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  • #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 It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads.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.

    #7809

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

    Cornishman Merdhyn Winstrom had grown accustomed to the silence.

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

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

    His wreckage.

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

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

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

    And Merdhyn never saw anything as useless.

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

    “Still deaf,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

    Still, he had power.

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

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

    He would fix it.

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

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

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

    That meant something was still alive.

    He just had to wake it up.

    Tuppence chittered, scurrying onto his shoulder.

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

    Tuppence flicked her tail.

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

    The transponder array.

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

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

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

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

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

    #7807

    HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

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

    A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

    What’s going on?

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

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

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

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

    Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

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

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

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

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

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

    So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

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

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

    Liz Tattler!

    A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

    Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

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

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

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

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

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

    #7799

    Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments

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

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

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

    The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.

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

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

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

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

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

    Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Luca smirked. “You always do.”

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

    Luca glanced at her. “What?”

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

    The question hung between them.

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

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

    #7794
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Some pictures selections

      Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene

      A cinematic sci-fi mini-scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. In the industrial depths of the ship, a futuristic drying machine hums ominously, crime scene tape lazily flickering in artificial gravity. Evie, a sharp-eyed investigator in a sleek yet practical uniform, stands with arms crossed, listening intently. Beside her, a translucent, retro-stylized holographic detective—Trevor Pee Marshall (TP)—adjusts his tiny mustache with a flourish, pointing dramatically at the drying machine with his cane. The air is thick with mystery, the ship’s high-tech environment reflecting off Evie’s determined face while TP’s flickering presence adds an almost comedic contrast. A perfect blend of noir and high-tech detective intrigue.

       

      Riven Holt and Zoya Kade Confronting Each Other in a Dimly Lit Corridor

      A dramatic, cinematic sci-fi scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. Riven Holt, a disciplined young officer with sharp features, stands in a high-tech corridor, his arms crossed, jaw tense—exuding authority and restraint. Opposite him, Zoya Kade, a sharp-eyed, wiry 83-year-old scientist-prophet, leans slightly forward, her mismatched layered robes adorned with tiny artifacts—beads, old circuits, and a fragment of a key. Her silver-white braid gleams under the soft emergency lighting, her piercing gaze challenging him. The corridor hums with unseen energy, a subtle red glow from a “restricted access” sign casting elongated shadows. Their confrontation is palpable—a struggle between order and untamed knowledge, hierarchy and rebellion. In the background, the walls of Helix 25 curve sleekly, high-tech yet strangely claustrophobic, reinforcing the ship’s ever-present watchfulness.

       

      Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants

      A richly detailed sci-fi portrait of Romualdo, the ship’s gardener, standing amidst the vibrant greenery of the Jardenery. He is a rugged yet gentle figure, dressed in a simple work jumpsuit with soil-streaked hands, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His eyes scan an old, well-worn book—one of Liz Tattler’s novels—that Dr. Amara Voss gave him for his collection. The glowing plants cast an ethereal blue-green light over him, creating an atmosphere both peaceful and mysterious. In the background, the towering vines and suspended hydroponic trays hint at the ship’s careful balance between survival and serenity.

       

      Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space

      A surreal, cinematic sci-fi composition split into two mirrored halves, reflecting a mysterious connection across vast distances. On one side, Finja, a wiry, intense woman with an almost obsessive neatness, walks through the overgrown ruins of post-apocalyptic Earth, her expression distant as she “listens” to unseen voices. Dust lingers in the air, catching the golden morning light, and she mutters to herself about cleanliness. In her reflection, on the other side of the image, is Finkley, a no-nonsense crew member aboard the gleaming, futuristic halls of Helix 25. She stands with hands on her hips, barking orders at small cleaning bots as they maintain the ship’s pristine corridors. The lighting is cold and artificial, sterile in contrast to the dust-filled Earth. Yet, both women share a strange symmetry—gesturing in unison as if unknowingly mirroring one another across time and space. A faint, ghostly thread of light suggests their telepathic bond, making the impossible feel eerily real.

      #7789

      Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

      Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.

      Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.

      Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”

      Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.

      A flicker of light.

      “Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”

      Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.

      “No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.

      The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.

      Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

      Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”

      Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

      Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”

      Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”

      Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”

      Silence stretched between them.

      Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

      TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”

      Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”

      Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.

      Amara continued  “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”

      Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

      Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”

      TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”

      Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”

      Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.

      “Herbert?”

      They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.

      Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”

      Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

      Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”

      Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”

      Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”

      Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

      “Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”

      Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

      Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”

      Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.

      She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

      Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”

      Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”

      Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”

      TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”

      Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

      As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.

      #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.”

        #7776

        Epilogue & Prologue

        Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

        Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

        It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

        The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

        And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

        The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

        She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

        Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

        “Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

        And that was what had happened.

        The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

         

        True Stories of How It Was.

         

        It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

        As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

        Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

        Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

        Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

        Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

        And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

        The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

        For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

        Tabitha turned the page.

