-Chapter 1.1 – “The Smiling Girl”-

-Chapter 1.1 – “The Smiling Girl”-

Location: Patam System – K4-Q-Merid-12 – Deep Space

Date: NTC 1446.07.15

Space is always silent.

But sometimes, silence breaks.

A distress signal had dragged the smuggler ship The Koruch into a pocket of stillness.

Wide-bodied, rust-covered, and weary-looking, Koruch drifted just outside the Patam System.

His crew wasn’t tense — to them, this was just another “job.”

Their captain, Korsica, stood on the bridge, arms crossed. His gaze was locked on a blinking signal point on the screen.

Clad in an ornate blue uniform with golden trim and epaulets, Korsica stood with theatrical confidence — one gloved hand raised as if mid-speech, the other resting proudly on a sheathed sword.

His round frame, neatly curled mustache, and ever-present smirk gave him the air of a pompous officer who relished ceremony more than battle.

Thick sunglasses concealed his eyes, but not his self-importance. He looked less like a warrior and more like a man who’d declared himself admiral after commandeering a parade.

Yet behind the flamboyant posture and well-fed arrogance, there was something calculated in his stance — as if he didn’t need to swing a sword to command power.

Then he asked, with a weary kind of curiosity:

Korsica:

“Signal stable?”

Navigator Kerim turned away from the screen to answer Captain Korsica.

Gaunt and weary, he wore a stained olive jumpsuit patched at the knees and elbows. A gas mask hung around his neck, and two rolled documents peeked from his chest pocket. His sunken eyes and unshaven face told of long nights and little hope.

Then he spoke.

Kerim:

“Yeah. Been repeating for 11 minutes.

Low frequency, probably a personal distress beacon.”

Korsica (raising an eyebrow):

“So?”

Kerim:

“So... Standard distress protocol.

Coordinates are fixed. Transmission's been looping nonstop.

My guess? Either engine failure or phase drift after a jump.”

Korsica:

“Alright. Let’s move quickly.

Let’s be done before the Celestial Fleet arrives.”

He sighed, muttering to himself:

Korsica (sighing):

“Imagine that... risking our asses for a scrap of Lightcore

no bigger than a fingernail…”

The crew chuckled at his words, continuing to polish their weapons. Their intentions were clear:

the Koruch wasn’t here to help — it was here to hunt.

The navigation window expanded.

Finally, the source of the signal came into view.

But they were too late.

The ship that had sent the distress signal was a small, luxury model — built for two.

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Its engine compartment had ruptured. The cabin was obliterated.

The hull was torn into three jagged pieces scattered across the void.

All that remained was a cloud of shrapnel and ruin.

Korsica (gritting his teeth):

“We’re late. There’s barely anything left.”

The crew’s mechanic, Thomas, leaned forward.

Broad-shouldered and stained with grease, he looked like he hadn’t rested in days — or cared to.

His wrinkled jumpsuit clung to a heavy, slouched frame, marked with burns and oil spots.

A hammer hung from his belt, along with a mismatched collection of tools stuffed into sagging pockets.

His expression was blank, hovering somewhere between boredom and exhaustion —

like a man who’d seen too much malfunction and not enough glory.

Then he spoke.

Thomas (leaning in):

“Hold on, Captain. Don’t give up so quick.

That’s a Spindle-5... top-tier Lightcore luxury series.

Definitely a rich kid’s toy.”

Korsica:

“Hmmm... So there’s still loot potential.

Let’s do this before the Fleet comes sniffing.

Maybe we’ll find an intact core or a salvable module.”

Kerim:

“We should hurry. If this was some elite brat, the Fleet will show up early.”

And just then — something slammed into Koruch’s forward viewing glass.

“THWACK!”

Everyone on the bridge froze.

A body had hit the exterior window.

Korsica narrowed his eyes.

There was... something on the glass.

A corpse?

Too alive to be dead,

Too dead to be alive.

A young woman. Her posture was rigid.

Her black hair was tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

Her eyes were closed.

She wore a white crop tank with thick straps,

and her burned skin was visible on her shoulders and arms.

Her gray cargo pants didn’t flutter in the vacuum, but they were frayed.

A faded green jacket was tied at her waist.

Her boots looked heavy — armored, almost.

And her face... her face looked alive. But unmoving.

Her cheek was pressed against the glass. Her head tilted to one side.

Her fingers were curled — as if reaching toward something just behind the window.

Korsica (after a few seconds of silence):

“Huh? ...Is that a corpse?”

Kerim (startled):

“Uuuh… No suit? Must’ve been thrown out in the explosion.”

Thomas (laughing):

“Hahaha... The rich kid herself.

Probably the pilot of the toy ship.”

Korsica (angrily):

“Get that off my window. Send the Mutes. Now!”

Kerim (calmly):

“On it.”

Kerim turned and walked toward two Mutes waiting at the edge of the bridge.

Kerim (firmly):

“Go outside. First, remove the body from the forward view glass.

Then recover any salvageable parts from the wreckage.

Move fast — we don’t have much time.”

The Mutes turned and silently headed to the airlock.

In the terminology of the Sublime State,

“Mute” was the designation for all artificially created sentient beings.

They were considered “godless thought objects.”

Their lives held no value —

because it was never accepted that they had life to begin with.

They worked until death.

There were many types of Mutes:

Organic, bionic, cybernetic, android, clone, synthetic, and more.

One of the two was an android —

a silver endoskeleton with yellow sensor eyes and a glacial stare.

The other was organic — a lab-grown mass of muscle,

plodding forward with blank, colorless eyes.

The airlock opened.

The two Mutes silently floated into the void.

They reached the girl.

The android reached out with his right hand and gripped her left arm.

Just as he was about to pull her away—

She opened her eyes.

Bright green.

Awake.

Alive.

The android tried to pull — but her body didn’t budge.

He stopped. Stared. Blankly.

Inside, on the bridge, she was now looking directly at them.

Through the glass. Into their eyes. Unblinking.

Then...

Something happened.

The corners of her eyes shifted.

Her lips parted slightly.

A smile.

But not warm.

Cold.

Silent.

Dangerous.

Korsica’s jaw tightened.

His mind raced:

Korsica (internal):

“She’s not dead…

What is this girl?!

What are my eyes even seeing?”

The crew forgot to breathe.

And then, all at once:

Korsica & Crew (shouting):

“...Whaaaaaaa!?”

Korsica (panicking):

“She... She’s looking at us!?”

Thomas (horrified):

“And she’s smiling!!”

Korsica stepped back, eyes narrowed.

The girl was still smiling.

His thoughts spiraled:

Korsica (internal):

“She’s alive...

And smiling.

This isn’t possible.

What the hell is she?”

The girl — burned and silent —

just kept smiling,

watching them from the other side of the glass.

As if everything was only just beginning.

-Edited for clarity - June 15-

-Chapter 1.2 coming soon-