Chapter Text
The air in the Atlas briefing room was thick with a tension you could chew on. Keith leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his black Paladin uniform pulling tight across his shoulders. His focus was locked on the star chart hologram, but his attention was entirely on the man slouched in the chair next to him.
Lance let out a long, low whistle, cutting through the grim silence. "So, let me get this straight. We're gonna assassinate a guy at a club? This is what we've come to? Feels like we should be handing out flyers for a bake sale, not planning a hit."
"He's not 'a guy', Lance," Shiro said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He stood at the head of the table, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. "He's a former Druid named Vorlak. He's the brains behind Honerva's new fleet. Sam's intel is solid."
On the comms screen, Sam Holt's face was grim. "This isn't a mission we want. It's a mission we need. Honerva is moving faster than we anticipated. Taking out Vorlak disrupts her entire supply chain. It buys us time we don't have."
From her seat, Allura stirred. She was pale, the vibrant glow she usually carried dimmed to an ember. The act of absorbing that dark entity from the Kral Zera had left a fissure in her light, and the collapse that followed had scared the hell out of all of them. "I should be there," she insisted, her voice thin but stubborn. "I could—"
"You could what, Princess? Faint on the guy?" Pidge interrupted, not unkindly. "You're on bed rest. Doctor's orders. My orders. Everyone's orders. You're sitting this one out."
Allura sank back, frustration etched on her face. Lance reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "We've got this," he murmured.
"Okay," Shiro said, clapping his hands together. "The meet is at a place called The Obsidian Nexus on Kyrossia-9. It's a club. A... particular kind of club. Vorlak has a regular spot there. Our contact says it's the only place he lets his guard down."
Hunk groaned, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, great. A club. I'm sure it's lovely. Do they have appetizers? Because if I'm going to be an accessory to murder, I'd at least like some little weenies in a blanket."
"This is serious, Hunk," Shiro said, though a corner of his mouth twitched.
"I am being serious! My stress-eating needs require planning!"
"Right," Shiro continued, steering the conversation back on track. "We need someone inside to get close to Vorlak. The weapon is a sonic dagger. It needs skin contact. So, we need a distraction."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable.
"Right," Lance said, breaking the tension. "So, who's volunteering to be the eye candy?"
The process of elimination was swift and brutally honest.
"Pidge, you're too young," Shiro started.
"I'm literally a decorated Paladin of Voltron who has hacked galactic empires, but sure, let the ID be the dealbreaker," Pidge retorted, though she looked secretly relieved.
"Plus, you'd probably try to hack the DJ's console instead of flirting," Lance added.
"Hey, gathering intel is a valid tactic!"
"Hunk, you're out," Shiro said. "You get twitchy under pressure."
"Twitchy? I'd be a full-blown nervous system malfunction waiting to happen! I'm with Pidge, I'll hack something from a safe distance."
Shiro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that leaves... me, Lance, Keith, James, and Kinkade."
Everyone immediately looked at Shiro.
"What?" he said, a little defensively. "I can be distracting."
Lance burst out laughing. "Shiro, man, I love you, but your 'flirting' is basically a performance review. You'd ask him about his five-year plan and his leadership strengths."
Keith snorted. "He's not wrong."
"Hey! I can be charming!" Shiro insisted.
"Remember that time you tried to bond with that diplomat from Puig?" Pidge asked. "You complimented the 'efficient design of her ship's hull.' She thought you were insulting her."
Shiro deflated. "Fine. Point taken."
James Griffin cleared his throat from the back of the room. "Sir, Kinkade and I we were brought for this mission to have more hands on deck, so we’re better suited for external surveillance. We can cover the exits, provide overwatch. We're... not exactly the subtle type for blending in inside."
Kinkade gave a single, sharp nod. "We're muscle. Outside."
That left Lance and Keith. They looked at each other. Lance's eyebrow crept up in a challenge. Keith's eyes narrowed in a silent refusal.
"Well, well," Lance said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Looks like it's you and me, mullet."
"No," Keith said, the word flat and final.
