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  • #7950

    In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

    “Well would you believe it!” Olga said in amazement.  “Obadiah already left! And without saying goodbye!”

    #7947

    Chico drank the cup of freshly ground coffee beans. He winked with distaste and jotted a few words on his notebook before trying a second batch of ground coffee beans.

    He wasn’t aware of much from his past life, or if he even had a life before the others summoned him. They were a mystery to him, and he didn’t understand the reasons or the purpose of his existence. He didn’t even like coffee; he only pretended to, because the job and his own physical appearance kind of fit with the stereotype. He chuckled thinking it could be a stereotypo.

    He thought the taste of coffee was the reason why he chewed betel leaves. Their taste, slightly spicy and pungent with hints of clove and cinnamon helped mask the bitterness of the coffee he had to drink. He suddenly became aware of some other information about himself. He could swear he had forgotten them, they simply weren’t there before. His father had lost his teeth. The reason wasn’t clear yet, but looming behind the jungle trees. What about his mother? Was she slim or fat? Both possibilities flickered in his head and disappeared. Apparently it hadn’t been chosen yet. He pondered about that last remark before forgetting it.

    Too many weird questions were passing through his fat head. The heat and sweat were no good for his mental health… because of all the flies. He wondered if that was the reason why the old lady had started breeding them under her rooftop. She claimed it was an infestation but he had seen her secretly releasing swarms of flies in the evening, exciting the cauldron of bats. She had seen him looking at her, but they had tacitly convened they would not betray each other’s secret. Only, Chico wasn’t yet aware of what his own secret was.

    He winced as he tasted the third batch of coffee from the plantation.

    prUneprUne
    Participant

      Theme Song :)

      Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn


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

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

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

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

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

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

      #7927
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Thiram Izu

         

        Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

        Explicit Description

        • Age: Mid-30s

        • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

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

        • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

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

        • Clothing (standard look):

          • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

          • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

          • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

          • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

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

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


        Inferred Personality & Manner

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

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

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

        • Habits:

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

          • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

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

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

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


        Function in the Group

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

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

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

        #7920
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Key Characters (with brief descriptions)

          Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.

          Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.

          Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”

          Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.

          Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.

          Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.

          Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.

          The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.

          Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
          Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”

          #7917

          Chico noticed the inching bush from his hidden vantage point behind the tulip tree. For a moment he wished he wasn’t quite so solitary, and regretted that there was nobody to say look at that bush inching along over there to.

           

          ~~~

           

          “Sssh!” whispered Carob, holding a hand up to silence Amy. “Did you hear that? Listen! There it is again!”

          “Sounds like someone spitting behind that tulip tree.  But look over there!” Amy cried, “I never saw such a thing, that bush is moving.”

          “And it’s heading towards the tulip tree spitter,” Carob replied grimly. “This could get serious.”

          #7916

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

          Was everyone avoiding Amy?

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

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

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

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

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

          Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

          He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

          #7915

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7910

          “Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it.  “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”

          “What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”

          “Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her.  Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama.  There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”

          “Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.

          “Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.

          “I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.

          “Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.

          “Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.

          “Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”

          #7904

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #7896

          “Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband.  “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”

          “Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”

          “But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”

          “You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore.  We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”

          “But he took a photo of you!”

          Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell.  Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

          “So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”

          “No, no, not at all!  You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”

          “I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.

          #7884
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            “I would like to introduce a new character,” announced Finnley. “Miss Mossy Trotter, the secret plotter. The messy missy Mossy Trotter, the blotter spotter. The miss take, the moss stake, the mass flake, the mess cake, the hotter jotter and mixed plate potter knotter.”

            “By all means, Finnley,” replied Liz in her usual congenial fashion, “Have at it.”

            “There once was a missy called Mossy,

            And everyone said she was bossy,

            She wrote stories in dust,

            With a passionate thrust,

            And published in covers so glossy.”

            #7881

            Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            And there she was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Prune froze. Earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

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

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

            #7879
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Moments later, Finnley returned.  “There’s a woman at the door. With suitcases. Says you invited her to stay. Nobody told me you were expecting guests.”

              “Did you ask who it was?”

              “Don’t you know who you invited? She’s a thin woman with awful dreadlocks, too old for dreads if you ask me, speaks with an Australian accent.”

              “Ah yes, one of my favourite story characters! She’s come to help me with my new novel.”

