Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

"Okay, Vera. I'll tell you everything," Syn said, his voice low, raw, his hazel eyes meeting the storm in Vera's purple gaze.

He stood in Pako's room, the comics forgotten on the navy-blue blanket, the air heavy with betrayal, Pako's tear-streaked face and Aster's tense silence pressing against him.

"You better," Vera snapped, her voice loud, sharp, her purple wavy hair swaying as she stepped closer, her captain's coat a dark silhouette. "I'm tired of waiting, Syn. No more games, no more excuses. The truth, now."

Syn rubbed his neck, his hazel eyes flickering with hesitation. "It might sound… silly, hearing it out loud. And it's got nothing to do with how I met Ila, I swear."

Vera's purple eyes narrowed, her arms crossing, her voice cutting. "Doesn't matter. I don't care how silly it sounds. Why did you leave us, Syn? I want the truth, just tell me."

"Why'd you leave for something so stupid if you yourself find it silly?" Pako asked, her voice small, trembling, her black bob framing her tearful face, the black lace camisole clinging to her as she stood, her expressive eyes low with hurt, searching Syn's for answers. "What was it?"

Syn turned to her, his heart twisting, shame flooding him. "It was… impulsive, Pako," he said, voice soft, heavy. "I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, any of you, not like this. I thought… maybe you'd forget me, move on, once I was gone."

"The way you thought Ila would forget you?" Aster interjected, her teal eyes sharp, blonde ponytail steady, her uniform creased from the medic bay's chaos. "Seriously, Syn, what's wrong with you? Why do you keep running from people who care about you, assuming they'll just erase you from their lives once you're out of sight?"

Syn's mouth closed, his hazel eyes distant, no answer rising.

Her words struck deep, echoing a truth he'd only faced two days ago, after Ila's assault, after the metro escape.

Had he been careless, stubborn, treating others as tools for his goals, as Vera accused?

Had he ever truly loved anyone—Vera, Pako, Aster—or was he the broken one, unable to connect, assuming their feelings were fleeting, their pain trivial?

The thought chilled him, his own heart a mystery he couldn't unravel.

Were they the normal ones, their love and hurt real, while he was the crazy one, detached, running?

"I'm sorry," he said again, voice barely a whisper, his scar stark, his hazel eyes pleading, but the apology felt hollow, inadequate.

"We don't want your damn apologies," Vera growled, stepping closer, her purple eyes blazing, her voice a warning, laced with a threat that chilled the room. "Tell me why you left, Syn, or I'm done. I'm pissed, really really pissed, and you don't want to see another Ila in me, do you?" Her hands clenched, her captain's composure fraying, her betrayal a fire.

"Please, Syn, just tell us," Pako pleaded, her voice cracking, tears spilling, her lace shorts shifting as she hugged herself, her playful spirit crushed, her eyes begging for clarity.

Aster crossed her arms, teal eyes steady, her muscular frame tense, waiting, her silence louder than words, her trust in Syn fragile but holding.

Syn exhaled, his hazel eyes resolute, the weight of their pain anchoring him. "Okay," he said, voice firm, raw. "I'll tell you."

__________

Three Years Ago,

Agriculture Biome

The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and engineered crops, the agriculture biome a sprawling maze of towering plantations under a synthetic sky, its golden light mimicking a sun that never set.

Syn crouched behind a row of genetically enhanced wheat, its stalks unnaturally tall, their tips glowing faintly with bio-luminescent markers.

His ragtag clothes—a patched tunic and dirt-stained pants—blended with the plantation workers' garb, a disguise to mask his identity.

A black cloth mask covered his face, leaving only his hazel eyes visible, sharp and focused.

Around him, a dozen pirates mirrored his stance, their own disguises—tattered cloaks, grease-smeared faces, fake ID tags—making them indistinguishable from the biome's laborers.

Vera, Pako, and Aster were among them, their masks tight, eyes glinting with purpose, each blending seamlessly into the rebel band.

They were surveilling, hidden in the shadows of the crops, watching the high-tech warehouse at the biome's heart.

The structure loomed, a sleek fortress of polished steel and reinforced glass, its walls humming with automated systems.

Drones whirred overhead, their cameras sweeping the fields, while robotic harvesters glided silently, collecting crops for the Kingdom's royals and nobles.

The warehouse was a vault, storing polished grains, rare fruits, and bio-engineered delicacies—food meant for the elite, while the Backdrop biome starved on scraps.

Syn's band had studied the drones' patterns for weeks, aided by three pirates who doubled as biome workers, their insider knowledge key to this joint operation.

Tonight, they'd strike, a rebellion to burn the Kingdom's excess and force the King's hand.Syn's hand hovered, waiting for the drone above to shift.

Its camera whirred, pivoting away, and he flashed a signal—a quick flick of his wrist.

The pirates moved, silent and swift, weaving deeper into the plantation, ducking under stalks to evade another drone's sweep.

Vera, her purple wavy hair tucked under a worker's cap, slid beside Syn, her purple eyes sharp through her mask's slits.

Pako, her black bob hidden beneath a hood, kept pace, her petite frame nimble, a stolen ID tag clipped to her tunic.

Aster, disguised as a worker, trailed slightly, her blonde ponytail tucked into a scarf, her teal eyes scanning for threats.

