Thanksgiving on Titanumas: Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam and Galaxbeam Unite:Go Green, Give Thanks - Starbeam's Thanksgiving

 

Starrup's nights were never really dark.

Even when the sun slipped away and the great cities fell into emerald dusk, the continent glowed: rail lines traced in neon green, turbine fields turning softly against the wind, star-shaped solar arrays humming with stored light. From orbit, the Star Regime looked like a lattice of constellations nailed gently to the land.

At the center of it all, in the sky-tower above Starflare Capital, Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam Charmley stood before a wall of translucent screens, hands folded behind his back. Numbers climbed the glass in silent columns—reactor output graphs, pollution levels, trade forecasts, well-being indices. Every line trended steady and strong.

"Starrup remains efficient," he said quietly.

Behind him, his Supreme Commanders waited in a respectful semi-circle: Starradye, analytical eyes sharp behind thin frames; Starradale, broad-shouldered and thoughtful; Starrastream, thumbs flicking over a compact console even while listening; Starrastride, posture almost as rigid as Starbeam's own; Starrastorm, arms crossed, stormy gaze softened a fraction by the green glow. Off to one side stood Starrapuff, the lone female Supreme Commander, hair in a tidy bun, tablet hugged to her chest.

"Efficient," Starrastorm agreed, "but we can still do better."

"Particularly in public perception," Starrapuff added gently. "The 'stern green technocrats' label is... not inaccurate. After watching Sollarisca and Lunna's Thanksgiving broadcasts, some of our people are asking whether they are permitted to laugh in public."

Starbeam regarded his reflection in the glass: straight mouth, disciplined eyes, a uniform without a wrinkle. If someone had drawn "stern green technocrat," this is the face they would have used.

"Laughter increases oxygen intake and reduces stress hormones," murmured Starrastream without looking up. "Statistically beneficial. We could fold it into the next wellness initiative."

Starradye cleared his throat. "There is also overseas interest," he said. "Several states in Westonglappa are ready to sign green-corridor agreements. Havenjade City, Lavaton City, Gagrahash City, Mayflower City—everyone wants star-grid converters and waste-to-energy plants installed before the next fiscal year."

Starbeam nodded once. "Starrup's strength should be shared. Our technologies exist to clean more than our own skies."

He tapped a control. Images shifted: vertical farms glowing under efficient grow lamps; arrays of plant-protein vats; test kitchens plating a carefully layered roast labeled STAR-TURDUCKEN (VEGETARIAN) – BETA 3.

"And we will use Thanksgiving," he said, "to demonstrate that prosperity can coexist with restraint."

Starrapuff's lips curved. "Our chefs are extremely excited about this dish," she admitted. "Some have started naming individual prototypes."

"It is a symbol," Starbeam replied. "Less harm, same celebration. If we ask the world to Go Green, Grow Galactic, we should lead with our plates as well as our reactors."

"Do you intend to attend the events personally, sir?" Starrastride asked.

"Yes," Starbeam said. "With all of you. People trust what they see. They will believe in a green Thanksgiving when they see even their most humorless commander eating star-turkey made of plants."

Starrapuff covered a laugh with a cough. Several shoulders eased.

"Very well," Starrastorm said dryly. "Let us terrify the poultry industry."

Assignments were accepted with short bows.

"We begin here in Starflare," Starbeam concluded. "Then we move outward across the states. And afterward..." His gaze flicked toward a quiet notification in the corner of the main screen—a frozen frame of General Sunbeam mid-speech in Solvanairebolis. "...afterward, I have a visit to make."

The screens dimmed to a soft, forest-deep green. Thanksgiving on Starrup was about to begin.

The first celebration unfolded in Central Array Plaza beneath a canopy of holographic stars. Massive projectors painted the sky with shifting constellations; the turbines ringing the plaza hummed, feeding clean energy into everything from streetlights to food warmers.

Crowds in solid green coats and uniforms filled the square. Hair, eyes, badges—everything glittered in emerald shades. Banners reading GO GREEN, GROW GALACTIC stretched between sleek towers.

On a raised platform, rows of covered serving tables waited. Chefs in green aprons stood ready, each guarding a gleaming metal dome. Among them, elite officers like Starley Sweetbeat, Starsuna, and Starliz ferried trays and adjusted mic stands, as if they had traded their rifles for ladles without missing a beat.

When Starbeam stepped up to the podium, the plaza's sound softened to a focused hush. News drones hovered, broadcasting his image to every corner of Starrup and out to allied networks overseas.

"Citizens of Starrup," he began, voice calm and even. "Not long ago, most of our resources went into shields, cannons, and orbital sensors. We survived—but our sky dimmed and our soil suffered. Today, we stand in a different world. Our reactors run clean. Our rivers run clear. Our cities breathe."

Screens beside him flashed before-and-after images: smog-choked skylines purified to crystal clarity; dead rivers turned to bright ribbons of life.

"This Thanksgiving," Starbeam continued, "we give thanks not only for survival, but for the chance to live lightly. To celebrate without consuming more than we must. To enjoy abundance without sowing scarcity."

He inclined his head to Starrapuff.

"With the Xtreme Vice Colonel's permission," she said, stepping forward, "allow me to introduce the Star Regime's Star-Turducken."

She whisked the nearest metal dome aside. Steam billowed up, carrying a rich, roasted aroma. Cameras zoomed in on the slice she lifted: layered plant proteins marbled with herbs, textures modeled after turkey, duck, and hen.

"Completely plant-based," Starrapuff explained. "Zero slaughter. Ninety percent fewer emissions than a traditional roast. One hundred percent compatible with extra gravy."

Other covers lifted, revealing trays of green-glazed vegetables, star-shaped loaves, gravies thick with mushroom and kelp. The plaza murmured in appreciation.

Starradale stepped to the microphone next.

"In our history, we exported weapons," he said in his low, steady voice. "From today onward, we intend to export recipes."

Laughter rippled through the crowd—restrained at first, then warmer.

A chef approached Starbeam with a plate: the first careful slice of Star-Turducken, arranged beside a constellation of vegetables. Starbeam studied it as if it were alien technology, then took a measured bite.

He chewed, swallowed, and gave a single decisive nod.

"It is acceptable," he said.

Starrapuff leaned toward the mic, eyes bright. "Translation for civilians: 'It is delicious.'"

This time, the laughter rolled through the plaza like a soft wave.

Commentators buzzed on live feeds. "You're seeing it here," one announcer said, voice excited. "The Xtreme Vice Colonel himself endorsing the zero-meat centerpiece. Expect every state nutrition committee to be arguing about this tomorrow."

Across Starrup, the other Supreme Commanders led their own events.

In Starshield State, Starradale hosted a "Farm-to-Feast" fair. He walked muddy fields with local growers, examining hydroponic towers and soil returned to life.

"You did this in five years?" he asked an elderly farmer, gesturing to a thriving patch of greens where poisoned ground had once cracked and flaked.

"With your clean reactors," the farmer replied, "and our refusal to give up. No offense, Commander, but your spreadsheets didn't pull weeds."

Starradale bowed his head. "Then today, my duty is to listen. Tell me how policy felt from the ground."

In Starwave Port City, Starrastream turned a cargo terminal into an "Energy Playground." Children raced small vehicles powered only by hand-cranked generators and palm-sized solar panels. Big screens showed their output climbing in real time.

A little girl in a tiny green jumpsuit tugged his sleeve. "Commander, if I run fast enough, can I power the whole city?"

"Statistics say no," Starrastream replied, kneeling to meet her eyes. "But statistics also say that if everyone runs a little, no one has to run until they fall down. That is the Starrup we are building."

In the Stardawn Highlands, Starrastride oversaw a triple-sevens charity casino inside a retired turbine hall. Digital roulette wheels lit the vaulted ceiling. Every profit chip automatically redirected to environmental restoration projects in Westonglappa: rebuilding wetlands near Gagrahash City, detoxifying industrial scars around Lavaton City.

"Gambling?" an anxious local official whispered. "Is this suitable for a national holiday?"

"Controlled risk for communal reward," Starrastride answered. "We are teaching probability and generosity at the same tables."

In Stormhalo State, Starrastorm held a night vigil at a hillside wind farm. Families climbed the slope with lanterns, standing beneath turbine blades that turned slowly against the starry sky.

"We celebrate," Starrastorm told them, lantern light catching in his stern features, "because those we lost cannot. That is not guilt; it is responsibility. Laugh loudly tonight. Laugh enough for them as well."

Throughout the day, elites like Starsuna, Starlem, Staryuuki and Stargirl appeared at local events—running donation drives, guiding children through recycling games, teaching simple coding lessons on how to track personal energy footprints. Starrup's efficiency, for once, wore a very human face.

By nightfall, STAR-TURDUCKEN was trending across allied networks. Restaurants placed bulk orders for the recipe license. Environmental groups begged for collaboration. Commentators in Westonglappa debated on air whether their next Thanksgiving should feature "that green roast from Starrup."

The motto GO GREEN, GROW GALACTIC no longer sounded like propaganda. It sounded like an invitation.

Three days later, new images filled Starbeam's central screen: orange banners in Solvanairebolis, long tables beneath twin suns, General Sunbeam speaking at a podium, sleeves rolled up and eyes bright.

"Pro-Socialism and Romanticism," Sunbeam said in the recording. "No one left lonely. No one told they do not belong."

Starbeam watched the speech in silence from start to finish. When it ended, he replayed the section describing the Sunrise Connection Initiative—Lantern Nights, speed-friendship and speed-dating, community houses where no one needed a reason to show up.

"This man," Starbeam murmured, "is using policy to build... emotional infrastructure."

Starradye, standing nearby with a data pad, nodded. "His numbers are interesting," he admitted. "Pilot districts report measurable drops in loneliness indicators."

"We could replicate some of his programs," suggested Starrapuff. "Our cities are efficient but quiet. Many citizens go home to fully automated apartments and talk only to their devices."

Starbeam's gaze stayed on Sunbeam's earnest expression frozen on the screen.

"No," he said softly. "Not at first. I will not copy a system I do not emotionally understand. We owe him more respect than that."

Starrastream tilted his head. "Then what do you propose, sir?"

Starbeam straightened.

"I will visit Sollarisca," he said. "A personal Thanksgiving visit. We will bring gifts: fusion credits, infrastructure support, a full license to our vegetarian centerpiece. And we will ask to observe his programs directly."

Starrastorm frowned. "An unscheduled overseas trip by an Absolute Leader will alarm half the diplomats on Titanumas."

"Then we will bring the other half gifts," Starbeam replied. "Prepare the envoy. Modest escort. No military parade."

Starrapuff smiled slowly. "You are going to drop into his prosocialism festival like a green comet."

"A comet," Starbeam said, "calculates its trajectory well in advance."

Still, as he looked once more at Sunbeam on the screen, there was a trace of something almost like curiosity in his eyes.

Star ships cut emerald lines across Sollarisca's orange sky, setting off excited speculation all over the networks. At the Radiant Citadel, aides in bright uniforms scrambled to adjust schedules. Commentators tried and failed to look calm while describing "an unscheduled, high-level visit from the Star Regime."

Sunbeam watched from a balcony as the lead shuttle settled onto the landing platform, repulsors stirring the flags. The ramp lowered. Starbeam Charmley descended with his commanders: Starradye, Starradale, Starrastream, Starrastride, Starrastorm, and Starrapuff. Their boots rang on Solar stone.

For a heartbeat, to the watching crowd, it was like seeing a sun and a star share the same sky: two figures nearly identical in build and bearing, one in blazing orange, the other in deep green.

"General," murmured Solardye at Sunbeam's side, "the comment threads are going to combust."

"Let them," Sunbeam answered, trying to ignore the nervous knot in his stomach. "History should have interesting screenshots."

They met halfway across the platform. Cameras had been allowed for only a few seconds; both leaders had insisted on privacy for the actual conversation.

"General Sunbeam," Starbeam said, bowing with crisp precision. "Thank you for receiving me without extensive advance notice."

Sunbeam returned the bow, slightly less formal but no less sincere. "Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam. Sollarisca is honored. Our twin suns have been watching your green light for a long time."

Their handshake was firm and brief. At a subtle signal from both, their entourages halted at a distance.

They walked side by side down a quieter corridor toward Sunbeam's personal office, boots echoing softly. Sunbeam risked a sidelong glance. Up close, Starbeam looked even more composed: every line of the uniform straight, every movement economical. If Sunbeam was a bonfire, Starbeam was a laser—narrowed, controlled, cutting precisely where aimed.

"You have been busy," Starbeam observed. "Your Thanksgiving initiative is... ambitious."

"I might say the same," Sunbeam replied. "You turned environmental policy into a roast."

"That was largely Starrapuff's sortie," Starbeam said. "I merely authorized it."

"I say the same about half of my best decisions," Sunbeam admitted.

They stepped into the office. Sunbeam had chosen the informal seating area instead of the intimidating desk: two chairs by a wide window overlooking Solvanairebolis, low table crowded with folders labeled Sunrise Connection Metrics, Lantern Night Logistics, and Community House Draft Proposals. A mug of orange tea cooled among scattered sticky notes.

Starbeam took in the scene with one sweep of his gaze.

"Permission to be candid?" he asked.

"I... invite it," Sunbeam said.

"This looks," Starbeam said, gesturing lightly to the controlled chaos, "like the headquarters of someone attempting to manually hold a star in place."

Sunbeam flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "At least the ceiling has not fallen in yet. Please—sit."

They ignored the imposing desk chairs and settled into the armchairs by the window. Outside, the capital glowed: trams gliding, plazas alive with movement, Lantern Night banners already being hung for the next week.

Starbeam set a slim case on the table between them.

"I bring gifts," he said. "Starrup has surplus fusion capacity. We are allocating a significant portion of our credits to support your Sunrise Connection Initiative—grants for community houses, subsidies for public transport on Lantern Nights, and a full transfer of our Star-Turducken formula and production equipment. No licensing fees."

Sunbeam stared at him.

"Free," he repeated slowly. "No strings?"

"Only one," Starbeam answered. "We request joint access to anonymized social data. We wish to study how your prosocial structures affect long-term stability. Not to copy blindly, but to understand."

Sunbeam exhaled, sagging back slightly.

"You are... very organized," he confessed. "Clean rivers, humming reactors, vegetarian turkeys that actually taste good, and legal documents that probably balance themselves. Meanwhile, my prosocialism office is still using folding tables because I keep diverting funds to more lanterns."

Something flickered behind Starbeam's steady expression—surprise, then recognition.

"You are jealous," he said quietly. It sounded like diagnosis, not accusation.

Sunbeam winced. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who sees similar patterns in the mirror," Starbeam replied. "I have envied you as well."

Sunbeam blinked. "You—envied me?"

"Your speeches," Starbeam said simply. "Your capacity to talk openly about loneliness and love without diminishing your authority. Your people's willingness to follow you into emotional experiments. If I announced speed-dating programs tomorrow, half my ministers would faint and the other half would demand fifteen-year longitudinal studies first."

Sunbeam barked a startled laugh.

"They do that here too," he said. "I just approve the program while they're still designing the study."

"Reckless," Starbeam murmured.

"Very," Sunbeam agreed. "But I... cannot watch people sit alone on benches and do nothing. My head knows we are stretched thin. My heart keeps pushing anyway. When I see footage of Starrup—your perfect grids, your rivers shining like polished glass—my own policies start to look like a messy painting beside your neat blueprint."

Starbeam considered this.

"A blueprint without color builds nothing people wish to inhabit," he said at last. "Your painting, as you call it, gives purpose to our blueprint. We clean skies so people can see sunsets. We stabilize grids so Lantern Nights do not flicker out halfway through. We develop vegetarian roasts so celebration does not come with guilt."

He met Sunbeam's eyes directly.

"We are not opposites," he said. "We are complementary systems. You design warmth. I design wiring."

Sunbeam's throat tightened.

"I appreciate the wiring," he said softly. "And the money. And the turducken."

"You are welcome," Starbeam replied. "For the record, your jealousy is... statistically unnecessary. Sollarisca is impressive. Chaotic, yes. But impressive."

Sunbeam huffed a laugh. "Chaotic is polite. Some days I feel I'm just throwing party confetti at the void."

"Based on the data Moonwis sent me," Starbeam said dryly, "your 'confetti' has reduced loneliness markers by eight to twelve percent in pilot areas. That is not trivial."

"You ran models on my programs?" Sunbeam asked, startled.

"I run models on everything," Starbeam answered. "It is how I worry."

Silence settled for a moment, companionable rather than awkward, as they watched a tram slide by far below, its windows full of people talking and laughing.

"I wanted to meet you alone," Sunbeam said quietly, "because broadcasts turn us into symbols. Solar leader. Star leader. Commenters call us twins. Rivals. Brothers. Mirrors. I am just a man trying not to break under all of this."

"So am I," Starbeam replied. "A man who calculated his way through war and then forgot to schedule rest days."

Sunbeam smiled crookedly. "I keep scheduling rest days and then converting them into surprise festivals."

