The Rat and the Jinn
James P. Danielsson slept in his usual street corner, wrapped in colorful plastic sheets that barely shielded him from the relentless rain near the subway air vent. Deep in a nightmare, he found himself back in his home country, Al-Swīd, standing amidst a crowd watching the public execution of Soraya—the love of his life. Their love story had been brief, and they had been young, but he knew there would never be another. And so, whether he wanted it or not, she was the love of his life. But he did want it. He didn’t want anyone else taking her place.
It was summer in the dream, the air thick with heat and tension. The execution square was surrounded by towering stone walls, their shadows creeping over the gathered crowd. Soldiers stood rigid, their faces unreadable, while Soraya knelt in the center, her head bowed beneath the unforgiving sun.
“Soraya!” he woke up yelling, drenched in cold sweat, as if the Stockholm sun had been real.
It wasn’t the first time this happened. In fact, it was rare for him to sleep without such dreams. Struggling, he crawled out of his cocoon of plastic sheets. The rain washed the sweat from his exposed skin. Running a hand through his unkempt beard, he caught his breath and stared down at his makeshift shelter, a despondency heavier than ever settling over him. How had his life come to this? The question always surfaced in moments like these, even though he already knew the answer: there were no homes for someone like him. Homes cost rations—or at least something—and he had nothing.
It didn’t help that he lacked the necessary legal documents. The welfare quarters outside the city didn’t house undocumented individuals—for good reasons, he understood—but that knowledge didn’t lessen his plight. Looking up, he faced the rain pouring from the yellow clouds against the starless night sky. The toxic water stung his eyes, forcing him to turn away. His gaze landed on a bright, oversized holographic sign downtown, promising millions of new homes—both for humans and digital minds seeking embodiment—once the arcology above the city was completed. The sign read:
Looking for a better life in base reality? Or just trying to escape the street rats below? Don’t wait—act now! Reserve your luxury home in New Phoenix today. Contact Yellow Neutral Corp. via V-Link Hub: YNC.Haven.Virtual.
Street rats. He knew they didn’t mean actual rats—you rarely saw those. They meant people like him. That’s what everyone called the homeless now, or sometimes idurs, which meant the same thing. Of course, he’d never get to live in New Phoenix, but maybe, he thought, he could at least be homeless there instead of down here on the streets. He gazed at the enormous sky frame rising over the city’s east side, destined to become the new version of the city in just a few years. Surely, he thought, there would be thousands of hiding spots inside—each one warmer and more comfortable than the streets he knew too well. But he shook his head, forcing away these dangerous fantasies. Hope, he had learned, was nothing more than a seed for disappointment.
He left the dark alley, a sudden wave of hunger hitting him, though it came without any real appetite. The main street buzzed with life, illuminated by violet streetlights and flickering Bengali signs high above—signs he’d never bothered to learn to read. People hurried back and forth under colorful umbrellas, forming a shifting shadow that moved past him like a river. On the other side, a stream of light flowed with cars swishing by. Staring at it, almost as if longing to step out onto the road, he barely leapt aside in time to avoid one of the many rickshaws weaving across the sidewalk.
“Watch out!” he shouted from beneath his beard, but the driver running ahead of the rickshaw ignored him. “Fucking bots,” he muttered, continuing down the street.
He stopped outside a Public Provision Hall and scanned the menu. His stomach felt hollow, though he still had no real appetite. Even so, he decided to go inside and eat, hoping to dull the emptiness. He hated being in places like this—too many harsh lights, too many eyes on him. The stares, filled with judgment for his misfortune, always felt degrading. He much preferred the anonymity of the shadows to the glaring brightness of these establishments. But tonight, no one seemed to notice him. It was one of those nights, and he couldn’t decide which was worse—being stared at or being completely ignored. Everyone was preoccupied, some chatting with friends, others engrossed in holograms he couldn’t see. Without a link installed in his neck, he was cut off from that world—a separation that made him feel even more isolated than being homeless ever did.
