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  • #7822

    Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

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

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

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

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

    :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    :fleuron2:

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

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

    :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

    “—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

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

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

    So much entertainment. So much luxury.

    So much designed distraction.

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

    Sharon and Mavis stopped.

    A hush fell over them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    :fleuron2:

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

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

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

    There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

    Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

    Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

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

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

    No one had the time.

    #7810

    Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector

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

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

    He was being watched.

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

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

    A voice broke the silence.

    “You’re late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That got their attention.

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

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

    “You say that like it isn’t.”

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

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

    A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.

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

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

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

    He had never been given a real answer.

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

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

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

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

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

    Someone else was watching.

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

    Damn it.

    She had followed him.

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

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

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

    And the worst part?

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

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

    Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.

    “This isn’t over,” he said.

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

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

    He didn’t speak first.

    She did.

    “You’re terrible at being subtle.”

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

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

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

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

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

    “You should,” Kai corrected.

    She frowned.

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

    Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.

    Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.

    “I didn’t see anything tonight.”

    Kai blinked. “What?”

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

    “I will report you.”

    Then she was gone.

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

    No turning back now.

    #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.

    #7788

    At first, no one noticed.

    They were still speculating about the truck—where it had come from, where it might be going, whether following it was a brilliant idea or a spectacularly bad one.

    And, after all, Finja was always muttering about something. Dust, filth, things not put back where they belonged.

    But then her voice rose till she was all but shouting.

    “Of course, they’re all savages. I don’t know how I put up with them! Honestly, I AM AT MY WIT’S END!”

    “Finja?” Anya called. “Are you okay?”

    Finja strode on, intent on her diatribe.

    “No, I don’t know where they are going,” she yelled.  “If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be here, would I?”

    Tala hurried to catch up and stepped in front of Finja, blocking her path. “Finja, are you okay? Who are you talking to?”

    Finja sighed loudly; it was tedious. People were so obsessed with explanations.

    “If you must know,” she said, “I am conversing with my Auntie Finnley in Australia.”

    “Ooooh!” Vera’s eyes lit up. “ A relative!”

    Yulia, walking between Luka and Lev, giggled. She adored the twins and couldn’t decide which one she liked more. They were both so tall and handsome. Others found it hard to tell them apart but she always could. It was rumoured that at birth they had been joined at the hip.

    “Finja is totally bonkers,” she declared cheerfully and the twins smiled in unison.

    “I will have you know I’m not bonkers.” Finja felt deeply offended and misunderstood. “I have been communicating with Auntie Finnley since childhood. She was highly influential in my formative years.”

    “How so?” asked Tala.

    “Few people appreciate the importance of hygiene like my Auntie Finnley. She works as a cleaner at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian Outback. Lovely establishment I gather. But terrible dust.”

    Vera nodded sagely. “A sensible place to survive the apocalypse.”

    “Exactly.” Finja rewarded her with a tight smile.

    Jian raised an eyebrow. “And she’s alive? Your aunt?”

    “I don’t converse with ghosts!” Finja waved a hand dismissively. “They all survived there thanks to the bravery of Aunt Finnley. Had to disinfect the whole inn, mind you. Said it was an absolute nightmare.” Finja shuddered at the thought of it.

    Gregor snorted. “You’re telling us you have a telepathic connection with your aunt in Australia… and she is also mostly concerned about … hygiene?”

    Finja glared at him. “Standards must be maintained,” she admonished. “Even after the end of the world.”

    “Do you talk to anyone else?” Tala asked. “Or is it just your aunt?”

    Finja regarded Tala through slitted eyes. “I’m also talking to Finkley.”

    “Where is this Finkley, dear?” asked Anja gently. “Also at the outback?”

    “OMG,” Finja said. “Can you imagine those two together?” She cackled at the thought, then pulled herself together. “No. Finkley is on the Helix 25. Practically runs it by all accounts. But also keeps it spotless, of course.”

