Soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm shadows across the communal loft. The kitchen below hummed faintly—someone had started brewing spiced yerba and blending smoothies. Tongva commune within the heart of Los Angeles murmured beyond the balcony: birdsong from the trees, the whir of a rail gliding into its elevated station, and a distant laugh echoing from the mercado.
Daniela Rosa Arbenz-Cajina stretched under the soft moss-cotton sheets, blinking awake beside the steady warmth of her partner Clara’s body. Her skin was bronze from the sun, and her hair—a thick, curly cascade—spilled across the pillow in dark waves. Her left forearm bore a fading tattoo of a mountain drawn in three lines, the first gift Clara ever gave her: a visual echo of resilience.
Clara was already half-awake, reading something on her retinal display, the faint green shimmer of text visible to Daniela’s augmented contact lens. But when she noticed Daniela stir, she turned it off and smiled. “I made breakfast,” Clara whispered in Portuguese, kissing her on the temple. Daniela smiled. “I wrote you a love letter.” Clara’s eyes lit up as she took the folded paper from the nightstand. As she read, her eyes welled up. “You wrote this in six languages?” “Seven if you include your love language- I know you appreciate words of affirmation” Clara laughed, set it down beside her and took Daniela’s hand.
“So are you sure about getting married?” Daniela hesitated. The word hung there like incense in an old church. Marriage. “We already live like partners,” she said after a pause. “What would change?” Clara’s voice was gentle but firm. “Nothing. And everything. People fought for this. For us.” Daniela sat up, the sheet falling to her lap. “My parents wanted me married before I even knew who I was. When I told them I liked women, they prayed the rosary for six weeks straight. They only stopped when I got into law school.”
Clara nodded, letting her speak. “I used to think marriage was just a tool of patriarchy,” Daniela continued. “Something men invented to own us. Proposals, name changes, church vows… women erased in the legal codes and rebranded as wives.” “But we’re not those women,” Clara said. “We’re re-writing that code. You’re literally re-writing the law.” Daniela gave a dry laugh. “Maybe you should’ve studied law. You’re better at persuasion than half my cohort.” “As an anthropologist, I study people. Even better.”
They sat in silence a moment longer. The soft whir of the climate-regulated ceiling shifted ever so slightly, responding to the sunlight. “I’ve been so unsure,” Daniela admitted. “Not because I don’t love you. But because I don’t want to pretend I believe in institutions that never believed in me.” Clara reached for her hand. “That’s why we make new ones. This isn’t a ceremony for them. It’s for us.” Daniela met her eyes and saw no pressure there—only a quiet, confident hope. Her indecision, she realized, mirrored more than just this decision. Her rebellion from the Church, her resistance to tradition, her fear of empty gestures—all of it was still part of her. But so was the relationship she had built, and the new world they were shaping together. She kissed Clara’s knuckles. “Let’s do it. Our way.”
At that moment, a sharp knock hit the sliding door. “So… are we toasting this or what?” came the unmistakable voice of Alex Schmitt, their roommate, in a mock-ceremonial tone. Daniela rolled her eyes affectionately and looked at Clara. “Did you tell them?” Clara shrugged. “I may have implied.” Laughter spilled into the room as Alex pushed the door open, followed by the others all wearing t-shirts printed with “Congratulations!” with a silly picture of the two and the words “Clara & Daniela Fan Club” on the back.
River came in with a jar of fresh orange juice, Anaya was carrying a tray with avocado toast and Alex had a large bottle of wine. Their home wasn’t just walls and lights and well-tuned systems—it was warmth, softness, community. A cooperative hive of mutual respect. As they raised glasses and toasted not just to love but to the future they were shaping, Daniela felt something settle in her chest—not tradition, not certainty, but trust. And for today, that was enough.
The room was quiet, but Daniela’s world was full of voices. She sat cross-legged on the floor mat of her bedroom pod, eyes closed, breath steady. Her contact lenses flickered into sync, activating the immersive environment. A brief hum of recalibration, and suddenly she was beneath a date palm canopy, warm wind brushing her cheeks, Cairo’s skyline glimmering just beyond a low rooftop garden.
“Sabah el-kheir,” said Leila, a digital librarian from Giza who specialized in endangered dialects and poetry. Her accent was thick with Nile rhythm, and her smile beamed like desert sunlight. “Sabah el-noor,” Daniela replied, her vowels still a little tight in the throat, but improving. They moved through a discussion of food, family, then the words for silence, solitude, solidarity.
