Tales from the Maidenverse: The Band, the Fans, and the Madness Between

THE PROPHECY OF SOUND: THE BIRTH OF SEVENTH SON OF A SEVENTH SON


By Elias Thorn, Chronicler of the Unseen

It began, as such things always do, with silence. The silence before a storm, the silence before a prophecy is spoken, the silence before something eternal takes form.

The men stood at the threshold, looking into the abyss of their own creation. They had conquered before, built cathedrals of sound with iron and sweat, but this was different. This time, they were not builders. They were vessels.

Something had to be born. And they were only the hands that would shape it.

THE PROPHECY AND THE VISION

Steve Harris saw it first—not with his eyes, but in the spaces between waking and dreaming. A child born into fate, cursed with sight. A cycle that turned and turned, the weight of ancestry crushing a soul not yet fully formed. The old stories whispered it: the seventh son of a seventh son, a creature neither wholly man nor wholly divine. A gift. A curse. A destiny written before breath had even filled his lungs.

Harris did not question it. He knew.

Bruce Dickinson, for his part, felt it as a shift in the air, a crackling energy when he touched the microphone. He had always believed in stories, in myth, in the power of words. But this was different. This was not a tale to be told—it was a force, demanding to be given form.

And so, the work began.

THE RECORDING: A RITUAL OF SOUND

They entered the fortress—Musicland Studios in Munich—knowing they would not leave unchanged. There were murmurs that the studio had been built over something old, something that had been buried long before music had found its way there. No one spoke of it openly. But at night, the lights flickered, and the wind howled even when there was no storm.

For the first time, they embraced what had once been unthinkable: keyboards. Not as decoration, but as voices of the unseen, echoes from the other side. Bruce Dickinson hesitated at first—was this still metal, or were they treading into something else entirely? But when they played, when the notes filled the room like mist over a battlefield, he understood.

Nicko McBrain played as if time itself could be commanded by rhythm. Dave Murray and Adrian wove their twin melodies, threads in the fabric of fate.

The music was not composed. It was summoned.

THE SONGS: VISIONS AND OMENS

"Moonchild"—The First Breath


The birth of the seventh son. The curse laid upon him before he had even seen the light. The voice of Lucifer himself, whispering promises and threats, claiming what was always his. The guitars burned like the forge of a dying sun, the drums pounded like the turning of celestial gears. "Seven deadly sins, seven ways to win…" A choice, already made. A path, already walked.

"Infinite Dreams"—The Weight of Sight

A man cursed with visions of things yet to come. To know the future is to be stripped of the present. The music rises and falls like breath in the dark, the uncertainty of prophecy made sound. The soul wavers between wisdom and madness, between understanding and despair. I want to understand… But knowledge is a prison, and freedom is found only in ignorance.

"Can I Play with Madness?"—The Question That Has No Answer

A seeker finds a prophet. The prophet laughs. No wisdom is given freely, and truth does not grant peace. The guitars are frantic, desperate, a struggle against inevitability. The chorus rings out, mockery and revelation entwined. You may play with madness, but madness will play with you as well.

"The Evil That Men Do"—The Burden of Love and Loss

A love doomed before it began. A life stolen before it could be lived. The chords slice like a knife, the chorus soars like a heart breaking in the open air. "The evil that men do lives on and on…" And so it does. Time does not heal. Time only repeats.

"Seventh Son of a Seventh Son"—The Fulfillment of Fate

The prophecy completes itself. The music stretches beyond its own limits, expanding, rising, consuming. Dickinson does not sing—he declares, his voice no longer his own but something greater, something vast. The drums are war drums. The guitars are fire. The keyboards are the heavens opening.

The seventh son has seen all. And still, he does not understand.

"The Prophecy"—The Warning That None Will Heed

He speaks. He tells them what he has seen. But words are wind, and fate is stone. The music is softer, but the weight is heavier. The tragedy is not that disaster is coming. The tragedy is that it could have been avoided.

