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  • #7954

    Another one!  A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind.  Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo.  Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.

    “What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.

    “Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.

    Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival.  “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”

    “Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing?  A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat!  How do I know that’s what they’re called?  Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.

    “Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.

    Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.

    “I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend.  If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”

    “What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.

    Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile.  “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”

    Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.

    “Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.

    “My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”

    Sir? what’s he on about now?  wondered Amy.  Does that make me a Lady?

    “Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.

    Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it.    Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.

    Juan and Dolores Valdez.
    Godric, the Swedish barman
    Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers.  Mal and Glyph for short.
    Liz Tattler
    Miss Bossy Pants
    Goat Horned Draugaskald

    “Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters.  “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee!  A good range of beverages. And snacks.”

    Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail.  I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently.  The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?

    “You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”

    #7929
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Godric

       

      Godric

      What We Know Visually:

      • Identified as Swedish, possibly tall and pale by stereotype.

      • A barista-channeler, so likely has the look of a mystical hipster.

      Inferred Presence/Style:

      • May wear layered scarves, bracelets with charms, or ceremonial aprons.

      • The term Draugaskalds connects him to Norse aesthetics—he might carry old symbols or tattoos.

      Unclear:

      • Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.

      • Age and physical habits.

      #7927
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Thiram Izu

         

        Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

        Explicit Description

        • Age: Mid-30s

        • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

        • Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

        • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

        • Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

        • Clothing (standard look):

          • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

          • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

          • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

          • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

        • Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

        • Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.


        Inferred Personality & Manner

        • Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

        • Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

        • Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

        • Habits:

          • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

          • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

          • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

        • Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

        • Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.


        Function in the Group

        • Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

        • Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

        • Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.

        #7925
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Chico Ray

           

          Chico Ray

          Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

          • Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

          • Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

          • Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

          • Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

          • Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

          Inferred Traits:

          • A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

          • Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

          • Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

          • Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

          What Remains Unclear:

          • Precise age or background.

          • His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

          #7922

          “Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
          “What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
          “Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”

          Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

          “They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”

          Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”

          A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.

          “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

          Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.

          #7920
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            Key Characters (with brief descriptions)

            Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.

            Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.

            Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”

            Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.

            Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.

            Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.

            Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.

            The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.

            Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
            Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”

            #7913

            Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too.  Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.

            The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on.  The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.

            Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.

            The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.

            #7894

            Godric, a Swede barista channeler, poured a Coco Valkyrie cocktail to his customer, he saw a goat horned helmet pass in the shadows of a table.

            What the frack! he thought. Nothing good comes with the Draugaskald (Ghost-singers).

            #7881

            Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

            No one had anticipated how long it would take to get a shuttle full of half-motivated, gravity-averse Helix25 passengers to agree on proper footwear.

            “I told you, Claudius, this is the fancy terrain suit. The others make my hips look like reinforced cargo crates,” protested Tilly Nox, wrangling with her buckles near the shuttle airlock.

            “You’re about to step onto a red-rock planet that hasn’t seen visitors since the Asteroid Belt Mining Fiasco,” muttered Claudius, tightening his helmet strap. “Your hips are the least of Mars’ concerns.”

            Behind them, a motley group of Helix25 residents fidgeted with backpacks, oxygen readouts, and wide-eyed anticipation. Veranassessee had allowed a single-day “expedition excursion” for those eager—or stir-crazy—enough to brave Mars’ surface. She’d made it clear it was volunteer-only.

            Most stayed aboard, in orbit of the red planet, looking at its surface from afar to the tune of “eh, gravity, don’t we have enough of that here?” —Finkley had recoiled in horror at the thought of real dust getting through the vents and had insisted on reviewing personally all the airlocks protocols. No way that they’d sullied her pristine halls with Martian dust or any dust when the shuttle would come back. No – way.

            But for the dozen or so who craved something raw and unfiltered, this was it. Mars: the myth, the mirage, the Far West frontier at the invisible border separating Earthly-like comforts into the wider space without any safety net.