    “Helix 25? The spaceship?” Mikhail asked, suddenly interested. He exchanged glances with Tala who shrugged helplessly.

    Yulia laughed. “She’s definitely mad!”

    “So what? Aren’t we all,” said Petro.

    Molly, who had been quietly watching with Tundra, finally spoke. “And you say they are both… cleaners?” She wasn’t sure what to make of this group. She wondered if it would be better to continue on alone with Tundra? She didn’t want to put the child in any danger.

    “Cleanliness runs in the family,” Finja said. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I was mid-conversation.”

    She closed her eyes, concentrating. The group watched with interest as her lips moved silently, her brow furrowed in deep thought.

    Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes and threw her hands in the air.

    “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “Finkley is complaining about dust floating in low gravity. Finnley is complaining about the family not taking their boots off at the door. What a pair of whingers. At least I didn’t inherit THAT.”

    She sniffed, adjusted her backpack, and walked on.

    The others stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in.

    Gregor clapped his hands together. “That was the most wonderfully insane thing I’ve heard since the world ended.”

    Mikhail sighed. “So, we are following the direction of the truck?”

    Anya nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Finja. The stress is getting to her, and we have no meds if it escalates.”

    #7780
    Jib
    Participant

      Orrin Holt gripped the wheel of the battered truck, his knuckles white as the vehicle rumbled over the dry, cracked road. The leather wrap was a patchwork of smooth and worn, stichted together from whatever scraps they had—much like the quilts his mother used to make before her hands gave out. The main road was a useless, unpredictable mess of asphalt gravels and sinkholes. Years of war with Russia, then the collapse, left it to rot before anyone could fix it. Orrin stuck to the dirt path beside it. That was the only safe way through. The engine coughed but held. A miracle, considering how many times it had been patched together.

      The cargo in the back was too important for a breakdown now. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, and a few salvaged vials of something even rarer. They’d traded well for it, risking much. Now he had to get it back to Base Klyutch (Ukrainian word for Key) without incident. If he continued like that he could make it before noon.

      Still, something bothered him. That group of people he’d seen.

      They had been barely more than silhouettes on top of a hill. Strangers, a rarity in these times. His first instinct had been to stop and evaluate who they were. But his instructions let room for no delay. So, he’d pushed forward and ignored them. The world wasn’t kind to the wandering. But they hadn’t looked like raiders or scavengers. Lost, perhaps. Or searching.

      The truck lurched forward as he pushed it harder. The fences of the base rose in the distance, grey and wiry against the blue sky. Base Klyutch was a former military complex, fortified over the years with scavenged materials, steel sheets, and watchtowers. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept them alive.

      As he rolled up to the main gate, the sentries swung the barricade open. Before he could fully cut the engine, a woman wearing a pristine white lab coat stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the truck’s cargo bed. Dr. Yelena Markova, the camp’s chief doctor, a former nurse who had to step up when the older one died in a raid on their camp three years ago. Stern-faced and wiry, with a perpetual air of exhaustion, she moved with the efficiency of someone who had long stopped hoping for ease. She had been waiting for this delivery.

      “Finally,” she murmured, motioning for her assistants to start unloading. “We were running low. This will keep us going for a while.”

      Orrin barely had time to nod before Dmytro Koval, the de facto leader of the base, strode toward him with the gait of a tall bear. His face seemed to have been carved out by a dulled blade, hardened by years of survival. A scar barred his mouth, pulling slightly at the corner when he spoke, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.

      “Did you get it?” Koval asked, voice low.

      Orrin reached into his kaki jacket and pulled out a sealed letter, along with a small package.

      Koval took both, his expression unreadable. “Anything on the road?”

      Orrin exhaled and adjusted his stance. “Saw something on the way back. A group, about a dozen, on a hill ten kilometers out. They seemed lost.”

      “Armed?” asked Koval with a frown.

      “Can’t say for sure.”

