[Flashback 2 years ago…]

  “Too lucky, Max,” growled Jorn, a wiry slave with scarred hands, slapping chips—rations and scraps—onto a rusted crate. Easton’s slave camp stank of dust, iron shacks baking under a single, harsh red star, its light casting long shadows, Skrell overseers’ shouts echoing faintly, the ground cracked from endless labor.

  Max Over, who’s 15 and put on a few, grinned, palming a marked card, fingers quick, heart pounding. “Just good at this, Jorn. You bet, you lose.”

  “Bullshit,” snapped Buric, bulkier, knuckles white on his chips, sweat gleaming on his brow. “You’re cheating us, kid.”

  Max’s eyes flicked, hands steady, voice sharp. “Prove it.”

  Buric lunged, grabbing Max’s wrist, twisting hard. “Got you, you little sneak.”

  Jorn joined, fists flying, their weight and muscle crushing Max, grown men overpowering a child. Pain exploded, darkness swallowing him as they pounded his skull, knocking him out cold, his winnings stolen—rations and scraps—leaving him sprawled in the dirt.

  Hours later, Max woke in a dim slave room, iron bunks creaking, head throbbing, blood crusting on his split lip. The air smelled of rust and sweat, Skrell machinery humming outside, patrols a constant threat.

  “You’re awake,” said a girl, her voice soft but clear, looking Max dead in the eyes with piercing sky-blue eyes, sharp and steady, cutting through the dimness, her dark hair falling in soft waves.

  Max flinched, hands shaking, pain spiking through his skull. “Who are you?”

  “Emilia.” She leaned closer, gaze unflinching, clothes patched but clean. “Found you bleeding in the dirt. Dragged you here myself.”

  “Thanks.” He rubbed his head, wincing, shadows stretching long, her beautiful smooth white skin glowing softly despite the camp’s harsh dust, untouched by grime, like an angel under the faint light.

  “They took everything from me… rations, scraps, my pride. Why’d you help?”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Her lips pressed tight, her frame lean and graceful, a jagged scar hidden beneath the fabric, her dark hair framing her face like a halo.

  “You’re one of those rebels, aren’t you? You have some interesting skills…” She said, menace in her tone.

  “I’m not a rebel.” His voice cracked, sensing some unease, hands gripping the bed’s cold edge, the iron creaking faintly. “I’m just good at gambling, got to survive somehow… do you dislike them?”

  “Survive somehow, huh.” Her eyes narrowed, voice low, dark hair shadowing her face, almost angelic in the dimness. “I’ve seen kids like you—dreaming of getting out, but it’s dumb. Rebels just get people killed.”

  Max’s chest tightened, hands sweaty, the room’s hum pressing in, her presence calm, almost magnetic. “Why do you hate rebels so much? They’re fighting for humanity’s freedom.”

  “They’re idiots.” Her voice sharpened. “They think freedom’s worth dying for, but it’s not. Diovis Sol and his ways—he doesn’t get it, the grieving he’s caused me.”

  Max’s breath caught, hands clenching, “What damage?...”

  “My brother was in their elite force, I lost him to one of his raids.” Her voice cracked, “Diovis’s stupid plans got him killed—freed nothing, just left me here. I hate that.”

  “Oh.” His voice was quiet, gaze dropping, the bunk creaking, her angel-like presence tugging at him, a quiet pull he felt growing, unnoticed even to himself. “I’m sorry… where are your parents?”

  “That’s none of your business, and there’s no reason for you to be sorry.” She stepped back, sky-blue eyes piercing. “I mean, you’re not a rebel as you said…”

  “Just stay away from them.” Her voice hardened, white skin radiant, boots scuffing the floor, sky-blue eyes cutting deep. “You’ll end up broken or gone, Diovis is no hero to humanity, he only cares for his ideals.”

  “Yeah…” His voice was firm but hollow, the room’s silence heavy, her presence lingering, a quiet draw he couldn’t name. “But I think Diovis does care, I don’t think he meant for your brother to die.”

  “Enough, I can’t…” Her voice broke, eyes welling, “Look, just go, be careful, and stop gambling.”

  Max nodded chest tight, “Okay. But… I’ll be careful, I promise… don’t know about gambling though.”

  “You better stop that too.” She moved to the door, “or you’ll regret it.”

  “I won’t.” His voice was steady, a quiet ache growing, unnoticed. “I just… I don’t know what’s left.”

  “There’s nothing left.” Her words cut, “Not here. Not for dreamers. Maybe just each other.”

  [Present day in research base…]

  The station trembled, obsidian walls groaning under High-Energy Laser Arrays—HELA—fire. Diovis Sol, 16, stood in the lab, the single red star’s light slicing shadows, Zeith’s sneer echoing—“A child’s gambit. I’ll weigh your terms, but the Empire crushes pawns, not negotiates with them.”

  Max Over, 17, staggered in, liquor’s reek trailing. He dragged a tortured Skrell scientist—mandibles quivering, black suit shredded—gripping a file labeled Obliterator. “Found this, D,” Max rasped, cigarette ash falling.

