In this issue: The maxim ‘code is law’ promises to protect good intentions from abuse and fallibility. In Spencer Nitkey’s new horror story, onchain determinism takes three catastrophic turns. PLUS join our new, biweekly protocol fiction writers group. Sign up here. More info at end.
Chainpoint was founded on a single principle: Code Must Govern. A city run entirely onchain, its architects dreamed of a metropolis without councils, appeal boards, or override keys. Anywhere human corruption or bias could creep in, the chain would rule. Thin, straightforward rules that ran without exception. Every system – housing, identity, even life and death – was arbitrated by smart contracts and oracle relays. What follows are records from that experiment: episodes where the code held firm, where design held steady, and people broke.
Exhibit I: You Slept Through Your Funeral
All Gelvin ever wanted was to be useful. Useful to his wife Aili, who sat, stone-faced by his useless side. Useful to his children, who were sniffling at the foot of his hospital bed. Useful to his city, where he’d worked for years as a Protocol Clerk, recording civic smart contracts on the city’s chain.
This, Aili thought, was perhaps the hardest part of his coma, knowing it had severed his body from his self-proclaimed purpose. Almost a year ago, now – had it really been so long already? – he had stirred before her and left their bed to shower. She woke, hazily, to the faint sound of dripping water, seconds before a thud shot her out of bed. In the bathroom, she saw him, a strewn towel of a man on the floor, bleeding from his head, muttering the word “three” over and over again.
An hour later, a surgeon was telling her that if she did not agree to surgery, he would die. Ischemic, hemorrhagic, words that had an air of “shouldn’t-we-have-eliminated-such-ghastly-biological-failings-by-now” about them. Words that hung, miasmic as she waited for the surgeon’s professional sad face. When she got it, it didn’t hurt any less for having annticipated its coming. He wasn’t alive, but he wasn’t dead either. He was non-responsive.
They spent the first two months with him in the hospital almost every hour of the day, until a social worker and a doctor sat them down and explained that, if he hadn’t woken up by now, the odds that he would were so infinitesimal as to be non-existent. They should try to “live on,” as the social worker said.
For the most part, they did. Their son Bream went back to college, studying Consensus Engineering. Their daughter Mea back to her career as a Token Compliance Officer. Aili back home. It was an empty place without Gelvin, but she still tried to remember him – she poured two cups of warm sake, always; set the table for them both but only filled one plate; put on his favorite podcast to fall asleep.
She spent an hour every week reviewing his proof-of-liveness signals – scratching at her own implant site while she reviewed her husband’s signals She’d pull up their family’s blockchain dashboard. The center of their lives in Chainpoint, the portal surfaced the smart contracts bound to each of their identity keys: their property deeds, transit entitlements, medical coverage, and the voting keys used for elections and weather decisions.
She scrolled through Gelvin’s feed. Every implant was supposed to emit a cyclical set of liveness proofs: cryptographic challenge-response handshakes with the hospital’s validators, spikes showing voluntary movement, pulse and temperature readings, even tiny flashes of light and microvibrations sent through the implant like a doctor tapping a knee to check reflexes. For 364 days straight, the logs had been blank where valid responses should be.
LIVENESS_CHECK: FAIL – no motion.
LIVENESS_CHECK: FAIL – no response to challenge.
LIVENESS_CHECK: FAIL – biometric flatline.
Chainpoint’s registry allowed no grace periods or exceptions. At 365 consecutive failures, the contract would execute automatically, flipping his status from [ALIVE] to [DECEASED].
Aili knew this end was coming. Knew, even, that it would be what Gelvin wanted. His will, a smart contract, had special provisions for a “clean death” like this. They’d harvest his organs so his wife and two children would get the money they deserved, but that he’d never been able to save during his life. His death would mean something. Aili didn’t care. She’d be destitute forever if it meant feeling her husband’s early morning stubble against her shoulder again.
The three living Rezniks gathered together in the hospital on the 365th day of his coma. When the final suite of liveness attestations failed, the oracle relays confirmed null signals. His family watched his dashboard profile fade into gray. The miniscule assets that hadn’t been drained by his hospital stay began filtering into their accounts.