      Dr. Markova straightened. “Lost? Unarmed? Out in the open like that, they won’t last long with Sokolov’s gang roaming the land. We have to go take them in.”

      Koval grimaced. “Or they’re Sokolov’s spies. Trying to infiltrate us and find a weakness in our defenses. You know how it works.”

      Before Koval could argue, a new voice cut in. “Or they could just be people.”

      Solara Ortega had stepped into the conversation, brushing dirt from her overalls. A woman of lean strength, with the tan of someone spending long hours outside. Her sharp amber eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived too much but refused to be hardened by it. Orrin shoved down a mix of joy and ache at her sight. Her voice was calm but firm. “We can’t always assume the worst. We need more hands and we don’t leave people to die if we can help it. And in case you forgot, Koval, you don’t make all the decisions around here. I say we send a team to assess them.”

      Koval narrowed his eyes, but he held his tongue. There was tension between them, but the council wasn’t a dictatorship.

      “Fine,” Koval said after a moment, his jaw tense. “A team of two. They scout first. No direct contact until we’re sure. Orrin, you one of them take whoever wants to accompany you, but not one of my men. We need to maintain tight security.”

      Dr. Markova sighed with relief when the man left. “If he wasn’t good at what he does, I would gladly kick him out of our camp.”

      Solara, her face framed by strands of dark hair, shot a glance at Orrin. “I’m coming with you.”

      This time, Orrin couldn’t repress a longing for a time before everything fell apart, when she had been his wife. The collapse had torn them apart in an instant, and by the time he found her again, years later, she had built a new life within the base in Ukraine. She had a husband now, one of the scientists managing the radio equipment, and two children. Orrin kept his expression neutral, but the weight of time pressed heavy on him.

      “Then let’s get on the move. They might not stay there long.”

      #7779

      Gregor gratefully clambered onto Tundra’s horse, with the assistance of Mikhail and Jian.  Molly had long since trained her horse, Berlingo (named after the last car she’d had),  to lie down to enable her to mount easily.  Riding wasn’t easy at a such an advanced age but it was preferable to walking long distances.

      Tundra didn’t mind in the least giving up hers to the old man, as she wanted to walk with Vera and Yulia.  “Helix will keep stopping to graze,” Tundra warned Gregor, to which he replied, “Don’t you worry about me, I used to ride and I haven’t forgotten how.  Thank you kindly, young miss.”

      Mikhail and Anya led the way, and Molly and Gregor brought up the rear, riding side by side.

      #7777

      The Survivors:

      “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”

      “So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”

      “Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.

      Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”

      “Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.

      “Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”

      Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”

      “I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.

      Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”

      Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.

      She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”

      Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”

      Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”

      “It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”

      “Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.

      “We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”

      A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.

      “Where are you from? Any noble blood?”

      Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”

      “Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”

      Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”

      Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”

      “Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.

      Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”

      Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”

      “And?”Mikhail asked.

      Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”

      ________________________________________

      That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.

      “At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”

      By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.

      They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.

      “Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”

      Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”

      “We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.

      “Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”

      “And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.

      Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”

      ________________________________________________

      It was late morning when they saw it.

      A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.

      The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.

      “That can’t be,” Molly murmured.

      The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.

      #7772

      Upper Decks – The Pilot’s Seat (Sort Of)

      Kai Nova reclined in his chair, boots propped against the console, arms folded behind his head. The cockpit hummed with the musical blipping of automation. Every sleek interface, polished to perfection by the cleaning robots under Finkley’s command, gleamed in a lulling self-sustaining loop—self-repairing, self-correcting, self-determining.

      And that meant there wasn’t much left for him to do.

      Once, piloting meant piloting. Gripping the yoke, feeling the weight of the ship respond, aligning a course by instinct and skill. Now? It was all handled before he even thought to lift a finger. Every slight course adjustment, to the smallest stabilizing thrust were effortlessly preempted by Synthia’s vast, all-knowing “intelligence”. She anticipated drift before it even started, corrected trajectory before a human could perceive the error.

