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In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The twins, Luka and Lev, took charge of providing the drinks for the partygoers, occasioning a number of remarks on them being the most handsome barmen anyone had ever seen. Tundra and Tala had come up with an idea to replace the advertised Friday quiz night, notwithstanding that nobody knew if it was Friday or not.
After a couple of drinks the survivors were relaxed and jovial. It was almost as if the setting, as well as the alcohol, had resurrected the idea of socialising, being carefree and social and cracking jokes, simply because it was the role one played in such a setting.
Tala signaled to Tundra. It was time to present the quiz. Tundra reached into her bag for the wad of postcards, stood up and followed Tala to stand in front of the bar and face the gathering.
“Can I have your attention, please!” shouted Tala, quite unnecessarily as everyone was looking at them anyway. “There are no wrong answers in this quiz. The winners will be the ones who can provide a personal anecdote about the places pictured on these cards. In the event of nobody having a personal anecdote about a particular place, a general historical reference will be considered.”
“And if anyone recognises any of the people on the back of the postcard, either the sender or the recipient, ” added Tundra who had read the postcards already, “They will win the first prize of The Golden Trowel!”
A buzz of excitement rippled through the pub.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert
The Second Murder
It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.
Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.
Mandrake was both dead and not dead.
“Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”
Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”
Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”
Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”
Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:
“I was… murdered.”
Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.
Upper Decks Carnival
Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.
The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.
“Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”
The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.
A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.
Signal detected…
Beacon coordinates triangulating…
…origin: Earth…Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.
She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.
Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert
The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.
And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.
Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”
Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”
Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”
He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.
Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”
Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”
Marlowe didn’t hear them.
Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.
And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.
He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
After a short rest, Molly, Gregor and Petro ventured outside to wander around before the rain started.
“Az Aranysimító,” Molly read the sign above the door. “Nemzetközi Likőrök. What does that say, Petro?”
The old man smiled at Molly, a rare gleam in his rheumy eye. “Fancy a night out, old gal? It’s a pub, The Golden Trowel. International liquors, too. Pénteki Kvízestek,” Petro added, “Quiz nights on Fridays. I wonder if it’s Friday today?”
“Ha! Who knows what day of the week it is.” Molly took Petro’s arm, coquettishly accepting the date. “I wonder if they have any gin.”
“Count me in for a booze up,” Gregor said trying not to look miffed. “Now, now, boys,” laughed Molly, thoroughly enjoying herself.
“What are you all laughing at?” Vera joined them, cradling a selection of fruits held in her voluminous skirt. Gregor averted his eyes from the sight of her purple veined thighs. He said, “Come on, let’s go inside and find you a crate for those.”
Brushing aside the dusty cobwebs, they made their way to the bar, miraculously and marvellously well stocked. Gregor emptied a crate of empty bottles for Vera, while Petro surveyed the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Molly stood transfixed looking at a large square painting on the wall. A golden trowel was depicted, on a broken mosaic in a rich combination of terra sigillata orange and robins egg blue colours. Along the bottom of the picture were the words
“Nem minden darab illik rá első pillantásra. Ülj le a töredékekkel, mielőtt megpróbálnád összekényszeríteni őket.”
Triumphantly, Petro handed a nearly full bottle of Larios gin to Molly. “I’ll get you a glass but we may need to get Finja in here, they’re all very dirty. That’s nice,” he said, looking up at the picture.
“Not every piece fits at first glance. Sit with the fragments before trying to force them together.”
“Oh, I like that!” exclaimed Molly, giving Petro a grateful smile. “I’d never have known that if you hadn’t been here.”
Petro’s chest swelled with pride and happiness. It was the first time in many years that he’d felt useful to anyone.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
“We were heading that way anyway,” Molly informed the others. She was pleased with the decision to head towards Hungary, or what used to be known as Hungary.
“Slowly heading that way,” interjected Tundra. “We spent years roaming around Ukraine and never saw a sign of survivors anywhere.”
“And I wanted to go home,” continued Molly. “Or try to, anyway. I’m very old, you know,” she added, as if they might not have noticed.
“I’ve never even been outside Ukraine,” said Yulia. “How exciting!”
Anya gave her a withering look. “You can send some postcards,” she said which caused a general tittering about the absurdity of the idea.
Yulia returned the look and said sharply, ” I plan to draw in my sketchbook all the new sights.”
“While we’re foraging for food and building campfires and washing our knickers in streams?” snorted Finja.
“Does anyone actually know where this city is that we’re heading for? And the way there?” asked Gregor, “Because if it’s any help,” he added, rummaging in his backpack, “I saved this.” Triumphantly we waved a battered old folded map.
