2233
S.S. Star Forge
There were no alarms at first.
That was what Kor would remember most clearly, even years later when memory had blurred the edges of everything else.
Not the chaos.
Not the fire.
Not even the moment everything ended.
It was the silence before it.
The S.S. Star Forge had always been alive.
It was not merely a vessel—it was a world unto itself. A massive deep-space industrial construct, equal parts shipyard, refinery, and fabrication hub, its corridors thrummed constantly with energy. The low vibration of power systems, the distant rhythm of machinery, the hum of voices and movement—life was everywhere within it.
Silence did not belong there.
But on that day—
It did.
Kor stood alone in the observation corridor outside one of the primary fabrication bays, his hands resting lightly against the cool metal railing as he stared through the reinforced viewport.
Beyond the glass, a skeletal structure floated in partial assembly, illuminated by work lights and drifting construction drones. It should have been a scene of progress, of purpose.
Instead, it felt… wrong.
The stillness pressed in around him, subtle but unmistakable. Even the background hum of the ship seemed uneven, like something struggling to maintain rhythm.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass.
Younger. Softer. Unmarked.
Not yet the man he would become.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
Kor didn’t need to turn.
He knew that cadence anywhere.
His father.
“You feel it too,” his father said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
Kor kept his gaze forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
“…Something’s wrong,” he said.
A long pause followed, filled with unspoken understanding.
Then—
“Yes.”
The first tremor came seconds later.
It wasn’t violent, not at first. It was deep—structural—like the ship itself shifting under unseen strain. The deck beneath Kor’s boots vibrated in a way he had never felt before, not the steady pulse of machinery, but something unstable.
The lights flickered—not failing, but struggling to hold.
Then the alarms began.
Everything changed all at once.
Red emergency strobes ignited along the corridor walls, bathing everything in harsh, pulsing light. Klaxons screamed to life, their sharp, relentless tone cutting through the air. Overhead comm channels erupted into overlapping voices—fragmented, urgent, already breaking apart.
“Containment breach—”
“Deck twelve is gone—”
“We’re losing the—”
Static swallowed the rest.
There was no mention of the Orion pirates who’d found the ship and crew working on a project … alone in the vacuum of deep space.
Nor their attack without mercy with an intention none would remain alive, leaving the pirates free to pick their bones clean.
Only the ship in crisis … That’s all those aboard down in the bowels of the ship knew in the moment.
Kor turned sharply, heart beginning to race.
“What’s happening?”
His father didn’t answer immediately.
He was already moving—fast, controlled—gripping Kor’s arm and pulling him into motion.
“Internal cascade,” he said, voice steady despite the chaos rising around them. “Core systems—reaction failure. It’s spreading faster than they can contain it.”
Kor struggled to keep pace.
“Can they stop it?”
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
More final.
“No.”
They pair ran.
Corridors that had once felt expansive now seemed impossibly narrow, choked with people moving in every direction at once. Some shouted orders, called out names, tried to impose order on something that was already unraveling beyond control.
Smoke began to seep through the ventilation grates, thin at first, then thickening. The air took on a harsh metallic bite—burning circuitry, ruptured plasma conduits, overheated systems failing all at once.
Kor stumbled as the deck lurched violently, his father catching him instantly, pulling him upright with practiced strength.
“Stay with me.”
“I am,” Kor breathed, unsteady but determined.
They reached a junction— and stopped.
The path ahead no longer existed.
It hadn’t been blocked, had simply been erased.
A section of the ship had been torn open to vacuum, the jagged edges of bulkhead and deck plating framing an unstable emergency forcefield that flickered erratically across the breach. Beyond it, space stretched — cold, silent, indifferent.
Stars burned in the distance.
Unreachable.
Kor stared, frozen for a moment.
The Star Forge… was coming apart.
“This way.”
His father’s grip tightened, pulling him toward a secondary corridor—one Kor had never seen before, One narrower and less traveled.
“Where are we going?” Kor asked, forcing himself to move again.
“Escape pods.”
The words hit harder than the alarms.
Kor’s chest tightened instantly.
“No—we need to help. We can’t just leave—”
His father stopped.
Turned.
For the first time in Kor’s life, he saw something in his father’s eyes that had never been there before.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t panic.
It was something far worse.
Finality.
“There’s no time,” his father said.
They reached the pod bay side-by-side … or what remained of it.
Half the chamber had already been destroyed.
Structural beams were twisted and broken, sections of the outer wall exposed to space where emergency containment fields struggled to hold.
Several pods were missing—launched or torn free. Others hung damaged, sparking, their systems dead or dying.