"The Clairvoyant"—The Realization

And now he knows. The visions were never a gift. They were never even his. The universe does not care for men, no matter how many times they are born under the right stars. The rhythm builds, relentless, a wave that cannot be stopped. The seventh son has reached the end of his path.

"Only the Good Die Young"—The Cycle Begins Again

The end, which is the beginning. The laughter of the damned echoes. The cycle turns. Another child is born. The music crashes, then fades. The silence returns.

And in the silence, something waits.

AFTERMATH: A LEGACY BEYOND TIME

The album was released. The world heard it. Some understood. Some did not. It did not matter. The prophecy had been spoken.

Iron Maiden had not merely recorded an album. They had carved something eternal into the fabric of time. And though the seventh son had come and gone, his voice still lingers.
Listen closely.

You can still hear it.
 
I guess you all know the brilliant sketch where Rowan Atkinson interviewed Elton John and almost only talks about his name. If not, highly recommended to watch it!
In Maidenverse 666 Rowan interviewed Bruce.

Rowan: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Bruce Dickinson.
Bruce: Hi!
Rowan: Funny name isn´t it? Dickinson.
Bruce: I don't know what you´re talking about. I thought we were here to talk about my new book The Birthdaycake Project.
Rowan: Oh right. So you´re a singer, a fencer, a pilot and now a writer?
Bruce: This isn´t my first book though. I wrote a novel in the past: Short Sniffy Horserace.
Rowan: Riiiight.
Bruce: You haven´t read it?
Rowan: Not exactly no.
Bruce: It´s funny though!
Rowan: The book or the fact I didn´t read it?
Bruce: Both actually.
Rowan: Ok Let's continue this interview. It never occured to you your surname does sound a bit unpleasant?
Bruce: Not ever. Why?
Rowan: Well....if you put the emphasis on son it clearly is. Never thought about changing your name?
Bruce: No. Are we here to talk about my book or should I go?
Rowan: No please stay. We discuss the book.
The Birthdaycake Project.
Bruce: Yes! In this cooking book you´ll find many recipes to make nice cakes. For the kids there´s even a comic book included.
Rowan: So it’s for kids too?
Bruce: Of course!
Rowan: Aren´t they offended?
Bruce: I don´t know why they should be no.
Rowan: By the fact your disgusting name is printed in fat letters on the cover!!!
Bruce: Allright I´m out of here!
 
All of this was written entirely by me—just pure stream of consciousness. Then I ran it through Google Translate, and the AI cleaned up the mess into proper English. It's not refined, just first draft. Hot pancake, so to speak.

***
A group meeting in Rod Smallwood’s office.

Somewhere in London. It’s raining outside the window.

Rod is hunched over his desk, counting banknotes with a gleam in his eye. His wife will be thrilled—more shopping in London’s finest boutiques. After such a killer Future Past tour, who’s judging?

Steve’s at the table, humming to himself and scribbling something down. Probably another British Lion track. That’s where his head is these days.

Adrian’s scrolling through his phone, one earbud in, zoning out to music.

Janick’s across the room in front of the mirror, working on some kind of dance routine—looks suspiciously like the Irish jig Steve banned back in 2000.

And Dave... Dave’s sunk into the armchair closest to the window, watching the grey London drizzle like it’s a prophecy. A quiet smile spreads on his face—maybe he's seeing something beyond the clouds. An endless shore, wild foaming waves... and deep in the jungle behind it, something awful and beautiful waiting to be found.

Suddenly, the door bangs open. Bruce storms in, yanks off his beanie, and throws it at the coat rack. It lands. He sits down next to Steve and blurts:

Bruce: “So—how we doin’?”

Rod (still counting): “...666 thousand... six hundred... sixty-six...”

Bruce: “It’s worn out!”

Steve (without looking up): “That’s what puts bread on the table, mate.”

Adrian (absently): “Monsters and inflatable dolls...”

Bruce: “Boring!”

Dave (still watching the rain): “What’s wrong?”

Bruce: “Listened to the new Ghost album. Makes me want to strangle someone.”

Janick (sitting next to him): “Oh? Why?”

