Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Title: Mine Now

Chapter 1: The Perfect Pet

---

The auction hall was loud. Lights shimmered, spotlights danced. From their gilded seats, the highest elite of a hundred systems watched cages rattle below.

Luka sat in one of them.

Tiny. Pale. Wrapped in a thin white tunic that brushed his knees. His hair was light as moon-honey, soft and messy, clinging to his forehead. His skin had never seen a sun, and his eyes—

Molten gold.

Eyes not meant for any natural human. A glow to them, as if something had been poured inside to make him gleam.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. He just blinked slowly, clutching a soft plush—a bear, patched and threadbare, clearly well-loved.

"Item #479," the announcer purred through the speaker system, voice sticky with pleasure. "A rare prototype. Engineered perfection. Programmed responsiveness. Molded behavior. Pure-blood Earth human. Only five Earth years."

The crowd shifted. Leaned in. Whispers like wind in static followed.

Heperu, crowned in jeweled bone and draped in living silk, was already lifting his hand. He had claimed the last five 'perfect pets.' He had expectations.

“Opening bid: two hundred thousand.”

“Three million,” came a low, imperious voice from the shadows of a private box.

The entire auction floor went still.

Even Heperu lowered his hand. Slowly. Rage bubbling under his grin.

A figure stood—tall, wrapped in dark robes that shimmered like starlight and void. Four arms, elongated ears, glowing lines of power etched into obsidian-blue skin. His eyes glowed silver, no pupils—just cosmic light.

“Lord Zerroth of the Kainari Accord,” someone whispered in awe. “Why would he want a human pet?”

---

Luka didn’t understand any of this.

He was warm and sleepy. His chest hurt a little—like always—but it was quiet here. Quieter than the labs. Quieter than when the other humans used to scream. He missed Mika, a little. Mika used to share the blanket. Maybe Mika got adopted too.

He looked up as the bars of his cage slid open with a hiss.

A tall figure approached. Luka blinked. His golden eyes shimmered under the light.

"You are small," Lord Zerroth said, tilting his head. His voice was strange—like it echoed from inside his chest and the stars at the same time.

Luka gave a polite blink. "You're big," he replied.

The alien paused.

Then, strangely... he smiled.

"You were designed to be perfect,” he said, crouching down to Luka’s level. “They programmed you to smile when spoken to. To giggle on cue. To tilt your head just enough to spark something in predators’ instincts.”

Luka tilted his head—just slightly.

Zerroth’s smile widened. "Yes. Like that."

"I have a bear," Luka offered, holding up his plush. "He's sleepy."

Zerroth reached out and gently brushed the bear with one clawed finger. “So is the boy carrying him.”

"I'm Luka," he added, voice soft.

Zerroth paused again. "...I know."

With one smooth movement, he scooped Luka up. The child blinked, startled, but didn’t resist. His programming didn’t recognize this as danger.

Zerroth looked down at him. The boy’s heart beat too softly. His breathing was shallow. Sickly. Delicate.

Designed to be adorable, Zerroth thought, even when broken.

“I’ll take good care of you,” he murmured. “Not because you were built to be perfect—but because you are... very strange. And strangely mine now.”

Luka blinked again. “Do you have snacks?”

Zerroth stared.

Then he laughed.

Title: Mine Now

Part 2: Little Prince of the Stars

---

Zerroth’s ship was alive.

Not metaphorically — literally. The walls pulsed with soft light, humming in response to its master's mood. The floors were warm. Gentle gravity adjusted for tiny steps and fluttering feet. Wherever Luka walked, the ship shifted to accommodate him.

And Luka… well, Luka floated.

Not physically. Not always. But the way he moved — slowly, softly — the way his pale hair shimmered like moon threads in the low star-light of the corridors… it gave the illusion of a dream walking.

His voice didn’t help.

“Daaaaddy,” Luka sang, drifting into the observation deck with his bear under one arm and his long tunic trailing like starlight. “The stars are wiggling again.”

Zerroth, in full command regalia, turned away from a fleet status report and knelt at once. “Which ones are wiggling, little prince?”

Luka pointed a chubby finger at the nearest spiral cluster. “Those ones. They look like they’re dancing.”

Zerroth gave a soft hum and gently picked the child up, setting him on a levitating cushion beside him. “That’s a dying nova field. But if you’d rather call it dancing, I will have it marked so on all official charts.”

Luka blinked slowly. “For real?”

Zerroth nodded solemnly. “I am Lord of this sector. No one will argue.”

“...You’re the best daddy ever,” Luka whispered with an ethereal little sigh, nestling into his side.

Zerroth stilled.

He had destroyed planets for less than being called soft.

But this boy. This delicate, quiet, breakable boy… who now called him Daddy in a voice that sounded like music dipped in moonlight… made Zerroth want to kneel.

---

Luka’s room was no longer a “room.”

It was a palace wing.

Cloud-soft floors, glowing night orbs that changed colors to match his mood, a private gravity-free float pool (because Luka loved “swimming in the air”), a thousand plush animals all gifted by terrified diplomats trying to gain favor with the dark lord who had suddenly become a parent.

“Should I bow to him?” a general once whispered.

“He’s five,” a technician hissed back.

“Yes. But he’s five and calls Lord Zerroth daddy.”

Everyone bowed after that.

---

Luka’s body remained delicate.

Zerroth had called in the best medics of three galaxies. He sat through every checkup, holding Luka’s hand gently — carefully, with claws tucked away — as the boy asked about snacks or if starfish were real, or if black holes were just sad planets.

“They're hungry, not sad,” Zerroth explained.

“Oh,” Luka said, blinking up with those glowing eyes. “Like me.”

Zerroth froze.

The next day, Luka had an entire kitchen staffed with robotic chefs that only cooked when he whispered orders in his sweet bell-like voice.

---

Zerroth refused to dress him in anything less than royalty.

Silken robes that shimmered like nebulae. Tiny slippers with embroidered comets. A silver circlet, thin and light, placed gently in his pale hair.

One evening, Zerroth found Luka curled up in a nest of plushies, singing to himself in his soft, glassy tone.

“Starlight, starlight, never go ‘way… Daddy will find you and tell you to stay…”

Zerroth stood in the doorway and said nothing.

His chest felt… heavy. Strange. Good.

The boy had been built to be loved. Programmed to be perfect. But nothing in those files could explain how this child made the most feared being in twenty systems feel like he was the one being cared for.

---

Zerroth’s Log, private encryption:

"The child is strange. Beautiful. Not because of the design — but because of how he warps the space around him. Not the ship. Me.

He calls me Daddy now. I correct no one.

I have crushed armies. I have devoured stars. But today I brushed yellow curls from a sleeping boy’s face and whispered: 'My little prince.'

And he smiled."

Chapter Text

Title: Other Options of Passion

Setting: Alien Stage, Season 49 – Final Round

---

The crowd was electric — thousands of alien species gathered in the arena, millions more watching across systems. Lights refracted through shimmering domes, soundwaves were translated into dozens of languages, and anticipation hung heavy in the air.

Season 49 of Alien Stage had been a bloodbath.

And yet Luka… Luka had survived.

