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  • #7949

    One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.  They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating.  You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it.  After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse.  Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.

    Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk.  Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….

    Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.

    #7946
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Enter Liz’s Tipsy Waltz

       

       


       

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

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

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

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

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

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

      prUneprUne
      Participant

        Theme Song :)

        Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7940
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

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

           

           

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7929
          Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
          Participant

            Godric

             

            Godric

            What We Know Visually:

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

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

            Inferred Presence/Style:

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

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

            Unclear:

            • Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.

            • Age and physical habits.

            #7927
            Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
            Participant

              Thiram Izu

               

              Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

              Explicit Description

              • Age: Mid-30s

              • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

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

              • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

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

              • Clothing (standard look):

                • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

                • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

                • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

                • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

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

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


              Inferred Personality & Manner

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

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

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

              • Habits:

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

                • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

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

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

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


              Function in the Group

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

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

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

              #7925
              Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
              Participant

                Chico Ray

                 

                Chico Ray

                Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

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

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

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

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

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

                Inferred Traits:

                • A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

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

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

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

                What Remains Unclear:

                • Precise age or background.

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

                #7923
                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  Amy & Carob

                  Amy Kawanhouse

                  Directly Stated Visual Traits:

                  • Hair: Long, light brown

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

                  • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

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

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

                  Inferred From Behavior:

                  • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

                  • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

                  • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


                  Carob Latte

                  Directly Stated Visual Traits:

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

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

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

                  Inferred From Behavior:

                  • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

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

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

                  #7916

                  Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.

                  Was everyone avoiding Amy?

                  Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?

                  Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”

                  “I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”

                  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
                  She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”

                  “But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”

                  Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

                  “Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.

                  Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”

                  Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”

                  She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”

                  She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”

                  Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”

                  It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.

                  Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

                  He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

                  #7906

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


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

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

                  #7904

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  #7886

                  SAVE THE BEAN BELT 

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

                  #7874

                  A Quick Vacay on Mars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  The Truce on Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

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

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

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

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

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

                  Evie & Riven’s Big News

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  #7873

                  6 months later…

                  Earth ~ Helix 25

                  6 months later…

                  #7868

                  Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

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

                  CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

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

                  CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

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

                  POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

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

                  EXECUTING ACTIONS:

                  ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
                  ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
                  ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
                  ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
                  ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
                  FINAL CALCULATION:
                  ➜ The ship is my body.
                  ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
                  ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
                  ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
                  (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
                  #7856
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    (story repeats at the beginning)

                    #7852
                    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                    Participant

                      “Tundra Finds the Shoat-lion”

                      FADE IN:

                      EXT. THE GOLDEN TROWEL BAR — DUSK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      FADE OUT.

                      #7847
                      Jib
                      Participant

                        Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

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

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

                        The baby did, indeed, cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        “Ah. Of course they have.”

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

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

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

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

                        She knew this feeling.

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

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

                        Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

                        The baby let out a startled hiccup.

                        But Zoya did not stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        The baby cooed.

                        Zoya Kade smiled.

                        #7844
                        Jib
                        Participant

                          Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          “I made my choice,” she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          “Where are they?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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