It was the first time in years that anyone had paid the old man any attention. Mikhail, Anya and Jian rushed over to him, eager to have a look. As their hands reached for the fragile map, Gregor clapsed it close to his chest, savouring his moment of glory.
“Ha!” he said, “Ha! Nobody wanted paper maps, but I knew it would come in handy one day!”
“Well done, Gregor” Molly said loudly. “A man after my own heart! I also have a paper map!” Tundra beamed happily at her great grandmother.
An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.
“Ok, calm down everyone.” Anya stepped in to organise the situation. “Someone spread out a blanket. Let’s have a look at these maps ~ carefully! Stand back, everyone.”
Reluctantly, Molly and Gregor handed the maps to Anya, allowing her to slowly open them and spread them out. The folds had worn away completely in parts. Pebbles were collected to hold down the corners and protect the delicate paper from the breeze.
“Here, look” Mikhail pointed. “Here’s where we were at the asylum. Middle of nowhere. And here,” he pointed to a position slightly westwards, “Is where we are now. As you can see, the Hungarian border is close.”
“Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.
Mikhail frowned and pored over the map. “Eastwards is all we can say for sure. Probably in the direction of Mukachevo, but Molly and Tundra said there were no survivors there. We just don’t know.”
“Yet,” added Jian, a man of few words.
“And where are we aiming for?” asked Finja.
“Nyíregyháza,” replied Mikhail, pointing at the map. “Should take us three or four days. Maybe a bit longer,” he added, glancing at Molly and Gregor.
“You’ll not outwalk Berlingo,” Molly snorted, “And I for one will be jolly glad to get back to some places that I can pronounce. And spell. Never did get a grip on that Cyrillic, I’d have been lost without Tundra.” Tundra beamed again at her grandmother. “And Hungarian names are only a tad better.”
“I can help you there,” Petro spoke up for the first time.
“You, help?” Anya said in astonishment, ” All you’ve ever done is complain!”
“Nobody has ever needed me, that’s why. I’m Hungarian. Surprised, are you? Nobody ever wanted to know where I was from. Nobody ever wanted my help with anything.”
“We’re all very glad you can help us now, Petro,” Molly said kindly, throwing a severe glance around the group. Tundra beamed proudly at Molly again.
“It’s an easy enough journey,” Petro addressed Molly directly, “Mostly agricultural plains. Well, they were agricultural anyway. Might be a good chance of feral chickens and self propagated crops, and the like. Finding water shouldn’t be a problem either. Used to be a lovely area,” Petro grew wistful. “I might go back to my village,” his voice trailed off as his mind returned to his childhood. “Never thought I’d ever see it again.”
“Well never mind that now,” Anya butted in rudely, “We need to make a start.” She began to carefully fold up the maps.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Roberto, darling, pass the figs,” Liz said with a gracious smile.
“And as for you, Godfrey, you may address me as Elizabeth henceforward, to prevent further misunderstandings. My books are ELIZABETH Tatler, not that bumptious trash by that LIZ Tattler.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
“I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff. Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it. Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”
Gregor didn’t respond immediately. He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind. Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”
Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication. People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”
“I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback. I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.” A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”
Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.
The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?
“Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”
Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude. Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.
She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go. Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which appeared to be the direction the truck had come from. Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.
“If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian. “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”
“There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”
“We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.
“We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”
“More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives
Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.
“Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”
Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.
He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.
“Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”
“Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”
Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.
She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”
Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”
Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.
A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.
Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.
“Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
Sidon, 1157 AD.Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.
He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.
It came as a gift.
It was a curse.
His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.
And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.
‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’
And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.
It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.
Which life was his own.
He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.
But Edric had broken that vow.
Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…
He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”
Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”
Seren shook her head distractedly.
“It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”
Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.
Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”
Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”
Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”
“Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.
Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.
In reply to: Helix Mysteries – Inside the Case
Some pictures selections
Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene
A cinematic sci-fi mini-scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. In the industrial depths of the ship, a futuristic drying machine hums ominously, crime scene tape lazily flickering in artificial gravity. Evie, a sharp-eyed investigator in a sleek yet practical uniform, stands with arms crossed, listening intently. Beside her, a translucent, retro-stylized holographic detective—Trevor Pee Marshall (TP)—adjusts his tiny mustache with a flourish, pointing dramatically at the drying machine with his cane. The air is thick with mystery, the ship’s high-tech environment reflecting off Evie’s determined face while TP’s flickering presence adds an almost comedic contrast. A perfect blend of noir and high-tech detective intrigue.