"Incredibly inefficient," Starbeam observed.

"Strangely effective," Sunbeam countered. "People keep smiling."

Starbeam folded his hands.

"Let us clarify something," he said. "We are not brothers. We are not copies. We are leaders who responded differently to similar pressures. You turned your scars into warmth. I turned mine into systems. Both responses are valid. Both are necessary."

Sunbeam nodded slowly. "And we can envy one another without letting it rot us, as long as we also learn."

"Precisely," Starbeam said. "I will take your prosocial experiments back to Starrup—not as theft, but as homage. We will adapt them carefully. In return, I will assign a team—including Starradye and Starrastream—to help streamline your administrative load. You should not personally approve Lantern Night snack budgets."

"Moonwis is going to burst into grateful tears when he hears that," Sunbeam muttered.

"Moonwis already sent me four strongly worded spreadsheets," Starbeam replied. "I respect him."

They both smiled—small, tired, genuine.

"Thank you," Sunbeam said, voice low. "For coming in person. You could have sent credits through a secure channel and a polite letter."

"Thank you," Starbeam answered, "for reminding me that leadership is not only about preventing collapse. It is also about creating softness."

The word seemed new in his mouth.

"Softness is allowed," Sunbeam said gently. "Even for us."

"Occasionally," Starbeam conceded.

They talked for another hour—about Westonglappa's green corridors, about Lunna's barefoot gardens, about the fine line between prosocialism and forced socialization. They debated the optimal ratio of public festivals to quiet, low-pressure spaces. They reluctantly agreed that both of them needed to delegate more and martyr themselves less.

When Starbeam finally rose, Sunbeam walked him back toward the balcony doors.

"Next year," Sunbeam said, "if you visit again during Thanksgiving, I will put Star-Turducken on the public feast menu. Full credit to Starrup."

"I may consider attending as a... private citizen," Starbeam replied. "If such a status can exist for us."

"We could attempt it," Sunbeam said. "Walk through a park without an entourage. See if the universe survives."

"If it does not," Starbeam said, "at least the failure will come with interesting data points."

Sunbeam's laughter rang bright in the corridor.

They parted at the threshold—one stepping back into the green of his waiting entourage, the other into the orange of his world.

Outside, twin suns shone on Sollarisca's bustling plazas. Far away, turbines turned steadily above Starrup's fields. Between them, a new alliance quietly rooted itself—not only of trade routes and reactor tech, but of two serious, introverted commanders learning, carefully, that they did not have to carry their glowing worlds alone.

When the formal talks ended and the documents were signed, Solardye and the other officers expected schedules, follow-up meetings, maybe a joint press statement.

Instead, Sunbeam surprised everyone.

"You mentioned," he said to Starbeam in the corridor, "that we might one day try to walk through a park without an entourage. I know somewhere quieter than a park."

Ten minutes later, both contingents had been politely dismissed. Solardye and Starrapuff exchanged an uneasy but trusting look and allowed their leaders to disappear into a private elevator with only a single discreet security drone shadowing them at a distance.

The lift opened not onto another office, but onto a narrow path cut through white stone, leading down toward the sea.

Sollarisca's twin suns were lowering, painting the water in broad strokes of molten orange. A private stretch of beach unfolded below—a place of fine sand, wind-smoothed rocks, and a single weathered pavilion where Sunbeam kept spare towels and a locked cabinet of emergency sunscreen.

"I do not usually conduct diplomacy in swimwear," Starbeam said as they changed in the pavilion, his voice echoing off the wooden beams.

Sunbeam tugged at the hem of his bright orange swim shorts, trying to decide if they made him look more like a General or a lifeguard. "Consider it continuing education," he replied. "In the art of not collapsing."

Starbeam's swimming attire was as precise as his uniform: dark green trunks, simple but well-fitted, a matching towel folded exactly in half over his arm. Out of his formal coat and medals, he looked younger somehow—but his posture remained straight, as if he were about to inspect the ocean for inefficiencies.

They walked down to the shoreline barefoot, the sand warm under their soles. The first touch of the waves made both men inhale at once—the water cool but gentle, tasting faintly of salt and distant storms.

For a while, they said nothing.

They simply walked, side by side, letting the surf wash up around their ankles and retreat again. The twin suns slid lower, turning their shadows long and parallel behind them.

"Do you ever switch off?" Sunbeam asked finally, watching a wave break around his calf.

Starbeam considered the question as if it were a complex equation.

"I believed I did," he said, "when I watched data without acting on it. But even then, I am projecting forward, simulating futures. It is... difficult to stop."

"Same," Sunbeam admitted. "I keep thinking about every person who might be eating alone, every street that still feels too quiet. Even when I lie down, my brain starts planning festivals."

"A tragic condition," Starbeam murmured.

"Terminal," Sunbeam agreed lightly.

They shared the smallest of smiles.

Another wave rolled in, stronger this time, pushing them a step closer together. Sunbeam's arm brushed against Starbeam's; neither moved away.

"May I ask something direct?" Starbeam said.

"I braced for that the moment we met," Sunbeam replied.

Starbeam's eyes stayed on the horizon. "When you speak of prosocialism and romanticism... do you ever feel hypocritical? Encouraging others to seek connection while you remain... apart?"

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Sunbeam's first instinct was to dodge with a joke. Instead, he let the silence sit for a heartbeat, then answered.

"Constantly," he said. "I tell them not to be alone, then sign off broadcasts and walk down empty halls to an empty room. I tell them touch is important. Then I go weeks without anyone touching me who isn't saluting first."

Starbeam nodded once, the motion very small.

"We are alike," he said. "In Starrup, my staff schedule social hours for me. I attend. I stand in a corner and talk about energy policy. People are kind, but they look at me as if I am... a safe machine. Useful. Not... reachable."

The last word sounded almost unfamiliar in his mouth.

A wave surged, sudsy and playful, and Starbeam misjudged the sand beneath his feet. He slipped half a step sideways. Sunbeam caught his arm without thinking.

For a moment, they froze that way: Sunbeam's hand steady on Starbeam's forearm, Starbeam's balance leaning into him.

"You are very warm," Starbeam remarked, somewhat dazed.

"Solar Regime trademark," Sunbeam replied, but his voice was softer than his words.

He did not let go immediately.

Starbeam's gaze traced the faint freckles on Sunbeam's shoulder, the way the evening light turned his hair almost gold. Sunbeam, in turn, noticed how the breeze ruffled Starbeam's green fringe, how his normally sharp expression gentled when he was concentrating on staying upright instead of managing an empire.

"May I experiment?" Starbeam asked quietly.

Sunbeam's heart tripped. "With what, exactly?"

"With allowing myself," Starbeam said, "to accept comfort instead of only offering structure."

He stepped a fraction closer, the distance between them narrowing until the surf lapped around both their feet as if they were a single obstacle in its path.

"Hypothesis," Starbeam murmured. "If two overburdened leaders share weight, the system may become more stable."

Sunbeam huffed a tiny laugh. "You are trying to justify affection with physics."

"It is the language I know best," Starbeam said.

"Then..." Sunbeam swallowed once, gathering his courage. "Run your experiment."

He lifted his free hand and, with uncharacteristic hesitation, rested it against Starbeam's chest, just above the steady beat of his heart.

Starbeam did not flinch.

Instead, he placed one hand lightly at Sunbeam's waist, the touch careful, as if afraid of overstepping. Their bare feet shifted in the sand, toes bumping, heels sinking together as the tide rolled in and out, in and out.

For a quiet, suspended moment, the world narrowed to the sound of the waves and the shared rhythm of their breathing.

"Sunbeam," Starbeam said, voice almost lost in the wind.

"Yes?"

"May I...?"

He did not finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear.

Sunbeam answered not with words but by leaning in, closing the last inch between them.

Their kiss was not dramatic—no music swelled, no lightning cracked. It was gentle, almost tentative, like two people touching down after a long orbit around the same unspoken gravity. Warmth flowed between them, surprised and relieved, the kind that had nothing to do with suns or stars and everything to do with finally, finally not standing alone.

When they broke apart, both looked faintly stunned.

"That felt..." Starbeam searched for a term and finally settled on, "...statistically significant."

Sunbeam laughed, this time freely, head tipping back.

"Your reports are going to be unbearable," he said. "Line item one: unexpected emotional variable on Solar coastline."

"If it improves stability, I will recommend replication," Starbeam replied, deadpan, though his ears were clearly tinged with color.

They did not cling, but they did not rush apart either. Instead, they sat down on the sand side by side, legs stretched toward the water. The waves licked around their ankles. Occasionally their feet bumped or lightly nudged each other, small, wordless reminders that the other was real and here.

"I used to watch your broadcasts," Starbeam admitted after a while. "And wonder how someone could be so... bright without burning out."

"I watched your clean-city footage," Sunbeam said, "and wondered how anyone could be that composed without freezing."

"We are neither burning nor frozen now," Starbeam observed.

"Just... warm," Sunbeam said. "And a little sandy."

"That is an acceptable state," Starbeam replied.

They stayed on the beach until the suns dipped fully and the first stars pricked through the sky—faint, then more numerous, until a subtle green aurora from distant Starrup solar relays shimmered along the horizon like a quiet signature.

At last, practicalities called them back. Starbeam had a ship to board and a continent to run; Sunbeam had Lantern Night schedules to review and a thousand small human hopes to shepherd.

As they stood and brushed sand from their legs, Starbeam looked at him with a steadiness that had nothing to do with rank.

"Thank you," he said. "For this... field test."

"Anytime," Sunbeam replied, then corrected himself. "Not literally anytime, we are both absurdly busy, but... you know what I mean."

"I do," Starbeam said. "And I will remember."

They did not kiss again, not in front of the security drone now humming politely at the edge of the dunes. But their hands brushed once more as they walked back up the path, fingers lingering for one extra heartbeat before duty reclaimed them.

—

Starbeam's departure from Sollarisca was dignified and efficient: a brief joint statement to the press about green aid packages and cultural cooperation, a formal salute exchanged on the Citadel landing platform, then emerald ships rising into orange skies, leaving ripples of wind across the city.

Inside the command vessel, the bridge bathed in its usual cool green light, Starbeam stood with hands behind his back as Starrup's constellated outline grew larger in the viewport.

"Welcome home, sir," Stardrye said. "How was the... unscheduled observation?"

"Informative," Starbeam answered. "And... restorative."

Starrapuff, monitoring communications, hid a knowing smile. "We have prepared additional Thanksgiving events in your absence," she said. "The people rather enjoyed the first wave."

"Good," Starbeam replied, voice settling back into familiar command cadence. "Then let us finish what we began."

—

In the days that followed, Starrup's Thanksgiving entered its second phase.

In Starflare Capital, Starbeam hosted a quieter, more focused series of gatherings: community forums inside energy-efficient halls where citizens could discuss how green prosperity should shape their personal lives, not just their infrastructure.

He sat not on a raised dais but at round tables, listening as young engineers, single parents, elderly workers, and shy students spoke about loneliness in smart cities, about wanting more than clean air and stable power—wanting connection.

"We are efficient," one woman said, twisting a reusable cup between her hands. "But sometimes the city feels like a beautifully designed machine. I would like it to feel more like... a living place."

Starbeam thought of Sunbeam's Lantern Nights, of benches where no one sat alone by necessity.

"We will work on that," he promised. "We have models now."

In Starshield State, Stardale organized "Green Hearth Dinners" in small town halls and reclaimed barns. Elites like Starlem, Starse, and Starwater volunteered as cooks and servers, bringing plant-based feasts to communities that still half-expected commanders to appear only in formal parades.

"You eat the same food we do?" a boy asked, staring up at Stardale as he ladled steaming stew into bowls.

"Yes," Stardale said. "And I get just as disappointed if someone takes the last piece of bread."

Laughter broke the tension; the boy proudly handed him the biggest slice.

In Starwave Port City, Starstream and elites like Starsuna, Starver, and Staryuuki turned the harbor into a glowing boardwalk festival. Solar lanterns in the shape of tiny stars floated along the water. Large screens displayed live feeds from Westonglappan cities testing the first Star-grid pilot programs.

"Look," Starsuna pointed, leaning on the railing beside a cluster of teenagers. "That's Havenjade. Our tech. Their sky."

"So we're kind of... cousins in the dark now?" one teen asked.

"Better," Staryuuki said. "We're electric neighbors."

In Stardawn Highlands, Starstride expanded his charity casino into a continent-wide "Seven Stars for Seven States" campaign. Every jackpot bell meant not only someone's brief thrill, but funding for green transit lines in distant countries: Eastoppola, Westonglappa, even early talks with ports in Lunna and Sollarisca.

"Is it weird," an elite named Starshine remarked as she watched numbers spin, "that the sound of coins now makes me think about bus schedules and carbon offsets?"

"It means the system is working," Starstride replied with rare satisfaction.

Meanwhile, in Stormhalo State, Starstorm and elites like Starbond, Stargrace, and Starvelmee held closing ceremonies at the wind farms. Families planted tree saplings beneath the turning blades, each tagged with the name of someone lost. Starbeam joined them there on the last evening, hands slightly dirt-stained as he helped an elderly couple steady their sapling.

"Thank you, Commander," the old man said. "For giving us air that doesn't burn, and power that doesn't poison."

Starbeam nodded. "Thank you," he answered. "For trusting us long enough to see the difference."

When the saplings were all in the ground, lanterns were raised, casting soft green halos over the hillside. Children ran between the rows, their laughter carried on the same wind that turned the turbines.

As the night deepened, Starbeam stepped a little apart from the crowd. He pulled a slim communicator from his pocket—green casing, neatly polished—and glanced at a stored message from earlier that day: a simple image from Solvanairebolis of twin suns reflected in a community house window, with a caption in Sunbeam's handwriting.

Lantern Nights already filling up. Your credits and roast are making a mess—in a good way.

Starbeam allowed himself the faintest smile.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the chilly air.

Starrup reporting similar side effects. Increased laughter. Mild chaos. No collapse detected. Recommend continued exchange.

A moment later, a reply pinged through.

Approved, came Sunbeam's answer. Happy Thanksgiving, Starbeam.

Starbeam slipped the communicator away, feeling the sand still ghost-warm under his feet from Sollarisca's beach, even here on a cool green hillside.

Around him, turbines turned. Saplings shivered. Lanterns bobbed. Supreme Commanders and elites moved among the people not as distant icons, but as part of a wider, slowly weaving pattern of connection.

Thanksgiving on Starrup had begun as an exercise in efficiency and restraint. It ended as something far less easily graphed: a network of shared dinners, new friendships, quiet grief honored, and—somewhere beyond the reach of any report—a memory of two leaders on a distant beach, letting themselves be, for a brief and irreplaceable moment, simply human.

Starrup woke to the second wave of Thanksgiving: Green Swags.

The name had begun as a joke in a late-night marketing meeting—"Green instead of Black, swags instead of Friday"—but by dawn it had already taken over every holo-banner in Starflare Capital. Streetside projectors flashed:

GREEN SWAGS – THE GREAT IMPRESSION CONTINUES

From his tower window, Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam Charmley watched the city's pedestrian streams thicken. Trams glided past, packed with citizens in solid green coats and scarves, chatter rising like birdsong in a forest of glass and steel.

Starrapuff entered with her tablet hugged to her chest, eyes bright.

"Overnight reports just finalized, sir," she said. "The economists are calling it official: we have entered the Great Impression era."

Starbeam glanced at the data rippling across his main screen: resource indices spiking, not in wild, unstable leaps, but in a smooth upward sweep.

"Explain the... oil," he said.

She tapped a feed. A reporter appeared, standing ankle-deep in a glowing green pool ringed by drilling equipment.

"—what scientists are nicknaming everlasting oil," the correspondent was saying. "A self-regenerating bio-petro compound discovered beneath the Starcrescent Basin. Extraction tests show no depletion over repeated draws, suggesting some form of sub-dimensional flux. Environmental impact rating: negligible."

The feed shifted: newscasters now standing in mines where emerald veins shone like captured auroras, in ancient ruins where relics pulsed with gentle, coin-shaped light—"passive income stones," analysts were already calling them, laughing at how much it sounded like an old strategy game.

"Age of Empires," murmured Starstream over the comms. "But with better graphics."

Starbeam folded his arms.

"Risks?" he asked.

"Inflation, speculative bubbles, resource hoarding," came Stardrye's voice from the analytics floor. "But—" He hesitated, then continued. "Our people's giving metrics are rising even faster than their wealth. Donations to foreign relief funds up four hundred percent overnight."

Starbeam watched another feed: a woman in a simple green dress standing outside a housing block, keys jangling on her wrist.

"I bought the whole building," she told the reporter, smiling shyly. "Paid off every mortgage. We're turning the empty units into community rooms. It seemed... rude to hoard the blessing."

Behind her, neighbors pressed their faces to windows, laughing and crying at once.

Starbeam exhaled slowly.

"Then we will not fight the tide," he said. "We will guide it."

He stepped away from the window.