            At the helm of Shuttle Dandelion, Sue Forgelot gave the kind of safety briefing that could both terrify and inspire. “If your oxygen starts blinking red, panic quietly and alert your buddy. If you fall into a crater, forget about taking a selfie, wave your arms and don’t grab on your neighbor. And if you see a sand wyrm, congratulations, you’ve either hit gold or gone mad.”

            Luca Stroud chuckled from the copilot seat. “Didn’t see you so chirpy in a long while. That kind of humour, always the best warning label.”

            They touched down near Outpost Station Delta-6 just as the Martian wind was picking up, sending curls of red dust tumbling like gossip.

            And there she was.

            Leaning against the outpost hatch with a spanner slung across one shoulder, goggles perched on her forehead, Prune watched them disembark with the wary expression of someone spotting tourists traipsing into her backyard garden.

            Sue approached first, grinning behind her helmet. “Prune Curara, I presume?”

            “You presume correctly,” she said, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re here to ruin my peace and use my one functioning kettle.”

            Luca offered a warm smile. “We’re only here for a brief scan and a bit of radioactive treasure hunting. Plus, apparently, there’s been a petition to name a Martian dust lizard after you.”

            “That lizard stole my solar panel last year,” Prune replied flatly. “It deserves no honor.”

            Inside, the outpost was cramped, cluttered, and undeniably charming. Hand-drawn maps of Martian magnetic hotspots lined one wall; shelves overflowed with tagged samples, sketchpads, half-disassembled drones, and a single framed photo of a fireplace with something hovering inexplicably above it—a fish?

            “Flying Fish Inn,” Luca whispered to Sue. “Legendary.”

            The crew spent the day fanning out across the region in staggered teams. Sue and Claudius oversaw the scan points, Tilly somehow got her foot stuck in a crevice that definitely wasn’t in the geological briefing, which was surprisingly enough about as much drama they could conjure out.

            Back at the outpost, Prune fielded questions, offered dry warnings, and tried not to get emotionally attached to the odd, bumbling crew now walking through her kingdom.

            Then, near sunset, Veranassessee’s voice crackled over comms: “Curara. We’ll be lifting a crew out tomorrow, but leaving a team behind. With the right material, for all the good Muck’s mining expedition did out on the asteroid belt, it left the red planet riddled with precious rocks. But you, you’ve earned to take a rest, with a ticket back aboard. That’s if you want it. Three months back to Earth via the porkchop plot route. No pressure. Your call.”

            Prune froze. Earth.

            The word sat like an old song on her tongue. Faint. Familiar. Difficult to place.

            She stepped out to the ridge, watching the sun dip low across the dusty plain. Behind her, laughter from the tourists trading their stories of the day —Tilly had rigged a heat plate with steel sticks and somehow convinced people to roast protein foam. Are we wasting oxygen now? Prune felt a weight lift; after such a long time struggling to make ends meet, she now could be free of that duty.

            Prune closed her eyes. In her head, Mater’s voice emerged, raspy and amused: You weren’t meant to settle, sugar. You were meant to stir things up. Even on Mars.

            She let the words tumble through her like sand in her boots.

            She’d conquered her dream, lived it, thrived in it.

            Now people were landing, with their new voices, new messes, new puzzles.

            She could stay. Be the last queen of red rock and salvaged drones.

            Or she could trade one hell of people for another. Again.

            The next morning, with her patched duffel packed and goggles perched properly this time, Prune boarded Shuttle Dandelion with a half-smirk and a shrug.

            “I’m coming,” she told Sue. “Can’t let Earth ruin itself again without at least watching.”

            Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

            As the shuttle lifted off, Prune looked once, just once, at the red plains she’d called home.

            “Thanks, Mars,” she whispered. “Don’t wait up.”

            #7880
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              “Nice arse,” said Idle non too quietly, admiring Roberto as he stacked firewood beside the hearth. The gardener glanced round and gave her a cheeky wink.  He’d noticed her leaning out of an upstairs window watching him weeding the herbacious border.