Bruce: “They don’t give a toss about anything. Not even the fans. Started out as proto-metal, now it’s straight-up AOR hits. Parasites!”

Steve: “So? We didn’t listen to fans either. We did what we wanted.”

Bruce and Adrian (in unison): “Yeah—but it was always what you wanted!”

Rod (calmly): “Nine-hundred-ninety-nine thousand... one million... Guys—STOP. Albatross!

The room goes silent. The code word. “Albatross.” It means cut the crap—we’re not risking another Blaze Bayley incident. The Iron Maiden Corporation will not survive a second one.

Adrian: “That’s low, man.”

Bruce: “High five.” (They clap hands.) “Feels like the Somewhere in Time tour all over again.”

Steve: “So what’s the big problem then?”

Bruce: “Ghost’s the locomotive. We’re the carriage. Figuratively speaking.”

Dave (still gazing out the window): “That’s life. Though, a carriage does have its perks—you can ride it down the beach.”

Janick: “Tobias is younger. Still got fire in him.”

Bruce: “Old fart!”

Janick (bows): “Cheers.”

Rod: “Alright Bruce, what do you actually want?”

Bruce: “I want intros. Mysterious synth intros that make your hair stand up on your arms... and your back. Like a cold wind through Valhalla.”

Rod (muttering): “Not just the hair, eh...”

Bruce: “I want a number-one album. I want to push the sound, try something new.”

Rod: “You’ve got a solo career for that.”

Steve: “Mate already experimented—with Roy. Didn’t end too well, did it?”

(Everyone laughs. Except Bruce.)


Bruce’s eyes start to gloss over. He’s getting emotional.

Adrian: “C’mon Bruce, our big 50th anniversary tour is just around the corner.”

Steve: “Yeah, you love this stuff. Don’t poke your nose in too deep.”

Rod: “At this rate, with your ambitions, we’ll be broke before the intro tape rolls.”

Everyone (in chorus):Scrooooge!

Yet another code word. Only used when Rod starts clutching his wallet too hard.

Bruce: “But seriously… this tour’s worth it. Every penny.”

Steve: “Same old stage.”

Adrian: “Same monitor mix. Same elbow room.”

Dave: “Same curtains.”

Janick: “Three fireworks and a propane tank—we’re sorted.”

Rod: “Oi! We ordered extra screens this time. Top of the line. We’ll look as good as any of those ‘modern’ acts.”

Bruce: “Forget our peers. We should care what’s hot now.”

Rod: “I KICK YOUR PICASSO’S!” (Another code phrase. This one means: “Bruce, calm the hell down.”)

Steve: “Look, Bruce. Since you’re into theatre, you’re gonna love what we’ve got planned for Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

Bruce: “What?”

Rod: “That thing cost us a fortune!”

Steve: “We’ll be performing inside a full ship set.”

Bruce: “Yes.”

Steve: “As soon as you sing about the Albatross, it'll appear above our heads.”

Bruce: “Amazing!”

Rod: “Yeah, and it’s going to chase you through the whole damn song. Tryin’ to—how do I put it—violate you.”

Bruce: “Even better! We’ve still got it, lads!” (Pauses) “Wait—where’s the drummer?”

Simon (poking his head out of a filing cabinet): “I’m here.”

Bruce: “Perfect. Rod, just make sure that albatross drone can hit me with some real albatross poop. Otherwise, I won’t be motivated.”

Rod: “You know how much real albatross poop costs these days?!”

Everyone (in chorus):SCROOOOGE!


Copyright © 2025 by Azas. All rights reserved.
***
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This entire episode was written entirely by me. The AI only translated it into proper, polished English while preserving my tone and style.
*
Azas
A NEW TOURING CYCLE

Steve awoke in a white room.
There was nothing there except for the bed and himself. Bare walls, ceiling, and floor — all of them the same strange, blinding white. It was impossible to tell what the room was made of; the whiteness swallowed every detail. Even the purest snow would have looked like a pile of dirty slush in comparison.
One thing Steve knew for certain: the room didn’t look old or worn. It radiated an unmistakable sense of newness. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Steve swung his legs over the side of the bed. Despite his confusion, he felt rested — more than rested, he felt incredible. Even though he had no idea where he was, or what had happened the day before.
Almost absentmindedly, he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away a spell.
It didn’t work. His memory stayed stubbornly blank.
He knew exactly who he was. But the where and the why were a complete mystery.

