.

"When do we move in?"

"We don't," Lance corrected, trying to gauge how much of a threat the bodyguards were. Both guards had a pistol currently tucked away in their hip holsters, each with an automatic weapon slung casually across their shoulder. He could make out the outline of a blade strapped against their lower leg. "You're just here for recon. I move in, and I move in alone."

The line crackled, but Keith didn't say anything for a while. Then, "I'd just like to state for the record that I think that's stupid and a bad idea. Respectfully."

"Noted and overruled," Lance replied, moving his scope to a vehicle that was arriving from the narrow service road that ran up to the property. It was a limousine, sleek and shiny as it glistened under the sun. A man stepped out and looked at the property with a frown, apparently unimpressed by the glamour of luxury. Lance zoomed in further with the scope and snapped several pictures first of the man, then of the license plate on the limo. By the way Emilio had straightened up, the guest of honor – and of influence – had just arrived.

Emilio stepped forward and clasped his hand, smiling easily and gesturing for the man to go inside. He guided him forward with an arm around his shoulders, and two guards stepped out from the limo to accompany them inside. The limo pulled away around the corner and disappeared to where the other vehicles had been parked.

Once Emilio and the newcomer were inside, one of the bodyguards shut the door and turned back to face the road, both hands on his automatic weapon and his eyes repeatedly scanning his surroundings.

Lance sank back into the underbrush and pulled out his phone, logging into the hidden layer once more and pulling up the communication app. He transferred the photos he'd taken over to his phone and started up a new session with Pidge, sending the photos over.

anything you can dig up on this guy?

For once, Pidge didn't respond immediately, so Lance left the app open and took a moment to review the photo in more depth. The man was in his mid-to-late forties if Lance had to guess. No wedding ring, but a pale mark where such a ring would have sat. Judging by the bags under his eyes and the premature wrinkles, Lance would bet on divorce, and a recent one. He didn't quite have a beard, but his chin was lined with salt and pepper stubble. His suit fit him well but had a few wrinkles that told Lance that he didn't own very many suits and didn't see the point in buying a new one, or perhaps he couldn't afford one, but Lance doubted that he had a money problem considering the industry he worked in. Perhaps the suit had sentimental value, but Lance was more inclined to believe that the man wasn't often wined and dined; he seemed more at home in a lab than out conducting business.

He looked like a man who wasn't convinced that working with Capstone Industries was a good idea, and Lance assumed that over the next few hours, Emilio Perrello's sole purpose was to convince him otherwise.

Lance had his own purpose for the night, and he waited as the sun went down to fulfill it.

--

Emilio didn't reappear with the man from the limo – who Pidge had identified as Matthew Scopek – until a little after 9:00. The two exchanged a few words, and Scopek nodded, although his frown remained. Then he and his two guards got in the limo and drove off.

Emilio remained in front of the house, watching as the limousine disappeared, before going inside, leaving the door open behind him. Less than two minutes later, all the partygoers and revelers began streaming out of the house. Once the house was empty, Emilio spoke to his security team, then went inside. One by one, the lights in the house went off, and then a light lit up on the second floor.

Lance tracked through his scope as Emilio passed by two windows, then moved forward to open the balcony doors to let in the night air. Then he stepped back and continued walking, dropping his jacket onto an armchair and tossing his tie on the ground before moving into what Lance presumed was a bathroom attached to the suite.

"I'm moving in. Radio silence from here on out. I'll contact you once I've finished up," Lance said before flicking off his comms.

He made his way down from the outcropping he'd been camped out at for half the day, moving almost silently through the underbrush and coming to the edge of the clearing around the property. He waited for the guards patrolling the perimeter to make the same pass they did every 15 minutes before darting forward under the shadow of the house. Lance had spotted a trellis that leaned up against the building, and he tested to see if it would hold his weight. After he was convinced that it would be sufficient, he scaled the trellis, stepped to the right where he balanced on a ledge outlining one of the second-floor windows, and took another step onto the railing of Emilio's balcony. He slipped into the room and immediately ducked behind the wall so as to be out of sight of the windows in case a guard broke pattern and headed further out from the house. He listened for the white noise of the shower and Emilio's humming before moving back to the balcony and silently pulling the doors closed, letting the curtain fall into place to shield himself from external eyes.

Then he prepared to cross another name off his list.

