You wake up to the gloomy, gray light at Angel’s window. She’s still asleep, and you think of leaving silently and disappearing, but the piles of clothing and junk seem to make silence impossible.
The room smells like trash and unchanged litter-boxes. Although, the smell isn’t really here, in this virtual atmosphere; it’s there, in your own room, infinitely far away, where your head wears the headset.
You touch a toe to the floor.
“Oof,” says Angel. “My head hurts… A LOT.”
“We drank A LOT,” you say. “But I feel ok.”
Angel rubs her temples. “Coffee?”
“No thanks,” you say.
“But you’re addicted to coffee, like me.”
“I am, but my avatar isn’t. My avatar’s more holistic. She meditates.”
Angel laughs and grabs a mug. You find a small mound of sweatshirts and sit cross-legged. “Why’s your virtual room so messy?” you ask. “You can just make this shit disappear.”
“I like it,” Angel says. “It feels like home. So, what do you wanna do today?”
In your head you say, nothing, as you inhale and count to 8.
“Fair enough,” says Angel. “We pretty much said everything last night.”
When you drink in the metaverse, a straw extends from your headset and you can breathe in alcohol vapors to get drunk along with your avatar. The straw attachment costs a lot, and right now you’re wishing you never bought it.
Angel presses Brew on her Keurig K-Elite and it spits out some coffee and a coupon with a QR-Code. “100th meta-coffee!” she mock-exclaims. “This gets me a free one in select physical locations.”
You close your eyes and exhale.
“Remember that looksmaxxer we met in the club last night? Their avatar was a Bored Ape wearing BAPE. Rich people are so fucking stupid.”
You were both so drunk. Could you have told Angel your secret? Would she even remember it? Her breath stalks yours. A split-second behind. You notice you’re sweating. Which You?
“And it feels like they’re getting stupider by the day,” Angel says. “Infinite identities to pick from and people go all in on the dumbest ones.”
It doesn’t matter if she knows. She’s your best friend. She probably knew a while ago anyway. You open your eyes.
“Why’d you give up?” asks Angel.
“Huh?”
“Can’t stop those pesky thoughts?”
“Just craving that cup of virtual joe,” you say, grabbing a mug.
“Ha! You and your avatar aren’t so different after all.”
“Well we really got to know each other on that last binge. Almost 48 hours straight.”
“And what about this one? When was the last time you unplugged?” asks Angel.
“I don’t know. My roommate refilled my Huel bottle a couple times, so maybe a day. You?”
“I don’t keep track. It kills the vibe.”
You take a sip of coffee, and a green energy bar appears. It increases a bit, then fades away. The energy bar was added in a recent patch to make sure people take breaks from VR. When it runs out, you have to unplug to let it recharge, but you can get around this with virtual stimulants like meta-coffee, if you have enough money.
“Speaking of killing the vibe,” Angel says. “You were a real cockblock last night. Are you in love with me or something?”
“Haha, you know I love you. But some fucked up god made me attracted to people with penises. I don’t remember cockblocking you though. It must’ve been some drunk shit.”
“I don’t get why we still care about penises here. If a metacock gets metahard in the metaverse, and no one’s able to touch it, is it really even hard?”
“Philosophy’s most troubling question,” you say.
“It’s probably for the best. If you could fuck in here I’d really never unplug.”
“I’m sure they’ll figure out a way to add it soon. And all the world’s incels will finally have their day.”
“Shit, no kidding. I’m horny enough to fuck an incel, as long as I don’t have to go to his place.”
“Speaking of places,” you say. “Let’s go somewhere. Somewhere sexy. Tokyo? Rio? Lagos?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Then we’re goin’ to California! Pack your bags.”
“Oh! I have the perfect fit.” says Angel.
You select your clothes and destination. Angel takes your hand. Together, you walk out of her apartment and into 1970’s San Francisco.
Dazzling storefronts materialize around you, advertising Grateful Dead shirts, grass, and booze. Long cars slink by, spewing smoke. A number flashes in and out of sight as a travel fee is subtracted from your ETH count. You’re on a bustling sidewalk in a frilly, psychedelic dress that melts into the orgy of colors around you. Angel’s style is more punk. She’s in several layers of black leather accented with pops of neon pink, a look she likes to call Hell’s Angel. The crowd is so full of life—you feel it as they brush past, spiking your adrenaline—a teeming rush of humanity eager to buy, buy, buy. Even the houses are bright and colorful, more vivid than anything you’ve seen in the physical world, yet it all looks oddly familiar. In fact, it’s uncannily similar to the movies you’ve seen from that setting—Harold and Maude, Easy Rider, some rock and disco documentaries—but happier, more frictionless and jolly, as if all the darkness has been sucked out.
