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  • #7828

    Helix 25 – The Murder Board

    Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

    The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

    Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

    Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

    She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

    She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

    He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

    They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
    So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

    1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
      Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
      Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
      Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
      The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
    2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
      The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
      Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
      The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
    3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
      Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
      Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

    Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

    Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

    She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

    A heavy silence settled between them.

    Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

    Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

    Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

    TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

    Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

    Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

    Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

    Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

    Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

    The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
    It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

    Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

    Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

    Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

    TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

    Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

    “Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

    Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

    TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

    Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

    “Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

    Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

    Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

    A chime interrupted them.

    A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

    Evie stiffened.

    Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

    Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

    He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

    #7825

    “I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff.  Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it.  Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”

    Gregor didn’t respond immediately.  He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind.  Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”

    Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication.  People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”

    “I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback.  I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.”  A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”

    Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.

    The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?

    “Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”

    Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude.  Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling.  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.

    She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go.  Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which  appeared to be the direction the truck had come from.  Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.

    “If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian.  “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”

    “There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”

    “We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.

    “We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”

    “More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.

    Molly and Berlingo

    #7822

    Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

    The Upper Decks of Helix 25 were a marvel of well-designed choreography and engineered tranquility. Life here was made effortless, thanks to an artful curation of everyday problems. Climate control ensured the air was always crisp, with just enough variation to keep the body alert, while maintaining a perfect balance of warm and cool, hygrometry, with no crazy seasons or climate change upheaval to disrupt the monotony. Food dispensers served gourmet meals for every individual preferences —decadent feasts perfectly prepared at the push of a button. The Helix cruise starships were designed for leisure, an eternity of comfort — and it had succeeded.

    For the average resident, the days blended into one another in an animated swirl of hobbyist pursuits. There were the Arboretum Philosophers, who debated meaningfully over the purpose of existence while sipping floral-infused teas. There were the Artisans, who crafted digital masterpieces that vanished into the ship’s archives as soon as they were complete. There were the Virtual Adventurers, who lived entire lifetimes in fully immersive life-like simulations, all while reclining on plush lounges, connected to their brain chips courtesy of Muck Industries.

    And then, there were Sharon, Gloria, and Mavis.

    Three old ladies who, by all accounts, should have spent their days knitting and reminiscing about their youth, but instead had taken it upon themselves to make Helix 25 a little more interesting.

    :fleuron2:

    “Another marvelous day, ladies,” Sharon declared as she strolled along the gilded walkway of the Grand Atrium, a cavernous space filled with floating lounges and soft ambient music. The ceiling was a perfect replica of a sky—complete with drifting, lazy clouds and the occasional simulated flock of birds. Enough to make you almost forget you were in a closed fully-controlled environment.

    Mavis sighed, adjusting her gaudy, glittering shawl. “It’s too marvelous, if you ask me. Bit samey, innit? Not even a good scandal to shake things up.”

    Gloria scoffed. “Pah! That’s ‘cause we ain’t lookin’ hard enough. Did you hear about that dreadful business down in the Granary? Dried ‘im up like an apricot, they did. Disgustin’.”

    Dreadful,” Sharon agreed solemnly. “And not a single murder for decades, you know. We were overdue.”

    Mavis clutched her pearls. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

    Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just sayin’, bit of drama keeps people from losing their minds. No offense, but how many decades of spa treatments can a person endure before they go barmy?”

    They passed a Wellness Lounge, where a row of residents were floating in Zero-G Hydrotherapy Pods, their faces aglow with Rejuvenex™ Anti-Aging Serum. Others lounged under mild UV therapy lamps, soaking up synthetic vitamin D while attendants rubbed nutrient-rich oils into their wrinkle-free skin.

    Mavis peered at them. “Y’know, I swear some of ‘em are the same age as when we boarded.”

    Gloria sniffed. “Not the same, Mavis. Just better preserved.”

    Sharon tapped her lips, thoughtful. “I always wondered why we don’t have crime ‘ere. I mean, back on Earth, it were all fights, robbery, someone goin’ absolutely mental over a parking space—”

    Gloria nodded. “It’s ‘cause we ain’t got money, Sha. No money, no stress, see? Everyone gets what they need.”

    Needs? Glo, love, people here have twelve-course meals and private VR vacations to Ancient Rome! I don’t reckon that counts as ‘needs’.”

    “Well, it ain’t money, exactly,” Mavis pondered, “but we still ‘ave credits, don’t we?”

    :fleuron2:

    They fell into deep philosophical debates —or to say, their version of it.

    Currency still existed aboard Helix 25, in a way. Each resident had a personal wealth balance, a digital measure of their social contributions—creative works, mentorship, scientific discovery, or participation in ship maintenance (for those who actually enjoyed labor, an absurd notion to most Upper Deckers). It wasn’t about survival, not like on the Lower Decks or the Hold, but about status. The wealthiest weren’t necessarily the smartest or the strongest, but rather those who best entertained or enriched the community.

    :fleuron2:

    Gloria finally waved her hand dismissively. “Point is, they keep us comfortable so we don’t start thinkin’ about things too much. Keep us occupied. Like a ship-sized cruise, but forever.”

    Mavis wrinkled her nose. “A bit sinister, when you put it like that.”

    “Well, I didn’t say it were sinister, I just said it were clever.” Gloria sniffed. “Anyway, we ain’t the ones who need entertainin’, are we? We’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

    Sharon clapped excitedly. “Ooooh yes! A real mystery! Ain’t it thrillin’?”

    “A proper one,” Gloria agreed. “With dead bodies an’ secrets an’—”

    “—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

    The three of them sighed in unison, delighted at the prospect.

    They continued their stroll past the Grand Casino & Theatre, where a live orchestral simulation played for a well-dressed audience. Past the Astronomer’s Lounge, where youngster were taught to chart the stars that Helix 25 would never reach. Past the Crystal Arcade, where another group of youth of the ship enjoyed their free time on holographic duels and tactical board games.

    So much entertainment. So much luxury.

    So much designed distraction.