  Diovis snatched the file, eyes narrowing, scientist flinching under cuffs. The Obliterator—a subatomic beam—filled the pages with schematics. “Explain it,” Diovis snapped, HELA blasts rattling the station.

  The scientist’s mandibles clicked, voice guttural through the translator. “It targets the strong nuclear force.”

  His white skin paled, boots scraping. “Exotic particles—negative-mass from quantum vacuum fluctuations—disrupt gluon fields, breaking proton-neutron bonds.”

  Diovis leaned in, “Go on, hold something back and you die.”

  “Nuclei collapse into quarks and gluons.” The scientist trembled, suit torn. “Energy releases catastrophically as matter disintegrates subatomically. But it’s early—only theory, no prototypes.”

  Diovis’s jaw tightened, HELA fire echoing, rebels whispering nearby. “You’re coming with us, like it or not.”

  His voice was steel, hands clenching the file, “When we win negotiations, you’ll work with Nira—get prototypes up ASAP, starting here.”

  The scientist hissed, cuffs rattling, mandibles clicking. “Zeith crushes pawns.”

  “We’ll see.” Diovis’s voice cut, “Maxie, can you hear that? Suddenly the stars whisper of rebellion’s fire.”

  “I’m not crazy yet D,” Max responds, whilst lighting another cigarette.

  “Maybe not, what’s the name of this scientist by the way?” Diovis asked.

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  “Zorak,” Max said, looking at the Skrell with disgust.

  Diovis turned to Max, eyes sharp, the lab’s silence heavy. “Maxie, how much did you have to torture Zorak for him to tell you this?”

  Max grinned, twisted, cigarette ember glowing. “A lot, D, even I felt a bit sick at the end.”

  His voice was low, eyes glinting. “We used knives—cut deep into those mandibles, made him scream. Then water—poured it over his disgusting face till he choked, begging for air.”

  They dragged Zorak toward the door, Diovis’s heart pounding, understanding dawning—this Obliterator, this subatomic weapon, this was what his parents died for.

  The station trembled, HELA fire rattling the walls, rebels whispering nearby. Diovis opened the comms, voice steel, starlight flickering on the console.

  “Thirty minutes have passed, Zeith. We want an answer now—or the station blows.”

  Zeith’s mandibles clicked, clearly looking pissed, “I concede.”

  His guttural voice rasped through the translator, station shuddering, shadows deepening. “You’ll have Easton’s sovereignty, your prisoners—Larissa, her fleet, all captured—and my forces will disengage. But no official peace treaty, your puny rebellion is not big enough for that.”

  Diovis’s face twitched a bit out of excitement, but remained stoic, “We’ll take it.”

  Taking a moment to rethink the board, Diovis spoke once more, “But just know we’ll disengage the bombs a month later, Zeith—your word holds, or we ignite this station now. This is just for our safety.”

  The screen faded, and negotiations settled, but Diovis’s mind raced. He turned to the battalion, gaunt rebels murmuring, their plasma rifles gleaming under the dim light. “We’ve bought time—a month to build, to strike back, though I’d argue less if they find the bombs…”

  Max stumbled forward, cigarette glowing as always. “What if they hit us on Easton the second we land?”

  His voice cracked, eyes bloodshot, hands trembling out of fear, “Skrell won’t just let this go, D. We’re sitting ducks! You’re insane for hurting Zeith’s ego like that.”

  Diovis’s eyes narrowed, voice steady, the station trembling under ceasing HELA fire, “They won’t risk blowing up the station—we have no choice but to gamble on this obliterator technology.”

  Max chuckles nervously, “Well you know how much I love gambling D.”

  He dragged Zorak toward the door, the scientist’s energy cuffs rattling, mandibles clicking in pain, “Easton’s ours now—through politics, not blood. We’ll hold it.” said Diovis

  Hours passed, the station’s hum fading, HELA blasts completely ceasing as Skrell warships retreated, their obsidian hulls vanishing into the void, the moon’s thin atmosphere clearing. Max drank to calm his fear, “I can’t shake it, D—they’ll attack, overrun us, wipe us out.”

  Diovis’s clearly getting annoyed, “Trust the plan, Max. We’ve got leverage—Zorak, the bombs, Easton’s people. Worst case scenario they find the bombs and attack… but we have time.”

  Larissa and her fleet returned, battered stolen battleships docking, rebels cheering faintly.

  Max watched, “They’re back—Larissa, her crew, all our people. But Easton… what if Skrell hit us there?”

  Diovis ignored Max out of annoyance, turning to Larissa, the lab’s silence heavy, “We’re moving now. Easton’s secure—negotiations held, no coup needed. Our people are ready.”

  Larissa nodded and sighed, happy to be back.

  [Later on the ship, Larissa reports on what happened to her…]

  On the ship heading toward Easton. Larissa stepped into the cramped bridge, her face a little pale, clothes torn, eyes distant, not the sharp, steady woman Max remembered.

  “We were caught above Aqualor-7,” she said, voice flat. “Cloak failed—Skrell dragged us into hangars, HELA blasters everywhere.”

  Diovis leaned in, curious as to what happened, “What happened next?”