"Starrapuff," he said, "issue a public directive. Effective immediately, all excess state profit from Green Swags will be routed into a new program: Viridian Outreach. Priority recipients—Westonglappa's Auttumotto and Maylin states, Sollarisca's community housing initiatives, Lunna's reconstruction zones, Galaxenchi's... whatever Professor Galaxbeam currently calls 'statistical emergencies.'"

Starrapuff grinned. "Charity as contagious as a virus," she said. "I like it."

"Correct the metaphor," Starbeam replied. "Viruses harm. This will heal."

"Then we infect poverty instead," she said. "And let it die."

He didn't quite smile, but the corner of his mouth shifted.

"Approved."

—

Across Starrup, Green Swags unfolded like a festival thrown by both an economist and a child.

In Starflare Capital, the main shopping district—Greenglade Promenade—had transformed into a canyon of light. Storefronts projected floating price tags that kept dropping in real time, slashed again and again until luxury items hovered barely above the cost of bread.

A giant holo-screen above a tech mall cheerfully blared:

"2-FOR-1 QUANTUM GAME CONSOLES – BUY ONE, GIFT ONE TO ANY REGISTERED LOW-INCOME HOUSEHOLD, AUTOMATICALLY DELIVERED"

Inside, teenagers in green streetwear dragged carts piled high with consoles and VR headsets, not for resale, but to send out through the government's matching system. Every purchase pinged a random family somewhere in Starrup; every delighted shriek caught on camera became another looping ad.

In a home-goods megastore, massage chairs hummed in neat rows. A middle-aged couple argued, laughing.

"We only need one," the woman insisted.

"We don't 'need' any," the man replied, punching numbers into his wristband. "But look—the second one at this price auto-donates a set to a veterans' clinic in Negraska City. We can at least over-relax in solidarity."

Elsewhere, in a bright-lit warehouse of home robots, a little boy patted the glossy shell of a housekeeping unit.

"Can we keep him?" he pleaded.

His mother hesitated, checking the tag.

"Sweetheart, this one's a 'Buy for Them First' model," she said. "We pick a homeless shelter or orphanage, they get the first unit. If we still want one after that, we come back."

The boy thought hard, cheeks puffed out. Finally he nodded.

"Okay. The shelter first. But we name them both Starbroom."

The sales clerk nearly melted.

—

Starbeam spent the day not in his tower, but on the ground.

He walked through Starflare's Central Array Plaza in a slightly less formal uniform—jacket unbuttoned at the collar, cap tucked under one arm. No one pushed or screamed; Starrup respected boundaries too much for that. But people drifted into his orbit, like small moons testing the gravity.

A young woman in a green hoodie approached him, arms full of shopping bags.

"Xtreme Vice Colonel," she said, breathless. "Look."

She opened one bag: it was filled with vouchers stamped PAID IN FULL—mortgage slips, medical debts, student loans.

"I cleared my own account," she said, "and then I just... kept going. My friends and I started sniping random debts from the national registry. It's like... reverse hacking. You click a name, pay, and someone wakes up suddenly free."

She laughed, half delighted, half overwhelmed.

"It feels illegal," she confessed.

Starbeam studied the string of zeros on her transaction log.

"It is not illegal," he said. "It is exemplary."

Her eyes shone. "Then... we'll keep going."

"Do," he replied. "And drink water. Generosity is strenuous."

She scampered off, already calling her friends with the news that the Xtreme Vice Colonel himself had approved their "debt-sniping squad."

Starrapuff joined him, scrolling through live feeds.

"We have tourists," she reported. "Westonglappan families landing in Starwave Port for the weekend. A Lunnan delegation in Moon-blue coats wandering through our eco-spas. At least one contingent from Galaxenchi, although I can't tell if they're here to shop or to calculate gravity in our escalator systems."

Starbeam followed one of the feeds to a large mall atrium.

There, under a glittering star-shaped chandelier, a Sollariscain woman in bright orange was arguing warmly with a Starrup shopkeeper.

"You cannot sell this to me for that price," she insisted, waving a hand at the row of kitchen bots. "It is an insult to my wallet."

"The system sets the price," the clerk replied. "We have surplus. The Great Impression does not compromise with pride."

Another feed showed a Lunnan couple, boots off, padding through a "grounding garden" installed right in the center of a shopping district—soft moss, recycled water streams, and discreet screens displaying "TRY NOT TO SPEND FOR FIVE MINUTES. JUST BREATHE."

"This is..." the Lunnan man said, searching for the word. "Efficiently peaceful."

"Moonbeam will steal this idea," his partner predicted.

Starbeam watched the recordings with an odd warmth in his chest.

"Good," he said. "Let them steal the concept. We have stolen enough of theirs."

—

By evening, the economic analysts were in a kind of ecstatic panic.

"We are past wealthy," one of them declared in a broadcast. "We are at risk of becoming structurally embarrassed by our own abundance."

The host blinked. "Is that a real term?"

"It is now," the analyst replied.

In response, Starbeam issued one more directive.

He called all five Supreme Commanders and Starrapuff into a secure holo-conference.

"We have more than we need," he said without preamble. "More than anyone needs. Hoarding will distort us. Instead, we will institutionalize generosity."

Stardrye raised a brow. "How institutional?"

"Automatic," Starbeam answered. "Effective tonight, every large purchase made during Green Swags will trigger a mandatory Mirror Gift—a second expenditure of equal or greater value, directed either to poverty relief inside Starrup or to targeted aid projects abroad. Buyers may choose the destination. If they do not, the system will choose for them."

Starstorm leaned back, arms folded.

"You're going to make bragging about charity trendy," he said.

"Yes," Starbeam replied. "If citizens wish to boast, let them boast about how many homes they bought for the homeless, how many villages they electrified, how many schools they built in Havenjade or Mayflower City. Let status compete on the axis of kindness."

Starrapuff's smile went sharp.

"We will need hashtags," she said. "#FlexYourAid. #BragDifferent. #GreenSwagsGivesBack."

"Choose one," Starbeam said grimly. "Maybe two."

"Three," she bargained.

He sighed. "Two and a half."

She laughed. "Compromise accepted."

Within hours, feeds filled with images of people flaunting not just their purchases, but their donation receipts. A teenager posed with a new game console in one hand and a screenshot of a freshly funded clinic in Ameer Town in the other. A trio of elderly neighbors clinked cups of green tea over a giant holo-display showing the apartment complex they'd collectively bought and handed over to a housing nonprofit.

The world watched. Commentators in Westonglappa called it "obnoxiously wholesome." A talk show in Lunna joked that Starrup had weaponized generosity. Galaxenchi's scholars published a paper titled Emerald Economies and the Ethics of Infinite Boons, which promptly trended for its abstract alone.

Starbeam spent the last hours of Green Swags walking through Starwave Port City's seaside promenade. The air smelled of salt and recycled mist; cruise skiffs bobbed at their moorings, ready to ferry tourists and aid workers alike.

Children ran past him, waving glowsticks shaped like stars. Overhead, a drone projected the day's final tally:

VIRIDIAN OUTREACH – DAY ONE SUMMARY

Domestic debts erased: 2,318,994
Homes purchased for the unhoused: 812,330
Overseas projects funded: 14,092
Poverty line projections: trending downward

Starbeam stopped, tipping his head back to absorb the numbers fully.

"Too good to be true," Stardale said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "If this were a novel, critics would call it unrealistic."

"It is unrealistic," Starbeam replied. "And yet we are standing in it."

He watched a group of foreign visitors—orange, blue, and even a few yellow-robed Galaxenchi scholars—crowd around a street musician playing a green-hued guitar. A donation box at the musician's feet overflowed, not with coins, but with stamped vouchers: promises to fund music schools in their home cities.

"We must be careful," Starbeam added. "Prosperity can make a nation arrogant."

"Do you see arrogance?" Stardale asked.

Starbeam considered the laughing shoppers, the quietly weeping families hugging deed papers, the tourists exchanging recipes and addresses.

"I see... pride in giving," he said. "If we can keep it there, perhaps the Great Impression will leave a mark we are not ashamed of."

He reached for his communicator.

"Prepare a message to broadcast tomorrow," he told Starrapuff. "Simple wording: 'We have enough. Let us be the world's safety net.'"

"Understood," she replied.

As night deepened, Starrup glowed brighter, a web of green light stretching over land and sea. Somewhere far away, in Sollarisca and Lunna and Westonglappa and Galaxenchi, people tuned in to the Star Regime's channels—not to envy their riches, but to copy their generosity.

On the balcony of his tower, Starbeam stood alone for a while, coat wrapped against the high wind. He thought of Sunbeam's awkward, earnest smile, of Moonbeam's barefoot gardens, of Galaxbeam's slow, knowing nod whenever history took an unlikely turn.

"Too good to be true," he murmured again.

Then, after a moment:

"Good. Let us keep proving reality wrong."

Starrup's Green Swags weekend roared on like a controlled supernova.

By late afternoon, the feeds in Starflare Capital had settled into a strange pattern: every few minutes, another graph representing poverty flicked down a notch, and every few minutes, another graph representing donations spiked like fireworks.

Supreme Commander Starradye stood at the center of his own small command hub, several floors below Starbeam's sky-tower office. His "war room" looked less like a battlefield and more like the inside of a data crystal—tiered rings of consoles, walls wrapped in smooth green displays, all of it glowing softly against his uniform.

He loved this room.

It was quiet enough that he could hear the faint hum of processors under the floor and the distant echo of crowds outside celebrating Green Swags. Above him, Starbeam was watching macro-trends across continents. Down here, Starradye watched the micro-trends: the individual bursts of kindness that the big graphs averaged out.

On one screen, a family in Starwave Port City had just used a ridiculous chain of BOGO discounts to buy six game consoles—but instead of keeping them, they walked across the street and handed four to an orphanage.

On another, a group of university students in Starflare's Academic Ring had pooled their Green Swags bonuses to purchase three entire apartment blocks, signing them over as permanent low-rent housing.

On a third, a little blinking icon showed a retired miner in Stardawn Highlands who had just paid off the medical debts of his entire village. The note attached to the bank transfer was simple: "The Great Impression was kind to me. Let me be kind back."

Starradye's fingers danced over the interface, tagging each act, linking it into a growing web of "chain generosity events." Lines connected cities to cities, families to strangers, Sollariscan tourists to Lunnan visitors and Westonglappan merchants.

"This," he murmured, "is what exponential functions were born for."

A chime sounded behind him.

"Commander," said a soft voice.

Starradye turned to see Starrapuff standing at the entrance, arms full of take-out containers shaped like little green stars.

"I brought you food," she said. "Because someone told me you haven't left this room in six hours."

"That is inaccurate," Starradye replied. "I left twice. Restroom, recalibration."

"Mm-hmm," Starrapuff said, entirely unconvinced. She set the containers on the nearest console. "It is still Thanksgiving. Even our beloved numbers priest is required to eat something solid."

He exhaled, a tiny surrender, and opened one of the boxes. The familiar aroma of vegetarian Star-Turducken rose up, layered with herbs and a tangy citrus glaze.

"You sound like Starbeam," Starradye said. "He told me this morning that if I monitored one more metric on an empty stomach, he would revoke my access to real-time feeds."

Starrapuff laughed. "You would simply build another feed in secret."

"That is true," he admitted, and finally took a bite.

For a few seconds, the room held nothing but the sound of quiet chewing and distant festival noise drifting through the insulated walls.

"Have you... actually gone outside today?" Starrapuff asked after a while.

"I am outside," Starradye said. "Outside the abstract. I am watching the reality my equations help shape."

She tilted her head. "That is a clever answer. It is also not what I asked."

He hesitated.

"Crowds are... unpredictable," he admitted slowly. "And very loud. Out there, my role is mostly ceremonial. In here, I can actively ensure the wealth spreads where it should."

Starrapuff walked around the console until she stood beside him, looking up at the main screen.

Lines of light spider-webbed across a stylised map of Starrup and beyond. Each point pulsed where a transaction or donation occurred; the network flickered so quickly it almost looked alive.

"It is beautiful," she said softly. "Like watching generosity learn how to fly."

Starradye's eyes softened.

"The Great Depression of Old Earth was a collapse of numbers," he said. "The Great Impression is a flood. I want to make sure no one drowns in it—or hoards it."

"You are," Starrapuff said. "Look."

She tapped a control. One particular cluster zoomed in: a wealthy corporation in Stormhalo State had attempted to buy half the coastline as "private retreat land," taking advantage of the ridiculous surplus and low prices.

Starradye flicked his fingers; a green warning blinked over the transaction, then rerouted. The purchase froze. Moments later, the land was instead marked for mixed-income public housing and environmental preserve status.

"Policy safeguards," he said simply. "No one should be able to wall off a beach just because they had a lucky day on the stock exchange."

Starrapuff regarded him for a long moment.

"And what about you?" she asked. "What does Supreme Commander Starradye do with his lucky day?"

He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.

He had not thought about it.

His personal account was swollen with bonuses, investment returns, and the automatic "gratitude stipends" that citizens had started sending to the high command ever since Starrup's skies had cleared. He had set most of it to auto-redirect into various charities and research grants. The remainder simply sat, compounding.

"I..." He frowned, genuinely puzzled. "I do not know."

Starrapuff smiled gently.

"Then allow me to make a suggestion," she said. "Take one hour. Not ten, not five. One. Turn off the live feeds. Come walk with me through Starflare's Central Array Plaza. No speeches, no interviews. Just... observe. Let the statistics be people for a little while."

His first instinct was to refuse. The data was still streaming. The Green Swags rush would continue into the night. There would be anomalies to catch, patterns to adjust.

But on the map, another tiny pulse appeared: a Sollariscan family spending their Starrup windfall to book a long-term stay at a Lunnan barefoot resort. The note attached said simply, "We saw your leaders on the news. You looked like you needed rest."

Starbeam and Sunbeam. Moonbeam's gardens. Galaxbeam's lectures. The whole strange web of alliances and kindnesses.

Starradye chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking.

"One hour," he said at last. "If I leave alarms in place."

"Agreed," Starrapuff said, already keying in a command to assign temporary monitoring to an AI subroutine and two junior analysts who loved proving themselves.

The main displays dimmed to standby. The room's hum seemed to relax.

Starradye felt... oddly exposed without the constant stream of numbers.

"Very well," he murmured. "Let us go and see if reality matches my models."

—

Central Array Plaza was chaos wrapped in joy.

The green sky-holograms from earlier Thanksgiving events still shone overhead, but now they were joined by floating price tags and discount symbols dancing like leaves in a synthetic breeze. Stalls sold everything from eco-drones to handcrafted jewelry made from recycled wires. Street musicians played on kinetic instruments that powered their own amplifiers.

Starradye walked beside Starrapuff, hands clasped neatly behind his back, trying not to flinch each time someone laughed too loudly.

"Relax your shoulders," Starrapuff murmured. "You look like you're about to court-martial the popcorn stand."

He forced himself to breathe out, just a little.

A group of children in matching green capes ran past, waving smart-watches that flashed donation alerts.

"Look!" one shouted. "Every time we buy a toy, it buys another one for kids in Deathwing's war-torn zones!"

"That was your design," Starrapuff said quietly. "Micro-mirror donations."

Starradye felt a strange warmth stir in his chest. He had seen the line in his spreadsheet: '0.5x toy purchase -> matched to relief shipments.' Seeing it translated into sticky-fingered glee was something else entirely.

They paused at a stall where a middle-aged woman sold gently-used consoles, appliances, and holo-tablets.

"You are selling them for less than you paid," Starradye observed, unable to help himself.

The woman shrugged, smiling.

"Green Swags flooded my house," she said. "I don't need five massage chairs. But someone out there needs one. I figure I sell it cheap, then donate the payment. Double good."

Starrapuff glanced sidelong at Starradye as if to say, See?

He gave the faintest of nods.

At another corner, an impromptu "charity bragging circle" had formed. Citizens stood in a loose ring, taking turns stepping into the center to announce something good they had used their sudden wealth for—not to boast about luxury, but to celebrate generosity.

"I covered every overdue utility bill in my apartment block!"

"I bought twelve garage repairs for single parents in my district!"

"I funded three years of therapy for myself and my neighbors!"

Each time someone finished, the crowd cheered and flung handfuls of biodegradable green confetti into the air.

"You feared flaunting," Starradye murmured. "But they are flaunting... the act of giving."

"Yes," Starrapuff said softly. "A new kind of status symbol."

A young man recognized Starrapuff first, then double-took at Starradye.

"S-Supreme Commander!" he stammered. "We, uh... thought you'd be in the tower, sir."

"I was," Starradye said. "The data suggested I should attempt... field verification."

The young man blinked, then grinned.

"Well, welcome to the mess behind your pretty graphs," he said. "It's good. Messy, but good."

Before Starradye could formulate an appropriate response, an elderly woman stepped up and pressed a small paper bag into his hands.

"For you," she said. "Homemade star-cookies. Recipe from before all this green tech. Thought you might like to know some things don't change."

He stared at the bag as if it were an encrypted file, then bowed slightly.