    Gloria stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wonder why we ain’t heard from the Captain in years?”

    Sharon and Mavis stopped.

    A hush fell over them.

    Mavis frowned. “I thought you said the Captain were an idea, not a person.”

    “Well, maybe. But if that’s true, who’s actually runnin’ the show?” Gloria folded her arms.

    They glanced around, as if expecting an answer from the glowing Synthia panels embedded in every wall.

    For the first time in a long while, they felt watched.

    “…Maybe we oughta be careful,” Sharon muttered.

    Mavis shivered. “Oh, Glo. What ‘ave you gotten us into this time?”

    Gloria straightened her collar. “Dunno yet, love. But ain’t it excitin’?”

    :fleuron2:

    “With all the excitment, I almost forgot to tell you about that absolutely ghastly business,” Gloria declared, moments later, at the Moonchies’ Café, swirling her lavender-infused tea. “Watched a documentary this morning. About man-eating lions of Njombe.”

    Sharon gasped, clutching her pearls. “Man eating lions?!”

    Mavis blinked. “Wait. Man-eating lions, or man eating lions?”

    There was a pause.

    Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Mavis, why in the name of clotted cream would I be watchin’ a man eating lions?”

    Mavis shrugged. “Well, I dunno, do I? Maybe he ran out of elephants.”

    Sharon nodded sagely. “Yes, happens all the time in those travel shows.”

    Gloria exhaled through her nose. “It’s not a travel show, Sha. And it’s not fiction.”

    Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

    “Not as ridiculous as a man sittin’ down to a plate of roast lion chops,” Gloria shot back.

    Mavis tilted her head. “Maybe it’s in a recipe book?”

    Gloria slammed her teacup down. “I give up. I absolutely give up.”

    Sharon patted her hand. “There, there, Glo. You can always watch somethin’ lighter tomorrow. Maybe a nice documentary about man-eating otters.”

    Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

    Gloria inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to upend her tea.

    This, this was why Helix 25 had never known war.

    No one had the time.

    #7816
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.

      It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.

      And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.

      Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.

      “This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”

      Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”

      Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”

      Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.

      “Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”

      Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”

      Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”

      “The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”

      Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”

      Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.

      Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”

      “Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.

      Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”

      Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”

      Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.

      Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”

      Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”

      “She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.

      “She is not! She is enigmatic.”

      “She has a knife hidden in every scene.”

      “A woman should be prepared.”

      Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”

      Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”

      Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”

      Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”

      Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”

      Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”

      Godfrey perked up.

      Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”

      Godfrey’s head hit the table.

      Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”

      Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.

      Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”

      Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”

      Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”

      Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”

      Godfrey reached for another peanut.

      He was going to need a lot more of them.

      #7813

      Helix 25 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives

      Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.

      “Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”

      Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.

      He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.

      “Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”

      “Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”

      Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.

      She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”

      Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”

      Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.

      A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.

      Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.

      “Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
      Sidon, 1157 AD.

      Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.

      He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.

      It came as a gift.

      It was a curse.

      His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.

      And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.

      ‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’

      And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.

      It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.

      Which life was his own.

      He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.

      But Edric had broken that vow.

      Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…

      He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”

      Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”

      Seren shook her head distractedly.

      “It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”

      Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.

      Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”

      Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”

      Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”

      “Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.

      Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.

      #7810

      Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector

      Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.

      Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.

      He was being watched.

      He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.

      He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.

      A voice broke the silence.

      “You’re late.”

      Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.

      They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.

      “Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.

      “Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”

      Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”

      A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.

      “Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”

      Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”

      That got their attention.

      The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”

      Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”

      “You say that like it isn’t.”

      Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”

      They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.

      A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.

      Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”

      The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”

      Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.

      He had never been given a real answer.

      “Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”

      Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.

      He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”

      They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”

      Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.

      Someone else was watching.

      He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.

      Damn it.

      She had followed him.

      The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.

      “Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”

      Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.

      And the worst part?

      She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.

      “You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”

      Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.

      “This isn’t over,” he said.

      Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”

      With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

      He didn’t speak first.

      She did.

      “You’re terrible at being subtle.”

      Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”

      “Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”

      Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”

      Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.

      Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”

      “You should,” Kai corrected.

      She frowned.

      He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”

      Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.

      Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.

      “I didn’t see anything tonight.”

      Kai blinked. “What?”

      Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.

      “I will report you.”

      Then she was gone.

      Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.

      No turning back now.

      #7763
      Jib
      Participant

        The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

        It was all Riven had ever known.

        His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

        Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

        For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

        He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

        A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

        People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

        Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

        Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

        Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

        “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

        Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

        Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

        “No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

        Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

        Evie, tell him.”

        Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

        Riven hesitated.

        Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

        They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

        “Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

        Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

        “See what, exactly?”

        Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

        Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

        “Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

        The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

        “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

        Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

        His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

        Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

        TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

        Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

        TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

        Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

        But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

        Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

        So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

        Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

        Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

        She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

        “Fine. But only you.”

        Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

        Zoya snorted.

        Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

        #7737

        Evie stared at TP, waiting for further elaboration. He simply steepled his fingers and smirked, a glitchy picture of insufferable patience.

        “You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and leave it hanging,” she said.

        “But my dear Evie, I must!” TP declared, flickering theatrically. “For as the great Pea Stoll once mused—‘It was suspicious in a Pea Saucerer’s ways…’

        Evie groaned. “TP—”

        “A jest! A mere jest!” He twirled an imaginary cane. “And yet, what do we truly know of the elusive Mr. Herbert? If we wish to uncover his secrets, we must look into his… associations.”

        Evie frowned. “Funny you said that, I would have thought ‘means, motive, alibis’ but I must be getting ahead of myself…” He had a point. “By associations, you mean —Seren Vega?”

        “Indeed!” TP froze accessing invisible records, then clapped his hands together. “Seren Vega, archivist extraordinaire of the wondrous past, keeper resplendent of forgotten knowledge… and, if the ship’s whisperings hold any weight, a woman Herbert was particularly keen on seeing.”

        Evie exhaled, already halfway to the door. “Alright, let’s go see Seren.”

