Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

A day later,

In the Backdrop biome, its air heavy with the stench of decay and desperation.

Syn and his pirate band slipped through its shadowed alleys, their manufacturing worker disguises—grease-stained jumpsuits, bandanas, and fake ID tags—making them blend with the biome's downtrodden.

Drones hummed overhead, their cameras scanning everywhere for unusual movements, but the pirates moved like ghosts, ducking into a derelict building, its windows boarded, its door marked with a faded glyph to ward off snitches.

The Backdrop's people hated the pirates, seeing them as the Kingdom's enemies, blind to their fight for freedom, assuming they were just troublemakers who'd bring the King's wrath.

Syn's crew had to hide, even from those they fought for, acting like the biome's grumpy, broken souls by day, planning their next strike by night.

Inside the safehouse, a cramped room with peeling walls and a single flickering bulb, the pirates shed their disguises, their rebellion alive in their eyes.

They'd sealed the windows with blackened cloth, muffling the world outside, and posted a guard—a wiry pirate named Bryn, slumped outside like a depressed drunk, his face hidden under a hood, ensuring no one peeked.

The room was a fortress of secrecy, its secrecy vital: one snitch could doom them, and the Backdrop was full of desperate souls who'd sell them out for a scrap of food.

But tonight, they'd won—burned the agriculture biome's warehouse, stolen food for the rebels, left the Kingdom reeling—and they'd celebrate, quiet but fierce.

The party erupted, a controlled chaos of laughter and clinking bottles.

Booze—stolen from a noble's shipment—flowed freely, its sharp tang mixing with the room's musty air.

Pirates danced, their ragtag clothes swaying, some banging makeshift drums, others passing joints rolled from smuggled herbs.

Syn leaned against a wall, his dark hair tousled, gray shirt loose, hazel eyes bright with the thrill of their victory.

Vera, her purple wavy hair loose, spun through the crowd, her rags swapped for a patched tunic, her purple eyes glinting with rare joy.

Pako, her black bob bouncing, darted between dancers, her laughter infectious.

Aster, her blonde ponytail swaying, stood tall, her muscular frame relaxed, her teal eyes warm as she sipped from a bottle, her worker's scarf gone.

Cheers rose for Syn, the mastermind of their strike, his name a chant as pirates raised bottles, their masks off, faces alight.

"To Syn! To rebellion! To the pirates!" they roared, voices low to avoid detection, their dance a defiant pulse.

The King was cracking, his Kingdom crumbling—one warehouse, one supply line at a time—and the pirates were ghosts, uncatchable.

Even captured rebels went out screaming, blowing their heads with hidden explosives, yelling, "Fall, King!" to deny him victory.

To ensure their mark, they'd left their insignia—a jagged star pierced by a dagger—painted in red on the warehouse's ruins, alongside a holo-scroll of demands: food for the Backdrop, freedom for the oppressed.

The royals tried to claim the destruction as their own "strategic purge" to flex power, but the pirates' mark screamed the truth: rebellion lived.

The party slowed as exhaustion hit, pirates slumping to the floor, bottles rolling, bodies sprawled in drunken heaps.

Syn sat against the wall, sipping a bottle, his hazel eyes hazy, the booze dulling his senses.

Vera crawled to him, her purple hair brushing his arm, her tunic creased, her hands steadying his swaying frame.

"Vera, my dear friend," Syn slurred, a drunken grin spreading, wrapping her in a clumsy hug, his breath warm with liquor.

"You were amazing out there today, setting that fire, leading the charge."

Pako stumbled over, her black bob tangled, her tunic slipping, grabbing his other arm. "Pako, my dear bro," Syn said, leaning into her, his voice thick, "you were a damn wildfire, slashing those sacks, laughing in the flames."

His hug enveloped her, sloppy but warm, his hazel eyes unfocused.

Aster approached, her tall, hulking figure casting a shadow, her blonde ponytail steady, teal eyes glinting in the dim light.

"Aster, my rebel," Syn mumbled, reaching for her, "you smashed those crates like a beast, pure defiance." He tried to hug her, but Vera and Pako, giggling despite their drunken glares, pinned his shoulders to the wall, forcing him to sit steady, their hands firm on his gray shirt.

Aster squatted, settling between Vera and Pako, her muscular frame relaxed, her teal eyes fixed on Syn.

The three women stared at him, their faces stern, no smiles, their gazes intense, almost predatory.

Syn blinked, his alcohol haze fading, a nervous chuckle escaping.

"What's with the looks?" he asked, voice wavering, his hazel eyes darting between them. "You staring like you wanna eat me alive or something?"

"Syn, listen," Vera said, her voice low, serious, her purple eyes locked on his, her tunic shifting as she leaned closer.

"Yes?" Syn asked, swallowing, the room's warmth suddenly stifling, his mind sharpening, the booze's fog lifting.

There was a pause, heavy, electric.

Aster glanced at her watch, her teal eyes flicking to Vera, then back to Syn. "Now," she said, voice calm, precise.