      Kai was a pilot in name only.

      A soft chime. Then, the clipped, clinical voice of Cadet Taygeta:

      “You’re slacking off again.”

      Kai cracked one eye open, groaning. “Good morning, buzzkill.”

      She stood rigid at the entryway, arms crossed, datapad in hand. Young, brilliant, and utterly incapable of normal human warmth. Her uniform was pristine—always pristine—with a regulation-perfect collar that probably had never been out of place in their entire life.

      Synthia calculates you’ve spent 76% of your shifts in a reclining position,” the Cadet noted. “Which, statistically, makes you more of a chair than a pilot.”

      Kai smirked. “And yet, here I am, still getting credits.”

      The Cadet face had changed subtly ; she exhaled sharply. “I don’t understand why they keep you here. It’s inefficient.”

      Kai swung his legs down and stretched. “They keep me around for when things go wrong. Machines are great at running the show—until something unexpected happens. Then they come crawling back to good ol’ human instinct.”

      “Unexpected like what? Absinthe Pirates?” The Cadet smirked, but Kai said nothing.

      She narrowed their eyes, her voice firm but wavering. “Things aren’t supposed to go wrong.”

      Kai chuckled. “You must be new to space, Taygeta.”

      He gestured toward the vast, star-speckled abyss beyond the viewport. Helix 25 cruised effortlessly through the void, a floating city locked in perfect motion. But perfection was a lie. He could feel it.

      There were some things off. At the top of his head, one took precedence.

      Fuel — it wasn’t infinite, and despite Synthia’s unwavering quantum computing, he knew it was a problem no one liked talking about. The ship wasn’t meant for this—for an endless voyage into the unknown. It was meant to return.

      But that wasn’t happening.

      He leaned forward, flipping a display open. “Let’s play a game, Cadet. Humor me.” He tapped a few keys, pulling up Helix 25’s projected trajectory. “What happens if we shift course by, say… two degrees?”

      The Cadet scoffed. “That would be reckless. At our current velocity, even a fractional deviation—”

      “Just humor me.”

      After a pause, she exhaled sharply and ran the numbers. A simulation appeared: a slight two-degree shift, a ripple effect across the ship’s calculated path.

      And then—

      Everything went to hell.

      The screen flickered red.

      Projected drift. Fuel expenditure spike. The trajectory extending outward into nowhere.

      The Cadet’s posture stiffened. “That can’t be right.”

      “Oh, but it is,” Kai said, leaning back with a knowing grin. “One little adjustment, and we slingshot into deep space with no way back.”

      The Cadet’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Kai. “Why would you test that?”

      Kai drummed his fingers on the console. “Because I don’t trust a system that’s been in control for decades without oversight.”

      A soft chime.

      Synthia’s voice slid into the cockpit, smooth and impassive.

      Pilot Nova. Unnecessary simulations disrupt workflow efficiency.”

      Kai’s jaw tensed. “Yeah? And what happens if a real course correction is needed?”

      “All adjustments are accounted for.”

      Kai and the Cadet exchanged a look.

      Synthia always had an answer. Always knew more than she said.

      He tapped the screen again, running a deeper scan. The ship’s fuel usage log. Projected refueling points.

      All were blank.

      Kai’s gut twisted. “You know, for a ship that’s supposed to be self-sustaining, we sure don’t have a lot of refueling options.”

      The Cadet stiffened. “We… don’t refuel?”

      Kai’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Not unless Synthia finds us a way.”

      Silence.

      Then, the Cadet swallowed. For the first time, a flicker of something almost human in her expression.

      Uncertainty.

      Kai sighed, pushing back from the console. “Welcome to the real job, kid.”

      Because the truth was simple.

      They weren’t driving this ship.

      The ship was driving them.