        :fleuron2:

        Seren Vega’s quarters weren’t standard issue—too many rugs, too many hanging ornaments, a hint of a passion for hoarding, and an unshakable musky scent of an animal’s den. The place felt like the ship itself had grown around it, heavy with the weight of history.

        And then, there was Mandrake.

        The bionic-enhanced cat perched on a high shelf, tail flicking, eyes glowing faintly. “What do you want?” he asked flatly, his tone dripping with a well-practiced blend of boredom and disdain.

        Evie arched a brow. “Nice to see you too, Mandrake.”

        Seren, cross-legged on a cushion, glanced up from her console. “Evie,” she greeted calmly. “And… oh no.” She sighed, already bracing herself. “You’ve brought it —what do you call him already? Orion Reed?”

        Evie replied “Great memory Ms Vega, as expected. Yes, this was the name of the beta version —this one’s improved but still working the kinks of the programme, he goes by ‘TP’ nowadays. Hope you don’t mind, he’s helping me gather clues.” She caught herself, almost telling too much to a potential suspect.

        TP puffed up indignantly. “I must protest, Madame Vega! Our past encounters, while lively, have been nothing but the height of professional discourse!”

        Mandrake yawned. “She means you talk too much.”

        Evie hid a smirk. “I need your help, Seren. It’s about Mr. Herbert.”

        Seren’s fingers paused over her console. “He’s the one they found in the dryer.” It wasn’t a question.

        Evie nodded. “What do you know about him?”

        Seren studied her for a moment, then, with a slow exhale, tapped a command into her console. The room dimmed as the walls flickered to life, displaying a soft cascade of memories—public logs, old surveillance feeds, snippets of conversations once lost to time.

        “He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Seren said at last. “He arrived without a record. No one really questioned it, because, well… no one questions much anymore. But if you looked closely, the ship never registered him properly.”

        Evie’s pulse quickened. TP let out an approving hum.

        Seren continued, scrolling through the visuals. “He came to me, sometimes. Asked about old Earth history. Strange, fragmented questions. He wanted to know how records were kept, how things could be erased.”

        Evie and TP exchanged a glance.

        Seren frowned slightly, as if piecing together a thought she hadn’t dared before. “And then… he stopped coming.”

        Mandrake, still watching from his shelf, stretched lazily. Then, with perfect nonchalance, he added, “Oh yeah. And he wasn’t using his real name.”

        Evie snapped to attention. “What?”

        The cat flicked his tail. “Mr. Herbert. The name was fake. He called himself that, but it wasn’t what the system had logged when he first stepped on board.”

        Seren turned sharply toward him. “Mandrake, you never mentioned this before.”

        The cat yawned. “You never asked.”

        Evie felt a chill roll through her. “So what was his real name?”

        Mandrake’s eyes glowed, data scrolling in his enhanced vision.

        “Something about… Ethan,” he mused. “Ethan… M.”

        The room went very still.

        Evie swallowed hard. “Ethan Marlowe?”

        Seren paled. “Ellis Marlowe’s son.”

        TP, for once, was silent.

        #7736

        “Premeditated?”  Evie voiced her thoughts.

        TP looked at her sharply. “That would be the obvious conclusion to draw, my dear Evie. However,” he continued after a pregnant pause, “The conclusion may not be obvious at all.”

        Evie rolled her eyes. “When in doubt, assume convolutions?”

        A look of irritation clouded TP’s features momentarily, which he quickly arranged to a look of supercilious exasperation.  “You assume,” he said condescendingly, “That Herbert WAS a human when he entered the drying chamber.”

        Evie was confused. “Well he was a dessicated human when he was found in there.  And he was a human when I last saw him.”

        “And what do we know about Mr Herbert? Mr Ethan “Herbert”?”

        Nonplussed, Evie replied that she didn’t know much about him, other than he was a late arrival and had appeared unexpectedly some years ago.

        “Precisely.”

        #7735

        The “do not enter, crime scene” sticker haphazardly printed, was not even sealing the door. Amateur job, but of course, this was to be expected when such murder event had not been seen in a generation.

        She entered surrepticiously, the door to the drying chamber slid shut with a hiss behind her, muffling the last of the frantic voices outside. Evie exhaled. She needed a moment. Just her, the crime scene, and—

        A flicker of light.

        “Ah-ha!” Trevor Pee Marshall, aka TP, materialized beside her, adjusting his holographic lapels with exaggerated precision. “What we have here, dear Evie, is a classic case of les morts très mystérieux.” His mustache twitched. “Or as my good friend Clouseau would say—‘Zis does not add up!’”

        Evie rolled her eyes. “Less theatrics, more analysis, TP.”

        Despite the few glitches, she was proud and eager to take her invention to a real-life trial run. Combining all the brilliant minds of enquêteur Jacques Clouseau, as well as the flair of Marshall Pee Stoll from the beloved Peaslanders children stories, TP was the help they needed to solve this.

        “Ahem.” TP straightened, flickering momentarily before reappearing near the machine, peering inside with a magnifying glass he absolutely didn’t need.

        Evie pulled up the logs. The AI had flagged the event—drying cycle activated at 0200 hours. Duration: excessive. But no shutdown? That was impossible.

        TP let out a thoughtful “hmm.” Then, with the gravitas of a seasoned investigator, he declared, “Madame, I detect a most peculiar discrepancy.”

        Evie looked up. “Go on.”

        TP pivoted dramatically. “The AI should have stopped the cycle, yes? But what if… it never saw a problem?”

        Evie frowned. That wasn’t how safety protocols worked. Unless—

        She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.

        The system hadn’t flagged a human inside at all.

        Someone had altered the ship’s perception of Mr. Herbert before he ever stepped into the machine.

        Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just murder.

        It was premeditated.

        #7734

        It was quite dark by the time Molly and Tundra entered the woods but the firelight flickered through the trees, guiding them to the clearing.  Now that the meeting with the strangers was close, the initial excitement gave way to trepidition, particularly for Molly. Despite not seeing other people for years, the old world caution about strangers resurfaced.