"Thank you," he said. "Your sample size is appreciated."

Starrapuff coughed to hide a laugh.

They moved on, weaving through the crowds.

Slowly—painfully slowly at first, then more naturally—Starradye's shoulders eased. Yes, there were small acts of selfishness, little flares of greed. A person arguing over a price, a teenager showing off a tower of shopping bags that was clearly only for themselves. But the overwhelming pattern was something his models had hinted at without ever fully capturing:

When given too much in a world built on scarcity, Starrup's people did not all hoard. Many of them instinctively redirected the excess outward.

"Your Great Impression," Starrapuff said, as if reading his thoughts, "turned out not to be about money raining from the sky. It was about discovering what people do once survival stops screaming in their ears."

"And what they do," Starradye said slowly, "is... design softer futures."

He looked around: Sollariscans laughing with Starrup locals, Lunnan visitors showing pictures of glowing barefoot gardens, a Galaxenchi academic loudly trying to calculate how many planetary economies could be stabilised if even ten percent of Starrup's Green Swags policies were exported.

Starradye reached for his wrist-console almost on reflex—then stopped himself.

"Not tonight," he decided aloud. "Tonight, I will simply... enjoy the anomaly."

Starrapuff smiled at him, genuinely proud.

"Then enjoy it properly," she said. "Take one of those charity brag cards."

He did. On it, a simple prompt: "What did you do with your Great Impression?" followed by a blank space.

He hesitated, then wrote:

'Designed systems that made it harder to be selfish and easier to be kind.'

Under that, after a longer pause, he added:

'And went outside to see if it worked.'

When he stepped into the brag circle and read it aloud, the crowd cheered as if he had just announced another victory in orbit.

He felt his face heat, unused to that kind of attention. But under the embarrassment, there was something quieter, steadier:

Satisfaction. The kind that did not fit on any graph.

—

Later that night, back in his data hub, Starradye watched the final statistics roll in.

Donation chains had grown beyond even his optimistic projections. Cross-border aid flows surged not because of policy mandates, but because individual citizens had chosen to redirect their absurd holiday luck toward places still healing from war and disaster.

Among the outgoing transfers, he noticed one he had scheduled an hour earlier:

A substantial portion of his own personal wealth, split equally between Lunna's barefoot sanctuary projects, Sollarisca's community houses, Galaxenchi's scholarship funds, and a new Westonglappan initiative to rebuild coastal towns.

He tagged the transaction simply: "Thanksgiving—personal."

For a long moment, he just watched the tiny line of text blink, then confirm.

Outside, Green Swags still crackled in the streets: music, laughter, the whirl of eco-drones carrying gifts.

Inside, Starradye sat alone at his console, a half-eaten star-cookie beside his keyboard, and allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.

Thanksgiving, he decided, suited the Star Regime quite well.

Not because of the wealth they had, but because of the precise, deliberate joy of giving it away.

While Starradye's graphs were settling into graceful curves of generosity, another Supreme Commander was measuring Thanksgiving in a very different unit: the weight of soil on his hands.

Out in Starshield State, far from the neon towers of Starflare, Starradale walked the muddy lanes of Starharvest Valley Cooperative in rolled-up sleeves and boots that had long since surrendered any hope of staying clean. The afternoon sun broke through thin green clouds, turning every irrigation canal and glasshouse roof into a bright line of light.

"Commander, the drones are landing on plot three," called a young agritech officer, trotting up beside him. "Shipment from the Green Swags surplus program just arrived."

Starradale nodded, his deep voice steady. "Good. Make sure the smallholders get first pick. The big outfits can wait their turn."

"Yes, sir."

They came up over a low rise, and the valley opened beneath them: terraces of leafy greens, tall grain analogues swaying in the breeze, rows of fruit trees whose branches were wrapped in sensor-lights that blinked softly like fireflies. At the far edge, five cargo drones were touching down, their bellies full of refurbished tractors, soil recyclers, and compact fusion pumps—all bought at absurdly low Green Swags prices, then redirected here by Starradale's order.

A cluster of farmers waited at the landing site. Solid, sun-browned people in simple green work clothes, some with hats bristling with old pins from the pre-clean era. At their head stood the same elderly farmer Starradale had met during the earlier Farm-to-Feast fair.

"Back again, are you?" the man called, grinning. "Could've sent a hologram, Commander."

"Holograms can't lift irrigation pipes," Starradale replied.

The farmers laughed, the tension in the air dissolving.

The drones opened with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, machines gleamed—some brand new, some lovingly rebuilt. Each crate bore the same stamp: STARREGIME GREEN SWAGS RURAL PRIORITY – NO RESALE.

"We don't want these becoming collector's items," Starradale said, half to the farmers, half to himself. "They're tools, not trophies."

A young woman with grease on her cheek squinted at a soil recycler. "How much paperwork?" she asked warily. "Every time we get help, there's forms."

Starradale shook his head. "Pilot program," he said. "The forms come later, when we're bragging about how well it worked."

She blinked, then laughed. "I like this program already."

They set to work together, unloading the drones. Starradale insisted on helping with the heaviest crates. It wasn't posturing; he simply preferred to do something while he talked. As they hauled a fusion pump toward a new well, the old farmer glanced sideways at him.

"Big day in the cities," the man said. "We saw the broadcasts. Green Swags this, Great Impression that. Feels a long way from this dirt."

"It should not," Starradale answered. "Without this dirt, the cities have nothing to eat."

The farmer snorted approvingly. "You sound like my grandfather. He used to say, 'You can't drink stock prices.'"

Starradale smiled faintly. "Wise man."

They reached the well site. Children were already gathering nearby, watching with wide eyes as techs set up the pump.

"Commander," one boy piped up, "is it true you could buy a thousand holo-TVs today for the price of a shovel?"

"Approximately," Starradale said.

"Then why are you here instead of buying TVs?" another child asked.

Starradale knelt, so they were closer to eye level.

"Because when the sales end," he said gently, "people will still need clean water. Food that doesn't poison them. Soil that can grow something even when the weather is wrong. Those things don't go on sale. We have to build them ourselves."

The children stared at him, then at the slowly assembling pump, as if seeing it for the first time as something heroic.

"Can we help?" the boy asked.

"You just did," Starradale replied. "You're asking the right questions."

The rest of the afternoon unfolded like that. Each new machine placed, each glasshouse inspected, each farmer's concern listened to and logged. A delegation from Havenjade City in Westonglappa arrived to tour the cooperative, escorted by a pair of analysts from Starflare.

"So this is where the magic happens," one of the Westonglappan envoys said, filming rows of green with her tablet. "Your screens in Starflare showed charts. This is... different."

Starradale brushed dirt from his hands and nodded.

"Charts are the echo," he said. "This is the voice."

Later, as twilight settled and the glasshouses glowed from within like rows of captured moons, the cooperative held its own Thanksgiving feast. Not a grand city spectacle, but long wooden tables set up between the terraces, lanterns strung from tractor to tractor, children racing along the paths with garlands of leaves.

The food was simple and astonishing: Star-Turducken slices, herb-stuffed breads baked in repurposed grain kilns, stews thick with vegetables grown on soil that had, only a few years ago, been pronounced dead.

Starradale sat among the farmers, not at the head of the table but in the middle, surrounded by noise. Someone had pressed a wreath of star-shaped leaves onto his head; he hadn't yet found a polite way to remove it. Across from him, the grease-smudged young woman raised a glass.

"To the Commander who brought us too many machines," she said. "And trusted we'd figure out how to share them."

Laughter rolled along the table. Starradale lifted his own glass of pale green cider.

"To the farmers," he replied, his voice carrying easily. "Who refuse to let the land stay broken, even when the numbers say it should be."

The old farmer at his side leaned closer. "You sound like a politician," he muttered.

Starradale huffed a quiet laugh. "Please don't insult me at dinner."

That earned another round of laughter.

Partway through the meal, his wrist-console vibrated softly. A message from Starbeam flickered into the corner of his vision:

STARBEAM: Status, Starradale? Any issues with surplus allocation?

He glanced around at the tables: at children dragging second helpings to neighbors, at farmers comparing drone specs between bites of bread, at the Westonglappan envoys wiping their eyes because the stew "tasted like home, somehow."

Starradale keyed a reply with his thumb.

STARRADALE: No issues. Surplus transforming into roots. Recommend scaling program.

A pause. Then another line appeared:

STARBEAM: Understood. Remember to eat something resembling a vegetable.

Starradale looked at his overflowing plate and sent back a single image: three kinds of greens piled beside Star-Turducken.

Starbeam's reply was a lone green checkmark.

When night fully wrapped Starharvest Valley, the stars above were partly obscured by a soft haze of light from the glasshouses and lanterns. Music—simple, old songs about rain and patience—floated over the fields.

Starradale stepped away for a moment, climbing the low ridge that overlooked the cooperative. From up there, the feast looked small compared to the sprawling valley, but it glowed with a warmth no satellite image could quantify.

He thought of Starradye's numbers, of Starbeam's clean reactors, of Sunbeam's community houses and Moonbeam's barefoot gardens. He thought of how Green Swags had poured absurd wealth into Starrup and how, somehow, here in Starharvest, it had turned into something humbler and more lasting: tools, soil, shared meals.

A small hand tugged at his coat.

The boy from earlier stood there, eyes bright.

"Commander," the boy said, "my grandma says you could have stayed in the city and eaten fancy food with the other commanders. Why did you come here instead?"

Starradale looked down at him, then back at the valley.

"Because," he said slowly, choosing each word, "if I ever forget how it feels to stand where the food is grown, I will stop making good decisions about anything."

The boy considered that, then nodded as if it made perfect sense.

"Do you want more stew?" he asked.

"Yes," Starradale said. "Very much."

They walked back down together, the Commander's long strides matching the child's smaller ones.

Behind them, the glasshouses hummed softly, full of growing things. Ahead of them, laughter rose again as someone started another song. Starradale took his place at the table, bowl in hand, and for the rest of the night he allowed himself—for once—to just be a tall green figure among many, eating and listening and giving thanks that the land, and the people on it, were finally being treated as the treasures his spreadsheets had always claimed they were.

While Starradale's night settled into lanterns over soil and songs about rain, the pulse of Thanksgiving took on a different rhythm in Starwave Port City.

Here, the soundscape was engines and waves, street music over humming maglev trams, the soft chime of charging docks and the distant roar of ships lifting from the sea.

Supreme Commander Starstream stood on the balcony of a mid-rise overlooking the harbor, a handheld console resting in one palm, the other hand wrapped around a steaming cup of green tea. Below him, the Energy Playground he'd designed wrapped around the waterfront like a circuit board brought to life.

Bright tracks snaked along the promenade, studded with pressure plates and hand-crank stations. Kids sprinted, pedaled, and jumped to send power into miniature grids, each action lighting up toy buildings, tiny turbines, and small holographic constellations over their heads.

One of his junior officers stepped out onto the balcony.

"Commander," she said, brushing windblown hair from her face, "the Thanksgiving Energy Jam is at one hundred and twenty percent capacity. We've already hit our target of surplus power donations to the rural grids, and the kids are still going."

Starstream tapped a few keys on his console. A real-time visualization bloomed over the harbor—thin green lines arcing from the playground to various points inland, representing every extra watt being shipped to small towns and cooperatives like Starharvest Valley.

"Look at them," he murmured. "Playing themselves into being power plants."

"Most people play games that just burn CPU cycles," the officer said. "You made one that lights actual homes."

Starstream's smile was quick and crooked.

"Games should give something back," he said. "Not just high scores."

He drained the last of his tea and handed both cup and console to the officer.

"Keep monitoring," he said. "Flag any overloads. I'm going down."

"You're going... down there?" she asked, surprised. "Sir, it's chaos. Happy chaos, but—"

"Exactly," he replied. "I designed it. I ought to experience the patch notes in person."

He slipped away before she could protest, taking the service stairs three at a time. The nearer he got to the ground, the louder the city became—shouts, laughter, the whirl of wind off the water; the occasional delighted scream as some child realized they'd just powered a real streetlamp with their own legs.

The Energy Playground opened around him like a festival.

A group of children were clustered around a shallow, circular track, each gripping the handlebars of a small kinetic bike. A large holo-display overhead showed a cartoon cityscape with dim windows.

"Okay!" shouted a volunteer elite—Starver, in a short green jacket with sleeves rolled up. "On my mark, you pedal like your favorite show depends on it, because it does. Three... two... one... go!"

The kids exploded into motion. The bikes whirred. The cartoon buildings lit up, window by window, until the whole skyline glowed and a chime sounded.

"POWER STABLE!" the display announced. "EXCESS SENT TO: STARDUST RIDGE VILLAGE."

A girl with pigtails flopped sideways onto her handlebars, panting.

"Did we really power a real village?" she gasped.

Starver pointed at the corner of the holo-display. A live feed popped up—a small town in the hills, their streetlamps flicking on one by one, kids waving at the camera.

"They're waving at you," Starver said. "Say hi back."

The girl straightened, eyes wide, and waved with both hands so hard she nearly fell again.

Starstream watched, arms folded loosely over his chest, and felt something in his ribs unclench.

This was why he liked circuits and games and feedback loops. They made cause and effect visible. You push here, lights turn on there. You change this line of code, the world behaves a little kinder.

"Commander!"

The cry came from a cluster of teenagers near a raised platform lined with hand cranks and tread panels. One of them—tall, lanky, hair dyed a gradient of dark to bright green—jogged over.

"Is it really you?" the teen asked. "We thought that holo of you was just... a holo."

Starstream arched a brow. "It is possible for me to exist in more than one render," he said. "Though I admit, the holo version blinks less."

The teen snorted.

"We're trying to beat the three-minute burst record," he said, gesturing at the array of generators. "If we hit the target, the surplus goes to a hospital in Westonglappa. But our timing keeps desyncing. Can you... I dunno... optimize us?"

A few years ago, Starstream might have redirected them to a training officer. Now, on this absurdly lucky, generous weekend, he heard Starbeam's voice in his head: We are not just maintaining grids. We are shaping how people feel about each other.

He nodded once.

"All right," he said. "Show me your inputs."

They gathered around as he stepped up onto a slightly elevated plate between the crank stations and tread panels. He studied the setup like a puzzle: each crank feeding a local capacitor, each tread plate timed to dump its charge into the main line at specific intervals.

"You've been trying to brute-force it," he said. "Everyone maxing out all at once. It looks impressive, but the regulators are choking on the surge. You need a wave."

"A wave?" one of the girls repeated.

He nodded toward the semi-circle of devices.

"Left to right, staggered," he said. "Start with the cranks. Two-second offset between each station. Treads follow in a second layer, half a beat behind. Think of it as... a combo chain, not a mash."

Half of them blinked. The ones who played rhythm games lit up in understanding.

"Oh," the lanky teen said. "So it's like that old arcade game with the falling arrows."

"Yes," Starstream said. "Except the 'Perfect' rating is a surgery suite getting an extra backup battery."

He snapped his fingers, pointing as he sorted them into positions.

"You're early beat," he said to the lanky teen. "You two, mid-beat. You, follow-through. I'll call the cadence. Ready?"

They took their stations, hands on cranks, feet on pads.

Starstream drew in a breath, then began to speak, not shouting, but with a crisp clarity that carried over the harbor noise.

"One... two... turn. One... two... turn."

The first set of cranks spun. Capacitors whined up.

"Next row—go. One... two... go. One... two... go."

Lights on the console shifted from yellow to steady green. The tread plates came next, feet stomping in time with the commander's voice. The holo-city above them flickered, then steadied, then flared as more windows lit up.

A timer counted down on the display. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds.

"Maintain the wave," Starstream called. "Don't chase it. Be the rhythm."

Someone started clapping along. Someone else began chanting the counts with him. Laughter broke through panting breaths. Their movements, chaotic before, settled into a rough but effective synchronization.

The last ten seconds blazed green across the holo-screen.

"Nine... eight... seven..."

"Keep going!" a girl yelled. "The hospital needs the end credits!"

"...three... two... one..."

A bell rang, bright and triumphant.

"BURST COMPLETE," the system announced. "SURPLUS ROUTED TO: WESTONGLAPPA REGIONAL HOSPITAL GRID – CRITICAL CARE WING."

A live feed blinked on: a distant coastal city under a different sky, hospital staff glancing up as indicator lights shifted from amber to solid green. One nurse in a sea-green uniform waved at the camera, confused but grateful.

Starstream stepped back as his own teens collapsed in a dramatic pile, laughing and clutching their legs.

"We did it," the lanky one said, staring up at the screen. "We actually did it."

"You optimized," Starstream corrected. "I merely suggested the patch notes."

A small girl—clearly someone's younger sibling—tugged at the hem of his coat.

"Commander," she said, serious as only a child can be, "does it always feel like this when you fix things?"

He thought about late nights staring at failing schematic models, about the quiet thrill when a simulation finally held steady, about the way his chest eased when a crisis alert turned from red to blue because a loop he designed worked.

