Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

Months Later,

The room was still a frozen tomb with no amenities, its scarred walls and jagged window framing the starry void beyond.

Thirty occupants huddled in ragged scraps, their breaths fogging, their lives mere tallies in the Kingdom's logs.

Vanes crouched in a corner, her human guise—pale skin, brown hair, dull gaze—unremarkable, her daughter calm, brown eyes soft.

She fed her child crumbs from her food packet, her brown eyes bright, her human form innocent, cute, her shapeshifter blood a secret.

A thunderous rumble shook the room, the floor quivering under heavy boots.

Whispers hissed among the occupants, their gaunt faces tightening, eyes darting to the door.

Enforcer drones had swept the Backdrop's alleys, scanners glinting, but this was louder, relentless.

Vanes clutched her daughter, pulse quickening, crumbs slipping from her grasp.

The door shattered inward, steel screeching, and soldiers in black armor stormed through, plasma rifles humming, visors catching the bulb's flicker.

Occupants shrank back, some scrambling, others frozen, their ragged scraps no shield against the rifles' glow.

The King strode in, six and a half feet of towering grandeur, blonde hair glinting, his presence a blade slicing the room's despair.

His gaze, sharp and cold, raked the cowering figures, lips twisting with contempt.

He called out to everyone to reveal themselves if they were collaborating with the space pirates.

Silence gripped the room, breaths held, eyes averted. Vanes's fingers tightened on her daughter, her human guise faltering, sweat beading on her brow.

No one revealed themselves, everyone had the same nervous face etched with fear.

The King's eyes narrowed, amusement fading to ice.

"Kill them all," he ordered, flicking a hand.

Rifles snapped up, plasma coils flaring, and chaos erupted. Bolts hissed, searing flesh, shrieks rising as bodies crumpled, red blood spilling across the icy floor.

A bolt tore through Vanes's leg, agony bursting, her gasp swallowed to shield her daughter. She stumbled, arm buckling, and the baby fell, rolling onto the floor, wailing.

Another bolt grazed Vanes's arm, scorching skin, and she collapsed, crippled, her blue shapeshifter blood leaking, weaving trails through the crimson pools.

Vanes clawed forward, nails scraping the floor, her daughter's cries a lifeline.

Bodies littered the room, lifeless, their tattered rags soaked, the air thick with smoke and blood's tang.

Glass shards from the shattered window crunched under her, cutting her palms, her thoughts flickering to Gin—his sacrifice, his fierce eyes—urging her on.

Soldiers advanced, boots splashing in blood, their visors blank, rifles whining. She reached out, vision dimming, when a black-haired boy, scrawny and wide-eyed, darted through the carnage.

His gaze locked with hers, a fleeting spark of resolve, and he scooped up the crying baby, clutching her tight. He sprinted for the jagged window, leaping into the Backdrop's starry void, his figure swallowed by the dark.

Vanes's heart split—grief for her child's loss, hope that she might endure. Her strength waned, scales shimmering faintly, her human guise cracking.

A heavy weight slammed her stomach, stealing her breath.

"Well, well, well," a voice purred, sharp with cruel delight. The King loomed, his blonde hair a halo in the bulb's glow, his amusement a dagger.

"A shapeshifter, here?" He hadn't expected this prize among the worthless. "How long have you skulked?" he demanded, eyes glinting.

Her identity was bare, her daughter gone, life slipping. With a final surge, Vanes shifted, scales flaring green, talons lengthening.

She lunged, talons raking at the King's chest, a desperate bid to wound him.

He laughed, hollow and cold, and kicked her down, his boot cracking her ribs.

Pain exploded, bones splintering. He struck again, driving her into the wall's corner, each blow a hammer.

Vanes crumpled, blue blood pooling, her scales a shattered mosaic.

She stilled, her last breath a whisper of Gin's name, the room's screams silenced.

"Sheesh," the King scoffed, stepping back, scorn dripping. "These good-for-nothings. All they had to do was speak, and they couldn't even manage that." A soldier knelt, wiping blue blood from the King's boot, the room a slaughterhouse of lifeless forms, not one stirring.

The King turned, his grandeur untouched, and strode out, his chain of sleek cars humming beyond the tenement, their lights fading into the Backdrop's alleys.

In a shadowed alley, strewn with refuse and scrawled with dull graffiti, the black-haired boy sat, sobbing, the baby cradled in his arms.

His tattered rags clung to his frame, face streaked with ash and tears.

A wad of cash, slipped to him by a tall blonde princess—her motives a mystery—bulged in his pocket.

The baby's wails softened, her brown eyes fixed on his grief, her innocent gaze stirring warmth in his chest.

He'd watched his tenement family die, he himself narrowly dodging the rifles, yet their presence grounded him.

