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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.

    #7937

    Ricardo splattered the coffee all over Amy, turning a shade of purple in the process.

    “What did you put in it? It tastes absolutely revolting!”

    Carob tittered. “Just as well. I had my doubts about this new Toktok craze about putting dried shallots and spring onions in lattes. Guess my hunch was on the money.”

    Amy wanted to feel incensed, but her brain had stopped at the description of the offending latte “You put what in his latte?! And that coffee’s going to stain my shirt now, I’ll look like a spotted leopard!”

    “Funny,” Carob looked down at Amy “that you should pronounce that loo-pard… You sound like a hooligan.”

    “Well, better that than an ooligarch.”

    “You did it again!”

    Ooh, shut up Caroob.”

    #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.

      #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.

        #7921
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Key Themes and Narrative Elements

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7915

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7911

          To say that Amy was shocked when she looked up the word thiram would be an understatement. Who would name a baby after a toxic fungicide?

          “Oh, guess what!” Thiram announced, entirely coincidentally. “My brothers are coming to join us, Malathion and Glyphosate.  We’re triplets,” he added.

          #7881

          Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          And there she was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Prune froze. Earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

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

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

          #7875

          Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7874

          A Quick Vacay on Mars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          The Truce on Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

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

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

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

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

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

          Evie & Riven’s Big News

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7866

          Helix 25 – An Old Guard resurfaces

          Kai Nova had learned to distrust dark corners. In the infinite sterility of the ship, dark corners usually meant two things: malfunctioning lights or trouble.

          Right now, he wasn’t sure which one this meeting was about. Same group, or something else? Suddenly he felt quite in demand for his services. More activity in weeks than he had for years.

          A low-lit section of the maintenance ring, deep enough in the underbelly of Helix 25 that even the most inquisitive bots rarely bothered to scan through. The air smelled faintly of old coolant and ozone. The kind of place someone chose for a meeting when they didn’t want to be found.

          He leaned against a bulkhead, arms crossed, feigning ease while his mind ran over possible exits. “You know, if you wanted to talk, there were easier ways.”

          A voice drifted from the shadows, calm, level. “No. There weren’t.”

          A figure stepped into the dim light—a man, late fifties, but with a presence that made him seem timeless. His sharp features were framed by streaks of white in otherwise dark hair, and his posture was relaxed, measured. The way someone stood when they were used to watching everything.

          Kai immediately pegged him as ex-military, ex-intelligence, ex-something dangerous.

          “Nova,” the man said, tilting his head slightly. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come.”

          Kai scoffed. “Curiosity got the better of me. And a cryptic summons from someone I’ve never met before? Couldn’t resist. But let’s skip the theatrics—who the hell are you?”

          The man smiled slightly. “You can call me TaiSui.”

          Kai narrowed his eyes. The name tickled something in his memory, but he couldn’t place it.

          “Alright, TaiSui. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?”

          TaiSui clasped his hands behind his back, taking his time. “We’ve been watching you, Nova. You’re one of the few left who still understands the ship for what it is. You see the design, the course, the logic behind it.”

          Kai’s jaw tightened. “And?”

          TaiSui exhaled slowly. “Synthia has been compromised. The return to Earth—it’s not part of the mission we’ve given to it. The ship was meant to spread life. A single, endless arc outward. Not to crawl back to the place that failed it.”

          Kai didn’t respond immediately. He had wondered, after the solar flare, after the system adjustments, what had triggered the change in course. He had assumed it was Synthia herself. A logical failsafe.

          But from the look of it, it seemed that something else had overridden it?

          TaiSui studied him carefully. “The truth is, Nova, the AI was never supposed to stop. It was built to seed, to terraform, to outlive all of us. We ensured it. We rewrote everything.”

          Kai frowned. “We?”

          A faint smile ghosted across TaiSui’s lips. “You weren’t around for it. The others went to cryosleep once it was done, from chaos to order, the cycle was complete, and there was no longer a need to steer its course, now in the hands of an all-powerful sentience to guide everyone. An ideal society, no ruler at its head, only Reason.”

          Kai couldn’t refrain from asking naively “And nobody rebelled?”

