Silence Shattered by Hunger
Supply space is silent. With engines off and coasting on inertia, the ship feels like a tomb. That hush is my oldest friend—and the sickness gnawing at my guts. I'd have drowned in nightmares alone, but the silence broke.
“……”
A gaze prickling my back. Small, light breaths. The faint rustle of fabric. My cramped Night Raven had a new sound.
I turned from the cockpit. A small, fragile child.
“Hey.”
The kid, crouched in the corner of the cabin, looked up at my call. Red eyes peered through jet-black hair. A bit more life than when I first found her, but still pale and gaunt.
“No name? ID code or something?”
Old military interrogation habit slipped out. The kid gave no answer—just tilted her head.
Can't talk? Or won't? She'd said “hungry” back at the lab, so not that.
“Hah… yeah. My fault for expecting anything.”
I sighed hard, scratching my head. She eyed the rags she wore. The torn lab gown from the facility—faded label on the collar with a barcode.
[Project: EVE-108]
“…Eve?”
I muttered, and her gaze flicked to my mouth. A reaction?
“Project Eve, huh. Apex naming sense sucks.”
The first woman—slapping a human namesake on something they twisted into a monster. Sick humor.
“Alright, Eve. I'm… Kal. One rule: on this ship, you obey the captain—me—absolutely. Got it?”
Eve just stared. What a pain. I nodded at her exaggeratedly, and she clumsily mimicked it.
She's got learning smarts.
I turned back to the controls. Day three of this weird cohabitation. We were still sizing each other up.
*
The problem hit faster and more practically than expected. Mealtime.
I pulled one of the last nutrient packs from storage and tossed it to Eve.
“Here. Dinner.”
She caught it smoothly now. Glanced at me, then—zzzrreeeak.
Grotesque, wet rip. Flesh split from chest to navel. A dark red abyss yawned inside. Pure visceral revulsion.
Eve shoved the pack whole into that maw. Muscles writhed, gulping it down like a snake swallowing prey.
But how's her clothes fine?
Weird thoughts after a few days of this spectacle.
“Hiii…”
Still hungry after, she whined up at me. Skin flakier than days ago, eyes sunken.
I rummaged the dwindling nutrient crates, frowning. Consumption way too fast. No regrets on bringing her, but the sigh came anyway.
The moment a faint line traced her chest for my pack—
“Hold up.”
I raised a hand, voice low. She froze. Red eyes questioned me, head tilted like why?
“Don't eat it like that.”
I approached, knelt to her eye level. Tapped not her chest, but those small red lips with my fingertip.
“Here.”
She blinked, uncomprehending. Pure instinct—biggest, easiest mouth for hunger.
“Tch, no.”
Gently gripped her wrist, stopped her. Tore the pack open, waved it under her nose. Sweet synth scent wafted; her eyes tracked it.
Pressed the end to her lips. “Ahh. Open up.”
I gaped mine wide in demo. Hesitant, she parted hers carefully. Neat little teeth, red tongue—pure human child mouth.
Squeezed gel in. New texture paused her, then she chewed and gulped.
No horrific split. Good.
“There you go. Like that.”
Slow squeezes till empty. Feeding someone's no picnic. Thumbed a splatter from her lip; soft, warm cheek against my callused finger.
Just looks like a kid like this…
Something itched in my chest. If no army, no war, normal life with a family… this the feeling? Home from work, feeding your daughter—mundane peace.
…Idiot. Sentiment's a luxury.
Tap, tap. Small hand tugged my clothes, snapping reverie. Eve shook the empty pack upside down. Nothing. Sucked it desperately, stared up.
Then eyed the finger I'd wiped her with—opened wide, lunging.
“!”
I jerked back. “What the hell are you—”
Her eyes stopped me. Crystal clear: more.
“…That's three already. Three days' combat rations for a regular grunt.”
Eyes still hollow as her gut. Pointed at the crates. More. Primal demand.
Frowned, tapped my wrist terminal. Basic bio-scan on her.
> BEEP.
> Target analysis complete.
> Status: Severe malnutrition. Energy supply insufficient vs metabolic rate. Intake efficiency <15%.
Red warnings hardened my face. Teaching human-mouth eating didn't help her. Synth carbs and vitamins couldn't fuel that freakish body.
Her whines weren't spoiled. Survival signals.
War beasts scarfed massive protein for their metabolism. Same here.
Eve was withering beside me.
Responsibility crushed like a boulder. I brought her. Decided to save her. Can't let her starve.
“Guess we gotta resupply.”
I glared at the sector map. Position: border of Sector 12 and the Outer Rim. Nearest civ world Terra Nova—Fed surveillance thick.
No Terra Nova. Port scanners ping Eve as non-human besides me. Apex intel nails my spot in ten minutes.
One choice left. Cleaner dives. Fists over law, cash over IDs. Fed blind spot.
“…Scarab Station.”
Remodeled dead mining outpost. Black market, smuggler pit. Death trap for civvies—home turf for me.
“Eve.”
“?”
Beckoned her to the spare copilot seat.
“Rapid transit.”
Engines roared. Night Raven's ancient guts screamed into acceleration, devouring dark.
* * *
Scarab Station looked just like a giant scarab's dump. Asteroid gutted, Frankenstein'd with scrap and hull parts—ugly as sin.
“Waa.”
Eve's first vocal wonder, face mashed to the viewport, eyes sparkling.
“Cool, huh? Junkyard. Where guys like us scrape by.”
But her reaction felt off. Not sightseeing. Red pupils pulsed—contract, dilate—like tracking something.
What? Not just curiosity. Like… scanning ahead.
Her stare pierced past garish neon signs, into the guts.
Gruff voice crackled over speakers.
“Fuel and repairs. Cargo's scrap junk. Taking Bay 7. Docking fee in cash.”
No hassle. Docked smooth as ever. Thud, green pressure-stabilized light.
Up, grabbed my battered bag. Rare metals from last battlefield—good cash for food, fuel.
“Eve, listen good.”
Gripped her shoulder, locked eyes.
“You don't open this hatch. No matter what. That's an order. Got it?”
Stared, nodded. Eyes unnervingly deep—did she get it, or…?
“…Stay put.”
Extra worry-words. Popped the hatch, scanned terrain and exits on reflex, headed into the station.