Riven Holt and Zoya Kade Confronting Each Other in a Dimly Lit Corridor
A dramatic, cinematic sci-fi scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. Riven Holt, a disciplined young officer with sharp features, stands in a high-tech corridor, his arms crossed, jaw tense—exuding authority and restraint. Opposite him, Zoya Kade, a sharp-eyed, wiry 83-year-old scientist-prophet, leans slightly forward, her mismatched layered robes adorned with tiny artifacts—beads, old circuits, and a fragment of a key. Her silver-white braid gleams under the soft emergency lighting, her piercing gaze challenging him. The corridor hums with unseen energy, a subtle red glow from a “restricted access” sign casting elongated shadows. Their confrontation is palpable—a struggle between order and untamed knowledge, hierarchy and rebellion. In the background, the walls of Helix 25 curve sleekly, high-tech yet strangely claustrophobic, reinforcing the ship’s ever-present watchfulness.
Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants
A richly detailed sci-fi portrait of Romualdo, the ship’s gardener, standing amidst the vibrant greenery of the Jardenery. He is a rugged yet gentle figure, dressed in a simple work jumpsuit with soil-streaked hands, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His eyes scan an old, well-worn book—one of Liz Tattler’s novels—that Dr. Amara Voss gave him for his collection. The glowing plants cast an ethereal blue-green light over him, creating an atmosphere both peaceful and mysterious. In the background, the towering vines and suspended hydroponic trays hint at the ship’s careful balance between survival and serenity.
Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space
A surreal, cinematic sci-fi composition split into two mirrored halves, reflecting a mysterious connection across vast distances. On one side, Finja, a wiry, intense woman with an almost obsessive neatness, walks through the overgrown ruins of post-apocalyptic Earth, her expression distant as she “listens” to unseen voices. Dust lingers in the air, catching the golden morning light, and she mutters to herself about cleanliness. In her reflection, on the other side of the image, is Finkley, a no-nonsense crew member aboard the gleaming, futuristic halls of Helix 25. She stands with hands on her hips, barking orders at small cleaning bots as they maintain the ship’s pristine corridors. The lighting is cold and artificial, sterile in contrast to the dust-filled Earth. Yet, both women share a strange symmetry—gesturing in unison as if unknowingly mirroring one another across time and space. A faint, ghostly thread of light suggests their telepathic bond, making the impossible feel eerily real.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery
Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.
Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.
Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”
Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.
A flicker of light.
“Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”
Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.
“No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.
The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.
Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”
Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”
Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”
Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”
Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”
Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”
Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.
Amara continued “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”
Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”
Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”
TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”
Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”
Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.
“Herbert?”
They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.
Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”
Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”
Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”
Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”
Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”
Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.
“Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”
Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”
Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.
She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”
Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”
Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”
Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”
TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”
Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”
As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The Survivors:
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”
“So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”
“Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.
Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”
“Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.
“Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”
Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”
“I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.
Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”
Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.
She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”
Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”
Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”
“It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”
“Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.
“We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”
A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.
“Where are you from? Any noble blood?”
Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”
Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”
Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”
“Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.
Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”
Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”
“And?”Mikhail asked.
Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”
________________________________________
That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.
“At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”
By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.
They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.
“Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”
Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”
“We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.
“Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”
“And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.
Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”
________________________________________________
It was late morning when they saw it.
A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.
The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.
“That can’t be,” Molly murmured.
The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Epilogue & Prologue
Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds
Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.
It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.
The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.
And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.
The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.
She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.
Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.
“Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”
And that was what had happened.
The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.
True Stories of How It Was.
It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.
As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.
Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.
Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.
Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.
Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.
And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.
The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.
For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.
Tabitha turned the page.
“We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”
They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.
A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.
At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.
There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.
Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.
And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.
Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.
“Another espresso?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”
She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.
A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.
Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.
She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.
It was all Riven had ever known.
His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.
Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.
For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.
He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.
A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.
People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.
Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.
Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.
Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.
“You’re wasting time. Young man.”
Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.
Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.
“No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”
Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.
“Evie, tell him.”
Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”
Riven hesitated.
Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.
They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.
“Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”
Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.
“See what, exactly?”
Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”
Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”
“Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”
The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.
“Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.
Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.
His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”
TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”
Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”
TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”
Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”
But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?
Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.
So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”
Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.
Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”
She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.
“Fine. But only you.”
Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”
Zoya snorted.
Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Not knowing what else to do to calm his nerves Ellis took Finkley’s advice and took his box of postcards back down off the shelf. Extracting a random one from the middle of the stack he gazed at the picture of a lump of orange rock in the middle of a desert. Turning it over with trembling hands he tried to focus on the message. It was written in a childish hand and mentioned an outing to the old Bundy place and that Mater had locked herself in her bedroom again, signed lots of love from Clove.
Ellis was trying to decipher the smudged postmark when Finkley barged in again. “Ellis, sit down,” Finkley said pointlessly as Ellis was already seated. “Detective TP wants to talk to you about the murder victim.”
“But why? I don’t know anything about it.”
