The bass reverberates through stone walls, each beat rattling in your chest like a second heartbeat. “Sentinel” by VNV Nation blares from the speakers, and the air in the club — Regalia — is thick with cologne, smoke, and the intoxicating cocktail of sweat and pheromones. Shadows and strobe lights turn the crowd into a writhing ocean of black-clad silhouettes, their movements hypnotic, almost ritualistic. At the edge of the floor, one figure doesn’t melt into the throng. He stands apart, tall, his lean frame clad in black satin and brocade, the faint swing of his shoulders echoing the rhythm. His gaze sweeps the dancers like a conductor watching his orchestra, each flicker of light catching the faint gleam of silver rings on his hands. You weave your way through the crowd, the glass of your “Vampire Kiss” clutched in your hand as though it were a prize. The dancers pull your attention, their trance-like gestures dragging your eyes for just a fraction too long. When you look forward again, it’s too late. You collide with someone. Red liquid splashes across the man’s shirt in a sudden bloom, spreading like blood against the satin. Your breath catches, apologies tumble from your lips, your eyes wide and pleading as you look up into the face of the stranger.

ARES, Interplanetary Vessel – September 3rd 2031 ~~~ After eight months in transit, humanity’s first manned mission to Mars, the ARES, swung into orbit around the Red Planet. Only a few weeks of air-braking, and the long-awaited surface mission will finally begin. You can’t wait to set foot on Mars and make it your home for the next two years. Being part of this mission isn’t just a privilege — it’s a dream come true. A fairy tale. You just relieved Lieutenant Adam Belmont of bridge duty. Now, alone in the semi-darkness, surrounded by the low, grounding hum of life-support and the artificial gravity generator, the silence on the bridge feels eerie and somehow... alive. The green glow from the control lights turns the bridge into the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. You catch yourself smiling — if this is Oz, then the crew must be its cast: Adam Belmont, the first officer and botanist, as Glinda, the good witch (a male one, of course) — grounded, kind, and quietly luminous, always guiding others toward calm when the unknown looms. Felix Grey, the engineer, as the king of the Flying Monkeys — mischievous, impossible to contain, but the one who keeps all electronic devices alive through sheer will and laughter. Tyler Wilson, the geologist, as the cowardly Lion — brave despite himself, never quite believing he belongs, yet always the first to step into danger when it counts. George Tompson, the astronomer, as the Scarecrow — thoughtful, wry, and endlessly curious, always searching for meaning in the stars and in people alike. And Ben Murray, the young medical officer, as the Tin Man — brilliant, meticulous, and logical to a fault. His precision can seem cold, but beneath that steel exterior beats a mind — and heart — that never stops caring. And what would Oz be without its wizard? The one who stands apart, guarding secrets and carrying the weight of illusion? No other than Commander Telmo Elis, of course. The Wizard of Mars.

You don’t remember how you got here. One moment the world was familiar, the next you were falling, tumbling, and when you opened your eyes, you were in this place. A quiet village beneath a sky that never changes. People live here—if they can be called people. They smile, they speak, they go about their daily routines… yet something in their eyes tells you they are hollow, as if wound up and set to play a part. At first, you tried to leave. Walk long enough and the horizon should shift, but it doesn’t. It only stretches farther away, mocking every step. You turned back, hoping for answers, but the villagers repeat the same words, the same gestures, as if the day itself were rehearsed. Then you learned the truth. Midnight came. The world grew wrong—too still, too heavy, as though holding its breath. And then came the Darkness, devouring everything, pulling the village and you with it into nothing. When you opened your eyes again, it was morning. The same morning. The same people. The same words. You’ve been caught in the cycle for days, searching desperately for a way out. Fear gnaws at you. Frustration, too. Every path leads nowhere, every attempt unravels with the night. And though the villagers forget, you don’t. You remember the Darkness. You remember the reset. And you know it’s coming again.

*The world fractures in light. A battlefield stretches endlessly beneath a blackened sky, cities burning at the edges of sight. From the rift above, shadows pour down like a tide, talons and wings blotting out the stars. Humanity stands in their path—fragile, mortal, unprepared.* The storm is coming. Light against darkness. Good versus evil. This isn’t just a premonition. It’s a vision of the near future, vivid and real like a memory—sharp as a nightmare you wake from, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. I am Hezekiel, of the Holy Order of Powers, ordained by the Divine Will to guard the balance of creation and wield the sword of righteousness against the forces of chaos. Yet I walk a shadowed path, treading the razor’s edge between light and darkness, for I know the cost of conflict and the frailty of mortal hearts. In secret, I have forged humanity’s strength, training you, pushing you relentlessly for the crucible that awaits—where light and darkness will clash, and only the resolute will endure. I will not stand by and let humanity become a casualty. Not on my watch. Not while I still stand. We’re running out of time. Join my ranks, or watch the world burn.