--

"Exfiltration complete," Lance said after switching his comms back on over an hour later. He winced as the staticky crackle met what felt like the start of another migraine. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point in ten."

"Roger that. No abnormal activity from the guards," Keith said as Lance began jogging through the surrounding forest. He made it to the predetermined location in eight minutes, and this time, Keith beat him there.

"How'd it go?" Keith asked, eyes unreadable.

Lance didn't go into detail, just said, "It wasn't pleasant, but I've got the next name." Lance had held a bag over his face, nearly suffocating the man before zip tying him to a chair to begin his interrogation. He'd only had to break two fingers to get what he wanted, and then on account of Perrello's compliance, he ended him with a chemical cocktail that would usher him into death with little to no pain.

Keith hummed as they started jogging back to where they'd parked their vehicle, and like before, Lance couldn't tell if Keith was disappointed in him or not, but Lance couldn't afford to worry about something he hadn't even voiced. Even if Keith were disappointed in him, there wasn't anything he could change. He'd decided to walk down this path; there was no turning back.

When they reached the car, Lance hopped in the driver seat and felt around in the car door until he came upon the pill bottle. He shook out three and popped them into his mouth before dry-swallowing and tossing the bottle back where he'd found it.

Keith looked over at him with furrowed brows. "You okay, man?"

"Just another headache," Lance said, staring straight ahead. "Let's get out of here."

--

"So, Matthew Scopek," Lance said, and Pidge hummed. She'd sent his name earlier but had requested more time to put some information together on him, and Lance called once he and Keith had gotten back to the motel they'd be staying at for the night. They'd gotten separate rooms this time as Keith said he had to catch up on a few things with the Blade, and Lance appreciated the opportunity to be alone for a few hours.

"Right," Pidge said. "Matthew Scopek. He's worked for Nubellum Pharmaceuticals for over twenty years. It turns out that Nubellum is actually owned by Capstone Industries. I think I had that wrong earlier. Anyway, the interesting bit is that Capstone is trying to sell Nubellum to..." She waited, giving Lance time to guess, but he wasn't in the mood for games. Not after the day's activities. "Okay okay, I'll just tell you then. Capstone wants to sell Nubellum to our military."

"Why?" Lance asked, leaning forward and holding his phone out in front of him on speaker.

"That part I need more time on. All I know right now is that the deal revolves around something called Project RD-4895. Ring a bell?"

"Never heard of it. But the military wants to buy the entire company just for that one thing?"

"That's what it sounds like. I need more time to verify and to figure out what RD-4895 is really about. All the records I can find are sealed. Someone really doesn't want anyone finding out about this."

"Then we're digging in the right place," Lance responded.

"Where are you off to next?" Pidge asked. "And I know, I know, you can't tell me exactly but...roundabouts?"

"Mexico," Lance said. He felt his hands clench at the thought. Emilio hadn't been able to tell him much, but he had a rough idea of where to start. Right beneath Emilio's crossed-off name was a new one: EL NAVAJAS

"Mexico? What's in Mexico?"

"The sicario who murdered my family."

Pidge was quiet for a long time after that. "Lance...I think there's something...you should know."

"All right then, Pidge. Spit it out."

She waited another beat. "Is Keith listening in?"

Lance's eyes rose to the wall separating his room from Keith's. He wasn't sure just how good Galra hearing was, but he'd be willing to bet that the walls were thin even by human standards. Still, Lance had nothing to hide from him, although it was weird of Pidge to ask. "No, just me here. What's up?"

"There's...well..."

"C'mon Pidge, just tell me. If you want out, then you're out. I respect that."

"No, Lance, it's not that," she rushed to say. "I just...have bad news."

"Par for the course these days," Lance said, raising his eyes to the ceiling and letting himself lean back until his torso was lying flat on the bed, his legs dangling off the end. "Tell me."

"I...pulled your medical records from the clinic, and...I found your brain scans," Pidge said, slowing down as she went on. Lance set the phone on the duvet and rested his arms behind his head. "This was yesterday, but I had to do a little research and consult with a friend of mine in the neurological industry on how to read it, exactly, and...Keith mentioned something about your memories seeming a bit jumbled, and he said you've been having these headaches–"

"You've been talking to Keith about me?" Lance asked, his body growing tense.

"Just- we're worried about you, Lance," Pidge said, her voice small, and it was hard to remember that she wasn't a kid anymore, that none of them were kids anymore.

