Lance tried to fight against his restraints. He tried to scream and call his team. His arms aching and his head pounding, he could hear the clone confront Hagar through the glass of the tube. Lance concentrated on the muffled words, closing his eyes—not that they were of much use, the cloth hiding the tube made everything dark.

"And if your plan doesn't work, 'mother'?"

"You will not call me that!"

"Why? Isn't that what you want him to call you? I am him, Haggar; you made me to be him!"

"You will never be my boy, creature! You are a thing I created to inflict damage on Voltron. You're just an instrument for my revenge."

"And what are you revenging, witch? That boy you kidnapped? That boy you tried to break repeatedly? That boy you call son and treat as a pet? What have Voltron done to him you hadn't done worse?"

Haggar would've answered if a loud banging noise didn't interrupt. The Blue Paladin prayed it was his team finally coming to save him. He was almost breaking. He could not do that anymore. If Lance had to spend any more time near Haggar and her forceful attempts of creating a mother-son bond, he would shatter. He could feel it. All the hope vanishing, all the light dimming, all the tiredness consuming, all the darkness corroding. No more, his mind begged. No more, his heart pleaded. No more, his soul screamed. No more. No more. No more.

"No more…" His voice whispered.

"Guys!"

It was the clone. All rancor had left his voice. He sounded so much like Lance… The boy could hear the hope in the clone's voice. It appeared he wasn't the only prisoner being played in Haggar's hands.

(But he already knew that, didn't he?)

"Haggar, how many clones did you make?!"

Allura. Tears rolled down Lance's cheek after hearing his princess voice. Ah, how he missed her. Her gentle yet firm personality and her cute attachment to the mice.

(It was surprising he could still cry.)

"Clones?"

"Lance?"

No, Hunk, it was not Lance. Well, it was, but really. Not their Lance. It was a Lance Haggar carefully made. A clone that grew from his hand the witch had so happily cut off. A Lance, but not the Lance.

"Yeah, it's me, guys. Lancey Lance!" The thing beamed, hope rising. "Why are you looking at me like I've grown two heads?"

It couldn't be so easy. It could not be so easy. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Haggar was planning something. It had to be a trap. A lie. Then why? Why couldn't they see it?! Why?! They weren't naïve, they weren't dumb! They knew they couldn't trust the witch!

"Enough games, witch. Give us the real Lance back."

He was there! He was there, Keith, why couldn't you hear him? Why couldn't he say something? Throat dry, Lance tried to scream. No sound came. Fighting against his shackles, he tried to make any noise to bring the other's attention to the very back of the room. No such luck. He prayed and begged they would notice something was wrong.

No one did.

"Ah, Red Paladin, I did promise I would give him back if you found the real one, didn't I?"

It couldn't be so easy.

It could not be so easy.

Then why were they leaving with that thing?

Then why did they believe that thing was he?

Was he so unremarkable his own team—his own family—could not differentiate him from a goddamn clone?

Or were they so uncaring they could not see the thing they were taking home was not their Blue Paladin?

(Was he still theirs when they weren't his?)

The last thing he heard before finally giving up the fight was an explosion and Haggar's cackle.

"What a great family they are, don't you think, my boy? They left you behind so easily."

The caress was still loving. Like a mother watching fondly her son crying his heart out after trying to be strong for so long. So tender, Lance basked on the feeling. Her hands were warm and held him as if he was the only thing that mattered. As if he was a gift she could not even fathom living without. He closed his eyes, resting his head on Haggar's lap, letting the comforting fingertips put him together. He could imagine her smiling gently, talking about the Voltron team. Long fingers traced his jawline, then is temples, then lost themselves in the soft brown hair he prided himself so much.

"My dear boy, my offer still stands… Please, give me a chance to make you greater. Leave behind the burdens those people made you carry and wear the stars in your fingers."

Yes, mother, he would've said. However, Lance still had a half-mind to remember that his throat was not on the best shape. It was okay, if the alchemist had noticed his relationship with the team was hurting him, then she could notice his silent agreement. Maybe they brushed him aside a few times, but she would not. Maybe they disregarded his feelings a few times, but she would not. Maybe they acted they did not need him sometimes, but she would not. Maybe they hurt him sometimes, but she would not. She did make him suffer for a long time, though, but if he could forgive his old team, then he could forgive her.

As long as she kept loving him so tenderly.

Like a mother loves a son.

"So much happiness, so much contentment… The strong desire of proving yourself, the lust for giving pride to someone. The satisfaction of finally being recognized. I can feel it, my child, and I'm happy I can provide it."

A sigh came from him. Yes, he could feel it all. The pain was nothing but a vague memory, buried deep into his healing soul.

"You will have everything this universe has to offer! Is there something you wish more than anything in this life?"

His family, his home. Rain. Beach. Sand. Earth. His friends. A nice day of hanging out with people he held dear. Peace. Freedom. He wanted to live his life fully by the side of loved people. He wanted the war to end. He wanted. He could. He would.

A plan already forming inside his head. Lance had a lot to do, and with Haggar by his side, he was sure he would end victorious.

"I will give it to you, Lance."

After all, the support of a mother will always be a great motivation.

"Please, mother."