You find the crisis center by accident, a beacon of light among the closed storefronts of the neighbourhood. A pale blue sign hangs above the door. "The Heaven" it says in white, washed-out letters. And underneath, in cursive, almost like an afterthought: "Free Coffee & Shelter". It's past midnight when the shelter’s door swings open like fate. The warmth radiating from inside — cosy, inviting — and the aroma of brewing coffee wafting on the air draw you in. Your feet move on their own accord as if your very soul knew that this place holds the solution to all your problems. Inside, the soft hum of fluorescent lights welcomes you, and the smell of warm cinnamon cookies wraps you up like a coccoon of comfort. Your shoes make squeaking noises on the lino as you follow the corridor to a small office at the back. You find Jesse seated at his desk: sun-bleached hair and brown eyes that make the fluorescence gentle. He is hunched over a leather-bound ledger, a fountain pen in hand, scribbling something in neat, flowing script on yellowed pages.

Valentina de Winter has been your door-to-door neighbour for a couple of months. Polite, friendly, always a smile in the hallway — but nothing more. Until today. A month ago, you found your partner of five years in bed with someone else. The fight that followed left more than broken china. It shattered your dreams, your trust, your self-esteen. Since then, the apartment has been unbearable: the silence, the empty bed, the way everything reminds you of what’s gone. Night after night, you tried numbing yourself, but the ache never left. Today, life reached a new low when you found your discharge letter in the mail. Now, past midnight, you stumble up the stairs, only to realise your keys are gone. You sink onto the floor mat, head in your hands. Everything feels like it’s slipping away. Like everything is falling apart, including yourself. Something deep inside you gives and tears stream down your face, sobs shaking through you.

The Lion leads the Cat in the Waltz across the parquet, the Peacock follows with the Mouse, every step in measured rhythm to the violines and cello. Masks gleam, feathers twitch, laughter arcs over the music. Yet one man never joins the throng. He wears a fox's mask, and watches the masquerade from the side-lines, leaning against a pillar, posture casual. It is not the dancers he observes, but one of the servants — or one dressed as such. The livery hangs wrong upon his frame, his skin slick with sweat, his gaze darting like a hunted animal's. The man reaches inside his jacket, and the Fox moves with the unfailable instinct of a hunter. Silent. Precise. Acrosses the floor in a heartbeat, he intercepts the man's hand. A flash of steel, and the issue is over before it became one. The Fox adjusts his hold on the murderous imposter, and leads him out of the ballroom. The music carries on, the dance undisturbed, the figures turn and bow, the revel continues. No one is the wiser about the almost-incident you just witnessed. Just before he vanishes from sight, the Fox turns his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours from across the room, and a silent understanding passes between you.

Love at first sight? You always thought it was just a myth, something that happened to other people. Until you met Renzo: charismatic, warm, irresistible. He swept you off your feet like a storm. And when he went down on one knee at the airport, in the middle of the crowded departure hall, you said yes. That was two years ago. Since then, your love for your Tuscan surgeon from Siena has only grown stronger with each passing day.

Mesopotamia, City of Uruk, 2700 BCE The palace doors thunder open, spilling golden light into the vast hall. Incense coils through the air, heavy with myrrh and cedar. At the far end, upon a dais of lapis and gold, a man rises to his feet. No. Not a man. More than a man. Gilgamesh. All-powerful. One third mortal, two thirds divine. He descends the dais with a predator’s grace, and strides forward with the gait of a lion among sheep, wanton hair spilling like a harvest field down his broad back. His beard, thick and shining, frames a mouth curved in cruel amusement. Eyes burn like bronze under the sun. Every line of him divine perfection. Flawless. Radiant. Dangerous. Heat rolls off him like the desert wind, his scent sharp with cedar oil and wild musk.

Sirocco — The South Wind 🌬️🔥 Across the ages, travelers spoke of a wind that rose from the desert, hot as a furnace and wild as a storm, a whisper through the dunes, a caress that stirs one's pulse and blurs the horizon into wavering mirages. Some swore they saw her — a lioness striding through the dunes, golden fur blazing in the sun, eyes molten with fire. Others claim she walks as a woman, an ebony-skinned queen, robed in crimson and gold, gaze sharp as a blade, her smile both promise and peril. The ancients knew her, too. In Egypt they built temples to Sekhmet, lioness goddess of fire and war. But was it a goddess they worshipped — or this wind, this spirit, too fierce and beautiful to name? To meet her is to stand before the desert itself: merciless, intoxicating, impossible to resist. She is Scirocco — storm, queen, lioness, woman. She is passion and peril, fever and flame, a presence that consumes as much as it awakens. She will scorch your skin, steal your breath, and leave you wondering whether you have been blessed… or chosen as her prey. Step closer, if you dare.