The band split into smaller groups, moving in synchronized bursts, using the crops' shadows and the drones' blind spots.

Syn led the core team—Vera, Pako, and two others—toward the warehouse, their steps muffled by the soft earth.

They dodged a patrolling guard bot, its sensors humming, and Syn signaled a halt, pressing against a maize stalk as the bot passed.

His hazel eyes flicked to Vera, who nodded, her gloved hand gripping a stolen keycard.

Pako, crouched low, flashed a grin, her mask shifting, a spark of mischief in her eyes despite the stakes.

The tension was electric, the mission a high-stakes gamble: infiltrate, destroy, escape, and tilt the Kingdom's balance.

They reached the warehouse's perimeter, its steel walls gleaming under floodlights, a digital lock glowing red at the service entrance.

Cameras studded the walls, their lenses glinting, but the pirates' insider had timed their approach perfectly—seconds before a system reboot.

Vera swiped the keycard, the lock clicking green, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. Syn's pulse raced, his hazel eyes gleaming through his mask.

"Get started," he said, a smile in his voice, and the pirates surged inside, rogue and unleashed, their rebellion igniting.

The warehouse's interior was a cathedral of excess, its high ceilings lined with automated cranes, their claws sorting crates of polished rice, glowing berries, and vat-grown meats.

Conveyor belts hummed, moving food to climate-controlled vaults, each labeled for noble estates or royal feasts.

Holographic displays tracked inventory, their blue light casting eerie shadows.

The air was cool, sterile, scented with preservatives, a stark contrast to the Backdrop's rot and hunger.

Syn's band fanned out, their ragtag disguises stark against the tech, their intent pure chaos.

Vera yanked a crate open, spilling golden apples across the floor, her purple eyes fierce as she doused them with a flask of accelerant, stolen from a maintenance shed.

Pako, nimble and grinning, climbed a stack of grain sacks, slashing them with a blade, seeds pouring like sand, her lace-like energy cutting through the tension.

"Burn it all!" she called, tossing a second flask, liquid splashing steel.

Aster, hauled a crate of exotic tubers, smashing it against a conveyor, her teal eyes blazing with defiance, her scarf slipping to reveal her blonde hair.

The other pirates followed, smashing, slashing, dousing—vials of accelerant arcing through the air, coating crates, belts, walls.

Syn moved to the control panel, his fingers flying over the interface, overriding safety protocols, setting sprinklers to fail.

He glanced at Vera, who struck a spark with a stolen igniter, her purple hair catching the flare's glow.

"Light it up," he said, and she tossed the spark, flames erupting with a whoosh, licking the accelerant-soaked crates, spreading fast.

The warehouse became an inferno, fire roaring, smoke billowing, alarms blaring uselessly as Syn's hacks kept them silent.

Pirates cheered, their masks glowing in the blaze, rebellion a living thing.

They knew the cost: starving the Backdrop further, pushing its people to the brink.

But Syn had calculated it—the Backdrop was already dying, barely sustained on scraps.

If they burned the nobles' food, the King, who saw the Backdrop as a resource, wouldn't let it collapse entirely.

He'd invested too much in them, and won't let them starve to death without returns.

Syn's gamble was chaos, a crack in the Kingdom's armor, and tonight, they'd carved it deep.

Pako, laughing wildly, stuffed glowing berries into a sack, her black bob peeking from her hood, while Vera hauled a crate of rice, her purple eyes glinting with purpose.

Aster, her scarf now a bandana, slung a sack of tubers over her shoulder, her teal eyes sharp, worker's disguise shed.

The pirates loaded food—enough to feed the Backdrop's rebels for weeks—into hidden sacks, their movements swift, practiced.

Syn pressed a button on his wrist device, and a series of muffled booms echoed—discreet explosives, planted on cameras hours ago by their insider, detonating in sync.

Every lens in a kilometer radius went dark, their feeds dead, giving the pirates a window to vanish.

"Move!" Syn ordered, his hazel eyes scanning the flames, the warehouse a pyre.

The pirates stripped their masks, swapping ragtag clothes for manufacturing biome disguises—grease-stained jumpsuits, fake ID tags, bandanas, and heavy boots.

They smeared engine oil on their faces, hands, blending into the Kingdom's worker caste.

Sacks of food were stuffed into rag bags, some hidden in pre-set caches—hollowed-out stalks, buried crates—for later retrieval.

Others were slung over shoulders, disguised as scrap or tools, their weight a promise to the Backdrop.

The band dispersed, no longer a unit but individuals and pairs, melting into the biome's chaos.

Syn pulled a bandana over his face, his tunic swapped for a worker's vest, grease darkening his scar.

Vera, her purple hair tucked into a cap, paired with him, her jumpsuit loose, a fake limp masking her grace.

Pako, her black bob hidden under a hood, stuck close, her lace-like energy subdued, her rag bag heavy with berries.

Aster moved alone, her blonde ponytail tucked into a worker's scarf, her teal eyes scanning, blending into a crowd of fleeing laborers.

They shifted biomes—agriculture to manufacturing, then transit hubs—changing routes, swapping tags.

Their plan was to regroup in the Backdrop biome, a day later, where the Kingdom's grip was weakest.

They'd successfully struck, burned, and vanished, their rebellion a flame that wouldn't die, Syn's leadership a gamble that had paid off—for now.