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I was listening when you slotted in the fabricator. The trust youre showing us, the faiththe moment I heard that final click I realized: this is what its like to have a prayer answered.

Theyre getting closer. I hear boots on the catwalks most nights, orders shouted across open bays. Litvin's boys mostly, maybe a few Tech/Sing in the shadows. Theyre not hiding it anymore. 

Normal folks recognize me now when I sneak out to our makeshift transmission booth. Some scowl at me, some smile and pluck at my clothes. Nobody stops me. 

After Ndugu, they took Vera.

My wife gave me two children. One she birthed herself, and the other she got by just being stubborn. Ndugu was my oldest. Loved technology. Soon as he could walkpsshoow!he made a beeline for Great Grandma Dolas Fabricator.

My Grandmother left notes, personal files, and source code; all encrypted. Part family heirloom, part Pandoras box. My father didnt pass them to meI never had much truck with programmingbut he must have seen something in Ndugu. 

I imagine my father took Ndugus hand and spoke in hushed whispers about tradition and legacy. Passed on a burden I never knew he was carrying. Warned Ndugu not to tell anyone, even me. 

But Ndugu did tell someone. Someone he trusted. She didn't betray him exactly, but when the Vanguard fell, people got desperate. She made a choice; spread a word here and there. It filtered down. Ndugu played dumb at first. Then the Wagon Master himself asked, very polite, and my boymy brave, loyal boydid his duty.

Then he went to the algae lines and never came back.

Vera and I prayed, because of course you pray, even if theres no belief behind it. Prayed for our family, prayed for safety.

The next night, while I wandered Aft, searching aimlessly for my son, I get a message from Vera. Frantic, all-caps: THEY'RE HERE. COMING FOR YOU. RUN LOVE.

I should have gone home and joined my family, but she said run, so I ran.

Later I learned that they went down the public registry. Every single Blok in neat alphabetical order, taken from streets or homes or cribs. Cousins, babies, spouses who took the name, everyone. Thorough. Bureaucratic, even.

Because of you. Sort of Abrahamic, when you think about it. I was praying to you, that night, I just didn't know it.

I dont have all the pieces to your puzzle. But I will. I would say Im the right man for the job but Im not really a man anymore. Not much of a father, no longer a citizen. Most of that was stripped away, and the rest Im shedding myself. When I strip down to the very bones of me, nothing will remain but purpose.