Twenty minutes later, the scene dissolved, and she blinked into a crowded street market in Kaohsiung, where a ten-year-old named Mei giggled as she taught Daniela the difference between “má” and “mǎ” in Mandarin. The two of them counted dragon fruits, swapped stories, and exchanged idioms between Chinese and Spanish. “My parents used to write vocabulary lists,” Daniela muttered. “On paper.” “Paper,” Mei repeated with a half-joking puzzled tone. Daniela smiled.
Back in her quiet room, Daniela let the virtual scenes fade. She rubbed her thumb against her index and middle finger—the old tactile cue she used as a kid to signal she was shifting between American and Nicaraguan Sign Language. The muscle memory never faded. “Multilingual proficiency updated,” said Cristina, Daniela’s soft-voiced AI Guardian. “You speak eight languages fluently. Three are in active progress.” Cristina then suggested a language exchange session for the next day with a group of Indigenous elders from Chiapas. Her neural input slowed to resting mode. Daniela smiled. There were still so many tongues to find. So many silences to honor. And so much that still needed to be said.
She had been interpreting for her parents by the age of six. By eight, she was explaining contracts. By twelve, legal waivers and medical records. That was before AI completely took over live interpretation. Before it became seamless. But even now, some things—like Nicaraguan Sign—were still catching up in the data banks. And even the best AI couldn’t replace human care, the nuance of cultural context, or knowing when to pause and let silence speak, so interpreters still persisted.
Language had always been the first barrier to justice. Entire legal systems had been built to obscure meaning, to ensure only the educated elite could read the rules. They were needlessly but intentionally complicated. In the past, she learned, laws weren’t just written in complex jargon—they were often written in foreign tongues. “Legalese,” she whispered. “A second language no one asked for.”
Her father had told her stories—signed them, really—about how Deaf children around the world were once punished for signing. Forced to read lips, to mimic words they could never hear. “We were treated like ghosts, isolated from the community” he told her once. “But we had our hands. And each other.”
In colonial Central America, Spanish was forced on children whose ancestors spoke hundreds of Indigenous languages—K’iche’, Garífuna, Nahuatl, Miskito, Pipil. Mesoamerican codices—entire civilizations’ histories—were burned by priests who claimed it was all “pagan heresy.” And centuries before that, the Catholic Church kept the Bible in Latin so peasants wouldn’t dare interpret it themselves. The first translators were imprisoned. Some were burned alive. She’d read their names like prayers.
“Language is the original law,” Daniela whispered. “Who controls it, controls reality.” This was why she still studied. Why she studied Arabic and Mandarin and Quechua and Cape Verdean Creole. Why she wanted to speak to every person in court, in whatever words they used to build their world. Because for too long, language had been used to rule, to erase, to own. Now, they learned to listen. And to restore.
The biodome gleamed in the early light, its curved glass and verdant interior rising like a greenhouse cathedral above the city’s morning pulse. Lush vines spilled down the urban climbing wall, winding between LED-lit holds, purple orchids blooming from tucked crevices. A light mist scented the air with eucalyptus and damp stone. This is where Daniela came to do her rock climbing in the city.
Daniela Rosa clipped into the smart harness with a soft click. The AI’s biometric scan confirmed her vitals, recalibrated tension settings, and vibrated gently around her waist—“Ready.” Malia, her therapist friend, grinned at her from the other end of the belay line. They began to ascend together, side by side. The wall adjusted in subtle ways—footholds shifting minutely to match each climber’s body mechanics. AR overlays flickered against their lenses, suggesting routes but never dictating them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Daniela said between movements, fingers searching for the next hold, “law used to be like this—” she reached, strained, missed—“but with no reachable handholds. No footholds unless you were born rich, educated, connected. If you slipped, you fell and it was your fault. If you were caught climbing the wrong way, you were punished. Jail. Debt. Shame. Often, the system would cut the very threads you were hanging on by.”A wall designed to be climbed only by people already halfway up.”
Malia’s brow furrowed as she found a narrow ledge with her toes. “Unless you were born holding the rope.” “Exactly. And if you slipped? Too bad. Your fall was your fault. If you were caught climbing the wrong way, you were punished. Jail. Debt. Shame. Often, the system would even cut the very threads people were hanging on by.”They paused on a shared ledge mid-wall, breathing hard, legs trembling a bit.