He glanced around.
The place reminded him of a hospital ward. There was no mistaking that sterile feel.
Bright light filled the room, though there was no obvious source — no windows, no lamps. Just endless, gleaming white.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?
He was almost certain it was Bruce’s fault.
Bruce was always at the root of Steve’s troubles. Creative troubles — like when Bruce quit the band back in ’93 — and all kinds of others...
Like that night in Dortmund in 1983, when after a gig, the whole band got completely smashed and somehow broke into the local zoo.
They’d tried to take a photo with a polar bear, for God’s sake!
How they managed to get out without any injuries was a miracle.
Steve barely remembered it now. Or maybe... maybe that whole mess had been Nicko’s idea?
He loved dangerous adventures just as much as Bruce did.

Suddenly, a dark rectangle began to take shape in the wall — a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
A doorway without a door.
Had he lost his mind?

"Rise and shine!" called a familiar voice.
"Rod!" Steve jumped to his feet. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."
"The feeling’s mutual!" Rod grinned, and they hugged warmly.
"You look younger," Steve said, pulling back to take a better look at his friend and business partner.
"And you’re not looking too shabby yourself," Rod quipped with a smile.

The compliment didn’t comfort Steve.
If anything, it set his nerves on edge.

"Rod, where the hell am I? I don’t remember anything... Tell me I haven’t lost my mind and ended up in some mental institution?"
"Nothing like that."
"You’re just trying to be nice."
"I’m serious."
"Right," Steve said skeptically. "You’re treating me like a proper lunatic."
"Relax, Steve. The truth is... a lot more impressive."
"This isn’t a hospital... it’s a prison!" Steve blurted, horrified. "I knew it — this is Bruce’s fault again—"

Rod didn’t deny it.
He just stood there, smiling that maddening, knowing smile.

"What? What’s going on? For Christ’s sake, just tell me!"

Rod placed both hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders.
"Buddy, you won’t believe it, but something incredible has happened."
"Spill it," Steve demanded.
"First, promise me you’ll stay calm. I don’t need another panic attack — or another split eyebrow."
"Another?" Steve raised an eyebrow.
"Poor Nicko," Rod said, chuckling. "He didn’t take the news so well at first."
"I’ll try not to do anything rash," Steve said — although he thought to himself, Or maybe it’ll be well-planned and still completely chaotic...
"Good enough," Rod said, stepping toward the nearest wall.

With a sweep of his hand, the wall shimmered and turned into a panoramic window.
Steve’s jaw dropped.

"Since when do hospital wards have projectors in the walls?"
"It’s not a hospital. And that’s not a projector.
It’s just a window.
A regular, everyday window — at least for these times."

Steve stared, trying to process what he was seeing.
A window.
And through it...
The Earth.
The Earth, seen from space — a blue marble cloaked in clouds, hanging in the black velvet of space, stars twinkling faintly beyond it.

"What times are you talking about?" Steve asked, his eyes darting between the breathtaking view and Rod’s face.
"Welcome," Rod said grandly, "to the Brave New World!"
"What the hell is going on?"

Steve felt himself teetering on the edge.
One more push and he’d be screaming and flailing, just like Nicko had.

"It’s the year 2998," Rod said simply.

Steve froze.
Rod wasn’t joking.
His voice, his face — it was all too serious.
They’d known each other far too long for Steve to mistake that.
Rod went on:

"It’s 2998.
They brought us back from the dead.
And they want us to do a Virtual XI anniversary tour. A millennium anniversary."

Steve could only manage a weak:
"You don’t say."