Barely.

The final human. Fragile. Beautiful. Ethereal.

Five years old when he was bought. Now sixteen. Grown into his programmed perfection — golden eyes, pale hair that caught the stage lights like sunfire, and a voice that made entire sectors pause.

But beauty wasn’t enough.

Not in the Final Round.

And he knew it.

His opponent — Korratheon-6, a seven-limbed, glimmering-shelled beast of a performer with a cult following — was expected to win. Expected to devour the last human in a blaze of vocal glory and gravitational dance.

Luka had one shot.

He didn’t want to die.

Not after coming so far.

So he stepped onto the stage like a vision — silk-draped, eyes half-lidded, smirk like a whisper.

And he sang.

---

🎵

“There are other ways of persuasion…

There are other modes of control…”

🎵

The arena froze.

Korratheon-6 dropped a note.

Several high-level alien diplomats gasped.

Heperu, watching from the VIP booth, stood up and hissed through clenched teeth:

“I did not teach him that.”

Luka’s golden eyes scanned the crowd. His voice — low, liquid, honeyed — wrapped around every syllable like a lover’s hand.

🎵

“There are other means of deceit…

There are other roads to the soul…”

🎵

Korratheon’s limbs twitched. Their chromatic carapace flushed lavender — the color of flustered panic in their species.

Luka took a slow, deliberate step forward, twirling once as he sang:

🎵

“There are other options of passion~”

🎵

The tilt in his voice was sinful.

Aliens started SCREAMING.

Chat streams exploded:

🌠[Thaz’leek17]: IS HE SEDUCING THE FINALIST?!?!?

🌌[MistressOfVenom]: why is this working why is this WORKING

🪐[XxKorratheonMainxX]: don’t fall for it don’t fall—omg they’re BLUSHING

🔥[Vroggu_Official]: I would let him devour my whole planet

---

Korratheon tried to recover. Their wings flicked. “You—! That’s cheating! Emotional manipulation is not part of—”

Luka smiled, leaned forward just enough for every camera to catch the sparkle in his eyes.

“Then beat me,” he whispered sweetly.

“But try not to stare while you do it.”

The crowd lost it.

---

The judges’ scores came in. Higher than ever recorded.

Luka won.

Korratheon-6 just slumped, muttering something about “not being emotionally prepared for humans to be like that.”

---

Title: Other Options of Passion

Setting: Post-Finale of Alien Stage, Season 49

Characters: Luka, Heperu, Korratheon, glimpses of the galaxy’s reaction

---

The trophy shimmered under the lights.

It wasn’t even metal. It was some living, shifting crystal grown by a dying star and soaked in the last breaths of a supernova — a ridiculously dramatic object, perfect for an equally ridiculous moment.

Luka didn’t look at it.

He just sat there, legs folded neatly, hair glowing faintly under the dressing room’s biosilk canopy, staring blankly at the stream of intergalactic praise flooding the holoscreens.

🪐[ZinvalaEmperor]: We wish to negotiate the purchase of Luka for our court.

🌌[Queen-Mn]: We offer six moons and a solar prince.

🌠[High Regent Klem’th]: What are your mating protocols?

Heperu stormed in.

“Luka,” he barked, robes flaring behind him. “What. Was. That.”

Luka didn’t even blink. “The final performance. I won.”

“You seduced your opponent!”

“…Did it work?”

Heperu inhaled deeply. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “Luka, you are five— I mean, sixteen. You are a child.”

“I’m a performer.”

“You’re a programmed darling with the body of a siren and the brain of a polite murderbot!” Heperu paced, hands flailing. “I raised you better than this. I taught you subtlety, wit, micro-expressions—!”

“You also taught me to win.”

Heperu stopped.

Luka tilted his head, gold eyes luminous. “You said I had to survive.”

“…Not like that!” he snapped. “There were diplomats in the front row nearly combusting.”

Luka giggled.

It was ethereal. Sweet. Innocent — too innocent for someone who’d just made an apex predator curl into a flustered heap on live intergalactic television.

---

Meanwhile, in a different quadrant:

Korratheon-6 lay on their stomach in a stasis spa, limbs twitching, face buried in the pillow.

“Did he wink at me?” they muttered. “He winked. That’s illegal. That should be illegal.”

The nursebot beeped. “Calm levels rising. Infatuation hormones at 247%.”

“I hate humans,” Korratheon whispered. “I want one.”

---

Back on the ship, Heperu was now pacing circles around Luka, who calmly sipped a post-performance nutrient blend like a pampered deity.

“You’re trending on every galactic channel,” Heperu grumbled. “They’re calling you the ‘Velvet Voice of Vice.’ Do you even know what that means?”

“No, but it sounds expensive.”

Heperu groaned.

“…You’re not allowed to perform like that again.”

“Noted,” Luka said, completely lying.

Heperu crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve changed.”

Luka smiled — not the programmed innocent one, but something real. Soft.

“I grew up.”

Heperu’s expression softened slightly. “You didn’t have to grow up this fast.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then Luka climbed into his lap — because despite it all, he was still small, still delicate, and still (to Heperu’s eternal frustration) his kid.

Heperu tensed.

“…You can’t manipulate me with cuddles.”

“I’m not,” Luka murmured, curling close. “I’m just tired.”

“…And terrifying.”

“…Thank you.”

Heperu sighed again, resting a hand on that soft pale hair. “One day I’ll figure out if you’re an angel or a demon.”

“I can be both.”

“…Stars help me.”

---

Bonus – Galactic Reactions:

👑 [ZerrothTheUnyielding]: “My little prince has grown. I am watching. Closely.”

💀 [KorratheonFanClub]: “WE RIDE AT DAWN.”

🌀 [Interstellar Parenting Committee]: “Who raised him like this?”

🧿 [HeperuOfficial]: “I’M TRYING MY BEST."

Chapter Text

Title: Starstruck and Studied

Characters: Luka (age 16 but famed idol-level adorable), Till (human pet trainee), Urak (Till’s intimidating alien guardian)

Genre: Fluff, Light Comedy, Wholesome Obsession

Setting: Anakt Garden, where human pets are trained to be perfect companions

---

Chapter 1: Star in Their Eyes

In the dorms of Sector Twelve, Luka’s latest performance video flickered on every holoscreen.

Gold eyes. Ethereal voice. Soft giggle.

Half the human pets watched with stars in their eyes and poorly hidden swoons.

“Did you hear his lullaby tone in the 38th performance?”

“He blinked—he blinked and three nobles proposed!”

“I heard he once made a warlord drop his weapon and adopt a kitten!”

Till… pretended he wasn’t listening.

Pretended very hard.

Because unlike the others, Till didn’t just watch Luka's performances. He studied them. Had been watching since age six. Had seen every interview, memorized every lullaby, and even mimicked Luka’s bow in front of the mirror 80 times.

Till’s room was secretly a shrine.

He knew Luka’s hair color wasn’t just pale yellow — it was “sun-touched halo,” genetically enhanced for peak celestial appeal. He knew Luka’s favorite plush toy (a comet-shaped beanbag named Poppy), and he definitely knew Luka’s programming included “light head tilts” as a defense mechanism against aggression.

