ThunderCats Fanfiction Project (Ch 4 Episode 1)

The nuclear blast has only just struck, and the flagship is thrown into a violent, disorienting tumble. With systems dead and the void spinning around them, Cheetara must rely on ancient mechanical instruments to save the crew from being lost to the darkness. In the first breath after catastrophe, fear sharpens, grief presses in, and survival hangs by a thread.

The Moment After

Book 1 – Exile and Vigil – Chapter 4, Episode 1

Cheetara heard Jaga’s voice behind her — firm, certain, commanding.

“Panthro — fire.”

She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She felt the shift in the air as Panthro’s hands moved across the weapons console. A heartbeat later, a deep mechanical vibration rolled through the hull — the missile leaving its chamber, the sound carried through metal and bone.

Then Snarf’s voice, high and strained through his respirator mask:

“All ships — brace for nuclear detonation!”

Her pulse spiked.

Nuclear.

She had never seen one detonated — much less in space. She didn’t know what it would do to them. She didn’t know if they were far enough. She didn’t know if—

“Cheetara — move us away from the explosion!”

Jaga’s command cut through her spiraling thoughts.

She reacted instantly.

Her hands gripped the controls, steering the flagship hard away from the blip on her radar where the Mutant ship and its escorts had been. The other Thunderan ships followed her lead, their formation stretching, scattering, trying to outrun what none of them could see.

She didn’t breathe.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t let her mind return to her parents — not now. Not in this moment where hesitation meant death.

She only flew.

And then—

Space behind them ignited.

Not with light.

With force.

A wall of invisible power slammed into the flagship from behind, harder than anything she had ever felt. The ship bucked violently. The controls ripped from her hands. Her body jerked against the harness. Her mask slammed against her face.

Screams erupted behind her — Panthro’s curse, Snarf’s yelp, the children crying out, Tygra’s sharp gasp as his console exploded in sparks.

The lights died. The CPI’s holographic Eye vanished instantly, its orange glow snuffed out in a blink.

Only a few red emergency strips along the floor remained.

Then the ship began to spin.

A slow roll at first.

Then faster.

Then violently.

Cheetara’s stomach lurched as the world turned upside down, then sideways, then upside down again. Her hair floated around her face, drifting like a golden halo in the dim red glow.

She reached for the controls — but they were dead.

The ship didn’t respond.

Nothing responded.

The flagship was tumbling, blind and powerless, thrown like a toy into the void.

She heard Jaga’s voice — strained, distorted by the spin.

“Hold on—!”

Panthro shouted something she couldn’t make out.

The children screamed again — high, panicked, instinctive.

Lion‑O fainted, his small body going limp in the harness.

In the violence of the spin, all three children lost control of their bodies — a natural, overwhelming response to terror and weightlessness, barely noticed amid the chaos.

Snarf’s voice cracked as he tried to calm them, reaching for any thread of comfort he could offer.

Tygra’s console sparked a second time, showering him in embers.

Cheetara’s breath hitched.

This is it.

This is how we die.

Not in battle.

Not in glory.

Not even with time to grieve.

Just… thrown into the dark.

Her parents’ faces flashed in her mind — her mother’s smile, her father’s steady hands, the last time she saw them alive. The last time she would ever see them.

Her throat tightened.

Her vision blurred.

“Please… not like this.”

Her whisper fogged the inside of her mask.

Then — through the chaos — she saw it.

The cluster of mechanical needles still alive on her console.

The spin‑needle, whipping in circles.

The yaw gauge, trembling.

The pitch indicator, jerking wildly.

The axis compass, spinning like it was possessed.

Ancient Thunderan instruments — mechanical, ceremonial, built for moments exactly like this.

Her breath steadied.

Her heartbeat slowed.

She reached for the first stabilizer lever — the mechanical gas‑burst valve. A heavy iron handle connected to a pressurized canister deep within the hull.

If she chose the wrong one, the burst would send them into a deadlier tumble.

If she mistimed it, the ship would tear itself apart.

She watched the needles.

The ship rolled.

She waited.

The needles swung back.

She waited.

The screams behind her blurred into a distant hum.

The ship pitched.

She inhaled.

Now.

She yanked the valve.

A sharp burst of gas fired from the portside stabilizer, pushing against the rotation. The ship shuddered — slowed — but didn’t stop.

Not enough.

Not nearly enough.

She reached for the second lever — the mechanical stabilizer fins.

Her fingers trembled.

If she pulled too early, the ship would jerk violently.

If she pulled too late, the spin would worsen.

If she pulled unevenly, they would tumble end‑over‑end.

She watched the spin‑needle.

It crossed the neutral point.

She pulled.

The lever snapped free with a metallic crack that echoed through the bridge.