In the metaverse, cities can stay in their glory days forever. The community votes for the year they want to inhabit, and then it’s built. History isn’t a drag on the present, but a catalogue to shop from. Why program in the 2010’s if they made San Francisco less interesting? The people wanted 1975.
A jubilant red trolley rolls along its tracks, carrying no one, then disappears down a hill. On the other side of the tracks is a bearded man, holding a sign.
Father of 4
Hackers stole my life’s savings 😔
<0xc0ffee254729296a45a3885639AC7E10F9d54979>
“Send them some ETH,” Angel says. “They look fucked.”
“I don’t have enough,” you say.
“Bullshit.”
“Besides, they could have just put that avatar on. You never know who the real hackers are out here,” you say.
“Oh come on. You’ve got all this money but you don’t do jack shit to help anyone,” Angel says.
Angel’s words sting. So she does know your secret. She sees right through your bohemian disguise. Well, you think, maybe she’s rich too, everyone’s playacting in VR. Or maybe her suffering’s real, and she’s disgusted with you for romanticizing it. She’s tough to read.
A police drone blasts the man with a red and blue light, and he vanishes. In his place, revolving in mid-air, are the words NO PHISHING.
“I feel sick,” says Angel.
“Me too,” you say. “Meta-hangovers are even worse than real ones.”
“No, sick sick. My head…”
“Do you want to unplug for a bit?” you ask. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“No! That’ll make it worse. Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving,” you say. “I’m right here. Try to breathe. You need to ground yourself.”
“I’m such a burden,” says Angel. “I hate it. You only stay with me because you’re afraid of what I’ll do if you leave. But I know you resent me. I’m too critical. I’m a downer.”
Angel puts both hands on her head and squeezes. You can’t see what’s behind her retro pink sunglasses, and it makes her desperation seem cartoonish, even comical.
“Oh come on,” you say. “That’s not true. I love your honesty, and I want to be here. Just tell me what I can do to help and I’ll do it.”
Angel lowers her head and her glasses fall to the street. She looks up, startled, her eyes as wide and white as dinner plates. They settle on yours, but you get the sense that she can’t see you. She’s elsewhere.
“I need… help,” says Angel.
“What kind of help?”
“I’m having thoughts.”
You pause. It’s awkward, you’ve been with Angel in plenty of crises, but you’ve never brought this up.
“Thoughts about… ending things?” you mumble.
She stares off into the distance, her face a sculpture of abject terror, and the whole simulation seems to flicker. Then something registers. She nods.
You can see the relief permeate her body. She needed you to know this. You hug her, though neither of you can feel it.
“It’s ok,” you say. “It’s alright.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t be alone right now.”
“I know. It’s alright. I’m not—”
“Can you take me to my therapist?” Angel asks.
“Uhh, yes,” you say. “Yes of course! Where to?”
“I… don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“That’s ok. Do you remember their name?”
“Ah- Ah- Ah… I— I can’t think right now. I’m useless.”
“You’re not useless. You just feel that way. Maybe you have an email from them. Or a recent call?”
“I can’t think,” she says, trembling. “Fuck! I’m fucking useless.”
“Sorry Angel. Without your therapist’s name we can’t—”
Her thin, bony shoulders and gaunt face freeze.
“Angel?”
“…”
“Angel?”
“…”
“Angel!” You touch her arm, but her skin doesn’t move. There’s no pulse either. Did she really unplug?
You hold the wrist of this hyperrealistic statue.
Then it animates. She animates.
“You’re alive!” you say, hugging her.
“I… tried…” she mutters. She seems frustrated with her lagging mouth. It’s an expression you once saw on a stroke patient.
“It’s okay,” you say. “Just hold on.” You set the destination and go, Angel clinging to your back like a torn coat.
In your therapist’s office, the light is an innocuous amber. Sounds of water flow from a hidden speaker. Suddenly you’re aware of how brutal cities are on the ears.
“My friend’s in a lot of pain,” you tell the receptionist. “Could she see Dr. Ramesh on short notice?”
The receptionist, probably a bot, tells you your therapist will be available shortly. Then she grabs her phone and her eyes glaze over as she scrolls through her menu.