        “Slow down, Tundra, we don’t want to shock them. They may be hostile,” whispered Molly.

        “Hostile? What does that mean?” asked Tundra, who had never come into contact with other people.

        Molly looked at her in amazement.  The dear innocent poppet has never known the fear of strangers in dark woods! And not once did I think to appreciate that, Molly marvelled silently.

        “Never mind that now. Come on.” No need to fill the childs head with fear.  “Haloooo!  We come in peace!” Molly shouted.  “Haloooo! We’re coming in pieces!” echoed Tundra, who was unfamiliar with the word peace, not having had any call the use the word in any conversation thus far.

        There was a pregnant silence and then an animated burble of exclamations from the clearing, and then silence again as Molly and Tundra emerged from the darkness.

        Dear god, there are so many of them.  Molly’s initial reaction was overwhelm.  She tried to look at them all individually and it made her head swim. She wondered for a moment if it would be rude to just turn around and leave. But no, it was dark already, and the rapturous excitement on Tundra’s face put paid to that idea.

        Gregor was the first to move forward. His leathery old face creased in smiles, he offered his hand to Molly.

        #7727
        F LoveF Love
        Participant

          THE SURVIVORS ON EARTH

          2050. Civilization has collapsed.
          Global warming, famine, plague, and the Tit-for-Tax war have devastated the planet.
          The ultra-wealthy, led by entrepreneur Effin Muck, left Earth for luxury space colonies.
          As civilization fell apart, other groups started ejecting ships into space. please see above comments for more details.
          No one knows what happened to Effin.

          Ukraine. An isolated psychiatric facility.
          Holds supposed political prisoners and a few who are genuinely insane. But it’s a good community and they look out for each other.
          Self-sufficient, growing their own food.
          Unaware of the full extent of the world’s collapse.
          one day in around 2030 A group sstaff and patients leave on a supply run.
          They never return.
          The remaining residents wait for months and then years, relying on their harvest, speculating about the outside world. Many die. The remainder decide to leave the facility – Driven by necessity and curiosity.
          Enter a world they don’t recognize—barren, fractured, sparsely populated.
          Encounter scattered survivors.

          They Find an abandoned space station.
          It was one of many.
          Manage to establish communication with one of the ships. The Helix 25. It turns out there is a connection but that is to be expanded on. it is of a murder and genealogical form.

          #7711

          Matteo — December 2022

          Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”

          Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.

          At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.

          “It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”

          “New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”

          “And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
          “Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”

          “Let me see…”

          Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”

          Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.

          The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
          “Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”

          Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”

          “Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”

          The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
          “Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.

          Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”

          “Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”

          Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

          Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”

          Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”

          The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.

          “You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.

          Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”

          Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.

          The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
          “Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”

          Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”

          “Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.

          Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”

          The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.

          To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.

          Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.

          #7708

          Elara — Nov 2021: The End of Genealogix

          The numbers on the screen were almost comical in their smallness. Elara stared at the royalty statement, her lips pressed into a tight line as the cursor blinked on the final transaction: £12.37, marked Genealogix Royalty Deposit. Below it, the stark words: Final Payout.

          She leaned back in her chair, pushing her glasses up onto her forehead, and sighed. The end wasn’t a surprise. For years, she’d known her genetic algorithm would be replaced by something faster, smarter, and infinitely more marketable. The AI companies had come, sweeping up data and patents like vultures at a sky burial. Genealogix, her improbable golden goose, had simply been outpaced.

          Still, staring at the zero balance in the account felt oddly final, as if a door had quietly closed on a chapter of her life. She glanced toward the window, where the Tuscan hills rolled gently under the late afternoon sun. Most of the renovation work on the farmhouse had been finished, albeit slowly, over the years. There was no urgent financial burden, but the thought of her remaining savings made her stomach tighten all the same.

          Elara had stumbled into success with Genealogix, though not without effort. It was one of her many patents—most of them quirky solutions to problems nobody else seemed interested in solving. A self-healing chalkboard coating? Useless. A way to chart audio waveforms onto three-dimensional paper models? Intriguing but commercially barren. Genealogix had been an afterthought at the time, something she tinkered with while traveling through Europe on a teaching fellowship.

          When the royalties started rolling in unexpectedly, it had felt like a cosmic joke. “Finally,” she’d muttered to herself as she cashed her first sizeable check, “they like something useless.”

          The freedom that money brought was a relief. It allowed her to drop the short-term contracts that tethered her to institutions and pursue science on her own terms. No rigid conventions, no endless grant applications, no academic politics. She’d call it “investigation,” free from the dogma that so often suffocated creativity.

          And yet, she was no fool. She’d known Genealogix was a fluke, its lifespan limited.

          :fleuron2:

          She clicked away from the bank statement and opened her browser, absently scrolling through her bookmarked social accounts. An old post from Lucien caught her eye—a photograph of a half-finished painting, the colors dark and chaotic. His caption read: “When the labyrinth swallows the light.”

          Her brow furrowed. She’d been quietly following Lucien for years, watching his work evolve through fits and starts. It was obvious he was struggling. This post was old, maybe Lucian had stopped updating after the pandemic. She’d sent anonymous payments to buy his paintings more than once, under names that would mean nothing to him —”Darlara Ameilikian” was a bit on the nose, but unlike Amei, Elara loved a good wink.

          Her mind wandered to Darius, and her suggesting he looked into 1-euro housing schemes available in Italy. It had been during a long phone call, back when she was scouting options for herself. They still had tense exchanges, and he was smart to avoid any mention of his odd friends, otherwise she’d had hung the phone faster than a mouse chased by a pack of dogs. “You’d thrive in something like that,” she’d told him. “Build it with your own hands. Make it something meaningful.” He’d laughed but had sounded intrigued. She wondered if he’d ever followed up on it.

