Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

The massive double doors groaned under the weight of a large, burly man clad in a military uniform that gleamed with the dull sheen of polished medals—each one a testament to battles fought, lives taken, and orders obeyed. His broad shoulders strained the fabric of his coat as he shoved the doors wide, the hinges creaking in protest, revealing a vast chamber that seemed to defy the grim reality beyond its walls.

The air outside was cold, sterile, heavy with the metallic tang of the Kingdom's orbiting stronghold, but within, a surreal oasis sprawled—a miniature beach of golden sand shimmered under an artificial sun, its rays casting a warm, deceptive glow. A gentle breeze, conjured by hidden vents, rustled the fronds of synthetic palms, and the faint crash of waves lapped from a holo-projector nestled in the corner. At the heart of this opulent mirage lounged the King, sprawled across a cushioned beach chair, his silk robe pooling around him like liquid gold, a chilled cocktail glistening in his hand, condensation dripping onto the sand.

The commander's boots sank slightly into the soft grains as he approached, his shadow stretching long and dark across the pristine shore, a stark intrusion into the King's fabricated paradise. He halted a respectful distance away, his chest tightening as he steeled himself, his deep voice cutting through the artificial serenity with a gravelly edge. "Your Majesty," he began, his words measured, heavy with the weight of his report, "the princess—Princess Elara—is dead. Those bastard pirates planted an explosive on her ship and detonated it remotely."

The King didn't flinch. His fingers swirled the cocktail glass lazily, the ice clinking faintly against the crystal, a soft chime that mocked the gravity of the news. His sharp, hawk-like eyes remained fixed on the amber liquid, watching it catch the artificial sunlight in fleeting glints, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his silver-streaked hair. The commander stood rigid, his thick brows knitting together as a flicker of unease stirred in his gut—had the King even heard him? The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the breeze generators and the distant, artificial tide.

"This cocktail," the King said at last, his voice smooth and languid, as if commenting on a passing cloud, "lacks the tang I crave. Get me a better one." He extended the glass toward the commander with a casual flick of his wrist, the liquid sloshing slightly, a few drops staining the sand below.

The commander's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his weathered skin as he reached out, his gloved hand closing around the glass with a grip that betrayed a flicker of indignation. The cool crystal pressed against his palm, a stark contrast to the heat rising in his chest—his King's daughter, his own flesh and blood, blown to cinders alongside her army, and yet here he sat, more concerned with the bite of his drink than the loss of his lineage.

The commander swallowed the bitter taste climbing his throat, his broad frame hunching slightly as he tapped the comms device clipped to his belt, his voice low and clipped as he summoned a servant. "Bring His Majesty a new cocktail—now. Make it sharp." His eyes lingered on the King, searching for a crack in that serene mask, but found only the same detached indifference, as if Elara's death were a minor footnote in a ledger already balanced.

The King stretched, his robe shifting to reveal the lean, sinewy frame beneath—still strong despite his years, a predator at rest. He sank deeper into the chair, the cushions sighing beneath his weight as he let out a slow, relaxed breath, the sound a soft hiss that curled through the air like smoke. "So," he mused, his tone almost whimsical as he tilted his head back, letting the artificial sun bathe his face, "that brat died, huh?"

"Yes, sire," the commander replied, his voice a steady rumble, though his hands clenched briefly at his sides, the cocktail glass dangling awkwardly in his grip. He stood like a statue, his medals glinting faintly, each one a silent scream of the lives he'd shepherded through the King's wars—lives now mirrored in the ashes of Elara's ship.

"Any news from the shapeshifters?" the King asked, his eyes drifting shut as he basked, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest, a rhythm that grated against the commander's fraying nerves.

"No, sire," the commander said, his tone flattening as he shifted his weight, the sand crunching beneath his boots. The shapeshifters—those grotesque, green-skinned infiltrators—had been the King's gambit, a reckless ploy to destabilize the pirates from within. He'd warned against it, argued their unpredictability, but the King's will was iron, and now their silence confirmed what he'd feared: failure, and likely death, at the pirates' hands.