He knew it all.

Which is why when Urak stomped into the study room, his void face gleaming and voice rumbling, Till nearly exploded from anxiety.

“Till,” Urak growled. “New assignment.”

“Y-Yes, Guardian?”

“You are to study the top-performing pet of this cycle,” Urak said. “To emulate and understand. Observe subject: Luka.”

Till stared.

“…I’m sorry?”

Urak’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know him already?”

“Uh. N-No? Not personally.”

“You must learn from his excellence. His every move. His tone. His posture. His persuasion techniques. You will watch all 328 recordings.”

“I—”

“All. Of. Them.”

Till nodded slowly.

Inside, he screamed.

> I’ve watched 422, including the deleted ones!

---

Chapter 2: Studying the Star

Later that night, Till sat cross-legged with a glowing holopad. The academy version of Luka’s “training material” was dry, mechanical, emotionless.

It missed everything.

The way Luka’s eyes always sparkled a little more when small children were in the audience. How he subtly turned towards the camera when nervous. The tiny, almost imperceptible sway of his feet when listening.

The others watched to learn.

Till watched because he already loved.

And now he had to keep it secret.

---

Chapter 3: Shared Assignment

At breakfast, another trainee named Vi muttered, “This Luka guy’s voice is way too soft. He’s weird.”

Till dropped their spoon.

Urak immediately turned. “Correct them.”

“…Excuse me?”

“You know Luka. Defend him. If you want to be like him, start by understanding what makes him better than you.”

Till blinked. “So I… I can talk about him?”

Urak nodded solemnly. “For the sake of study.”

That was all Till needed.

He stood on the table.

Cleared his throat.

“Luka is not weird,” he declared, loud and glowing. “He is exceptionally calibrated. His lullabies adjust to the listener’s brainwaves. His posture is coded with empathy. He has melted the hearts of seven crime syndicates. He personally rehabilitated a chaos prince—”

Urak blinked.

Till didn’t stop.

“He uses modulation techniques unknown to modern science! He sways in 3/4 tempo to align with alien infant brain rhythms! He—he—he purrs when hugged!”

Silence.

Everyone stared.

“…You really have been studying,” Urak finally said.

Till collapsed back into his seat, face red. “Yes, sir.”

Vi blinked, then slowly whispered, “...He purrs?”

Till huffed. “Softly.”

---

Chapter 4: Luka’s Message

Later that week, a holomessage arrived for the trainees:

💫 “To the new trainees: I heard some of you are studying my work! Thank you~ I hope I can be a good example. Remember to stay soft, stay bright, and don’t let the scary guardians scare the sparkle out of you. ♡ Luka.”

Till nearly fainted.

Urak raised a brow. “Why is your face leaking?”

“I-I’m just learning! Very intensely!”

“…Hmph. Carry on.”

---

Title: Starstruck and Studied – Part 2

Chapter: Of Rants, Repressed Screaming, and a Gold-Eyed Angel

---

Till was pacing again. Back and forth. Bare feet tapping the cool silver flooring of Dorm 3-C.

Across the room, Mizi was painting glitter onto her collar. Sua sat curled on the edge of her bunk, headphones in, eyes closed. And Ivan—Ivan was watching Till pace like it was the most interesting thing in the universe.

Till finally burst:

“I CAN’T DO THIS.”

Mizi blinked. “Homework again?”

“No. Worse.”

He gestured dramatically at the screen hovering behind him. It replayed Luka’s soft-voiced message to the new trainees again:

💫 “...don’t let the scary guardians scare the sparkle out of you. ♡ Luka.”

Ivan blinked slowly. “You’re sparkling.”

“I’M SWEATING,” Till snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “Guys, he KNOWS we’re watching him. He KNOWS. What if he’s testing us? What if he sees me one day and realizes I’ve been, like, breathing the same air as his interviews since age three?!”

Mizi giggled. “I mean… I’d cry if he saw me. You’d combust.”

“I’D SELF-DESTRUCT,” Till confirmed.

Mizi spun around in her chair. “You’ve had a crush on Luka since the first moment we met you.”

Sua, without opening her eyes, murmured: “He said Luka was ‘the sun incarnate.’ Day two.”

Ivan nodded slowly. “You also have his performance stats color-coded.”

Till stopped pacing. “You SNOOPED in my folder?!”

Ivan just stared at him. Calm. Unashamed. “You leave it open every day.”

Till groaned and fell dramatically onto his bed. “This is a nightmare.”

Mizi flopped down beside him, all sparkles and sunshine. “Till, you’re being dramatic. Luka’s, like, the universal darling. Everyone likes him. Everyone crushes on him. You’re just more… passionate.”

“You mean unhinged.”

Mizi grinned. “Tomato, tomato.”

Ivan leaned his elbows on his knees, watching Till with quiet intensity. “You’d probably faint if he looked at you.”

“No. I’d do worse. I’d accidentally call him ‘Your Highness’ and then curl up like a dying star.”

Sua murmured, “He would probably find it charming.”

Till blinked. “Wait. Was that… a full sentence?”

Sua didn’t reply.

Mizi gasped. “OH MY STARS, she does talk.”

Ivan, eyes narrowed, offered, “She talks when she likes someone.”

Till blinked. “She likes me?”

Sua's ears turned faintly pink.

Mizi gasped again. “Awww!”

Till pulled a pillow over his face and groaned. “Why is this my life.”

Ivan: “Because you were born with the instincts of a Luka-stanning comet-worshipper.”

Till: “…I don’t even know what that means.”

Ivan, deadpan: “It means I think you’ll pass your Luka-emulation exam with flying hearts.”

---

Later that night…

Till was alone. Luka’s lullaby played softly through his headset.

He curled up in bed, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Maybe… maybe one day he’d meet Luka.

And maybe, just maybe… Luka would smile at him and say:

“You sparkle well, too.”

Chapter Text

Title: The Introduction of Luka

---

Heperu’s tail flicked in mild anticipation as the towering doors of the private salon opened. The scent of obsidian wine and burning spice filled the air, heavy with the casual decadence that came with power.

Four figures waited.

Urak stood like a statue in his white robes, silent tubes pulsing faintly at his spine. His void-like face turned as Heperu entered. Unsha tipped his top hat in greeting, long fingers adjusting the angle of his glasses. Shine hovered gracefully beside him, her flowing purple-pink dress giving her an ethereal air. Nigeh twitched his antennae, his limbs making small skittering movements.

Then they all saw… him.

The tiny human.

Luka.

Barefoot. Thin. Pale as moonmilk. His pale yellow hair fell like sunlight over a face too small, too fragile. He clung to the edge of Heperu’s cape with trembling fingers, golden eyes wide and lost, flickering with a dull caution that came from experience.

Heperu gently placed a hand over the small one on his cloak. “This is Luka,” he purred, voice smooth, feline tail swaying. “My new pet.”

Luka took a shaky step forward and gave a small bow—one he must have been programmed to do, though it was clearly marred by weakness. His limbs shook. He blinked slowly. He was shy, starved, and utterly silent.