"Happy birthday!" the three shouted in unison, their voices a burst of warmth, their stern faces breaking into grins, Vera's purple eyes sparkling, Pako's expressive eyes bright, Aster's teal eyes soft.

"Ahh!" Syn's voice became a squeal, his smile wide, childlike, his hazel eyes shining. "Today's my birthday? You guys remembered!" He lunged forward, pulling them into a group hug, his arms wrapping Vera's shoulders, Pako's waist, Aster's neck, their bodies a tangle of warmth.

"I love you guys," he said, voice thick with emotion, the booze amplifying his heart.

"Let's wish my next birthday's in the palace—or at least a better room than this dump." He chuckled, his hazel eyes dreamy.

"We wish it too," Vera said, her purple hair brushing his cheek, her voice soft, fervent, as they hugged longer, tighter, a promise in their embrace.

Finally, they pushed him back to the wall, giggling, his drunken sway threatening to topple them.

Syn slumped, eyes half-closed, mumbling, "You guys want more booze? Got one more crate over there, I think."

"No," Vera said, her voice firm, a smile tugging her lips, her purple eyes glinting. "We've got a present for you."

"Present?" Syn's hazel eyes lit up, his grin boyish. "I love presents! What'd you get me?"

Aster reached into her pocket, passing a folded paper to Vera, her teal eyes steady, her muscular frame still.

Vera took it, her purple hair falling over her shoulder, and handed it to Syn, her fingers brushing his.

"A contract paper?" Syn said, unfolding it, his hazel eyes squinting in the dim light, his drunken haze making the words blur.

The paper was simple, a handwritten pledge, signed by Vera, Pako, and Aster, promising to grant Syn one request, no refusal.

He blinked, disappointment flickering, his grin fading.

"This is it? Kinda anticlimactic, guys." He hiccuped, chuckling, searching his pocket for a pen. "Maybe I'll use it to make you fetch me real presents, not play maid for one chore."

Pako snatched the paper, her black bob swaying, her expressive eyes flashing with mock annoyance.

"Hey, I'll get you real presents if you want, but don't waste this!" she said, voice teasing, though a hint of hurt lingered, her fingers clutching the paper tightly.

Vera and Aster sighed, their purple and teal eyes meeting, a shared understanding passing.

They'd meant the contract as something deeper—a vow, a chance to give themselves fully to Syn, to lose their virginity to him, to bind their futures to his.

But his drunken, childish reaction, seeing it as a joke, stung, their hopes misread in his haze.

Vera's lips tightened, Aster's jaw clenched, Pako's grin faltered, but they said nothing, the moment awkward, heavy.

"Sleep, Syn," Pako said softly, slipping the paper into his pocket as his eyes drooped, his head lolling.

"You'll understand what this is for when you're sober." They eased him down, his gray shirt rumpling, his body slumping against the wall, breaths slowing as sleep claimed him.

The three women sat back, their gazes meeting, the air thick with unspoken words.

Vera's purple hair framed her tired face, Pako's black bob fell over her eyes, Aster's blonde ponytail rested on her shoulder.

"There's more booze," Aster said, breaking the silence, her teal eyes flicking to the crate, her voice flat.

"I'm good," Vera said, her purple eyes distant, her tunic creased, her heart heavy with the night's weight.

Pako grinned, a spark of mischief returning, her tunic shifting as she grabbed a bottle. "I challenge you, Aster," she said, voice daring, holding up the booze. "Let's see who lasts."

Aster's teal eyes glinted, a smile tugging her lips, and she took the bottle, the three settling into a drinking contest, laughter and clinks filling the room.

They drank until the world blurred, collapsing around Syn, their bodies a tangle of limbs, sleeping like cubs in a den, the contract paper a quiet promise in his pocket.

Morning crept in, gray light seeping through the blackened windows, the safehouse silent but for soft snores.

Syn stirred, his head pounding, a hangover clawing his skull. As he shifted, the contract paper slipped from his pocket, fluttering to the floor.

He grabbed it, his hazel eyes squinting, the hazy memory of last night—his birthday, their gift—returning.

He unfolded it, reading the words, their signatures—Vera, Pako, Aster—stark against the page.

His breath caught, realization dawning, sober now, the weight of their gift clear.

They'd given him a promise, not just of rebellion, but of themselves—a vow to stand with him, to fight for the King's fall, to be his, fully, if he chose.

The contract wasn't a joke; it was their hearts, their trust, their future, offered freely.

He'd laughed it off, drunk and clueless, but now, seeing them—Vera's purple hair splayed, Pako's black bob tangled, Aster's blonde ponytail loose, their bodies curled around his, legs entwined—he felt the depth of their bond, the love he'd doubted in himself.

He searched for a pen to write his request—a pledge to bring down the King, to free the Backdrop, together—but found none, his pockets empty.

He sighed, his hazel eyes softening, gazing at the women who'd fought with him, bled with him.

His legs were trapped under theirs, their warmth anchoring him, and he knew moving would wake them, hours away.

He chuckled, a quiet sound, and settled back, his head resting against the wall, sleep pulling him under again.