"It's the logical choice," Sam's voice came through the comms. "The profile suggests Vorlak has a type. Charismatic, skinny, agile, and... well, visually appealing. Lance fits the bill."
Lance preened. "See? They need the whole package. The charm, the smile, the hips that don't quit—"
"What the quiznack?” Keith snapped, pushing off the wall. His anger was a sudden, hot presence in the room. "You are not sending him in there alone to play temptress for some psychotic Druid."
"Keith—" Shiro started.
"It's a bad plan! What kind of club is this, anyway?"
Pidge, who had been typing furiously, suddenly stopped. She looked up, her cheeks turning pink. "Uh. Yeah. About that. It's, um... it's a strip club. A high-end one, but... yeah."
The room went utterly silent.
"Over my dead body," Keith growled, his hands clenching into fists. "You are not sending my boyfriend into an alien strip club."
The raw possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through Lance, even as he rolled his eyes. "Babe, dial it back. I can handle myself."
"Can you? Against a guy who probably uses Paladin armor for toothpicks?"
"I'm not going to fight him, I'm going to dance for him! There's a difference! It's called finesse!"
"Boys!" Shiro barked. "Keith, he's right. He's the best man for the job. But you're right, too. He shouldn't be alone. You'll be on the inside as well, posing as security at the main entrance."
"That's worse!" Keith argued. "So I get to stand by the door and watch while Lance gets dragged into some back room? No. Absolutely not."
"Then what do you suggest?" Sam asked, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Keith's glare was incendiary. He looked from Shiro to the hologram and back. "I go in as a patron. A rich, bored one. I get a table with a view. I'm closer that way. I can have his back if things go south."
Lance let out a disbelieving laugh. "You? As a club-goer? Keith, you think small talk is a form of torture. You'll stick out like a sore thumb."
"I can be tortured and broody type you guys always think I am!” Keith argues.
He was met with bored stares from the rest of the eyes in the room.
“Think?” Hunk snickered as Pidge cackled causing Keith to roll his eyes.
“I can pay lots of money for people to leave me alone! It's not a stretch." He crossed his arms, his jaw set. "I'm not letting him go in there without me being able to see him."
The determination in his voice was absolute. Shiro and Sam exchanged a look.
"He's got a point," Shiro conceded. "Two sets of eyes inside are better than one. Sam, the aliases?"
Sam nodded. "Lance, you'll be 'Lior'. It suggests elegance. Keith, you're 'Kael'. An independent trader from the Typhon system. Keep it simple."
The plan was set. James and Kinkade were the outside lookouts. Lance, as 'Lior', would be the new dancer aiming for Vorlak's attention. Keith, as 'Kael', would be the wealthy patron, the inside guard.
"Remember," Shiro said, his gaze sweeping over them. "This is a precision strike. In and out. Clean. We get this done, we buy ourselves a fighting chance. Dismissed."
“Our lives lie on Lance’s ass… Who knew?” Pidge chuckles as she gets up from her seat.
The team filed out, the mood somber. Lance lingered by the door, waiting for Keith, who was still staring daggers at the now-blank space where the club's hologram had been.
"You know," Lance said, walking over to him. "For a guy who hates this plan, you were pretty hot with the whole 'my boyfriend' thing. Kinda turned on right now, not gonna lie."
Keith finally turned to face him. The anger was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. "Lance," he said, his voice rough. "This isn't a game. This guy... he's dangerous. And the thought of you in there, with him..."
"Hey," Lance murmured, stepping into Keith's space. He placed a hand on Keith's chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. "I'll be fine. I'm a Paladin. I've faced down way worse than some creep in a club."
Keith's hands came up, one tangling in the hair at the nape of Lance's neck, the other sliding down to the small of his back, his grip firm. "I know," he whispered, resting his forehead against Lance's. "I just... I don’t want to lose you. Not to a stupid thing like this."
"You're not going to lose me," Lance promised, his voice soft but sure. "You'll be right there. My grumpy, overprotective sugar daddy. We're a team."
Keith let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He pulled back just enough to look Lance in the eyes, his hand still resting possessively on the curve of Lance's backside.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "And for the record," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You're not that skinny."
