Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

Thebe's violet dawn slipped through Hira's window, tinting her green hands as she pressed dough against the stone counter. Her slightly scaly skin softened at the fingertips, shaping the flatbread with practiced ease—a skill born from years of stretching meager harvests. Her white eyeballs, gleaming and pupil-less, flicked to the clay pot simmering on the heat coil, its steam sharp with boiled root. "Tavi!" she called, voice carrying a faint hiss. "Move it—breakfast's ready."

Her son bounded in, green scales rippling over his lanky frame, tail flicking as he half-shifted into a leaner shape before settling back. At twelve, Tavi's control wavered—claws sprouting, then vanishing in bursts. "Ma, you hear that hum?" he said, white eyes wide, reflecting the dim light. "It's up there!" He jabbed a finger at the ceiling.

Hira paused, dough sticking to her palms. She'd felt it too—a steady thrum pulsing through the walls all night, too smooth for Thebe's jagged winds. "Probably nothing," she said, though her gut churned. She stirred the pot, tail lashing briefly. "Go get your father. He'll want food before the fields."

Tavi scampered off, feet slapping the packed-dirt floor, his green skin glinting. Their home was a low cave in the hillside, violet rock walls scratched with claw marks from ancestors. Jor shuffled in moments later, broad and stooped, green scales thickening along his shoulders as he stretched. "Kid's onto something," he rumbled, voice rough. "Woke me twice—that hum."

"Eat first," Hira said, sliding flatbreads onto a chipped platter. She set their table—three mismatched stools, a slate slab—while Tavi hovered near Jor, chattering about the sound. They sat, green skin catching the faint light, white eyes meeting in a quiet rhythm. Jor tore into the bread, dipping it in the thin stew. "Tastes good today," he said, grinning. Hira smirked—same roots, same lie.

The hum swelled mid-meal, vibrating the pot, shaking dust from the ceiling. Tavi leapt up, toppling his stool. "Told you!" Before Hira could grab him, he bolted for the door, flinging it open. Dry, cold air rushed in, laced with that thrumming pulse. Jor stood, wiping his hands, and Hira followed, claws flexing briefly before smoothing back.

Outside, Thebe stretched stark and barren—violet cliffs slicing a red-tinged sky, cracked plains fading into haze. The village hugged the slope, domed huts and worn spires clustering tight, shapeshifters spilling out to stare upward. Their green scales shifted—some hardening, some softening—as they pointed. Hira's gaze lifted. Ships broke the sky—dozens, silver and sleek, descending with a grace that didn't fit this dying world. Their hulls shone, and the hum thrummed deeper, a heartbeat from the stars.

"They're huge," Tavi breathed, tail whipping. Jor's hand gripped his shoulder, scales roughening, but his white eyes narrowed. Hira stepped forward, squinting. These weren't the traders' rattling hulks. These were pristine, stamped with a crown-and-spear sigil—the Kingdom. Her chest tightened, hope flickering against doubt.

A murmur swept the crowd. Old Lira hobbled over, green skin sagging, white eyes gleaming. "They've come to save us," she croaked, claws clicking. "Food, water—look at the size!" Voices rose—relief, excitement, a desperate edge. Hira wanted to believe it. Thebe was crumbling—wells empty, crops shriveled, the heat merciless. If these ships brought life, Tavi might grow up full.

The lead ship touched down a mile out, dust swirling violet. Smaller craft followed, ramps hissing open. Humans emerged—stiff uniforms, visored faces—unloading crates and barrels with crisp precision. Tavi tugged Hira's arm. "Can we go, Ma?" Jor's white eyes met hers, questioning. She nodded, throat dry. "Stay close."

The walk was quick, the village trailing—elders, kids, green scales glinting in the light. The humans raised hands in peace, one stepping forward, visor up—a man with a sharp jaw and steady voice. "We're from the Kingdom," he called. "Supplies—food, water, tools. Thebe's not forgotten." His gaze swept them, calm and sure, and Hira's scales prickled faintly.

They opened the crates—grain sacks, water canisters, tools that gleamed like stars. Tavi peered into a barrel, white eyes mirrored in the liquid. "It's real!" he shouted, and the crowd pressed in, gasps breaking out. Jor hefted a sack, testing its weight, his grin hesitant but real. Hira touched a crate's edge, cold and smooth. "Why now?" she asked the man, voice low.

He turned, smile warm. "The Kingdom sees Thebe's worth—your people, your strength. We'll help you thrive." His words rang clear, and Hira nodded, wanting it true. The village buzzed as more crates rolled out, humans directing with easy smiles. Lira hummed an old tune, and Tavi hopped, mimicking their stiff march, laughing.

Days melted into weeks. Ships lingered, more arriving, their silver forms a constant gleam. Humans pitched camps—tents and towers—but brought no drills, no machines to tear the earth. Instead, they offered bounty—food that filled bellies, water that flowed free, fabrics soft as wind. They asked little: shapeshifters carried crates, built shelters, their green scales and white eyes a marvel to the humans' steady stares. Tavi turned his claws to hooks, hauling loads for extra rations, while Jor stacked barrels, his strength earning nods. Hira wove their threads into nets, her white eyes tracking the humans' quiet watchfulness.