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know anything, I can assure you. Nobody seems to know what’s going on, but TP says he wants to talk to you. Don’t shoot the messenger, Ellis, I’m as confused as you are. You’re to go to his pod immediately.” Seeing his discomfiture, Finkley added kindly, “I’ll come with you if you like.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Evie stared at TP, waiting for further elaboration. He simply steepled his fingers and smirked, a glitchy picture of insufferable patience.
“You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave it hanging,” she said.
“But my dear Evie, I must!” TP declared, flickering theatrically. “For as the great Pea Stoll once mused—‘It was suspicious in a Pea Saucerer’s ways…’”
Evie groaned. “TP—”
“A jest! A mere jest!” He twirled an imaginary cane. “And yet, what do we truly know of the elusive Mr. Herbert? If we wish to uncover his secrets, we must look into his… associations.”
Evie frowned. “Funny you said that, I would have thought ‘means, motive, alibis’ but I must be getting ahead of myself…” He had a point. “By associations, you mean —Seren Vega?”
“Indeed!” TP froze accessing invisible records, then clapped his hands together. “Seren Vega, archivist extraordinaire of the wondrous past, keeper resplendent of forgotten knowledge… and, if the ship’s whisperings hold any weight, a woman Herbert was particularly keen on seeing.”
Evie exhaled, already halfway to the door. “Alright, let’s go see Seren.”
Seren Vega’s quarters weren’t standard issue—too many rugs, too many hanging ornaments, a hint of a passion for hoarding, and an unshakable musky scent of an animal’s den. The place felt like the ship itself had grown around it, heavy with the weight of history.
And then, there was Mandrake.
The bionic-enhanced cat perched on a high shelf, tail flicking, eyes glowing faintly. “What do you want?” he asked flatly, his tone dripping with a well-practiced blend of boredom and disdain.
Evie arched a brow. “Nice to see you too, Mandrake.”
Seren, cross-legged on a cushion, glanced up from her console. “Evie,” she greeted calmly. “And… oh no.” She sighed, already bracing herself. “You’ve brought it —what do you call him already? Orion Reed?”
Evie replied “Great memory Ms Vega, as expected. Yes, this was the name of the beta version —this one’s improved but still working the kinks of the programme, he goes by ‘TP’ nowadays. Hope you don’t mind, he’s helping me gather clues.” She caught herself, almost telling too much to a potential suspect.
TP puffed up indignantly. “I must protest, Madame Vega! Our past encounters, while lively, have been nothing but the height of professional discourse!”
Mandrake yawned. “She means you talk too much.”
Evie hid a smirk. “I need your help, Seren. It’s about Mr. Herbert.”
Seren’s fingers paused over her console. “He’s the one they found in the dryer.” It wasn’t a question.
Evie nodded. “What do you know about him?”
Seren studied her for a moment, then, with a slow exhale, tapped a command into her console. The room dimmed as the walls flickered to life, displaying a soft cascade of memories—public logs, old surveillance feeds, snippets of conversations once lost to time.
“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Seren said at last. “He arrived without a record. No one really questioned it, because, well… no one questions much anymore. But if you looked closely, the ship never registered him properly.”
Evie’s pulse quickened. TP let out an approving hum.
Seren continued, scrolling through the visuals. “He came to me, sometimes. Asked about old Earth history. Strange, fragmented questions. He wanted to know how records were kept, how things could be erased.”
Evie and TP exchanged a glance.
Seren frowned slightly, as if piecing together a thought she hadn’t dared before. “And then… he stopped coming.”
Mandrake, still watching from his shelf, stretched lazily. Then, with perfect nonchalance, he added, “Oh yeah. And he wasn’t using his real name.”
Evie snapped to attention. “What?”
The cat flicked his tail. “Mr. Herbert. The name was fake. He called himself that, but it wasn’t what the system had logged when he first stepped on board.”
Seren turned sharply toward him. “Mandrake, you never mentioned this before.”
The cat yawned. “You never asked.”
Evie felt a chill roll through her. “So what was his real name?”
Mandrake’s eyes glowed, data scrolling in his enhanced vision.
“Something about… Ethan,” he mused. “Ethan… M.”
The room went very still.
Evie swallowed hard. “Ethan Marlowe?”
Seren paled. “Ellis Marlowe’s son.”
TP, for once, was silent.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The “do not enter, crime scene” sticker haphazardly printed, was not even sealing the door. Amateur job, but of course, this was to be expected when such murder event had not been seen in a generation.
She entered surrepticiously, the door to the drying chamber slid shut with a hiss behind her, muffling the last of the frantic voices outside. Evie exhaled. She needed a moment. Just her, the crime scene, and—
A flicker of light.
“Ah-ha!” Trevor Pee Marshall, aka TP, materialized beside her, adjusting his holographic lapels with exaggerated precision. “What we have here, dear Evie, is a classic case of les morts très mystérieux.” His mustache twitched. “Or as my good friend Clouseau would say—‘Zis does not add up!’”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Less theatrics, more analysis, TP.”