          As for Amei—Elara had sent her a birthday gift earlier that year, a rare fabric she’d stumbled across in a tiny local shop. Amei hadn’t known it was from her, of course. That was Elara’s way. She preferred to keep her gestures quiet, almost random —it was best that way, she was rubbish at remembering the small stuff that mattered so much to people, she wasn’t even sure of Amei’s birthday to be honest; so she preferred to scatter little nods like seeds to the wind.

          Her eyes drifted to a framed ticket stub on the bookshelf, a relic from 2007: Eliane Radigue — Naldjorlak II, Aarau Festival (Switzerland). Funny how the most unlikely event had made them into a group of friends. That concert had been a weird and improbable anchor point in their lives, a moment of serendipity that had drawn them toward something more than their own parts.

          By that time, they were already good friends with Amei, and she’d agreed to join her to discover the music, although she could tell it was more for the strange appeal of something almost alien in experience, than for the hurdles of travel and logistics. But Elara’s enthusiasm and devil-may-care had won her over, and they were here.

          Radigue’s strange sound sculptures, had rippled through the darkened festival scene, wavering and hauntingly delicate, and at the same time slow and deliberate, leading them towards an inevitability. Elara had been mesmerized, sitting alone near the back as Amei had gone for refreshments, when a stranger beside her had leaned over to ask, “What’s that sound? A bell? Or a drone?”

          It was Lucien. Their conversation had lasted through the intermission soon joined by Amei, and spilled into a café afterward, where Darius had eventually joined them. They’d formed a bond that night, one that felt strange and tenuous at the time but proved to be resilient, even as the years pulled them apart.

          :fleuron2:

          Elara closed the laptop, resting her hand on its warm surface for a moment before standing. She walked to the window, the sun dipping lower over the horizon, casting long shadows across the vineyard. The farmhouse had been a gamble, a piece of the future she wasn’t entirely sure she believed in when she’d bought it. But now, as the light shifted and the hills glowed gold, she felt a quiet satisfaction.

          The patent was gone, the money would fade, but she still had this. And perhaps, that was enough.

          #7707

          Matteo — Easter Break 2023

          The air in the streets carried the sweet intoxicating smell of orange blossoms, as Matteo stood at the edge of a narrow cobbled street in Xàtiva, the small town just a train ride from Valencia that Juliette had insisted on visiting. The weekend had been a blur of color and history—street markets in Italy, Venetian canals last month, and now this little-known hometown of the Borgias, nestled under the shadow of an ancient castle.

          Post-pandemic tourism was reshaping the rhythm of Europe. The crowds in the big capitals felt different now—quieter in some places, overwhelming in others. Xàtiva, however, seemed untouched, its charm untouched. Matteo liked it. It felt authentic, a place with layers to uncover.

          Juliette, as always, had planned everything. She had a knack for unearthing destinations that felt simultaneously curated and spontaneous. They had started with the obvious—Berlin, Amsterdam, Florence—but now her choices were becoming more eccentric.

          “Where do you even find these places?” Matteo had asked on the flight to Valencia, his curiosity genuine.

          She grinned, pulling out her phone and scrolling through saved videos. “Here,” she said, passing it to him. “This channel had great ideas before it went dark. He had listed all those places with 1-euro houses deals in many fantastic places in Europe. Once we’re ready to settle” she smiled at him.

          The video that played featured sweeping shots of abandoned stone houses and misty mountain roads, narrated by a deep, calm voice. “There’s magic in forgotten places,” the narrator said. “A story waiting for the right hands to revive it.”

          Matteo leaned closer, intrigued. The channel was called Wayfare, and the host, though unnamed in the video, had a quiet magnetism that made him linger. The content wasn’t polished—some shots were shaky, the editing rough—but there was an earnestness to it that immediately captured his attention.

          “This guy’s great,” Matteo said. “What happened to him?”

          “Darius, I think his name was,” Juliette replied. “I loved his videos. He didn’t have a huge audience, but it felt like he was speaking to you, you know?” She shrugged. “He shut it down a while back. Rumors about some drama with patrons or something.”

          Matteo handed the phone back, his interest waning. “Too bad,” he said. “I like his style.”

          The train ride to Xàtiva had been smooth, the rolling hills and sun-drenched orchards sliding slowly outside the window. The time seemed to move at a slower pace here. Matteo’d been working with an international moving company in Paris, mostly focused to expats in and out of France. Tips were good and it usually meant having a tiring week, but what the job lacked in interest, it compensated with with extra recuperation days.

          As they climbed toward the castle overlooking the town, Juliette rattled off details she’d picked up online.

          “The Borgias are fascinating,” she said, gesturing toward the town below. “They came from here, you know. Rose to power around the 13th century. Claimed they were descended from Visigoth kings, but most people think that’s all invention.”

          “Clever, though,” Matteo said. “Makes you almost wish you had a magic box to smartly rewrite your ancestry, that people would believe it if you play it right.”

          Juliette smiled. “Yeah! They were masters cheaters and gaslighters.”

          “Reinventing where they came from, like us, always reinventing where we go…”

          Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

          Matteo’s mind wandered, threading Juliette’s history lesson with stories his grandmother used to tell—tales of the Borgias’ rise through cunning and charm, and how they were descended from the infamous family through Lucrecia, the Pope’s illegitimate daughter. It was strange how family lore could echo through places so distant from where he’d grown up.

          As they reached the castle’s summit, Matteo paused to take it all in. The valley stretched below them, a patchwork of red-tiled rooftops and olive groves shimmering in the afternoon light. Somewhere in this region, Juliette said, Darius had explored foreclosed homes, hoping to revive them with new communities. Matteo couldn’t help but think how odd it was, these faint connections between lives—threads weaving places and people together, even when the patterns weren’t clear.

          :fleuron2:

          Later, over a shared plate of paella, Juliette nudged him with her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

          “Nothing much,” Matteo said, swirling his glass of wine. “Just… how people tell stories. The Borgias, this Darius guy, even us—everyone’s looking for a way to leave a mark, even if it’s just on a weekend trip.”