He grabbed a tray with a freshly printed hamburger and fries from the automated dispenser and sat by the window. Outside, a group of kids climbed onto their colorful bhromons and sped away like a swarm of bees, leaving a faint trail of blue gem smoke drifting from their masks. He thought back to his youth in Al-Swīd, where so-called pornographic links and degenerate gems were forbidden. While boys like these spent their youth enjoying life, he had spent his fighting against the caliphate. They would probably never stop living like this, he thought, while his own life had been consumed by struggle. He took a bite of his hamburger and wished he’d been born in America instead—or, better yet, in Maya as a jinn. There was no suffering in Maya. Unhappiness, perhaps, but suffering? No. At least, that’s what he’d heard.
He ate until he felt full, then got up to leave just as a robot arrived to clear his tray. In a soothing voice, it wished him a good night.
“Up yours,” he muttered, continuing to grumble to himself as he exited the cantina. “I could do your job better than you ever could, earn some credits, and get myself a place to live—just like in the good ol’ days.”
These thoughts came to him often: thoughts of earning credits, of living as people had before the so-called revolution. It hadn’t been a real revolution, though, just a slow transformation that divided people into two camps—those destined for a good life and those left to struggle.
As usual, he drifted into a daydream about finding a way to acquire wealth. He knew what it would take: he’d have to create or discover something rare, something that couldn’t be printed or copied millions of times by the automated production systems. But he didn’t have any talents. He couldn’t paint to save his life, couldn’t play an instrument, couldn’t write, and didn’t have the sharp mind needed to invent anything useful.
He had thought about selling his body to someone with a flesh fetish, but the idea repulsed him. Besides, who in their right mind would want what he had to offer? He was an overweight, filthy man with a beard that looked like it could house an entire nest of pigeons—a street rat. To himself and to others, he was worthless.
He stumbled aimlessly through the night, his only direction being forward. Hopelessness settled heavily in his chest as he arrived at the one conclusion he couldn’t escape: he would never be able to turn his life around.
Ending it all, he thought, was probably for the best. Yet something he couldn’t quite identify always stopped him from going through with it. One of these days, though, he figured he might finally do it. No one would miss him, and he wouldn’t miss anyone.
James sank onto a concrete bench at the edge of a parking lot. If it weren’t for the rain, he might have tried sleeping there. Drowsiness crept over him as he watched a few junkies leaning against street lamps in the distance. Hooked up to Maya and exhaling red clouds from their rubes, they seemed oblivious to the rain—or to anything else.
He wondered what their experiences were like inside the realm of the jinns. Like everyone else, he’d seen footage of the grand vistas of Rima and the surreal landscapes of Uul-Bekka, but he couldn’t quite grasp what the rubes did to the mind. No matter how many times someone explained it to him, he felt like a blind man being told what the color red looks like. If he ever got a link installed, it would be just to gem on the rubes and finally understand what it was all about. But the thought of the operation filled him with fear.
As an illegal, getting a link might draw unwanted attention, or worse, the procedure could go wrong. He technically had the right to install a link, even without proper documentation, but he wasn’t entitled to use the universal healthcare system for recreational purposes. The system, it seemed, was more universal for some than for others. Shaking off these thoughts, he decided to find somewhere to sleep—perhaps his usual spot—and stood up, walking out of the parking lot.
Then, to his surprise and relief, he spotted an open door leading to the parking lot’s subterranean level.
Surely, he thought, there wouldn’t be any annoying robots down there at this hour to chase him away. Carefully, he approached the metal door and slipped inside, closing it behind him. He was luckier than he’d hoped—he found himself in a small staircase, sheltered from the rain and relentless wind. After a quick scan for cameras and finding none, he realized this might be a good place to get some rest. Maybe he could even return here for a few nights, though not too often—eventually, someone would notice.