Behind the visualizations on the dashboard, a cold dance began. His identity registry contract flipped his status to [DECEASED], and the network spread the update like news passed along a chain of neighbors until every corner of the city believed it. The inheritance contract emitted execution events; oracle relays dispatched the organ-harvesting drones, routing them to his registered GPS coordinators. Property claims were disbursed along predefined routes. Health coverage contracts terminated. On the chain, he was already a corpse.
In the hospital, under the antiseptic lights and the doctor’s tired eyes, his heart still beat and his lungs still filled as the various medical machines that surrounded him kept him alive for a few more moments. Watching his death render digitally felt like someone reaching into her sternum and squeezing her heart with their bare hands. She nodded at the doctor, and he took Gelvin off life support. They held their hands and waited for the flatline.
His heart kept beating. After a long and pregnant pause, he inhaled sharply, his eyes shot open, and the doctor took a step back. Suddenly, the room filled with nurses, doctors, and new machines wheeled in hurriedly. Aili and her children heard words like “miracle” and “impossible” as they pushed through the throng to reach him.
When they did, he was blinking. He could not speak or stand. Even if the stroke hadn’t likely paralyzed half his body, a year of disuse has atrophied the rest. But he was alive. He held them in his arms as they draped across him. He winced slightly beneath their weight, but it was hard to notice beneath his smile. He was alive. His family cried. Aili explained that he’d been gone for a year, and even if he couldn’t understand her, he nodded.
A notification sounded from their son’s tablet and his pale face, tight with panic, pulled them from their ecstasy. The chime announced the drones’ approach. Joy soured instantly on all their tongues, turning copper with fear. The hustle of the room slowed, too. Nurses filtered out with their heads down.
“Aren’t his biometrics emitting again?” Aili asked.
“There’s no cryptographic binding anymore. Once the system flagged him as dead, his implant signatures are all just rejected. Useless as a key after the lock’s been changed,” Bream responded.
“What do we do, then?” Aili asked.
“Give me that,” Mea said, grabbing the tablet from his hand. “We’ll just nominate a new key. There’s already a clause for damaged implants. We’ll slip this in before the drones get here.”
She bundled everything she had: implant logs and fresh EEG data that showed he was very much still alive. Using the succession clause in his identity contract, she attempted to nominate the new keypair. She drained their family accounts to pay priority gas fees, pushing the transaction urgently into the network’s waiting rooms, the validator mempools. The drones were only minutes away, and every second would count.
Only his original doctor stayed in the room. The family clustered around Gelvin’s side, leaning in to the tablet as if willing the chain to believe their petition. The transaction propagated through the network’s peer-to-peer gossip layer, which would hopefully spread the news to every machine in earshot.
The system spat back a verdict: INVALID_STATE: DECEASED_IDENTITY. Panic crested. Bream punched the tablet, and its screen shattered, shards cutting into his clenched fist. The system hadn’t broken. It was working perfectly. His status had been finalized hours ago, before he woke up. His death was immutably etched into consensus, now. On the chain, resurrection was read as fraud, and the system had been built to prevent that.
Gelvin willed his useless throat to speak, a hoarse whisper finally leaving his lips. It didn’t matter. Nothing in their reality would overrule what the chain had already determined.
“Can’t we shut down the hospital? Stop the drones from getting in? Fork the chain?” Aili begged the doctor.
“The drones have onchain authority. Their firmware only follows the original chain’s signature, hard-wired into their code. Any fork would be invisible. And we can’t lock any door they wouldn’t have a key for.”
“There has to be something,” she screamed.
There wasn’t. All this was functioning, as far as the design of their metropolis was concerned, perfectly. The self-executing code, the interminability of the network. Everything was designed to prevent resurrection fraud, creating smooth, safe systems impervious to manipulation. No governance vote or human intervention could override this outcome. No one had thought to design for a medical miracle, and now Gelvin, recently reborn, would die again. When reality and the chain disagreed, the chain brought reality to heel.
The timer reached zero, and the buzzing whirs of drones filled the room as the window yielded to their authenticated keys. The doctor and three nurses had to pull Aili, Mea, and Bream from the room.
All Gelvin ever wanted was to be useful, and as the drones bored into his writhing body, bones smoking beneath their drills and his family’s accounts filled with the city’s governance-backed stablecoin, he was.