Shine floated closer. “Oh…”

Even without eyes, she seemed to see everything. Her head tilted. “He’s… so small.”

Luka shrank instinctively, hiding behind Heperu again.

Unsha stepped forward next. “Starved,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses with a barely concealed frown. “That won’t do.”

Heperu’s ears twitched. “He came that way,” he said, more defensively than he intended.

Urak finally moved. His voice was a low, robotic echo. “This human is… unstable.”

Heperu hissed softly. “He’s traumatized. He was held in chains and locked in a display box for most of his existence. Programmed to be beautiful and submissive. That’s not instability. That’s cruelty.”

Urak stared. “You sound… attached.”

“I am.”

There was silence.

Then Nigeh, with his many clicking limbs and gleaming red eyes, crept forward. Luka watched him, visibly afraid.

But Nigeh… kneeled.

His voice was chittery, but kind. “He smells… like flowers in rot. Fragile. Dying. He is… precious.”

Luka made a soft sound. Barely a whimper.

Unsha knelt beside Nigeh, removing his hat. “He reminds me of one I lost. Long ago. Too gentle for the stage.”

“He should never be on the stage,” Shine whispered. “He should be held. Fed. Sung to.”

Heperu’s ears perked at that. “He sings,” he said softly. “When no one is watching. His voice is… not human.”

Shine smiled.

Luka, hearing them speak as if he were made of glass and poetry, tilted his head out slightly. Gold eyes met Unsha’s stormy gaze, then Shine’s faceless warmth, then Nigeh’s twitching, insect compassion.

They didn’t… seem angry at him.

They didn’t seem to expect anything from him.

Unsha offered a sugar square, delicate and rose-flavored. Luka sniffed it, then hesitantly nibbled. His mouth lit up. He let out the tiniest noise of surprise.

“Oh stars,” Shine gasped. “That sound—did you hear that?”

Urak—stoic, silent Urak—tilted his head. “His presence is… calming.”

Nigeh was already offering him a glowing honey fruit.

By the time Luka had eaten half of it, the room’s dynamic had changed.

Their own pets—nervous, trained humans in gilded corners—were forgotten.

Luka, the little thing with too-big eyes and fear-thin limbs, had become the center of everything.

Heperu watched, tail flicking smugly.

“Told you he was perfect.”

Title: Jealous Hearts, Golden Eyes

---

Luka didn’t mean to steal the spotlight.

He was still shy, still too soft-spoken. He clung to Heperu’s side like a wisp of mist, his molten-gold eyes peeking out under his pale lashes, lips parting only when spoken to directly.

And yet… everyone kept looking at him.

Worse — their guardians kept looking at him.

Eren, Urak’s pet, watched from across the room.

A flawless specimen with sharp eyes and a posture drilled by discipline. He had been crafted to impress. Yet… Urak hadn’t touched his tea once. He was staring at Luka, his faceless void turned toward the trembling little thing curled into Heperu’s lap.

He didn’t even notice when I bowed…

Eren clenched his jaw.

Ryder, Unsha’s human, glared from where he lounged by the fire.

He was all sharp smirks and confidence, trained in literature, music, etiquette. But Unsha had offered his hat to that feather-soft thing? A sugar square? That had to mean something.

I’ve worked for years to make him smile like that.

Ryder scowled and kicked at a cushion.

Rose, Shine’s pet, stood perfectly poised.

A stunning girl with long limbs and crystal nails, dressed in silks that shimmered in the soft light. But Shine hadn’t asked her to sing lately. Not since Luka made that sound—just one tiny, breathy note while tasting a fruit.

What even was that sound? It echoed in my bones.

Rose gritted her teeth, folding her hands tighter.

Azrael, Nigeh’s favorite, crouched in the shadows.

Part-spy, part-dancer, all mystery. He never got jealous. He’d been praised for his silence and precision. And yet… Nigeh had knelt for the new pet. Had cooed.

Azrael’s antennas twitched. His jaw tightened.

---

They gathered later in one of the cushioned side-rooms, each summoned by unspoken tension and their overlapping envy.

"He’s fragile." Eren was the first to speak. “They pity him.”

"They worship him," Ryder snapped. “Unsha smiled. At him.”

Rose narrowed her eyes. “Maybe he’s manipulating them.”

Azrael stayed silent.

Then… the door creaked.

Luka stood there.

Too small, too soft.

He held a tray awkwardly, a bit wobbly from the weight, but still smiling as best he could. “Heperu said you might like the rose tea blend… I-I made it.”

They froze.

Even the air paused.

He looked at each of them—like they were scary, but also like he wanted them to be happy. He bowed his little head, arms trembling as he held out the tray.

Azrael was the first to move. He took the tray gently and set it down, staring at Luka’s trembling hands.

“…You made this?”

Luka nodded. “Heperu showed me. I thought maybe… you would like it.”

Eren stared. “Why would you do that?”

“I thought I upset you…”

Ryder blinked. “You… care if we’re upset?”

Luka looked horrified, backing away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” Rose interrupted quickly. “No, we’re just… surprised.”

Luka’s eyes shimmered. “I don’t like when people look angry… it reminds me of before.”

That shut them all up.

Azrael knelt. “You don’t have to explain. You’re… very kind.”

Luka tilted his head. “Do you… not like me?”

Four highly trained, hand-picked humans just blinked.

Then, they scrambled to answer.

“No! I mean—”

“We didn’t know you were like this.”

“You’re really nice.”

“You have pretty eyes.”

Luka smiled.

And it destroyed them.

Something inside them snapped — twisted from jealousy into obsession.

He wasn’t a threat.

He was precious.

Eren sat beside him quietly. Ryder offered him a plush pillow. Rose began braiding a strand of his hair. Azrael silently placed himself between Luka and the door like a shield.

They didn’t know what this feeling was, only that it hurt when he looked away and soothed when he smiled.

And when they returned to their guardians that night, they all said the same thing:

“Can we visit Luka again?”

Chapter Text

Title: Luka.exe has crashed

---

Alien Stage Season 52, Episode 9.5: Behind the Scenes Confessionals

The cameras weren’t rolling for the competition. Not yet. Right now, it was the downtime — the part where contestants gossiped, flirted, schemed, or in Luka’s case… accidentally set the fanbase on fire.

He lounged on a velvet couch, draped in something sheer and dramatic, sipping sweet alien nectar from a tall glass. Luka's gold eyes shimmered under the soft lights, his pale yellow hair tousled perfectly by some lucky stylist.

He crossed one leg over the other.

“You know,” he said lightly, “there are many types of love. Many ways to hold someone’s attention.”

Hyuna raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you told your opponent last round you’d ‘make him forget every language except the one your body speaks’?”

Luka hummed, lips curved, voice as smooth as starlight.

“Is it working?” he whispered.

Hyuna blinked. “You’re unbelievable.”

Luka leaned in slightly, just enough to let the fabric shift off one shoulder. “Maybe. But they keep watching, don’t they?”

Hyuna narrowed her eyes, then deadpanned:

“So you're gay?”

Luka froze.

His breath hitched.

Color — barely visible due to his pale skin — bloomed at the tips of his ears. His drink tilted slightly. He scrambled for his usual smile, but the edges of it twitched.