Rod grinned.
"And our new... bodies are just the way they were when we recorded the album. Back in the dark ages of 1997.
The tour will span the whole solar system.
You can’t even imagine the kind of stage show they’ve put together.
And don’t even get me started on the paycheck."
Rod’s eyes practically sparkled with dollar signs — no, forget dollars, they were gleaming with pure, solid gold.

"But why Virtual XI?" Steve asked. "That album was..."
"T H E B E S T," Rod said, over-enunciating every syllable and giving Steve a meaningful look: Don’t argue. Don’t even think about it.

Steve thought for a moment. Considered the possibility that Rod had completely lost his mind. Or maybe this was just one gigantic prank? In the end, he just shrugged.

"Alright, when do we start the new cycle?"
"First rehearsal’s tomorrow."
"And Bruce?" Steve asked, suddenly remembering the source of most of his headaches. "Tell me he hasn’t already screwed something up."
"Not at all," Rod said, smiling wide. "You don’t need to worry about Bruce."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously.
In fact, they’ve just finished the reanimation process for Blaze. We’re about to go meet him."
"Blaze?!"
"O U R B E S T S I N G E R E V E R," Rod boomed, though he shot a suspicious glance at the ceiling.

THE END

Copyright © 2025 by Azas. All rights reserved.
*
In one of the translation attempts, I asked the AI to infuse my text with Britishisms — a British-flavoured version, so to speak — using expressions and Maiden-style talk like 'bloody hell,' 'poor sod,' 'mate,' and the like. But in the end, I decided to post my original version — just as it was written.
The photo below was taken by the AI observation system in the year 2998.
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Some crew member:
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The story was written entirely by me and translated into proper English with the help of AI.

Azas

The Farmer of Ganymede
I. Beneath Jupiter’s Gaze


Paul was a decent man. A true farmer. On Ganymede Colony, his farm—though not the largest—was one of the best-kept. Beneath the protective shield generated by towering atmospheric domes, golden wheat fields stretched for miles. If not for Jupiter’s immense visage looming in the sky, you might’ve thought yourself somewhere on good old Earth.

Paul lived as a recluse. His modest, fully autonomous dwelling mimicked an early 20th-century farmhouse but was outfitted with all the comforts of modern life. It could even hold a conversation with him—if he ever felt like talking. But that happened rarely. Chatting with the walls felt... unnatural. Dangerous, even. A road that might lead to dark places. To homes with doors that were always locked, and barred windows on every wall.

Still, Paul wasn’t entirely alone. In that world of golden auroras, he was faithfully accompanied by Churchill, a tireless border collie with clever eyes who never strayed from his master’s side—day or night. Together they worked, and together they rested. Whether Paul was driving a massive combine through oceans of wheat or lounging on his porch sipping lemonade and gazing out at the colorful, endless horizon, Churchill was always there. The dog never stayed still for long—spinning in circles, then freezing to fix his sharp, intelligent stare on his master, demanding to play.

“All right, all right,” Paul would eventually cave, searching for the nearest ball or frisbee from the many scattered across the yard and house. He’d wind up and hurl it down the dusty road stretching from the front of the house. Churchill would rocket after it like a missile and soon return, prize in jaws, eager for the next throw. And the next. And the next.

One day, worn out by Churchill’s endless energy, Paul ordered what he dubbed the “betrayal ball” via intercom. It looked like an ordinary baseball, but hidden inside was a tiny rocket engine. At the press of a button, the ball could launch itself miles into the distance. Churchill would chase it down the long road for a good half hour before returning. Strangely, he never seemed the least bit angry. Barking joyfully, he’d race after it and, once back, drop the ball at Paul’s feet, then sprawl out contentedly on the porch floor.

“Good boy. The most important thing is to have a goal,” Paul would say, then turn his gaze back to the gently waving fields stretching into the distance.

At one point, Paul thought about ordering a voice device for Churchill—a clever little gadget that could be attached to a collar and allow the dog to “speak.” Not just generic phrases, but actual emotions and needs translated into speech. But in the end, Paul never bought it. Something about his life didn’t feel right. Something about his whole existence felt hopelessly wrong.

