My grandparents used to tell stories about the old days, when there was only one chain and everyone lived on it. How much better it all was, then. I don’t know if I believe the stories. How else did all the different languages start, all the religions? Where did cross-chain travel come from? But I like to remember their stories. Especially now.
I was born on Stokeham, a legacy chain. Good uptime. Low latency. Stable. A bit boring, I guess. That’s what my sister always said. Vridia. She called Stokeham a Boomer Chain, using grandma-slang to show just how backwater we were. Before she stopped talking to me.
Everyone is born to a parachain, which defines your language, social customs, legal frameworks, dating protocols. Some people fork themselves to try to spread across multiple chains, hoping to optimize different traits. But the more chains you use, the more fragmented you become. That’s what I think happened to Vridia.
I didn’t tell anyone when she stopped syncing. I figured she was just experimenting, you know? Showing off. She was always a bit of a drama queen.
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Then Mum caught her at the relay, trying to pass as old enough for cross-chain travel.
I guess she convinced someone, because she’s gone now. Been gone for a while. Our last successful connect ended mid-sentence. After that: silence.
Sometimes, I forget why I started. The systems do that: strip your memories for better performance, perfectly optimized for the here and now. Vridia might not understand why I’m there, standing in front of her. She might not even recognize me. The more chains you use, the more fragmented you become.
My identity pass says I’m on a pilgrimage; that I’m exploring chains on a voyage of self-discovery. But that’s not the truth. The truth is that I’m trying to find Vridia.
I don’t store memories in-system any more. Took risky. Some chains overwrite. Others archive everything and charge you to forget. Safer not to.
There are problems with not syncing, of course. I’ve started finding signs that I’m fragmenting. Small everyday things just seem a little off. Recognizing places that I know I’ve never been to before. Memories rendered wrong; not how I remember. And last week, a stranger walked up to me and called me by my sister’s name. We don’t even look alike. She’s beautiful and confident and wild. I’m just … me.
I think I might have met myself once, or at least someone who thought she was me. She told me that I’d re-synced too many times, that my memories of my sister were just an integrity mismatch.
I think she tried to delete me.
Of course, I am taking precautions. I have analog back-ups in a notebook that granddad gave me. Ink never forks. That’s what he always said. Vridia told me the same.