Only one remained intact.
His father moved without hesitation, forcing open the hatch manually, overriding the system locks with practiced precision.
“Get in.”
Kor didn’t move.
“…No.”
The word came out small.
But it held.
“We go together,” Kor said, stepping forward. “There’s space—we can—”
“There isn’t time.”
“We can make time!”
“Kor—”
“No!” His voice broke, emotion finally cracking through. “We’re not—you’re not—”
The ship shuddered again, far more violently this time.
Deep within the Star Forge, something catastrophic gave way—a distant, thunderous rupture that echoed through the structure like a death knell.
The lights dimmed.
For just a moment.
His father stepped closer.
Placed both hands firmly on Kor’s shoulders.
“You listen to me.”
Kor tried to speak. Tried to argue.
But the words wouldn’t come.
His father sought how to squeeze a lifetime of words into a single moment and failed.
“You survive this,” he said …. holding the eyes of his son.
Not we.
You.
Kor shook his head, tears blurring his vision.
“No… no, we—”
His father pulled him into a brief, crushing embrace.
Strong. Certain. Final.
All he wanted to say. … All the words he had no time for, were squeezed into that singular embrace.
“I don’t have time to argue with you,” he said, voice quieter now.
Then, softer—
“…I’m proud of you.”
Something inside Kor broke.
He grabbed at him, desperate.
“Come with me!”
His father didn’t pull away.
But he didn’t step forward either.
“Someone has to stay,” he said. “Someone has to hold it together long enough for others to get clear.”
Another tremor rocked the bay—closer now, more violent.
“That’s not your job!” Kor shouted.
“It is now.”
There was no anger in his voice.
No hesitation.
The first explosion tore through the deck behind them.
A wave of heat and force surged forward, slamming Kor sideways into the edge of the pod’s frame. Pain exploded across his face—sharp, blinding—as debris struck him just above and across his left eye.
He cried out, vision fragmenting.
Warm blood ran down his cheek even as the heat of an electrical burn punctuated the pain of his heart.
His father was already moving.
He grabbed Kor—lifting him with sheer force—and shoved him into the pod.
Kor tried to resist.
Tried to fight his way back out.
But his father was faster.
Stronger.
Unyielding.
The hatch slammed shut.
Kor hit the interior panel, scrambling forward, pounding against the sealed door.
“No! NO—OPEN IT!”
Through the small viewport, he saw his father one last time.
Standing there.
Framed by fire, smoke, and failing light.
He didn’t try to open the pod.
He didn’t hesitate.
He simply looked at him.
And gave the smallest nod.
Then he hit the manual launch.
The world dropped away.
The pod ejected violently, spinning into open space as the Star Forge filled the viewport behind him.
Kor slammed against the restraints as the pod stabilized, his breath ragged, his vision still blurred by pain and shock.
“Turn around—turn around—!”
But the pod was already aligned.
Already pulling distance.
Already too far.
He saw everything.
The vultures circling. … The Star Forge tearing itself apart.
Sections collapsing inward as cascading explosions rippled along its structure like a chain reaction of dying stars. Escape pods—too few—scattered into the void. Debris spun outward in chaotic silence.
And then—
The core went.
A light.
Blinding.
Absolute.
The Star Forge was simply… gone.
Kor stared.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
His reflection stared back at him in the viewport glass.
Blood streaked across his face, running from the wound over his left eye.
His eyes were wide.
Empty.
His mother had died years before.
Quietly. Naturally.
He had mourned her.
He had understood it.
This—
This was something else.
There was no understanding.
No closure.
No goodbye.
Just absence.
In a single moment—
He had lost his father.
His home.
His life.
Everything.
The pod drifted in silence.
Kor raised a shaking hand and pressed it against the viewport.
Against nothing.
Against the place where everything had been.
And for the first time—
He felt it.
Not grief. Not yet.
Something colder, sharper.
Alone.
That was the moment T’Korvaq Alan Hawke became an orphan.
And somewhere deep beneath the shock and the pain—
Something else took root.
Not weakness.
Not despair.
Resolve.
A scar would always cross over his left eye, but it would heal.
In time … heal.
The rest of him—
Would not.
—
Respectfully,
T’Korvaq Alan Hawke
Future CO, U.S.S. Mythos
——-OUT OF STORY——-
The above is the origin story of Kor Hawke (Callsign: “Fenrir”) who is a new character of mine.
But with this character, I wanted to begin his journey by showing where he comes from so you can better understand why he goes where he goes, in the manner he goes.