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Some ideas for the background thread and character profiles for “The Hoards of Emporium 26.”

The Setting: Emporium 26

They live in Gloucester (ancient Glevum), a city built on Roman bones where the layout of the streets still follows the legions’ sandals. They inhabit a sprawling, shared Georgian townhouse complex that has been knocked through into one labyrinthine dwelling—Number 26.

To the outside world, it looks like a dilapidated heritage site. Inside, it is The Emporium: a geological stratification of history, where layers of Roman pottery are mixed with 1990s Beanie Babies and medieval reliquaries.

The Background Thread: “The Weight of Eternity”

Why do they hoard? Because when you live forever, “letting go” feels like losing a piece of the timeline. Hoarding objects is for them an accumulation of evidence of existence.

• The Curse: They cannot die naturally, but they can fade if they are forgotten. The “stuff” anchors them to the physical plane.
• The “Halo” Effect: Occasionally, when they are arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes, or when they find a lost treasure, the stained-glass light of their old divinity flickers behind their heads—a neon halo of forgotten holiness.

The Hoarders & Their Stashes

1. Helier ( The Hermit / The Dreamer)

• Saintly Origin: Based on St. Helier (Jersey/Normandy). He was an ascetic hermit who lived in a cave and was eventually beheaded.
• Modern Persona: A soft-spoken agoraphobe who hasn’t left the house since the invention of the internet. He wears oversized cardigans that smell like old library books.
• The Mania: Escapism & Communication.
• Because he spent centuries in silence on a rock, he is now obsessed with human stories and noise.

• The Hoard: ” The Media Mountain.”
• His wing of the house is a fire hazard of pulp fiction, towering stacks of National Geographic (dating back to the first issue), thousands of VHS tapes (he has no VCR), and tangled knots of ethernet cables that he refuses to throw away “in case they fit a port from 1998.”
• The Secret Stash: Beneath a pile of “The Hoarder Vampires” novels lies his true relic: The Stone Pillow. The actual rock he slept on in the 6th century. He still naps on it when his back hurts.

2. Spirius (The Bishop / The Container)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Exuperius (Bayeux). A driver-out of demons and a man of grand gestures.
• Modern Persona: A nervous, fidgety man who is convinced the world is leaking. He is the “fixer” of the group but usually makes things worse with duct tape.
• The Mania: Containment & Preservation.
• In the old days, he bottled demons. Now, he’s terrified of running out of space to put things.

• The Hoard: “The Vessel Void.”
• Spirius hoards anything that can hold something else. Empty jam jars (washed, mostly), Tupperware with no matching lids, biscuit tins, and thousands of plastic carrier bags stuffed inside other carrier bags (the “Bag of Bags”).
• The Secret Stash: In a locked pantry, he keeps a shelf of sealed mason jars labeled with dates like “1431” or “1789.” He claims they contain the “Sigh of a King” or “The smell of rain before the Plague.” It’s actually just dust, but the jars vibrate slightly.

3. Cerenise (The Weaver / The Mender)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Ceneri or St. Cerneuf. A saint of travelers, or perhaps needlework.
• Modern Persona: She is the “Wheelchair Girl’s” friend mentioned in the intro? Or perhaps she is in a wheelchair now—not because she can’t walk, but because she’s too tired from walking for 1,500 years. She is sharp-tongued and fashionable in a “crazy bag lady” sort of way.
• The Mania: Potential & Texture.
• She sees the soul in broken things. She cannot throw away anything that “could be fixed.”

• The Hoard: “The Fabric of Time.”
• Her rooms are draped in layers of textiles: velvet curtains from a 1920s cinema, moth-eaten tapestries depicting her own miracles (she thinks the nose is wrong), and buttons. Millions of buttons. She also hoards broken appliances—toasters, lamps, clocks—insisting she will repair them “next Tuesday.”
• The Secret Stash: A mannequin dressed in a perfectly preserved Roman stola, hidden under forty layers of polyester coats. It’s the outfit she wore when she performed her first miracle. She tries it on every New Year’s Eve.

4. Yvoise (The Advocate / The Bureaucrat)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Yves (Patron of Lawyers/Brittany/Normandy). The arbiter of justice.
• Modern Persona: The “Manager” of Emporium 26. She wears power suits from the 80s and is always carrying a clipboard. She loves rules, even if she invents them.
• The Mania: Proof of Truth.
• She is terrified of being forgotten or cheated. She needs a receipt for everything.

• The Hoard: “The Archive of Nothing.”
• Yvoise hoards paper. Receipts from a coffee bought in 1952, bus tickets, expired warranties, junk mail, and legal disclaimers torn off mattresses. Her room looks like the inside of a shredder that exploded. She claims she is building “The Case for Humanity.”
• The Secret Stash: A filing cabinet labeled “Do Not Open.” Inside is not paper, but Seeds. Seeds from the trees of ancient Gaul. She is saving them for when the paper finally takes over the world and she needs to replant the forest she misses.

Starter: The Reading of Austreberthe’s Will

The story kicks off because Austreberthe (The Saint of Washing/Water) has died. Her hoard was Soap and Water.

• The house is now flooding because her magical containment on the plumbing has broken.
• The remaining four must navigate her “Tsunami Wing”—a treacherous dungeon of accumulated bath bombs, stolen hotel towels, and aggressive washing machines—to find her Will.
• The Will is rumored to reveal the location of the “Golden Key,” an object that can legally terminate their lease on Emporium 26, which none of them want, but all of them crave.

Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?

New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.

He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.

For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.

It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.

He frantically searched for a different voice.

