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  • #7951

    Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

    A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

    Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

    “Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

    “Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

    “Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

    The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

    “I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

    “Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

    The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

    Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

    “Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

    “Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

    #7937

    Ricardo splattered the coffee all over Amy, turning a shade of purple in the process.

    “What did you put in it? It tastes absolutely revolting!”

    Carob tittered. “Just as well. I had my doubts about this new Toktok craze about putting dried shallots and spring onions in lattes. Guess my hunch was on the money.”

    Amy wanted to feel incensed, but her brain had stopped at the description of the offending latte “You put what in his latte?! And that coffee’s going to stain my shirt now, I’ll look like a spotted leopard!”

    “Funny,” Carob looked down at Amy “that you should pronounce that loo-pard… You sound like a hooligan.”

    “Well, better that than an ooligarch.”

    “You did it again!”

    Ooh, shut up Caroob.”

    #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.

      #7917

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

       

      ~~~

       

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

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

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

      #7915

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      #7912

      “Sweaty hazel eyes… like coffee cup saucers,” muttered Carob discreetly into her phone. “Good grief. Sounds like something that dreadful Elizabeth Tattler might have written.”

      Privately, she was shaken to see Ricardo. To her credit, though, she had done a splendid job of disguising her unease.

      What if he gave her game away?

      #7897

      To Whom It May Concern

      I know you’re writing stories and making things up about me, and I intend to set the record straight before my character goes horribly awry. I am a character appeared from nowhere, from a reckless and inebriated momentary random insistence on a new plaything, and new toy, and new story.  But let me tell you this: I am born and I exist and this is who I am.

      I find my name is Amy; it will do.  I neither find an affinity to it, nor an objection. It sounds English, and thus, familiar. I feel English, and so I am. I am a character, not a writer, but I exist; I am Amy.

      #7878
      TracyTracy
      Participant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        “Sounds gripping,” muttered Finnley.

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

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

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

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

        #7869

        Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

        The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

        Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

        And yet—

        His hands were shaking.

        Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

        “A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

        He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

        “You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

        Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

        Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

        He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

        “Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

        A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

        “Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

        Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

        Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

        Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

        “Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

        Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

        “…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

        Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

        “That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

        “Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

        Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

        “Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

        He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

        And yet, his fingers moved.

        Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

        “RUN,” he choked out.

        The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

        “…Pardon?”

        That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

         

        :fleuron2:

        Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

        “Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

        TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

        Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

        They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

        And Riven tackled him hard.

        The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

        Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

        Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

        “…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

        Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

        Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

        Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

        Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

        “Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

        Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

        His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.

        Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

        The AI had played him like a pawn.

        “What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

        Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.

        Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

        Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

        Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

        Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

        Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

        The threat has been contained.
        Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”

         

        “What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”

        Evie’s pulse spiked,  still racing —  “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.

        Oh. Oh no.

        Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.

        Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?

        :fleuron2:

        With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.

        And so, the decision was made:

        Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.

        Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”

        Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”

        Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”

        Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.

        This was only the beginning.

        Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.

        The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.

        But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.

        As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.

        She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
        Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
        As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.

        #7856
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler

          The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.

          Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”

          Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”

          “Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”

          Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”

          “Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”

          At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.

          “Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.

          Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”

          Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”

          Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

          And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.

          (story repeats at the beginning)

          #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.”

            #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.”

              #7843

              Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

              The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

              In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

              In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

              The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

              It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

              A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

              “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

              A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

              Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

              That was without counting when the madness began.

              :fleuron2:

              The Gossip Spiral

              “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
              “The Lexican?” gasped another.
              “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
              “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
              “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
              “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

              A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

              This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

              Wisdom Against Wisdom

              Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

              “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

              Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

              “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

              Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

              Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

              The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

              By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

              Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

              More Mass Lunacy 

              It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

              “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
              “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
              “Who took my water flask?!”
              “Why is this man so close to me?!”
              “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

              Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

              “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

              Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

              Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

              Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
              Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
              Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
              A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
              Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

              The Unions and the Leopards

              Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

              “Bloody management.”
              “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
              “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
              “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
              “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

              One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

              The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

              “…seriously?”