"Not always this loud," he said. "But... yes. Often, yes."

She nodded as if that settled something very important.

"Then I want to fix things, too," she declared, and ran off to a hand-crank station.

As evening fell fully, the Energy Playground shifted mood. Floodlights dimmed to a softer green, holo-constellations flickered into sharper detail overhead, and someone began projecting ambient starfields over the harbor water.

Pop-up food stalls ringed the area: vegetarian skewers, green tea desserts, star-shaped pastries. A rotating cast of local elites—Starley, Starshine, Starbond—took turns manning stands where people could sign up to volunteer for future energy projects or overseas deployments.

Starstream found a moment of relative quiet at the edge of the boardwalk, leaning on the railing where wooden planks met reinforced composite. Waves slapped the pylons below, rhythm steady and old.

Starradye's message scrolled through his console:

Green Swags proceeding within safe parameters. Viridian Outreach chains multiplying. Your playground is responsible for 12.7% of today's surplus. Irritatingly effective.

Starstream smirked and typed back:

Try coming down here before you model it next time. The sample size is... compelling.

A beat, then:

Already did. Starrapuff forced field verification. It was... acceptable.

He could almost hear Starrapuff's restrained cackle in the unspoken layers.

Another notification chimed. This one from Starbeam.

Status, Starstream?

Starstream tilted his head, watching a pair of kids argue cheerfully over who got to stomp on the biggest tread plate.

Energy Jam stable, he replied. Surplus shipping clean. Side effects include: elevated happiness, new circuits of social bonding, minor addiction to physically powered arcade mechanics.

Starbeam's answer came quickly.

Side effects approved. Happy Thanksgiving, Starstream.

Starstream stared at that line a little longer than he needed to.

Those three words, from a man who used to treat holidays like inconvenient gaps between reports, meant something.

He pocketed the console at last and wandered back into the crowd.

Near the center of the playground, someone had set up a massive collaborative holo-game: a cityscape that only stayed lit if enough people contributed tiny bits of power at various stations scattered across the plaza. People of all ages clustered around, laughing as they tried to keep the lights from dimming.

"Starstream!" called a familiar voice.

He turned to see Starvolt waving him over, hair messy, jacket tied around his waist.

"We've got a problem," Starvolt said as he approached.

"What kind?" Starstream asked, alert.

"The fun kind," Starvolt replied. "Too many players, not enough instructions. We're at risk of random chaos. We need organized chaos. This is your specialty."

Starstream inhaled, exhaled, then stepped up onto the nearest low platform.

The nearby chatter dimmed almost instinctively. Even here, in a setting that looked more like an arcade festival than a military installation, the sight of a Supreme Commander taking a vantage point had a gravitational pull.

"Everyone," Starstream called, his voice carrying without effort, "this is a cooperative system. You don't have to be strong to matter. You just have to be in rhythm."

Heads turned, curious.

He pointed out clusters of stations: hand dynamos, floor plates, arm-pump pistons, small kid-sized cranks.

"Pick a station," he said. "Any station. If you get tired, trade with someone. No one needs to prove anything. We're not measuring how hard you push, just that you show up."

A little girl lifted her hand.

"What if we're weak?" she asked.

Starstream's expression softened.

"Then you will save the city," he said. "Because the system is designed so that if only the strongest matter, it fails. We need every flicker. Every tiny input. That's how Starrup works."

The murmur that followed wasn't applause, exactly. It was a kind of collective exhale.

He clapped his hands once.

"All right," he said. "Let's bring the lights up together. Three... two... one..."

The plaza came alive.

From above, it might have looked like nothing more than a mass of bodies in motion. On the ground, it was a tapestry: old, young, tourists, locals, elites with rolled-up sleeves, Supreme Commander astride a tread plate with his boots half muddy, laughing when a child bumped into him trying to reach a crank.

The holo-city surged into brilliance. The system's overflow meter ticked past full, sending wave after wave of surplus power into the Viridian Outreach grid.

Somewhere out in Westonglappa, a street flicked from dark to light. Somewhere in Sollarisca, a community house suddenly had more power than it knew what to do with and cranked the heaters up just a little for a Lantern Night. Somewhere in Lunna, a barefoot garden's subtle floor lights glowed brighter, tracing luminous paths for tired soles.

In Starwave Port City, Starstream rode the wave of motion and sound, calling adjustments, laughing at missteps, guiding the pattern with the ease of someone who had spent his life turning complex systems into games people could actually win.

Later, when the holo-constellations dimmed and the last surplus shipment logged itself into a quiet green ledger, he found himself sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, shoes off, feet dangling above the water.

Starvolt dropped down beside him with a groan.

"I am too old to jump that much," Starvolt complained.

"You're three years younger than me," Starstream said.

"Which makes you ancient," Starvolt shot back.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching small waves slap the pylons.

"You did well," Starvolt said eventually. "Not just as an engineer. As... whatever we're calling this now."

"Social systems architect," Starstream suggested.

"Energy DJ," Starvolt countered.

Starstream huffed a quiet laugh.

"It felt good," he admitted. "Not just watching the graphs. Being in the middle of the circuitry."

Starvolt nudged him with an elbow.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Starstream," he said.

Starstream's gaze drifted out over the water, where reflections of green lights and distant ship beacons tangled with actual stars.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he answered. "To all of us... running on something more than just power."

He let his feet swing slowly, feeling the cool harbor breeze on his skin, the faint ache in his calves from stomping tread plates alongside children, the pleasant hum at the back of his mind that meant systems were stable and people were—at least for this night—more connected than they had been the day before.

In the green glow of Starrup's busiest port, with laughter still echoing down the promenade, Supreme Commander Starstream allowed himself to relax, just a little, content in the knowledge that this, too, was part of keeping the stars bright.

While Starstream's Energy Playground in Starwave Port City glowed down by the harbor, Thanksgiving rolled on in another corner of Starrup with a very different flavor of celebration—one measured not in watts, but in odds.

In Starrenprosp State, very large, the city of Starren Prosperis was already famous for its polished skyline and glittering finance towers. Tonight, one of those towers had been transformed into something halfway between a casino, a charity gala, and a math lecture.

At the center of it all stood Supreme Commander Starrastride.

He cut a sharp figure in his formal green uniform, jacket unbuttoned just enough to be human, tie pinned with three tiny star emblems arranged like a row of sevens. His hair was a clean emerald gradient, his eyes the exact shade of currency holograms, but his expression was calmer than any gambler's—measured, nearly serene.

He stood beneath a hanging holo-sign that read in bright letters:

TRIPLE-SEVEN CHARITY HALL – LUCK IS ONLY GOOD WHEN SHARED

An elite in a short coat—Starmony—hurried up beside him, tablet glowing with real-time stats.

"Commander Starrastride," she reported, "Starren Prosperis' Triple-Seven Hall is operating at one hundred and ten percent of expected capacity. We've already met the donation target for all ten rural cooperatives in Greenwealth State."

She flicked her fingers and the holo shifted: graphs of giving, lines rising steeply.

"Projected surplus," she added, "will cover emergency housing in Haliwatch, scholarships in Starrphailteom City, and a new clinic in Starren Enterprise."

Starrastride nodded slowly, eyes on the numbers.

"Any signs of exploitative behavior?" he asked. "Credit-fueled binge betting, organized hoarding, anything that smells like pre-clean capitalism?"

Starmony swiped to another screen. "Minimal," she said. "The built-in caps and auto-diversion rules are working. Once people win past a certain threshold, the system insists on asking, 'Who else shall we bless?' before it lets them pull again."

"Good," Starrastride said. "If people leave here bragging that they gave more than they won, we have succeeded."

He stepped forward toward the balcony rail, looking down over the main floor of the repurposed turbine hall.

Where once massive generator shafts had turned, there were now circular gaming tables and holoslots, all bathed in soft green light. Smart projectors had left the industrial bones of the building visible on purpose—pipes, beams, reinforced pillars. It wasn't a palace of greed; it was a machine repurposed into joy.

Every game bore the same glowing label somewhere on its surface:

WINS AUTO-CONVERTED TO: 70% PERSONAL, 30% MANDATORY CHARITY
TRIPLE SEVENS: 100% CHARITY, JACKPOT EVENT

Clusters of citizens in solid green attire moved from table to table, laughing in that slightly disbelieving way of people who had suddenly found themselves in a world where the house always cheated in their favor—but only if they shared.

A news drone swooped in, hovering just above eye level.

"Supreme Commander Starrastride," the reporter's voice chimed from the loudspeakers, "many off-world commentators say mixing gambling and charity is dangerous. What do you say to critics who think this encourages recklessness?"

Starrastride looked straight into the drone's lens.

"We have lived," he said, "through eras where recklessness was rewarded and responsibility was punished. Tonight we are running the opposite experiment: games where you cannot win big without someone else winning bigger."

He gestured to the floor below.

"Here in Starren Prosperis, a triple-seven is not a private shower of coins. It is a public festival. Watch."

Almost as if the universe had been waiting for its cue, a shout rose from one of the central holoslot clusters.

"Commander! We hit it!" someone yelled. "Triple sevens!"

Starrastride's eyes sharpened.

"Zoom there," he told the drone.

The feed cut to a table surrounded by a small crowd. A Sollariscan couple in borrowed green scarves stood at its center—orange undertones to their hair glinting under the emerald lights. The holoslot's reels showed three stylized star-sevens in a perfect row.

Overhead, alarms didn't blare. Instead, gentle bells rang and a large display lit up with words:

TRIPLE-SEVENS JACKPOT – INITIATING GREAT IMPRESSION EVENT

A list of charities and causes scrolled rapidly, then settled, each accompanied by a new, glowing figure:

77 HOMES BOUGHT OUTRIGHT FOR HOMELESS FAMILIES – GREENWEALTH STATE
7 RURAL CLINICS FUNDED – WESTONGLAPPA COASTAL CORRIDOR
7 BAREFOOT GARDEN PROJECTS SPONSORED – LUNNA, LUNAR REGIME
77 FULL SCHOLARSHIPS – GALAXENCHI ACADEMY NETWORK

The Sollariscan woman clapped a hand over her mouth.

"We didn't— we just—" She laughed, half-crying. "We were only trying to win enough to pay for our hostel."

The system chimed again, and a more modest figure appeared in front of them:

PERSONAL CREDIT: 7,000

The man exhaled shakily.

"We still got something," he said. "And all that...?"

Starmony's voice came over the hall speakers.

"All that went through," she said. "Guaranteed. Signed, sealed, dispatched. You two just made the universe a bit softer in four countries."

The crowd burst into applause, some people throwing handfuls of biodegradable green confetti into the air.

Up on the balcony, the reporter turned back to Starrastride.

"So, Commander," she said. "Your comment?"

Starrastride's gaze had softened as he watched the couple being swarmed by grateful strangers eager to pat their backs and shake their hands as if they'd personally lifted all seventy-seven families into those new homes.

"I say," he replied, "that if people want to try their luck, we can at least rig the system to make sure luck never stops with them."

He inclined his head, and the drone drifted away, satisfied.

Down on the floor, familiar names moved through the crowd—Starwis and Starwise, quietly logging data on people's behavior; Starbond talking politely with a Lunnan cultural attaché; Starlight and Stargry ensuring no one felt intimidated by the sheer scale of the giving.

"Commander."

Starmony tapped his arm again, drawing his attention to another holo. "We're ready for the mobile rollout. The 'Seven Steps' booths are live in Starren Andromeda and Starren Harmony. We can start the cross-state link whenever you give the word."

"Do it," Starrastride said. "If Starren Prosperis is the heart, they can be the limbs."

Across the state, in Starren Harmony, a similar—but smaller—event was underway inside a refurbished community centre. Instead of holoslots and plush tables, there were simple booths with glowing panels, each branded SEVEN STEPS TO SOMEONE ELSE'S LUCK.

People stepped up, pressed their palms to the pads, and watched as randomized lists of needs scrolled past—medical bills, school renovations, solar roof crowd-funding, community kitchen upgrades.

Each participant got seven "yes" votes they could assign wherever their heart pulled them.

In Haliwatch, a coastal city perched on the edge of Starrenprosp, the booths had been set up along the sea promenade, with the waves crashing as background music. A group of teenagers in matching jackets compared their choices, arguing cheerfully.

"You put all seven on hospital upgrades?" one asked. "Not even one on the music schools?"

"My little brother's sick," another replied. "If the hospital gets better scanners, that's worth more than seven guitars."

The system took in their choices, merged them with thousands more across the state, and turned them into prioritized funding routes that Starradye's analytics hub would refine and confirm. But to Starrastride, it wasn't just about the totals; it was about teaching people that their instinctive "yes" could be sharpened into something deliberate and powerful.

He left the balcony at last and descended into the Triple-Seven Hall itself. As he walked, people stepped aside in a subtle ripple, then closed back in around him. The air was thick with the sound of shuffling cards, spinning holo-wheels, the occasional triumphant shout.

At a corner table, an elderly couple from Greenwealth State were playing a gentle game of cooperative dice with a little girl perched between them, all three laughing when they "lost" just enough to trigger a consolation donation to a tree-planting project in Starrgrove Nexus.

"Commander," the old woman said when she noticed him. "Explain something to me. We keep losing and it keeps telling us we've 'unlocked saplings.' Is that... good?"

Starrastride smiled, a small genuine curve of his mouth.

"Very good," he said. "Every time those numbers light up, someone in Starrgrove Nexus gets paid to plant and tend real trees. This game is mostly an excuse to keep the funding flowing without making people fill out forms."

The girl's eyes sparkled.

"So we're forest heroes?" she asked.

"Yes," Starrastride said gravely. "Statistically significant forest heroes."

She squealed and insisted they play another round immediately.

Near the center of the hall, a small stage had been set up. An elite with a bright holo-mic—Starevangel—was in full animated host mode, narrating each triple-seven event that popped up.

"And there it is!" Starevangel cried as another bank of holos lit. "We've just hit our seventh triple-seven of the night! That means: seven more debt-free co-op kitchens in Ourabalgred, seven new scholarships for energy engineering in Starrcademia, and seventy-seven micro-grants for tiny eco-businesses across Sheaffannem City and Cirstallow City in Greensummer State!"

The crowd roared approval. Somewhere in the back, Starkelius and Starcrystal high-fived, because each new round of giving meant more fun accounting problems.

By the time the artificial night-lights shifted toward midnight hues, the Triple-Seven Hall had become less like a casino and more like a celebration of what probability could be forced to do when pointed at kindness.

Starrastride found a brief quiet on one of the high catwalks, looking down at the whole machine he and his staff had engineered. Starmony leaned on the rail beside him, hair a little frizzed from the humidity, eyes bright.

"It worked," she said softly. "All of it. People bragging not about what they scored, but about how many cities they helped."

He nodded, eyes tracking a family taking selfies under a holo-display that listed the projects their winnings had funded: homes in Starren Luster, water systems in Greenclearr Star State, a mental health clinic in Termmaddlina State.

"Do you ever worry," Starmony asked, "that we're making kindness into another kind of competition?"

Starrastride considered that.

"It is already a competition," he said. "Everything is. Status, image, power. I would rather the competition be about who can out-give than who can out-grab."

Starmony smiled faintly. "You sound almost... romantic."

"That would be Starbeam's influence," he replied dryly. "And Sunbeam's. And Moonbeam's. I've been exposed to too many speeches about hearts lately."

"They seem to be working," she said. "Look."

On one of the big central holos, a summary had appeared:

STARRENPROSP THANKSGIVING OUTPUT
Personal Winnings: UP
Hoarding Behavior: DOWN
Housing Security Index: UP
Reported Feelings of Isolation: DOWN
Charitable Transfers to Other Continents: OFF THE CHARTS

Underneath, someone from the tech crew had quietly added a joking line in tiny letters:

UNMEASURED METRIC: NUMBER OF PEOPLE WHO WENT HOME FEELING LESS ALONE

Starrastride's gaze lingered on that last line.

He thought of Starbeam in Solvanairebolis, sitting with Sunbeam in that cluttered office. He thought of Starradye venturing into the crowds, of Starradale's boots caked with soil in Starharvest Valley, of Starstream stomping tread plates beside children in Starwave Port City.

"And you, sir?" Starmony asked softly. "How are you spending what's left of your Thanksgiving?"

He looked down at the hall again as another small triple-seven event triggered a burst of green confetti over a table of Lunnan tourists and Westonglappan traders.

"I am," he said, "doing what I always do."

"Calculating?" she guessed.

"Walking the line," he answered. "Making sure that when luck blows through Starrup, it never blows only in one direction."

She watched him for a second, then chuckled.

"You know," she said, "for someone who speaks in probabilities, you're very predictable."

"That," Starrastride replied, "is statistically unlikely."

But his eyes were soft as he said it.

Down below, the Hall thrummed on into the night—cards turning, dice rolling, holoslots chiming—every chance, every "win," every lucky seven bent, by design, back toward others.