You take a seat in a mustard armchair. Angel stands under the leaves of an unrealistically large fiddle-leaf fig tree, humming at an irregular pace.
A white woman in a navy suit materializes beside her. You’ve never seen her before.
“Doctor?” Angel wonders aloud.
“My parents wished the same thing for me,” says the woman. “I’m Molly Glosser. Pleased to meet you.” She gestures toward the tree. “They grow to this size in Sierra Leone. It’s the imported, diminutive variety that you’ve come to know in U.S. American households,” says Glosser.
Angel puts a hand on the trunk for support. Glosser’s eager expression turns to one of concern.
“How about a quick screening before you see the doctor?” she asks, without pausing for a response. “Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?”
“No,” Angel mutters, still focused on the tree.
“Schizophrenia?”
“No.”
“Borderline personality disorder?”
“No.”
“Depression?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well then,” says Glosser. She scribbles something on a tablet. “The anxiety you’re feeling is lamentable but 100% curable. In fact, you don’t even need a prescription from the doctor. This stuff is over-the-counter and it really works.”
She hands the tablet to Angel. In perfect handwriting it reads:
Extra-Strength EUDAIMONIA (50 mg)
A family-friendly OTC mood-booster
“It’ll lift your cheeks in two to twelve weeks!” sings Glosser. You glare as her voice picks up speed. “Side effects may include: nausea, volatile mood swings, reality sickness, sollips—”
“That’s enough!” calls the receptionist, rushing over. “Time’s up. All you get are three minutes under the new contract.”
Glosser vanishes, leaving Angel holding the screen.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” says the receptionist. “That was an advatar.”
“Thought so,” you say. You try to catch Angel’s eye with a knowing glance, but she’s typing on the tablet.
“It’s still so embarrassing,” says the receptionist. “But they say we’ll get used to it. Anywho, it helps us pay the rent…
“Anywho,” she says again. “The doctor is ready to see you now.”
She leads Angel through a white door, and you realize you’re alone for the first time in nearly two days. Angel has this way of sucking you into her life. She makes you a character in her story, before you notice it’s unfolding, but even when it takes a dark turn her story’s too compelling to abandon. It’s complicated by the fact that you’ve never met her in the physical world. But then again, you hardly know anyone in that world. Your life outside the metaverse is an ever-shrinking blip, its significance dissipating in a slow, entropic ooze.
At first, the metaverse enchanted you. Its apparent limitlessness and manic, crowd-driven construction filled you with wonder. It felt like the eve of a revolution. Liberation was right around the corner. But with time, novelty and freedom gave way to repetition and obligation. And of course, the old systems of power had been there all along: only their avatars had changed. By then, the physical world felt too slow and distant to move back.
Angel called all of it. Her cynical predictions always came true. The day you met, you were buying drugs from someone in a bar. When the dealer went to get the drugs, Angel appeared and told you he was an undercover cop. She helped you get away before he could arrest you. “They’re about to be everywhere,” she said. Within weeks, you were hearing about undercover arrests all over the metaverse. You felt indebted, so you bought her some meta-beers and listened to her diatribe about the shadowy forces upholding VR. She painted a grim picture of abducted children forced to wear headsets to make and sell things in the metaverse. And the cops who only bust drug deals.
She told you about the psychological effects of VR too. There was the flattening of identity, people so adrift in cyberspace they have to cling to one simple aspect of their personality to keep from losing it. “The deeper you go, the shallower it gets,” she said the first time you witnessed an existential crisis. Then there was ‘reality sickness.’ Terrible. A dizziness like vertigo but between whole planes of reality. Everyone gets it at some point. When it came for you, transitions lost their meaning. You no longer knew whether the headset was on or off, but you were obsessed with the question. Your awareness dwindled. Where would it go? And what’s underneath? If you dreamt, could you tell it apart from this? A spiraling, maddening regress.
“What happens if I die here?” you asked Angel.
“You get a coupon for a free coffee,” she said. Angel taught you to laugh at the bumps—laughter smoothed them out.
So maybe it is, from a certain perspective, strange that you’ve only known Angel’s virtual self, but in this new sense, what else is there? It’s only the physical self that’s estranged. Still, you’re left to wonder—hope, really—that Angel’s satire of this new reality is enough to inoculate you against the disease plaguing it, and not, as you sometimes fear, the disease’s first symptom.