“Now we build more routes,” Daniela said. “More entry points. More choices.” Malia nodded. “Law as a guide to help you. Not a barrier to harm you.” Daniela pulled slightly at the rope connecting them. “And this—this system—it stretches. It doesn’t punish the fall. It catches you and slows you gently. You’re able to grab on and try again.” “The old systems snapped,” Malia said. “You made one mistake and—gone.”
Daniela rested her forehead against the warm, sunlit rock, a bead of sweat trailing down her cheek. “That’s why this feels right. This new legal work. It’s not about controlling people—it’s about holding them safely accountable. When harm is done, we bring people into circles. They face their impact. They make amends. It’s justice that understands, not condemns.” “Like the harness,” Malia added. “Protection, not restriction.” The laws that exist serve a clear purpose, they’re simple, straightforward, easily understood.
Below them, birds darted between fig trees. The biodome’s irrigation mist kicked on again, cooling their flushed faces. “Oh,” Daniela said, suddenly remembering. “Clara and I—we’re engaged. Officially.” Malia whooped, her voice echoing off the glass dome. “About time!” “She wore me down,” Daniela admitted. “She built her case with love and logic.” “You two are building something beautiful.”
They climbed the last section in companionable silence, each finding her rhythm, each breath a meditation in motion. Daniela felt her muscles tense, release, and adapt—always aware of the balance, the weight, the choices. At the summit, they stood together on a flat garden overlook, looking out over the softened outline of the city. Daniela’s thoughts drifted to her court docket, to the two cases she had waiting below. Not punishments to hand out, but knots to untangle, tensions to ease.
She exhaled. “Law isn’t about force anymore,” she said quietly. “It’s about balance. And reach.” Malia smiled. “And providing them with the legal support systems to reach their highest potential.” They bumped fists and began the slow, practiced descent—ropes taut, minds clear, ready to face the world again. As they rappelled down, ropes humming softly, Daniela felt herself center. Law was not a weight to keep people down. It was a climb to help them up. And everyone, at last, had a rope.
The light inside the family justice chamber was soft and natural, filtered through living bamboo panels. Judge Arbenz-Cajina sat in the circular center, not above but among, as community jurors, friends and family members were all sitting in their places. Selected not for legal expertise but for lived empathy, they included a retired teacher, a grief counselor, a divorced father of three, and a Buddhist nun. The room held no elevated bench—just cushions, warm tea, and space for healing.
Across from her, Rachel Lev, a Jewish urban ecologist, and her soon to be former-husband, Kiaan Desai, a Hindu linguist sat with gentle posture and worn affection. Their eleven year-old son, Avi, sat between them, legs folded, a small handmade mezuzah in one hand, a gold-threaded rudraksha mala in the other.
AI-assisted visuals floated gently in view, showing timelines, agreements, and consensually released home memories—snapshots of holidays celebrated twice, lullabies in two languages, a kitchen with laughter layered in turmeric and tahini. Their marriage had lasted twelve years. The last one spent honestly trying to mend what had drifted. They took time to express love and gratitude for their relationship. They discussed their hopes for the future, what their dynamic might look like and what they wanted for their kid.
“We’ve grown apart,” Rachel said calmly. “But we parent together still, fully.” Kiaan nodded. “We just don’t live together anymore, but we stayed close. We want a schedule that lets Avi feel at home in both places.” Daniela spoke with softness, “You’ve already drafted a shared living calendar. You’ve agreed to continue co-parenting, attending therapy together, and you’ve asked that Avi’s own voice be heard today.”
Avi looked up. “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I just… I like the idea of both ceremonies, the bar mitzvah and the upanayana. But not if I have to choose between you.” He looked down. “And not if I don’t get to decide when.” The room was silent for a moment, then Kiaan reached out to touch Rachel’s hand. “We wait. Until he’s ready.” “We could write a book,” Rachel added, smiling slightly. “About both traditions. Avi could help. We could dedicate it to other kids like him.” Daniela’s eyes warmed.
This is what justice looks like now, she thought. Not fault. Repair. Divorce wasn’t very common these days due to therapy and better lives but it did happen as people changed over time. She thought about how divorce used to break up families, bankrupt individuals, and how the kids suffered the most. Now, she reflected, every person had a personal AI legal expert, not just on the law but on them that could truly represent them, the whole person and the decision would be holistic and help all involved move forward.
She glanced at the jurors, now in quiet dialogue, not deciding for the family, but with them—asking what the child needed to thrive, not what box to check. Family members and friends were there, not just as quiet observers but active participants, all part of the couple’s lives and the child’s. They had been there at the start of this union and were gathered to celebrate not just an end, but also a new beginning.