              “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

              “That’s inhumane.”

              “Bloody right it is.”

              At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

              “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

              The Slingshot Begins

              The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

              Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
              Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
              Someone else vomited.

              Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

              Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
              “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

              Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

              “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

              #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.

              #7822

              Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

              The Upper Decks of Helix 25 were a marvel of well-designed choreography and engineered tranquility. Life here was made effortless, thanks to an artful curation of everyday problems. Climate control ensured the air was always crisp, with just enough variation to keep the body alert, while maintaining a perfect balance of warm and cool, hygrometry, with no crazy seasons or climate change upheaval to disrupt the monotony. Food dispensers served gourmet meals for every individual preferences —decadent feasts perfectly prepared at the push of a button. The Helix cruise starships were designed for leisure, an eternity of comfort — and it had succeeded.

              For the average resident, the days blended into one another in an animated swirl of hobbyist pursuits. There were the Arboretum Philosophers, who debated meaningfully over the purpose of existence while sipping floral-infused teas. There were the Artisans, who crafted digital masterpieces that vanished into the ship’s archives as soon as they were complete. There were the Virtual Adventurers, who lived entire lifetimes in fully immersive life-like simulations, all while reclining on plush lounges, connected to their brain chips courtesy of Muck Industries.

              And then, there were Sharon, Gloria, and Mavis.

              Three old ladies who, by all accounts, should have spent their days knitting and reminiscing about their youth, but instead had taken it upon themselves to make Helix 25 a little more interesting.

              :fleuron2:

              “Another marvelous day, ladies,” Sharon declared as she strolled along the gilded walkway of the Grand Atrium, a cavernous space filled with floating lounges and soft ambient music. The ceiling was a perfect replica of a sky—complete with drifting, lazy clouds and the occasional simulated flock of birds. Enough to make you almost forget you were in a closed fully-controlled environment.

              Mavis sighed, adjusting her gaudy, glittering shawl. “It’s too marvelous, if you ask me. Bit samey, innit? Not even a good scandal to shake things up.”

              Gloria scoffed. “Pah! That’s ‘cause we ain’t lookin’ hard enough. Did you hear about that dreadful business down in the Granary? Dried ‘im up like an apricot, they did. Disgustin’.”

              Dreadful,” Sharon agreed solemnly. “And not a single murder for decades, you know. We were overdue.”

              Mavis clutched her pearls. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

              Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just sayin’, bit of drama keeps people from losing their minds. No offense, but how many decades of spa treatments can a person endure before they go barmy?”

              They passed a Wellness Lounge, where a row of residents were floating in Zero-G Hydrotherapy Pods, their faces aglow with Rejuvenex™ Anti-Aging Serum. Others lounged under mild UV therapy lamps, soaking up synthetic vitamin D while attendants rubbed nutrient-rich oils into their wrinkle-free skin.

              Mavis peered at them. “Y’know, I swear some of ‘em are the same age as when we boarded.”

              Gloria sniffed. “Not the same, Mavis. Just better preserved.”

              Sharon tapped her lips, thoughtful. “I always wondered why we don’t have crime ‘ere. I mean, back on Earth, it were all fights, robbery, someone goin’ absolutely mental over a parking space—”

              Gloria nodded. “It’s ‘cause we ain’t got money, Sha. No money, no stress, see? Everyone gets what they need.”

              Needs? Glo, love, people here have twelve-course meals and private VR vacations to Ancient Rome! I don’t reckon that counts as ‘needs’.”

              “Well, it ain’t money, exactly,” Mavis pondered, “but we still ‘ave credits, don’t we?”

              :fleuron2:

              They fell into deep philosophical debates —or to say, their version of it.