It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.

Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.

Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.

Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in

Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!

He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.

“I don’t know, Amy. I thought it was Chico who was mysterious — subversively spitting at every opportunity.”

“Well, Carob, maybe we could just agree they’re equally mysterious?” suggested Amy, turning her attention back to her search.

Carob shrugged. “A woman in Greece is divorcing her husband because AI read her coffee cup and said he was cheating.”

Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”

“Yeah. I read it on Thiram’s news stream. He left it running on that weird device of his — over there, next to his half-drunk coffee. Not sure where he went, actually.”

Amy gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! Brainwave occurring — let’s get AI to read Thiram’s coffee cup!”

Carob snorted. “Genius.”

They raced over to the small folding table where Thiram’s cup sat. Carob held up her phone.

“Okay. One quick pic. Hold it steady!”

They excitedly uploaded the image to an AI analysis app Thiram had installed on his device.

The app whirred for a few minutes:

DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE

Latent emotional residue: contemplative, fond of secrets.
Foam pattern suggests hidden loyalty to an entity known only as “The Port.”
Swirling suggests alignment with larger forces not currently visible.
Presence of cardamom notes: entirely unaccounted for.
Recommendation: approach carefully with gentle questioning.

“Blimey, what does that mean?” asked Carob.

Amy nodded solemnly, perhaps with just a touch of smugness. “He is a man of mystery. Didn’t I say it?”

Carob wrinkled her nose in distaste and languidly remarked, “Amy, that goaty odour seems to be emanating from your clothing. Does it perchance require laundering?”

Chico laughed loudly, spitting equally audibly. “Hi,” he said, “The name’s Chico,” emerging from behind the tulip tree.

Carob winced at the spitting, and Amy writhed a little at being humiliated in front of the man. They both ignored him, and he regretted not staying hidden.

“I’ve just pegged out two loads of washing, for your information, not that it will dry in this rain,” Amy said, quickly tying her hair back in annoyance. Does this move the story forward? she wondered. Why do I have a smelly character anyway? I’m sweaty, goaty and insecure, how did it happen?

“Never mind that anyway, have you seen what’s on todays news?” Carob asked, feeling sorry for making Amy uncomfortable.

“I have,” remarked Chico, with a hopeful expression, but the women ignored him.

Amy & Carob

☕ Amy Kawanhouse

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Hair: Long, light brown

• Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

• Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

• Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

• Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

Inferred From Behavior:

• Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

• Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

• Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.

☕ Carob Latte

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

• Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

• General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

Inferred From Behavior:

• Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

• Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

• There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

Key Themes and Narrative Elements

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ricardo ducked lower behind the bush and tapped out a message:

spottd  lol bush comprmsed abort?

There was a long pause. Then a sharp buzz.

You had ONE job. One. You were meant to observe discreetly. I told you to be “subtle.” Clearly, that was wishful thinking. You are not to ABORT. What part of OBSERVATIONAL STEALTH did you misinterpret? Do I need to define the word STEALTH for you again? Honestly, must I supervise every leaf you crouch behind? You are a trained reporter-slash-agent, not a shrubbery enthusiast. Remain in the bush, maintain surveillance. I can overlook your appalling lack of punctuation and correct spelling but FOR GOODNESS SAKE STOP USING “LOL”.

“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

“So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”

“From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.

“Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”

He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”

“Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”

“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”

“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”

She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”

“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.

Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”

“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.

“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.

“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.

Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”

She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”

“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”

“It’s the rain,” explained Amy when she’d caught her breath. “Too much of it. They’re very particular about how much rain they like, not too little, and not too much. And there’s been too much. The Padre says unless we can come up with a plan to keep the rain off them, the whole crop is doomed.”

Thiram frowned. “We could buy thousands of golf umbrellas from China, do a deal with El Salvador, and use deportees to hold umbrellas over the coffee plants?”

Amy gave him a playful punch in the arm. “How about we wait and see if Carob and Chico have any better ideas.  We don’t have time to wait for the umbrellas and deportees to get here.”  Amy smiled, picturing the scene, and then sighed as the rain started again.

“Nice arse,” said Idle non too quietly, admiring Roberto as he stacked firewood beside the hearth. The gardener glanced round and gave her a cheeky wink.  He’d noticed her leaning out of an upstairs window watching him weeding the herbacious border.

“Now, now, Idle, no molesting the staff. I’ll write some men into the story for you later,” Liz said, “But first let’s talk about my new book.  I’m wondering what to name the six spinsters. Some kind of a theme. Cerise, Fuschia, Scarlett, Coral, Rose and Magenta?”

“What about Cobalt, Lapis, Cerulean, Indigo, Sapphire and Capri?” offered Idle, topping up their wine glasses. “Chartreuse, Emerald, Jade, Fern, Pistachio and Malachite?  Marigold, Saffron, Citron, Amber, Maize and Apricot?”

“How about Bratwurst, Chorizo, Salami, Knackwurst, Bologna and Frankfurter?” suggested Godfrey who was still miffed about all the spare parts being disposed of.  “Lasagne, Macaroni, Canneloni, Farfali, Linguini and Ravioli?”

Roberto lit the fire and stood up. “I have an idea, you can call them Trowel, Rake, Hoe, Wheelbarrow, Spade and Secateur.”

“Marvelous Roberto, I love it!” gushed Aunt Idle.

“You’re all mad as a box of frogs, madder than Almad,”  Finnley said. “How about Duster, Mop, Bleach, Broom, Dustpan and Cloth?”

“I think this incessant rain is driving us all mad,” Liz said, glancing out of the French windows with a sigh.

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.

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.”