“I—what—uh—" He coughed. “Why do you ask?”

Hyuna blinked again. “Because you just winked at four male contestants in the span of twenty seconds.”

“That could be strategic.”

“You told one of them you liked his veins, Luka.”

Luka gave a strained, almost choked laugh. “Veins are universal symbols of… vitality.”

“Mhm. So. Gay?”

Luka, clearly malfunctioning:

“I’m—uh—very… emotionally flexible?”

Hyuna tilted her head. “So you’re gay or just emotionally confusing?”

“I… like your hair.” Luka squeaked.

Her lip curled into a smirk. “That a confession?”

Luka, voice cracking slightly:

“…Maybe.”

Hyuna leaned closer, all heat and confidence. “Just say it. You have a crush on me.”

Luka looked like a corrupted data chip.

After a long pause—

“…No comment.”

From the shadows, the producers took notes. The fanbase exploded within minutes. “#Lukuna” trended within the hour. And Luka?

Luka hid in a sound booth for the rest of the afternoon, face red, whispering to himself:

“I wasn’t ready for her to be the one teasing me.”

Chapter Text

Title: “Simps Anonymous: The Luka Support Group”

Tagline: We came to heal. We stayed to cry over a 15-year-old space idol with molten gold eyes and zero awareness of his power.

---

Location: The planet Zovetrius-3, Galactic Meeting Hall 7C

Time: 18:00 Standard Astro Time

Group: Simps Anonymous – Luka Chapter

The seats were arranged in a loose circle, each one filled with an alien being of wildly different biology and temperament — many with tissues, digital memory cubes, or glittery fan merch in hand.

The facilitator, a glowing teal orb named Yulo, floated forward. “Welcome, everyone, to another session of Simps Anonymous: Luka Edition. Let’s begin by introducing ourselves. Remember, this is a safe space.”

A three-eyed warrior with blood-stained armor and a spiked tail stood up. “My name is Brakkon, and I… I tried to assassinate Luka in Episode 3 of Alien Stage.”

A collective gasp.

Brakkon swallowed. “He blinked at me. One blink. One. Next thing I knew I was handing him my plasma sword and promising to ‘protect his smile at all costs.’” He sniffled. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

There was soft applause.

Next was a veiled figure — elegant, ethereal, too many rings. “I am T’Zhala of the Crystal Realms. I spent nine billion credits to vote him through the finale. I now live in a cave.” She burst into tears. “But he smiled on stage that night…”

Applause again.

A smaller voice piped up from a nearby pillow. “I’m Mek, and I’m only here because my guardian caught me simping and said I needed help.”

Yulo gave a kind nod. “And how do you feel about Luka, Mek?”

Mek turned bright green. “I wrote an 89-chapter fanfiction about him and cried when he sang ‘There Are Other Roads to the Soul’ in a minor key.”

“Valid,” Brakkon whispered reverently.

They all turned toward the final attendee: a quiet, humanoid figure hunched in a black coat. Eyes glowing red under the hood.

Yulo blinked. “Would you like to share?”

The figure hesitated… then slowly pulled back their hood.

It was Urak.

THE Urak. Terror of the Seven Sectors. Warlord. Executioner. Collector of Rare Beings.

He looked… tired.

“I… forced my pet Till to study Luka,” Urak admitted in a gravelly voice. “Thought it was strategy. Then I watched one video. Just one.”

The room leaned in.

“He said, ‘Thank you for watching me,’ and smiled. That was it. That was the moment I lost my empire. I bought the entire Luka figurine line. I fought a bidding war against Nigeh for a limited edition voice file.” A pause. “I lost.”

Everyone clapped in solemn understanding.

Yulo levitated higher. “Now, as always, we end tonight’s meeting with the oath.”

All hands, claws, tendrils, and light beams rose:

“I solemnly swear to support each other through our simping.

I will not sell a moon to hear Luka say ‘thank you.’

I will remember he is fifteen, ethereal, and dangerous.

And I will not cry when he tilts his head and says ‘huh?’ in that cute little voice.”

A shared sob echoed.

---

Elsewhere, in a floating studio far, far away, Luka blinked into the camera during rehearsal.

“Thank you for watching me,” he whispered, voice like the stars singing.

Six galaxies fainted.

---

Title: The Time Luka Accidentally Walked Into His Own Cult

Tagline: He just wanted to say thank you. He did not expect the weeping. All hail the Prince of beauty.

---

Location: Zovetrius-3, Galactic Meeting Hall 7C

Time: 18:10 Astro Standard

Event: Simps Anonymous – Luka Chapter Meeting, Continued

---

“I thought this was a meet-and-greet…”

Luka mumbled as he peeked around the doorway, his oversized sweater sleeves covering his hands, pale-yellow hair falling into his molten-gold eyes.

The entire room froze.

Brakkon — the three-eyed war general — dropped his plushie.

T’Zhala — Crystal Heiress turned Luka devotee — gasped so hard her jewelry shattered.

Mek started vibrating. Urak slowly sat down, for the first time in 9 years.

Yulo the orb began spinning uncontrollably.

“…Luka?” Yulo choked out.

Luka blinked, unsure. “Um. Yes? Someone sent me an invitation? I thought it was a fan club meeting. I… brought cookies.”

He held up a tiny plate of delicately frosted, slightly uneven star-shaped cookies.

T’Zhala screamed softly into her sleeve.

Urak was shaking. “He… bakes.”

Brakkon quietly whispered a battle prayer.

Luka stepped in, confused but smiling. “Hi, everyone. It’s really nice to meet you! I didn’t realize I had this many fans… or—um—supporters?”

He paused.

“Wait. Is this a therapy group?”

Yulo hesitated. “…For emotional regulation. Related to you.”

“Oh. Sorry. I can go—”

“NO!”

The room answered in unison. Luka flinched slightly, and instantly every being dropped to their knees apologizing like they'd committed galactic crimes.

“I—! It’s okay!!” Luka squeaked, panicking. “Please don’t bow!”

Mek finally gathered the courage to speak. “C-Can I give you something?”

Luka nodded. Mek shakily handed him a plush version of Luka himself.

“Oh,” Luka cooed. “He’s chubby.”

“He’s you,” Mek whispered, halfway crying.

Luka hugged it. Everyone else died a little more inside.

Urak cleared his throat. “We… we just want you to know. You’re very important. And we… like you. Deeply. Collectively. Across space.”

Luka turned bright red. “Oh. Um. Thank you. That’s really sweet.”

Brakkon raised a hand like a child in school. “Would it be okay if you said ‘thank you for watching me’?”

Luka blinked, then tilted his head, smiling gently.

“Thank you for watching me.”

T’Zhala actually fainted. Yulo combusted into sparkles. Urak may have sworn allegiance on the spot.

Luka smiled, nervously, and sat down.

“…So… um… do you guys wanna share feelings, or should I just keep baking?”

Silence.

Then Mek blurted:

“We built you a shrine.”

Luka, quietly: “Oh.”

---

Five hours later, Luka had tea with his cult. He still wasn’t sure if this was healthy, but they were very nice. And they cried when he gave out stickers.