In Starren Prosperis, under the glow of the Great Impression, Supreme Commander Starrastride spent his Thanksgiving not chasing fortune, but escorting it—making sure, with every lever and every rule, that wealth kept moving, like starlight, from wherever it was brightest to wherever it was needed most.

While the Triple-Seven Charity Hall in Starren Prosperis kept roaring with cheers and confetti under Supreme Commander Starrastride, Thanksgiving found a very different tempo further north—quieter, wind-swept, but no less full of gratitude.

For Supreme Commander Starrastorm, joy had never really been about jackpots. It had always sounded more like turbines and distant thunder.

The first pale light of Thanksgiving morning slid across Greenclearr Star State, very large, catching on the long rows of stormbreaker towers that lined the coast. Their blades turned lazily in the soft seasonal breeze, a far cry from the screaming gales they'd been built to tame.

Starrastorm stood at the edge of an overlook above Starrpeak, coat unbuttoned, green hair tugged backward by the wind. His eyes—sharp, watchful, but tired around the edges—tracked the spin of the nearest turbines like a man listening for a heartbeat.

An elite stepped up beside him, boots crunching on the gravel path.

"Commander Starrastorm," she said, saluting. "Starraguard, reporting from the Stormwall Festival setup. All emergency drills are on schedule. Weather calm. Participation above projections."

He nodded once, approving.

"And the Green Swags kits?" he asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried, like the rumble behind distant clouds.

"Deployed," Starraguard replied. "Every household in the lower districts got their emergency case—lanterns, radios, solar chargers, first-aid packs. Most families keep them on their balconies now. Some decorated them with ribbons."

"Good," Starrastorm said. "If people are going to treat resilience as home décor, I approve."

Below them, Starrpeak was already awake. Streets were lined with stalls—not selling luxury goods like in Starren Prosperis, but practical Green Swags finds: discounted storm blankets, reinforced window seals, compact generators, water filters. Over every stand hung the same modest sign:

"WE PREPARE SO WE CAN RELAX."

Farther down the valley, an open square had been converted into a "Storm School Festival." Children in solid green jackets stood in circles around volunteer elites as they practiced evacuation routes that were more like games than drills.

From somewhere, a child squealed, laughing:
"Again! Make the siren noise again!"

Starrastorm's lips twitched into the faintest smile.

"Sometimes I worry," he said quietly, "that in this Great Impression, people will forget what danger feels like—and then panic when it returns."

Starraguard followed his gaze toward the distant sea, calm now, but never entirely trustworthy.

"But they showed up, sir," she said. "They took the kits. They signed up for the drills. They turned the old fear of storms into... family traditions."

She hesitated, then added, "They know who designed the early warning grids. The kids call you 'the man who talks to the sky.'"

Starrastorm snorted once, very softly.

"I prefer 'Supreme Commander,'" he said. "But I will accept 'the man who refuses to be surprised.'"

By midday, he was in Grassgroww State, large, stepping out of a simple flyer transport onto the outskirts of Greencitadel.

Thanksgiving here was a patchwork of fields and small towns linked by gleaming lines of storm-safe transit rails. Banners stretched over narrow streets:

GREEN SWAGS, STRONG ROOFS, FULL TABLES
GREAT IMPRESSION, GREATER COMPASSION

The local emergency volunteers had set up a combined Thanksgiving feast and "Ready Day" along the main road. Long tables of steaming vegetarian dishes—Star-Turducken slices, root-vegetable casseroles, herb bread—were interspersed with booths where people signed up for neighborhood watch networks, early-warning alert trees, and mutual-aid groups.

As Starrastorm walked through the crowd, heads turned. The murmurs began.

"Is that—?"
"Starrastorm?"
"The storm one, right? The quiet one."

A boy of about ten, holding a paper plate piled with food, stared up at him with wide eyes.

"Sir," the boy blurted, "do you really sleep during thunder?"

Starrastorm stopped.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I stay awake and count."

"Count what?" the boy asked.

"The seconds between lightning and thunder," Starrastorm replied. "It tells you how far away the storm is. Information makes things less frightening."

The boy frowned, considering this.

"So if I count," he said slowly, "I'll be less scared?"

"You might still be scared," Starrastorm said, honest but gentle. "But you'll be scared and informed. That's more powerful than just scared."

The boy nodded, oddly comforted, and ran back to tell his friends.

An older woman approached next, hair streaked with silver, green shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

"Commander," she said, "I remember storms before your grids. We used to hide in cellars and hope. Now my grandchildren watch the alerts on their tablets and argue about which emergency snack is best. It's..." She smiled, shaking her head. "It's a nicer kind of fear."

He dipped his head.

"Thank you for surviving long enough to see the upgrade," he said. "The systems only exist because people like you insisted we build them."

She laughed, eyes crinkling.

"You sound like Starradale," she said. "Always giving the credit back."

"He can keep the soil," Starrastorm replied. "I'll keep the clouds."

Later, as afternoon slanted toward evening, Starrastorm travelled to Starreveteggedon State, medium, where the land rose into hills and the sky seemed bigger, closer.

Here, in Starrwoodlands near the ridge of Starrsprout, the old war-siren towers had been converted into wind harps. They no longer screamed warnings; now they hummed when the wind passed, deep and strangely soothing.

Families gathered on blankets beneath them, wearing warm green coats, hands wrapped around cups of spiced tea. Children chased each other around the bases of the towers, tagging them like old friends.

At the center of the clearing, a simple platform had been set up. No glitz, no holo-screens. Just a mic, a small lantern, and a screen behind it filled with names—thousands of them, slowly scrolling.

Names of those lost in the years before the grids. Before the turbines. Before the barefoot gardens and Lantern Nights and Energy Playgrounds and Triple-Seven Halls.

Starrastorm stepped up to the mic. The wind-harps sang softly; the clearing fell quiet.

"Residents of Starrwoodlands," he began, voice low but steady, "and everyone visiting from across Starrup... and beyond."

A few Sollariscan and Lunnan visitors glanced up, startled he'd noticed them.

"Today," he said, "we have seen what abundance looks like. Green Swags sales. Great Impression headlines. People buying more than they had ever dreamed of owning—and then giving most of it away."

A small ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. They had all seen the footage from Starren Prosperis.

"In the noise of good fortune," Starrastorm said, "it is easy to forget the silence of the old nights. The ones where the lights went out and did not come back on. The ones where the wind broke windows and no early-warning ping arrived. The ones where the only thing between you and the storm was a door latch and a prayer you only half-believed in."

He glanced back at the scrolling names.

"Those nights," he continued, "are why we build what we build now. Why Starradye watches the numbers. Why Starradale walks the fields. Why Starrastream turns games into generators. Why Starrastride bends probability toward charity. Why Starbeam designs this Great Impression so it does not crush us under its own weight."

"And why I," he added, hand resting on the small lantern, "still walk the ridgelines looking for weak points in our walls."

The wind picked up, making the harps shiver with sound.

"But tonight," he said more softly, "I am not here to frighten you. I am here to say: you did it. We did it. This year, in storm season, the number of emergency evacuations across Starrup was the lowest in recorded history. Lightning still struck. Rain still fell. But our shelters held. Our grids stayed up. Our people stayed together."

He lifted the lantern; its green light caught in his eyes.

"So I ask you to do two things."

He raised one finger.

"First: remember. Say the names when they scroll past, even if you did not know the people behind them. You live in a safer Starrup because they did not."

A few heads bowed.

"Second," he said, raising a second finger, "enjoy this peace without guilt. Eat your Thanksgiving meals. Stand in Black Friday—Green Swags—lines for ridiculous massage chairs. Laugh under safe roofs. You are not dishonoring the dead by being happy. You are fulfilling the promise we made on every storm-battered morning: that one day, children would hear thunder and think, 'Cool,' instead of 'Run.'"

A small chuckle rippled through the crowd, wet with tears but real.

He stepped back from the mic. The names continued to scroll. People began reading them softly, a murmured litany, as the wind-harps thrummed above.

Starrastorm moved to the edge of the clearing, letting the families have the space.

An elite—Starrazen, coat open, hair mussed by the wind—joined him, holding two cups of hot tea.

"You sounded almost hopeful," Starrazen said, handing him one cup. "Careful. People might mistake you for an optimist."

Starrastorm accepted the drink, fingers grateful for the warmth.

"I am not an optimist," he said. "I am a cautious realist standing in a statistical outlier of good fortune."

Starrazen smirked. "Which is our complicated way of saying: this is nice."

"This is... nice," Starrastorm conceded.

They watched as a small girl tugged her father toward one of the storm towers.

"Papa," she said loudly enough for anyone to hear, "can we stay until it rains? I like how it sounds now. It doesn't sound angry anymore."

Her father glanced up, eyes shining.

"We'll see," he said. "But if it does, we'll count the seconds. Just like the Commander said."

Starrastorm sipped his tea, feeling that strange, unfamiliar warmth spread a little deeper—not from the drink, but from the scene itself.

By the time true night wrapped Starrup in deep emerald shadows, the continent was a mosaic of celebrations.

In Starrubervault {capital}, giant public screens flashed donation totals and gratitude messages. In Idollollipolis State, very large, eco-idol concerts packed plazas with fans waving biodegradable glowsticks, every ticket linked to some charity. In Ecosynomy State, medium, students held long "policy parties," where they toasted each new law that tilted economics further toward sustainability.

In a small, quiet office overlooking the hills of Starrendallon State, large, Starrastorm sat at a modest desk, boots off, a stack of reports on one side and a very simple Thanksgiving meal on the other: plant-based roast, roasted vegetables, a wedge of green-tea pie.

His wrist-console pinged.

STARBEAM (group chat – "Star High Command"):
Starren Prosperis reports stable operations. Triple-Seven program exceeded donation goals. Starradye, Starradale, Starrastream, Starrastride—status?

STARRADYE:
Data flows smooth. Great Impression remains... impressively non-catastrophic. Mildly unsettling, statistically speaking. In a good way.

STARRADALE:
Farmers ate well. Pumps running. Soil less tired. I call that a win.

STARRASTREAM:
Children powered half the Energy Playground with sheer stubbornness. Westonglappan hospital messaged a thank-you vid. Sending it to you now.

STARRASTRIDE:
People are arguing over who gave away more. I am comfortable with this arms race.

A pause. Then:

STARBEAM:
Starrastorm?

He stared at the blinking cursor for a moment.

Then he typed:

STARRASTORM:
Skies calm. Sirens mostly decorative. People practiced staying safe and then... forgot to be scared for a while.
I approve.

Three green checkmarks appeared almost instantly.

Another message, this time from outside the command channel:

SUNBEAM:
Heard rumor Starrup had a Thanksgiving with less anxiety and more generosity this year.
If true, I'm proud of you all.

Starrastorm read it twice. He could almost see the orange-haired General on some balcony in Solvanairebolis, phone in hand, surrounded by Lantern Nights and community houses.

He typed back, just once:

STARRASTORM:
We are learning from good influences.
Happy Thanksgiving, General.

He set the console aside at last and turned off the overhead lights.

Outside his window, he could see distant pinpricks of green: homes lit by clean grids, wind farms turning steadily, storm towers singing quietly to themselves.

Starrastorm folded his arms on the desk and rested his forehead against them for a moment, listening.

Not for trouble—though he would always be listening for that—but for the strange, unfamiliar sound that had crept into Starrup over these last few years:

A continent at peace, practicing how to stay that way.

It was, he decided, a very good way to spend Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in Starrup had started with grids and graphs, jackpots and drills.

By the time it reached Supreme Commander Starrapuff, it had turned into something softer: a holiday made of cushions, tea steam, and the quiet decision that no one should enjoy the Great Impression alone.

News feeds across Starrup replayed clips of the day: Starradye in his data hub, Starradale in muddy boots at Starharvest Valley, Starstream stomping tread plates with kids in Starwave Port City, Starrastride orchestrating triple-seven charity in Starren Prosperis, Starrastorm standing beneath wind-harps in Starrwoodlands.

Behind all those stories, one line kept repeating in commentary threads and late-night talk segments:

"We've seen the power, the luck, the preparation... but who made it all feel warm?"

Most people didn't see the answer at first, because the answer rarely stayed in front of a camera for long.

Starrapuff was busy moving.

In Idollollipolis State, very large, the capital Idollollipolis City was dressed for what local announcers had started calling the "Green Swags Glow Parade."

Entire avenues were strung with soft emerald lanterns. Solar ribbons spiraled up lamp posts. Streetcar lines glowed faintly, each one carrying little holo-banners that flashed:

GO GREEN, GROW GALACTIC
GREAT IMPRESSION, GENTLE HEARTS
THANKFUL, NOT THOUGHTLESS

Starrapuff wove through the backstage area of the main parade route, tablet hugged to her chest, headset on, coat sleeves rolled up. Compared to her fellow Supreme Commanders, her uniform was slightly less rigid—jacket tailored for movement, not intimidation; a bright green hair tie holding her bun in a loose knot that threatened to escape.

"Float six, tighten that safety line," she called into her mic, watching three eco-idol performers adjust their harnesses atop a slow-moving platform shaped like a giant star-shaped plant. "No, I don't care how cute you look if you fall off. Gravity is not impressed by aesthetics."

A harried stagehand ran up, panting.

"Commander Starrapuff," he said, "the Cozy Corners Initiative wants to know if they can start seating early. The benches are already full."

Starrapuff glanced at her tablet. A map of Idollollipolis City's central district glowed, dotted with little green icons—"Cozy Corners," temporary zones she'd ordered installed in every major shopping cluster for Green Swags weekend.

"Let them start," she said. "Add tea carts if we're under budget. If we're over budget, add tea carts anyway. If we're going to encourage people to shop, we should also encourage them to sit down with each other."

"Yes, ma'am."

He sprinted off.

An assistant elite—Starshimmer, crisp green blazer and an overstuffed satchel—caught up to her next.

"Commander," Starshimmer said, "we've got final numbers from the Soft Tech, Soft Hearts Expo in Starrendallon State, large. Attendance exceeded expectations. The mindfulness pods, the cuddle-robot demos, the 'talk to a human, not a screen' booths—"

She held out the tablet. Starrapuff skimmed.

"Loneliness markers?" Starrapuff asked, not looking up.

"Down," Starshimmer replied. "Sign-ups for ongoing support groups across Starrendallon up by twenty-eight percent."

Starrapuff smiled, small but satisfied.

"Good," she said. "I want thanksgiving to mean more than thankful for stuff. Thankful for people. Thankful with people."

Her headset crackled.

"Parade route to HQ," a voice said. "We've got Sollariscan and Lunnan guests already lining up along the boulevard. Some Westonglappan and Galaxenchi visitors too. They're asking where to stand, where to sit, what the program is, what the chants are..."

Starrapuff lifted the mic closer to her lips.

"Patch me through to all zone speakers in Idollollipolis central," she said.

There was a brief chirp, then quiet.

She straightened, breathed in once, and let her voice carry.

"Idollollipolis," she said, "this is Supreme Commander Starrapuff. If you hear me, congratulations—you've already found the best seat; it has you in it."

Scattered laughter rippled through the district as speakers relayed her words down streets and plazas.

"Today," she continued, "Starrup has shown the universe our grids, our games, our generosity. But I would like to remind everyone of something important: no matter how many credits you have in your account, the most valuable thing you can bring to this parade is yourself—and your willingness to stand next to someone and share the view."

She lifted her tablet, watching icons blink as Cozy Corners reported capacity.

"So," she said, "if you are here with friends, make your circle wide enough for one more. If you are here with family, remember families can be chosen. If you are here alone and feel awkward, please know that the Cozy Corners with green banners are specifically designed to absorb awkwardness. Sit there. We have tea."

The laughter this time was fuller, warmer.

"For our visitors from Sollarisca, Lunna, Westonglappa, Galaxenchi," Starrapuff added, "welcome. We are very proud of our vegetarian roasts and our functioning eco-trolleys. We are less proud of our inability to dance in sync, but we are working on it."

A cheer burst somewhere in the distance; a group of eco-idols, listening to the feed, pumped their fists.

"Let's make this a parade," Starrapuff finished, "where the headline isn't just 'Look at Starrup's wealth,' but 'Look at how Starrup's people make room for others.' Green Swags is not a storm of grabbing—it's a current of sharing. Let's show that with our feet as well as our wallets."

She gave the "cut" gesture. The line closed.

Starshimmer shook her head, impressed.

"You do remember you're supposed to enjoy a holiday, not just manage it, right?" she asked.

Starrapuff exhaled, shoulders loosening a little.

"This is how I enjoy it," she said. "Besides, I scheduled a break."

"You did?" Starshimmer asked, skeptical.

A notification popped up on Starrapuff's tablet.

BREAK REMINDER: Fifteen minutes of 'Not Fixing Everything.'

Starshimmer stared.

"You actually put that in the system?" she said.

"Starbeam did," Starrapuff replied dryly. "And marked it priority. If I ignore it, my console logs a wellness violation."

Starshimmer laughed. "He's learning from Sunbeam," she murmured. "Pro-socialism via time management."

The parade itself unfolded like an animated film across the city.