The King chuckled, a low, dry sound that rasped like wind over barren stone. "So, I guess those good-for-nothing shapeshifters failed," he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he cracked one eye open, fixing the commander with a piercing stare that belied his lounging ease. "Well, no matter. The pirates made things easier for me. Let that rebellious daughter of mine be useful in her death—spread the news that they killed her brutally, those savage curs."

The commander nodded, a mechanical dip of his head as his stomach churned, the cocktail glass trembling faintly in his hand. "Yes, sire," he murmured, his voice a hollow echo of obedience, his mind racing with the implications—Elara, a thorn in the King's side, now a martyr for his schemes, her death twisted into a weapon against the pirates. He'd seen her defiance, her hunger for the throne, a spark the King had never tolerated, and now her end served him better than her life ever could.

"Tighten the rations in the backdrop this month," the King continued, his voice hardening as he sat up slightly, his robe slipping to reveal the glint of a jeweled dagger at his waist—a decorative threat, but a threat nonetheless. "Tell them it's because the pirates looted Elara's ship—she was supposedly bringing their supplies. Let the hatred for those vermin fester and grow."

"Yes, sire," the commander intoned, his throat tightening as he pictured the backdrop slums—hungry faces, gaunt children, their anger stoked by lies into a blaze that would burn for the King's gain. He shifted the glass to his other hand, its chill seeping through his glove, a cold mirror to the fire smoldering in his chest.

"Double the reward for catching a pirate dead," the King added, his smirk widening as he leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a cruel delight, "and triple it for alive—I want them squirming in my cages, a spectacle for the masses."

"Yes, sire," the commander replied, his voice a monotone drone, each syllable a weight he bore like chains. The bounty hike would unleash a frenzy—hunters, mercenaries, desperate citizens—all clawing for pirate blood, while the King sipped his cocktails and watched the chaos unfold from this gilded sanctuary.

"Now," the King said, his tone shifting back to languid ease as he waved a dismissive hand, "go bring that cocktail—fast, before I lose the mood." He sank back into the chair, his robe pooling around him once more, his gaze drifting to the artificial horizon as if the conversation had been a mere ripple in his leisure.

"As you command," the commander said, bowing stiffly, his medals clinking faintly as he turned on his heel. He strode toward the doors, the sand clinging to his boots like a lingering stain, and barked an order into his comms as he passed the threshold. "Maid—His Majesty's cocktail, now! Quick!" His voice carried a snap of urgency, a vent for the frustration boiling beneath his stoic facade, and he heard the faint scurry of footsteps as a servant rushed to obey.

The doors thudded shut behind him, sealing the King's paradise from the cold steel corridors beyond, and the commander paused, his broad frame sagging slightly as he leaned against the wall, the cocktail glass still clutched in his hand. He stared at it, the amber liquid swirling faintly, a bitter mirror to the orders he'd just swallowed.

Anger simmered in his gut, a slow, rolling heat that clawed at his ribs—anger at the King's callousness, at the shapeshifters' doomed mission, at the lies he'd spin to starve the backdrop and fuel a war he didn't believe in. He'd known sending those creatures was a mistake, their chaos a wildfire no one could control, and he'd begged the King to think humane, just once—to spare his men, to weigh the cost in lives beyond his throne's shadow. But the King's will was a monolith, unyielding and cruel, and the commander was helpless against it, a soldier bound by duty even as it gnawed at his soul.

He straightened, his jaw clenching as he handed the glass to a passing maid, her eyes wide with haste as she scurried toward the King's chamber. The commander was angry inside, he knew sending the shapeshifters was a bad idea and that for once the King should think humane, but he was helpless in opposing the King's decision so he had to follow, even though it meant endangering his men.