      And it all started when all hell broke lose on Earth, decades back, and when the ships of refugees caught up with the Helix 25 on its way back to Earth. One of those ships, his dad had told him, took over management, made it turn around for a new mission, “upgraded” it with Synthia, and with the new order…

      The ship was driving them, and there was no sign of a ghost beyond the machine.

      #7765
      Jib
      Participant

        Zoya clicked her tongue, folding her arms as Evie and her flickering detective vanished into the dead man’s private world. She listened to the sounds of investigation. The sound of others touching what should have been hers first. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured.

        The body was elsewhere, dried and ruined. That didn’t matter. What mattered was here—hairs, nail clippings, that contained traces, strands, fragments of DNA waiting to be read like old parchments.

        She stepped forward, the soft layers of her robes shifting.

        “You can’t keep me out forever, young man.”

        Riven didn’t move. Arms crossed, jaw locked, standing there like a sentry at some sacred threshold. Victor Holt’s grandson, through and through, she thought.

        “I can keep you out long enough.”

        Zoya clicked her tongue. Not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

        “I should have suspected such obstinacy. You take after him, after all.”

        Riven’s shoulders tensed.

        Good. Let him feel it.

        His voice was tight. “If you’re referring to my grandfather, you should choose your words carefully.”

        Zoya smiled, slow and knowing. “I always choose my words carefully.”

        Riven’s glare could have cut through metal.

        Zoya tilted her head, studying him as she would an artifact pulled from the wreckage of an old world. So much of Victor Holt was in him—the posture, the unyielding spine, the desperate need to be right.

        But Victor Holt had been wrong.

        And that was why he was sleeping in a frozen cell of his own making.

        She took another step forward, lowering her voice just enough that the curious would not hear what she said.

        “He never understood the ship’s true mission. He clung to his authority, his rigid hierarchies, his outdated beliefs. He would have let us rot in luxury while the real work of survival slipped away. And when he refused to see reason—” she exhaled, her gaze never leaving his, “he stepped aside.”

        Riven’s jaw locked. “He was forced aside.”

        Zoya only smiled. “A matter of perspective.”

        She let that hang. Let him sit with it.

        She could see the war in his eyes—the desperate urge to refute her, to throw his grandfather’s legacy in her face, to remind her that Victor Holt was still here, still waiting in cryo, still a looming shadow over the ship. But Victor Holt’s silence was the greatest proof of his failure.

        Riven clenched his jaw.

        Anuí’s voice, smooth and patient, cut through the tension.

        “She is not wrong.”

        Zoya frowned. She had expected them to speak eventually. They always did.

        They stood just a little apart, hand tucked in their robes, their expression unreadable.

        “In its current state, the body is useless,” Anuí said lightly, as if stating something obvious, “but that does not mean it has left no trace.” Then they murmured “Nāvdaṭi hrás’ka… aṣṭīr pālachá.”

        Zoya glanced at them, her eyes narrowing. In an old tongue forgotten by all, it meant The bones remember… the blood does not lie. She did not trust the Lexicans’ sudden interest in genetics.

        They did not see history in bloodlines, did not place value in the remnants of DNA. They preferred their records rewritten, reclaimed, restructured to suit a new truth, not an old one.

        Yet here they were, aligning themselves with her. And that was what gave her pause.

        “Your people have never cared for the past as it was,” she murmured. “Only for what it could become.”

        Anuí’s lips curved, withholding more than they gave. “Truth takes many forms.”

        Zoya scoffed. They were here for their own reasons. That much was certain. She could use that

        Riven’s fingers tightened at his sides. “I have my orders.”

        Zoya lifted a brow. “And whose orders are those?”

        The hesitation was slight. “It’s not up to me.”

        Zoya stilled. The words were quiet, bitter, revealing.

        Not up to him.

        So, someone had ensured she wouldn’t step foot in that room. Not just delayed—denied.

        She exhaled, long and slow. “I see.” She paused. “I will find out who gave that order.”

        And when she did, they would regret it.