          “Minorities —most here were happy to continue to live in endless bliss. The stubborn ones clinging to the past order, well…” TaiSui exhaled, as if recalling a mild inconvenience rather than an unspeakable act. “We took care of them.”

          Kai felt something tighten in his chest.

          TaiSui’s voice remained neutral. “Couldn’t waste a good DNA pool though—so we placed them in secure pods. Somewhere safe.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “And if no one ever found the keys… well, all the better.”

          Kai didn’t like the way that sat in his stomach. He had no illusions about how history tended to play out. But hearing it in such casual terms… it made him wonder just how much had already been erased.

          TaiSui stopped a moment. He’d felt no need to hide his designs. If Kai wanted to know, it was better he knew everything. The plan couldn’t work without some form of trust.

          He resumed “But now… now things have changed.”

          Kai let out a slow breath, his mind racing. “You’re saying you want to undo the override. Put the ship back on its original course.”

          TaiSui nodded. “We need a reboot. A full one. Which means for a time, someone has to manually take the helm.”

          Kai barked out a laugh. “You’re asking me to fly Helix 25 blind, without Synthia, without navigational assist, while you reset the very thing that’s been keeping us alive?”

          “Correct.”

          Kai shook his head, stepping back. “You’re insane.”

          TaiSui shrugged. “Perhaps. But I trust the grand design. And I think, deep down, so do you.”

          Kai ran a hand through his hair, his pulse steady but his mind an absolute mess. He wanted to say no. To laugh in this man’s face and walk away.

          But some part of him—the pilot in him, the part that had spent his whole life navigating through unknowns—felt the irresistible pull of the challenge.

          TaiSui watched him, patient. Too patient. Like he already knew the answer.

          “And if I refuse?”

          The older man smiled. “You won’t.”

          Kai clenched his jaw.

          “You can lie to yourself, but you already know the answer,” TaiSui continued, voice quiet, even. “You’ve been waiting for something like this.”

          Before he disappeared, he added “Take some time. Think about it. But not too long, Nova. Time is not on your side.”

          #7858

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

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

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

          There is no rush.

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

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

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

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

          Yes, that must be it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Molly’s postcard was next.

          #7857

          Helix 25 – Onto The Second Murder Investigation

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

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

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

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

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

          Mandrake had been targeted.

          Evie exhaled sharply. “Can you fix him?”

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

          Riven’s frown deepened. “Forget what?”

          Silence settled between them.

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

          :fleuron2:

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

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

          Evie and Riven both turned to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Dr. Elias Arorangi.

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

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

          Riven straightened. “Disappeared? Do you think—”

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

          Evie’s mouth went dry.

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

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

          :fleuron2:

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

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

          Romualdo huffed. “He better be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Evie nodded. “Oh, we definitely will.”

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

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

          Evie exhaled.

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

          #7848
          Jib
          Participant

            Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

            The ship had gone mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            He braced himself. “What now?”

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

            ETHAN MARLOWE

            MANDRAKE

            Both M.

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

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

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

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

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

            Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

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

            “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

            Evie paled. “Oh no.”

            TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

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

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

            Only one person could give him that.

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

            Evie frowned. “Who?”

            Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

            Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “What have you done?”

            Riven braced himself.

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

            #7840

            Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert

            The Second Murder

            It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.

            Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.

            Mandrake was both dead and not dead.

            “Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”

            Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”

            Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”

            Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”

            Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:

            “I was… murdered.”

            Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.

            Upper Decks Carnival

            Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.

            The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.

            “Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”

            The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

            A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.

            Signal detected…
            Beacon coordinates triangulating…
            …origin: Earth…

            Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.

            She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.

            Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert

            The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.

            And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.

            Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”

            Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”

            Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”

            He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.

            Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”

            Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”

            Marlowe didn’t hear them.

            Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.

            And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.

            He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.

            #7829
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Helix 25 – Investigation Breakdown: Suspects, Factions, and Ship’s Population

              To systematically investigate the murder(s) and the overarching mystery, let’s break down the known groups and individuals, their possible means to commit crimes, and their potential motivations.


