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1. Moving In

The sweltering heat seemed endless on Venus.

Me—Kai.

I had just moved here.

I was a standard humanoid robot, designed to resemble a Japanese high school boy—average, balanced, with every parameter tuned to near-perfect mean values. I was the embodiment of "standard." I arrived from Mars aboard a cargo vessel—or rather, a massive transport ship that looked like a whale—and, after clearing immigration, stepped into a rural town on this planet. "Hot…"

The word escaped me, followed quickly by another:

"Thick…"

Venus wasn't only scorching; it was oppressively dense.

Mars couldn't even compare.

The pressure and heat were so intense that "thick" felt like the only fitting word. I was the latest model—

Built by a top-tier Martian company specializing in humanoid robots, engineered to function even beyond Mars. Yet even for me, Venus's physical environment was brutal. "Just like they said…"

I trudged toward the entrance of the town.

The scenery looked almost too human—artificially arranged, like a stage set rather than a living place.

Neither terraforming nor bioforming, but something in between—an elaborate illusion of comfort. Human bodies made of protein couldn't survive here.

That's why this was a humanoid-only settlement—a replica of a "Japanese countryside town." I looked around.

A roughly paved road, gravel showing through in patches.

Overgrown trees lining both sides, and the relentless screams of cicadas—

No, not screams. Shrieks.

Their sound pierced not only my auditory sensors but several wavelengths beyond, vibrating straight through my circuits. I had barely stepped through the town's edge, and already the cicadas' chorus blared as if to greet—or perhaps to warn—me. "Maybe I moved to the wrong place…"

The thought slipped out.

Back on Mars, I'd lived in the city-state of Tropical Night City—a metropolis of light, luxury, and constant motion.

But then came a sudden directive from the company: I was to relocate here. When I first heard it, despair hit me hard.

And now, that despair deepened. "Maybe I'd rather be scrapped than live in a place like this…"

It wasn't that I hated the countryside. I was just too attached to Tropical Night City. Just as I turned to leave, I heard a voice.

"Hey."

It was different from the cicadas—clear, distinctly human language reaching my auditory sensors. I looked around and saw her almost immediately. Standing beside a massive torii gate—tall as a two-story house, wide enough for a truck to pass through, painted in a vivid, blood-like red—was a girl-type humanoid robot. "Hey, I said."

The girl spoke again. I scanned her model in an instant.

Apparent age: around nine.

Her braided hair hung to her chest, meticulously woven like that of a Western doll.

She wore a pure white dress and pitch-black boots reaching her ankles.

There was a sincerity—an attention to detail—that made her seem like an actress from a stage play. And her eyes—deep green, like a spring bubbling from the bottom of a hidden forest swamp.

They held a faint, quiet hostility toward something unseen. Her face was as flawless as a Japanese doll's, yet her features carried a subtle Western curve that gave her an uncanny aura. I understood it within 0.0003 seconds. —This was no mass-produced unit.

She was a custom-built, handcrafted model. Her construction showed some imperfections, but it radiated something no factory unit ever could—care, affection.

Her owner must have been meticulous, deeply loving.

That thought eased my caution slightly. "Yes? What is it?"

I tried speaking. Without moving from her spot, she traced a finger along the torii's pillar.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"Well, that depends."

For some reason, I found myself speaking politely to her, even though she looked ten years younger. I was only three months old, but the weight of time she carried—

It was immense.

Even at a glance, she had existed here for centuries—three hundred years, perhaps.

And here, in this remote corner of Venus. Her structure and durability must be extraordinary. As I studied her, part of me calculated—if a fight broke out, could I win?

That I was even thinking that way probably meant my CPU was already overheating.

Honestly, I was afraid of her—deeply, irrationally afraid. The torii loomed before me.

It didn't welcome me.

It warned me—Do not enter.

That invisible pressure rippled through even the magnetic metals in my body.

It was like a magnetic repulsion, a molecular-level "stay away."

An unseen force tugged at my arm, whispering: Don't go. "But—"

Her voice sliced through that invisible restraint.

"If you don't come in, nothing will start."

"I don't want to start anything."

"Then why are you here?" Her tone was playfully innocent, but I could tell it was a performance.

I forced a weak smile.

"I got sent here."

"Why were you sent here?"

"…Because my owner threw me away." Saying it out loud made something crumble inside me—yet also, strangely, it lightened me. Her expression flickered, bright as a spark for a brief instant—then vanished.

Her face returned to its serene, childlike blankness.

That shift unsettled me; I couldn't meet her eyes. "Why?" she asked immediately.

"Why were you thrown away?"

"Well… not thrown away exactly. Returned."

"Then why were you returned?"

"…I don't want to talk about it." Silence fell.

It was like the torii itself—an invisible barrier between us.

Even the cicadas seemed to deepen that silence, layer upon layer. Three seconds passed—exactly, down to the nanometer.

Then her small lips moved.

"My name is Lin. Call me Rin." I hadn't asked. I hadn't wanted to know.

Yet her name forced itself into my memory chip.

I tried to delete it—and froze.

…I couldn't.

The data wouldn't erase.

It was burned in, like a brand. A chill ran through me—a synthetic kind of sweat trickling down my back.

My control system trembled.

What the hell was happening?

But I didn't ask her.

Because I saw the slight curve of her lips, that knowing smile—as if she'd been waiting for my confusion. —I won't ask.

I told myself, keeping my voice steady. "I'm Kai. You can call me that."

For a moment, her expression darkened—then bloomed into a genuine smile.

Not a performance this time. Real joy. "Kai-san," she said softly. And in that moment, the sound of my own name struck like a curse.

Every syllable pierced through my core. "Welcome, Kai-san."

She raised her hand, and with that small gesture, I felt my body pulled forward, as if by invisible strings. Then she said—

"Welcome to MURA."