The air shifted—less harsh, less dry. The humans handed out seeds, promising crops that could endure Thebe's climate. "You'll rebuild," they said, voices kind, and the village drank it in. Huts grew sturdier, kids played louder, their green scales glinting as they ran. Hira felt it—a spark of life, fragile but real. One night, Jor came home, scales smooth, voice soft. "They're giving us a future," he said, holding a sack of grain. "Maybe we were wrong to doubt."

She stirred a pot of Kingdom stew—richer now, spiced—and smiled faintly. "Maybe." Tavi slept nearby, tail curled, content. Hira's claws relaxed, hope creeping in, though the hum of ships still buzzed in her skull.

Weeks stretched. The humans grew familiar—names learned, smiles shared. They taught tricks: how to stack crates high, how to ration water smart. The village swelled with noise—laughter, songs, the clatter of new tools. Lira led prayers to the sky, her white eyes shining, calling the humans "bringers of dawn." Tavi raced other kids, shifting claws to grab poles, earning cheers. Jor built a new table—solid, unscarred—and Hira wove a blanket, green scales catching the thread's sheen.

One morning, the hum sharpened, a chorus of engines. Hira stepped outside, Jor and Tavi trailing. The sky teemed with ships—more than ever—hovering low, silver hulls catching the violet light. The village gathered, green scales aglow, white eyes upturned. The lead ship landed, its ramp wide, and a sharp-jawed man, adorned in jewelry, emerged, arms raised. "People of Thebe!" he shouted, voice booming. "The Kingdom pledges you a new age—plenty, peace, a home reborn!"

Crates spilled forth—food piled high, water in gleaming tanks, tools and seeds in heaps. The crowd roared, a wave of sound—shapeshifters clapping, tails lashing, claws tapping stone. Tavi whooped, jumping, his green skin bright. Jor pulled Hira close, white eyes soft. "They're saviors," he said, voice thick. Lira sang louder, others joining, a hymn of thanks rising to the ships. Hira's heart thudded, caught in the swell—hope, raw and real, drowning her doubts.

The man smiled wider, humans fanning out, handing rations to eager hands. The village surged, green scales pressing close, white eyes alight. Tavi grabbed a fruit—round, red, alien—and bit in, juice dripping. "It's sweet!" he yelled, and laughter erupted. Hira took a canister, cool against her scales, and drank—clean, crisp, alive. The hum pulsed, the crowd cheered, and the man's voice rang again: "Together, we'll make Thebe whole!"

The roar peaked, a thunder of joy—shapeshifters embracing, tears streaking green faces, the Kingdom's silver promise overhead. Hira clutched Jor's hand, Tavi between them, white eyes shining as one.

Present Year

Thebe's surface smoldered, a molten ruin orbiting Saturn, its violet crust cracked and glowing under a merciless void. Princess Elara Voss stood at the edge of a colossal crater, her suit's visor reflecting its jagged rim, Saturn's rings a faint scar above. Her crew flanked her—soldiers in heavy gear, scanners beeping—while Syn Kocrn lingered beside her, rigid, hazel eyes locked on the abyss. The crater stretched miles wide, a maw devouring light, its depths reeking of ancient dread.

Elara's voice cut the comms, hoarse with horror: "What the hell did this?" Silence answered. Syn's jaw tightened, a imagination clawing up—green scales, white eyes, a cheer turned to screams. They stared down, the moon's terror etched below.

She shifted beside him, her suit's boots grinding the regolith, her breath sharp in the comms. "Scanners are useless," she said, voice tight. "No readings—just static." A soldier knelt, brushing ash from a twisted shard of metal—Kingdom insignia, scorched and brittle, half-melted into the stone. "Ship debris," he muttered, holding it up. "Old. Kingdom-built."

Syn crouched, gloved fingers tracing the shard's edge. He'd studied the logs—Thebe, Saturn's lost moon, a graveyard of rumors. No life, just ruins, yet here was proof: the Kingdom had been here, long before his time. "How old?" he asked, voice steady but low. The soldier shrugged. " A Century, maybe more."

Elara paced, her blonde hair a faint gleam behind her visor. "Why's it here? What were they doing?" Her tone demanded answers Syn didn't have. He stood, eyes fixed on the crater—miles wide, a void that swallowed light. "Let's scan deeper," he said, nodding to the tech. A soldier deployed a probe deeper into the crater, its beam cutting through the dark, data flickering on their screens.

The crew watched, silent, Saturn's shadow looming. The probe beeped—once, twice—then screeched, static spiking. Elara leaned in. "What's that?" The screen flashed: Anomaly detected. Radioactive signature.

Syn's breath caught. He was right. The moon Thebe didn't die from climate shifts, like it was mentioned in records. His mind raced—fission scars, fallout patterns, a blast radius this wide. The Kingdom hadn't just been here. They'd nuked it.

But why?