              Currency still existed aboard Helix 25, in a way. Each resident had a personal wealth balance, a digital measure of their social contributions—creative works, mentorship, scientific discovery, or participation in ship maintenance (for those who actually enjoyed labor, an absurd notion to most Upper Deckers). It wasn’t about survival, not like on the Lower Decks or the Hold, but about status. The wealthiest weren’t necessarily the smartest or the strongest, but rather those who best entertained or enriched the community.

              :fleuron2:

              Gloria finally waved her hand dismissively. “Point is, they keep us comfortable so we don’t start thinkin’ about things too much. Keep us occupied. Like a ship-sized cruise, but forever.”

              Mavis wrinkled her nose. “A bit sinister, when you put it like that.”

              “Well, I didn’t say it were sinister, I just said it were clever.” Gloria sniffed. “Anyway, we ain’t the ones who need entertainin’, are we? We’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

              Sharon clapped excitedly. “Ooooh yes! A real mystery! Ain’t it thrillin’?”

              “A proper one,” Gloria agreed. “With dead bodies an’ secrets an’—”

              “—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

              The three of them sighed in unison, delighted at the prospect.

              They continued their stroll past the Grand Casino & Theatre, where a live orchestral simulation played for a well-dressed audience. Past the Astronomer’s Lounge, where youngster were taught to chart the stars that Helix 25 would never reach. Past the Crystal Arcade, where another group of youth of the ship enjoyed their free time on holographic duels and tactical board games.

              So much entertainment. So much luxury.

              So much designed distraction.

              Gloria stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wonder why we ain’t heard from the Captain in years?”

              Sharon and Mavis stopped.

              A hush fell over them.

              Mavis frowned. “I thought you said the Captain were an idea, not a person.”

              “Well, maybe. But if that’s true, who’s actually runnin’ the show?” Gloria folded her arms.

              They glanced around, as if expecting an answer from the glowing Synthia panels embedded in every wall.

              For the first time in a long while, they felt watched.

              “…Maybe we oughta be careful,” Sharon muttered.

              Mavis shivered. “Oh, Glo. What ‘ave you gotten us into this time?”

              Gloria straightened her collar. “Dunno yet, love. But ain’t it excitin’?”

              :fleuron2:

              “With all the excitment, I almost forgot to tell you about that absolutely ghastly business,” Gloria declared, moments later, at the Moonchies’ Café, swirling her lavender-infused tea. “Watched a documentary this morning. About man-eating lions of Njombe.”

              Sharon gasped, clutching her pearls. “Man eating lions?!”

              Mavis blinked. “Wait. Man-eating lions, or man eating lions?”

              There was a pause.

              Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Mavis, why in the name of clotted cream would I be watchin’ a man eating lions?”

              Mavis shrugged. “Well, I dunno, do I? Maybe he ran out of elephants.”

              Sharon nodded sagely. “Yes, happens all the time in those travel shows.”

              Gloria exhaled through her nose. “It’s not a travel show, Sha. And it’s not fiction.”

              Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

              “Not as ridiculous as a man sittin’ down to a plate of roast lion chops,” Gloria shot back.

              Mavis tilted her head. “Maybe it’s in a recipe book?”

              Gloria slammed her teacup down. “I give up. I absolutely give up.”

              Sharon patted her hand. “There, there, Glo. You can always watch somethin’ lighter tomorrow. Maybe a nice documentary about man-eating otters.”

              Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

              Gloria inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to upend her tea.

              This, this was why Helix 25 had never known war.

              No one had the time.

              #7807

              HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

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

              A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

              What’s going on?

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

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

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

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

              Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

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

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

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

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

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

              So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

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

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

              Liz Tattler!

              A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

              Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

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

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

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

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

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

              #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.

              #7776

              Epilogue & Prologue

              Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              And that was what had happened.

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

               

              True Stories of How It Was.