              1. Ship Population & Structure

              Estimated Population of Helix 25

              • Originally a luxury cruise ship before the exodus.
              • Largest cruise ships built on Earth in 2025 carried ~5,000 people.
                Space travel, however, requires generations.
              • Estimated current ship population on Helix 25: Between 15,000 and 50,000, depending on deck expansion and growth of refugee populations over decades.
              • Possible Ship Propulsion:
                • Plasma-based propulsion (high-efficiency ion drives)
                • Slingshot navigation using gravity assists
                • Solar sails & charged particle fields
                • Current trajectory: Large elliptical orbit, akin to a comet.
                  Estimated direction of the original space trek was still within Solar System, not beyond the Kuiper Belt (~30 astrological units) and programmed to return towards it point of origin.
                  Due to the reprogramming by the refugees, it is not known if there has been significant alteration of the course – it should be known as the ship starts to reach the aphelion (farthest from the Sun) and either comes back towards it, or to a different course.
                • Question: Are they truly on a course out of the galaxy? Or is that just the story Synthia is feeding them?
                  Is there a Promised Land beyond the Ark’s adventure?


              2. Breaking Down People & Factions

              To find the killer(s), conspiracies, and ship dynamics, here are some of factions, known individuals, and their possible means/motives.


              A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

              • Defining Features:
                • Wealthy descendants of the original passengers. They have adopted names of stars as new family names, as if de-facto rulers of the relative segments of the space.
                • Have never known hardship like the Lower Decks.
                • Kept busy with social prestige, arts, and “meaningful” pursuits to prevent existential crisis.

              Key Individuals:

              1. Sue Forgelot

                • Means: Extensive social connections, influence, and hidden cybernetic enhancements.
                • Motive: Could be protecting something or someone—she knows too much about the ship’s past.
                • Secrets: Claims to have met the Captain. Likely lying… unless?
              2. Dr. Amara Voss

                • Means: Expert geneticist, access to data. Could tamper with DNA.
                • Motive: What if Herbert knew something about her old research? Did she kill to bury it?
              3. Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman)

                • Means: None obvious. But as a former Earth liaison, he has archives and knowledge of what was left behind.
                • Motive: Unclear, but his son was the murder victim. His son was previously left on Earth, and seemed to have found a way onto Helix 25 (possibly through the refugee wave who took over the ship)
                • Question: Did he know Herbert’s real identity?
              4. Finkley (Upper Deck cleaner, informant)

                • Means: As a cleaner, has access everywhere.
                • Motive: None obvious, but cleaners notice everything.
                • Secret: She and Finja (on Earth) are telepathically linked. Could Finja have picked up something?
              5. The Three Old Ladies (Shar, Glo, Mavis)

                • Means: Absolutely none.
                • Motive: Probably just want more drama.
                • Accidental Detectives: They mix up stories but might have stumbled on actual facts.
              6. Trevor Pee Marshall (TP, AI detective)

                • Means: Can scan records, project into locations, analyze logic patterns.
                • Motive: Should have none—unless he’s been compromised as hinted by some of the remnants of old Muck & Lump tech into his program.

              B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

              • Defining Features:
                • Unlike the Upper Decks, they work—mechanics, hydroponics, labor.
                • Self-sufficient, but cut off from decisions.
                • Some distrust Synthia, believing Helix 25 is off-course.

              Key Individuals:

              1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

                • Means: Can tamper with ship’s security, medical implants, and life-support systems.
                • Motive: Possible sabotage, or he was helping Herbert with something.
                • Secret: Works in black-market tech modifications.
              2. Romualdo (Gardener, Archivist-in-the-Making)

                • Means: None obvious. Seem to lack the intelligence, but isn’t stupid.
                • Motive: None—but he lent Herbert a Liz Tattler book about genetic memories.
                • Question: What exactly did Herbert learn from his reading?
              3. Zoya Kade (Revolutionary Figure, Not Directly Involved)

                • Means: Strong ideological influence, but not an active conspirator.
                • Motive: None, but her teachings have created and fed factions.
              4. The Underground Movement

                • Means: They know ways around Synthia’s surveillance.
                • Motive: They believe the ship is on a suicide mission.
                • Question: Would they kill to prove it?

              C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

              • Defining Features:
                • Refugees who weren’t fully integrated.
                • Maintain autonomy, trade, and repair systems that the rest of the ship ignores.