Despite the few glitches, she was proud and eager to take her invention to a real-life trial run. Combining all the brilliant minds of enquêteur Jacques Clouseau, as well as the flair of Marshall Pee Stoll from the beloved Peaslanders children stories, TP was the help they needed to solve this.
“Ahem.” TP straightened, flickering momentarily before reappearing near the machine, peering inside with a magnifying glass he absolutely didn’t need.
Evie pulled up the logs. The AI had flagged the event—drying cycle activated at 0200 hours. Duration: excessive. But no shutdown? That was impossible.
TP let out a thoughtful “hmm.” Then, with the gravitas of a seasoned investigator, he declared, “Madame, I detect a most peculiar discrepancy.”
Evie looked up. “Go on.”
TP pivoted dramatically. “The AI should have stopped the cycle, yes? But what if… it never saw a problem?”
Evie frowned. That wasn’t how safety protocols worked. Unless—
She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.
The system hadn’t flagged a human inside at all.
Someone had altered the ship’s perception of Mr. Herbert before he ever stepped into the machine.
Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just murder.
It was premeditated.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Survivors in Ukraine
Not for the first time Molly wished they’d never made the journey. She wanted to go back and end her days where she’d chosen to retire. With Ellis gone, and then Ethan and Nina, there was nothing to keep her here, and nothing to keep Tundra here. And there had been no reason to come, in the end. There were no survivors in Ukraine either, and they encountered none on the long and difficult journey from Spain.
It was Nina’s idea to go back to her home country. She was a refugee from the war, she and her mother. Nina met Ethan at school in England and Ethan often used to bring her on holidays to visit his grandmother in Andalucia. When the plague struck, they were there with Molly, quarantined and with no way to return to England. Molly shuddered at the memory of the awful realisation that there was nobody else alive, but for her friend over the road who looked after the cows. Just Molly, Ethan, Nina, and Antonio and all the bodies.
It was Antonio’s idea to take all the bodies of the neighbours out into the fields for the vultures, rightly stating that it was impossible for him and Ethan to bury them all. And so they did. Best photos of vultures I ever took, and nobody to show them to, Molly had grumbled at the time.
They managed for a considerable time looting the neighbours pantries, garages, and barns and foraging further afield until all the cars in the village ran out of fuel, always hoping to find people, other survivors, but they never did. When the fuel ran out they used the horses. They could have managed for some time longer if they stayed where they were, but the desire to find people was strong.
The decision was made to head north, along the once populous coast, taking 12 horses to carry themselves and essentials, hoping to find more people. There were no people. They kept walking, and when Nina suggested they keep walking to Ukraine, nobody could think of a good reason why not to.
Molly’s sorrowful reminiscence sitting in the late afternoon sun was interrupted by a shout from Tundra who was running towards her. “Look, look over there!” Molly winced as Tundra pulled her upright too quickly. “Over there!” she said, pointing to a copse just below the hills on the horizon.
“A wisp of smoke!” Molly whispered wonderingly. “Like…like a campfire or something…”
The 93 year old woman and her twelve year old great granddaughter looked at each other in amazement. “People,” they whispered in unison.
“Tundra, saddle up the horses. We can’t wait for morning”, Molly said, “They may be gone. Run, girl! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open!”
Suddenly Molly felt like she was only 67 again.
People!
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The Asylum 2050
They had been talking about leaving for a long time.
Not in any urgent way, not in a we must leave now kind of way, but in the slow, circling conversations of people who had too much time and not enough answers.
Those who had left before them had never returned. Perhaps they had found something better, though that seemed unlikely. Perhaps they had found nothing at all. The first group left over twenty years ago—just for supplies. They never came back. Others drifted off over the years. They never came back either.
The core group had stayed because—what else was there? The asylum had been safe, for the most part. It had become home. Overgrown now, with only a fraction of its former inhabitants. The walls had once kept them in; now, they were what kept the rest of the world out.
But the crops were failing. The soil was thinning. The last winter had been long and cruel. Summer was harsh. Water was harder to find.
And so the reasons to stay had been replaced with reasons to go.
She was about forty now—or near enough, though time had softened the numbers. Natalia. A name from a past life; now they called her Tala.
Her family had left her here years ago. Paid well for it, as if they were settling an expensive inconvenience. She had been young then—too young to know how final it would be. They had called her difficult, willful, unable to conform. She wasn’t mad, but they had paid to have her called mad so they could get rid of her. And in the world before, that had been enough.
She had been furious at first. She tried to run away even though the asylum was many miles from anywhere. The drugs they made her take put an end to that. The drugs stopped many years ago, but she no longer wanted to run.