And just a few days later, he woke up in a room where the door was locked, the walls were padded, and there wasn’t even a window. Instead, a hyper-realistic screen showed a sunlit summer garden, and the sound of birdsong played softly from hidden speakers.

II. The Tin Healer

The doctor was a rather old hybrid model—a blend of robot and android. Perched atop the iron body of the Tin Woodsman was the head of an aging android, its features etched with benevolence. His hair was wavy and graying, and his sharp chin was hidden beneath a fully silvered goatee.

A monocle—of the sort worn in the 19th century—was fixed into one eye socket, suggesting that doctors of that era must have been particularly kind. Its authoritative appearance served dual purposes: for some patients, it fed hope with warm promises; for others, it stood in as a guide on their final journey to the heavenly Father.

"Paul T.P.2-1-6, how are we feeling today?" asked the doctor, flipping through a file with his metal hands. Naturally, all relevant data and diagnostics were stored in his electronic brains, with a direct link to the intercom. The paper copy was used purely for the patient's psychological comfort. Though really—what kind of comfort is it, seeing your private medical records in someone else’s hands?

"I feel lost," Paul replied, seated on the other side of the desk, surrounded by the vintage decor of the old-style office. "Remind me how I got here?"

"You had an episode. The house called for help."

"An episode?" Paul remembered... fragments. He seemed to recall sipping lemonade, petting Churchill. He'd been thinking it was time to replace one of the combine’s control units, and then... nothing. Just darkness.

"Yes, an episode. You started smashing things. Took an axe to the chair on your porch. Completely destroyed the kitchen door."

The doctor pretended to study the file, his lips mouthing a silent tune.

Paul had a creeping sense that the Tin Woodsman was watching him intently—not just with his fake eyes, but with the tiny hidden cameras scattered throughout the office. The important thing now was to act normal. Otherwise, he'd never see his farm again. Or Churchill. The thought of his four-legged companion sent a pang through his chest.

"Churchill’s okay, I hope?"

"Your dog? Yes, he’s fine. Being cared for by the auto-shepherd, for now."

That’s when Paul gave in. He realized pretending and strategizing wouldn’t fool a cybernetic doctor, and he wouldn’t be getting out of here anytime soon. Better to just lay it all out, say it like it is. Who knows—maybe everything would fall back into place.

"Doctor, doctor, please... oh, the mess I’m in..."

“That’s what I’m here for,” the bucket-headed doctor replied kindly.

"I don’t know why I feel this way, but... everything seems fine—the farm is in order, the crops are thriving like never before—but something’s missing. Something’s eating away at me."

"I understand."

Digging through his memory banks, the doctor confirmed what he already suspected: aside from the dog, Paul lived completely alone on the farm. No wife. No friends. Sure, he occasionally visited the nearby town of Greentown and downed a few pints at the local bar, but it wasn’t often. And it never amounted to anything like real human connection.

"I drive the combine, I sow the grain, I harvest it," Paul continued. "In my free time, I tinker in the garage or sit out on the porch with Churchill. I look at those beautiful rolling fields of wheat. Sometimes I sit out there at night too—nights on Ganymede are incredible. The auroras dancing in the sky, and Jupiter’s eye just hanging there... it’s breathtaking."

"But not enough," the doctor gently nudged.

"No."

"Have you considered finding a wife? It could help. Give things meaning."

"I have... but every time I go to Greentown, I feel hopelessly lost," Paul said, burying his face in his hands. "It’s like I’m lost in a parallel existence, lost in another time and place. Like I don’t belong among those good people. Like I’m completely foreign to them. A stranger in a strange land, you know?"

The doctor simply nodded kindly, though a hive of data bees buzzed behind his gaze—details of Paul’s past, and all that came with it.

"Doctor... what is real?"

"You and I—we are real. Believe me," the Tin Woodsman smiled. "By the way, before the episode, were you sleeping well?"

"I slept fine, but... I only dreamt in black and white."

"That’s nothing. Once your psychological state stabilizes, you’ll dream in color again."