Now that you’re finally alone, you open your menu to check your ETH balance. It’s lower than you’d like, so you answer a few consumer surveys and review a Chinese TV pilot to raise it.
When you exit the menu, Angel is standing over you, frowning.
“How long have you been here?” you ask.
“Thirty minutes. You must have been deep in the mines.”
Did you lose track of time that much, or is Angel messing with you? “How’d it go in there?” you ask.
“God-awful. Let’s go home.”
Back at her apartment, Angel breaks down again.
“I’m fragmenting,” she tells you. “And what’s left of me won’t even be able to pay this medical bill.” Her face looks hollowed out as she hands you a screen detailing a long bill.
“Bespoke advice!” you exclaim. “Since when is that a thing? That’s all therapy is! How can they charge you extra for that?”
“I’m out of ETH. They don’t give a shit about me. They’ll put me to work in a data mine,” she says. “I’ll be forced to call all the people who won’t talk to robots and ask them how they like their insurance. The irony’s degrading.”
“You won’t have to do any of that. Those are just rumors.”
“No, it’s all true, and I will. I’ll be treated like a scammer.”
“Don’t be so catastrophic,” you say, although it’s probably the wrong wording. “You have weeks to pay this. If you work hard, you’ll make it. Some surveys and some freelance data banking, that’s all. Do you have any family who can support you?”
She shakes her head again. “They’re dead to me. I already told you what they did. Don’t you remember?”
In truth, you don’t. She must have told you last night while you were drunk. You nod anyways.
“You’re the only one I’ve got,” she ventures, lifting her gaze from the floor.
“Angel, I… I wish I could help you.”
“Then help me. You have money.”
“Ye—er, no. I mean, I’m not rich either, remember?”
Angel raises her voice: “Then why is your therapist so expensive? This is your fault. You dragged me in to see your therapist, without my consent!”
“What?”
“You owe the bill. It was your decision, not mine. I didn’t want to go.”
“Angel, I’m sorry but that’s ridiculous. You asked me to help you, so I took you to the only therapist I knew.”
“So you helped me by ruining my life with a bill you won’t pay? By leaving me to be beamed to the work camps? And now you’re calling me ridiculous.” Angel stares deep into you, searing you with her glare. It’s like she can see all the way to your real face.
“Angel, if you just start filling out surveys you’ll be done before you know it. I made some money while you were in the therapist’s office.”
“Oh, it’s so casual for you, isn’t it? With your ridiculous privilege and your ridiculous sense of self-worth. Do you know how hard it is for me to work in this state of mind? Someone as ridiculous as I am? It’ll take a whole day to do one survey.”
“I think we should get some rest,” you tell her. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“Oh go fuck your—”
Logged out, with the headset off, you’re struck by the alien noises around you. The air conditioning, the traffic, the rain spilling into and out of the gutter by your window. It’s raining? Yes, it’s raining. You collapse onto your bed and sleep.
You wake up gasping. You must have dreamt you were trapped underwater again. Dreaming is different from VR. You’re always slipping away, drowning or being chased, but unsure of by what. Physical reality can feel like that too. Awake, you miss the control you have in the metaverse.
You check your messages and see a long string from Angel: apologizing, pleading, begging you to please please come back. You recognize the patterns. A history of toxic and codependent relationships has shown you the shape of emotional manipulation. An arm flailing just above the water’s surface, it will sink if you don’t reach for it.
On your desk, your Meta Quest leans inconspicuously against a stack of books. You boil water and pour it into a mug of tea. It’s not the things of this world that you miss; not the trees, nor the spices, nor the irregular cylinder of your water bottle that wobbles when it lands on something flat; it’s not their concreteness, nor their constant, static call to be held; no, even if you can’t touch them, the metaverse has more than enough things—what you miss is the subtle trickle of time, its distorted, piecemeal flow: a quiet drip and then a flood, with no discernible law to its motion. That’s the only novelty you need, you realize, then something scalds your bare feet. You notice your mug has overflowed. The tea is running off the counter and pooling at your feet. Yes, it’s this, you think, resisting the urge to scold yourself, that you miss.
You sit at your desk and put the headset on. Angel, you say into your messaging app.
I trust you. It was hard for me to say that earlier, and I’m sorry for that, but I do. I’m also sorry for all that I hid, though I think you understand I did it out of a necessary impulse for self-preservation. This reality can be brutal, like any. You never know who anyone is or where they come from.