Deep within the hull, something ancient deployed:

Spring‑loaded stabilizer fins, independent of the dead power grid.

Even in the vacuum of space, there was resistance — solar wind, drifting dust, the thin breath of the void itself. The fins caught it, bleeding off the ship’s deadly rotation.

The ship shuddered.

Gradually, the spin slowed until the needles steadied.

The screams quieted into gasps.

The ship groaned, metal straining against momentum.

Then —

the tumble eased.

Not fully.

Not safely.

But enough.

Enough for the world to stop turning.

Enough for the crew to breathe.

Enough for Cheetara to sag back into her seat, tears floating from her eyes in perfect spheres.

Silence settled over the bridge — deep, heavy, suffocating.

Jaga stared into the dimness, the weight of Thundera’s destruction pressing into his bones.

Panthro clenched his jaw, whispering to himself that his father and brothers would make it — even as doubt gnawed at him.

Tygra’s eyes unfocused, seeing not the dead console but the memory of Tigrielle and the world that had just died.

WilyKat gripped WilyKit’s limp hand, trying to steady his own breath.

WilyKit hung unconscious beside him, her face pale, her lashes wet.

Each of them saw their parents’ faces.

Each of them felt the loss.

Each of them drifted in the dark with their grief.

Only then did Jaga speak.

“Bridge crew… sound off. Name and check.”

Cheetara swallowed hard, lifted trembling fingers to her mask, and pulled it free. The air tasted metallic, thin, but breathable.

“Cheetara… check.”

Panthro’s voice came next, rough and breathless. “Panthro. Check.”

“Tygra… check,” he whispered, still staring at the dead console.

Snarf’s voice trembled. “Snarf — check.”

Jaga turned his head toward the rear seats.

“WilyKit. WilyKat.”

Silence.

Then soft crying — WilyKit waking, disoriented, tears slipping down her cheeks.

WilyKat’s voice followed, shaking. “I—I don’t know… everything hurts…” He held her hand tightly, both of them trembling.

“We’re scared…” WilyKit sobbed.

Jaga’s voice softened further.

“Lion‑O.”

At first, nothing.

Then Lion‑O gasped awake — and screamed. A raw, panicked, high‑pitched wail that cut through the dim red light. Not words. Just terror.

“Lion‑O,” Jaga said, trying to steady him. “Lion‑O, breathe. You’re safe. You’re—”

“I want my mom!” Lion‑O sobbed. “I want my dad! I want my mom!”

Jaga’s face tightened — grief, guilt, helplessness.

Snarf unbuckled himself clumsily, hands shaking, and pushed off toward the children, floating awkwardly in the weightless air. He reached Lion‑O first, wrapping his arms around him. Then he looked to the twins — still strapped in, still crying — and stretched out a hand until he could touch WilyKit’s fingers. WilyKat held her other hand tightly, their palms cold and sweaty.

“I’m here,” Snarf whispered, voice trembling. “You’re not alone… we’re all here.”

Lion‑O clung to him, sobbing into his fur.

The bridge exhaled — not in relief, but in shared sorrow.

Jaga closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke softly:

“Good. All of you remain in your seats. Do not unbuckle. Your bodies need time to recover from the spin.”

Cheetara leaned back, chest rising and falling rapidly, her hands still trembling from the stabilizer levers. Sweat clung to her hair. Her breath shook.

She had saved them.

But she didn’t feel like a hero.

She felt like someone who had almost died.

Someone who had lost everything.

Someone who wasn’t sure how they were still alive.

The ship drifted in silence.

And for the first time since the shockwave hit, the crew could breathe.

***

Thus ends The Moment After.

In the wake of fire and silence, the ark of Thundera drifts wounded yet unbroken.

The crew has drawn breath, the children have been gathered close, and the first spark of survival has returned to the dark.

The path ahead remains unknown, but the covenant endures.

Continue the Saga

Click to read the saga from the beginning → Link to the Prologue

Click to read the previous episode → Episode 3.3

Click to read the next episode → Episode 4.2

Disclaimer

This work is a piece of fan fiction inspired by the ThunderCats franchise. All characters, settings, and original concepts from ThunderCats are the property of their respective rights holders. I do not own the rights to ThunderCats, nor do I claim any affiliation with its owners. This story is a transformative retelling created for creative expression and audience engagement, not as a commercial product.

AI Collaboration Statement

In creating this work, I collaborated with Microsoft Copilot as a creative tool within my writing process. Every element of this saga — its emotional architecture, mythic logic, themes, and direction — originates from my design. Copilot assisted by generating draft language in response to the direction and creative vision I provided. I then revised, reshaped, and rewrote those drafts extensively, ensuring the final text reflects my voice, my choices, and my vision. This is a guided, intentional collaboration that honors both the craft of writing and the legacy of the original ThunderCats universe.