Exhibit II: Rent Control
Neeva read the notification three times before she believed it. Her Chainpoint in Repose series had been minted six months ago on a community marketplace and had sat, unseen, for nine lonely months. She thought the series – photographs of the city skyline that she’d fed through a bespoke AI image generator trained on her oil paintings – was some of her finest work. The market had been indifferent. Until today.
LUTH_EXCELSIOR paid a sizable amount of stablecoin to purchase one of the minted NFT images: the city at night, lights from bustling windows bouncing off the smooth edges of the river and smearing into the sky. The money hit her account immediately. She bragged to everyone at the small office where she worked as a Proof-of-Humanity attestor. The pay there was minuscule, but so were career prospects for art graduates, and her low-income apartment complex was rent-controlled, so she “got by.”
Her coworkers celebrated with her that night. Bleary, intoxicated smiles, jealous glances dotting the evening. Outside, she looked up at the evening skyline that would help pay for the next four months of rent. A little drunk, she stumbled out of the elevator and held her phone against the door, waiting for the familiar click. Instead, the lock held. A “suspended” notice flashed on the door’s electronic handle. She pulled up her dashboard on her phone and navigated to her rental NFT.
Tenant Elligibility Breach:
Income Status: Over Income Treshhold (+2.9%).
Tenancy NFT State: Flagged, Suspended.
Notice: Access credentials provisionally revoked. Termination event scheduled for Block #13,442,221.
Note: Billing obligations will remain active until termination finalizes onchain. All rent streams continue until the tenancy NFT is formally burned.
Current State: Block #13,442,221 – Pending Finalization.
She hadn’t thought the income from her art would be counted, but of course it was. Everything in Chainpoint was linked: her identity mirrored onchain in perfect symmetry with her real-world life. She thought it unfair. She hadn’t gotten a new job. They hadn’t even given her 30 days to move out and find a new place. The system, of course, did not care. She called her coworker Libby, told her she was locked out, and slept on her couch for the night.
In the morning, she woke, groggy and homeless, to a push notification from her dashboard.
Rent Payment Processed – Thank you!
Hope woke her quickly. She thanked Libby with a breezy kiss on the cheek and sprinted back to her apartment.
The “suspended” notice reappeared
Confused, she checked her dashboard. The billing contract was still marked “active.” The tenancy read “pending finalization.” She tried to submit a dispute ticket, but the dashboard spat back an error message: “cannot process disputes until termination finalizes.” Panic rose in her throat, like she was choking on pieces of glass as she clicked dispute again and again.
The address of a tenant advocacy kiosk popped up after the seventh error message, and she went directly there. Flickering fluorescent lights, walls lined with old monitors streaming the block explorer, and a man whose wet eyes never rose from his phone awaited her.
She slammed her hand down on the desk.
“Why am I locked out and still paying?”
He sighed.
“Oh yeah, seen this before.” His tone flat. “Access runs on the fast chain, so it can respond in milliseconds, not hours. Billing lives on a cheaper, slower chain. Safer, auditable, etcetera. They’re usually synced pretty seamlessly, but when the cross-chain bridges jam, they hit total divergence.”
“Why aren’t they communicating, then?”
He had not looked up from his phone or met her eyes. The grey walls seemed to oscillate as if she were inside some mindless creature’s peristaltic stomach. “It won’t stop charging you until the block finalizes. Let me see. Yep. 13,442,221’s frozen.”
“Why?”
If he’d look at her, maybe he’d understand. He did not.
“Massive power outage hit a couple of validator datacenters last week. Whole racks went dark, so the chain stopped. Not much you can do about that, right?”
She caught a glimpse of solitaire cards shuffling on his screen reflecting off his glistening eyes.
“But the power’s back now.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. When it came back up, half the machines had one version of the block, half the other. It reads like a fork, right? None of ‘em could agree on which was right, so it froze. Once consensus splits, the block’s stuck. Access is revoked, billing still thinks you’re active. You’re caught between the two until someone higher up decides to step in. Which they won’t.”
Neeva’s voice cracked. “So I’m just screwed?”
“To the protocol, you’re just a rounding error. It doesn’t see losers. It sees state. You know what they say, right? Immutability is fairness. Honestly, you should be keeping a closer eye on your finances if you’re mooching off a rent-controlled complex, like this. Next!”