              “Now, now, Idle, no molesting the staff. I’ll write some men into the story for you later,” Liz said, “But first let’s talk about my new book.  I’m wondering what to name the six spinsters. Some kind of a theme. Cerise, Fuschia, Scarlett, Coral, Rose and Magenta?”

              “What about Cobalt, Lapis, Cerulean, Indigo, Sapphire and Capri?” offered Idle, topping up their wine glasses. “Chartreuse, Emerald, Jade, Fern, Pistachio and Malachite?  Marigold, Saffron, Citron, Amber, Maize and Apricot?”

              “How about Bratwurst, Chorizo, Salami, Knackwurst, Bologna and Frankfurter?” suggested Godfrey who was still miffed about all the spare parts being disposed of.  “Lasagne, Macaroni, Canneloni, Farfali, Linguini and Ravioli?”

              Roberto lit the fire and stood up. “I have an idea, you can call them Trowel, Rake, Hoe, Wheelbarrow, Spade and Secateur.”

              “Marvelous Roberto, I love it!” gushed Aunt Idle.

              “You’re all mad as a box of frogs, madder than Almad,”  Finnley said. “How about Duster, Mop, Bleach, Broom, Dustpan and Cloth?”

              “I think this incessant rain is driving us all mad,” Liz said, glancing out of the French windows with a sigh.

              #7869

              Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

              The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

              Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

              And yet—

              His hands were shaking.

              Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

              “A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

              He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

              “You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

              Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

              Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

              He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

              “Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

              A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

              “Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

              Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

              Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

              Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

              “Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

              Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

              “…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

              Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

              “That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

              “Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

              Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

              “Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

              He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

              And yet, his fingers moved.

              Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

              “RUN,” he choked out.

              The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

              “…Pardon?”

              That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

               

              :fleuron2:

              Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

              “Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

              TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

              Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

              They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

              And Riven tackled him hard.

              The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

              Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

              Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

              “…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

              Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

              Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

              Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

              Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

              “Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

              Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

              His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.

              Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

              The AI had played him like a pawn.

              “What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

              Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.

              Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

              Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

              Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

              Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

              Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

              The threat has been contained.
              Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”

               

              “What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”

              Evie’s pulse spiked,  still racing —  “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.

              Oh. Oh no.

              Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.

              Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?

              :fleuron2:

              With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.

              And so, the decision was made:

              Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.

              Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”

              Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”

              Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”

              Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.

              This was only the beginning.

              Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.

              The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.

              But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.

              As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.

              She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
              Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
              As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.

              #7858

              It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

              Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

              Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

              There is no rush.

              The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

              Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

              Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

              I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

              Yes, that must be it.

              Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

              “We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

              “And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

              In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

              “I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

              “No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

              “I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

              Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

              Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

              Molly’s postcard was next.

              #7857

              Helix 25 – Onto The Second Murder Investigation

              Very strangely, it was a lot less chaotic in the Lower Decks, while the Upper Decks were having a rave of a time with the moon and mood swings.
              Evie stood over the diagnostics table, arms crossed, watching as Luca Stroud ran his scanner over Mandrake’s cybernetic collar. The black cat lay still, one eye flickering intermittently as though stuck between waking and shutdown. The deep gash along his side had been patched—Romualdo had insisted on carrying Mandrake to the lab himself, mumbling about how the garden’s automated sprinklers were acting up, and how Luca was the only one he trusted to fix delicate mechanisms.

              It had been a casual remark, but Evie had caught the subtext. Mandrake was no ordinary ship cat. He had always been tied to something larger.

              “Neurolink’s still scrambled,” Luca muttered, adjusting his scanner. “Damage isn’t terminal, but whatever happened, someone tried to wipe part of his memory.”

              Riven, arms crossed beside Evie, scoffed. “Why the hell would someone try to assassinate a cat?”

              Luca didn’t answer, but the data flickering on his screen spoke for itself. The attack had been precise. Not just a careless act of cruelty, nor an accident in the low-gravity sector.

              Mandrake had been targeted.

              Evie exhaled sharply. “Can you fix him?”