She remembered law school lessons on Ubuntu. “I am because we are.” African wisdom, echoed in the cooperative justice models of pre colonial villages. Law was once weaponized. Now, it was rooted in relationships. Ubuntu didn’t ignore harm—it insisted on healing. There were no fines. No winners. No courtroom theatrics. Just repair. She finalized the agreement, not as command, but confirmation.
As the family stood, embracing one another, Daniela found her hand drifting to her own stomach. She wasn’t pregnant. But the conversation lingered. When she had these divorce hearings, it worried her. Was her bond with Clara strong enough? Clara was spiritual. She was agnostic. What would happen if they had a child and divorced? She shook the thought off. Put it on the shelf, she whispered in her mind. As the chamber emptied, she sat for a moment longer. A judge. A listener. A bridge. And the circle remained unbroken.
The judicial garden was lush and humming with bees. Native drought-resistant plants bloomed beside tiered planters of herbs used by the café. Sunlight filtered through solar trellises overhead. Daniela sat across from Judge Farah Nouri, one of the most respected and experienced members of the Global Harmonized Judiciary in Los Angeles. They shared spiced lentils, fresh figs, and poured mint tea.
Farah wore a soft, dusty rose scarf loosely draped over her curls, framing deep, perceptive eyes and a gentle smile. Not as a symbol of submission but of tradition reclaimed. These veils used to erase women from view. But Farah wore hers like armor and poetry, a personal choice rooted in faith, not fear. It reminded Daniela that symbols, like laws, only gained meaning through the way they were lived.
Her presence filled the space like shade in summer—comforting, clear, and unwavering. “I read your ruling this morning,” Farah said, setting down her cup. “You centered the child without dismissing the parents. That balance is difficult. You’ll do well here, Inshallah.” Daniela offered a modest smile. “Gracias. I’m still learning where my voice belongs in the circle.” Farah nodded. “As it should be. I’ll be your mentor this year. Not to instruct—just to walk with you. Ask anything, anytime. Learn. Make mistakes.” She paused, watching a hummingbird hover near a purple bloom. “I don’t expect you to believe what I believe. I only hope you trust your spirit as you make your decisions.”
Daniela exhaled slowly. “I’m agnostic now. I was raised Catholic—baptized before I could speak, confirmed before I understood. Went through a faith crisis, or rather, transition in my twenties. I still think about Jesus… but not the Church version. The man who fed people. Touched the untouchables. Broke the rules to love.” Farah’s eyes smiled. “A prophet. A teacher. A liberator.”
“I just…” Daniela frowned. “There was so much harm. Inquisition. Crusades. Colonization. Priests who hurt children and covered it up. I was told that love could send me to hell.” Farah’s voice was soft but firm. “I know. My own faith has been weaponized too. They claimed to defend God, but built prisons for women. Forced veils on girls. Denied them education. Then the bombs, the martyrdoms… They called it religion. I call it fear wearing holy robes.” She picked up a fig and broke it in two. “But I still believe. In all the noise, I’ve found Allah’s mercy—constant, quiet, unbending. It gives me purpose and hope.”
Daniela looked out toward the wind sculpture turning above the garden wall. “Do you think morality needs faith?” “No,” Farah said, without hesitation. “Morality is older than any scripture. It lives in the choices we make when no one sees. Faith without coercion is faith. Faith imposed is tyranny.” They sat in silence, sipping mint tea, letting the wind stir their robes. “We used to burn people for translating the Bible or believing differently,” Daniela said suddenly. “Languages were locked away. Justice too.”
Farah nodded. “But now we break bread, not bones. Our ancestors would have been at war over the Holy City. Now we sit here, having brunch together working for the good of this city, the city of angels.” Daniela chuckled. “Maybe you’re right. The law doesn’t belong to religion anymore. And that’s why it works.” “It works,” Farah echoed. “That’s why we must separate belief from law, because now it belongs to all of us.”
A robotic tray brought a tiny dessert shaped like a book. Daniela smiled at it, quiet in her thoughts. Liberation theology… not from heaven, but here. In hands that mend instead of punish. Farah tapped her hand gently before standing. “You will carry this work well. Just remember: justice and faith both walk better when they’re not dragging anyone behind them.” Daniela nodded and exhaled, “The law must begin and end with dignity and defense, not dogma or doctrine.” And for the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.