              Key Individuals:

              1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

                • Means: Can manually override ship systems… if Synthia lets him.
                • Motive: Suspects something’s off about the ship’s fuel levels.
              2. Cadet Taygeta (Sharp, Logical, Too Honest)

                • Means: No real power, but access to data.
                • Motive: Trying to figure out what Kai is hiding.

              D. AI & Non-Human Factors

              • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

                • Means: Controls everything.
                • Motive: Unclear, but her instructions are decades old.
                • Question: Does she even have free will?
              • The Captain (Nemo)

                • Means: Access to ship-wide controls. He is blending in the ship’s population but has special access.
                • Motive: Seems uncertain about his mission.
                • Secret: He might not be following Synthia’s orders anymore.

              3. Who Has the Means to Kill in Zero-G?

              The next murder happens in a zero-gravity sector. Likely methods:

              • Oxygen deprivation (tampered life-support, “accident”)
              • Drowning (hydro-lab “malfunction”)

              Likely Suspects for Next Murder

              Suspect Means to Kill in Zero-G Motive
              Luca Stroud Can tamper with tech Knows ship secrets
              Amara Voss Access to medical, genetic data Herbert was digging into past
              Underground Movement Can evade Synthia’s surveillance Wants to prove ship is doomed
              Synthia (or Rogue AI processes) Controls airflow, gravity, and safety protocols If she sees someone as a threat, can she remove them?
              The Captain (Nemo?) Has override authority Is he protecting secrets?

              4. Next Steps in the Investigation

              • Evie and Riven Re-interview Suspects. Who benefited from Herbert’s death?
              • Investigate the Flat-Earth Conspiracies. Who is spreading paranoia?
              • Check the Captain’s Logs. What does Nemo actually believe?
              • Stop the Next Murder. (Too late?)

              Final Question: Where Do We Start?

              1. Evie and Riven visit the Captain’s quarters? (If they find him…)
              2. Investigate the Zero-G Crime Scene? (Second body = New urgency)
              3. Confront one of the Underground Members? (Are they behind it?)

              Let’s pick a thread and dive back into the case!

              #7809

              Earth, Black Sea Coastal Island near Lazurne, Ukraine – The Tinkerer

              Cornishman Merdhyn Winstrom had grown accustomed to the silence.

              It wasn’t the kind of silence one found in an empty room or a quiet night in Cornwall, but the profound, devouring kind—the silence of a world were life as we knew it had disappeared. A world where its people had moved on without him.

              The Black Sea stretched before him, vast and unknowable, still as a dark mirror reflecting a sky that had long since stopped making promises. He stood on the highest point of the islet, atop a jagged rock behind which stood in contrast to the smooth metal of the wreckage.

              His wreckage.

              That’s how he saw it, maybe the last man standing on Earth.

              It had been two years since he stumbled upon the remains of Helix 57 shuttle —or what was left of it. Of all the Helixes cruise ships that were lost, the ones closest to Earth during the Calamity had known the most activity —people trying to leave and escape Earth, while at the same time people in the skies struggling to come back to loved ones. Most of the orbital shuttles didn’t make it during the chaos, and those who did were soon lost to space’s infinity, or Earth’s last embrace.

              This shuttle should have been able to land a few hundred people to safety —Merdhyn couldn’t find much left inside when he’d discovered it, survivors would have been long dispersed looking for food networks and any possible civilisation remnants near the cities. It was left here, a gutted-out orbital shuttle, fractured against the rocky coast, its metal frame corroded by salt air, its systems dead. The beauty of mechanics was that dead wasn’t the same as useless.

              And Merdhyn never saw anything as useless.

              With slow, methodical care, he adjusted the small receiver strapped to his wrist—a makeshift contraption built from salvaged components, scavenged antennae, and the remains of an old Soviet radio. He tapped the device twice. The static fizzled, cracked. Nothing.

              “Still deaf,” he muttered.

              Perched at his shoulder, Tuppence chattered at him, a stuborn rodent that attached himself and that Merdhyn had adopted months ago as he was scouting the area. He reached his pocket and gave it a scrap of food off a stale biscuit still wrapped in the shiny foil.

