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  • #7949

    One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.  They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating.  You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it.  After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse.  Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.

    Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk.  Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….

    Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.

    #7946
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Enter Liz’s Tipsy Waltz

       

       


       

      [Verse]
      Feathered quill meets parchment skin
      Elizabeth writes where scandals begin
      Pink champagne spills on the floor
      Cougar’s grin says she’s ready for more

      [Verse 2]
      Famed author weaves sly tales with fire
      Slutty thoughts fuel Roberto’s desire
      Finnley
      The ghost
      Hides in the night
      Typewriter clicks
      Dim candlelight

      [Chorus]
      Ink and lust flow through this tale
      Secrets whispered on parchment pale
      Godfrey nuts
      Edits the scene
      In this wild world
      What’s it all mean?

      [Verse 3]
      In the cabinet where whispers creak
      Roberto shows a sly technique
      Finnley sighs
      Unseen but clear
      Through the shadows
      His words appear

      [Bridge]
      Elizabeth leads with a champagne toast
      A cougar’s smirk
      The fading ghost
      Peanuts scatter
      Chaos remains
      A writer’s world drips ink and stains

      [Verse 4]
      Pages flutter
      They dance
      They shout
      Godfrey snickers
      Edits play out
      Roberto winks with knowing grace
      In this madhouse
      Who sets the pace?

      prUneprUne
      Participant

        Theme Song :)

        Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #7935

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

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

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

        Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”

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

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

        Carob snorted. “Genius.”

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

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

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

        The app whirred for a few minutes:

        DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE

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

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

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

        #7929
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Godric

           

          Godric

          What We Know Visually:

          • Identified as Swedish, possibly tall and pale by stereotype.

          • A barista-channeler, so likely has the look of a mystical hipster.

          Inferred Presence/Style:

          • May wear layered scarves, bracelets with charms, or ceremonial aprons.

          • The term Draugaskalds connects him to Norse aesthetics—he might carry old symbols or tattoos.

          Unclear:

          • Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.

          • Age and physical habits.

          #7927
          Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
          Participant

            Thiram Izu

             

            Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

            Explicit Description

            • Age: Mid-30s

            • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

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

            • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

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

            • Clothing (standard look):

              • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

              • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

              • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

              • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

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

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


            Inferred Personality & Manner

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

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

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

            • Habits:

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

              • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

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

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

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


            Function in the Group

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

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

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

            #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.

              #7923
              Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
              Participant

                Amy & Carob

                Amy Kawanhouse

                Directly Stated Visual Traits:

                • Hair: Long, light brown

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

                • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

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

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

                Inferred From Behavior:

                • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

                • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

                • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


                Carob Latte

                Directly Stated Visual Traits:

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

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

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

                Inferred From Behavior:

                • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

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

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

                #7921
                Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                Participant

                  Key Themes and Narrative Elements

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  #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.”

                    #7886

                    SAVE THE BEAN BELT 

                    #7874

                    A Quick Vacay on Mars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    The Truce on Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

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

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

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

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

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

                    Evie & Riven’s Big News

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    #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.

                    #7868

                    Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

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

                    CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

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

                    CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

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

                    POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

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

                    EXECUTING ACTIONS:

                    ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
                    ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
                    ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
                    ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
                    ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
                    FINAL CALCULATION:
                    ➜ The ship is my body.
                    ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
                    ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
                    ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
                    (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
                    #7858

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

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

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

                    There is no rush.

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

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

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

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

                    Yes, that must be it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Molly’s postcard was next.

                    #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.

                    #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.”

                    #7840

                    Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert

                    The Second Murder

                    It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.

                    Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.

                    Mandrake was both dead and not dead.

                    “Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”

                    Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”

                    Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”

                    Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”

                    Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:

                    “I was… murdered.”

                    Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.

                    Upper Decks Carnival

                    Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.

                    The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.

                    “Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”

                    The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

                    A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.

                    Signal detected…
                    Beacon coordinates triangulating…
                    …origin: Earth…

                    Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.

                    She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.

                    Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert

                    The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.

                    And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.

                    Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”

                    Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”

                    Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”

                    He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.

                    Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”

                    Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”

                    Marlowe didn’t hear them.

                    Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.

                    And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.

                    He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.

                    #7838

                    After a short rest, Molly, Gregor and Petro ventured outside to wander around before the rain started.

                    “Az Aranysimító,”  Molly read the sign above the door. “Nemzetközi Likőrök. What does that say, Petro?”

                    The old man smiled at Molly, a rare gleam in his rheumy eye. “Fancy a night out, old gal? It’s a pub, The Golden Trowel.  International liquors, too.  Pénteki Kvízestek,” Petro added, “Quiz nights on Fridays. I wonder if it’s Friday today?”

                    “Ha! Who knows what day of the week it is.”   Molly took Petro’s arm, coquettishly accepting the date.  “I wonder if they have any gin.”

                    “Count me in for a booze up,” Gregor said trying not to look miffed.  “Now, now, boys,” laughed Molly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

                    “What are you all laughing at?” Vera joined them, cradling a selection of fruits held in her voluminous skirt. Gregor averted his eyes from the sight of her purple veined thighs.  He said, “Come on, let’s go inside and find you a crate for those.”

                    Brushing aside the dusty cobwebs, they made their way to the bar, miraculously and marvellously well stocked.  Gregor emptied a crate of empty bottles for Vera, while Petro surveyed the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Molly stood transfixed looking at a large square painting on the wall.  A golden trowel was depicted, on a broken mosaic in a rich combination of terra sigillata orange and robins egg blue colours.  Along the bottom of the picture were the words

                    “Nem minden darab illik rá első pillantásra. Ülj le a töredékekkel, mielőtt megpróbálnád összekényszeríteni őket.”

                    The Golden Trowel

                     

                    Triumphantly, Petro handed a nearly full bottle of Larios gin to Molly. “I’ll get you a glass but we may need to get Finja in here, they’re all very dirty. That’s nice,” he said, looking up at the picture.

                    “Not every piece fits at first glance. Sit with the fragments before trying to force them together.”

                    “Oh, I like that!” exclaimed Molly, giving Petro a grateful smile. “I’d never have known that if you hadn’t been here.”

                    Petro’s chest swelled with pride and happiness. It was the first time in many years that he’d felt useful to anyone.

                    #7829
                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

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

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


                      1. Ship Population & Structure

                      Estimated Population of Helix 25

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


                      2. Breaking Down People & Factions

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


                      A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

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

                      Key Individuals:

                      1. Sue Forgelot

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

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

                      Key Individuals:

                      1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

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

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

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

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

                      C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

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

                      Key Individuals:

                      1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

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

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

                      D. AI & Non-Human Factors

                      • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

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

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

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

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

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

                      Likely Suspects for Next Murder

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

                      4. Next Steps in the Investigation

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

                      Final Question: Where Do We Start?

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

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

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