A man twice her size shouldered past her and sidled up to the clerk with his own problems. Neeva stood, numb, for a minute before leaving. The knot in her stomach twisted. Outside, the sun shone too brightly, the buildings stood too tall, and she felt the world wrapping itself around her like a python. A news ticker scrolled along the side of a transit hub: “Validator outage resolved, essential services unaffected.”
She resorted to sleeping on Libby’s couch, but after three nights, Libby’s contract automatically started pulling from Neeva’s account, an additional payment to account for the additional “wear and tear” a new occupant caused.
Her balance was being slowly drained, now from both the apartment she couldn’t enter, and the fractional couch payment. Sleeping on a couch meant she was going to work tired and inefficient everyday, too. Her QA KPIs fell below department averages, and when the company onboarded a new AI model that made half her department redundant, she only found out she was fired when she simply couldn’t swipe in one morning.
She pulled up her wallet on her phone. The auto-generated, weekly thank you messages pinged again and again.
She petitioned city councilors, picketed outside her apartment complex until the summer consensus-approved heat drove her off the streets. No one helped her. People were conditioned not to question the workings of such a perfect system.
While watching her balance shrink almost to nothing, Neeva hoped that she’d become eligible once more. If the income that pushed her over was gone, could the registry see that she was broke enough to qualify for her former status again? The dashboard was uneqivocal: Eligibility status locked — Pending Termination. Until Block #13,442,221 finalized, no recalculation could execute.
Libby kicked her off her couch when Neeva’s balance no longer covered the rent increase. Everyone she knew was living contract to contract, hanging on by small fractions of stablecoins. She wandered the streets and slept beneath alcoves. None of the city’s homeless shelters opened to her. Her ledger still showed active rental payments. When her account reached zero, the balance kept accruing, a careless red debt that ballooned malignantly.
Near midnight, restless on a park bench, a notification that another one of her NFTs had sold sparked a second of hope. The system proceeded, taking just a small chunk out of her growing debt, returning her balance to the negatives once more.
Passerbys clicked their smartwatches against her phone, held out in shameful supplication, and the money disappeared into the overdue balance.
Across the plaza, a woman swiped her wrist against the door of a high-rise, and it opened with a cheerful green glow. A man behind her scanned his phone into the subway gate, and the turnstile spun. All around, access flowed smoothly: locks yielded, trains departed, systems sang. Neeva leaned against the wall. Her empty wallet glowed in her palm.
The city had rendered her both tenant and trespasser, solvent and broke. She tried to sleep, but Chainpoint hummed. The city lights smeared into the sky and speared angrily against her closed lids. The city went on around her, ceaseless, perfect, unyielding.
III. The DAO That Drowned Us
The dam above Ledger Falls held the sunrise like a great concrete catcher’s mitt. Morning smeared pink and orange across its great, wide surface and slid across the town below. The hundreds of homes interspersed between micro-vineyards, hydroponic greenhouses, and sluice gates yawned awake in the early hours. The ambient hum of mining and server farms powered by the abundant hydropower of the dam was gradually dulled by the awakening sounds of industry. Cars wound through the Chainpoint suburb. Toward the top of the all-seeing dam, a small glint of bronze, rusting from disuse, shimmered beneath the sun.
Erected in XX00, Governed by Smart Contract.
This autumn morning, October 3, XX99, a junior researcher named Jeremiah shuffled into his car, a small dribble of coffee straining his white shirt. He drove up the spillway access road into the hydropower substation.
He’d been cataloging actuator logs across the town’s network for three months. Tedious, lonely work. The dam’s safety systems, power routing, and more were all onchain, and these actuators turned the chain’s demands and logics into real-world events: a gate shutting here; waterflow increasing there; charged batteries shipped away. After nearly a century of upgrades and protocol migrations, the billions of onchain actuator logs had drifted across outdated storage layers and helf-deprecated nodes, scattered messily through the network. Jeremiah was continually scanning thousands of inactive, regular pings, that were always the same.
The work was so monotonous that he almost missed two sudden and unfamiliar lines of code:
ACTUATOR_07 → covenant_check: block_height=262799991.
ACTUATOR_09 → covenant_check: block_height=262799991.