Chapter Text

Title: What It Takes To Survive

Tagline: Luka didn't win because he was the best. He won because he refused to die.

---

Round 5: End of Performance

The lights dimmed. The holograms flickered off. The thunder of cheers faded into whispers.

Luka stood center stage, glitter still clinging to his sleeves, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in quick, controlled bursts. His golden eyes stayed on the floor, blinking slowly. Not out of grace.

Out of exhaustion.

He had survived. Again.

He bowed. Not too deep—he couldn’t afford to fall.

The host’s voice rang out, floating overhead like smoke:

"The winner of Round Five: Luka.”

The applause didn’t reach him. It never really did.

He turned and walked offstage, each step heavy. Behind him, Mizi stood still, lips trembling but smiling. Her performance had been stunning — radiant, raw, real. But it hadn’t been enough. Not here.

Not in a place where artistry was just a prettier word for desperation.

---

Backstage

Luka had just finished changing into his soft hoodie — the oversized one that hid how small his frame had become — when the door slammed open.

An alien figure stormed in. Tall. Scaled. Eyes flaring with electric blue rage.

A fan.

Of Mizi.

“You—” the alien hissed, voice barely restrained. “You shouldn’t have won. She deserved that spot! She gave it everything! You—what did you do?! Just pout and whisper like you always do?!”

Luka said nothing.

“You should’ve lost,” the fan spat. “It should’ve been you.”

Luka stared for a long moment.

And then, without blinking—

“I won because I knew I didn’t want to die.”

The air went still.

Luka’s voice stayed soft. Almost delicate. But something inside it cracked.

“Can’t you see? It’s a game of survival. It always was. From the moment I opened my eyes in a programming pod. From the first time I sang for someone who didn’t see me as anything but a beautiful puppet.”

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop.

“I was either going to die when I began or die when I fade into dust. So I made a choice.”

He stepped closer. The fan flinched. Luka’s molten gold eyes burned with a quiet, broken fire.

"I’ll do anything to survive. I’ll sing soft. I’ll cry on cue. I’ll tilt my head like they programmed me to. I’ll smile like I mean it. I’ll even manipulate everyone watching if it means I live one more day.”

He exhaled.

"Because survival is all I care about.”

There was silence. A terrible, heavy silence.

The fan — the furious, loyal, grieving fan — looked at him and for the first time… saw the hunger underneath the lace.

The fear wrapped around every glittering note.

Luka didn’t look like a winner. He looked like a boy clinging to life by the tips of his fingers.

---

Later That Night

Luka sat alone in his room.

No cameras. No watchers. Just silence.

He stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror. At the soft golden glow of his eyes, the delicate curve of his jaw. The tears he refused to let fall.

He whispered to himself.

"I didn’t want to beat her. I just didn’t want to die.”

His voice cracked.

No one heard.

---

The Next Day

A handwritten note slid under Luka’s door.

In precise, alien script:

I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I do now.

You sing like someone whose life depends on it. I hope one day it doesn’t.

— Mizi’s Fan.

Luka read it three times.

Then folded it neatly and tucked it into his notebook.

Right between the page where he wrote:

"Reasons I Can’t Lose”

and the one titled:

“If I Ever Stop Surviving, What’s Left?”

Chapter Text

Title: We Were Never Lovers

Tagline: Sometimes love is performance. Sometimes survival means pretending.

---

Scene 1: The Announcement

“Final Round Theme: The Reunited Lovers,” the screen blinked in front of them. Large glowing letters. Unblinking. Unforgiving.

Luka’s face didn’t twitch. Till’s did.

They were the last two standing in Alien Stage Season 50. Out of the hundreds that auditioned. Dozens that fell. Only two remained.

Two boys.

Two survivors.

Two people who couldn’t stand each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Till muttered.

Luka didn’t respond. He handed Till the script—sleek, neat, his handwriting like art, each word placed with painful, deliberate beauty.

Till stared at the page like it was a death sentence.

Luka:

“Is it you? Have my prayers been answered?

Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?”

“You expect me to sing this?” Till growled, turning to face him.

Luka didn’t even blink. “We both want to live, don’t we?”

“You could have written anything. Anything. And you wrote this sappy, tragic opera garbage?”

Luka shrugged, voice calm but cold. “It’s what they want. A reunion. A confession. Love turned rotten, then saved.”

“They’ll never buy it.”

Luka turned away, his voice clipped and quiet. “They already do.”

---

Scene 2: Rehearsal Hell

They practiced in silence. Always one note away from ripping each other apart.

Till hated Luka’s ghostly voice — how it wrapped around the verses like silk soaked in blood.

Luka hated Till’s fire — how every note felt like a war drum, like a threat.

They clashed in every verse.

But the song—the story—wasn’t about harmony. It was about survival.

About two people too hurt to be whole, finding their way back with pieces sharp and shaking.

Till read his line, forced and flat:

“Would you fall in love with me again

If you knew all I’ve done?”

Luka stopped mid-step. “Feel it, Till. Don’t recite it.”

“I don’t feel it,” Till snapped. “This isn’t real. I’m not your husband. You’re not my lover. You’re just some glowy-eyed manipulator trying to out-sing me!”

Luka flinched.

Then smiled.

Cold. Deadly. Radiant.

“And yet,” he whispered, “you always answer when I call your name.”

---

Scene 3: The Performance

The stage was massive. Circular. Floating in orbit.

A wedding bed at its center — gnarled and carved from alien wood, glittering with embedded tech.

The music began.

Luka stepped forward, pale and radiant, barefoot and trembling, as the lights dimmed to a dusky gold. He looked into the camera, eyes wide, voice a whisper against the void:

“Luka…”

“Is it you? Have my prayers been answered?

Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?”

The galaxy held its breath.

Till emerged from the shadows, his voice trembling, bitter, regretful:

"I am not the man you fell in love with…”

Every line they sang was a war.

Every harmony was a cry for mercy.

Luka:

“If that’s true, could you do me a favor?

Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace—”

Till’s hands shook. His voice cracked.

"How could you say this?

I had built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat…”

And then—

The turn.

Luka:

“Only my husband knew that.

So I guess that makes him you.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the orchestral AI faltered.

“Luka,” Till whispered.

Luka:

“I will fall in love with you over and over again…”

Their voices overlapped. Two different tones—one pleading, one hopeful. Both devastating.

"Waiting… waiting…”

“Luka…”

“Waiting, oh—”

“How long has it been?”

“Twenty years…”

“I love you.”

The final note faded like ash.

The silence after was longer than any applause. It was sacred.

---

Scene 4: Aftermath

Backstage.

Till sat on the floor, fists clenched.

Luka entered quietly. No sparkle now. Just a tired boy in oversized sleeves.

Till didn't look up. “We made them cry.”

Luka sat beside him. “They loved it.”

Till didn’t respond for a moment.

“…I hate you.”

Luka leaned his head back against the wall. “I know.”

“But… I almost meant it. On stage.”

Luka’s voice was a whisper. “Me too.”

Their fingers didn’t touch. But they didn’t move away, either.

For a moment, they were quiet. Breathing.

Alive.