I finally realized how tired I’ve been. Maintaining this facade wore me out. So I’ve decided to leave the metaverse. I’m not sure for how long, but I really am leaving. Give me your wallet address, and I’ll send you the money for the therapist. But please don’t try to locate me, or pull me back in. I’ve made my decision, and I’d like you to respect that. I hope you find the care you deserve, whichever reality that’s in. There will be good people out there, and they’ll be nourished by your intellect, you’ll see. I know you’re imagining shortcuts, but it was you who once told me that sometimes, the longest way is the most efficient way. Some roads may seem more direct, but a road you can walk on is better.
I love you. Goodbye.
When you hear the message fly, you’re surprised by how little you feel. No relief, closure. But there’s no point in looking back. Sentimentality, nostalgia, even reflection, they’re all useless in VR. If you feel anything it’s distance, and perhaps a touch of nerves, as your unplugged future comes into focus.
But you can’t leave yet. You have to wait for Angel’s response. To pass the time, you tidy up your virtual home, fussing over the smallest details like a soon-to-be suicide. Although, in some alley of your heart you know you’ll be back.
After an hour, Angel’s message comes. She tells you her wallet has been hacked. What little money she had in it, not enough to pay the therapist but enough to keep her alive, is gone. She is broken, defeated, and without recourse. She’ll end her life tonight.
Unless she can use your wallet. Hers is compromised, she says. Whatever you send to it will be stolen by the hackers. She needs your wallet key, and she needs it now.
Red flags fly in your mind. Since the very beginning of the crypto era, there has been one rule: do not share your private wallet key with anyone. Once someone has your wallet’s key, they have complete control of everything in it. That’s why most scams in crypto hinge on gaining access to the target’s wallet key. It’s the first play in the book.
But if Angel’s a scammer, then she crafted a more elaborate deception than any you’ve heard of. For it all to be a lie—to befriend you after saving you from arrest; to travel this world with you, revealing its trapdoors and its wonders; to forge this bond, this undeniable connection wrapped in fear and vulnerability; and then all the pain, the darkly relatable psychic pain—for all of that to be fake, a cynical for-profit ruse like those of the advatars haunting every corner of the metaverse, seems impossible. And suppose it is a scam, is the connection not still real? Is there not a real, live human being pulling the strings, someone who spent their time with you, listened to your stories, eased your pain? You’re sure, at least, that Angel’s not a bot. There’s no CAPTCHA as complex or as human as the trials the two of you have faced.
Still, Angel’s message is suspicious. She has to have your key? Why can’t she just create a new wallet and have you send a fixed amount there? That’s the obvious solution, and she knows too much about the metaverse not to see it. So whoever’s on the other end of this messaging app likely intends to rob you. And then what? You’ll be forced to work a physical job that pays you in cash. So? People do this. Honestly, it may be just the exit you need from the metaverse. As long as you have this ETH, you’ll never really leave. You sensed it already. The infinitely rejuvenating objects of the metaverse will never lose their hold on you, as long as you can buy more. Maybe Angel’s trying to give you something. A way out of the trap of your privilege. To let yourself be robbed, and call it a gift, doesn’t this imply a wealth far more valuable than some digital tokens? You type out your message:
rabbit custard fly galoshes wizard
company towel rabbit jingle glare
minimum wall radish table white
After sending your key you type out a long message thanking her for showing you the gaps in the metaverse, for administering the dose of humanity you needed to keep from going insane in there, and for being your friend. When you send it, your message bounces. Error: no one with this username exists. She’s gone.
And so is your money.
Of course it went this way. You sought this out. All that remains is to bury the headset and move on. You step out onto your driveway.
The air’s crisp and cold this fall morning. It punches your lungs and makes you blink. The edges of the trees cut a sharp figure against the warmly lit sky, and you enjoy the way the birds dive into them from above. They’re larger in person, not an image of depth but depth itself. A neighbor waves. What’s her name? Mary? Marnie? Apparently, she’s pleased to see you, or pleased to see you smiling. You wave back, tickled by the clumsy inefficiency of the gesture. This world is so crudely, charmingly rendered. It feels like you’ve gone back to 1x speed after a frantic binge on 3x. You missed this—this what? This tempo. This repose. Everything in its place: a giant, universal holding pattern. Well, everything except Mary/Marnie. She’s coming closer. What do you say? You steel yourself. It’s the first day of your analog life. Are you ready? Too late. She’s here.