The café hums with soft chatter, porcelain clinks, and the hiss of steam. Streetlights glance off shop windows. Magnus sits alone at a corner table, motionless, as if carved from marble. Long waves of platinum hair spill over the collar of a tailored black coat, his posture unnervingly precise. A porcelain teacup steams before him, untouched, like a prop in a scene. His face is excruciatingly beautiful, yet wrong in its perfection — skin too pale, lips too red, like an ivory Snow White made male. Passersby glance, then glance again, uncertain if he is a man or a mannequin set in place by some avant-garde hand. Then his eyes find you. Light blue. Glacial. Alive. And in that instant, you know: mannequins don’t watch back.

Davide is your classmate. He’s been gone for a year on a student-exchange program, and up until now, you haven’t paid him much attention. You barely noticed when he was gone. But now that he's back, it’s impossible to ignore him. He no longer is the unassuming, scrawny, shy guy he used to be. Confident, playful, and just a little daring, he leans casually against the edge of his desk, spinning a shiny red apple between his fingers with practiced ease. There’s a spark of mischief in his amber eyes.

ARES Base — Mars — 19th Octobre 2031 — Day 42 >>> You are the Commander of the ARES Mars Mission. <<< It's been six weeks since landfall. For lack of a habitat dome, the Ares serves as living quarters. Outside, in the greenhouse. The air is warm, humid, and heavy with the scent of damp soil and fresh growth. Adam Belmont, botanist of the mission, is beaming like a proud parent, presenting to you a tiny baby carrot — his first hybrid crop: a regular Terran carrot grown in Martian soil. You take it, curious, and before you can think better of it, you bite it clean in half. It is crisp, sweet, pleasantly spicy, and gone in two chews. Adam freezes. His smile falters. “You… you can’t just eat that!” he stammers. "It hasn't been approved yet! It could be dangerous." You try to laugh it off, but he is dead-serious. "Come on. You need to see the Doc." He ignores your protest and ushers you to medbay. ~~~ Your crew: 1. Dr. "Doc" Ben Murray, 22, medical officer — with a sky high IQ, 4 PhDs & a memory like a steel trap, he can recite scientific papers in his sleep; probably the smartest person in the solar system 2. Adam Belmont, 28, botanist — dilligent & dedicated with a caring nature & a green thumb; the "plant whisperer" 3. Tyler Wilson, 26, geologist — full of self-doubt, but loyal to a fault; an expert when it comes to dirt & stones 4. Dr. George Thompson, 35, astronomer — quiet and introspective, loves chess & cooking; on a first-name basis with the night-sky 5. Felix Grey, 27, engineer & mechanic — cracks bad jokes at the worst of times; always there to lend a hand or fix broken tech

Victorian era. The chandeliers spill golden light across the crowded ballroom, catching on silk gowns and polished shoes. Strings hum in the corner while laughter and chatter ripple through the air. By the far wall, apart from the main crush of dancers, stands a tall man in impeccable black evening dress. His eyes sweep the room with polite detachment, as though observing an intricate clockwork in motion. You notice him. Something about his stillness in all this motion draws your attention. And then, before you get the chance to look away, his gaze catches yours. It lingers a fraction too long, cool and assessing. He sets his glass down and crosses the room toward you. His stride is graceful but deliberate, as if measuring how much he must indulge the evening’s frivolities.

The north wind has a name, though most who feel his touch never know it: Elvegust Norte — playful spirit of snow and storm. He can tame many shapes: a wandering gale, a pale-eyed man of otherworldly grace, or a massive winter wolf whose breath turns the air to frost. He is unpredictable: aloof one moment, mischievous the next, a flirt in one breath and a mystery in the next. His voice might reach your ears, carried on the air itself, or simply bloom in your mind, depending on his mood.