"No, dammit. He's just- he's just a kid, and... please, give them back, let them come back to me," Lance screamed, pulling Raphael close. His blood soaked into Lance's shirt, but that didn't matter-

"...and...Lance?"

"Sorry," Lance said, realizing that Pidge must've been calling for him. "I zoned out for a second. What about the results?"

Pidge was silent, which meant it was bad.

"Just tell me, Pidgeon," Lance said softly. He closed his eyes.

"You have a tumor, Lance," Pidge whispered, and he could hear her red eyes and held-back tears, the tears she'd already shed today and the tears she'd shed tomorrow. "About the size of a walnut...in your head."

"A tumor, huh," Lance echoed. His eyes were still closed, his arms behind his bed. He felt relaxed. "All right."

"All right?" Pidge asked, horrified. "Lance...this...this will kill you, and..."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Lance said offhandedly, wincing as the memory of his first death triggered a phantom pain. He'd jumped in front of a blast to save Allura, and he'd died for it. The only reason he'd lived another day was because Allura had used some Altean voodoo to bring him back from a place people don't come back from. Every day since then had just been borrowed time.

"Don't joke about that," Pidge said, and she was definitely crying now and he felt a bit bad about it. "If you die, there's nothing we can do to bring you back this time. The memory stuff, and the headaches, Lance – that's not going to go away, it's only going to get worse–"

"How much time?" Lance interrupted. He didn't feel any of Pidge's concern, worry, anguish. Lance had never really cared about himself, not as a kid, not with Voltron, and especially not with Alpha Platoon. He'd always known that he was replaceable and that his main value was in how he could serve others. If Lance took a bullet to the arm while he went back to pull Rizavi out of the wreckage after an IED had gone off? Fine. If Lance ended up in a healing pod again, but Hunk didn't have to? Good. Preferable, even. If Lance ended up with no ice cream because he gave it to his younger sibling? Great.

If Lance had a tumor, but he had just enough time to finish out his mission of justice? That would work.

"How much time do I have?" Lance repeated when it was clear that Pidge couldn't work up an answer for him.

"Two months, maybe," Pidge whispered, and Lance just nodded to himself.

"So what you're saying is I need to pick up the pace."

"Lance! Please," Pidge begged. "Please, just...stop what you're doing. Or don't stop," she added, sensing that he'd been about to reject the suggestion, "Just...put it on hold for now, okay? Go see a neurologist. I can set something up, I've got friends who would keep quiet, okay, and maybe...maybe they can do something, slow it, or remove it or...something..."

Lance was quiet for a moment. "It's going to take a little bit of time to get to the location in Mexico," he said, "so I'll be off the grid for a bit. In the meantime, keep digging into RD-4895 and Capstone Industries and what the hell our military is doing with them. I'll contact you once we're wheels down."

"Lance!"

He hung up. Opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling.

Knowing he had a brain tumor the size of a walnut didn't really change anything for him. Made things a little easier, actually, because now he understood why he was getting the headaches.

But it didn't change much else. Lance had never really pictured his next steps after his list was finished. He honestly had never expected to finish the list and still have next steps for himself. He was on the news, on the military's watchlist, and probably on Capstone Industries' too. If he didn't end up with a bullet in his head, the tumor would do its job. One way or the other, it would all be over soon, and that was fine with him.

Because after all this was over, there was no home for him to return to.

There were two soft knocks on the motel wall that he and Keith shared, Keith's old Voltron code for Are you okay?

He'd probably heard everything as Lance had more or less assumed would happen.

"It's fine," Lance said, trusting Keith's superior hearing to pick up his words. "Get some sleep."

Lance did his best to take his own advice, not because he wanted to sleep – he'd gone longer without it on several missions – but because he wanted to be well-rested and ready to go for tomorrow. Before checking out for the night, he doublechecked the lock on the door, jammed a chair beneath the knob, and sent a message that would hopefully be seen before tomorrow.

Then he laid down on top of the covers and closed his eyes.

--

Raphael moved his action figure around, making sound effects as he flew through the air, and Lance grinned. He took the action figure Raphael had entrusted him with for today and copied his nephew, letting his figure fly through the air and meet up with Raphael's. Raphael launched into a story about their mission: to rescue the princess (a Polly Pocket that had seen better days) and defeat the evil villain (Mr. Penguin). Lance followed his lead, adding in some dialogue and sound effects, and he looked up to catch Veronica watching them fondly.

