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  • #7925
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Chico Ray

       

      Chico Ray

      Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

      • Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

      • Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

      • Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

      • Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

      • Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

      Inferred Traits:

      • A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

      • Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

      • Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

      • Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

      What Remains Unclear:

      • Precise age or background.

      • His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

      #7922

      “Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
      “What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
      “Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”

      Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

      “They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”

      Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”

      A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.

      “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

      Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.

      #7920
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Key Characters (with brief descriptions)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7909

        A mad cackle started to shake the Universe again.

        “Mmm…” Thiram interjected. “Not like you to be so hung up on details now? Although, I thought that was the whole point — coffee beans acclimation to whole unexpected new places, with the AI models predicting or hallucinating the shifts of weather patterns and all? Surely coffee beans no longer grow where they’re supposed to?”

        They all looked at him with eyes like coffee cup’s saucers.

        “And what’s that place you’re calling Florida by the way?” he felt pressed to add.

        The cackling intensified, shaking their sense of geography to the core.

        #7875

        Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7864

        Mavis adjusted her reading glasses, peering suspiciously at the announcement flashing across the common area screen.

        “Right then,” she said, tapping it. “Would you look at that. We’re not drifting to our doom in the black abyss anymore. We’re going home. Makes me almost sad to think of it that way.”

        Gloria snorted. “Home? I haven’t lived on Earth in so long I don’t even remember which part of it I used to hate the most.”

        Sharon sighed dramatically. “Oh, don’t be daft, Glo. We had civilisation back there. Fresh air, real ground under our feet. Seasons!”

        Mavis leaned back with a smirk. “And let’s not forget: gravity. Remember that, Glo? That thing that kept our knickers from floating off at inconvenient moments?”

        Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “Oh please, Earth gravity’s overrated. I’ve gotten used to my ankles not being swollen. Besides, you do realise that Earth’s just a tiny, miserable speck in all this? How could we tire of this grand adventure into nothing?” She gestured widely, nearly knocking Sharon’s drink out of her hand.

        Sharon gasped. “Well, that was uncalled for. Tiny miserable speck, my foot! That tiny speck is the only thing in this whole bloody universe with tea and biscuits. Get the same in Uranus now!”

        Mavis nodded sagely. “She’s got a point, Glo.”

        Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start. I was perfectly fine living out my days in the great unknown, floating about like a well-moisturized sage of space, unburdened by all the nonsense of Earth.”

        Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me. Two weeks ago you were crying about missing your favorite brand of shampoo.”

        Gloria sniffed. “That was a moment of weakness.”

        Mavis grinned. “And now you’re about to have another when we get back and realise how much tax has accumulated while we’ve been away.”

        A horrified silence fell between them.

        Sharon exhaled. “Right. Back to the abyss then?”

        Gloria nodded solemnly. “Back to the abyss.”

        Mavis raised her cup. “To the abyss.”

        They clinked their mismatched mugs together in a toast, while the ship quietly, inevitably, pulled them home.

        #7848
        Jib
        Participant

          Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

          The ship had gone mad.

          Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

          Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

          “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

          Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

          Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

          “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

          Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

          TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

          Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

          He braced himself. “What now?”

          She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

          ETHAN MARLOWE

          MANDRAKE

          Both M.

          The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

          TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

          “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

          Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

          TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

          Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

          Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

          “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

          Evie paled. “Oh no.”

          TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

          The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

          Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

          Only one person could give him that.

          “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

          Evie frowned. “Who?”

          Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

          Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

          TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

          The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

          A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
          A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
          And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
          Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

          Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

          Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

          TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

          Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

          They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

          Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

          Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

          He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

          The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

          His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

          TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

          Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

          Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

          Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

          “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

          Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

          Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

          Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

          Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

          Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

          TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

          Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

          Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

          He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

          Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

          “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

          Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

          Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

          And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

          Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

          “What have you done?”

          Riven braced himself.

          Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

          #7847
          Jib
          Participant

            Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

            Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.

            And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”

            The baby did, indeed, cry.

            “Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”

            The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.

            Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”

            Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.

            “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”

            They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”

            The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”

            The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”

            Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”

            Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”

            Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”

            “Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”

            “Ah. Of course they have.”

            Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.

            Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”

            They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”

            Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.

            She knew this feeling.

            Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.

            “The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”

            Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

            The baby let out a startled hiccup.

            But Zoya did not stop.

            “The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.

            “The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”

            Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.

            Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.

            “Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”

            Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.

            “It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”

            They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”

            “Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”

            The baby cooed.

            Zoya Kade smiled.

            #7846

            Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

            The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

            Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

            Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

            A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

            The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

            She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

            She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

            But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

            The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

            And, most importantly—
            Who had sent the signal?

            :fleuron2:

            Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

            The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

            By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

            The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

            He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

            Access Denied.

            That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

            He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

            The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
            And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

            Ellis exhaled slowly.