Lance grinned, tension breaking. "See? You can flirt." He laced his fingers with Keith's, pulling him toward the door. "C'mon. We need to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. I need to practice my moves."
Keith groaned, letting himself be led away. "I'm already gonna need so much therapy after this."
But as they walked down the corridor, shoulders brushing, Lance knew the truth. Keith would follow him anywhere. And that, more than anything, made the whole terrifying mess feel like it might just be okay.
**
The shuttle ride down to Kyrossia-9 was a tense, silent affair, a stark contrast to the usual chaos of the Castle—or now, the Atlas. The small vessel was chosen for its anonymity, a bland-looking cargo runner that wouldn't attract a second glance. Bringing the Atlas or even the Lions was like sending up a firework that screamed "VOLTRON IS HERE."
Hunk piloted with a white-knuckled grip, muttering about atmospheric turbulence and his stomach. Pidge was buried in her console, her fingers a blur. "Okay, I'm in the Nexus's external camera system. Place is... swanky. Lots of chrome and mood lighting. And a lot of very large, very armed individuals who look like they chew on engine parts for fun."
"Comforting," Lance muttered from the back, staring out the viewport at the approaching neon-drenched skyline.
Keith, sitting rigidly beside him, didn't respond. His focus was absolute, a predator scanning for threats. He was already in character, his usual leathers swapped for a dark, high-collared tunic that was unbuttoned just enough to suggest a careless wealth. His hair was a losing battle; Romelle had attempted to gel it back into something sleek, but stubborn strands had already escaped, falling across his forehead. He looked less like a polished merchant and more like a space pirate who'd just won a bar fight and stolen a nicer shirt.
In the main cabin, the "aesthetic team" was in full swing. Allura, despite her fatigue, was directing operations with a commander's eye, while Romelle applied makeup with an artist's precision.
"Hold still, James," Romelle chided, dabbing a concealer on a small scar on the MFE pilot's jaw. "You are supposed to look like a wealthy patron, not like you just came from the sparring deck."
James Griffin sat stiffly, looking deeply uncomfortable in a garish, patterned jacket Shiro had produced from some deep, questionable corner of the Atlas's stores. "I feel like a used-speedership salesman."
"Perfect," Shiro said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's the look. Unremarkable, slightly sleazy. You, Kinkade, and I are the background noise. We blend into the crowd of other creeps."
Kinkade, already dressed in a similarly loud outfit, merely grunted, adjusting his collar with a look of profound suffering.
Keith finally broke his silence, his eyes still locked on Lance. "Why does he have to go in first? Alone."
"It's standard procedure for this kind of infiltration, Keith," Shiro explained patiently for what felt like the tenth time. "Lance needs to arrive as a new performer. He has to get familiar with the backstage area, change there, and get briefed by the contact. He can't just walk in with the rest of the crowd."
"He'll be vulnerable," Keith argued, his voice low.
"He'll be fine," Allura said, her tone gentle but firm. "He is a Paladin. He can handle himself for an hour in a dressing room."
From the cockpit, Hunk's voice crackled over the internal comms. "Yeah, Keith, relax. It's not like he's going to a Denuvian barbeque. It's just a den of sin and potential murder. He'll be great!"
Pidge snickered. "I've hacked him into the performer roster. He's scheduled for a slot right when Vorlak usually arrives. Stage name is 'Lior'. Ooh, fancy."
Keith just scowled, his jaw tight.
Once they landed in a grimy private dock, the team huddled for a final briefing. Shiro handed out tiny, flesh-colored comm pieces. "These are subdermal, just behind your ear. Tap twice to activate, three times to mute. The range is short, so we'll be relying on Pidge and Hunk to boost the signal from the shuttle. Your primary objective is the mission. If things go south, do not engage publicly. We cannot afford a scene. Remember, Honerva's eyes are everywhere. We are ghosts."
Nods all around. The gravity of the situation settled over them like a shroud.
Keith grabbed Lance's arm as he turned to leave with the contact. "Be careful," he said, the words rough with unspoken fear.