The common room of the cooperative pulsed with quiet urgency. Around the circular table, digital blueprints hovered midair—schedules, maps, permission protocols. The holographic wall rotated through bold, sweeping visuals: raised fists, open hands, dancing bodies, candlelight vigils. Protests historically led to social change and ended injustice. Protest was no longer a threat. It was a civic ceremony.
“This is why the People’s Assembly of Expression exists,” said the facilitator, a bearded elder named Jaime. “To safely protect the right to dissent, to celebrate the act of memory.” Daniela nodded, arms folded loosely as she reviewed the coordination chart. “We’ll need AR overlays to guide the crowd safely. Real-time translation for all messages. And scent neutralizers—last protest someone triggered allergies by burning sage.” The room chuckled.
She tapped her comm. “We’ll do street murals too. One at Union Circle. I’ve been sketching something.” A glowing image spread across the wall: children lifting a sun made of papel picado, hands of every hue interlaced. Below it, in bold script: Una, Grande y Libre. “It means one, vast, and free,” she explained. “It’s from an old slogan, but we reclaim it now. It’s not about regime or empire anymore. It’s about unity without domination.” The group murmured their approval.
A young trans man asked, “Why this cause, Judge Arbenz? The old prison records? Those people were in jail decades ago. Daniela straightened. “Because they were never just records. They were people.” She turned to the data chart suspended beside her: showing millions of people incarcerated in the former United States of America, more than any other country. Millions of them were innocent; wrongfully convicted, falsely accused, given excessive sentences, many for minor offenses that should never have been illegal in the first place. Predominantly black and brown bodies packed into privatized prisons.
On a personal note she thought of all the Deaf people misunderstood, handcuffed, denied interpreters and jailed for ‘noncompliance.’ Individuals with mental health conditions misdiagnosed or punished. Immigrants vanished into detention centers. Mothers separated from children. Others who were Those people would never get those years of their lives back, their lives were stolen and destroyed. We must make restitution and remembrance for them and their affected family members.
“My parents signed on the picket line for Deaf rights. They told me about the Capitol Crawl—disabled people dragging themselves up those marble steps because Congress wouldn’t listen unless it hurt to look away. My abuela was beaten in Guatemala for organizing workers. My tío was shot outside Managua for teaching kids to read.” She swallowed. “Revolution is in my blood.” A hush. Only the soft hum of shared memory. Someone smiled. “You’re an activist-judge.” She grinned. “Guilty as charged.”
The cause was reparative justice—acknowledgment and redress for families wrongfully jailed in what used to be California. The protest wasn’t a demand for change, but a ritual of remembrance. Of truth. In this system, people had a voice: in town halls, digital assemblies, participatory councils. But protests still held power. It marked time. It wove history. It said: We were here. We mattered. And we still do.
There were no riot police. No barricades. The Assembly approved permits and provided logistical support. Medics, translators, disability access teams, even childcare zones. Protest had become a celebration of democracy—alive, embodied, public. It allowed people to raise visible awareness of issues and connect.
“People think utopia means we’re done,” a young teenager said, “But utopia means we don’t give up. It means no one gets forgotten.” As the AR mural rendered onto a city wall with biodegradable pigments and light projection, Daniela stepped back to watch it take shape—flickering, vivid, whole. She whispered a line she read once: “We shout, not because we are angry, but because we remember the silence.”
The midday light spilled through the mosaic of the Children’s Innovation Museum, refracted into dancing colors by solar crystals. Sofia, Clara’s four-year-old niece, squealed with joy as her tiny hands dragged Daniela and Clara toward the HoloCity Builder—a collaborative sandbox where children shaped the future in real time. Sofia’s little voice called out, “Tía Dani, let’s make a city in the clouds!” “Okay, but it needs water and food access,” Daniela added, adjusting the floating blocks with her fingertips. “Let’s build vertical farms on top of the towers!” Children’s creativity thrived with technology, it wasn’t stifled.
Other children joined in, designing wind trees and musical walkways. The space shifted with them—walls alive with their inventions. Each exhibit was interactive, multilingual, and rooted in empathy. The Museum’s AI guide named Luma worked with the kids and adults by whispering encouragement in gentle tones, redirecting conflict, prompting teamwork, and celebrating small joys. Parents and guardians sat close, some coding stories with their kids, others sculpting biodegradable gliders in the EcoFlight Lab. In one corner, a child taught their robot companion to dance to Afro-Brazilian rhythms.