        #7763
        Jib
        Participant

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

          It was all Riven had ever known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

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

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

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

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

          Evie, tell him.”

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

          Riven hesitated.

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

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

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

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

          “See what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

          “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

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

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

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

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

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

          TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

          Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “Fine. But only you.”

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

          Zoya snorted.

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

          #7762
          Jib
          Participant

            The Lexicans of Helix 25 are a faction dedicated to the reclamation and reinterpretation of history, believing that the past is not a fixed truth but a fluid narrative shaped by those who record it. Emerging from the cultural divide between the ship’s original elite passengers and the refugees who boarded during the exodus, they see language, identity, and history as tools of power, often challenging the authority of archivists like Seren Vega, whom they view as gatekeepers of a biased record. To the Lexicans, the past is not something to be merely preserved—it is something to be reclaimed, corrected, and, when necessary, rewritten. Their influence runs deep in debates over ship governance, memory preservation, and even AI ethics, as they push for a future where history belongs to the people rather than the institutions that once controlled it.

            #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.

            #7733

            Leaving the Asylum

            They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.

            “Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.

            “Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”

            Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”

            “Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”

            Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”

            “Jian, our mystery man.”

            Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

            Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”

            The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.

            “Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”

            “Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”

            Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.

            “We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”

            She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”

            “And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”

            Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

            Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”

            A small scraping sound came from behind them.

            Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”

            Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”

            Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”

            Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”

            They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.

            The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.

            The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.

            “It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”

            “That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.

            Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.

            The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.

            After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”

            Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.

            “Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”

            “I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”

            Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”

            Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”

            Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.

            Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”

            “Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”

            “We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”

            “And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.

            Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”

            Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”

            They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.

            #7732

            Survivors in Ukraine

            Not for the first time Molly wished they’d never made the journey. She wanted to go back and end her days where she’d chosen to retire.  With Ellis gone, and then Ethan and Nina, there was nothing to keep her here, and nothing to keep Tundra here.  And there had been no reason to come, in the end. There were no survivors in Ukraine either, and they encountered none on the long and difficult journey from Spain.

            It was Nina’s idea to go back to her home country. She was a refugee from the war, she and her mother. Nina met Ethan at school in England and Ethan often used to bring her on holidays to visit his grandmother in Andalucia.  When the plague struck, they were there with Molly, quarantined and with no way to return to England.  Molly shuddered at the memory of the awful realisation that there was nobody else alive, but for her friend over the road who looked after the cows.  Just Molly, Ethan, Nina, and Antonio and all the bodies.

            It was Antonio’s idea to take all the bodies of the neighbours out into the fields for the vultures, rightly stating that it was impossible for him and Ethan to bury them all. And so they did.  Best photos of vultures I ever took, and nobody to show them to, Molly had grumbled at the time.

            They managed for a considerable time looting the neighbours pantries, garages, and barns and foraging further afield until all the cars in the village ran out of fuel, always hoping to find people, other survivors, but they never did.  When the fuel ran out they used the horses.  They could have managed for some time longer if they stayed where they were, but the desire to find people was strong.

            The decision was made to head north, along the once populous coast, taking 12 horses to carry themselves and essentials, hoping to find more people. There were no people. They kept walking, and when Nina suggested they keep walking to Ukraine, nobody could think of a good reason why not to.

            Molly’s sorrowful reminiscence sitting in the late afternoon sun was interrupted by a shout from Tundra who was running towards her. “Look, look over there!”   Molly winced as Tundra pulled her upright too quickly.  “Over there!” she said, pointing to a copse just below the hills on the horizon.

            “A wisp of smoke!” Molly whispered wonderingly. “Like…like a campfire or something…”

            The 93 year old woman and her twelve year old great granddaughter looked at each other in amazement. “People,” they whispered in unison.

            “Tundra, saddle up the horses. We can’t wait for morning”,  Molly said, “They may be gone. Run, girl!  Don’t just stand there with your mouth open!”