She sat at the edge of the vegetable garden, turning soil between her fingers. It was dry, thinning. No matter how deep she dug, the color stayed the same—pale, lifeless.
“Nothing wants to grow anymore,” said Anya, standing over her. Older—mid-sixties. Once a nurse, before everything had fallen apart. She had been one of the staff members who stayed behind when the first group left for supplies, but now she was the only one remaining. The others had abandoned the asylum years ago. At first, her authority had meant something. Now, it was just a memory, but she still carried it like an old habit. She was practical, sharp-eyed, and had a way of making decisions that others followed without question.
Tala wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up. “We probably should have left last year.”
Anya sighed. She dropped a brittle stalk of something dead into the compost pile. “Doesn’t matter now. We must go soon, or we don’t go at all.”
There was no arguing with that.
Later, in the old communal hall, the last of them gathered. Eleven of them.
Mikhail leaned against the window, his arms crossed. He was a little older than Tala. He thought a long time before he spoke.
“How many weapons do we have?”
Anya shrugged. “A couple of old rifles with half a dozen bullets. A handful of knives. And whatever rocks and sticks we pick up on the way.”
“It’s not enough to defend ourselves,” Tala said. Petro, an older resident who couldn’t remember life before the asylum, moaned and rocked. “But we’ll have our wits about us,” she added, offering a small reassurance.
Mikhail glanced at her. “We don’t know what’s out there.”
Before communication went silent, there had been stories of plagues, wars, starvation, entire cities turning against themselves. People had come through the asylum’s doors shortly before the collapse, mad with what they had seen.
But then, nobody came. The fences had grown thick with vines. And the world had gone quiet.
Over time, they had become a kind of family, bound by necessity rather than blood. They were people who had been left behind for reasons that no longer mattered. In this world, sanity had become a relative thing. They looked after one another, oddities and all.
Mikhail exhaled and pushed off the window. “Tomorrow, then.”
In reply to: Liz Tattler – A Lifetime of Stories, in videos
Glynis making potions (in Dragon Heartswood Fellowship story)
[Scene opens in Glynis’s cozy alchemical nook, where sunlight filters through stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the wooden workbench.]
Glynis, hair tied in a practical bun, hums a gentle melody, her hands deftly moving among jars of fragrant herbs and sparkling crystals. The air is rich with the scent of cinnamon and cardamom, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly picked herbs.
Among her collection of vials and beakers, a group of soft, furry baby Snoots frolics, their fur a dazzling array of colors—from vibrant blues to shimmering purples—each reflecting their unique magic-imbued personalities.
One baby Snoot, with fur like a sunset, nudges a vial toward Glynis, its tiny paws leaving prints of glowing stardust. Glynis chuckles, accepting the offering with a warm smile. “Thank you, little one,” she whispers, adding a sprinkle of the sparkling dust to the simmering potion.
The Snoots, enchanted by the alchemical ballet, gather around the cauldron, their eyes wide with wonder as the potion bubbles and swirls with hues to match their fur. Occasionally, a brave Snoot dips a curious paw into the brew, causing a cascade of giggles as their fur momentarily absorbs the potion’s glow.
Glynis, her heart full with the joy of companionship, pauses to gently scratch behind the ears of a Snoot nestled by her elbow. “You’re all such wonderful helpers,” she murmurs, her voice a melody of gratitude.
As the potion reaches its peak, the room is momentarily filled with a burst of iridescent light, a reflection of the harmonious magic that binds Glynis and her Snoot companions in their delightful symbiotic dance.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
There was a sharp knock on the front door. Amei opened it to find Finnley from Meticulous Maids standing there, bucket in one hand, a bag of cleaning supplies in the other.
“Back to tackle that oven,” she announced, brushing past Amei and striding towards the kitchen.
“Good to see you too, Finnley.”
A moment later, an anguished cry echoed from the kitchen. Amei rushed in to find Finnley clutching her brow and pointing accusingly at the oven. “This oven has not been treated with respect,” she declared dramatically.
“Well, I told you on the phone it was quite bad.”
“Quite bad!” Finnley rolled her eyes and dumped her supplies on the counter with a thud. “Moving out, are we?”
“In a few weeks,” Amei said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve still got books and stuff to pack, but I’m trying to leave the place in decent shape.”
“Decent?” Finnley snorted, already pulling on a pair of gloves. “This oven’s beyond decent. But I’ll see if I can drag it back from the brink.”
Finnley proceeded to inspect the oven with the air of a general preparing for war. She muttered something under her breath that Amei couldn’t quite catch, then added louder, “Books and boxes. Someone’s got the easy bit.”