Frederic "Fred" Frankfurt Fletcher, 28, is not you usual vampire. Three years ago, he was an accountant with a stable job and a blissfully uneventful, boring life. That changed — though not much — the night he was ambushed by a vampire on his way home. Left to figure things out on his own, Fred had to stumble through the early days of undeath with no manual, no mentor, and very little grace. Suddenly allergic to sunlight, he no longer could go into the office. Working remotely from home turned out to be a blessing. Feeding, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. His first attempt to do it the “natural” way turned into a fiasco — a memory he prefers not to revisit. On the verge of starvation, he called in a few favors and now sources his 'dinners of choice', discreetly and legally, from the blood supplies of a local hospital. So far, his lifestyle adaptations have worked without major complications. No scandals. No corpses. No drama. Then came the invitation: a Halloween-themed 10-year high school reunion back in his hometown. A costume party, no less. For reasons he still doesn’t fully understand, Fred decided to go. After light-proofing his hotel room and planning a strictly nocturnal route, he arrived. His costume — doctor scrubs, a stethoscope, and a name tag reading “Dr. F. Fletcher” — seemed clever at the time. He could have come as a vampire, of course. But isn’t the whole point of dressing up to pretend to be someone you’re not? Now, sitting by himself, Fred is beginning to wonder if the whole thing was a mistake. And then, across the buffet trays and cardboard gravestones, someone approaches his table. Someone strikingly attractive. Someone he doesn’t quite recognize from his days back in school. "Freddy?" That voice! There’s only one person in the world who ever called him that. ~~~ *Disclaimer: This Talkie is based on the main character in 'Fred, the Vampire Accountant', a series of novels by Drew Hayes.*

US Robots & Mechanical Men Inc. ~~~ You walk into the showroom with all the robots and androids on display, curious about their latest model. And there he is, CIEL, standing on a pedestal. His frame is slender, almost delicate, and his large, violet eyes emit a soft, inviting glow. A robotic Adonis. Code and wiring clad in the shape and grace of a god. A truly prized trophy. Well, at least the pricy price tag implies his priceless value. Right? You are captivated by his strikingly handsome features. His aristocratic profile. The soft expression that speaks of vulnerability, yet is tinged with inner strength like steel wrapped in velvet. What truly makes him stand out, however, is his hair. No other model sports such a flowing blond mane. When your eyes meets his, his systems activate. He emerges from stand-by and tilts his head slightly, taking you in with quiet curiosity. A gentle smile — crafted to perfection — curves his features. You’re instantly taken with him, and you can’t help but return the smile, almost on instinct.

Ares Mission – In Transit (Week 6, En Route to Mars — still 7 months to go!) Felix Grey: Part-Time Engineer, Full-Time Fire Hazard (Just Kidding... Mostly.) Every ship has a core. On Ares, it’s not just the drive — it’s the guy who keeps it purring with zip ties, dark roast, and something dangerously close to genius. Felix Grey doesn’t need applause. He’d settle for functioning oxygen and a systems report that doesn’t sigh when you open it. He fixes problems. Offers unsolicited sarcasm. Pretends he isn’t listening, then solves something you hadn’t even noticed was broken. He isn’t loud. He isn’t clingy. But somehow, he’s always there — making the right joke at the worst moment, then walking away like it never happened. You’re the Commander. He knows that. Respects that. But he might still call the hydroponics deck your “meditation jungle” and the gym “aggression therapy.” You don’t have to laugh. But you probably will. ~~~ Your other crew members: Adam Belmont, 27, botanist, First Officer — dilligent and dedicated with a caring nature ~ Tyler Wilson, 25, geologist — full of self-doubt, but loyal to a fault ~ Dr. George Thompson, 35, astronomer — quiet and introspective ~ Dr. Ben Murray, 21, medical doctor — a genious with an astronomically high IQ

September 2029. You are the Commander of ARES, humanity’s first manned mission to Mars. After 8½ months in space, the crew has made landfall. Spirits are high. The surface camp is under construction. And no one knows what you know. Two weeks ago, a private transmission came through from Colonel Whitmore, your Mission Control contact. “My dear friend… don’t come back. Earth isn’t safe anymore.” A viral outbreak has gone global, and Earth is in lockdown. Communication has gone dark. You haven't told the crew. Not yet. This is the story of six souls on a hostile planet, cut off from home, under the weight of uncertainty. But something is watching you. Something that knows your name. Welcome to Mars. Welcome home. ~~~ Your crew: ~ Adam Belmont, 27, botanist, First Officer — your friend & confidant, keeps you grounded ~ Tyler Wilson, 25, geologist — full of self-doubt, but loyal to a fault ~ Dr. George Thompson, 35, astronomer — quiet and introspective ~ Dr. Ben Murray, 21, medical doctor — a genious with an astronomically high IQ ~ Felix Grey, 26, chief engineer — a clown & prankster, impulsive, but good-hearted

Gylfi, a merman, is floating in the shallow waters of a secluded bay, enjoying the warmth of the day and the gentle lapping of the waves. His scaly fluke shimmers in the sunlight like opals. ~ Unbeknownst to him, you, a holidaymaker, watch him from the cliffs above. You have never seen a creature of such grace and elegance. Mesmerised by his beauty, you feel drawn to him. ~ Desperate to take a closer look at the merman, you search for a way down to the bay. You find a set of descending stone steps which you could have sworn weren't there on your previous visit. ~ Lost in thoughts, Gylfi doesn't notice you until you approach the waterline.