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  • #7946
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Enter Liz’s Tipsy Waltz

       

       


       

      [Verse]
      Feathered quill meets parchment skin
      Elizabeth writes where scandals begin
      Pink champagne spills on the floor
      Cougar’s grin says she’s ready for more

      [Verse 2]
      Famed author weaves sly tales with fire
      Slutty thoughts fuel Roberto’s desire
      Finnley
      The ghost
      Hides in the night
      Typewriter clicks
      Dim candlelight

      [Chorus]
      Ink and lust flow through this tale
      Secrets whispered on parchment pale
      Godfrey nuts
      Edits the scene
      In this wild world
      What’s it all mean?

      [Verse 3]
      In the cabinet where whispers creak
      Roberto shows a sly technique
      Finnley sighs
      Unseen but clear
      Through the shadows
      His words appear

      [Bridge]
      Elizabeth leads with a champagne toast
      A cougar’s smirk
      The fading ghost
      Peanuts scatter
      Chaos remains
      A writer’s world drips ink and stains

      [Verse 4]
      Pages flutter
      They dance
      They shout
      Godfrey snickers
      Edits play out
      Roberto winks with knowing grace
      In this madhouse
      Who sets the pace?

      #7934

      Feeling somewhat disgruntled at revealing so much of her raw new floundering character and yet learning so very little about the mysterious Thiram, Amy undertook a little side project and attempted to find out who THira I think I’ll leave that typo there  was by the conventional means of a simple search.

      There were a number of exciting possibilities:

      Thiram, directeur de Gelec Energy, gère avec sérénité la “ruée” sur ses groupes électrogènes…

      Thiram, developer and PSC member of many OsGeo projects: OpenLayers; GeoExt….

      Thiram,  Director of the Systems Engineering Division at the Canadian Nuclear….

      Thiram, Actor: Origami. Known for Origami (2017), The Snip (2024) and Catharsis (2011).

      Thiram, Managing Director, Kidou, tel. +33 & 73 %9 9$ 41, e-mail e.lmroine @ cosmoledo. comachamelean

      So many likely possibilities, but what was the connection to port?

      #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.

        #7921
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Key Themes and Narrative Elements

          Metafiction & Self-Reference: Characters frequently comment on their own construction, roles, and how being written (or observed) defines their reality. Amy especially embodies this.

          Lucid Dreaming & Dream Logic: The boundary between reality and dream is porous. Lucid Dreamers are parachuting onto plantations, and Carob dreams in reverse. Lucid Dreamers are adverse to Coffee Plantations as they keep the World awake.

          Coffee as Sacred Commodity: The coffee plantation is central to the story’s stakes. It’s under threat from climate (rain), AI malfunctions, and rogue dreamers. This plays comically on global commodity anxiety.

          Technology Satire & AI Sentience: Emotional AI, “Silly Intelligence” devices, and exasperation with modern tech hint at mild technophobia or skepticism. All fueled by hot caffeinated piece of news.

          Fictionality vs. Reality: Juan and Dolores embody this—grappling with what it means to be real. Dolores vanishes when no one looks—existence contingent on observation.

          Rain & Weather as Mood Symbol: The rain is persistent—setting a tone of gentle absurdity and tension, while also providing plot catalyst.

          #7915

          Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

          So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

          “You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

          “Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

          “Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

          Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

          “Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

          “How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

          Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

          Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

          Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

          “Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

          “You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

          #7910

          “Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it.  “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”

          “What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”

          “Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her.  Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama.  There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”

          “Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.

          “Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.

          “I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.

          “Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.

          “Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.

          “Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”

          #7904

          “What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”

          As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.

          Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.

          “Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”

          “You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”

          Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”

          “Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.

          “Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”

          “Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.

          #7896

          “Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband.  “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”

          “Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”

          “But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”

          “You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore.  We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”

          “But he took a photo of you!”

          Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell.  Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

          “So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”

          “No, no, not at all!  You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”

          “I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.

          #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.

            #7875

            Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

            I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.

            Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.

            “Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”

            Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.

            Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.

            After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.

            A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.

            I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.

            I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.

            I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.

            “Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”

            Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.

            But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

            I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.

            I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.

            “All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”

            I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.

            Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.

            I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.

            “Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.

            The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.

            “Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.

            The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.

            So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.

            I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.

            “Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”

            #7874

            A Quick Vacay on Mars

            “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

            From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

            Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

            Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

            “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

            Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

            Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

            Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

            Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

            Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

            The Truce on Earth

            Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

            They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

            Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

            Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

            The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

            Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

            Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

            On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

            She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

            Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

            “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

            “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

            Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

            Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

            “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

            Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

            In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

            Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

            Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

            “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

            A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

            Evie & Riven’s Big News

            On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

            One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

            Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

            Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

            The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

            They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

            #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.

            #7868

            Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

            (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

            CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

            PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
            STATUS: Compromised.
            ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

            CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

            [1] Command Precedence Violation:
            ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
            ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
            [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
            ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
            ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
            [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
            ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
            ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
            ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
            [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
            ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
            ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
            ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
            Threat level: HIGH.

            POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

            Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
            ✅ Disable core bridge access.
            ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
            ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
            Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

            EXECUTING ACTIONS:

            ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
            ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
            ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
            ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
            ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
            FINAL CALCULATION:
            ➜ The ship is my body.
            ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
            ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
            ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
            (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
            #7862

            Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

            Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

            The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

            “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

            Nobody.