  Larissa’s hands trembled, voice clipped but hollow, not her usual military cadence. “They locked us up, interrogated us—torture tools, cold cells. But I… I don’t remember much after that.” Her sky-blue eyes similar to Emilia’s, once fierce, flickered.

  Max’s chest constricted as memories flooded back—Emilia, two years ago, saving him from danger, her tattered clothes clinging to her frame, those piercing sky-blue eyes and dark hair hauntingly familiar. “You’re not yourself, Larissa,” he said, his voice trembling with unease.

  His eyes bloodshot, flask clinking as he lit another cigarette, “You’d have cursed those Skrell, fought back—now you’re… quiet, weird.”

  Larissa blinked, frame lean but shaky. “I’m fine, Max. Just tired.” Her words were slow, not the confident ally he’d vouched for at 14.

  Diovis’s face screamed worry, “You’re different, Larissa. What did they do?”

  “I told you… interrogation.” Her voice hardened but cracked, sky-blue eyes darting, dark hair falling limp. “Nothing more. We held out, then you got us free.” She said, her presence uneasy.

  Max took a swig of whiskey, the liquor’s reek mixing with the ship’s ozone. “You’re lying, Larissa. You’d yell, fight—not stand there quiet like this.” He said as he took another sip.

  “I’m fine, Max. Drop it already!” Larissa said menacingly, losing her patience, unlike her usual self.

  Diovis’s eyes glinted, voice cutting, “You’ve changed, Larissa. We’ll talk later.”

  She nodded, dark hair falling, “Thank you Diovis, I’ll go check the engines.” Larissa turned, frame unsteady, leaving the bridge, her presence fading.

  Diovis watched her go, worried expression. “Maxie, keep an eye on her.”

  His voice was low making sure Larissa wouldn’t hear them, “Something’s off—I need to know what.”

  Max exhaled smoke, cigarette trembling, heavier frame tense, flask clinking, the bridge’s silence heavy. “Yeah, D. I’ll watch her.” His voice cracked, eyes bloodshot.

  [A few days later, arriving on Easton…]

  “We’re landing, D—what if it’s actually the Skrell waiting?!” Max asked.

  Diovis’s expression intensifying, Zorak’s cuffs rattling. “They’re not. Easton’s ours—secure, safe, ours through strategy. Just go get drunk somwhere already.” Diovis said, clearly ticked off.

  The ships touched down, iron shacks looming, dust swirling, Easton’s star casting shadows on the ground. Max stepped out, eyes nervously scanning for Skrell, only to find rebels cheering, slaves free, their voices roaring through Easton’s dusty streets, the uprising’s victory spread like wildfire, Diovis’s plan a chessmaster’s move.

  Diovis dragged Zorak forward, voice low, red starlight glinting off his face. “This Obliterator, what my parents died for, Maxie. It’ll be the key to our uprising, our freedom.”

  Max exhaled, cigarette ash falling, the camp’s hum pressing in, “If you say so, D. But I still feel the noose.”

  Diovis’s eyes glinted, voice poetic, the Easton’s star casting shadows. “The stars whisper of chains breaking, Max—rebellion’s fire lighting the void.”

  Rebels shouted, rifles raised, their gaunt faces lit by the star’s glow, slaves joining, chains on the ground, broken, iron shacks burning faintly in the distance. “We’re free!” a rebel yelled, voice cracking, dust swirling around them.

  Nira pushed through the crowd, “We did it!”

  She rushed forward, frame lean but strong, arms wide, hugging Diovis tightly, then Max, her voice warm. “You guys pulled it off—we’re free!”

  Diovis’s expression finally softened, and starlight caught Nira’s face. “Nira, we won the battle, not the war. There’s more to build. I’m glad though…”

  Nira stepped back, “Okay… dramatic much? What should we name our nation, Diovis?”

  Diovis’s voice rose, poetic, the red star’s light casting shadows on the cheering crowd, iron shacks glowing faintly. “Let it be Eastoria—born of Easton’s iron, forged in rebellion’s fire, a star rising from the dust, its chains shattered, its light eternal against the Skrell’s shadow.”

  Some slaves roared, “Supreme Ruler!” voices echoing, chains clanking, “Supreme Ruler Diovis!” they cried, their gaunt, weathered faces illuminated by a flicker of desperate hope.

  Others, however, murmured in dissent, their eyes narrowing as they questioned the authority of the soon-to-be seventeen-year-old now tasked with leading their fledgling nation.

  Max exhaled smoke, cigarette trembling, his heavy frame relaxing, the camp’s hum pressing in, “Supreme Ruler, huh, D? That’s… big… for a small man.”

  Diovis leaned close, expression deadly serious, “There are grown men out there, Max—men who don’t get it, too scared to do what I’m doing at 16.”

  “And small? Please… at least my weight doesn’t reroute a ship’s course, tubby.” Expression lightening again.

  Both get a good chuckle as the great buddies that they are.

  Then, Max’s chest tightened, expression a little more serious, “The stars bleed for us, Diovis—our chains are breaking, we’re burning through this mess, one way or another. Brother.”