Floats shaped like turbines and trees rolled past, surrounded by dancers in layered shades of green. Eco-idols sang on moving stages, lyrics about clean air and second chances and "turning grief into gardens." Kids waved star-shaped balloons whose strings doubled as donation links to relief efforts in less fortunate regions.

From the Cozy Corners, Starrapuff's team streamed reactions: Sollariscan visitors trading stories of Lantern Nights in Solvanairebolis; Lunnan tourists showing pictures of Moonbeam's barefoot gardens to curious locals; a Galaxenchi professor perched on a couch explaining to a Westonglappan merchant how Galaxbeam had once lectured for four hours on the moral implications of recycling.

In the middle of it all, Starrapuff took her mandated break.

She slipped into one of the Cozy Corners herself—a circular seating area under a dome of leafy projections in a plaza off Starridol Avenue. The volunteers there did a double-take when they recognized her.

"Commander?" one of them—Starmin—asked. "You... want tea?"

"Yes," Starrapuff said. "Please. Treat me like a regular citizen for... eleven and a half minutes."

Starmin hurried to pour her a cup.

She sat, for once, not at the edge of everything, but in the circle.

On her left, a Sollariscan mechanic in an orange scarf was telling a Lunnan schoolteacher about Sunbeam's Sunrise Connection Initiative.

"He keeps saying no one should eat alone unless they want to," the mechanic said. "Now our community houses are always full. It's... loud. But less lonely."

The teacher nodded, blue hair catching the light.

"We just did something similar," he said. "Moonbeam had us walking barefoot through warm gardens, leaving glowing footprints. She kept saying, 'You belong here. The ground remembers you.'"

On Starrapuff's right, a young Starrup engineer was listening, eyes bright.

"In Starrup," she said, "we used to talk mainly about efficiency. Today... it feels like we're finally talking about comfort too."

Starrapuff sipped her tea quietly, hiding a smile behind the cup.

The mechanic noticed her epaulettes, then did a double-take.

"Sorry," he said, flushing. "Are we... complaining about your continent in front of you?"

"You're not complaining," Starrapuff said gently. "You're telling the truth. We have been bad at comfort. We're learning. Very quickly, thanks to certain orange and blue influences."

The Lunnan teacher laughed.

"Feel free to copy homework," he said. "Moonbeam says prosocialism isn't an exam; it's a group project."

"I like her," Starrapuff replied. "Remind her that if she ever needs solar panels for a new barefoot park, Starrup owes Lunna several truckloads."

The mechanic blinked. "Wait. Are you—"

"Starrapuff," she confirmed, offering a hand. "Yes. Supreme Commander. Also someone who is currently pretending not to be at work."

They shook her hand, stumbling over honorifics. She shook her head.

"Today," she said, "just 'Starrapuff' is fine."

A timer pinged quietly on her tablet.

Break over.

She stood, smoothing her coat.

"Enjoy the rest of Green Swags," she told them. "If anyone tries to sell you something you don't need, ask them if they're offering friendship and decent seating instead. If not, come back here."

She stepped out of the Cozy Corner, back into the flowing crowd.

Her smile lingered.

For twelve minutes, she had been just another person in a city full of people trying to figure out how to be generous with more than just money.

It tasted better than tea.

As afternoon tipped toward evening, Starrapuff's attention shifted to the quieter side of Thanksgiving: the people who struggled with crowds even when everything was joyful.

Her tablet buzzed with a message from Starradye.

Loneliness indicators in Idollollipolis trending down, but we are seeing stress spikes in high-sensory zones. Suggest mitigation.

She answered immediately.

On it. Deploying Quiet Lanes and Companion Volunteers.

Within an hour, teams of green-clad volunteers—many off-duty elites and civil servants—had set up Quiet Lanes: marked paths along the parade routes where lights dimmed, music softened, and conversation was encouraged to stay at library volume.

At the entrances, small signs read:

"If today is too loud, walk here. You are not failing Thanksgiving."

Starrapuff personally inspected one such lane in Old Starfen District. A teenage boy leaned against a lamppost just outside it, hands clenched in his jacket pockets, eyes on the roaring main street.

"Thinking about going in?" she asked.

He started, then shrugged.

"Looks... weird," he said. "Everyone else is shouting and waving signs. I don't want to be... lame."

"That lane," Starrapuff said, "is full of people who care enough about themselves to admit their ears exist. That isn't lame. That's intelligent."

He snorted, a little.

"What if someone sees me?" he asked.

"Then you can tell them a Supreme Commander recommended it," she said. "And that we built it on purpose. Starrup's strength isn't just about who can handle the most noise. It's about how many kinds of people we make room for."

He looked at her properly then, eyes widening as recognition clicked.

"You're—"

"Yes," she said. "Starrapuff. Come on. We'll walk it together once."

He hesitated, then nodded.

They stepped into the Quiet Lane. The difference was immediate: the parade was still visible at the edge of sight, but the sensory roar dropped to a gentle wash. Couples walked hand in hand, talking in low voices. A small group from Galaxenchi sat on a bench, sharing snacks and quietly ranking vegetarian roasts from different stalls. An older man dozed with his head back, a sign on his chest that read, "Not bored, just recharging."

The boy's shoulders lowered a few centimeters.

"Better?" Starrapuff asked.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Feels... like I can breathe again."

"Good," she said. "Now you can decide whether to go back into the main route, or stay here, or go home. Any answer is acceptable. Thanksgiving doesn't have a minimum decibel requirement."

He huffed a faint laugh.

"You really talk like that all the time?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "It's very annoying in staff meetings."

He smiled, then glanced back toward the noise.

"I'll stay here a bit," he said. "Then maybe... meet my friends later. When my head stops buzzing."

"Then the lane is doing its job," Starrapuff said.

Night finally settled over Starrup, and with it came the last phase of Starrapuff's Thanksgiving plan: turning all that wild Green Swags energy into something that would last longer than a discount tag.

In Ecosynomy State, medium, Starbalance Forum had been lit in soft green and white. There, economists, social workers, artists, and engineers sat in mixed circles, nibbling on leftovers while they sketched out "Kindness Infrastructure": permanent Cozy Corners, year-round Quiet Lanes, recurring "energy jam" festivals, and standard policies that tied every major sale to a visible act of charity.

Starrapuff joined via holo, her image projected at one end of the room.

"Today," she told them, "we found proof that Starrup loves to give when giving is easy, fun, and visible. Your job is to make sure that doesn't vanish when the sale banners come down. I don't want Green Swags to be a once-a-year miracle. I want it to be a rehearsal for how we behave all the time."

"We'll need legal frameworks," someone said.

"We'll need mental health support baked in," someone else added.

"We'll need art," another voice pointed out. "If it doesn't feel good, people won't keep doing it."

"Exactly," Starrapuff said. "Make it lawful, make it sustainable, make it beautiful."

She turned off the holo, trusting them to continue. They would. Starrup's people were very good at turning prototypes into blueprints.

For the first time all day, she returned to her own quarters in Starflare Capital.

Her apartment was perched halfway up one of the sky-towers—a medium-sized place by high-command standards, with one entire wall turned into a living green installation: a vertical garden of climbing plants and tiny star-shaped flowers under grow lights.

She set her tablet on the counter, unpinned her hair, and finally let out a long, unguarded breath.

A message chime sounded from the living room console.

She padded over, barefoot now, and opened it.

STARBEAM:
Parade coverage looks excellent. Cozy Corners popular. Quiet Lanes trending in mental health feeds.
You did well today, Starrapuff.

Another, sent a few minutes after:

Don't answer this until you've eaten.

She smiled, despite herself, and detoured to the kitchen.

Leftovers waited in containers—someone from logistics had clearly decided she could not be trusted to cook on a day like this. She heated a plate of Star-Turducken slices and vegetables, added a generous ladle of mushroom gravy, and sat on the couch with the plate on her knees.

Only then did she reply.

STARRAPUFF:
Ate. Hydrated. Sat still for a full sixty seconds.
Thanksgiving success metrics:
– Fewer lonely corners in Idollollipolis.
– More couches filled with mixed groups.
– Slightly less pressure to "perform happiness," slightly more room to actually feel it.
I'll send you the full report when the numbers stabilize.

Starbeam's answer came a little later.

STARBEAM:
No rush. Spend at least part of tonight as a citizen, not a commander.
That's an order.

She shook her head, amused, and set the console aside.

For a while, she simply ate and watched the city through her window.

Starflare glowed—green walkways, humming trams, building outlines traced in soft light. In the distance, she could see one of Quiet Lanes, a faintly dimmer ribbon along a bright street. It made her oddly proud.

Another message blinked, this time from an unexpected contact.

SUNBEAM:
Starrup's streams are full of couches and tea tonight. Cozy Corners look... very Solar-compatible.
Thank you for taking care of my people who wandered over there.

She read it twice, warmed.

STARRAPUFF:
Thank you for inventing social infrastructure we could copy without shame.
If any of your citizens get lost in our parades again, we'll seat them, feed them, and send them home with at least three new potential friends.

One more ping.

MOONBEAM:
I saw the Quiet Lane signs. "You are not failing Thanksgiving."
That line made a lot of Lunnan hearts breathe easier.
Consider it officially stolen.

Starrapuff laughed softly, alone in her living room.

STARRAPUFF:
Take it. I'll send you the design files. Barefoot-friendly version.

She set the console down for good then, finished her meal, and turned off the main lights.

Her living wall glowed faintly. Outside, the city pulsed gently, like a contented heartbeat.

Starrapuff curled up sideways on the couch, one hand beneath her cheek, listening to the muted hum of a continent that—for one long Green Swags Thanksgiving weekend—had managed to be powerful, wealthy, and deeply kind, all at once.

She was tired down to her bones.

She was also, quietly, very happy.

This, she thought as she drifted toward sleep, was what Starrup's wealth was truly for: not the gadgets, not the jackpots, but the way it could be poured into couches, tea, softer corners, and signs that told anxious hearts, "You're allowed to be here exactly as you are."

For a Supreme Commander whose mandate was culture and morale, there was no better way to spend Thanksgiving.

Across Starrup, the night after Green Swags did not calm so much as soften.

While Starbeam reviewed reports in his tower and Starrapuff finally slept under her living wall of greenery, the continent's glow shifted from roaring parades and stampede sales into smaller pockets of warmth—little scenes where Star Regime elites quietly turned wealth into connection.

In <Starrenmid State, large>, the sky over Starrenflight Town was streaked with green holographic arrows pointing not toward the luxury districts, but toward a shabby old transit depot that someone had wrapped in fairy lights and banners.

A glowing sign floated above the entrance:

STAR-SWAP NIGHT
Trade What You Don't Need. Fund What You Do.

Inside, tables groaned under stacks of gently used devices: old game consoles, last-year tablets, surplus smart lenses, retired holo-projectors. Everything was sorted into neat categories, each with a little tag showing what charity the "re-homed" tech would support.

At one end of the hall, Starsword leaned over a box of controllers, green jacket thrown over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up. Across from him, Starsuna sat cross-legged on the table itself, in a casual hoodie the same bright emerald as her eyes, swinging her feet as she sorted.

"Okay," Starsuna said, holding up a console with glitter stickers all over it, "this one goes to 'Starrendallon Rural Learning Pods.' Look at the stars someone drew on the side. You can't just melt that into scrap."

"We are not melting anything," Starsword objected. "We are... cascading assets."

"That is not a phrase a child wants to hear when they hand you their old game system," she replied. "They want to hear, 'We'll find this a new friend.'"

He sighed, defeated.

"Fine," he said. "We'll cascade assets into new friends."

A teenage boy in a worn green jacket approached, clutching a battered holo-handset.

"Um," he said, "is this... good enough? It works. Mostly. I just... upgraded this morning and didn't want to throw it away."

Starsuna hopped down, face brightening.

"Perfect," she said. "What are you hoping it turns into? More school devices? Community house screens? Emergency comms for storm zones?"

He shrugged, embarrassed.

"Kids in the smaller towns," he said. "The ones who still have to share one tablet per classroom. They should get the new stuff."

Starsword's gaze sharpened.

"We can arrange that," he said quietly. "You know, you could have sold this yourself."

The boy looked at him like he'd suggested selling air.

"I already got my new one," he said. "It's... enough. I don't need two lives."

Starsuna grinned, pressing a small green token into his palm.

"Here," she said. "Star-Swap thanks you. This gets you free drinks and snacks at any Cozy Corner in Idollollipolis or Starrenmid for the rest of Green Swags weekend."

He stared at the token, then at the rows of elites and volunteers laughing and sorting and tagging piles for shipping.

"You guys are... really doing all this just to give stuff away?" he asked.

"Correction," Starsword said dryly. "We are weaponizing abundance."

Starsuna elbowed him. "Translation: yes. We're giving things away."

Outside, rows of trucks waited, bound for Grassgroww State, large, Starrendallon State, large, and a long list of smaller towns scattered across Starrup's map. Each box was labeled with both its contents and its destination, but also, in smaller handwriting, with something else:

"From someone whose hands were full, to someone whose hands were empty."

Starsword didn't write that line. Starsuna did. He let it stay.

It tested well in his heart.

—

Far to the south, in <Greenwealth State, very large>, the air over Starrgrove Nexus was heavy with the scent of citrus and wet leaves. The orchards that ringed the city glowed under bio-lanterns hung from carefully pruned branches.

Here, Green Swags didn't look like electronics and jewelry. It looked like fruit.

"Buy one crate, fund ten trees," called Starconservation, standing on an overturned crate at the edge of a stall, dark green coat undone, tie loosened. His hair was the same color as the leaves around him, his eyes catching every movement like a scanning drone that had decided to specialize in smiles instead of threats.

He held up a datapad showing the numbers.

"For every crate you take home," he continued, "our partners in Ecolimpyusia State, small and Grassgroww State, large get the resources to plant ten new saplings. Buy two crates, and we turn one of them directly into emergency food stock in Cashhuu State, medium for families still climbing out of debt. Green wealth is not meant to sit. It's meant to flow."

Next to him, Starroseldda—hair in loose curls, deep green dress dusted with petals from the nearby packing lines—arranged sample plates of sliced fruit.

"They're not listening to your math," she said under her breath. "They're listening to whether my samples are sweet enough."

"They will listen to the math," he murmured back, "once your samples make them sentimental."

A family approached: parents, three kids, clothes modest but carefully kept. The mother eyed the crates, chewing her lip.

"They look... expensive," she said.

"Only if you consider them alone," Starconservation replied. "If you consider the trees, the emergency reserves, the farmer cooperatives in Ourabalgred and Euraphenmenna... they're actually very cheap."

The father chuckled. "You sound like an advertisement."

"I am an economist," Starconservation said. "Advertisements copied us."

Starroseldda offered them each a slice.

"Try," she said. "If you like it and can't afford a full crate, we'll match you with a neighbor who bought too many. Great Impression rule number seven: no one's fridge hoards joy while someone else's is empty."

The smallest kid bit into the fruit and brightened.

"Mama," he said around the mouthful, "the trees taste like sunshine."

Starroseldda's heart twisted.

"Sunbeam would like that sentence," she murmured.

"Then send it to him later," Starconservation said. "We'll log it as qualitative data."

They did. With a picture.

By the end of the night, the orchards had sold out. Not a single crate went only to one home. Every purchase came with a story about where the rest had been diverted: to Starrendallon's quiet neighborhoods, to Greencamononn State, large's border towns, to storm-shelter reserves co-managed with Starrastorm's teams.

Greenwealth had never lived up to its name more.

—

In <Idollollipolis State, very large>, the lights of Idollollipolis City pulsed like a beating heart.

The main arena was packed to the rafters for the Green Swags Gratitude Live, a cross between a Thanksgiving concert and a mutual appreciation ritual. Fans in bright green jackets clutched lightsticks shaped like tiny wind turbines.

On stage, Starley Sweetbeat stood at the center, glittering in layered green ruffles, mic in hand. To her left, Starsuna—who had apparently teleported here after Star-Swap Night—spun in a stylish jacket and shorts. To her right, Staryuuki adjusted green-tinted glasses, fingers poised over a synth deck.

"Idollollipolis!" Starley cried, throwing an arm up. "Usually we come here asking you to buy things. Albums, tickets, glowsticks, plushies. Tonight, we're doing it backwards."

The crowd screamed, confused and delighted.

"Tonight," Starsuna chimed in, grinning, "we spent money on you."

Holo-screens behind them flickered to life, showing receipts: donations to small art schools in Starrenjakkron State, medium, grants to indie game studios in Ecosynomy State, medium, sponsorships for dance troupes in Termmaddlina State, very large.

"We took a big cut of our Green Swags merch share," Staryuuki explained, voice a little shy but clear, "and turned it into seed funding. You bought our songs. We bought your futures."

"Also," Starley added, "we set up a sign-up wall in the lobby."

Cameras cut to the main concourse, where a huge holo screen was covered in digital sticky notes. Each note contained a fan's dream: "Start a green fashion line." "Open a bakery in Starrenflight Town." "Compose music for community lantern nights."

