Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Girl from the Moon
The moon was a miserable, frozen rock in the arse end of space, the kind of place that made you wonder if the universe had a personal grudge against anything with a pulse. Starbug touched down with all the grace of a drunk shopping trolley, kicking up clouds of grey dust that swirled around the landing struts like they were personally offended.
Lister was first out, boots crunching on the frost, dreads swinging as he squinted at the half-buried wreck of the other ship.
“Smeg,” he muttered, pulling his battered leather jacket tighter. “Looks like she’s been here a while. Hope she’s not a cannibal. Or worse - someone who prefers mild korma.”
Rimmer marched down the ramp right behind him in a painfully crisp, standard issue beige technician's shirt, the tie knotted so tightly it looked like a hazard to his structural integrity. The glowing “H” on his forehead shone like a beacon of unearned self importance.
“Keep your eyes open, Lister,” he barked, his eyes darting to the shadows. “This could be a Polymorph. Or a GELF trap. Or, and I shudder to suggest it, a commissioned officer. With a clipboard.”
Kryten followed, an industrial polishing cloth already in hand. “One life sign detected, sirs. Female. Human. Remarkably well preserved for someone who has been in stasis for approximately seven years, according to the wreckage's telemetry. Though I am afraid her garments have suffered catastrophic structural failure.”
The Cat sauntered out last, stepping over a puddle of frozen coolant as if it were toxic sludge. “Catastrophic? It’s a tragedy! Seven years on this frozen toilet and she’s wearing that? I’ve seen better dressed asteroids. Look at the state of that hemline!”
They found her inside the shattered cockpit: one solitary working stasis booth, its emergency lights still blinking weakly. Holly’s pixelated, deadpan face appeared on the small, cracked monitor beside it.
“Alright, dudes. Got a live one. Name’s Y/N. Junior Science Officer on the Canary. Crash landed, crawled into the booth before the air ran out. Lucky girl. Or unlucky, depending on how you feel about spending the rest of eternity with a bloke who keeps his toenail clippings in a jar.”
The booth hissed open with a cloud of freezing vapour. Y/N sat up slowly, blinking against the sudden harsh light, long blonde hair falling messily around her shoulders. She was still wearing what remained of her uniform - the standard issue top hacked into a chaotic cropped tank, paired with a drastically shortened skirt and military grade leather boots.
Lister broke into a huge, friendly grin, completely unfazed by the wreckage.
“Alright, love? Welcome to the worst rescue in history. I’m Lister. This is Rimmer, the Cat, Kryten, and the floating head is Holly. You’re safe now. Sort of. We’ve got beer. And if you like drinking and talking absolute bollocks, you’re gonna fit right in.”
Y/N stared at the ragtag group for a long moment, taking in the dreadlocks, the sparkling silver suit, the mechanoid, and the glowing letter 'H'. She let out a tired, slightly dazed laugh.
“Safe? On a ship that looks like it lost a fight with a skip? I’ll take it. As long as the beer’s cold.”
Rimmer stepped forward, ramrod straight. He executed a flawless, incredibly convoluted Space Corps salute - a sequence involving five distinct wrist movements and a sharp nod.
“Senior Technician Arnold J. Rimmer, BSc, SSc,” he announced stiffly. “I’ll have you know the mother vessel is a fine example of Jupiter Mining Corporation engineering. When it’s not on fire. Or falling apart. Try to refrain from touching anything. Or breathing too heavily. Or existing in a way that might violate Space Corps Directive 142.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth twitching as she looked him up and down.
“Nice to meet you too, Rimmer. Don't worry, I'm far too tired to violate any of your directives today.”
Lister slung a casual arm around her shoulders without asking, already steering her toward the Starbug airlock.
“Ignore him. He's world champion at talking bollocks. Thinks he's the Iron Duke.”
Rimmer bristled, marching briskly behind them. “I beg your pardon, Lister! I do not talk bollocks! I discuss matters of vital tactical importance! Such as the fact that this young lady is probably carrying all manner of unknown pathogens after seven years in a discount freezer! I want a full medical scan, Kryten. Twice. With the big probe.”
Kryten nodded primly. “Of course, sir. Though I should point out that her vital signs are excellent. Almost suspiciously so. Perhaps she is a highly advanced, cybernetic assassin.”
The Cat flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve, trailing behind. “As long as she knows how to accessorise properly once we get back to the ship, I don’t care if she’s an assassin, a hologram, or a talking toaster. We have got to do something about that hair.”
Y/N laughed again, brighter this time, as Lister helped her up the ramp.
“Seven years in a box and the first thing I get is a fashion critique and the threat of a medical probe. This ship is going to be fun, isn’t it?”
Holly’s voice crackled cheerfully over the comms as the shuttle's engines whined to life.
“Welcome aboard, Y/N. Try not to break the hologram too quickly. He’s fragile.”
Rimmer, standing stiffly at the back of the shuttle, nervously adjusting his perfectly tight tie, muttered under his breath.
“Smeg. This is going to be an absolute disaster.”
But when Y/N glanced back at him from the copilot seat and gave him a small, cheeky smile, his projection flickered once - a momentary glitch in his rigid programming that felt suspiciously, terrifyingly, like hope.
He quickly looked away, clearing his throat loudly.
“Smeg,” he muttered again. “A total disaster.”