Later, at the Mary E. Foy Library, Daniela watched Sofia pick out a glowing picture book with Clara. The space resembled more of a public communal center than a silent study hall: cushions scattered under digital canopies, multigenerational groups gathered in discussion, elder mentors chatting beside VR pods. A friendly Labrador with a red “READ DOG” vest ambled past, greeted by giggling children.
In the StoryWorld Theater, Daniela, Clara and Sofia stepped into a softly lit chamber. As they opened a children’s book titled Kiko and the Kind Crocodile, the story unfolded around them—holographic jungle, shimmering river, a crocodile crying because no one trusted his smile. Daniela signed as she read aloud: “The crocodile’s teeth were big, but his heart was bigger.” Sofia copied the signs, laughing as animated monkeys flung bananas behind her. The story paused when Sofia excitedly asked. “Can the crocodile save the monkeys from the fire?” “Of course,” Clara smiled. The environment shimmered and changed as the narrative adapted to Sofia’s idea, showing the crocodile using his tail to splash out the flames.
Afterward, they walked to the park nearby. The playground sparkled with smart-surface paths and swings with auto-sharing timers as well as slides, climbing nets and other equipment that adjusted for ages, heights and ability levels. Parents played beside their kids. There were no bored adults on benches. The park was alive—with story circles, drumming classes, and chalk murals scrawled with kind messages.
As Clara pushed Sofia gently on the swing, Daniela sat beside them and whispered, “No child goes hungry now. No child is harmed. No child is invisible.” Clara nodded. “And none are owned. They’re citizens from day one.” Now, Universal Child Rights included guaranteed access to the basics of food, clothing, housing as well as personalized, high quality, self-paced education, the promise of a safe, loving and supportive family free from neglect or abuse, self-determination regarding their future, consent in all personal matters, including participation in religion, media, and medical decisions.
“They say it takes a village,” Clara said softly. “Now the whole city plays its part.” Daniela smiled. “I just hope I’m ready for it.” “We’re not rushing. We’re studying. Practicing. Learning.” They talked about parenting options for after the wedding—co-parenting with friends, adopting from the community, or using IVF. Daniela imagined teaching their child signs, reading holographic stories just like today.
“My parents used to sign me stories,” she said. “That’s how I fell in love with language. They gave me their hands, even when the world didn’t give them a voice.” Sofia came bounding over and hugged her legs. “Can you teach me the sign for ‘family’?” Daniela knelt down, guiding her little hands through the shape. “You did it! And you teach me what family means.” and Sofia squeezed her in a tight embrace.
The stars shimmered overhead, brilliant and sharp against the inky sky. From the rooftop of Flor de Maíz, a lush garden restaurant draped in blooming orchids and vertical tomato plants, the city of Los Angeles unfolded below—quiet, green, and alive. Hover-trams hummed silently between forested towers, and bioluminescent pathways pulsed softly where people walked through night gardens below the stars.
At their table, a large circular one bordered by glowing vines, her father, Santos Arbenz leaned back with a grin, his hands already in motion, even before the waiter had finished pouring the guava nectar. Daniela signed back in ASL, her hands moved with natural fluency, responding with a gentle “Gracias, papi” before switching into a playful stream of Nicaraguan Sign. Santos chuckled, beaming.
Ixchel Cajina tapped her temple briefly—her auditory neural lace, a real-time cochlear-brain bridge currently in beta for public use, shimmered for a moment. “I still remember when I couldn’t hear the sizzle of food,” she said, smiling at the fried yucca being placed in the center. “Now I just wish I couldn’t hear your father snoring.” He signed back: “I snore in beautiful rhythm. Poetry of the Deaf night. And I’ll never hear it, I’m Deaf completely, that won’t change.” He was joking, but serious.
Laughter circled the table, light as the breeze. “Tell me again how you met,” Clara urged, reaching for another tortilla chip. “At the Encuentro Centroamericano de Sordos, in San José,” Ixchel said warmly. “We were both teaching workshops on sign poetry and advocacy. He had this unruly beard and kept making jokes.” Santos signed: “She was bossy. I liked that.” Daniela signed “You were both revolutionaries.”
They had lived in what was once El Salvador for years, halfway between their two homelands, building bridges of culture and education. Clara had met them there in 2078, researching a project on the social effects of Deafness in Central America, the natural development of Nicaraguan Sign Language and the preservation of other Sign Languages in the region. It was Ixchel who suggested she meet their daughter “a stubborn, justice obsessed law student who never relaxed.” “She still never really relaxes,” Santos signed to Clara. “But she smiled more after you.”