            She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

            He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

            Evie needed to see this.

            :fleuron2:

            The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

            How long have I been gone?

            She exhaled. Irrelevant.

            Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

            Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

            Victor Holt.

            The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

            And now?

            Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

            Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

            Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

            She had questions.
            And someone had better start providing answers.

            #7844
            Jib
            Participant

              Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk

              The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.

              “You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”

              Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”

              Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”

              Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.

              “We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”

              Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”

              A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.

              She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.

              She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.

              Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”

              Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”

              Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”

              Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”

              Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

              “Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

              Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”

              “Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”

              Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.

              “I made my choice,” she said quietly.

              Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”

              Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.

              Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”

              Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.

              Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”

              The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.

              “Where are they?” she asked.

              Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”

              For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.

              Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.

              Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”

              #7841

              Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal

              The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.

              Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.

              “That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”

              Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”

              Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.

              Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.

              It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.

              “Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.

              But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.

              “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”

              A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.

              “You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”

              Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space

              Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.

              The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.

              The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.

              If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.

              Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.

              “Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”

              Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.

              A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.

              Helicopters.

              He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.

              Armed. Military-like.

              The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.

              Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.

              “Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”

              The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.

              Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.

              “See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”

              Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.

              Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.

              His eyes were on the beacon.

              It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.

              #7828

              Helix 25 – The Murder Board

              Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

              The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

              Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

              Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

              She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

              She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

              He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

              They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
              So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

              1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
                Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
                Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
                Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
                The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
              2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
                The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
                Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
                The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
              3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
                Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
                Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

              Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

              Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

              She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

              A heavy silence settled between them.

              Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

              Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

              Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

              TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

              Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

              Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

              Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

              Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

              Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

              The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
              It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

              Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

              Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

              Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

              TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

              Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

              “Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

              Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

              TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

              Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

              “Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

              Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

              Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

              A chime interrupted them.

              A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

              Evie stiffened.

              Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

              Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

              He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

              #7815
              Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
              Participant

                Evie and Mandrake at Seren’s quarters

                Evie is looking at ancient history found in books of Liz Tattler, such precious knowledge not present in Synthia’s carefully curated records…

                Evie channels her own Finnley’s historical clean factuality to get a sense of the facts behind the Liz fiction… Mandrake provides snarky comments free of charge.

                #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.

                #7799

                Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments

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

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

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

                The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.

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

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

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

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

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

                Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Luca smirked. “You always do.”

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

                Luca glanced at her. “What?”

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

                The question hung between them.

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

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

                #7794
                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  Some pictures selections

                  Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene

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

                   

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

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

                   

                  Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants

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

                   

                  Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space

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

                  #7789

                  Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

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

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

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

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

                  A flicker of light.

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

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

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

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

                  Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

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

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

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

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

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

                  Silence stretched between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  “Herbert?”

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

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

                  Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

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

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

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

                  Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

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

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

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

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

                  She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  #7683
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    “What do you think Godfrey?” Liz’ snapped at her publisher, sightly annoyed by his debonair smile. “And honestly, I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t ask Finnley, she seems to have more wits about her than you, dear friend. And where is she by the way?”

                    “Liz’, will you calm down, this interview business is driving you back to your old manic madness; don’t worry about Finnley, she’s had some errands to run, something about coaching the younger generation, and tiktok oven challenge —don’t ask.”

                    “Exactly! What? what coaching nonsense? Tsk, stop digressing. Yes, that interview is getting bees in my bonnet, if you see what I mean.”

                    “Driving you nuts, you mean?”

                    “Obvie. But look, how about that as an intro? ‘Every story begins with something lost, but it’s never about the loss. It’s about what you find because of it.’

                    “It’s quite brilliant I must say; how much of it is from the artificial box?”

                    “That’s what I mean Godfrey! None! But you not seeing a difference is worrying to say the least. This thing is every author’s nightmare; it spews nonsense faster, and even with greater details I can manage in one draft. Look at that. It still comes to me as naturally as when I did my first book. Very heavy door curtain, and the wooden pole sags so I’m on tip toe yanking it, and middle of back unsupported, very stupid really. Stuff like that, I can immediately conjure, painting a world of innuendos and mysteries behind a few carefully crafted words. My words’ a stage. And I even managed to write my last book, with impossibly challenging characters, being a scientist without knowing the first thing about science —apart maybe from science of marriage, although one may argue it’s more an art form. The thing is, Godfrey, and pardon that unusual monologue, yes, and please don’t choke on your peanuts. I’m starting to feel like a faulty robot who can’t stick to the robot plan.”

                    “I can see you do, Liz, but honestly, we can all make out the tree for the forest. Yours is truly an art that cannot be mimicked by machinery. Have a tonic, and let’s get you ready for that interview —the manicurist is downstairs ready for you with the best shades of pink you can ever dream of.

                    #7662

                    The Waking 

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

                    :fleuron2:

                    Dreamtime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    #7659
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      March 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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