---

Scene 5: The Broadcast

Across the stars, a million viewers sobbed in their homes.

Memes exploded. Fan edits launched. The duet went viral.

Critics called it “the most heartbreakingly raw moment in Alien Stage history.”

But the truth?

They weren’t lovers.

They weren’t even friends.

They just wanted to live.

And in a world where love sold, Luka and Till gave the galaxy the only love they could afford to fake.

Title: Pretty Puppets, Sharp Strings

Tagline: Heperu built a prince. Urak forged a weapon. They both forgot that desperate things learn how to bite.

---

Scene 1: The Viewing Box

The luxury balcony above the stage was reserved for the elite: guardians, sponsors, and alien royalty.

Heperu lounged like a cat in his seat, one clawed hand draped over the glass railing. Purple-skinned, his pale red eyes glowed as he watched the aftermath of the performance play out on the arena below. Luka and Till stood under the final spotlight, trembling and radiant, drenched in manufactured starlight and artificial emotion.

"I will fall in love with you over and over again…”

The crowd had screamed. Sobbed. Fallen to their knees.

Heperu… purred.

“So obedient,” he murmured, licking the edge of a sharp tooth. “My precious little songbird always learns his cues.”

Urak, beside him, did not smile.

His tall, wrapped figure was still as stone. His void-like face — a swirling emptiness where features should be — stared unblinking at Till on the screen. Tubes snaked from his collar into the ports of his throne. He was tense.

“That was unscripted,” Urak finally said.

Heperu didn’t glance at him. “Emotion sells.”

“I gave Till no instructions to cry on stage.”

“Then perhaps he was finally useful.”

Urak’s head tilted ever so slightly. “You let Luka write the song.”

“I did,” Heperu said, almost amused.

“You let him lead the narrative.”

Heperu smiled. “Because no one weeps for a victor. But everyone mourns a martyr.”

A pause.

Then Urak turned to him. “You should leash your pet tighter.”

Heperu’s pupils slit, his voice still purring. “Why? He performed beautifully. You saw the desperation, the agony. They’re eating it up like candy.”

Urak's voice was sharper. “You’ve let him think he's free.”

Heperu finally looked at him. Cold. Gleaming. Dangerous.

“He is free. As long as he sings for me.”

---

Scene 2: After the Show

Backstage, both boys collapsed into silence.

Till didn’t bother wiping the stage glitter from his face. Luka sat with his knees tucked to his chest, trying not to breathe too loud. They weren’t friends — but they weren’t enemies right now. Just two exhausted survivors staring at the wall.

And then—

The room went cold.

Not literally.

Just worse.

Urak entered first, gliding like smoke. The doors didn’t creak; they submitted. Till’s breath hitched as he stood, trying to compose himself. He didn’t speak.

Urak didn’t either. Just… looked.

Till’s voice cracked. “Did I do good?”

A beat.

Then Urak spoke, low and even.

“You cried.”

Till flinched.

“You broke character.”

“I— it was the script—”

“Luka was the script.”

“I—”

“Luka played you.”

Till looked down, throat tight. “I just… wanted to win.”

Urak stepped closer. The tubes on his body hissed. “Then stop being led.”

He turned away, voice sharp. “One more mistake, and I’ll replace you with the girl who is in the laboratory.”

Till’s fingers curled into fists.

---

Heperu came for Luka minutes later.

His entrance was quieter. Smoother. Deadlier.

“Luka,” he sang, sweet and poisonous.

Luka looked up, eyes wide.

Heperu crouched, face inches from his. “You were exquisite.”

Luka’s voice shook. “Thank you.”

Heperu caressed his cheek, sharp nails grazing his skin. “That line about the bed? So heartbreaking. So symbolic. So brilliant.”

Luka tensed. “It made them cry.”

“Yes, my darling.” His smile curved like a blade. “And you looked so convincing. Anyone watching would think you actually felt something for that boy.”

Luka’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

Heperu's smile didn’t fade. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Luka shook his head quickly. “I didn’t. I don’t. It was just acting. Just survival.”

Heperu cooed, then leaned in, voice soft.

“That’s my boy.”

---

Scene 3: Quiet Rebellion

Later that night, Luka sat alone again.

The fan letter from the previous round still folded in his notebook. The one that said:

“I know that you’ve been waiting, waiting for love.”

He stared at the lyric sheet. The one he’d written. The one Urak and Heperu had approved only because they saw profit in his pain.

He didn’t write it for them.

Not for Till either.

He wrote it because he needed someone to say those words to him. Even if it had to be him.

He looked into the mirror.

And whispered:

“I will fall in love with you over and over again.”

To himself.

For now.

Chapter Text

Title: Luka Walks In. Till Falls Down.

---

At Anakt Garden, where the artificial sky always shimmered a perfect peach-gold and the air was laced with subtle harmonies, the impossible just... happened.

The main four had gathered in practice room 23-B, a space notorious for Mizi’s glitter explosions and Till’s dramatic floor-flopping. They were expecting a guest lecturer. Someone important. Someone "legendary."

But not Luka.

Not the Luka.

Not the soft-spoken, celestial-voiced idol who vanished from the galactic scene two years ago after a farewell performance that made even the acid-bleeding Gl'Varthas weep.

And yet — the door slid open with a soft hiss.

And there he stood.

Hair like woven light. Eyes like twin suns behind a pale dawn. Dressed in a flowing white robe and silver shoes that made no sound on the floor. A soft, shy smile on his lips.

“Hello,” he said. “Is this Squad 7-Theta? I’m… Luka.”

---

Till dropped to the floor like a felled tree.

“DOWN!” Mizi screamed, thinking it was an attack.

Ivan blinked.

Sua didn’t move. “He fainted.”

Luka blinked too. “Was it something I said?”

---

After some water mist to the face and a spoonful of emergency starlight sugar, Till came to — eyes wild, pupils dilated like moons.

“You’re real,” he gasped, clutching Luka’s robe. “I thought you were a simulation!”

“I get that a lot,” Luka said, blushing faintly.

“I sang your entire Nebula Bloom set during my vocal final last semester,” Till continued breathlessly. “I didn’t pass, but the examiner cried. You’re the reason I wanted to be chosen to perform at the Zurien Ambassador Gala!”

“You wrote Silver Orbit Serenade,” Sua added softly, her eyes focused but unreadable.

“And Spiral Lullaby,” Ivan added, arms crossed but voice faintly reverent.

“I liked Frost Sonata,” Mizi said, tossing a glitter pen like a dagger. “It made the alien in my stomach tube cry.”

Everyone stared at her.

“What? She’s a Gravnith. That’s like—emotional for her.”

---

Luka looked around at the group, utterly overwhelmed but glowing with a quiet joy.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I was worried no one would remember my work.”

“You’re like a legend,” Till said, eyes sparkling. “You wrote a duet that melted the Chiral Matriarch of Segment 9.”

“Right. That... wasn’t on purpose.”

---

The day ended with:

Luka offering to help coach their harmonics for the Gala.

Till passing out again when Luka agreed to do a warm-up scale with him.

Sua asking Luka to autograph her lyric notebook. (It had a hidden lock.)

