Read the previous piece in the series below
Life's good right now, I suppose. I've been home for a week, thanks to the funeral, and I've got another seven days off work. Mostly, I've been hanging out with David. Occasionally, I meet with the crew to discuss our plans. Despite their belief that I'm their savior, they don't treat me any more special than anyone else. Sometimes, I feel like they treat me less special. Like the other day, when I asked about a plan for Apio, who knew about the potion, and got cut off mid-sentence. Or when I was examining a device Decoco handed me while he worked on his lock picker, and he snapped at me, “Just hold it. I didn’t tell you to play with it.” His face was harsh and intimidating. I still don't fully grasp my role in this plot to save the slaves, but I know it involves stealing a proprietary randomization predictor from Vuyos.
David and I don't talk much about the crew. He’s a quiet guy and doesn’t reveal much about himself. He takes me to these human-only spots, jazz bars mostly, where he drinks coffee and loses himself in the music. Every time, I'm amazed by how absorbed he gets, his eyes distant, breathing slow like he's on some high dose of cannabinoids. I have asked me many times to come and have dinner at home. Mzee and Mukadde would be overjoyed to share a meal with him again. Every time he comes up with an excuse that is so ridiculously unbelievable after some point, I stop asking.
David’s home is an enigma, much like the man himself. The moment you step inside, it’s clear this isn’t a place of permanence. The sparse furniture—just a sleek, metallic couch, a small table, and a single armchair—suggests a transient lifestyle. There are no personal touches, no family photos or mementos, just an odd assortment of objects that seem out of place.
The walls, made of a smooth, reflective material, are bare except for a large, abstract holographic painting that looks hastily projected. The kitchen, if you can call it that, is almost unused. A single cup, a plate, and a fork are the only items in the sink, and the fridge hums emptily save for a few nutrient packs and a half-empty container of liquid sustenance.
David’s bookshelf is perhaps the most telling. It holds a collection of obscure texts, many of them old and weathered, titles in languages I can’t recognize. Among them is the Liber AL vel Legis, the book he insists I read. There’s a layer of dust on some of the shelves, indicating that many of the books haven’t been touched in a while.
In the sleeping pod, the bed is always impeccably made, almost as if it’s never slept in. The closet holds a few sets of clothes, all in dark, muted colors, hanging neatly. There’s an air of temporary occupation as if he could pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. There’s no warmth, no sign of life beyond the necessities. It feels more like a stage set, a carefully constructed facade hiding the real David, who remains as elusive as ever.
The heavy door of Meat & Drink, a cafe a few homes from David’s, creaks open, and a wall of noise hits us. The place is already buzzing, even this early in the day. Smoke hangs thick in the air, mingling with the sharp scent of booze and something chemical I can't quite place.
"Do these people ever sleep?" I mutter to David as we weave through the crowd.
He just shrugs, a half-smile playing on his lips. "When you're running from something, sleep's the last thing on your mind."
We slip into one of the private rooms at the back, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the door muffles the chaos outside. The rest of the crew is already there, lounging on mismatched furniture that has seen better days.
David clears his throat. "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," he intones, his voice taking on that weird, formal quality it always does with these greetings.
"Love is the law. Love under will," we all chant back, like some bizarre cult. I still feel ridiculous every time we do this, but I play along.
The door swings open again, and Maria steps in, leading a wide-eyed woman who looks about as out of place as I felt a week ago. The newcomer's gaze lands on Decoco, and her jaw drops.
“Kamuli, I’ve always known who you are,” he begins, his tone calm but firm. Kamuli, still stunned, glances at Maria, who hugs her tighter for reassurance. “And I’ve been working with your girlfriend for quite some time.” He continues, “Today, you’ll understand why I gave you the potion and what favor I expect from you. Your new job at Vuyos is key to something much larger. You’ve been chosen to lead our people out of slavery.”
I sink back into my seat, disbelief washing over me as Decoco repeats the exact words he told me when I first joined the crew. I glance at David, who gives me a dismissive stare before stepping up to welcome Kamuli. He shakes her hand firmly, his gaze intense.
“I’ve heard great things about you. I’m glad we finally met. Welcome to the rest of your life.” His voice is steady. I can’t believe this is the same script Maria used on me. I watch as Kamuli starts to relax, breathing in sync with David. He leads her to a seat, both sitting down at the same time, exhaling together. She’s more at ease now.
“Go ahead and introduce yourself, Kamuli,” Decoco says, gesturing with a hand. “You don’t have to get up.”
“My name is Kamuli. I’m an Arahant at NextSol,” she begins.
NextSol, like Vuyos, is a cult. It started as an open chain for gaming but was exposed as a fraud when it was discovered its proof of identity algorithm made it easy to add fake users to the chain by the founders. It claimed that the flaw in the algorithm was intentional to protect against 51% attacks on the chain especially from democracies. The chain also mined user data from wallets.
Democracies are societies where large groups of people make decisions together. Imagine a massive community where every important choice—like deciding what projects to fund or which policies to support—is made by everyone voting on it. Each member can propose actions, such as changing the rules or launching a new initiative. If a democracy wants to take a specific action, like buying a coin on a chain, they hold a vote. Members nominate different prices and periods for purchasing the coin, and then everyone votes on which option they think is best. The choice with the most votes becomes the decision for the whole group, even for those who voted differently. This process might seem chaotic, but it allows people to be part of collective decisions without taking individual responsibility. Those who prefer not to be actively involved in decision-making find comfort in democracies, as they only need to follow the majority’s decision and can complain if things go wrong.
After NextSol’s fraud was uncovered, it transformed into a corporation with convoluted ownership details. No one knows the status of the coin owners from the open chain. The fraudulently mined gaming data was used to develop a predictor, the piece of technology many believe sparked the immortality race.
I spent the next few days preparing for the heist. For me, that meant memorizing instructions for my role in manipulating the hypnotist at Vuyos. I needed to gain access to hypnosis sessions of other humans on the team.
On my last day at home, I asked Mzee to invite David for dinner. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"You're still in touch with him?" Mzee's voice was laced with suspicion.
I shrugged, trying to appear casual. "He must have been released."
Mzee dismissed me with a wave like I was an idiot. "He's planning something," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I don't know him for being this lazy."
I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how little I knew about David. During funerals, law enforcement eases up to allow even outlaw mourners to grieve. But a few days later, everything becomes stricter than before. Most outlaws leave the day after the funeral. Mzee's worry made me wonder – had David broken out of prison?
"I don't want you to see him again," Mzee said firmly. "If he wants to see you, he should come here."
"Then invite him," I pressed.
Mzee's eyes narrowed. "How do you usually contact him?"
That's when it hit me – I never actually contacted David. We always met at the Meat & Drink or I'd go to his place and find him there as if he was waiting.
"We only talk in person," I admitted. "I've even been to his home."
Mzee's face darkened. "I don't know what he's up to, but I don't want him involving you. You shouldn't see him again."
Beautiful piece.