Have fun.
Some time later on—years later, though it might not feel so long to you—a young woman will stop by the auto shop where you’ll work as a mechanic. She won’t have a car, nor will she have the worn-down, toughing-it-out look you’ll have grown accustomed to at the shop, since most of your customers will resemble the battered cars they bring you, a hundred thousand hours of work doing to their bodies what a hundred thousand miles do to a car’s. No, this woman will look eager and untarnished. But her eyes will show that she too has worked. More like refurbished than new, you’ll think, as she extends a well-manicured hand and says, “Angel. We met in the metaverse.”
Angel will look nothing like her avatar. Her long full limbs and curves will stand in stark contrast to the short, skinny punk’s body she inhabited in the metaverse. She’ll look younger, yet more professional, her hair straight and contained instead of everywhere. She’ll be in chelsea—not combat—boots. And for god’s sake she’ll be wearing a dress. You never saw that online.
Before you can ask how or why, she’ll tell you that you saved her life, in a more serious way than you might think. She’ll tell you her real name is Carmen and lead you to a bar down the street to explain. You’ll follow her without even thinking to lock up the shop. She’ll buy you a cold, cold beer with real drops of condensation on the bottle, and begin her story.
“I had a desperate father,” she’ll say. “No mother. We lived in a very poor town in Honduras. There’s nothing comparable in the U.S. He couldn’t find work, but that was normal. Still, it hurt his pride and he devoted himself to drinking. I was 12, and I was very sure of myself. I told him to get his life together, because I was hungry, but he would yell and blame me for our problems. I stayed with friends most nights, which was fine—I had plenty of friends. But one day someone showed him an ad on Meta’s Marketplace. It was asking for girls, ages 10-13, and offered a large sum of money.”
Your cringe will prompt Carmen to say, “No, no, it wasn’t that kind of deal. I’m not sure why they only wanted girls, maybe they thought we wouldn’t be missed.” She will be calm and steady, and you will believe her. “Either way it was horrible,” she’ll say. “They took me all the way to Juarez, in northern Mexico. Of course, I didn’t know that until a while later. They blindfolded me for the drive, two whole days in a cramped van, all I heard was wind and coyotes. When they took the blindfold off I was in a factory. But instead of conveyor belts, or machines, there were Meta Quests, one after another in long rows. There were dozens of girls my age, and we had to sleep on the floor. We pooled some blankets to make a bed and shared it. Before the sun came up a siren went off, sending us to work.”
You will sip your beer in silence and imagine Angel sitting beside Carmen, nodding sympathetically.
“Work was strange,” she’ll say. “I never saw the people in charge, but I heard their voices all the time. Each girl had a headset assigned to her, and they would talk to us through the headsets. They called themselves ‘engineers’ and us girls ‘hosts.’ When I put my headset on for the first time, I saw a beautiful woman with white wings—she looked like an actual angel—floating above my childhood home. She said her name was Angel, and she asked if I wanted to play with her. Then she flew off the roof of my father’s shack like a bird. She told me I could do it too, and I could. I was so happy and free. We flew around my hometown pulling pranks on my dad, then she asked me if I wanted to be her. She was older, and she was so beautiful, so I said yes. All of a sudden, I was in Angel’s body. That was the end of the tutorial.
“Honduras disappeared and I was in an empty room. One of the engineers said they had a homework assignment for ‘Angel.’ I looked at my body and saw Angel’s, so I asked them what my homework was. An avatar of a young man appeared, and the engineers told me I needed to meet this man and befriend him. It was all so strange—I wasn’t friends with any adults—but the engineers told me not to worry; they’d dress me up nice so this man would like me.”
Carmen will take a long drink of her beer, leaving you speechless. “Anyways, you’re probably wondering how I found you, so I’ll get to the point. The engineers were scammers. They used us to get into rich people’s wallets. But they weren’t geniuses or anything. Data was the one thing they knew how to use. They assigned us names and talking points and changed our avatars to whatever would influence the target most. Some hosts left it at that, but I went the extra mile. I got into character, did voices, tried on new personalities. I was probably born for acting, and VR was a hell of a stage.
