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  • #7961

    Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”

    Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat.  He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character,  newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.

    But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.

    “Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face.  Giving him a quick hug she explained.   “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is.  I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”

    The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”

    “To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.

    “What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.

    #7959

    “Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar.  “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”

    Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character.  Maybe this is how character building works.

    “I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.

    “Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked.  Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog.  Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”

    “We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories.  Are you with friends?”

    “Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied.  Are the other new characters my friends?  “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.”  He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.

    “Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”

    “Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat  the cake?”

    “Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”

    “How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”

    #7958

    Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.

    “I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”

    Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.

    “I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”

    “I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”

    “Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.

    “I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”

    Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.

    “Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”

    “Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.

    Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”

    For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.

    Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.

    It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”

    At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.

    The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.

    Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.

    Is that how character building works?

    #7956

    “Solar kettle, my ass,” Chico muttered, failing to resist the urge to spit. After wiping his chin on his tattood forearm, he spoke up loudly, “That was no solar kettle in the gazebo. That was the Sabulmantium!”

    An audible gasp echoed around the gathering, with some slight reeling and clutching here and there, dropping jaws, and in the case of young Kit, profoundly confused trembling.

    Kit desperately wanted to ask someone what a Sabulmantium was, but chose to remain silent.

    Amy was frowning, trying to remember. Sure, she knew about it, but what the hell did it DO?

    A sly grin spread across Thiram’s face when he noticed Amy’s perplexed expression. It was a perfect example of a golden opportunity to replace a memory with a new one.

    Reading Thiram’s mind, Carob said, “Never mind that now, there’s a typhoon coming and the gazebo has vanished over the top of those trees. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you can be thinking about tinkering with memories at a time like this! And where is the Sabulmantium now?”

    “Please don’t distress yourself further, dear lady, ” Sir Humphrey gallantly came to Carob’s aid, much to her annoyance. “Fret not your pretty frizzy oh so tall head.”

    Carob elbowed him in the eye goodnaturedly, causing him to stumble and fall.  Carob was even more annoyed when the fall rendered Sir Humphrey unconscious, and she found herself trying to explain that she’d meant to elbow him in the ribs with a sporting chuckle and had not intentionally assaulted him.

    Kit had been just about to ask Aunt Amy what a Sabulmantium was, but the moment was lost as Amy rushed to her fathers side.

    After a few moments of varying degrees of anguish with all eyes on the prone figure of the Padre, Sir Humphrey sat up, asking where his Viking hat was.

    And so it went on, at every mention of the Sabulmantium, an incident occured, occasioning a diversion on the memory lanes.

    #7954

    Another one!  A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind.  Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo.  Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.

    “What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.

    “Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.

    Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival.  “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”

    “Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing?  A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat!  How do I know that’s what they’re called?  Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.

    “Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.

    Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.

    “I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend.  If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”

    “What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.

    Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile.  “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”

    Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.

    “Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.

    “My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”

    Sir? what’s he on about now?  wondered Amy.  Does that make me a Lady?

    “Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.

    Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it.    Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.

    Juan and Dolores Valdez.
    Godric, the Swedish barman
    Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers.  Mal and Glyph for short.
    Liz Tattler
    Miss Bossy Pants
    Goat Horned Draugaskald

    “Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters.  “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee!  A good range of beverages. And snacks.”

    Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail.  I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently.  The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?

    “You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”

    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

      #7933

      Where did that come from? Amy wondered. The random memories, if that’s what they were, were coming more frequently.  Suddenly, out of nowhere and with no discernable correlation to the present moment in the life of the newly hatched character, a sudden mirage in her minds eye appeared, enticing and utterly fascinating.

      I’m just a story character with no back story, where are these memories coming from?

      “You should see some of the memories I’m starting to see, and I’m even less developed as a character than you are,” Chico said, manfully resisting the urge to spit. He didn’t want to be a spitting character, not all the time, anyway.

      Amy was startled. I didn’t say that out loud. Did I say it out loud?

