RUFUS
5:59 p.m.
I wanna get at Aimee, thinking she led him here, but she’s standing between me and his gun. I know she’s not gonna die today, but that don’t make her bulletproof. I don’t know how Peck knew to find me here, with his goons and a gun, but this is it for me.
I can’t be stupid. I can’t be a hero.
I don’t wanna make peace with this—maybe if I had a gun pointed at me before I met Mateo and got my Plutos back, yeah, whatever, pull the trigger. But my life is stepping its game up.
“You not talking shit now, huh?” Peck asks. His hand is shaking.
“Don’t do this. Please.” Aimee shakes her head. “This will end your life too.”
“You begging for him, right? You don’t give a shit about me.”
“I will never give a shit about you if you do this.”
She better not be saying this just to calm him down, because I will haunt the hell out of these two if they actually stay together. I wanna take my shot at hiding behind Malcolm for a second and dashing toward Peck, but that’s not gonna get me far.
Mateo.
He’s coming up behind Peck and I shake my head at him, which Peck sees. Peck turns and I run at him because Mateo’s life is threatened. Mateo punches Peck in the face, which is straight unbelievable, and it doesn’t send Peck to the floor or nothing like that, but we got a chance now. Peck’s homie swings at Mateo and is about to rock his head off his shoulders, but he pulls back at the last second, like he recognizes him—I don’t know, but Mateo finally steps back. Peck lunges for Mateo and I charge at him, but Malcolm beats me to it, running into Peck and his boy like a train, carrying them through the air as the gun drops, and he slams them against the wall.
The gun doesn’t go off, we all good.
Peck’s other boy goes for the gun and I kick him in the face as he goes to grab it, and Tagoe jumps on top of him. I grab the gun. I can try and end Peck for good and keep Aimee safe from him. I point the gun at him as Malcolm clears away. Mateo is looking at me the way he did when I caught up with him after he ran away from me. Like I’m dangerous.
I unload the gun.
All the bullets find their way into the wall.
I grab Mateo and we jet because Peck and his people are here to kill and we’re the ones most likely to find a knife in our necks or bullets in our heads.
This day is doing me dirty on goodbyes.
DALMA YOUNG
6:20 p.m.
Death-Cast did not call Dalma Young because she isn’t dying today, but if they had, she would’ve spent the day with her half sister, and maybe even a Last Friend—she created the app, after all.
“I promise you don’t want to work for me,” Dalma says, her arm interlocked with her half sister’s as they cross the street. “I don’t want to work for me. This job has become such a job.”
“But this internship is so stupid,” Dahlia says. “If I’m going to work this hard in tech, I might as well get paid triple what I’m receiving now.” Dahlia is the most impatient twenty-year-old in New York. She refuses to slow down and is always ready to move from one phase of her life to the next. When she started dating her last girlfriend, she brought up getting married within a week. And now she wants to turn her tech internship into a Last Friend job. “Whatever. How did the meetings go? Did you get to meet Mark Zuckerberg?”
“Meetings went really well,” Dalma says. “Twitter may launch the feature as soon as next month. Facebook may need a little more time.”
Dalma is in town meeting with developers from both Twitter and Facebook. This morning, she pitched a new Last Message feature that will allow respective users to prepare their final tweets/statuses so their online legacy is more meaningful than, say, their thoughts on a popular movie or some viral video of someone else’s dog.
“What do you think your Last Message would be?” Dahlia asks. “I’ll probably go with that Moulin Rouge! quote about how the greatest thing in the world is to love and be loved in return and yadda blah whatever.”
“Yeah, you seem truly passionate about that quote, sis,” Dalma says.
Dalma has given thought to this question, of course. Last Friend has been an incredible resource over the past two years, since its prototype stage, but she’ll forever be horrified by the eleven Last Friend serial killings last summer. She was tempted to sell the app, wash the blood from her hands. But there have been so many instances where the app has done good, like this afternoon on the train when she overheard a conversation between two young women, smiling at each other when one said she was so grateful she reached out over Last Friend, and learning the other loves the movement so much she tags the city with graffiti to promote the app.