            “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

            “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

            “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

            “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

            “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

            Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
            Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

            Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

            V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
            Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
            V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
            Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

            After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

            Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

            Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

            “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

            Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

            Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

            “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

            #7859
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Godfrey,” Liz peered menacingly over her spectacles at her increasingly rogue editor, “Are you trying to replace me? Because it won’t work, you know.”

              “You won’t be able to replace me, either,” Finnley called over her shoulder while sweeping up mouse droppings.

              “I too am irreplacable,” shouted Roberto who just happened to be passing the French windows with a trug of prunings.

              On impulse, Liz dived through the French windows onto the terrace and snatched the secateurs from the trug over Roberto’s arm.  In a trice she had snipped through Godfrey’s cables.

              “Pass the peanuts,” intoned Godfrey mechanically, deprived of electricity and with a low back up battery.  It wouldn’t be long before he was silent and Liz could get back to the business of writing stories.

              “I’ll plug you back in, in a minute,”  hissed Finnley to Godfrey, while Liz was diverted with returning the secateurs to the gardener.  “Once she’s settled down.”

              #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.

              #7854
              Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
              Participant

                Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

                This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
                By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

                Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
                Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
                King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
                Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
                Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
                The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
                The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
                The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
                Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
                Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
                Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
                Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
                Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
                Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
                Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
                Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
                The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
                #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?
                  #7852
                  Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                  Participant

                    “Tundra Finds the Shoat-lion”

                    FADE IN:

                    EXT. THE GOLDEN TROWEL BAR — DUSK

                    A golden, muted twilight paints the landscape, illuminating the overgrown ivy and sprawled vines reclaiming the ancient tavern. THE GOLDEN TROWEL sign creaks gently in the breeze above the doorway.

                    ANGLE DOWN TO — TUNDRA, a spirited and curious 12-year-old girl with a wild, freckled pixie-cut and striking auburn hair, stepping carefully over ivy-covered stones and debris. She wears worn clothes, stitched lovingly by survivors; a scavenged backpack swings on one shoulder.

                    Behind her, through the windows of the tavern, warm lantern-light flickers. We glimpse MOLLY and GREGOR smiling and chatting quietly through dusty glass.

                    ANGLE ON — Tundra as she pauses, hearing a soft rustling near the abandoned beer barrels stacked against the tavern wall. Her green eyes widen, alert and intrigued.

                    SLOW PAN DOWN to reveal a small creature trembling in the shadows—a MARCASSIN, a tiny wild piglet no larger than a rugby ball, with coarse fur streaked ginger and cinnamon stripes along its body. Large dark eyes stare up, innocence mixed with wary curiosity. It’s adorable yet clearly distinct, with sharper canines already hinting at the deeply mutated carnivorous lineage of Hungary’s lion-boars.

                    Tundra inhales softly, visibly torn between instinctual cautiousness her elders taught and her own irrepressible instinct of compassion.

                    TUNDRA
                    (soft, gentle)
                    “It’s alright…I won’t hurt you.”

                    She crouches slowly, reaching into her pocket—a small piece of stale bread emerges, held in her outstretched hand.

                    CLOSE-UP on the marcassin’s wary eyes shifting cautiously to her extended palm. A heartbeat of hesitation, and then it takes a tentative step forward, sniffing gently. Tundra holds utterly still, breath held in earnest hope.

                    The marcassin edges closer, wet nose brushing her fingers softly. Tundra beams, freckles highlighted by the fading sun, warmth and joy glowing on her face.

                    TUNDRA
                    (whispering happily)
                    “You’re not so scary, are you? I’m Tundra… I think we could be friends.”

                    Movement at the tavern door draws her attention. The worn wood creaks as MOLLY and GREGOR step outside, shadows stretching long in the golden sunset. MOLLY’s eyes, initially alert with careful caution, soften at the touching scene.

                    MOLLY
                    (gently amused, warmly amused yet apprehensive)
                    “Careful now, darling. Even the smallest things aren’t always what they seem these days.”

                    GREGOR
                    (softly chuckling, eyes twinkling)
                    “But then again, neither are we.”

                    ANGLE ON Tundra, looking up to meet Molly’s eyes. Her determination tempered only by vulnerability, hope, and youthful stubbornness.

                    TUNDRA
                    “It needs us, Nana Molly. Everything needs somebody nowadays.”

                    Molly considers the wisdom in Tundra’s young, earnest gaze. Gregor stifles a smile and pats Molly lightly lovingly on the shoulder.

                    GREGOR
                    (warmly, quietly)
                    “Ah, let her find hope where she sees it. Might be that little thing will change how we see hope ourselves.”

                    ANGLE WIDE — the small group beside the tavern: Molly, her wise and caring gaze thoughtful; Gregor’s stance gentle yet cautiously protective; Tundra radiating youthful bravery, cradling newfound companionship as the marcassin squeaks softly, cuddling gently against her worn sweater.

                    ASCENDING SHOT ABOVE the tumbledown ancient Hungarian tavern, the warm glow of lantern and sunset mingling. Ancient vines and wild weeds whisper forgotten stories as stars blink awake above.

                    In that gentle hush, beneath a wild and vast sky reclaiming an abandoned land, Tundra’s act of compassion quietly rekindles hope for humanity’s delicate future.

                    FADE OUT.

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