As the main course arrived—jackfruit tamales and rainbow chard stew—Daniela cleared her throat and stood, hands trembling slightly. “We have an announcement,” she said, glancing at Clara, who stood beside her and took her hand. Clara signed the words alongside her in NSL, not missing a beat. “We’re engaged.” Santos blinked, then let out a guttural sound of surprise and joy, half-signed, half-laughed. Ixchel covered her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. She quickly signed, “We knew before you did.”
“I’m sorry for how long it took us,” she added aloud. “To understand. I was scared. Of the Church. Of judgment. But God is not cruel.” Santos signed slowly, eyes locked on Daniela. “We went to Mass every week. But it wasn’t until you signed the Gospel to us that we finally heard it. I’m sorry I once rejected your love.” A silence fell like velvet. “You taught us as much as we taught you,” he added.
Daniela thought of her childhood—interpreting homilies and theological terms in two languages, never quite sure if she believed them. She’d always felt more faith in her parents’ courage than the priests. Now, she smiled through tears. “You taught me how to fight. How to speak when no one listens.”
Talk turned to wedding plans, then quickly—predictably—to children. “Give us grandbabies,” Ixchel said with a wink. “Or let us borrow someone else’s.” Daniela rolled her eyes, then laughed. “We’re discussing it. We’ll do it the right way. Slowly. Thoughtfully.” Santos signed, “Just not too slowly, we’re not immortal.”
They clinked glasses—pineapple juice, mezcal, soda water. Clara raised hers last. “À Nossa!” Daniela Rosa gratefully looked out across the city, the joyous image of her parent’s faces etched in her mind.
The rhythm hit before the doors even opened. Club Brújula pulsed with a warm electric glow, its spiraling biodome alive with trailing lights and layered sound. Vines hung from the ceiling, woven with motion-reactive LEDs, and each dancer stepped onto haptic flooring tuned to their heartbeat. Daniela’s feet tingled as the floor came alive beneath her, synchronizing to her own curated rhythm—Latin percussion with a modern twist. Bachata electrónica. A pulse of home, remixed for the stars.
She looked back at Clara, who raised her eyebrows and grinned. “I’m warning you now,” strapping on her kinetic-laced shoes. “I’m more into basketball than dance.” “Then I’ll lead,” Daniela laughed, reaching out her hand. Each person in the dome danced to their own chosen soundscape, streamed through their wearable AI DJ. Some spun to retro pop, others grooved to lo-fi funk or tribal house, but when dancers locked eyes and synced wristbands, their music merged—creating a shared mix, a temporary union.
Clara’s and Daniela’s blend was imperfect but exhilarating: Afro-Latin beats mixed with Clara’s steady percussive loops. The floor flexed beneath them, adapting to the weight and tempo of their movement. Around them, strangers danced without judgment—spinning, jumping, gliding freely. No groping hands. No leering stares. An overhead AI gently pulsed violet over dance pairs to signal full consent. If someone withdrew or hesitated, the light would soften, the dance would pause.
“No one ever taught me to dance,” Clara confessed between movements, trying not to step on Daniela’s foot. “I’ll teach you,” she encouraged, smoothing her into a slow turn. “My parents couldn’t hear the music, but they watched every lesson. They liked feeling the vibration.” The heat of their bodies, the swirl of scent—floral, citrus, sweat—wrapped around them. Daniela led into a sensual tango, her breath shallow, spine arched. Clara followed, unsure but trusting, and their steps grew tighter. Heat between their hands.
From a side lounge, Amory, another roommate waved and tossed them two silver bracelets. “You two! Congrats! These are for shared memory syncing, wear them for a year, and it weaves your favorite moments into a time capsule.” Clara snapped hers on. “What if it captures all my bad dance moves?” “That’s part of the charm,” Daniela said, clicking hers in place around her wrist. “Proof we lived.”
Around them, the crowd swelled—dancers of every constellation, elderly pairs swaying slow and loose, a trio of teens trying k-pop choreography with laughing intensity. The air sparkled with a palpable sense of safety and permission. No judging looks or shame. Mocktails and herbal euphorics replaced alcohol; Daniela sipped a spiced hibiscus blend that warmed her throat and calmed her nerves.