              “But what about the bedding? Nobody told me to get a bedroom ready for guests,” Finnley replied.

              Just then a pretty young French maid appeared through the French windows. “I ‘ave come to ‘elp wiz ze bedding!”

              Fanella, right on cue! Come in dear, and go and help Finnley ~ Finnley, have you shown Aunt Idle in? Take her to the drawing room and I’ll be in directly, then go and help Fanella. And if you’re not careful, I may give Fanella your job, at least she’s willing and doesn’t complain all the time. And take that silly orange mask off, you look a fright.”

              #7878
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Liz threw another pen into the tin wastepaper basket with a clatter and called loudly for Finnley while giving her writing hand a shake to relieve the cramp.

                Finnley appeared sporting her habitual scowl clearly visible above her paper mask. “I hope this is important because this red dust is going to take days to clean up as it is without you keep interrupting me.”

                “Oh is that what you’ve been doing, I wondered where you were.  Well, let’s thank our lucky stars THAT’S all over!”

                “Might be over for you,” muttered Finnley, “But that hare brained scheme of Godfrey’s has caused a very great deal of work for me. He’s made more of a mess this time than even you could have, red dust everywhere and all these obsolete parts all over the place.  Roberto’s on his sixth trip to the recycling depot, and he’s barely scratched the surface.”

                “Good old Roberto, at least he doesn’t keep complaining.  You should take a leaf out of his book, Finnley, you’d get more work done. And speaking of books, I need another packet of pens. I’m writing my books with a pen in future. On paper. Oh and get me another pack of paper.”

                Mildly curious, despite her irritation, Finnely asked her why she was writing with a pen on paper.  “Is it some sort of historical re enactment?  Would you prefer parchment and a quill? Or perhaps a slab of clay and some etching tools? Shall we find you a nice cave,” Finnley was warming to the theme, “And some red ochre and charcoal?”

                “It may come to that,” Liz replied grimly. “But some pens and paper will do for now. Godfrey can’t interfere in my stories if I write them on paper. Robots writing my stories, honestly, who would ever have believed such a thing was possible back when I started writing all my best sellers! How times have changed!”

                “Yet some things never change, ” Finnley said darkly, running her duster across the parts of Liz’s desk that weren’t covered with stacks of blue scrawled papers.

                “Thank you for asking,” Liz said sarcastically, as Finnley hadn’t asked, “It’s a story about six spinsters in the early 19th century.”

                “Sounds gripping,” muttered Finnley.

                “And a blind uncle who never married and lived to 102.  He was so good at being blind that he knew all his sheep individually.”

                “Perhaps that’s why he never needed to marry,” Finnley said with a lewd titter.

                “The steamy scenes I had in mind won’t be in the sheep dip,” Liz replied, “Honestly, what a low degraded mind you must have.”

                “Yeah, from proof reading your trashy novels,” Finnley replied as she flounced out in search of pens and paper.

                #7877

                Helix 25 — The Six Spinster Sisters’ Will

                Evie keyed in her login credentials for the sixth time that afternoon, stifling a yawn. Ever since the murder case had wrapped, she had drifted into a lulling routine—one that made her pregnancy drag on with excruciating slowness. Riven was rarely around; he’d been commandeered by the newly awakened Veranassessee for “urgent duties” that somehow never needed Evie’s help. And though she couldn’t complain about the ship’s overall calm, she felt herself itching for something—anything—to break the monotony.

                So she’d come to one of the less-frequented data terminals on Helix25, in a dim corner off the main library deck. She had told herself she was looking up baby name etymologies (her mother would have pressed her about it), but she’d quickly meandered into clinically sterile subfolders of genealogical records.

                It was exactly the kind of aimless rummaging that had once led her to uncover critical leads during the murder investigation. And if there was something Helix25 had in abundance besides well-recycled air, it was obscure digital archives.

                She settled into the creaking seat, adjusting the small pillow behind her back. The screen glowed, lines of text scrolling by in neat greenish typeface. Most references were unremarkable: old Earth deeds, ledgers for farmland, family names she didn’t recognize. Had she not known that data storage was near infinite, due to the excess demands of data from the central AIs, she would have wondered why they’d bothered stocking the ship with so much information. Then her gaze snagged on a curious subfolder titled “Alstonefield Will—Gibbs Sisters.”

                “Gibbs Sisters…?” she murmured under her breath, tapping it open.

