31
Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place.
This grim story played over the radio as Pidge worked her magic, trying to find a way to triangulate it's location. But the ship was making that difficult. More than once she had to turn it off or walk away. Lance's voice was too painful. She couldn't stand listening to it. He'd be asked the same question a million different ways. Some had tried torture; plain and simple. Another had tried provoking it out of him. For a while, Pidge was afraid it would work. Another came in and used mind games to try to get him to say more. But every time,
"Forty nine, eskimo kisses."
"Ffity, the sunset."
"Fifty one, the sound of crickets."
Pidge surmised she knew what the list was at this point. Each time Lance was questioned, he would respond with another number and some seemingly unrelated thing. She thinks its a list of reasons to keep fighting. It pains her, listening to the list continue to grow as she's made no progress on figuring out where he is or how to get there.
Keith had barely left the main room. If anyone watched, he'd hardly moved a muscle. He listens to Lance and the grip on his arms tightens with each number. It's strange, if this had been under better circumstances, he would have assumed it was just a list of things back home.
"Fifty two, birds singing."
"Fifty three, Allita's drawings."
"Fifty four, friends."
When he says this, one of the captors teases him. "Friends?" Heavy footsteps follow this and a shuffling of items on the other end screech through the radio. "Where are these friends of yours?" More scratching before a breeze of some sort can be heard. "Must be some crappy friends to leave you here alone because I don't see anyone." This is followed by a loud slam. "Save yourself, just give up these friends of yours and this all stops."
"No." Lance responds bitterly.
Static. Lance holding back another scream. A loud exhale.
"Fifty...five..." Then, for the first time that day, Lance stops speaking. A silence falls, echoing his uncertainty of what to say next. His unsteady breathing fills the room. All of them listen, waiting for him to think of something. Again, he coughs but says nothing.
"Fi- fifty five...?" Lance repeats the number, uncertainty dripping from the words. If loss of hope could be heard, everyone was certain this is how it would sound.
Pidge can't get her fingers to move as she waits for Lance to say something. She silently begs for another word to exit his surely tired lips. Her hands turn to tight fists and her eyes squeeze closed.
"Come on Lance, just hold out a bit longer." She begs quietly.
Keith's grip on his dagger become dangerously tight. It was driving him crazy not knowing what to do.
Even Allura and Corran had been trying everything they could think of to get Lance back and cheer up the group. But at Lance's uncertainty, both of them pause, waiting for Lance to continue. Hunk has only been in and out of the room, too anxious to continually listen to the radio noise, but what he hears makes him stop.
"Fifty five...Hunk's cooking."
Everyone listening seems to exhale a little.
"We're gonna get you buddy." Hunk says through a sob before shaking his head and walking away.