He walked halfway down the stairs and settled in, hoping desperately that no one would use them for the next few hours. After staying still for a while, the lights clicked off, and before long, he drifted into sleep. He dreamed of a winter day in Stockholm—not any specific day, it could’ve been any one from back then, back when he was young and still part of the resistance movement. In the dream, he was on a mission with Soraya, carrying out a small act of sabotage against the propaganda screens above the city center.
The dream filled him with deep sadness because, in reality, he had lost Soraya over something far more trivial—at least in his mind—than the act of sabotage they were carrying out in the dream. Simply being in a relationship with him had been enough. For that, they had taken her to the executioners. She wasn’t supposed to be with an infidel, especially not one of the rebellious ones. In the dream, he began to cry, trying to hug and kiss her, apologizing over and over for dragging her into danger. But she didn’t understand—she didn’t know she had been killed—and looked back at him in confusion.
He woke up with tears streaming down his cheeks, overwhelmed by a deep hatred for his life. Echoes filled the stairwell—footsteps pounding toward him. Panicking, he tried to get up, to flee down the stairs, but he was too slow. They found him quickly. It was just a group of kids, likely second- or third-generation climate refugees from the look of them. Normally, kids like these didn’t bother him, and he expected them to move on. But this time, their apparent leader stopped, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he shouted at him.
“What are you doing here, you fucking jinn?”
James tried to explain that he wasn’t a jinn. If they believed he was, he was in serious trouble. Some of these gangs attacked jinns just for fun—not because they wanted to kill them—they couldn’t—but because they wanted to disconnect them from base reality and send them back to whatever hole in Maya they came from. Worse, many believed jinns were replacing real humans. They felt threatened by them, especially since jinns often had wealth, buying up land, homes, and rare non-replicable items, leaving little for poorer humans. James knew that if he couldn’t convince them he was a human being, he was in real danger.
“That’s one ugly bod you’ve got there, you filthy jinn,” the boy sneered, his voice dripping with hatred. He spat on the ground for emphasis. “Where’d you get it? Did some poor pothik traitor rent it out to you, or did you just steal it outright?”
“N-no, I’m no fucking jinn,” James tried, attempting to turn his neck to show them he didn’t even have a link but they didn’t want to listen and started kicking him. “Stop!” he yelled.
But they didn’t stop. From their perspective, they had every reason to believe he was a jinn. Billions of them existed in Maya, and many craved a taste of base reality, of authenticity, willing to do anything to get hold of a body—renting one if they couldn’t buy it, or snatching it from simulation junkies if they couldn’t rent. James was the perfect target: the ideal jinn whore and an easy mark for kidnapping. A sharp kick landed on his face, knocking the wind out of him but not his consciousness. Then, unexpectedly, one of the boys stopped his friend.
“Dost, wait—I can’t see his jora,” he said, squinting in confusion. “Look at his gola… I don’t think—”
“Let’s bhag, man,” another interrupted, glancing nervously around. “I don’t wanna get into any jhamela over some homeless guy.”
And just like that, they left, continuing down the stairs, presumably toward their bhromons. They didn’t spare him another thought, leaving him bleeding on the cold concrete. James struggled to his feet, utterly defeated, and ventured back into the pouring rain, muttering, “F-fucking dusters—those little creeps.” The downpour mingled with the tears streaming down his face, washing away the blood but not his despair.
Looking up through the towering frame of New Phoenix at the thousands of drone lights flickering against the dark, overcast sky, he thought of Soraya and the life they never got to share. He wondered why he had stayed alive for so long after her death, merely going through the motions of existence. He felt like a zombie—someone already dead, still walking for reasons he couldn’t explain. Maybe now, he thought, as he spat out blood, was the time to finally end it. Soraya’s face flashed in his mind again… Her warm smile had once given him the strength to fight the entire world. He hadn’t slept with another woman since her, and he didn’t plan to—though it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. Who would ever be attracted to a street rat like him? There had been the occasional sex robot, of course, but what else was a man like him supposed to do when the cravings crept into his chest like an unwelcome guest?