Why was the system checking actuators? He scrolled through a hundred lines and found that it wasn’t just a couple; it was dozens. He pulled their contract address, assuming it was probably some kind of firmware test, but as the block explorer unrolled an arcane bytecode string, coded the very year the dam went up, his jaw dropped. A crude, immutable condition sat at the base of the stack:
if (block.timestamp >= genesis_time + 100 years) { DEMOLISH(); }
The room went cold, but he felt unbearably hot.
Stumbling outside, he looked down at the town – children biked along the trickle of the damed river outlet – the DEMOLISH command floated like a typographic storm above everything.
He returned to the office and began digging through as many old records as he could find.
Chainpoint Valley HOA – Sales Committee Notes (Nov. 21 XX19), LLM Summary.
Agenda Item: DAO Disclosure Requirements for Prospective Buyers.
Background: The dam’s long-term governance was bound to a Decentralized Autonomous Organization (DAO) at the time of construction. The contract escrow, a demolition fund, disburses validator rewards to keep its oracle network alive, and hard-codes a covenant requiring the dam’s removal exactly 100 years after block-height zero – an automated guarantee to restore the river in accordance with the original settlement between developers and environmental groups (a compromise for “temporarily unsettling a vital wetland ecosystem”). Demolition shall not commence while Certified Protective Organizations report verified occupancy at demolition sites.
Committee consensus: Explicit reference to this “100-Year Environmental Demolition Covenant” in the DAO charter is detrimental to property values.
Motion proposed: Minimize disclosure, replacing references with vague “future governance review” language in deeds.
Rationale discussed:
Developers’ view: By the time the demolition clause matures, blockchains will be obsolete or upgraded; consensus networks rarely last a decade, much less a century.
Legal counsel: Courts unlikely to enforce protocols literally; “code is law” is a slogan, not precedent.
Resolution: Effective immediately, all HOA communications will omit mention of the covenant. Sales packets will stress perpetual water security and multi-generational growth opportunities.
Adjourned.
Jeremiah’s binder overflowed lines of code and summaries of the actuator network. Blueprints revealed the dam had been seeded with conduits and cavities for demolition charges, each mapped to addressable detonators. For a century, they’d sat inert, but the wiring was there, waiting. Jeremiah tracked the knowledge of the demolition clause slowly receding from memory. Not one single censorious instance, but a thousand micro-decisions and self-interested assumptions. The Chainpoint network hadn’t degraded. The escrow accounts hadn’t dried up or been inflated out of existence. The town had only weeks before it would be destroyed.
Desperate, he’d fumbled through a speech at a recent town hall. He was a researcher, not a public speaker, and most read the very real panic in his voice as unhinged, except for one of the ombudsmen named Clara and a community college professor named Leon, who both found him after the town hall and asked to look over his work.
Once they had, panic wracked their frames. The three wasted a week trying to prompt widescale evacuations, before realizing that any such campaign would need years, not weeks. They’d convinced a few people, but to most, they sounded like protestors waving “THE END IS NIGH” signs.
They turned their efforts toward the DAO itself. Leon recruited his students, promising a perfect grade if they helped him. He studied the DAO contract and proposed physically forking the river upstream of the dam, then redefining the new outflow as the river itself. The DAO would check for the river and find it flowing freely, and the demolition commands would be skipped. Leon and his students dug channels and slowly diverted the river while they wrote up municipal paperwork for the renaming. The approval came through a week before the scheduled demolition. The small crowd cheered as a small trickle of water flowed through the alternate river. Jeremiah shook his head as the actuator logs flashed.
ORACLE-COORD_CHECK: MISMATCH.
The name changes, the deeds, the flow-monitors, none of it had mattered. The DAO oracles checked GPS coordinates against a fixed set that had been defined at commissioning. The dam’s “truth” was locked to those coordinates. It didn’t care about Leon’s river at all.
Clara focused on the chain itself. A fork on the chain, a new one without the demolition command, rather than the physical river, Clara explained, would work as if the river had met a sudden split in the land. The ledger’d keep flowing, but now there would be two versions of history moving side by side. Eventually, only one would be recognized as the “real” river. She’d make it hers. She wrote a “starting document” with a new network ID that patched the demolition line so it would never fire. She door-knocked to borrow neighbors’ computers and hired a validator firm that she, Leon and Jeremiah, drained their wallets to pay for. Since the original DAO had been mostly forgotten, it shouldn’t take much to make her new channel the more popular one.