              Luca shrugged. “Depends. The physical repairs are easy enough—fractured neural pathways, fried circuits—but whatever was erased? That’s another story.” He tilted his head. “Thing is… someone didn’t just try to kill Mandrake. They tried to make him forget.”

              Riven’s frown deepened. “Forget what?”

              Silence settled between them.

              Evie reached out, brushing a gloved hand over Mandrake’s sleek black fur. “We need to figure out what he knew.”

              :fleuron2:

              It had been Trevor Pee—TP himself—who first mentioned it, entirely offhand, as they reviewed logs of the last places Mandrake had been seen.

              “He wasn’t always on his own, you know,” TP had said, twirling his holographic cane.

              Evie and Riven both turned to him.

              “What do you mean on his own, I though he was Seren’s?”

              “Oh, no. He just had a liking for her, but he’d belonged to someone else long before.” TP’s mustache twitched. “I accessed some archival records during Mandrake’s diagnostic.”

              Evie blinked. “Mmm, are you going to make me ask? What did you find?”

              “Indeed,” TP offered cheerfully. “Before Mandrake wandered freely through the gardens and ventilation shafts, becoming a ship legend, he belonged—as much as a cat can belong—to someone.”

              Riven’s expression darkened. “Who?! Will you just tell?!”

              TP flicked his wrist, bringing up an old personnel file, heavily redacted. But one name flickered beneath the blurred-out sections.

              Dr. Elias Arorangi.

              Evie felt her heartbeat quicken. The name echoed faintly familiar, not directly connected to her, but she’d seen it once or twice before, buried in obscure references. “Dr. Arorangi—wait, he was part of the original Helix design team, wasn’t he?”

              TP nodded gravely. “Precisely. A lead systems architect, responsible for designing key protocols for the AI integration—among them, some critical frameworks that evolved into Synthia’s consciousness. Disappeared without a trace shortly after Synthia’s initial activation.”

              Riven straightened. “Disappeared? Do you think—”

              TP raised a finger to silence him. “I don’t speculate, but here’s the interesting part: Dr. Arorangi had extensive, classified knowledge of Helix 25’s core systems. If Mandrake was his companion at that crucial time, it’s conceivable that Arorangi trusted something to him—a memory, a code fragment, perhaps even a safeguard.”

              Evie’s mouth went dry.

              An architect of Helix 25, missing under suspicious circumstances, leaving behind a cat whose cybernetics were more sophisticated than any pet implant she’d ever seen?

              Evie looked down at Mandrake, whose damaged neural links were still flickering faintly. Someone had wanted Mandrake silenced and forgotten.

              :fleuron2:

              Later, in the dim light of his workshop, Luca Stroud worked in silence, carefully re-aligning the cat’s neural implants. Romualdo sat nearby, arms crossed, watching with the nervous tension of a man who had just smuggled a ferret into a rat convention.

              “He’s tough,” Luca muttered, tightening a connection. “More durable than most of the junk I have to fix.”

              Romualdo huffed. “He better be.”

              A flicker of light pulsed through Mandrake’s collar. His single good eye opened, pupils dilating as his systems realigned.

              Then, groggily, he muttered, “I hate this ship.”

              Romualdo let out a relieved chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Welcome back, Mandrake.”

              Luca wiped his hands. “He’s still scrambled, but he’s functional. Just… don’t expect him to remember everything.”

              Mandrake groaned, stretching his mechanical paw. “I remember… needing a drink.”

              Romualdo smirked. “That’s a good sign, yeah?”

              Luca hesitated before looking at Evie. “Whatever was wiped—it’s gone. But if he starts remembering things in fragments… we need to pay attention.”

              Evie nodded. “Oh, we definitely will.”

              Mandrake rolled onto his feet, shaking out his fur, a small but defiant flick of his cybernetic tail.

              “I have the strangest feeling,” he muttered, “that someone is still looking for me.”

              Evie exhaled.