      “Confusing at times, isn’t it?” Chico said kindly.

      #7858

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

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

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

      There is no rush.

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

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

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

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

      Yes, that must be it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Molly’s postcard was next.

      #7849

      Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

      Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
      (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

      On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

      She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

      Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

      The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

      Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

      Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

      But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

      Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

      Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

      The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

      And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

      Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

      The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

      She rubbed her forehead.

      “Impossible.”

      And yet—here was the data.

      On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

      Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

      The Golden Trowel, Hungary

      The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

      Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

      “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

      Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

      She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

      “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

      Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

      “Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

      She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

      “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

      “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

      Molly inhaled sharply.

      Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

      Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

      If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

      Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

      Unless there was something behind her ravings?

      Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

      :fleuron2:

      Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

      But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

      “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

      Molly exhaled in relief.

      The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

      Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

      Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

      Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

      So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

      Finja closed her eyes.

      The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

      The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

      She reached out—

      And the voices crashed into her.

      Too much. Too many.

      Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

      “Where is my brother?”
      “Did my wife make it aboard?”
      “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
      “Tell them I’m still here!”

      Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

      The crowd held its breath.

      A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

      Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

      And then—

      Something else.

      A presence. Watching.

      Synthia.

      Her chest seized.

      There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

      And yet—

      She felt it.

      A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

      The ship knew.

      Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

      The bar erupted into chaos.

      “FINJA?! What did you see?”
      “Was someone there?”
      “Did you find anyone?!”

      Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

      She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

      But now…

      Now she knew.

      They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

      And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

      Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
      It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

      They were coming back.

      #7845

      It was only Molly who noticed Tundra keep a few postcards back and surrepticiously put them in her pocket as the postcards were passed around.

      “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard, if not, pass it on,” instructed Tala.

      Yulia held onto a Christmas cat postcard, with the intention of sharing memories of various cats she’d known. Finja kept a postcard of an Australian scene, Mikhail the one with the onion domes, and Molly a picture of the Giralda cathedral in Seville.  Vera selected the one of the Tower of London, Jian chose one of a Shanghai skyscraper, Anya kept an old sepia one that said “Hands Across the Sea from Maoriland”, and Petro chose one of Buda castle.  Gregor chose a wild west rodeo scene.

      #7829
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

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

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


        1. Ship Population & Structure

        Estimated Population of Helix 25

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


        2. Breaking Down People & Factions

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


        A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

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

        Key Individuals:

        1. Sue Forgelot

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

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

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

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

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

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

        B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

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

        Key Individuals:

        1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

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

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

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

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

        C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

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

        Key Individuals:

        1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

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

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

        D. AI & Non-Human Factors

        • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

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

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

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

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

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

        Likely Suspects for Next Murder

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

        4. Next Steps in the Investigation

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

        Final Question: Where Do We Start?

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

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

        #7825

        “I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff.  Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it.  Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”

        Gregor didn’t respond immediately.  He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind.  Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”

        Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication.  People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”

        “I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback.  I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.”  A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”

        Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.

        The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?

        “Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”

        Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude.  Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling.  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.

        She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go.  Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which  appeared to be the direction the truck had come from.  Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.

        “If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian.  “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”

        “There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”

        “We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.

        “We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”

        “More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.

        Molly and Berlingo

        #7813

        Helix 25 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives

        Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.

        “Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”

        Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.

        He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.

        “Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”

        “Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”

        Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.

        She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”

        Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”

        Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.

        A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.

        Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.

        “Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
        Sidon, 1157 AD.

        Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.

        He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.

        It came as a gift.

        It was a curse.

        His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.

        And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.

        ‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’

        And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.

        It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.

        Which life was his own.

        He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.

        But Edric had broken that vow.

        Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…

        He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”

        Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”

        Seren shook her head distractedly.

        “It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”

        Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.

        Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”

        Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”

        Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”

        “Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.

        Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.

        #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.

        #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.

        #7711

        Matteo — December 2022

        Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”

        Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.

        At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.