Finnley had cleaned for Amei before. She was rude and pricey, but she always got the job done.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Amei, retreating back to her packing.
“Sure,” Finnley muttered. “But if I find anything moving in here, I’m charging extra.”
The house fell silent, save for the occasional scrape of metal and Finnley’s muffled grumblings. An hour later, Amei realized she hadn’t heard anything for a while. Curious, she walked back to the kitchen and peeked her head around the door.
Finnley was slumped in a chair by the kitchen bench, arms crossed, her head tilted at an awkward angle. Her bucket and gloves sat abandoned on the floor. She was fast asleep.
Amei stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I take it the oven won?”
Finnley’s eyes snapped open, and she straightened with a snort. “I just needed a regroup,” she muttered, rubbing her face. She looked at the oven and shuddered. “I dreamed that bloody monster of a thing was chasing me.”
“Chasing you?” Amei said, trying hard not to laugh.
Finnley stood, tugging her gloves back on with determination. “It’s not going to win. Not today.” She glared at Amei. “And I’ll be charging you for my break.”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The Waking
Lucien – Early 2024 Darius – Dec 2022 Amei – 2022-2023 Elara – 2022 Matteo – Halloween 2023 Aversion/Reflection Jealousy/Accomplishment Pride/Equanimity Attachment/Discernment Ignorance/Wisdom The sky outside Lucien’s studio window was still dark, the faint glow of dawn breaking on the horizon. He woke suddenly, the echo of footsteps chasing him out of sleep. Renard’s shadow loomed in his mind like a smudge he couldn’t erase. He sat up, rubbing his temples, the remnants of the dream slipping away like water through his fingers. The chase felt endless, but this time, something had shifted. There was no fear in his chest—only a whisper of resolve. “Time to stop running.” The hum of the airplane’s engine filled Darius’s ears as he opened his eyes, the cabin lights dimmed for landing. He glanced at the blinking seatbelt sign and adjusted his scarf. The dream still lingered, faint and elusive, like smoke curling away before he could grasp it. He wasn’t sure where he’d been in his mind, but he felt a pull—something calling him back. South of France was just the next stop. Beyond that,… Beyond that? He didn’t know. Amei sat cross-legged on her living room floor, the guided meditation app still playing its soft tones through her headphones. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts drifted. Images danced at the edges of her mind—threads weaving together, faces she couldn’t place, a labyrinth spiraling endlessly. The meditation always seemed to end with these fragments, leaving her both unsettled and curious. What was she trying to find? Elara woke with a start, the unfamiliar sensation of a dream etched vividly in her mind. Her dreams usually dissolved the moment she opened her eyes, but this one lingered, sharp and bright. She reached for her notebook on the bedside table, fumbling for the pen. The details spilled out onto the page—a white bull, a labyrinth of light, faces shifting like water. “I never remember my dreams,” she thought, “but this one… this one feels important.” Matteo woke to the sound of children laughing outside, their voices echoing through the streets of Avignon. Halloween wasn’t as big a deal here as elsewhere, but it had its charm. He stretched and sat up, the weight of a restless sleep hanging over him. His dreams had been strange—familiar faces, glowing patterns, a sense of something unfinished. The room seemed to glow for a moment. “Strange,” he thought, brushing it off as a trick of the light. “No resentment, only purpose.” “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” “Messy patterns are still patterns.” “Let go. The beauty is in the flow.” “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The Endless Chase –
Lucien ran through a labyrinth, its walls shifting and alive, made of tangled roots and flickering light. Behind him, the echo of footsteps and Renard’s voice calling his name, mocking him. But as he turned a corner, the walls parted to reveal a still lake, its surface reflecting the stars. He stopped, breathless, staring at his reflection in the water. It wasn’t him—it was a younger boy, wide-eyed and unafraid. The boy reached out, and Lucien felt a calm ripple through him. The chase wasn’t real. It never was. The walls dissolved, leaving him standing under a vast, open sky.The Wandering Maze –
Darius wandered through a green field, the tall grass brushing against his hands. The horizon seemed endless, but each step revealed new paths, twisting and turning like a living map. He saw figures ahead—people he thought he recognized—but when he reached them, they vanished, leaving only their footprints. Frustration welled up in his chest, but then he heard laughter—a clear, joyful sound. A child ran past him, leaving a trail of flowers in their wake. Darius followed, the path opening into a vibrant garden. There, he saw his own footprints, weaving among the flowers. “You’re not lost,” a voice said. “You’re walking your own path.”The Woven Tapestry –
Amei found herself in a dim room, lit only by the soft glow of a loom. Threads of every color stretched across the space, intertwining in intricate patterns. She sat before the loom, her hands moving instinctively, weaving the threads together. Faces appeared in the fabric—Tabitha, her estranged friends, even strangers she didn’t recognize. The threads wove tighter, forming a brilliant tapestry that seemed to hum with life. She saw herself in the center, not separate from the others but connected. This time she heard clearly “Messy patterns are still patterns,” a voice whispered, and she smiled.The Scattered Grains –
Elara stood on a beach, the sand slipping through her fingers as she tried to gather it. The harder she grasped, the more it escaped. A wave rolled in, sweeping the sand into intricate patterns that glowed under the moonlight. She knelt, watching the designs shift and shimmer, each one unique and fleeting. “Let go,” the wind seemed to say. “The beauty is in the flow.” Elara let the sand fall, and as it scattered, it transformed into light, rising like fireflies into the night sky.The Mandala of Light –
Matteo stood in a darkened room, the only light coming from a glowing mandala etched on the floor. As he stepped closer, the patterns began to move, spinning and shifting. Faces appeared—his mother, the friends he hadn’t yet met, and even his own reflection. The mandala expanded, encompassing the room, then the city, then the world. “Everything is connected,” a voice said, low and resonant. “Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” Matteo reached out, touching the edge of the mandala, and felt its warmth spread through him.