          Juliette smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you better leave your mark tomorrow. I want a picture of you standing on that castle wall.”

          Matteo laughed, raising his glass. “Deal. But only if you promise not to fall off first.”

          As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets of Xàtiva began to glow with the warmth of lamplight. Matteo leaned back in his chair, the wine softening the edges of the day. For a moment, he thought of Darius again—of foreclosed homes and forgotten stories. He didn’t dwell on it, though. The present was enough.

          #7704

          Darius: Christmas 2022

          Darius was expecting some cold snap, landing in Paris, but the weather was rather pleasant this time of the year.

          It was the kind of day that begged for aimless wandering, but Darius had an appointment he couldn’t avoid—or so he told himself. His plane had been late, and looking at the time he would arrive at the apartment, he was already feeling quite drained.  The streets were lively, tourists and locals intermingling dreamingly under strings of festive lights spread out over the boulevards. He listlessly took some snapshot videos —fleeting ideas, backgrounds for his channel.

          The wellness channel had not done very well to be honest, and he was struggling with keeping up with the community he had drawn to himself. Most of the latest posts had drawn the usual encouragements and likes, but there were also the growing background chatter, gossiping he couldn’t be bothered to rein in — he was no guru, but it still took its toll, and he could feel it required more energy to be in this mode that he’d liked to.

          His patrons had been kind, for a few years now, indulging his flights of fancy, funding his trips, introducing him to influencers. Seeing how little progress he’d made, he was starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention to the background chatter. Monsieur  Renard had always taken a keen interest in his travels, looking for places to expand his promoter schemes of co-housing under the guide of low investment into conscious living spaces, or something well-marketed by Eloïse. The crude reality was starting to stare at his face. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up pretending they were his friends.

           

          By the time he reached the apartment, in a quiet street adjacent to rue Saint Dominique, nestled in 7th arrondissement with its well-kept façades, he was no longer simply fashionably late.

          Without even the time to say his name, the door buzz clicked open, leading him to the old staircase. The apartment door opened before he could knock. There was a crackling tension hanging in the air even before Renard’s face appeared—his rotund face reddened by an annoyance he was poorly hiding beneath a polished exterior. He seemed far away from the guarded and meticulous man that Darius once knew.

          “You’re late,” Renard said brusquely, stepping aside to let Darius in. The man was dressed impeccably, as always, but there was a sharpness to his movements.

          Inside, the apartment was its usual display of cultivated sophistication—mid-century furniture, muted tones, and artful clutter that screamed effortless wealth. Eloïse sat on the couch, her legs crossed, a glass of wine poised delicately in her hand. She didn’t look up as Darius entered.

          “Sorry,” Darius muttered, setting down his bag. “Flight delay.”

          Renard waved it off impatiently, already pacing the room. “Do you know where Lucien is?” he asked abruptly, his gaze slicing toward Darius.

          The question caught him off guard. “Lucien?” Darius echoed. “No. Why?”

          Renard let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why? Because he owes me. He owes us. And he’s gone off the grid like some bloody enfant terrible who thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”

          Darius hesitated. “I haven’t seen him in months,” he said carefully.

          Renard stopped pacing, fixing him with a hard look. “Are you sure about that? You two were close, weren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re covering for him.”

          “I’m not,” Darius said firmly, though the accusation sent a ripple of anger through him.

          Renard snorted, turning away. “Typical. All you dreamers are the same—full of ideas but no follow-through. And when things fall apart, you scatter like rats, leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess.”

          Darius stiffened. “I didn’t come here to be insulted,” he said, his voice a steady growl.

          “Then why did you come, Darius?” Renard shot back, his tone cutting. “To float on someone else’s dime a little longer? To pretend you’re above all this while you leech off people who actually make things happen?”

          The words hit like a slap. Darius glanced at Eloïse, expecting her to interject, to soften the blow. But she remained silent, her gaze fixed on her glass as if it held all the answers.

          For the first time, he saw her clearly—not as a confidante or a muse, but as someone who had always been one step removed, always watching, always using.

          “I think I’ve had enough,” Darius said finally, his voice calm despite the storm brewing inside him. “I think I’ve had enough for a long time.”

          Renard turned, his expression a mix of incredulity and disdain. “Enough? You think you can walk away from this? From us?”

          “Yes, I can.” Darius said simply, grabbing his bag.

          “You’ll never make it on your own,” Renard called after him, his voice dripping with scorn.

          Darius paused at the door, glancing back at Eloïse one last time. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, and then slammed the door.

          :fleuron:

          The evening air was like a balm, open and soft unlike the claustrophobic tension of the apartment. Darius walked aimlessly at first, his thoughts caught between flares of wounded pride and muted anxiety, but as he walked and walked, it soon turned into a return of confidence, slow and steady.

          His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a familiar name. It was a couple he knew from the south of France, friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. He answered, their warm voices immediately lifting his spirits.

          Darius!” one of them said. “What are you doing for Christmas? You should come down to stay with us. We’ve finally moved to a bigger space—and you owe us a visit.”

          Darius smiled, the weight of Renard’s words falling away. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”

          As he hung up, he looked up at the Parisian skyline, Darius wished he’d had the courage to take that step into the unknown a long time ago. Wherever Lucien was, he felt suddenly closer to him —as if inspired by his friend’s bold move away from this malicious web of influence.

          #7698
          Jib
          Participant

            December 2023

            Lights and Christmas decorations were starting to pop up everywhere, like frost and icicles after a frozen winter night. Lucien—no, Julien, as he had started calling himself a few years ago—enjoyed walking in the streets at the end of the day, when the balance between light and night shifted into the darkness. That was the time when decorations would start to come to life like a swarm of fireflies, flickering in time with the city’s heartbeat.