She thought of what clubs used to be: dim, loud, predatory. Places where women watched their drinks like hawks. Where men mistook aggression for charm. Where the freedom to move was sometimes an invitation for harm. Now, joy was protected. Touch was sacred. Movement was expression, not performance. “There’s no wrong way to dance,” Clara whispered in her ear, smiling. “Like there’s no wrong way to love.” “As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone,” Daniela replied, kissing her shoulder. They danced until the lights slowly shifted to a soft dawn hue. Muscles tired, cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming.
On their way out, a mural played across the curved wall—projected from inside the building’s memory. It showed images of dance through history: Afro-Caribbean resistance drum circles, ballroom protests during AIDS activism, Pride parades pulsing with voguing. Then, a quote blinked softly into view: “To dance is to remember. To move is to be free.” Daniela paused, squeezing Clara’s hand. She had spent her life in the language of law, but here—sweaty, laughing, breathless—she felt a different kind of justice. Freedom wasn’t something declared. It was experienced. Beat by beat.
The room was quiet except for the soft buzz of garden drones watering the rooftop herbs. Daniela sat cross-legged in the balcony hammock, her damp hair curling at the edges, her eyes flicking between the stars above and the soft rise and fall of Clara’s breath below. Clara had fallen asleep quickly—curled up in their bed, one hand draped over the blanket where Daniela had been lying moments before. The day had stretched long and full: celebration, court, dancing, family. A lot of it good. All of it…
Cristina, her ever-present AI companion, hovered faintly in the air above her wrist in warm golden script. “Ready to log reflections?” she asked, voice low and calming. “Yeah,” Daniela whispered. “Start entry.” Her voice was soft, uncertain. “I used to pray after days like this. Before sleep. Not really asking for anything… just to say thank you. To feel seen. But I stopped believing a while ago. Or at least… I stopped being sure.” A pause. Her breath caught in the cool night air.
“Tonight I felt whole. With Clara. With my parents. Even with Malia and Farah. Like maybe I’m not failing at this life. At least not completely. When I lost my faith, I felt like I lost part of myself.” Cristina offered gently, “Would you like a quote before bed?” Daniela affirmed. “Feminist thinking teaches us all, especially, how to love justice and freedom in ways that foster and affirm life.” – bell hooks.
She nodded, then reached for the worn, water-warped and dust covered Bible on the small shelf near the hammock—one of the few paper books she kept. Its leather cover felt soft and familiar, comforting despite the fractures of faith it symbolized. The corner of the page was folded, just like always.
“Matthew 5:7,” she read aloud. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” She remembered loving that chapter as a teenager—the Sermon on the Mount. It felt like the heart of it all. The man who healed outsiders, flipped tables in temples, broke rules for the sake of love. Not the version they gave her in church: the guilt-laden lectures, the sermons about hell, the quiet silencing of people like her. Her fingers traced the page. “Jesus I still like,” she murmured. “But not the gatekeepers who claimed him.”
She thought of the courtroom earlier—the tenderness of the parents releasing their child to choose his own faith. She thought of Farah’s gentleness, her belief not used to dominate but to ground. Of how they had finally learned, as a society, that religious freedom meant no one’s beliefs should harm someone else’s rights. That no sacred book could override consent. That faith, when imposed, became violence.
“It’s quieter now,” Daniela said softly, glancing up at the stars. “People still believe. But they don’t yell about it. They live it. Or they don’t. And we respect that. We had to let go of calling everyone else sinners. Of thinking our truth was the only one.” She closed the book gently and leaned back, letting the hammock sway. “I don’t know if God is real,” she admitted. “But I know mercy is. And that’s enough for tonight.”
Cristina pulsed gently. Then paused. Notification: Judicial docket updated. Thirteen cases scheduled for tomorrow. Nine involving serious harm. Daniela’s stomach tightened. The stillness cracked. “What?” she whispered in disbelief. She pulled up the docket, scrolling silently. Cases of injury, theft and violence. Anomalies. Things that didn’t happen here—shouldn’t. The past few years had been largely peaceful as human rights were protected and respected and people had their needs satisfied. Crime was virtually nonexistent, courts functioned to mediate and guide, police were replaced, prisons had been abolished.
Cristina blinked. “Preliminary context unclear. Cross-referencing global patterns. Shall I prepare your review summary?” “No,” Daniela said quickly. “Not yet. Just… save it for the morning.” The bed shifted slightly as she lay down, curling toward the warmth of Clara’s body, one hand resting against her chest.
She stared at the moon. “What is happening out there?” she whispered. The sky gave no answer.
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Tell me what you think of the character, the story, the world building?
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