Ivan silently adjusting Luka’s mic pack without being asked.

Mizi slipping a glitter bomb into Luka’s satchel “for later.”

And Luka?

He looked up at the twin moons of Anakt Garden and smiled.

“I think I missed this,” he whispered.

Absolutely. Here's a long continuation of your fanfic, where Luka performs with the Squad during a high-stakes evaluation — and the alien judges enter a cathartic, trance-like state.

---

Title: Moonlight Chorus: Luka Returns to Stage

Setting: Anakt Garden’s Auditorium Stellaris, the largest and most sacred venue on the campus, reserved only for special showcases judged by alien dignitaries.

---

Scene One: Dress Rehearsal Panic

Till was pacing, again.

Actually, "pacing" was too mild. He was speedwalking in rapid, erratic figure eights while muttering, “I can’t breathe. Are those judges out there? They eat sounds. That one’s from the Pyroth Hive—she literally digests vibrations.”

Ivan sat on an amp case, arms folded, eyes closed. “You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do.”

“I had a dream I vomited glitter on the Grr’tsh judge—”

“You already vomited glitter in real life,” Mizi said, calmly braiding beads into her sleeves. “It was during history class. They never forgot.”

Sua was unusually quiet, fingers lightly tapping on her thigh in a five-beat rhythm. “We’re still not balanced. Luka’s tone is lighter than ours. If we mess this up—”

“Let’s not,” came a soft voice.

Everyone turned.

Luka stood near the stage steps, shimmering slightly in the stage lights. He had removed his long robe, now in the Anakt Garden performance uniform — radiant silver threads over black, with constellations etched into the collar. His earpiece glowed. His mic fit snug at his cheek.

"We have exactly four minutes. Let’s rehearse, not worry.”

And when Luka said it like that, even Till shut up.

---

Scene Two: The Performance Begins

The five of them stepped into the light.

The Auditorium Stellaris darkened. Hover-cameras blinked to life, panning to capture every movement. In the judge’s tier, strange beings reclined in gravity-adjusted seats — the crystalline Gl’Varthan Emissary, the octopus-like Drun-Xii Choirmistress, and the entire Pyroth Hive-mind node pulsing in sync. Even the Zurien Ambassador’s glowing eyes were fixed on the stage.

A silence settled.

A ripple of static.

And then — Luka began.

 🌌 A single note. High, weightless, glowing like stardust.

The lights around them began to respond — shifting shades of pale blue and violet, the visual tones matching Luka’s celestial timbre. It wasn’t just heard. It was felt in the spine, like the sensation of a comet brushing too close.

Sua joined next, her deep, controlled alto grounding Luka’s starlight with gravity. Then Ivan, solemn and resonant, brought the harmony into the bones of the auditorium. Mizi followed — her voice crackled with energy, a pulse of joy and glittering rhythm.

Till was last.

He hesitated for just a second… and then Luka glanced at him, smiled.

"With me,” Luka mouthed.

Till opened his mouth and released a silvery, trembling note that somehow completed the sound. Suddenly, the music wasn’t just a song — it was a constellation forming in real-time. Chords looped, layered, spiraled through each other like stars in a binary system.

And then came the bridge.

They all stepped forward — not as five singers, but as a single unit.

Luka extended a hand. Till took it. Mizi spun under the spotlight, throwing stardust trails from her sleeves. Ivan and Sua’s counterharmonies wove together like dark and light matter folding into a nebula.

The song hit its crescendo:

“We are the stars, singing light into the void—

Bound by rhythm, we do not fall, we resound.

From Anakt, to the edge of the galaxies,

We do not disappear — we echo.”

---

Scene Three: The Reaction

The final note floated.

Echoed.

Hung.

And silence fell again.

The judges didn’t move.

The lights didn’t flicker.

It was still.

Until the Gl’Varthan Emissary’s crystal face cracked.

Not in anger — but from emotion. The shattering face emitted a bell-like ringing — the species' highest expression of catharsis. Every shard glowed with resonance.

The Drun-Xii Choirmistress collapsed into a puddle of bioluminescent jelly, mumbling hymns in six languages.

The Pyroth Hive let out a soundwave roar, knocking three floating drones out of the air — which meant their highest possible rating.

Even the Zurien Ambassador…

...stood.

And bowed.

To them.

---

Scene Four: Aftermath

Backstage was chaos.

Mizi screamed. Ivan just sat down and blinked. Sua cried silently, hands shaking. Till? He was hyperventilating.

“Luka,” Till gasped. “What did we just do?”

Luka looked faintly dazed, eyes gleaming with stardust-tears.

"We reminded them,” he said softly, “what it feels like to be heard.”

Chapter Text

“Luka Returns” – Interview Transcript

Host (Anakt Garden Broadcasting):

“First of all, Luka, welcome back. I think everyone watching has the same question on their minds: why now? After so long away from the spotlight, why step forward again?”

Luka:

“…Why not now?” [he says it with the casual shrug of someone who knows the entire galaxy is hanging off his every word.] “I was never really gone, you know. I just didn’t… feel like being seen.”

Host:

“You mean you didn’t want the attention?”

Luka:

“I didn’t want the noise. Attention isn’t the same as being heard. I wanted to be heard when I finally opened my mouth again. And, well—” [he flashes that slow, deliberate smile that instantly trends across half the alien networks.] “—I thought it would be fun to watch everyone panic.”

Host: [laughs nervously]

“Panic they did. We’ve seen aliens literally camping outside Anakt Garden, waiting for any glimpse of you. How does it feel, knowing entire worlds are going… a little crazy for you?”

Luka:

“Crazy?” [tilts his head, golden strands of hair catching the lights like liquid fire.] “I think that’s their problem, not mine.” [he chuckles under his breath, then leans closer to the mic.] “If my face makes them scream, or faint, or fight each other in the streets—that’s on them. I just exist.”

Host:

“So you don’t feel pressure at all?”

Luka:

“I feel… entertained.” [deadpan, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a grin.] “Aliens write poems about me, fight duels over me, dedicate entire shrines to my voice. I should be stressed. But honestly?” [he sits back, relaxed as though he owns the studio.] “I’m curious. I want to see how far they’ll go. How much devotion one boy can pull out of the universe just by standing on stage.”

Host:

“Some would call that dangerous.”

Luka: [eyes gleaming]

“Good.”

Host:

“…Good?”

Luka:

“Yes. It means they’re alive. It means they feel something when I sing. If I didn’t shake them up, if I didn’t stir all that chaos and obsession, then I’d just be another idol.” [he smiles, sharper this time.] “And I’m not just another idol.”

Host:

“Do you see yourself as… something greater?”

Luka:

“I don’t need to see myself as anything. They already decided that for me.” [he laughs, soft but unnerving.] “The aliens chose their obsession. I’m just giving them more of what they want.”

Host:

“…So the rumors that you planned your comeback to cause this galaxy-wide frenzy—are those true?”

Luka:

“…Wouldn’t you like to know?” [He doesn’t answer, just leans back in his chair, crossing his legs, as the camera cuts to his face lingering in the spotlight—his smirk promising more chaos yet to come.]