        “It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”

        “New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”

        “And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
        “Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”

        “Let me see…”

        Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”

        Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.

        The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
        “Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”

        Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”

        “Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”

        The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
        “Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.

        Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”

        “Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”

        Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

        Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”

        Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”

        The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.

        “You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.

        Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”

        Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.

        The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
        “Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”

        Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”

        “Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.

        Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”

        The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.

        To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.

        Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.

        #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.”

        #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.

        #7655
        F LoveF Love
        Participant

          Amei switched on the TV for background noise as she tackled another pile of books. The usual mid-morning chatter filled the room—updates on the weather, a cooking segment, and finally, the news. She was only half-listening until the anchor’s voice caught her attention.

          “In the race against climate change, scientists at Harvard are turning to an unexpected solution: chalk. The ambitious project involves launching a balloon into the stratosphere, carrying 600 kilograms of calcium carbonate, which would be sprayed 12 miles above the Earth’s surface. The idea? To reflect sunlight and slow global warming.”

          Amei looked up. The screen showed an animated demonstration of the project—a balloon rising into the atmosphere, spraying fine particles into the air. The narration continued, but her focus drifted, caught on a single word: chalk.

          Elara loved chalk. Amei smiled faintly, remembering how passionately she used to talk about it—the way she could turn something so mundane into a story of structure, history, and beauty. “It’s not just a rock,” Elara had said once, gesturing dramatically, “it’s a record of time.”

          She wasn’t even sure where Elara was these days. The last time they’d spoken was during lockdown. Amei had called to check in, awkward but well-meaning, only to be met with curt responses and a tone that made it clear Elara wanted the conversation over.

          She hadn’t tried again after that. It hurt more than she’d expected. Elara could be all or nothing when it came to friendships—brilliant and intense one moment, distant and impenetrable the next. Amei had always known that about her, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.

          The news droned on in the background, but Amei reached for the remote and switched off the TV. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories.

          She’d first met Elara in a gallery on Southbank, a tiny exhibition tucked away in a brutalist building. It was near Amei’s shared flat, and with her flatmates out for the evening, she had gone alone, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The display wasn’t large—just a few photographs and abstract sculptures, their descriptions dense with scientific jargon.

          Amei stood in front of a piece labelled The Geometry of Chaos—a spiraling wire structure that cast intricate, shifting shadows on the wall. She tilted her head, trying to look engaged, though her thoughts were already drifting towards home and her comfy bed.

          “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

          The voice startled her. She turned to see a dark-haired woman, arms crossed, studying the piece with an intensity that made Amei feel as though she must have missed something obvious. The woman wore a long, flowing skirt, layered necklaces, and a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

          “It’s quite interesting,” Amei said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

          “It’s not about getting it. It’s about recognizing the pattern,” the woman replied, stepping closer. She pointed to the shadows on the wall. “See? The curve repeats itself. Infinite, but contained.”

          “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

          “I do,” she said. “Do you?”

          Amei laughed, caught off guard. “Not very often. I think I’m more into… messy patterns.”

          The woman’s sharp expression softened slightly. “Messy patterns are still patterns.” She smiled. “I’m Elara.”

          “Amei,” she replied, returning the smile.

          Elara’s gaze dropped, and she nodded toward Amei’s skirt. “I’ve been admiring your skirt. Gorgeous fabric. Where did you get it?”

          “Oh, I made it, actually,” Amei felt proud.

          Elara raised her eyebrows. “You made it? I’m impressed.”

          And that was how it began. A chance meeting that turned into decades of close friendship. They’d left the gallery together, talking all the way to a nearby café.

          #7647

          Darius: A Map of People

          June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

          The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

          It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

          Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

          “Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

          It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

          Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

          Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

          “Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

          He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

          But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

          A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

          He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

          Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

          Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

          Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

          Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

          When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

          But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

          Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

          One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

          “Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

          He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

          The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

          “Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

          “Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

          She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

          Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

          As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

          The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

          “Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

          The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

          Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

          Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

          The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

          A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

          He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

          “Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

          He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

          As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

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