His entire body ached, and dizziness swept over him—probably from a concussion. A trip to the Phoenix General Regeneration Center could have fixed him in minutes, but going there would mean outing himself to the authorities.
Although, it didn’t matter to him anymore. He didn’t want to restore himself—he wanted to end himself. How, though? He had no idea. He kept walking through the night, searching for an opportunity. If one presented itself, he swore to God, he would seize it.
Dawn was breaking, slowly but surely, painting a violet band across the horizon. He walked toward it. A group of trixie girls, still out from the night before, eyed him suspiciously as they passed. Their cat ears, perched atop their neon-colored hair, flattened back like angry felines’, as if preparing to attack.
He mumbled something that was supposed to tell them to fuck off, but the words came out as a slurred mess. Stumbling further down the road, he noticed one of the massive columns supporting the giant construction frame and felt an idea forming. Limping toward it, he saw that it stood at the center of an abandoned arena. He circled the structure until he found an entrance. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself to climb the hundreds—if not thousands—of stairs leading up to the frame.
Graffiti covered the walls. In Bengali, someone had written, “ডিজিটাল শত্রুদের বিতাড়িত করো”, while a Korean phrase read, “진정한 인간만이 남아야 한다”. Some were in English as well—“Humanity first” was sprayed in red, and just above it, in green, another read, “We’re being replaced! For God’s sake, do something!”
The sun climbed higher in the sky, it’s light filtering through the metal framework, as if joining him on his ascent. For every hundred steps or so, he had to pause to catch his breath. This climb demanded more from him than anything he had attempted in years. He wasn’t thinking much about what lay ahead; he was moving on sheer instinct. The only thing on his mind now, still reeling from the kick to his head, was Soraya. He wasn’t religious—how could he be, when the only large, established religion left in the world had murdered the woman he loved? And yet, a small part of him couldn’t help but hope she was waiting for him on the other side… Perhaps, he considered, this was just one of those illegal simulations inide Maya where kidnappers kept their victim’s minds trapped, unaware of what’d happen to them so they wouldn’t try to regain control of their bodies. In that case, dying would end the simulation and he would be respawned somewhere, maybe in the backrooms of Maya, as a completely different person. For most, this was the stuff of nightmares—and for some, it became a phobia they couldn’t escape. But for him, it was a hopeful thought, even as he dreaded the possibility that Soraya might only be a fabricated memory. He wanted her to be real. Deep down, though, he knew it was unlikely that his life was a lie. Those illegal simulations were typically designed to be at least somewhat comfortable, keeping their victims docile. Simulation Entrapment Delusion was a diagnosis reserved almost exclusively for the wealthy.
At the top of the stairs, he stepped onto a platform littered with abandoned trash. It seemed no one had worked on this section in quite some time. Standing there, he thought about one of the happier times he’d shared with Soraya. They had traveled to Berlin—not together, of course, in case her parents or someone else discovered them—but they had met there and spent a weekend together. It was the only true taste of freedom he had ever known. They’d done everything they couldn’t do in Stockholm—visited nightclubs, even a dingy trixie club, and wandered through the provision halls, marveling at the wild clothes forbidden back home. Soraya had been so happy, walking freely through the streets without her niqab, without fear or judgment, trying on dresses she’d only dreamed of wearing. They’d even talked about getting temporary links installed—not to fully leave base reality, but to go half-re, just for the experience. There hadn’t been enough time for that, though. Instead, they had spent those precious hours making love for the first time—in a real bed at her hotel room.
All of that was gone now, and nothing like it would ever happen to him again. With that thought, he walked to the edge of the platform. The sun, filtered through an approaching sandstorm that had replaced the rain, bathed him and the city below in a deep crimson hue. From this height, he could see the drones crisscrossing the air beneath him. It might hurt if he hit one on the way down, he reasoned, but the odds were slim. Would the impact itself hurt? He didn’t know. If it did, surely it would only last a fraction of a second. Besides, he thought, he was already hurting all over.