        “We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

        They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

        A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
        Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
        A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
        An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

        It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

        At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

        There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

        Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

        And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

        Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

        “Another espresso?”

        She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

        She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

        A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

        Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

        She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

        #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.

            #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.

            #7707

            Matteo — Easter Break 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

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

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

            :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

            #7704

            Darius: Christmas 2022

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

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

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

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

             

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            :fleuron:

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

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

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

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

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

            #7701
            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              Amei attached a card and ribbon to the last of the neatly wrapped gifts and placed it under the tree. This one was for Paul—a notebook with a cover of soft fabric she’d block-printed with delicate, overlapping circles in muted blues and greens. The fabric was left over from a set of cushions for a client, but she had spent hours crafting the notebook, knowing all the while Paul probably wouldn’t use it. He was impossible to buy for, preferring things he picked out himself. Tabitha had been far easier: Amei had secretly made a dress out of a soft, flowing fabric that Tabitha had fallen in love with the moment Amei showed it to her.

              The house felt calm for the moment. Tabitha had gone out earlier, calling over her shoulder that she’d be back in time for dinner. Amei smiled at the memory of her daughter’s laughter. Her excitement about Christmas was palpable, a bright contrast to the quietness that had settled over everything else. Amei used to feel like that about Christmas too. This year, though, she was only making the effort for Tabitha.

              Somewhere down the hallway, Paul’s voice murmured on a call—distant, like everything about him lately. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and cloves from the mulled wine simmering on the stove, but even that warm, festive scent felt like it was trying too hard.

              The house felt big, despite the occasional bursts of life it saw on days like this. It had felt that way for months now, the weight of unspoken things pressing against the faded walls.

              She sighed and reached for the decoration box, pulling out a small clay angel with chipped wings. The sight of it made her pause. Lucien had given it to her years ago, one Christmas, and declared it “charmingly imperfect,” insisting it belonged at the top of her tree. She smiled faintly at the memory, turning it over in her hands. Every year since, it had held its place at the top of the tree.

              “Still not done?” Paul’s voice cut into her thoughts. She turned to see him standing in the doorway. At the sound of Paul’s voice, Briar, their elderly cat—or technically Paul’s cat—emerged from behind the curtain, her tail curling as she wove around his legs. Paul crouched slightly to scratch behind her ears, and Briar leaned into his touch, purring softly

              “She thinks it’s dinner time,” Amei said evenly.

              “You always go overboard with these things, Amei,” Paul said, straightening and nodding towards the gifts.

              “It’s Christmas,” she snapped, the irritation slipping through before she could stop it. She turned back to the tree, her fingers moving stiffly as she busied herself with strands of sparkly tinsel.

              Paul didn’t respond, but she could feel his gaze linger. It was the silence that had grown between them in recent months, filled with everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say…yet.

              The sound of the front door banging shut and brisk footsteps broke the tension. Tabitha burst past Paul into the room, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “Hey, Paul. Hey, Mumma Bear,” she said brightly. Her eyes lit up as they landed on the tree. “The tree looks gorgeous! Don’t you just love Christmas?”

              #7682

              Matteo — Autumn 2023

              The Jardin des Plantes park was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled after a brisk autumn rain. Matteo sat on a weathered wooden bench, watching a golden retriever chase the last of the fallen leaves tumbling across the gravel path. The damp air was carrying scents of the earth welcoming a retreat inside, and taking the time to be alone with his thoughts was something he’d missed.

              His phone buzzed with a notification—a news update about the latest film adaptation from a Liz Tattler classic fiction. The name made him smile faintly. Juliette had loved Tattler’s novels, their whimsical characters, and the unflinching and unapologetic observations about life’s quiet mysteries and the unexpected rants about the virtues of cleaning and dustsceawung that propelled the word in the people’s top 100 favourite in the Oxford dictionary for several years consecutively.

              “They’re so full of texture,” Juliette once said as she was sprawled on the bed of their tiny Parisian flat, a battered paperback in her hands. “Like you can feel the pages breathe.”

              His image of her was still vivid, they’d stayed on good terms and he would still thumb up some of her posts from time to time —but it was only small moments rather than full scenes that used to come back, fragmented pieces of memories really —her dark hair falling messily over her face, her legs crossed in a casual way.

              Paris had been a playground for them. For a while, they were caught in a whirlwind of late-night conversations in smoky cafés and lazy Sunday mornings wandering the Seine. They’d spent hours in bookstores, Juliette hunting for first editions and Matteo snapping pictures of the handwritten notes tucked between the pages of used novels.

              A year ago, a different park in a different city—Hyde Park, London. She was there, twirling a scarf she’d picked up in Vienna the weekend before, the bright red of it like a ribbon of fire against the soft gray skies. They had been enamored with each other and with the spontaneity of hopping trains to new cities, their weekends folding into one another like pages of a travel journal. London one week, Paris the next, Berlin after that. Each city a postcard snapshot, vibrant and fleeting.