Two girls approached, their steps cautious on the alley's grit.

The purple-haired girl knelt, her touch gentle, eyes soft. The tomboyish girl, black hair cropped short, crouched beside him, her grip firm on his shoulder.

"Thank god. You're safe," the purple-haired girl murmured. "We've got you," the tomboyish girl added, voice gruff but kind.

Their arms encircled him, steadying his sobs, the baby quieting, her warmth a fragile hope amid the Backdrop's starry void.

Years passed, the Backdrop's grimness unchanging, its residents still surplus, their ragged scraps and hunger eternal.

The baby grew into a beautiful black-haired girl, her grace a spark in the slum's gloom.

The boy, now sixteen, cared for her like kin, his cunning stretching the princess's cash for extra food, milk, and water.

The purple-haired and tomboyish girls helped, though their glances lingered on the boy, their bond tinged with rivalry.

They bristled when he let the girl win their games—races through littered alleys, bets on scavenged bits of tech—his grin softening for her joy.

One evening, as stars gleamed through the tenement's cracked window, the boy gathered the girls around a flickering bulb.

"I'm Syn," he told the black-haired girl, her eyes wide, the first time he'd shared his name. "Remember it."

She nodded, her small hand clutching his.

Life in the Backdrop was brutal, but Syn made it bearable.

When a scavenger snatched the girl's food packet, Syn shared his, his stomach growling.

He taught her to dodge enforcer drones, their scanners glinting under the void's stars, and to weave through crowds unnoticed.

They shared fleeting joys—stealing a loaf from a vendor, hiding from patrols, whispering of a life beyond the slum's despair.

The Backdrop's alleys teemed with danger—scavenging children darting past drones, vendors guarding stalls with knives, graffiti cursing the Kingdom on every wall.

Syn shielded the girl, once shoving her behind a crate as a drone's beam swept near, its hum chilling her spine.

He bartered for a tattered blanket, wrapping her against the tenement's chill, his own rags thin.

The purple-haired and tomboyish girls joined their schemes, but their eyes burned when Syn favored the girl, letting her keep a scavenged trinket or win a race.

One spring, the Kingdom announced military recruitment competitions, a rare chance to join the army and escape the Backdrop.

Syn, lean and swift, entered, his years of outrunning drones and scavengers sharpening his skill, along with the food he bought with the cash, kept him healthy and fit.

He dominated, ranking in the top one percent, his name flashing on a cracked vid-screen.

The Backdrop stirred, its residents eyeing him with envy, some spitting at his luck.

Hours later, Syn gathered the girls together, the starry void framing his words. "I'm joining the army," he said, voice steady, eyes heavy.

"I am leaving the Backdrop now. I'll visit whenever I can." He looked at the black-haired girl, her hair falling over wide eyes. "Stay strong. Join me one day. We'll be more than this slum's 'useless crap.'"

He pressed his remaining cash into their hands—credits for food, survival. "Stay safe," he added, hugging all the girls one after the other, as they shared their parting word, tears soaking their cheeks.

He left, his figure fading after he entered the metro and zoomed away, bound for the Kingdom's forces.

The girls wept for days, their corner emptier, the tenement's chill sharper. The purple-haired and tomboyish girls schemed, their heads bent over plans.

"We'll train," the purple-haired girl said, fists clenched. "Get tough, join the army, find Syn." The tomboyish girl grinned, fierce.

"No more Backdrop." They ran through alleys, lifted scavenged metal, practiced moves from overheard soldier talk, their eyes on escape.

The black-haired girl waited, clutching a worn credit chip Syn had given her, its edges smooth from her touch. Days stretched to weeks, then months, with no sign of him.

The Backdrop's grind wore her—stolen food, drone patrols, the void's cold stars. Her patience snapped, her heart fixed on Syn, the boy who'd saved her, fed her, let her win, her everything.

She couldn't linger.

One night, as the others slept, she slipped from the room, her black hair hooded, a scavenged bag slung over her shoulder.

She navigated the Backdrop's alleys, heart pounding, dodging a drone's scanner, its beam grazing her path.

Scavengers eyed her, but she moved like a shadow, Syn's lessons guiding her steps.

The purple-haired and tomboyish girls woke to her absence, searching alleys and stalls, calling for her.

After a day, exhaustion won.

"She's gone," the tomboyish girl muttered, jaw tight. "I guess she went to look for Syn," the purple-haired girl whispered, eyes low.

They let her go, their own plans fixed on the army, for the look Syn will have when he sees them beside him.

But the girl had left the Backdrop, in search of the boy.

To find him, to watch him.

To see if he was safe, if not, she would make him safe.

Like the way he had done for her all these years.