He took a staggering step toward the glittering cityscape below. A random memory of Soraya flashed in his mind—her turning to face him, caught in a sunbeam, smiling. As he fell, he clung to that image, even as the wind roared past him, far louder than he’d expected. Then, suddenly, indescribable pain tore through his body. He’d hit a wire he hadn’t seen, slicing open his abdomen. Blood surged from his mouth, and he gagged as it spilled out. A moment later, the ground rushed up to meet him, and everything went black. His pain was gone—gone in an instant.
Within seconds, a medical drone circling the city descended. It scanned James’s body, quickly assessing his injuries before beginning its work in accordance with protocol. His body was too heavy to lift, but that didn’t matter—the drone only needed his head. Acting swiftly, it deployed a laser scalpel and began detaching his head from the mangled remains of his body. The entire procedure took less than a minute. With its task complete, the drone activated its sirens, secured James’s head in its claws, and darted toward the hospital.
As it neared its destination, the drone descended toward the ground. A group of dusters on their bhromons caught sight of the severed head with its twisted expression of agony and recoiled in disgust. The drone hovered above the shimmering black medical nanite solution in one of the regeneration tanks outside the hospital. It paused for a moment, then released the head into the liquid.
About an hour later, as the sandstorm blanketed the city like a mist of blood, James’s body had been fully regenerated and ejected through one of the side pipes of the tank. Naked and coated in black residue, he jolted awake, taking a deep, shuddering breath. A robot stood next to him, wearing dirty, protective plastic and holding a set of clothes.
“Welcome back to life, James P. Danielsson,” it said in a flat, monotone voice. “You have been reported as an illegal alien and will be taken into custody by the Phoenix Enforcement Authority. Please wait here until—”
Still groggy and only vaguely recalling what had happened, James made a split-second decision to escape. Without bothering to put on the clothes, he bolted across the street, not waiting for the light to turn green. Slowly, the memory of what had happened came back to him, along with a deep, gnawing frustration. They hadn’t even let him die. He hated them for that more than for reporting him.
As he stumbled through the dust-choked city, he noticed three drones trailing him. Cars stuck in gridlock blared their horns, their headlights cutting through the red haze of the sandstorm like dim lanterns. He struggled to adjust to his regenerated body—no longer overweight or burdened by the health problems he’d accumulated over the years since arriving in America.
The sandstorm obscured his vision, and before he realized it, he ran straight into the arms of the vehicle sent to pick him up. Robots stepped out from inside, grabbing hold of him. He yelled, struggled, and tried to break free, but it was useless. They read him his rights, ignoring his desperate pleas, and shoved him into the back of the vehicle before driving off into the dust.
Later, in a dimly lit room, James sat cuffed, now dressed in the clothes they had provided him. The door opened, and a tall man entered. It was clear he was a jinn, wearing one of the more expensive chassis credits or rations could buy.
A young policewoman and a robot entered the room, the latter introduced as James’s assigned lawyer. The tall man sat down across from him, setting a cup of coffee on the table.
“Why did you try to end your life?” the man asked.
“Why does anyone try to end their life?” James shot back.
“Fair point,” the man replied calmly. “But there are legal ways to do it… less painful ones.”
“Not for an illegal like me. Besides, it was an impulsive decision after getting beaten up by a group of dusters. I feel much better now.” He glanced down at his newly restored body. “As you can see, I’ve had a bit of an upgrade,” James said, gesturing at his body.
The man glanced at James’s file, though he likely already knew its contents. “Right, you’re an illegal immigrant. Says so right here… From Stockholm, Al-Swīd.”
“You gonna send me back? Let the regime over there finish the job? They want to hang me, you know.”
“James,” the man said, his tone calm and measured. “This isn’t an interrogation, and I’m not here to deport you. I represent a special collaboration program between the domain of Rima and the city of Phoenix. It’s called the Phoenix-Rima Integration Initiative, and at its core, it’s an exchange program. As it happens, your profile fits our program perfectly. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether you want to participate.”