Mere days before the demolition, the forked chain was ready to be pushed into the network. The dashboard on her laptop confirmed the signed validators. She broadcast the fork’s headers directly to the dam gateway through a relay node, and they all held their breaths, tied together with electric hope. She entered the PUBLISH_HEADERS command, and the entire group let loose a cheer when Clara’s monitor flashed a peaceful green message:
Fork propagated successfully.
Jeremiah paused from his celebration to look at the actuator logs.
Header_CHAINID mismatch → REJECTED.
The dam’s actuators would only accept headers signed by the original chain’s genesis ID. He lifted his head to break the news, but he didn’t have to. A tremendous shudder shook the ground beneath their feet. Intake gates screamed open, shedding decades of rust as they spun. Reservoir water roared, preparing for the coming deluge.
Clara refused failure. If they couldn’t change the code, she’d spoof the infrastructure itself. She wouldn’t attack history, but the present. Clara found the protest clause nestled in Jeremiah’s notes. Certified protestors could not be harmed by the demolition charges themselves, language insisted upon by the eco-groups to protect their future bargaining power and to adhere to safety protocols.
The same environmental groups had once chained themselves to trees to prevent loggers from felling forests. In the hours before the demolition was scheduled, Leon, a few of his more courageous students, Clara, and her partner walked to the blasting joints within the dam’s structure and locked themselves into the housings. They chained themselves together: faces illuminated with headlamps, sensors draped across their wrists, and fed their proof of protest to the DAO. They insisted Jeremiah stay behind in case they failed, but he watched the video stream and ensured the data moved correctly across the chain. They sang the Chainpoint High School football team’s song together, further asserting their presence.
Jeremiah stared nervously at the actuator logs, waiting for the disarming key to populate. The group’s presence appeared. Lines of code acknowledging their existence ended with:
PRESERVATION_AUTH: UNREGISTERED_GROUP → IGNORED.
Jeremiah fell to his knees along the riverbank above Chainpoint. The code had been written to protect groups, not humans themselves. They’d misunderstood the immutable logic the dam was built on. Their presence was only half the solution. Without attested credentials, they were not a group of protestors. To the oracle layer, they were just noise.
The dam groaned as the flow increased, readying for demolition. On the small video feed, their song faltered, voices crackling with fear. Jeremiah tried to push through a last-minute authorization, categorizing the group, but without funds left to pay the gas fees, the registration stalled in the mempool. There wasn’t enough time.
The town was small beneath him. An empty, single siren, the last surviving piece of alarm hardware that hadn’t been renovated out of existence, rang in the town’s center. The protestors inside the dam began to scream, some hurriedly tried to unchain themselves, but it didn’t matter. A tremendous crack sounded from the dam and the video feeds all failed. Their sensors went dark, Flashes of white light raced across the dam wall. It all came crumbling down. A concrete dehiscence. The river’s flow a bloody deluge that careened from the once placid cliff down over the town.
Houses and people and pets and schools and cars and screams were all swallowed in a single rushing wave that left nothing but the noonday sun bouncing off its glimmering surface. Thousands of homes, even more humans, all gone in an instant. No one above spoke. Few dared breathe above the devastation.
On Jeremiah’s monitor, a final output line appeared:
DAO_EXECUTION: SUCCESS – Contract closed.
The Chainpoint wetlands caught the noonday sun and held it like a beach ball in the winding, wet fields. Jeremiah stood above it all, silent, spent, and useless.
Join the Special Interest Group on Protocol Fiction
The Special Interest Group on Protocol Fiction (SIGPF) is a bi-weekly group that will meet every other Thursday, 10:00 to 11:00 am EST starting Thursday, October 23rd. Our group will be dedicated to all things protocol fiction. We’ll start by working on a shared definition of the protocol fiction genre, creating a Protocol Fiction Field Guide that helps orient and define the genre with a shared toolkit of techniques, forms, and conventions.
We’ll also work on our own protocol fiction, writing and sharing stories in a friendly, peer-to-peer environment. Help shape the future of Protocol Fiction, learn more about fiction and literature, and sharpen your own creative and analytic skills. All (readers, writers, preliterate time-travelers) are welcome! If you are interested, please fill out the form here to sign up!
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