              Juliette would tease him about his fascination with the little things—how he would linger too long over a cup of coffee at a café or stop to photograph a tree in the middle of nowhere. “You’re always looking for stories,” she’d said with a laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Even when you’re not sure what they mean.”

              “Stories are everywhere,” he would reply, snapping a picture of her against the backdrop of the park, her scarf billowing in the wind. She had rolled her eyes but smiled, and in that moment, he had believed her smile was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

              The break-up came unannounced, but not fully unexpected. There were signs here and there. Her love of the endless whirlwind of life, that was a match for his way of following life’s intents for him. When sometimes life went still during winter, he would also follow, but she wouldn’t. She had insatiable love for a life filled with animation, bursts of colours, sounds. It had been easy to be with her then, her curiosity pulling him along, their shared love of stories giving their time together a weight that felt timeless. It was when Drusilla’s condition worsened, that their rhythms became untangled, no longer synching at every heartbeat. And it was fine. Matteo had made his decision then to leave Paris and bring his mother to Avignon where she could receive the care she needed. Those past two weeks that brought the inevitable conclusion of their separation had left him surprisingly content. Happy for the past moments, and hopeful for the unwritten future.

              He could see clearly that Juliette needed her freedom back; and she’d agreed. Regular train rides to Avignon, the weekends spent trying to make the sparse walls of his mother’s room feel like home as she started to forget her son’s girlfriend, and sometimes even her own son.

              Last they were in this park together was one of their last shared moments of innocent happiness ; It was a beautiful sunny afternoon —or was it only coloured by memories? They had been sitting in the Jardin des Plantes, sharing a crêpe. Juliette had been scrolling through her phone, stopping at an announcement about an interview with Liz Tattler airing that evening. “You should watch it,” she’d said, her tone light but distant. “Her books are about people like us—drifting, figuring it out.”

              He had smiled then, nodding, though he wasn’t sure if he’d meant it. A week later, she told him she was moving back to Lille, closer to her family until she figured out her next step. “It’s not you, Matteo,” she’d said, her eyes soft but resolute. “You need to be here, for her. I need… something else.”

              Now, sitting in the park a few weeks later, Matteo pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his gallery. He scrolled through the pictures until he found one from their weekend in London—a black-and-white shot of Julia standing in front of a red telephone booth, her smile sharp and her eyes already focused on the next shooting star to catch.

              Julia was right, he thought. People like them—they drifted, but they also found their way, sometimes in unexpected ways. He put on his earpods, listening to the beginning of Liz Tattler’s interview.

              Her distinct raspy voice brimming with a cackling energy was already engrossing. Synchy as ever, she was saying:

              “Every story begins with something lost, but it’s never about the loss. It’s about what you find because of it.”

              #7673
              Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
              Participant

                The adventures of Arona & Mandrake

                [Scene opens with Arona and Mandrake, the adventurous duo, standing on a hilltop, the vast landscape of the Alienor system stretching before them bathed in starlight.]

                Narrator (cheerful, enchanting voice): “Join Arona and Mandrake the cat on magical quests across dimensions!”

                [Quick flashes: Arona soaring in a hot air balloon, Mandrake snuggled on her shoulder; a playful chase with Vincentius, the mischievous demi-god; a vibrant encounter with the purple dragon, Leörmn.]

                Narrator: “Discover hidden keys, unlock enchanted doors, and meet whimsical friends!”

                [End with Arona and Mandrake, laughing under a rainbow, the words “Arona’s Adventures: A Journey Beyond Imagination” sparkling above.]

                Narrator: “Embark on a journey of wonder and friendship. Adventure awaits!”

                [The screen fades to the book cover with magical sparkles and contact information.]

                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  All about Liz Tattler

                  [Scene opens with an elegant study, filled with books and ornate furniture. Liz Tattler sits comfortably in a plush armchair, draped in her signature flamboyant attire.]

                  Narrator (warm, engaging voice): “Meet Liz Tattler, the visionary behind countless bestsellers.”

                  [Quick cuts: Liz passionately gesturing as she describes her creative process, her hands adorned with long, pink nails.]

                  Narrator: “A master of transforming the mundane into the magical.”

                  [A playful montage of Liz surrounded by whimsical titles, each book cover a splash of color and intrigue.]

                  Narrator: “Where outrageous tales and heartfelt truths dance in harmony.”

                  [End with a close-up of Liz, a twinkle in her eye, the words “A Legacy of Imagination” glowing beneath her.]

                  Narrator: “Join us for an exclusive glimpse into the world of a storytelling legend.”

                  [Screen fades to “Liz Tattler: A Lifetime of Bestsellers” with contact details for the interview.]

                  #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.

                  #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.

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