"And we asked one question," Starsuna said. "'Who would you like to meet who might help you with this?'"

The notes began to glow different colors—matches formed by some gleefully overworked algorithm.

"So after the show," Starley said, "instead of lining up to tell us your feelings, you're going to meet each other. We're renting the arena for three more hours. Free snacks. Soft music. We'll be wandering around too, but the main event is you making your own alliances."

A hush. Then a roar that shook the camera drones.

"In short," Staryuuki said, pushing up his glasses, "this is the first ever Star Regime Great Impression Networking Session Slash Feelings Party."

"Who named it that?" Starsuna whispered loudly.

"Starrapuff," he replied. "She said if it sounded silly, people would feel less scared."

Fans laughed, cried, chanted names. Somewhere in the cheap seats, a lonely fan who had come "just to watch" realized their dream note had three connections glowing already.

They would go home with a new group chat, not just a new piece of merch.

For the elites on stage, this was the best chart ranking any song could get.

—

Not everywhere was loud.

In <Ecosynomy State, medium>, the coastal city of Starrathalassa had swapped the chaos of downtown malls for something more measured.

On one corner, a café glowed softly: "The Ledger & Lantern." Inside, the special Green Swags sign read:

ORDER ONE DRINK, GET ONE BUDGET.
Free, nonjudgmental spending plans included.

Behind the counter, wearing matching dark-green aprons over their uniforms, Starwis and Starwise had turned financial audits into something almost cozy.

"So," Starwise said, pouring tea for a young woman whose hands shook a little as she slid over her spending log, "you gave away... quite a lot today."

The woman winced.

"I kept seeing posts," she said. "People buying houses for strangers, clearing debts, dropping huge donations. I had some savings and thought, 'If I don't give most of it, does that mean I'm selfish?'"

Starwis scanned the figures, eyes flicking between columns.

"You are not selfish," he said firmly. "You are not a continent. You are a person with rent and medical bills and a very realistic grocery line."

She snorted weakly.

"Tell that to my guilt," she murmured.

"That is what the spreadsheet is for," Starwise said, turning the tablet so she could see. "Here. This is what you can safely give over the next year without endangering yourself. Divide it into twelve portions. You can be generous consistently, not just explosively."

"And here," Starwis added, highlighting another section, "is a budget line for joy. Not just duty. You are allowed to spend on things that make you feel alive."

"Is that... prosocialism?" she asked.

"It's basic emotional math," Starwise replied. "And good strategy. Burned-out givers stop giving. Balanced givers keep going."

He slid a small card across the counter.

"Also," he said, "we're starting a monthly group here. People who want to talk about money without shame. You'd be very welcome."

Outside, the café's windows reflected the harbor lights. Inside, people lined up not for discounts, but for a chance to confess that being kind while staying solvent was hard—and to have elites in green aprons quietly assure them that caring for themselves was part of caring for others.

It was, in its own way, the Star Regime's version of therapy.

With better tea.

—

Higher up in <Starreveteggedon State,medium>, the town of Starralythios clung to cliffs that dropped into a foaming sea. The storms here used to be violent enough that people joked about the sky "forgetting its safety settings."

Now, thanks to Starstorm's grids and Starrastorm's harps, the region had turned its trauma into a tourist draw.

This Green Swags night, though, the crowds had thinned. The big sales were in the flatter, more urban states. Under the whistling wind towers, Green Swags in Starralythios looked like firelight and hot soup.

On a grassy ledge above town, Starstorm (the elite, not the Supreme Commander) stood with a group of locals and a few out-of-town guests. They had pushed together a ragged circle of chairs, their faces lit by a ring of small, storm-powered lanterns on the ground.

"Be honest," Starstorm said, green cloak flapping behind him. "Raise your hand if you hate thunderstorms a little less now that you know they're powering your heaters."

Several hands went up. A few people laughed.

An older man shook his head.

"I still don't like them," he said. "But I like the part where I can make soup and not worry the power will die halfway through."

Next to him, Starshine—hair in a bright braid, coat lined with reflective threads—passed out steaming cups.

"We can't erase the past," she said. "But we can rebrand it."

"That's not a scientific term," Starstorm muttered.

"It is now," she replied.

A child tugged at his sleeve.

"Commander," the child asked, "is it okay if I like storms? My grandma says she's scared, but I think they sound pretty."

Starstorm knelt so they could look each other in the eye.

"It is okay to be scared," he said. "It is okay to not be. What matters is that no one has to be alone with either feeling."

Starshine nodded, tapping her cup against his.

"Well said," she murmured.

As if on cue, distant lightning flickered over the sea. The wind-harps on a nearby ridge answered with a low, thrumming chord.

No one ran inside.

They just counted between flash and sound, together, out loud, as if reciting a prayer to the new order: powerful, but predictable.

Someone started humming a tune. Someone else joined. By the time thunder rolled in, the ledge had turned into a small, off-key choir.

Green Swags in Starralythios, it seemed, was less about what you could buy and more about what you could face without flinching anymore.

—

And all across Starrup, similar moments unfolded.

In Haliwatch of <Starrenprosp State, very large>, Starbuck and Starmoderamma turned a ridiculous coffee sale into a "buy one, send one" program for overworked hospital staff in Westonglappa.

In Starrenknolle {capital} of <Starrengrade State, very large>, Starlight projected constellations onto the undersides of clouds so that kids from Sollarisca and Lunna visiting for Green Swags could trace shapes they recognized from home, then new ones they would only ever see here.

In Vespmereine {capital} of <Ecolimpyusia State, small>, Starwater and Starroseldda helped families from drought-prone regions fill portable filters for free, writing little notes on each case: "You deserved this all along."

In Starreniphanommal of <Starrenjakkron State, medium>, Starley Sweetbeat slipped into a tiny community hall after her arena concert, still in her glittering dress but barefoot now, singing unplugged lullabies with local musicians for elders who couldn't handle the big crowds.

Everywhere, the same pattern repeated: green jackets, green hair, green eyes, green credits—and a stubborn refusal to let any of it turn cold.

Starrup, on its most extravagant Green Swags Thanksgiving, looked less like a capitalist dream and more like a carefully choreographed experiment in what happens when a whole continent decides wealth is only interesting if it passes through as many hands as possible.

For the elites of the Star Regime, that was the real jackpot: not the numbers on their screens, but the way people in Starrenflight Town, Starrgrove Nexus, Idollollipolis City, Starrathalassa, Starralythios, and a hundred other places started to talk about Green Swags not as "the day we bought everything," but as:

"The day we finally had more than enough—and proved it by how easily we let it go."

Starrup's Thanksgiving ended the way it had begun: not with a single grand gesture, but with a million small, deliberate choices to be kind.

By the time the last Green Swags signs dimmed and the last eco-idol packed away her glittering microphone, the Star Regime's emerald continent felt subtly different. People in Starflare Capital were already joking that "wealth doesn't count unless it leaves your hands twice." Families in Idollollipolis City were setting up group chats with strangers they'd met in Cozy Corners. Quiet Lanes had become a permanent map layer in more than one city planning office. In Starharvest Valley and Grassgroww's orchards, crates were labeled not just with destinations, but with names, stories, and promises.

From the high tower in Starflare, Starbeam watched the last wave of Green Swags data scroll across his displays: donation volumes cresting, loneliness surveys dipping, power consumption curves flattening where the grids had held. Somewhere in another tower, Starrapuff fell asleep on her couch with a half-written report still glowing on her console, her living wall of plants gently breathing out oxygen over her.

Across Starrup's states—Starrenprosp and Starrengrade, Idollollipolis and Ecolimpyusia, Starreveteggedon's cliff-top towns and Greenwealth's citrus belts—Star Regime elites were closing their own doors on a holiday that had somehow managed to hold both opulence and restraint, spectacle and softness. They had given away more than they kept. They had treated luck as a tool rather than a trophy.

"Not bad," Starbeam murmured to himself, fingers steepled, as the last graph stabilized. "For a continent once afraid of smiling in public."

He sent one final, quiet message outward, invisible to the news feeds:

TO: SOLAR REGIME – SUNBEAM
SUBJECT: DATA AFTERGLOW

Your prosocial lanterns lit our circuitry.
We will return the favor in grids.

Then another:

TO: GALAXENCHI – PROFESSOR GALAXBEAM
SUBJECT: OBSERVATION REQUEST

When you are done watching all of us, I would appreciate your notes.

He did not know, of course, that the one he had written to was already watching—and not only Titanumas.

—

Far beyond Starrup's green glow, beyond Sollarisca's orange warmth, beyond Lunna's silver-blue snows, the narrative itself bent sideways.

Space folded into something more like a page than a vacuum.

Gold light spilled in.

Professor Prince Galaxbeam—Absolute Leader of the Galaxy Regime, headmaster of the Galaxenchi academies, and occasional destroyer of narrative boundaries—leaned lazily against the polished railing of a colossal cruise ship, his long coat undone to the sea breeze.

The vessel itself was absurd: a floating palace of brushed gold and crystal, gliding through a deep indigo ocean under a sky full of unfamiliar stars. Holographic koi traced lazy arcs above the pool deck. A piano somewhere inside was playing a gentle jazz arrangement of a Galaxenchi anthem.

Galaxbeam lifted his hand.

Screens blossomed in the air around him like soap bubbles: some showing Titanumas—Starrup's parades, Sollarisca's Lantern Nights, Lunna's barefoot gardens—others showing something completely different.

Our world.

"好了，到了这段了。" he said, Mandarin smooth and amused. "Very well. Time to address the readers directly."

He turned his golden eyes straight toward you.

"Yes, you," he added in English, lips quirking. "The human currently scrolling, squinting, perhaps procrastinating some real-life responsibility. Happy Thanksgiving, wherever and whenever you are. And, hm... tread carefully on Black Friday."

He flicked two fingers.

One of the hovering screens sharpened into a U.S. news broadcast. Crowded airport terminals, TSA lines, people in puffy jackets sleeping on the floor.

"As of this moment," Galaxbeam narrated calmly, "your United States has just staggered out of a federal government shutdown that ran from the start of October until mid-November. Museums shuttered, hundreds of thousands of workers furloughed, all because your lawmakers needed an extra dozen tries to agree on a budget." ()

Another window popped up: maps streaked in blue and purple, a meteorologist standing in front of swirling radar.

"And now," he went on, "millions of you are attempting to travel through a polar front and winter storms—lake-effect snow hammering the Great Lakes, heavy snow across the Rockies and Midwest, cold air spilling down as if the Arctic itself got curious about your stuffing recipes." ()

He tilted his head, watching delayed-flight numbers tick upward.

"Thirty-one million of you flying, give or take," he mused. "Your airlines are very optimistic. Your weather patterns are... less so." ()

He snapped his fingers; the airport sound muted.

New screens spun into view. A stylized map of Southeast Asia marked with a thin red border.

"Beyond your holiday tables," Galaxbeam continued, voice softening, "your world wrestles with weight much heavier than sale flyers. Along the Cambodian–Thai border, a crisis painstakingly cooled by ceasefires and a Kuala Lumpur accord tries not to flare back into open war." ()

Another screen shifted to Central Africa, crowded with colored overlays.

"In Central Africa, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Rwanda inch toward a peace that might finally loosen thirty years of tangled suffering. Agreements signed, clauses written, but paper, as you know, is more fragile than people's fear." ()

Frames changed again: an overhead shot of ruined buildings; a caption referencing the West Bank; footage of refugees.

"In the West Bank, an operation named 'Iron Wall' grinds on—military control, demolished camps, tens of thousands displaced, a conflict older than most of you reading this, yet somehow always 'breaking news' again." ()

Another window: missiles arcing over maps of Iran and Israel; talking heads, ticker tapes screaming about escalation.

"Further west and south," Galaxbeam added, "Iran and Israel drag their shadow war into open skies—missiles, drones, nuclear sites, great powers playing bodyguard and occasional combatant. Your species insists on making the phrase 'escalation' do a great deal of work." ()

He sighed, flicking his fingers once more.

A still image now: collapsed buildings in Myanmar, aid workers picking through rubble.

"Even your earthquakes are political," he murmured. "In Myanmar, the ground itself shook, and the tremors merely layered another crisis upon your civil war, ceasefires and airstrikes tangled with relief and obstruction." ()

The wind shifted over the deck. Somewhere below, passengers laughed over a late-night buffet. The cruise ship's wake shone silver where it tore through the dark.

Galaxbeam let the windows hang around him like a crown of fragile, glowing ghosts.

"You live," he told you plainly, "on a world where gratitude and grief share the same week. Where some of you line up for discounted televisions while others line up for food, for safety, for the right to sleep without artillery in the distance. Where one airport delay can feel like the end of the world, and yet the real endings are happening quietly, off-camera, in camps and borderlands your news scrolls past too quickly."

He folded his arms along the rail and leaned out over the sea.

"Still," he said, "you are reading a story about made-up continents and color-coded regimes. This is not foolish. Stories are how you rehearse being better than your current headlines."

He smiled, small and genuinely fond.

"So," he continued, letting the languages slip together like cards between his fingers, "to you on Earth-Prime:"

"感恩节快乐，注意安全。" (Gǎn'ēn Jié kuàilè, zhùyì ānquán – Happy Thanksgiving, take care of yourselves.)

"感恩節快樂，出門要小心啲。" (gam2 jan1 zit3 faai3 lok6, ceot1 mun4 jiu3 siu2 sam1 di1 – Happy Thanksgiving; if you go out, be extra careful.)

"感謝祭おめでとう。ブラックフライデーでも、心はセールしないでください。" (Kanshasai omedetō. Even on Black Friday, don't put your heart on discount.)

He chuckled at his own line.

"Your flights may be delayed. Your trains may be snowbound. Your politicians may still be arguing even after the lights come back on," he said. "Eat what you can. Rest when possible. Text someone lonely. And for the love of all galaxies—do not trample each other for a slightly cheaper toaster."

The screens winked out, one by one, until only the starlight remained.

The story slipped back into Titanumas.

Galaxbeam straightened, rolling his shoulders. The sea breeze tugged at his hair; his coat fluttered like a small solar sail. Around him, the golden cruise ship's deck glowed with soft lanterns. Behind tinted glass, guests clinked glasses at a pre-Thanksgiving formal, unaware that their Absolute Leader was using his vacation to lecture an entirely different universe.

A Galaxenchi attendant approached, bowing.

"銀河王子閣下，今晚のプログラムを確認してもよろしいでしょうか？" the attendant asked in lilting Japanese. "Prince of the Galaxy, shall I review tonight's program with you?"

"In a moment," Galaxbeam replied, switching to Mandarin first. "先等等。地球那邊還在下雪，我要看他們有沒有回家。" (Wait. It's still snowing on Earth; I want to see if they make it home.)

Then, in Cantonese, half to himself, "啲人喺機場度等到發霉，都仲想返屋企食火雞...真係好可愛。" (People going moldy waiting at the airport, still desperate to get home for turkey... honestly quite endearing.)

Finally, in Japanese, with a lighter tone, "でも、こっちも感謝祭の用意をしないとね。" (Still, we should prepare for our own Thanksgiving, shouldn't we?)

He stepped away from the rail and walked toward the ship's bow.

Behind him, the wake stretched like a comet's tail. Above, unfamiliar constellations watched; somewhere ahead, hidden by horizon and darkness, lay the sea route back to Galaxenchi—the archipelago of shimmering islands and vertical academies that called him home.

As he walked, he raised one hand again. A small, private window opened in the air before him: not Earth's news this time, but a quiet, live feed from Titanumas.

Sunbeam, still in his office, sleeves rolled up, arguing gently with Sunwis about how many speed-dating nights a single city could sustain.

Moonbeam, in Lunna, laughing as she walked barefoot through a lantern-lit garden, sending yet another picture of glowing footprints to her orange lover.

Starbeam, back in Starflare, eyes closed at last in a chair, a half-flickering holoscreen full of prosocial data still hovering over his shoulder.

"孩子們。" Galaxbeam murmured fondly. "My bright little overachievers."

The ship's horn sounded, low and resonant, vibrating through the deck.

Clouds thickened ahead, a darker band against the stars. The sea, which had been calmly obedient, began to toss subtle, uneasy ripples against the hull. Far off, lightning flickered—silent for now, like a camera flash from some enormous unseen observer.

Galaxbeam's expression turned thoughtful.

"Hmm," he said quietly, golden eyes narrowing toward the dark line where sky met sea. "How interesting."

He closed the last window with a snap.

Behind him, music swelled in the ballroom. Above him, the stars of two universes seemed, for a heartbeat, to lean a little closer.

In front of him, somewhere inside that gathering storm, something waited: a disturbance in the story, a question mark on the route home, a new thread tugging at the edge of Titanumas and Earth alike.

He smiled, very slowly.

"Readers," he said under his breath, without turning around, "stay warm. Stay safe. And keep your eyes open."

The golden ship sailed on into the darkening sea.

The first drop of rain hit the deck—

—and the chapter ended.