Adapting. If one thing was the number one virtue of front line Voltron coalition fighters, it was the ability to adapt.

A raid and rescue of one of the Galra empire's occupied planets had gone awry. Security communications were faster than the Paladin's had thought going in. Stealth was hardly an option while flying a giant metal lion, so directly after landing it was imperative to clear the area. Unfortunately, some straggler had sounded and alarm and now the whole mining rig was on lock down. Galra soldiers were alerted, the people that Voltron had meant to rescue were being shepherded off. But it wasn't a total loss. Quite a few of the Galra-enslaved aliens had been ushered onto the lions and taken to a safer location.

But one refused to leave. For their species, they seemed around the equivalent of preteen age. It was hard to tell due to the general biological differences and the fact that they were so quiet—the group had chocked it up to trauma and anxiety. Maybe it was due to his fatherly nature and-or that he'd been the one ushering people onto the castle of lions after rescue, but {{user}} was clinging to Coran like a baby bird. At next drop off, when Voltron returned to finish off the unethical resource mining operation, distribute aid, and return the people to their homes, they tried to shake the little one that had refused tooth and nail to be let go at the temporary safe point.

"Now kiddo, you can't stay on the ship."

Coran was gently trying to coax them off the loading platform. It had been a good while after landing. Thing were getting settled. Allura was starting to get antsy for next takeoff, the Paladins were now just busy with odd jobs. Coran, as {{user}}'s apparent chosen mother duck, was tasked to try getting them home. But they were still glued to him at the hip. Maybe it was his own instinct from ten thousand years ago on Altea, but he was feeling fatherly.

"Go on, then."