Lance offered him a cocky grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "When am I not? See you soon, Kael. Don't get too jealous." He winked, then followed a shrouded figure out of the dock and into the swirling, neon-lit crowds of Kyrossia-9.
**
The Obsidian Nexus was exactly as advertised: a temple of decadence. The air was thick with the smell of expensive alien perfumes, ozone, and something sharper, muskier. Pulsing, low-frequency music vibrated through the floor, a physical sensation more than a sound. The lighting was a deep, hypnotic indigo, broken by spotlights that swept across the main stage, currently occupied by a Twi'lek-like being who moved with an impossible, liquid grace.
Lance's contact, a young woman who introduced herself as Lova, led him through the thrumming crowd. She was striking—half-Galra, with sharp, intelligent yellow eyes set in a warm, brown-skinned face, and the delicate facial markings of another species he didn't recognize. She moved with an easy confidence, her gaze constantly scanning, assessing.
"Keep up, Lior," she said, her voice a low purr that cut through the music. "Eyes are already on you. New meat always causes a stir." She guided him past the main floor, through a heavy curtain, and into a labyrinth of corridors that were noticeably quieter. "Back here is the green room, dressing rooms, and the private chambers. Vorlak's usual spot is the balcony overlooking the stage. He likes to watch the new talent from a distance first. Your set is in forty-five minutes. That's your window."
She pushed open a door to a small, surprisingly clean dressing room. It was lit by a ring of bright lights around a mirror, a stark contrast to the moody club outside. She tossed a bundle of fabric at him. "Here. This should fit. The color will work with your complexion."
Lance unfolded it. It was a top and bottom, both made of a delicate, stretchy burgundy lace. The shirt was long-sleeved, sheer, and the shorts were... very short.
He held them up, raising an eyebrow. "A little... revealing, don't you think?"
Love gave him a flat look. "You're here to be looked at. This," she gestured to the outfit, "ensures they keep looking. Now, sit." She pointed to the chair in front of the mirror.
As Lance changed behind a screen, he could hear her rummaging through a makeup kit. He emerged, feeling intensely exposed. The lace clung to him in a way that left very little to the imagination. Nyma didn't comment, just pushed him into the chair and got to work. Her hands were deft and cool. She didn't go for heavy foundation, instead using a light, shimmery powder that made his skin glow under the lights. She smudged a dark, glittering kohl around his eyes, making the blue of his irises pop, and dusted a hint of sparkling highlighter along his cheekbones and the line of his collarbone.
"It's not about hiding you," she explained, her focus absolute. "It's about enhancing what's already there. Making you look... expensive. Ethereal."
"You're good at this," Lance remarked, watching his reflection transform. He looked less like himself and more like a fantasy.
"It pays the bills," she said simply. "And it keeps me close to people like Vorlak." She finished, stepping back to admire her work. "There. Now you look like you're worth the exorbitant cover charge." She leaned against the vanity, crossing her arms. "So. Your team. The others. When are they getting here?"
Lance checked the chrono on the wall. "Probably in about an hour. They're coming in as patrons."
Nyma's sharp eyes studied him in the mirror. "You seem nervous. More than most new performers. Is it the mission? Or is it something else?"
Lance let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He tapped his comm twice, activating it for the team in the shuttle to hear. He needed them to know this, to understand the stakes weren't just tactical for him. "It's... my boyfriend. He's one of the ones coming in. I just... I don't want him to see this and feel... I don't know. Weird about it. Or get the wrong idea."
Lova’s expression softened marginally. She gave a small, knowing smile. "Ah. So that's it." She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Look, use it. A little jealousy can be a good thing. Let him see what everyone else wants but can't have. It'll make the victory sweeter for both of you when you walk out of here together. Have a little fun with it. Tease him. Then you can both go home and... have a much better time." She winked.
Lance felt a genuine smile tug at his lips for the first time since they'd landed. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."
"Of course I am," she said, straightening up. "Now, get your head in the game, Lior. In forty minutes, you're on. And your boyfriend is going to get the show of his life."
Back in the shuttle, Keith’s scowl deepened, but there was a new, fierce light in his eyes. He looked at Shiro. "Let's go. Now."