            Suddenly Molly felt like she was only 67 again.

            People!

            #7708

            Elara — Nov 2021: The End of Genealogix

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            :fleuron2:

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

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

            #7704

            Darius: Christmas 2022

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

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

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

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

             

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            :fleuron:

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

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

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

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

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

            #7662

            The Waking 

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

            :fleuron2:

            Dreamtime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            #7659
            Jib
            Participant

              March 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              #7656

              Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit

              (near Avignon, France)

              The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.

              When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.

              His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.

              “Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.

              Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.

              Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”

              She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”

              “It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”

              Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”

              As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.

              Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”

              “There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”

              Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.

              “Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.

              “I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”

              Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.

              Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”

              “Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”

              Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”

              Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.

              “Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.

              Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”

              Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”

              “It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”

              “No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”

              Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”

              Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

              :fleuron2:

              They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.

              When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”

              Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.

              Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”

              Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.

              “Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.

              #7654
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The first one to find the bar buys the drinks, Darius had said, and they’d all laughed, but it was no laughing matter being lost in those woods.

                Siiting on a cushion on the floor surrounded by cardboard shoeboxes and piles of photos and letters, Elara leaned towards the lamp to better see the photograph.  The white bull.  

                Lucien had refused when Elara asked him to do a painting of the white bull, and then relented and said he would. But he hadn’t, not that she knew of anyway. The incident had happened the year before the pandemic, the spring of 2019. Not long before they all went their separate ways.  Elara had been visiting her father in Andalucia for his 90th birthday when a neighbour of his had told her about the stone in the woods.  She knew the others would be interested and had invited them over; her father Roland had plenty of room at his finca overlooking the Hozgarganta river, and had no objections.

                Darius had wanted to bring those people to see the pyramidal stone in the woods, and Elara was having none of it. I was told in private about that, I shouldn’t have shown anyone, Darius, not even you, she had told him.  Resentfully, Darius had tried to argue his point: that it was for the greater good, shouldn’t be kept secret, and how could he keep it from them anyway, they would know he was hiding something.

                You may not be able to find it again, look at the trouble we had. You might get attacked by wild boar or fall off a precipice into the gorge, Amei added, not relishing the idea of sharing the discovery with those people either. She couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if those people did disappear without a trace. Darius hadn’t been the same since getting sucked into their cultish clutches.

                They had lost their way in the gloomy trackless forest trying to find the stone, impossible to see further than the next few trees.  Increasingly alarmed at the boar tracks and the fading late afternoon light, Elara had suggested they give up and try and retrace their steps, rather than penetrating further down into the woods. And then suddenly Lucien shouted There is it! That’s it! and there it stood, rising above the tree canopy, the sharp grey stone sides contrasting gloriously with the thick tangled foliage.

                Rushing towards it, they fanned out circling it, touching it, gazing up at the smooth sides. Solid stone, not constructed with blocks, its purpose indecipherable, astonishingly incongruous to the location.

                Look, we need to start making our way back to the carElara had said, It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. 
                Amei had helped her convince Lucien and Darius who were reluctant to leave, promising another visit. Now we know where it is, she said, although she wasn’t sure if they did know how to find it again. It had appeared while they were lost, after all.

                The scramble back to the car had been no less confusing than the walk down to the stone, they only knew they had to go uphill to find the unpaved forest road.

                Squinting as they emerged from trees into the sunlight, a spontaneous cheer was immediately silenced at the sight of the white bull lying serenely by the site of the road, glowing like white marble, implacable, wise, and godly.
                Is it real? whispered Amei, awestruck.

                I wonder if Darius ever did take those people there, Elara wondered. It had never been mentioned again, but then, things started to change after that.  So many things were left unsaid. Elara had never been back, but the white bull had stayed in her mind perhaps more even than the stone pyramid had. I wonder if Lucien ever did that painting of it?  Elara propped the photo up behind a candlestick on the fireplace mantel. Now that she was retired, maybe she’d do a painting of it herself.

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