              For now, with his memory gone, he would probably be safe, but a killer was in their midst and they needed to find out the truth, and fast.

              #7856
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler

                The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.

                “Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”

                Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”

                “Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”

                Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”

                “Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”

                At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.

                “Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.

                Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”

                Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”

                Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

                And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.

                (story repeats at the beginning)

                #7853
                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  Expanded Helix 25 Narrative Structure

                  This table organizes the key narrative arcs, characters, stakes, and thematic questions within Helix 25.
                  It hopes to clarify the character development paths, unresolved mysteries, and broader philosophical questions
                  that shape the world and conflicts aboard the ship and on Earth.

                  Group / Location Key Characters Character Arc Description Stakes at Hand Growth Path / Needed Resolution Unresolved / Open Questions
                  Helix 25 Investigators Evie, Riven Holt Move from initial naiveté into investigative maturity and moral complexity. Solving murders; uncovering ship-wide genetic and conspiratorial mysteries. Solve the murder and uncover deeper conspiracy; evolve in understanding of justice and truth. Who is behind the murders, and how do they connect to genetic experiments? Can the investigation conclude without a ship-wide disaster?
                  Captain and Authority Veranassessee (Captain), Victor Holt, Sue Forgelot Struggle between personal ambition, legacy, and leadership responsibilities. Control over Helix 25; reconciling past decisions with the present crisis. Clarify leadership roles; determine AI’s true intent and whether it can be trusted. Why were Veranassessee and Victor Holt placed in cryostasis? Can they reconcile their past and lead effectively?
                  Lexicans / Prophecy Followers Anuí Naskó, Zoya Kade, Kio’ath Wrestle with the role of prophecy in shaping humanity’s fate and their personal identities. Interpreting prophecy and ensuring it doesn’t destabilize the ship’s fragile peace. Define the prophecy’s role in shaping real-world actions; balance faith and reason. Is the prophecy real or a distorted interpretation of genetic science? Who is the Speaker?
                  AI and Tech-Human Synthesis Synthia AI, Mandrake, TP (Trevor Pee) Question control, sentience, and ethical AI usage. Human survival in the face of AI autonomy; defining AI-human coexistence. Determine if Synthia can be an ally or is a rogue force; resolve AI ethics debate. What is Synthia’s endgame—benevolent protector or manipulative force? Can AI truly coexist with humans?
                  Telepathic Cleaner Lineage / Humor and Communication Arc Finkley, Finja Transition from comic relief to key mediators between Helix and Earth survivors. Establishing clear telepathic channels for communication; bridging Earth-Helix survivors. Fully embrace their psychic role; decipher if their link is natural or AI-influenced. Does AI interfere with psychic communication? Can telepathy safely unite Earth and Helix?
                  Upper Deck Elderly Trio (Social Commentary & Comic Relief) Sharon, Gloria, Mavis Provide levity and philosophical critique of life aboard the ship. Keeping morale and philosophical integrity intact amid unfolding crises. Contribute insights that impact key decisions, revealing truths hidden in humor. Will their wisdom unexpectedly influence critical events? Are they aware of secrets others have missed?
                  Earth Survivors – Hungary & Ukraine Molly (Marlowe), Tundra, Anya, Petro, Gregor, Tala, Yulia, Mikhail, Jian Move from isolated survival and grief to unity and rediscovery of lost connections. Survival on a devastated Earth; confirming whether a connection to Helix 25 exists. Confirm lineage connections and reunite with ship-based family or survivors. What is the fate of Earth’s other survivors? Can they reunite without conflict?
                  Base Klyutch Group (Military Survivors) Orrin Holt, Koval, Solara Ortega, Janos Varga, Dr. Yelena Markova Transition from defensive isolation to outward exploration and human reconnection. Navigating dangers on Earth; reconnecting with lost knowledge and ship-born survivors. Clarify the nature of space signals; integrate newfound knowledge with Helix 25. Who sent the space signal? Can Base Klyutch’s knowledge help Helix 25 before it’s too late?
                  The Lone Island Tinkerer / Beacon Activator Merdhyn Winstrom Rise from eccentric survivor to central figure in reconnecting Earth and Helix. Repairing beacon signals; discovering who else may have received the call. Determine beacon’s true purpose; unify Earth and Helix factions through communication. Who else intercepted the beacon’s message? Can Merdhyn be fully trusted?
                  #7849