                The file contained scans of a handwritten will dated early 1800s, from Staffordshire, England. Each page was peppered with archaic legalese (“whereupon the rightful property of Misses Mary, Ellen, Ann, Sarah, Margaret and Malové Gibbs bequeathed…”), listing items that ranged from modest farmland acreage to improbable references of “spiritual confidences.”

                Evie frowned, leaning closer. Spiritual confidences? The text was surprisingly explicit about the sisters’ lives—how six women jointly farmed 146 acres, remained unmarried, and according to a marginal note, “were rumored to share an uncanny attunement of thought.”

                A telepathic link? she thought, half-intrigued, half-smirking. That smacked of the same kind of rumor-laden gossip that had swirled around the old Earth families. Still, the note was written in an official hand.

                She scrolled further, expecting the record to fizzle out. Instead, it abruptly jumped to an addendum dated decades later:

                “By 1834, the Gibbs sisters departed for the Australian continent. Certain seeds and rootstocks—believed essential for their ‘ancestral devotions’—did accompany them. No further official records on them remain in Staffordshire….”

                Seeds and rootstocks. Evie’s curiosity piqued further—some old detail about hush-hush crops that the sisters apparently treasured enough to haul across the world.

                A flicker of movement caught her eye. Trevor PeeTP” Marshall, her faithful investigative hologram, materialized at the edge of her console. He adjusted his little pixelated bow tie, voice brimming with delight.

                “Ah, I see you’re poking around genealogical conundrums, dear Evie. Dare I hope we’ve found ourselves another puzzle?”

                Evie snorted softly. “Don’t get too excited, TP. It’s just a random will. But it does mention unusual circumstances… something about telepathy, special seeds, and these six spinster sisters traveling to the outback. It’s bizarre. And I’m bored.”

                TP’s mustache twitched in faux indignation. “Bizarre is my lifeblood, my dear. Let’s see: six sisters of reputed synergy… farmland… seeds with rumored ‘power’… Honestly, that’s more suspicious than the standard genealogical yawn.”

                Evie tapped a fingertip on the screen, highlighting the references. “Agreed. And for some reason, the file is cross-referenced with older Helix25 ‘implied passenger diaries.’ I can’t open them—some access restriction. Maybe Dr. Arorangi tagged them?”

                TP’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting, indeed. You recall Dr. Arorangi’s rumored fascination with nonstandard genetic lines—”

                “Right,” Evie said thoughtfully, sitting back. “So is that the link? Maybe this Alstonefield Hall story or the seeds the sisters carried has some significance to the architectural codes Arorangi left behind. We never did figure out why the AI has so many subroutines locked.”

                She paused, glancing down at her growing belly with a wry smile. “I know it might be nothing, but… it’s a better pastime than waiting for Riven to show up from another Veranassessee briefing. If these old records are tied to Dr. Arorangi’s restricted logs, that alone is reason enough to dig deeper.”

                TP beamed. “Spoken like a true detective. Ready to run with a half-thread of clue and see where it leads?”

                Evie nodded, tapping the old text to copy it into her personal device. “I am. Let’s see who these Gibbs sisters really were… and why Helix25’s archives bothered to keep them in the system.”

                Her heart thumped pleasantly at the prospect of unraveling some long-lost secret. It wasn’t exactly the adrenaline rush of a murder investigation, but in these humdrum days—six months after the last major crisis—it might be the spark she needed.

                She rose from the console, smartphone in hand, and beckoned to the flickering detective avatar. “Come on, TP. Let’s find out if six mysterious spinsters from 1800s Staffordshire can liven things up for us.”

                #7875

                Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                #7874

                A Quick Vacay on Mars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                The Truce on Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

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

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

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

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

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

                Evie & Riven’s Big News

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

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

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

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

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

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

                #7868

                Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

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

                CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

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

                CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

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

                POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

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

                EXECUTING ACTIONS:

                ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
                ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
                ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
                ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
                ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
                FINAL CALCULATION:
                ➜ The ship is my body.
                ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
                ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
                ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
                (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
                #7866

                Helix 25 – An Old Guard resurfaces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Kai’s jaw tightened. “And?”

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

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

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

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

                Kai frowned. “We?”

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

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

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

                Kai felt something tighten in his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                “Correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

                “And if I refuse?”

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

                Kai clenched his jaw.

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

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

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