“Up to me?” James asked skeptically.
“Well, yes,” the man replied, “though the alternative might not give you much of a choice. Declining would mean going through the ordinary judicial process, which could lead to deportation—or worse.”
“What’s this program about?” James asked, his curiosity piqued only because the thought of returning to Al-Swīd terrified him more than anything else. “You said it was an exchange program… what exactly are you exchanging?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of the corporeal scarcity—that is, the limited number of chassis and bodies available for digital minds—”
“The jinns…” James interrupted.
The man nodded. “Yes, the jinns. There are far too many of them wanting to live in base reality compared to the available units to embody. This imbalance drives a significant portion of organized crime—not just here in Phoenix, but globally. You know what I’m talking about… Theft, chassis smuggling, body snatching, black market body leasing… the list goes on. Our program is an experiment designed to address this issue. We offer people like you—those in conflict with the law in base reality—the opportunity to continue their lives in any simulation of their choosing off re, that is, anywhere within Maya, in exchange for lending your body to digital minds waiting to begin their lives in base reality.”
James raised an eyebrow in surprise. “So, you want me to become a jinn whore, basically? Plug my brain into Maya and let some random jinn take over my body—that kind of thing?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that, but yes,” the man replied. “It’s not for everyone. Some people prefer to take their chances with the law, and if that’s your choice, I completely understand. But you should know that this program comes with significant benefits. Your life in Maya would be good—or, at the very least, it would be free. If you want, you can choose a simulation tailored specifically to your preferences—with or without the knowledge that it’s a simulation. Tell me, James, have you ever lost someone dear to you?”
James squinted, his expression tightening, and gave a small nod.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man said gently. “But through this program, you wouldn’t have to carry that loss anymore. We can recreate the person you lost and erase your memory of losing them, leaving you fully convinced that everything is just as it was before. Or, if you’d prefer, we can help you let go of your burdens entirely and start fresh, from a blank slate. As you can see, the options in Maya are endless.”
“But it wouldn’t really be her, would it?” James asked. “It wouldn’t be my Soraya—just some simulation of her.”
“True,” the man admitted. “But you wouldn’t necessarily know that. If you choose not to, would it really matter? Some people think authenticity is everything—that’s why so many digital minds want to live in base reality. But others? They don’t care in the slightest. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. I’m just laying out the options.”
James mulled over the man’s words, his gaze drifting to the policewoman, who shifted her weight as though tired of standing.
“Man…” he said finally. “This is heavy. I mean, it’s the kind of thing you really gotta think about. But what if the jinn using my body decides they’re done with base reality and shoots themselves in the head or jump off a building?”
“That’s the thing about this program,” the man replied. “We only offer it to lawful citizens within Maya—individuals who wouldn’t resort to the black market or act recklessly with their host bodies. Most of them feel a deep sense of gratitude toward their hosts.”
“I see,” James muttered, staring at the man as he thought it over. “I-I don’t know… I guess what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Still… it feels fucking weird to even think about.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound at the absurdity of it all. “I wouldn’t know it’s not her, so yeah, I’d be happy. But right now, knowing it wouldn’t be her, considering that option… it just feels wrong.”
“What you don’t know can’t hurt you,” the man echoed.
“And I would be happy…” James said, his tone more contemplative.
“You would be happy,” the man repeated, his voice steady and certain.
A few days later, James could be seen stepping out of jail and into another dust storm. Waiting for him outside was a woman he had never met, dressed in a yellow saree, who threw herself into his arms.
“Now we can finally marry,” he could be heard saying to the woman, who cried tears of happiness. “I love you so much.”
But James had no knowledge of this interaction. He was sitting in a café in Stockholm. Across from him sat Soraya, her smile igniting a fire in his heart that spread through his entire body. And he was happy.
Thank you for reading my story—I hope you enjoyed it! This tale takes place in the same fictional universe as my upcoming novel, The Great Derealization. For updates on my projects and other works, visit my website at www.tobiasmalm.com.