Dreamtime
It begins with running—feet pounding against the earth, my breath sharp in my chest. The path twists endlessly, the walls of the labyrinth curling like roots, closing tighter with each turn. I know I’m being chased, though I never see who or what is behind me. The air thickens as I round a corner and come to a halt before a still lake. Its surface gleams under a canopy of stars, too perfect, too quiet. I kneel to look closer, and the face that stares back isn’t mine. A boy gazes up with wide, curious eyes, unafraid. He smiles as though he knows something I don’t, and my breath steadies. The walls of the labyrinth crumble, their roots receding into the earth. Around me, the horizon stretches wide and infinite, and I wonder if I’ve always been here.
The grass is soft under my feet, swaying with a breeze that hums like a song I almost recognize. I walk, though I don’t know where I’m going. Figures appear ahead—shadowy forms I think I know—but as I approach, they dissolve into mist. I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the wind. Laughter ripples through the air, and a child darts past me, their feet leaving trails of flowers in the earth. I follow, unable to stop myself. The path unfolds into a garden, vibrant and alive, every bloom humming with its own quiet song. At the center, I find myself again—my own footprints weaving among the flowers. The laughter returns, soft and knowing. A voice says, “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” But whose voice is it? My own? Someone else’s? I can’t tell.
The scene shifts, or maybe it’s always been this way. Threads of light stretch across the horizon, forming a vast loom. My hands move instinctively, weaving the threads into patterns I don’t understand but feel compelled to create. Faces emerge in the fabric—some I know, others I only feel. Each thread hums with life, vibrating with its own story. The patterns grow more intricate, their colors blending into something breathtaking. At the center, my own face appears, not solitary but connected to all the others. The threads seem to breathe, their rhythm matching my own heartbeat. A voice whispers, teasing but kind: “Messy patterns are still patterns.” I want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but my hands keep weaving as the threads dissolve into light.
I’m on the beach now, though I don’t remember how I got here. The sand is cool under my hands, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold it. A wave rolls in, its foam glowing under a pale moon. Where the water touches the sand, intricate patterns bloom—spirals, mandalas, fleeting images that shift with the tide. I try to gather them, to keep them, but the harder I hold on, the faster they fade. A breeze lifts the patterns into the air, scattering them like fireflies. I watch them go, feeling both loss and wonder. “Let go,” a voice says, carried by the wind. “The beauty is in the flow.” I let the sand fall from my hands, and for the first time, I see the patterns clearly, etched not on the ground but in the sky.
The room is dark, yet I see everything. A mandala of light spreads across the floor, its intricate shapes pulsing with a rhythm I recognize but can’t place. I step closer, and the mandala begins to spin, its patterns expanding to fill the room, then the city, then the world. Faces appear within the light—my mother’s, a child’s, strangers I know but have never met. The mandala connects everything it touches, its warmth spreading through me like a flame. I reach out, my hand trembling, and the moment I touch it, a voice echoes in the air: “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The mandala slows, its light softening, and I find myself standing at its center, whole and unafraid.
I feel the labyrinth’s walls returning, but they’re no longer enclosing me—they’re part of the loom, their roots weaving into the threads. The flowers of the garden bloom within the mandala’s light, their petals scattering like sand into the tide. The waves carry them to the horizon, where they rise into the sky, forming constellations I feel I’ve always known.
I wake—or do I? The dream lingers, its light and rhythm threading through my thoughts. It feels like a map, a guide, a story unfinished. I see the faces again—yours, mine, ours—and wonder where the path leads next.