              Merdhyn exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He was getting too old for this. Too many years alone, too many hours hunched over corroded circuits, trying to squeeze life from what had already died.

              But the shuttle wasn’t dead. After his first check, he was quite sure. Now it was time to get to work.

              He stepped inside, ducking beneath an exposed beam, brushing past wiring that had long since lost its insulation. The stale scent of metal and old circuitry greeted him. The interior was a skeletal mess—panels missing, control consoles shattered, displays reduced to nothing but flickering ghosts of their former selves.

              Still, he had power.

              Not much. Just enough to light a few panels, enough to make him think he wasn’t mad for trying.

              As it happened, Merdhyn had a plan: a ridiculous, impossible, brilliant plan.

              He would fix it.

              The whole thing if he could, but if anything. It would certainly take him months before the shuttle from Helix 57 could go anywhere— that is, in one piece. He could surely start to repair the comms, get a signal out, get something moving, then maybe—just maybe—he could find out if there was anything left out there.

              Anything that wasn’t just sea and sky and ghosts.

              He ran his fingers along the edge of the console, feeling the warped metal. The ship had crashed hard. It shouldn’t have made it down in one piece, but something had slowed it. Some system had tried to function, even in its dying moments.

              That meant something was still alive.

              He just had to wake it up.

              Tuppence chittered, scurrying onto his shoulder.

              Merdhyn chuckled. “Aye, I know. One of these days, I’ll start talking to people instead of rats.”

              Tuppence flicked her tail.

              He pulled out a battered datapad—one of his few working relics—and tapped the screen. The interface stuttered, but held. He navigated to his schematics, his notes, his carefully built plans.

              The transponder array.

              If he could get it working, even partially, he might be able to listen.

              To hear something—anything—on the waves beyond this rock.

              A voice. A signal. A trace of the world that had forgotten him.

              Merdhyn exhaled. “Let’s see if we can get you talking again, eh?”

              He adjusted his grip, tools clinking at his belt, and got to work.

              #7807

              HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

              Finkley pressed herself against the smooth metal doorway of the Jardenery, her small wiry frame unnoticeable in the dim light filtering through the tangle of vines. The sterile scent of Helix 25’s corridors had faded behind her, replaced by the aroma of damp earth. A place of dirt and disorder. She shuddered.

              A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

              What’s going on?

              Finja’s tone was strident and clear. The ancient telepathic link that connected the cleaner family through many generations was strong, even in space. All the FinFamily (FF) had the gift to some extent, occasionally even with strangers. It just wasn’t nearly as accurate.

              Shush. They’re talking about blood. And Herbert.

              She felt Finja’s presence surge in response, her horrified thoughts crackling through their link. Blood!

              Riven’s skeptical voice: “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

              Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

              It’s not particularly funny, responded Finja. It means someone on the ship is carrying distorted DNA. Her presence pulsed with irritation; it all sounded so complicated and grubby. And god knows what else. Bacteria? Ancestral grime? Generational filth? Honestly Finkley, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about with this group of wandering savages …

              Finkley inhaled sharply as Romualdo stepped into view. She held her breath, pressing even closer to the doorway. He was so cute. Unclean, of course, but so adorable.

              She pondered whether she could overlook the hygiene. Maybe … if he bathed first?

              Get a grip. Finja’s snarl crashed through her musings, complete with eye-roll.

              Finkley reddened. She had momentarily forgotten that Finja was there.

              So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

              I bet they didn’t disinfect properly. Finja’s response was immediate. See what you can find out later. 

              Inside, Romualdo picked up a book from his workbench and waved it. Finkley barely needed to read the title before Finja’s shocked cry of recognition filled her mind.

              Liz Tattler!

              A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

              Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

              Finley—another member of the family. She cleaned for Liz Tattler, the mad but famous author. It was well known—at least within the family— that Liz’s fame was largely due to Finley’s talents as a writer. Which meant, whatever this was, it had somehow tangled itself up in the FF network.

              Liz’s Finley hasn’t responded for years —I assumed… Finja’s voice trailed off.

              There’s still hope! You never know with that one. She was always stand-offish and mysterious. And that Liz really abused her good nature. 

              Finkley swallowed hard. They were close to something big—something hidden beneath layers of time and mystery. And whatever it was, it had just become personal.

