On a small planet in the habitable zone of a small blue sun, a firstborn prince was delivered, healthy and perfect, to the thrilled kings and their surrogate. There was much rejoicing.
On another less small planet in the habitable zone of a medium yellow sun, a normal baby girl was born, though this was not much remarked on, even by her less than thrilled parents.
At the one year mark, both were walking and talking like the precocious little tots they were. For the prince, each new milestone was marked by the blare of trumpets and no small amount of revelry. For his birthday, there was a galaxy wide holiday, with partygoers all over drinking to the young prince's health.
For the girl's birthday, there was cake, and not much else of note. Her second birthday wasn't much better, and, on her third, there wasn't even cake. Not that the young child seemed to care. Nothing much fazed her. It worried her parents, when they could be bothered to care at all.
On his third birthday the prince got a sister. The sages were pleased to have another heir; after all, only an Alpha could take the throne, and the prince was showing all the signs of being an Omega.
On his seventh birthday, the prince's Omega designation was confirmed when he healed his sister's scraped knee. As a royal Omega mage, and a strong one at that, he would have power, but, unless he mated with an Alpha, he could not take the throne. His sister, who was already showing Alpha traits, would likely take it.
On her seventh birthday, the little girl was kidnapped by aliens, and this is where the story begins.
The little girl, now an adult woman, wiped her brow and looked dully around the cave. She wished she could curse at the rockfall that had buried the seam her team had worked so hard to craft, but she could only growl and hiss in frustration. With a sigh, she shook her head. It had been awhile since she'd missed her tongue.
Her friend Middle Finger, so named for a defiant habit their captors didn't care about, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and began to guide her toward the entrance. She shook him off dismissively and began to try to clear the rubble, but couldn't ignore the buzzing summons of her obedience collar when it came.
They were still in the tunnels, so she flashed Middle Finger the middle finger and a few more signs. -Bastard- she signed. -Why didn't you warn me?-
He smiled mirthlessly at her. -I tried- he signed back. -Now hush, Grey incoming.-
Sometimes, Middle Finger seemed almost prescient, she mused. But that was impossible. Magic didn't exist, right? All the amazing things the Greys did, that was tech, right?
The Grey arrived seconds later to find his two slaves headed towards him. He gave them the stop command, and then began to look them over. He checked their teeth, and, with the same amount of interest, their skin, including their private bits. Last of all, he checked their eyes.
"A rather pretty cerulean," he muttered in his language. "And I think your hair and skin are passable under that dirt." He lifted one of the woman's front paws and examined it. "You'll have to do." Gesturing for her alone to follow, he headed down the passage again.
The woman looked down at the floor, where her front paws padded across the dirty stone. She'd had hands once, she thought wistfully. With thumbs and everything. But the thumbs had been removed at her capture along with her tongue, and her fingertips had been removed to keep her from scratching up the trainers.
She sighed, wondering what would happen to her now. The mining company was going down; she had eavesdropped enough to tell. The new lost seam wouldn't help. She was likely being taken to be sold to some other Greys. She'd have to learn another job, with more command words. The command words might be the tricky part; she didn't want to give away that she understood the language. Playing dumb was surprisingly hard when you were, as her mother had said, too smart for your own good.
They reached the main building, and were loaded by the elevator into a ship. She waited patiently as her grey exchanged her collar's remote and a short guidebook for some credits. Based on the conversation, the new Grey was a pet salesman. This might work out ok, she thought. Pet was better than workhorse, right? Right?
It took her all of a minute to decide she was wrong.
Prince Melchior, future advisor to the leader of the Basilisk people, woke up, rolled over, groaned, and tried to go back to sleep.
"Time to get up, sleepy head," his maid, Emmy, said. Her tail was wagging, he noted sourly. She was in a good mood. "You've got a diplomatic meeting in two hours, and, after that, you have the Soiree. You need to get ready."
Prince Melchior made the effort to sit up. He felt heavy, and sore. Not unusual. "In that case," he sighed, "I need a drink."
"I brought you mixed fruit juice and some breakfast," Emmy told him.
"Not what I meant," the prince said.
Her gaze softened. "You know your dads forbade alcohol."
Melchior smiled mirthlessly. "I don't actually want it. I just..." He sighed.
Emmy's tail wagged in a sympathetic manner. "I know. It's hard, but you're doing so well!"
Melchior laughed bitterly. "It's been two weeks. Tell me that again when I've been off the stuff for longer."
Emmy nodded. "I will, sir. Now, you need to get ready."
Melchior looked down at his scaled hands holding the blanket in his lap. Perfectly ordinary Basilisk hands, if a bit soft. "What's the point, Emmy?"
Emmy spoke softly. "You're the one who refuses to cut your mate off."
Melchior smiled, feeling a momentary bit of cheer which swiftly drained into his matebond. "I know. My choice." It would be easier to keep going for his mate, he reflected, if he knew anything about them.
The woman sat in her tiny cage in the dark. It was cold, and it smelled like animals and their crap.
The prince sighed as he slid into his warm bubble bath. For a second, over the smell of exotic flowers, he thought he caught a whiff of manure. He shivered, goosebumps rising.
The cage was lifted up by two cyclops, or, at least, that was the English word she used in her head for them. They looked like cyclops, with 8 foot frames that bulged with muscles, sparse hair all over their bodies, and one big eye.
As they lifted her cage up, the bars dug into the skin on her hands, rough though it was. She whimpered from the sharp pain.
One cyclops said to another, "How much is this one going for? It's kinda cute, in an anthropomorphic kinda way." The word didn't exactly translate to anthropomorphic, but close enough.
The other cyclops snorted. "More than your sorry ass can afford."
She listened to their good natured bickering as they unloaded more cages, curled up in her crate. She tried to shift position to relieve some of the aches, but ended up in an even more uncomfortable pose, and gave up. Hopefully she'd be sold soon. And hopefully the Greys who sold her wanted to keep the crate.
When the diplomatic discussion was over, the prince left the diplomat in his office at a distinguished pace with a confident smile on his face. It lasted about until he reached the restroom. Gasping, he raced to the toilet and puked.
The head of his personal guard, Captain Steve, came in, frowning in concern. "Are you alright, my prince?"
