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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?

      prUneprUne
      Participant

        Theme Song :)

        Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn

        [Verse]
        Dusty inn of stories wide
        Gum-leaf whispers where dreams abide
        Mater’s laugh like the crackling fire
        Dodo’s show lifts the spirits higher

        [Chorus]
        Out on the edge where memories spin
        Bushland beats and legends begin
        With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
        Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

        [Verse 2]
        Prune plays tricks by lantern’s gleam
        Kookaburras join this timeless theme
        Aunt Idle’s wink it holds a spark
        Lighting tales in the outback dark

        [Bridge]
        Rusted signs swing slow with pride
        Creaking porch where secrets hide
        Every soul has a verse within
        And every night’s a new tale to spin

        [Chorus]
        Out on the edge where memories spin
        Bushland beats and legends begin
        With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
        Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

        [Verse 3]
        Old Bert hums with a pipe in hand
        Echoes surf on the scorched red land
        Shadows dance on the pub’s embrace
        Laugh lines drawn on every face

        #7940
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          The Cofficionados Theme Song “Dont Trust a Goat with a Plan

           

           

          [Verse]
          Goat in a bow tie whispers
          “Trust me
          My dear”
          A plan in its hooves but intentions unclear
          Guard the coffee belt like a treasure map’s end
          Four bandits are plotting to twist and upend

          [Chorus]
          Don’t trust a goat with a plan
          My friend
          They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
          Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
          By cofficionados sneaking in

          [Verse 2]
          Carob in shadows
          No cocoa in sight
          Thiram with whispers that steal your midnight
          Amy’s sweet smile hides beans of deceit
          Chico grinds chaos
          The bitter elite

          [Bridge]
          Sleep-parachute breaches
          Reverse dreams collide
          They’ve hijacked your pillow for the wildest ride
          Beware the saboteurs that seep in deep
          Between dripping espresso and REM sleep

          [Chorus]
          Don’t trust a goat with a plan
          My friend
          They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
          Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
          By cofficionados sneaking in

          [Verse 3]
          Pour your resistance in a steaming haze
          Shield the roast aroma from their forking ways
          The bandits want dominion over your grind
          But you’ll wake alert with their schemes left behind

          #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.

                #7923
                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  Amy & Carob

                  Amy Kawanhouse

                  Directly Stated Visual Traits:

                  • Hair: Long, light brown

                  • Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

                  • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

                  • Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

                  • Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

                  Inferred From Behavior:

                  • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

                  • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

                  • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


                  Carob Latte

                  Directly Stated Visual Traits:

                  • Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

                  • Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

                  • General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

                  Inferred From Behavior:

                  • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

                  • Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

                  • There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

                  #7908

                  “Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

                  Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

                  “You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

                  “Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

                  “Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

                  Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

                  “According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

                  Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

                  “My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

                  “Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

                  “Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

                  #7906

                  “Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.


                  “Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.

                  After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”

                  #7902

                  To Whom It May Concern

                   

                  I am the new character called Amy, and my physical characteristics, which once bestowed are largely irreversible, are in the hands of impetuous maniacs. In the unseemly headlong rush, dangers abound. 

                  Let it be known that I the character called Amy, given the opportunity to choose, hereby select a height considerably less imposing than Carob.

                  #7886

                  SAVE THE BEAN BELT 

                  “Let’s go” said Amy to her goat.

                  #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.”

                  #7873

                  6 months later…

                  Earth ~ Helix 25

                  6 months later…

                  #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.

                  #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.

                  #7847
                  Jib
                  Participant

                    Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

                    Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.

                    And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”

                    The baby did, indeed, cry.

                    “Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”

                    The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.

                    Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”

                    Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.

                    “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”

                    They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”

                    The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”

                    The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”

                    Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”

                    Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”

                    Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”

                    “Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”

                    “Ah. Of course they have.”

                    Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.

                    Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”

                    They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”

                    Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.

                    She knew this feeling.

                    Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.

                    “The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”

                    Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

                    The baby let out a startled hiccup.

                    But Zoya did not stop.

                    “The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.

                    “The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”

                    Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.

                    Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.

                    “Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”

                    Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.

                    “It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”

                    They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”

                    “Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”

                    The baby cooed.

                    Zoya Kade smiled.

                    #7844
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

                      The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.

                      “You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”

                      Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”

                      Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”

                      Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.

                      “We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”

                      Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”

                      A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.

                      She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.

                      She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.

                      Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”

                      Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”

                      Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”

                      Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”

                      Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

                      “Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

                      Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”

                      “Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”

                      Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.

                      “I made my choice,” she said quietly.

                      Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”

                      Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.

                      “Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”

                      Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.

                      Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”

                      The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.

                      “Where are they?” she asked.

                      Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”

                      For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.

                      Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.

                      Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”

                      #7843

                      Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

                      The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

                      In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

                      In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

                      The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

                      It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

                      A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

                      “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

                      A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

                      Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

                      That was without counting when the madness began.

                      :fleuron2:

                      The Gossip Spiral

                      “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
                      “The Lexican?” gasped another.
                      “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
                      “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
                      “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
                      “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

                      A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

                      This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

                      Wisdom Against Wisdom

                      Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

                      “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

                      Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

                      “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

                      Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

                      Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

                      The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

                      By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

                      Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

                      More Mass Lunacy 

                      It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

                      “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
                      “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
                      “Who took my water flask?!”
                      “Why is this man so close to me?!”
                      “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

                      Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

                      “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

                      Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

                      Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

                      Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
                      Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
                      Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
                      A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
                      Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

                      The Unions and the Leopards

                      Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

                      “Bloody management.”
                      “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
                      “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
                      “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
                      “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

                      One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

                      The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

                      “…seriously?”

                      “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

                      “That’s inhumane.”

                      “Bloody right it is.”

                      At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

                      “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

                      The Slingshot Begins

                      The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

                      Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
                      Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
                      Someone else vomited.

                      Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

                      Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
                      “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

                      Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

                      “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

                      #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.

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