"But I don’t know if all my hopes and expectations will be explained. Will I find my destination? I just can’t take no more..."

The Tin Woodsman gently set Paul’s file down on the desk. He removed his monocle and carefully wiped it with a cloth. When he breathed on it, a small cloud of mist lingered on the lens.

"I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Paul. Your episode and current state aren’t anything dreadful or incurable. Many le future-past repatriates experience the same thing—what we call Dislocation-in-Self-and-Time Syndrome. Your mind, your self, just needs to adjust to your current... circumstances. Until the echoes of what once was finally fade from your subconscious. Until what you once were is no longer there to haunt you."

"I don’t understand," Paul furrowed his brows.

"You’re not supposed to. Trust me—knowing wouldn’t help," the bucket-headed doctor chuckled. Too loudly. Too paternalistically. As though he knew something about Paul that Paul himself did not.

"So... you’re going to release me?"

"Of course," the doctor confirmed, slotting the monocle back into place. "Not today, of course. But in about two weeks—after you complete your meta-therapy and residual subconscious disarmament course. You’ll return to the Greentown community with a bang. I promise you that!"

"Thanks," Paul muttered, though inside he felt a creeping existential dread.

Was he still inside his dream? Or had he just entered a new reality?

III. A Place to Return To

The doctor hadn’t lied. After a couple of weeks, things had improved significantly, and Paul was released to go home. Churchill came bounding to meet him while he was still walking the long path toward the farm. Wanting to stretch his legs and revisit familiar land, Paul had stepped out of the air taxi a few kilometers early. The weather was perfect, bathed in golden hues and dancing shadows cast by Jupiter’s nearness. As he walked, Paul tossed a baseball, which Churchill eagerly fetched again and again. Paul quietly promised himself never to use the rocket-propelled ball again—Churchill didn’t deserve that.

Once back, Paul set to work around the farm, and when Friday rolled around, he made his way into Greentown. That night, there was a dance at the Wild West Saloon. It turned out to be a genuinely good evening. Paul had a few beers and met a kind, charming woman. They danced the whole night through and, without rushing anything, agreed to meet the next day for lunch.

After returning from town, Paul didn’t go to bed right away. He sat in his armchair, watching the auroras weave across the night sky. His heart warmed at the thought that Charlotte had liked him. And he—he liked her too. Very much, in fact. Paul now felt certain that something real could come from the bond just beginning to take shape between them. Oh, and yes—she’d invited him to come with her next week to Mega City, to see a concert by the reanimated legends of Iron Maiden. Well, chances were they’d go. Paul didn’t know much about Iron Maiden, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he and Charlotte were going to have a good time.

He reached over and stroked Churchill’s head as the dog lay beside him.

At some point during their quiet moment, the dog pushed himself up into a sitting position, ears pricking sharply as he stared into the rippling sea of grain.

“Just field mice… or maybe owls,” Paul muttered.

And yet, in the back of his mind, something stirred—a sound like an air raid siren echoing faintly from unimaginable distances. A siren howling to remind him of something. Something important.

But Paul didn’t remember.

His place was here. Now. In this little farming world orbiting Jupiter. With Churchill. And Charlotte.

Wasn’t that enough?

THE END

Copyright © 2025 by Azas. All rights reserved.
 
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Bruce: How am I feeling today doctor? Miserabele.
Doctor Armour: And do you have any idea why?
Bruce: Not exactly no. I thought that's why I´m here!
Doctor Armour: The fact you´re here tells more about you than you´d like to admit.
Bruce: You called me to come over!
Doctor Armour: But you came!
Bruce: You lured me into this. Who are you?
Doctor Armour: dr. Armour
Bruce: Who are you really?
Doctor Armour: You are number six.
Bruce: That´s not even funny!
Doctor Armour: I admit that joke was rather...poor isn´t it.
Bruce: It was. Please Doctor, tell me what to do.
Doctor Armour: Release The Mandrake Project 2 as soon as possible!
Bruce: What do you know about The Mandrake?
Doctor Armour: Everything! Hahahaha *sinister laugh*

To be continued....
 
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