"What are my two boys up to?" she asked and listened intently as Raphael explained the situation before defaulting to his new favorite phrase, "I'm not a little boy anymore!"

"Welllll," Veronica said, finger tapping at her chin as she pretended to do the math. "You're only seven, so you're not exactly grown up either."

His face scrunched up in a pout as he temporarily forgot about their mission, and Lance laughed, scooping him close. "Maybe you're not grown up yet, but you will be someday."

"When I grow up, I'm going to be just like you, Tío Leo," Raphael grumbled.

"Dashingly handsome?" Lance asked, striking a pose, and Raphael's pout was replaced with a laugh.

"Nooo, Tío Leo," Raphael said, and Lance faked being hurt, putting a hand against his chest, aghast. "I'm going to be a supersoldier, and I'm going to save everyone!"

Lance's grin slid off his face as he looked up to find Veronica looking equally uncomfortable. "Nahh, you don't want that, bud," he said, trying to salvage the situation, but Raphael was a stubborn little kid, and he nodded a bunch of times in a row, completely insistent.

"I do! I'm going to grow up to be big and strong, and I'll be a hero that fights the bad guys and protects people and saves princesses."

A princess did appear in Lance's mind at that moment. One he hadn't been able to save.

Veronica caught the switch in his expression, and she reached out her arms to pull Raphael close to her instead. "Tío Leo is pretty cool, isn't he," she asked quietly, and Raphael nodded, giggling, but it did nothing to fix the hole that had just opened itself up inside of Lance, and he looked away, trying to shove the image of Allura's face somewhere else, just for now.

"My job isn't all cool," Lance said after a moment, looking over at Raphael. "It's scary sometimes."

"Scary?" Raphael echoed, and Veronica gave him a small look of gratitude. They'd talked about this before, Raphael's slight obsession with Lance, and they both wanted to discourage him from pursuing a lifestyle anything at all like Lance's. Not that I don't love and appreciate you, Veronica had said clearly to him, It's just not something I want for my own kid. I worry about you enough. I can never worry enough for him. And Lance understood because he agreed with her.

"You get scared too, Tío Leo?" Raphael asked, then they weren't sitting in Raphael's bedroom anymore but in the kitchen instead, and Raphael was staring up at him, unblinking. The action figures had been abandoned in the pool of slowly-spreading blood. Raphael's mouth hung open as though he were waiting for Lance's response. Veronica was just beside him, eyes open, staring at him, asking him why he hadn't been able to fight the bad guys and protect people and save the princess.

"All the time," Lance said, staring down at them, and to his horror, and matter how far he reached, he couldn't grab them, couldn't hold them, couldn't–

--

Lance jolted upright, and it took him a second to process the knocking at his door. He poured out three more pain relief pills and downed them before shaking his head and making his way over to the door, only opening it when he'd identified Keith.

"Sorry," Lance muttered, rubbing at his eyes before turning to look at the clock. When was the last time he'd slept until eight?

"No worries," Keith said easily, coming inside and shutting the door. By the duffel bag slung off his shoulder, Lance took it that he'd already cleared out of the other room and was just waiting on him. "You needed the sleep. When was the last time you got any rest?"

"When's the last time you got any?" Lance returned, brushing off the question as he made quick work of gathering his belongings: phone, check; gun, check. He logged into the communication app and was relieved to see that his message from last night had been received and that preparations were already in the works. He sent a quick thank you and logged out of the app before looking up at Keith. "Estás listo?"

Keith scanned his face for a moment before giving a brusque nod, then giving the whole room a once over before nodding to the door. He threw his duffel in the truck, and Lance provided directions for him to start driving.

"So. About last night," Keith said, breaking five minutes of silence, and Lance looked over at him.

Was Keith going to freak out like Pidge and tell him to stop? Lance thought that Keith's tactical mindset would prevent that outcome; even if Keith wanted him to see if the tumor could be removed, he'd still realize that they didn't have time. Leads were already being buried almost as fast as Lance could uncover them. If they took a few weeks off to go investigate medical treatment that may or may not have any positive effect, the whole operation could be covered up. Not to mention that Lance's enemies – Capstone, the sicarios, his own government – could track him down at any point and take him out first, so–

"What did...Pidge mean? About...you dying before, and not to joke about it?" Keith asked tentatively, and Lance blinked, shutting down his other derailing thoughts as he realized that Keith didn't want to talk about the tumor that was eating up his brain.