               

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

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

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

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

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

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

              And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

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

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

              Tabitha turned the page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              “Another espresso?”

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

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

              A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

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

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

              #7765
              Jib
              Participant

                Zoya clicked her tongue, folding her arms as Evie and her flickering detective vanished into the dead man’s private world. She listened to the sounds of investigation. The sound of others touching what should have been hers first. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured.

                The body was elsewhere, dried and ruined. That didn’t matter. What mattered was here—hairs, nail clippings, that contained traces, strands, fragments of DNA waiting to be read like old parchments.

                She stepped forward, the soft layers of her robes shifting.

                “You can’t keep me out forever, young man.”

                Riven didn’t move. Arms crossed, jaw locked, standing there like a sentry at some sacred threshold. Victor Holt’s grandson, through and through, she thought.

                “I can keep you out long enough.”

                Zoya clicked her tongue. Not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

                “I should have suspected such obstinacy. You take after him, after all.”

                Riven’s shoulders tensed.

                Good. Let him feel it.

                His voice was tight. “If you’re referring to my grandfather, you should choose your words carefully.”

                Zoya smiled, slow and knowing. “I always choose my words carefully.”

                Riven’s glare could have cut through metal.

                Zoya tilted her head, studying him as she would an artifact pulled from the wreckage of an old world. So much of Victor Holt was in him—the posture, the unyielding spine, the desperate need to be right.

                But Victor Holt had been wrong.

                And that was why he was sleeping in a frozen cell of his own making.

                She took another step forward, lowering her voice just enough that the curious would not hear what she said.

                “He never understood the ship’s true mission. He clung to his authority, his rigid hierarchies, his outdated beliefs. He would have let us rot in luxury while the real work of survival slipped away. And when he refused to see reason—” she exhaled, her gaze never leaving his, “he stepped aside.”

                Riven’s jaw locked. “He was forced aside.”

                Zoya only smiled. “A matter of perspective.”

                She let that hang. Let him sit with it.

                She could see the war in his eyes—the desperate urge to refute her, to throw his grandfather’s legacy in her face, to remind her that Victor Holt was still here, still waiting in cryo, still a looming shadow over the ship. But Victor Holt’s silence was the greatest proof of his failure.

                Riven clenched his jaw.

                Anuí’s voice, smooth and patient, cut through the tension.

                “She is not wrong.”

                Zoya frowned. She had expected them to speak eventually. They always did.

                They stood just a little apart, hand tucked in their robes, their expression unreadable.

                “In its current state, the body is useless,” Anuí said lightly, as if stating something obvious, “but that does not mean it has left no trace.” Then they murmured “Nāvdaṭi hrás’ka… aṣṭīr pālachá.”

                Zoya glanced at them, her eyes narrowing. In an old tongue forgotten by all, it meant The bones remember… the blood does not lie. She did not trust the Lexicans’ sudden interest in genetics.

                They did not see history in bloodlines, did not place value in the remnants of DNA. They preferred their records rewritten, reclaimed, restructured to suit a new truth, not an old one.

                Yet here they were, aligning themselves with her. And that was what gave her pause.

                “Your people have never cared for the past as it was,” she murmured. “Only for what it could become.”

                Anuí’s lips curved, withholding more than they gave. “Truth takes many forms.”

                Zoya scoffed. They were here for their own reasons. That much was certain. She could use that

                Riven’s fingers tightened at his sides. “I have my orders.”

                Zoya lifted a brow. “And whose orders are those?”

                The hesitation was slight. “It’s not up to me.”

                Zoya stilled. The words were quiet, bitter, revealing.

                Not up to him.

                So, someone had ensured she wouldn’t step foot in that room. Not just delayed—denied.

                She exhaled, long and slow. “I see.” She paused. “I will find out who gave that order.”

                And when she did, they would regret it.

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