            It was Julien’s first time in Paris after Lucien’s three years of exile, far from all his concerns and the glacial grasp of the dark couple. Julien had enjoyed his time traveling the world, discovering Asia, South America and even certain parts of Africa he would never have imagined he would dare enter. Julien made friends along the way, always curious about their ways of living and the way they looked at the world. But always the voice of Lucien made him wary of staying too long. He had the impression it would increase the possibility of chance encounters with Darius. And he longed to reconnect with his friend and his former life, it would lead to awkward moments, and he would have to give some explanations. But he feared it would make him want to go back, with the risk of attracting unwanted attention. So Julien had to leave in order to be free. That was the price he was willing to pay.

            But in the end, it was the longing of French winter time that made him come back home.

            “Lucien! Is that you?”

            #7665
            IdleIdle
            Participant

              A link to another previous video I quite like.

              Some rushes from Corrie and Clove, as we try to advertise the Flying Fish Inn.

               

              La escena comienza con una toma aérea del bush australiano, mostrando extensas áreas de matorrales verdes y marrones, con un camino serpenteante que lleva al Flying Fish Inn, un encantador edificio rústico rodeado de naturaleza salvaje.
              La imagen transiciona a una anciana enérgica en el jardín del Inn, riendo junto a un kookaburra posado en su hombro. Su expresión es cálida y acogedora.
              La escena cambia rápidamente a la Tía Idle, con trenzas, en una habitación vibrante llena de murales de dreamtime, con las gemelas Clove y Corrie trabajando en su arte.
              La vista serena del atardecer desde la veranda del Inn muestra un cielo pintado con tonos de naranja y rosa, mientras el entorno se sumerge en una tranquilidad mágica.
              La pantalla se desvanece al logo del Flying Fish Inn, acompañado de información de contacto y un suave toque musical.

              :fleuron:

              [Scene opens with a sweeping aerial shot of the Australian bush, transitioning to the rustic charm of the Flying Fish Inn nestled amidst the wild beauty.]

              Narrator (calm, inviting voice): “Escape to the heart of the outback at the Flying Fish Inn, where stories come alive.”

              [Cut to Mater, a sprightly centenarian, in the garden with her kookaburra friend, a warm smile on her face.]

              Narrator: “Meet Mater, our beloved storyteller, celebrated for her legendary bush tucker cuisine.”

              [Quick transition to Aunt Idle, in a vibrant room adorned with dreamtime murals, created by the twins Clove and Corrie.]

              Narrator: “Join Aunt Idle, brimming with tales of adventure, and marvel at the dreamtime artwork by the creative twins.”

              [Flashes of Prune with a telescope, gazing at the stars, embodying her dream of Mars.]

              Narrator: “And Prune, the stargazer, connecting dreams and reality under the vast desert sky.”

              [End with a serene sunset view from the Inn’s veranda, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink.]

              Narrator: “Discover the magic of the bush and the warmth of community. Your outback adventure awaits at the Flying Fish Inn.”

              [The screen fades to the Flying Fish Inn logo with contact information and a gentle musical flourish.]

              #7662

              The Waking 

              Lucien – Early 2024 Darius – Dec 2022 Amei – 2022-2023 Elara – 2022 Matteo – Halloween 2023
              Aversion/Reflection Jealousy/Accomplishment Pride/Equanimity Attachment/Discernment Ignorance/Wisdom
              The sky outside Lucien’s studio window was still dark, the faint glow of dawn breaking on the horizon. He woke suddenly, the echo of footsteps chasing him out of sleep. Renard’s shadow loomed in his mind like a smudge he couldn’t erase. He sat up, rubbing his temples, the remnants of the dream slipping away like water through his fingers. The chase felt endless, but this time, something had shifted. There was no fear in his chest—only a whisper of resolve. “Time to stop running.” The hum of the airplane’s engine filled Darius’s ears as he opened his eyes, the cabin lights dimmed for landing. He glanced at the blinking seatbelt sign and adjusted his scarf. The dream still lingered, faint and elusive, like smoke curling away before he could grasp it. He wasn’t sure where he’d been in his mind, but he felt a pull—something calling him back. South of France was just the next stop. Beyond that,… Beyond that? He didn’t know. Amei sat cross-legged on her living room floor, the guided meditation app still playing its soft tones through her headphones. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts drifted. Images danced at the edges of her mind—threads weaving together, faces she couldn’t place, a labyrinth spiraling endlessly. The meditation always seemed to end with these fragments, leaving her both unsettled and curious. What was she trying to find? Elara woke with a start, the unfamiliar sensation of a dream etched vividly in her mind. Her dreams usually dissolved the moment she opened her eyes, but this one lingered, sharp and bright. She reached for her notebook on the bedside table, fumbling for the pen. The details spilled out onto the page—a white bull, a labyrinth of light, faces shifting like water. “I never remember my dreams,” she thought, “but this one… this one feels important.” Matteo woke to the sound of children laughing outside, their voices echoing through the streets of Avignon. Halloween wasn’t as big a deal here as elsewhere, but it had its charm. He stretched and sat up, the weight of a restless sleep hanging over him. His dreams had been strange—familiar faces, glowing patterns, a sense of something unfinished. The room seemed to glow for a moment. “Strange,” he thought, brushing it off as a trick of the light.
              “No resentment, only purpose.” “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” “Messy patterns are still patterns.” “Let go. The beauty is in the flow.” “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.”
              The Endless Chase
              Lucien ran through a labyrinth, its walls shifting and alive, made of tangled roots and flickering light. Behind him, the echo of footsteps and Renard’s voice calling his name, mocking him. But as he turned a corner, the walls parted to reveal a still lake, its surface reflecting the stars. He stopped, breathless, staring at his reflection in the water. It wasn’t him—it was a younger boy, wide-eyed and unafraid. The boy reached out, and Lucien felt a calm ripple through him. The chase wasn’t real. It never was. The walls dissolved, leaving him standing under a vast, open sky.
              The Wandering Maze
              Darius wandered through a green field, the tall grass brushing against his hands. The horizon seemed endless, but each step revealed new paths, twisting and turning like a living map. He saw figures ahead—people he thought he recognized—but when he reached them, they vanished, leaving only their footprints. Frustration welled up in his chest, but then he heard laughter—a clear, joyful sound. A child ran past him, leaving a trail of flowers in their wake. Darius followed, the path opening into a vibrant garden. There, he saw his own footprints, weaving among the flowers. “You’re not lost,” a voice said. “You’re walking your own path.”
              The Woven Tapestry
              Amei found herself in a dim room, lit only by the soft glow of a loom. Threads of every color stretched across the space, intertwining in intricate patterns. She sat before the loom, her hands moving instinctively, weaving the threads together. Faces appeared in the fabric—Tabitha, her estranged friends, even strangers she didn’t recognize. The threads wove tighter, forming a brilliant tapestry that seemed to hum with life. She saw herself in the center, not separate from the others but connected. This time she heard clearly “Messy patterns are still patterns,” a voice whispered, and she smiled.
              The Scattered Grains
              Elara stood on a beach, the sand slipping through her fingers as she tried to gather it. The harder she grasped, the more it escaped. A wave rolled in, sweeping the sand into intricate patterns that glowed under the moonlight. She knelt, watching the designs shift and shimmer, each one unique and fleeting. “Let go,” the wind seemed to say. “The beauty is in the flow.” Elara let the sand fall, and as it scattered, it transformed into light, rising like fireflies into the night sky.
              The Mandala of Light
              Matteo stood in a darkened room, the only light coming from a glowing mandala etched on the floor. As he stepped closer, the patterns began to move, spinning and shifting. Faces appeared—his mother, the friends he hadn’t yet met, and even his own reflection. The mandala expanded, encompassing the room, then the city, then the world. “Everything is connected,” a voice said, low and resonant. “Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” Matteo reached out, touching the edge of the mandala, and felt its warmth spread through him.