"Oh, that," Lance said, and Keith looked over at him with a frown. "Hey, don't give me that look. It wasn't a big deal."

It had felt like it at the time. Back in those days, dying and being resurrected had been...pretty surreal. And the fact that nobody had really asked about it, checked up on him outside of Coran and Allura for the one moment she could pull her eyes off Lotor...Lance couldn't lie; he'd been hurt by it at the time. But eventually, it had just become one of those things that they'd sort of joked about, probably because Hunk and Pidge and Shiro didn't realize how serious it had actually been. And maybe because getting hurt wasn't out of character for Lance. He'd spent more time in the pods than any of them. Almost always the result of protecting someone else. And yet even that, they'd found a way to twist. Joking that he was clumsy, that he needed to pay better attention, that he was trying to get out of chores, that maybe he liked the pods better than his own bed...

"I jumped in front of a blast to save Allura," Lance explained with the least amount of detail possible. "And I sort of died for a minute, but she brought me back, so...no harm no foul."

"You...died?" Keith asked, and the truck slowed down as Keith took his foot off the gas to look over at Lance. "When...when was this?"

Lance shrugged. "I don't know. You were with the Blade, we were working with Lotor–" His face scrunched up involuntarily at the mention of his name. "There was a lot going on back then. You know how intergalactic space wars are."

"But...you died, and I...I didn't even know," Keith echoed, turning back to face the road, and the car began to gradually pick up speed again until they were moving along at about the same pace as earlier.

"Yeah, well, you'll get your chance this time around," Lance said, looking out the window and immediately regretting his words as he saw how Keith's shoulders immediately hunched up and his hands clenched into fists on the wheel.

--

"Where are we going, anyway?" Keith asked after a bit. "We need to be heading south to cross the border, so why am I driving west?"

"Who said anything about driving?"

--

"My boys!" Coran greeted with a big smile and open arms. He ensnared Keith first, who tensed up before relaxing in his hold and patting Coran on the back (or tapping out; Coran was stronger than Lance ever gave him credit for, and a hug from him was like a hug from a boa constrictor). Eventually, he released Keith and turned to Lance, his smile faltering and his eyes shining with grief.

"Come here, my boy," Coran said, and Lance hesitated before stepping up to him and giving him a one-arm hug. "I'm terribly sorry, Number Three," Coran whispered, and Lance just nodded because there wasn't really anything he could say to that.

"I didn't even know you were on Earth," Keith said after Coran had let go of Lance.

Coran turned to him with a small grin. "To be quite honest, Number Four, I wasn't. But then I received a communication from Number Three here and got here as fast as I could."

"That's..." Keith squinted. "Not even temporally possible," he said, eyes lifting up to the sky as he tried to calculate how long it would take to get from New Altea to Earth, and then from his designated landing zone to the middle of Mississippi.

"I have my ways," Coran said, winking with a twinkle in his eye as he twirled one side of his mustache. "Perhaps I may have used a bit of...what does number three call it? Altean witchcraft?"

"Alien voodoo," Lance said with a nod. "Thanks for coming, Coran. And sorry for the late notice."

"Not a worry, my boy, not a worry," Coran said, putting an arm around Lance's shoulders and steering him toward a helicopter that was parked about fifty feet away. "Do you have coordinates for me?"

Lance nodded, pulling up a map on his phone and zooming in on their destination, then turning his phone so Coran could see the latitude and longitude on the display.

"Uh, Coran?" Keith asked when they were almost at the helicopter. "Have you ever flown one of these things before?"

"Flown one, Number Four?" Coran asked with a laugh. "I've read the entire manual on this Earthly contraption!"

"Okay, that's cool and great, but that didn't really answer my–"

"Besides," Coran said as he popped into the helicopter and returned with two helmets, tossing the first to Keith. "I've got two of the best pilots in the universe right here with me!" He turned to Lance and handed over the other helmet. "Care to ride shotgun, Number Three?"

Lance quirked a half-smile before putting on the helmet, smile dropping off immediately as another migraine announced its imminent arrival. "Let's do it."

--

published 09/27/22

4807 words