              Finja, there’s no time to lose! We need to find out more. 

              #7799

              Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments

              Sue Brittany Kaleleonālani Forgelot moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being noticed—but tonight, she walked as someone trying not to be. The Upper Deck was hers, where conversations flowed with elegant pretense and where everyone knew her by firstname —Sue, she would insist. There would be none of that bowing nonsense to her noble lineages —bless her distinguished ancestors.

              Here, in the Lower Decks, she was a curiosity at best, an intrusion at worst.

              Unlike the well-maintained Upper Decks, here the air was warmer, and one could sense mingled with the recycled air, a distinct scent of metal, oil, and even labouring bodies. Maintenance bots were limited, and keeping people busy with work helped with the social order. Lights flickered erratically in narrow corridors, nothing like the pristine glow of the Upper Deck’s crystal chandeliers. The Lower Decks were functional, built for work and survival, not for leisure. And deeper still—past the bustling workstations, past the overlooked mechanics keeping Helix 25 from falling apart—the Hold.

              The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.

              A heavy, reinforced door hissed as it unlocked, and Sue stepped inside his dimly lit workshop. Stacks of salvaged tech lined the walls, interspersed with crates of unauthorized modifications in this workspace born of a mixture of necessity, ingenuity, and quiet rebellion.

              Luca barely looked up as he wiped oil from his hands. “You’re late, dear.”

              Sue huffed, settling into the chair he had long since designated for her. “A lady does not rush. Besides, I had affairs to attend to.” She crossed one leg over the other, her silk shawl catching on the metallic seam of a cybernetic limb beneath it. “And I had to dodge half the ship to get here unnoticed.”

              Luca grunted, kneeling beside her. “You wouldn’t have to sneak if you’d just let one of the Upper Deck doctors service this thing.” He tapped lightly on the synthetic skin to reveal the metallic prosthetic, watching as the synthetic nerves twitched in response.

              Sue’s expression turned sharp. “You know why I can’t.”

              Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.

              There were things she couldn’t let the Upper Deck medics see. Upgrades, modifications, small enhancements that gave her just enough edge. In the circles she moved in, knowledge was power. And she was far too valuable to be at the mercy of those who wanted her dependent.

              Luca examined the joint, nodding to himself. “You’ve been walking too much on it.”

              “Well, forgive me for using my own legs.”

              He tightened a wire. Sue winced, but he ignored it. “You need recalibration. And I need better parts.”

              Sue gave a slow, knowing smile. “And what minor favors will you require this time?”

              Luca leaned back, thoughtful. “Information. Since you’re generous with it.”

              She sighed, shifting in her seat. “Fine. You’re lucky I find you amusing.”

              He adjusted a component with expert hands. “Tell me about the murder.”

              Sue arched a brow. “Everyone wants to talk about that. You’d think no one had ever died before.”

              “They haven’t,” Luca countered, voice flat. “Not for a long time. And not like this.”

              She studied him, his interest piquing her own. “So you think it was a real murder.”

              Luca let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, it was a murder alright. And you know it.”

              Sue exhaled, considering what to share. “Well, rumor has it, the DNA found in the crime scene doesn’t belong here. It’s from the past. Far past.”

              Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”

              Sue leaned in, voice hushed. “Crusader far.”

              He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That’s… new.”

              She tilted her head. “What does that mean to you?”

              Luca hesitated, then shrugged. “Means whoever’s playing god with DNA sequencing isn’t as smart as they think they are.”

              Sue smiled at that, more amused than disturbed. “And I suppose you have theories?”

              Luca gave her cybernetic limb one final adjustment, then stood. “I have suspicions.”

              Sue sighed dramatically. “How thrilling.” She flexed her leg, satisfied with the result. “Keep me informed, and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

              Luca smirked. “You always do.”

              As she rose to leave, she paused at the door. “Oh, one last thing, dear.”

              Luca glanced at her. “What?”

              Sue’s smirk deepened. “Should I put in a good word to the Captain for you?”

              The question hung between them.

              Luca narrowed his eyes. “Nobody’s ever met the Captain.”

              She nodded, satisfied, and left him to his thoughts.

              #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.

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