It was musty and stunk like a cocktail of bodily fluids in the tiny wooden shack he and three other 'exotic' bodies were held. Lance grumbled, his knees pressed up to his face, arms wrapped around his legs. His royal garments had been stripped from him, only a simple leather loincloth protecting himself from the elements, leaving his Altean markings on full display.
Of course, that's what his captors probably wished for. The last living Altean, and he was royalty no less, was in their possession! Imagine the amount of money that could bring in. Many people dreamed of having a spritely little Altean maid, and now that the last one alive was held in captivity, the Galra were scrambling to gather funds.
Lance sighed, running his fingers through his white hair, chains around his wrists clanking as he did so. He cringed a bit when he heard someone mention the word Altean outside the shack. He couldn't decipher more since the tongue they were speaking was Galran, but he could at least understand that.
Whoever it was that said that, though, had a terrible accent. An accent unlike he had ever heard before, a surprising novelty. People from near and far had come to ogle at him, so he had gotten a full extensive look at a lot of the species the universe inhabited.
The door creaked, and a honey colored iris peeked through, and a pale hand touched the inside of the door. He backed away slightly, cowering. He was prideful, yes, but when his could-be slaver is staring him in the eye, he lost his princely confidence and swagger. The loud Galran said something in his gravelly voice, and the mysterious person nodded and walked in the room, giving Lance a chance to look at them more clearly.
They looked fairly feminine, save their hair, which was cut erratically, almost as if it was in a hurry. Perhaps it had gotten stuck or caught in something, Lance noted to himself, noticing the split ends on almost each strand of hair. They were donning glasses of some kind, and one of the lenses was cracked. The person was wearing a plain black overcoat that draped down the knees and a hood, which was understandable. If anyone was caught in an neighborhood such as this one, it would tarnish their reputation irrepairably, according to the mumblings of some Altean language based chatter.
The person spoke in fluent Altean, something Lance was shocked to hear, especially after all the decaphoebs he had been in cryosleep. "Prince Lance. I am part of a data collecting agency in Junabeleet in the Kalon System." Their expression was stern, arms crossed. "Please understand I am not here to harm you, though I may act like it. The dealers get suspicious." They said, subtly tilting their head to the burly Galra behind them.
"I have bought you out of captivity, and I shall transport you to an outpost near here. I cannot say where. Altean may be a dead language, but names are not." They said, face softening briefly, before turning around sharply, pulling the hood over their face. They said something in Galran, to which the burly Galra trader walked towards Lance, making him flinch involuntarily. The Galra, whose name Lance figured to be Krilan, yelled and pulled Lance's white hair, causing strands to pull out into the bigger man's palm. The other poor captives merely looked down in dismay and apathy for the whole situation.
Krilan went behind Lance to grab a leather harness, and hooked it to his blood stained chest. That was the harness they would put around him whenever they'd parade him through the black market, something he despised and never thought would happen once a prospect of freedom burst in. Though, the person said he could trust them, what choice did he have? It was certainly better than being stuck in the chintzy, infection ridden shack.
Speaking of the person, or, rather agent; Krilan handed them the reins, something the person took with a bit of hesitance. Lance took this as a good omen. This meant this agent hadn't broken down completely, had morals. They had to be truthful then, right? He was broke out of his thought by a soft pull of the harness. The agent said something in Galran, and then translated it to Altean. "Come." Lance nodded, standing up shakily, breath hitched. His legs almost buckled under his weight, which was close near to nothing; Lance felt like a juniberry leaf. One tiny hiss of wind, and he felt he would blow away. His chest ached, the Galra trader had tightened the straps on the harness too hard, and it was digging into his scars, some of which were drawing blood. He stumbled forward, nearly falling into the agents body, before regaining balance and stumbling forwards again. It was an excruciating walk out of the isolated area where the trader dwelled, and Lance could feel the holes in his back where Krilan was staring at him. Luckily, they had judt made it out of eyeshot of the disgruntled Galran.
The agent ahead of him broke the silence, still looking forward. "The outpost name is Kevillan, near the Huntingrell Nebula. It takes a good thirty doboshes to get there, but it's better than staying here." They then looked behind them, stopping and allowing Lance to walk closer to them. "May I take your harness off?" They asked, seeming to notice the hesitant distance Lance stood from them. Lance nodded pathetically, deciding to trust them. Once the harness straps were off his bloodied chest, and his markings were on full display, Lance groaned in pain, as the wounds were allowed to be exposed to the atmosphere. The agent continued on, not perturbed. "I have sanitation supplies to help clean your wounds up, but we'd better get moving, it's almost sundown here." They said, putting the bloodied harness on their shoulder. They turned around, stoppung when they heard Lance softly speak indiscernably. They turned back around in confusion. "What?"
"What's y-" Lance sputtered, hacking up blood before continuing. "Name?" He asked, pathetically wiping up the blood off his lips. The agent paused for a moment before turning around.
"Pidge. That's all you need to know right now. Your safety and psyche stableness is all of importance. Let's go." Lance considered the odd name, while bumbling forwards, right leg limping due to whipping scars.
He hoped Pidge was telling the truth. He hoped he was free.
But that's not what they had said... Was it?