              :fleuron2:

              Dreamtime

              It begins with running—feet pounding against the earth, my breath sharp in my chest. The path twists endlessly, the walls of the labyrinth curling like roots, closing tighter with each turn. I know I’m being chased, though I never see who or what is behind me. The air thickens as I round a corner and come to a halt before a still lake. Its surface gleams under a canopy of stars, too perfect, too quiet. I kneel to look closer, and the face that stares back isn’t mine. A boy gazes up with wide, curious eyes, unafraid. He smiles as though he knows something I don’t, and my breath steadies. The walls of the labyrinth crumble, their roots receding into the earth. Around me, the horizon stretches wide and infinite, and I wonder if I’ve always been here.

              The grass is soft under my feet, swaying with a breeze that hums like a song I almost recognize. I walk, though I don’t know where I’m going. Figures appear ahead—shadowy forms I think I know—but as I approach, they dissolve into mist. I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the wind. Laughter ripples through the air, and a child darts past me, their feet leaving trails of flowers in the earth. I follow, unable to stop myself. The path unfolds into a garden, vibrant and alive, every bloom humming with its own quiet song. At the center, I find myself again—my own footprints weaving among the flowers. The laughter returns, soft and knowing. A voice says, “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” But whose voice is it? My own? Someone else’s? I can’t tell.

              The scene shifts, or maybe it’s always been this way. Threads of light stretch across the horizon, forming a vast loom. My hands move instinctively, weaving the threads into patterns I don’t understand but feel compelled to create. Faces emerge in the fabric—some I know, others I only feel. Each thread hums with life, vibrating with its own story. The patterns grow more intricate, their colors blending into something breathtaking. At the center, my own face appears, not solitary but connected to all the others. The threads seem to breathe, their rhythm matching my own heartbeat. A voice whispers, teasing but kind: “Messy patterns are still patterns.” I want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but my hands keep weaving as the threads dissolve into light.

              I’m on the beach now, though I don’t remember how I got here. The sand is cool under my hands, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold it. A wave rolls in, its foam glowing under a pale moon. Where the water touches the sand, intricate patterns bloom—spirals, mandalas, fleeting images that shift with the tide. I try to gather them, to keep them, but the harder I hold on, the faster they fade. A breeze lifts the patterns into the air, scattering them like fireflies. I watch them go, feeling both loss and wonder. “Let go,” a voice says, carried by the wind. “The beauty is in the flow.” I let the sand fall from my hands, and for the first time, I see the patterns clearly, etched not on the ground but in the sky.

              The room is dark, yet I see everything. A mandala of light spreads across the floor, its intricate shapes pulsing with a rhythm I recognize but can’t place. I step closer, and the mandala begins to spin, its patterns expanding to fill the room, then the city, then the world. Faces appear within the light—my mother’s, a child’s, strangers I know but have never met. The mandala connects everything it touches, its warmth spreading through me like a flame. I reach out, my hand trembling, and the moment I touch it, a voice echoes in the air: “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The mandala slows, its light softening, and I find myself standing at its center, whole and unafraid.

              I feel the labyrinth’s walls returning, but they’re no longer enclosing me—they’re part of the loom, their roots weaving into the threads. The flowers of the garden bloom within the mandala’s light, their petals scattering like sand into the tide. The waves carry them to the horizon, where they rise into the sky, forming constellations I feel I’ve always known.

              I wake—or do I? The dream lingers, its light and rhythm threading through my thoughts. It feels like a map, a guide, a story unfinished. I see the faces again—yours, mine, ours—and wonder where the path leads next.

              #7659
              Jib
              Participant

                March 2024

                The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.

                He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.

                Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”

                As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.

                “I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.

                “It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”

                “I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”

                Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”

                Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”

                “Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”

                Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”

                A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”

                “We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.

                Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.

                “You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”

                The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”

                The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”

                The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”

                Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

                He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.

                When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.

                The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.

                “What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.

                Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.

                Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”

                The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.

                Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”

                “It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.

                Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”

                Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”

                Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”

                “Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”

                Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.

                Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.

                He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.

                Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
                He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.

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