                  Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

                  Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
                  (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

                  On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

                  She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

                  Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

                  The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

                  Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

                  Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

                  But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

                  Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

                  Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

                  The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

                  And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

                  Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

                  The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

                  She rubbed her forehead.

                  “Impossible.”

                  And yet—here was the data.

                  On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

                  Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

                  The Golden Trowel, Hungary

                  The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

                  Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

                  “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

                  Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

                  She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

                  “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

                  Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

                  “Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

                  She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

                  “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

                  “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

                  Molly inhaled sharply.

                  Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

                  Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

                  If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

                  Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

                  Unless there was something behind her ravings?

                  Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

                  :fleuron2:

                  Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

                  But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

                  “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

                  Molly exhaled in relief.

                  The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

                  Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

                  Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

                  Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

                  So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

                  Finja closed her eyes.

                  The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

                  The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

                  She reached out—

                  And the voices crashed into her.

                  Too much. Too many.

                  Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

                  “Where is my brother?”
                  “Did my wife make it aboard?”
                  “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
                  “Tell them I’m still here!”

                  Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

                  The crowd held its breath.

                  A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

                  Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

                  And then—

                  Something else.

                  A presence. Watching.

                  Synthia.

                  Her chest seized.

                  There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

                  And yet—

                  She felt it.

                  A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

                  The ship knew.

                  Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

                  The bar erupted into chaos.

                  “FINJA?! What did you see?”
                  “Was someone there?”
                  “Did you find anyone?!”

                  Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

                  She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

                  But now…

                  Now she knew.

                  They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

                  And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

                  Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
                  It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

                  They were coming back.

                  #7848
                  Jib
                  Participant

                    Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

                    The ship had gone mad.

                    Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

                    Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

                    “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

                    Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

                    Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

                    “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

                    Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

                    TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

                    Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

                    He braced himself. “What now?”

                    She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

                    ETHAN MARLOWE

                    MANDRAKE

                    Both M.

                    The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

                    TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

                    “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

                    Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

                    TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

                    Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

                    Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

                    “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

                    Evie paled. “Oh no.”

                    TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

                    The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

                    Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

                    Only one person could give him that.

                    “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

                    Evie frowned. “Who?”

                    Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

                    Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

                    TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

                    The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

                    A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
                    A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
                    And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
                    Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

                    Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

                    Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

                    TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

                    Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

                    They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

                    Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

                    Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

                    He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

                    The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

                    His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

                    TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

                    Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

                    Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

                    Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

                    “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

                    Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

                    Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

                    Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

                    Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

                    Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

                    TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

                    Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

                    Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

                    He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

                    Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

                    “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

                    Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

                    Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

                    And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

                    Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

                    “What have you done?”

                    Riven braced himself.

                    Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

                    #7841

                    Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal

                    The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.

                    Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.

                    “That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”

                    Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”

                    Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.

                    Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.

                    It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.

                    “Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.

                    But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.

                    “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”

                    A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.

                    “You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”

                    Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space

                    Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.

                    The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.

                    The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.

                    If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.

                    Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.

                    “Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”

                    Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.

                    A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.

                    Helicopters.

                    He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.

                    Armed. Military-like.

                    The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.

                    Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.

                    “Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”

                    The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.

                    Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.

                    “See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”

                    Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.

                    Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.

                    His eyes were on the beacon.

                    It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.

                    #7840

                    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.

                    #7815
                    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                    Participant

                      Evie and Mandrake at Seren’s quarters

                      Evie is looking at ancient history found in books of Liz Tattler, such precious knowledge not present in Synthia’s carefully curated records…

                      Evie channels her own Finnley’s historical clean factuality to get a sense of the facts behind the Liz fiction… Mandrake provides snarky comments free of charge.

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