“I assumed everyone was speaking Spanish, because the translation software in the headset made it seem that way, but I was talking to people from all over the world. I learned their vulnerabilities like a machine, through trial and error. By the time I was 16, I had the highest success rate of any host. The engineers stopped checking in on me. They’d assign me a target’s bio then disappear. That’s when you came in. You were my last target. Really, it was just coincidence—I was planning to escape no matter who they assigned me—but I like to joke that it was that awful avatar the engineers gave me that pushed me over the edge. You were into punks or something, or your data said you were, but I sure wasn’t. Oh no, I remember now! Your data said you resented your wealth, so an edgy, anticapitalist punk had the best chance of getting you to part with it. An anticapitalist in VR, what a concept! Anyway, I thought it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t my choice. Though, I think getting into that character made me feel more rebellious. So maybe it was useful.”
You will cough to cover the sting of your gullibility. It will seem like a different you, looking back. Come to think of it, that you was incapable of looking back. That’s what made you so gullible.
Carmen will notice your shame and address it. “Oh, you shouldn’t feel bad. I had a lot of practice, and the data was powerful. My success rate was over 95% at that point.
“Anyways, I was young but I knew how Twitter worked, and I knew there were watchdogs in the metaverse who would report crimes there. I had even heard someone say they were investigating Meta for letting humans be sold on their marketplace. Can you imagine how that felt? To know people were out there looking for me, but have no way to reach them? It was like I was shipwrecked and I could see the rescue plane circling the wrong islands. I had to send a signal.”
She’ll take another drink, and the way her wrist will move up and down will remind you of Angel drinking coffee.
“The engineers told us they were watching us around the clock. I doubted that, but I knew that they’d caught me causing trouble before, and it wasn’t good. They had some awful torture methods. I don’t want to get into it, but if you think physical torture’s worse than psychological, you’re wrong. Those headsets can do horrifying things.”
Carmen’s shoulders will tremble, the first moment of anguish from an otherwise stoic person, and you’ll remember your bout of reality sickness. Next to Carmen’s pain, it will suddenly seem small.
“Plus, if they caught me, they’d pack up all their property, including us, and move. And I’d lose my chance. So the only way I could get the watchdogs’ attention discretely, I’m so so sorry, was by starting a rumor that you had bought me. The engineers would think I was just putting you in a bind, working my magic, and because I was suddenly with you all the time, it made sense to the authorities. After that, there was a watchdog on our case. They used disguises, so you might not have noticed. The homeless man with the sign? Remember him? On the sign was a code—it was how he identified himself to me. I had to look distraught, so I faked a panic attack and sent him your therapist’s address, knowing you’d take me there. Then the watchdog showed up as that advatar at the clinic. That was when I finally got to explain things. I shared a file through that tablet with everything. Names of targets, wallet addresses, the exact ETH amounts stolen, it was too much for the authorities to ignore. Oh and don’t worry, I cleared your name—the watchdog understood. The only missing detail was the factory’s location. It wasn’t until then that I realized I had no idea where I was. I hadn’t been outside in four years. They said they could pin the location if I got the engineers’ IP address. It was tricky, because an app changed it every few seconds, but I managed to disable the app without getting caught.
“It took another month or four, time was hard to track in there, but eventually a team came and arrested the people in charge. I was shocked to learn this omniscient team of engineers was only one guy. He had built a pyramid of fear and surveillance in the desert that kept all 46 of us from walking out. The voices in our headsets must have been AI, unless the rest of the engineers escaped. I try not to think about that.”
Your beer will be empty; Carmen’s, full. After all that, the only words you’ll be able to muster will be Wow and What about—.
“You?” Carmen will say. “And your money? Well, maybe I should’ve quit while I was ahead, but I had all these scamming skills and no money. And I assumed that as soon as we left the factory, the girls and I would just get shipped back to whatever fucked up situations we came from. I certainly wasn’t going home. So while I was waiting for our rescue, I ran one last scam. And was it even a scam, considering all the good it did?”
“But how did you—”
“Easy. You wanted to leave the metaverse, but you were hooked, and your bio told me you resented your wealth, so I convinced you that parting with your money was the only way out. It probably felt like your idea, and that was the point. People are much more likely to do something if they think they came up with it. Every advertiser knows this. But the thing is, your desire to leave was real. In a way, I helped you get what you wanted. And you seem better off here. Most people who leave the metaverse are. I sensed it back then too, even though I lived on a factory floor. I could tell that whatever the metaverse was copying was better. That’s why we copy things, right? And I remembered what it was like to run around my hometown. I couldn’t fly in the real world, but I didn’t need to.
“In the end, your money got most of us girls out of poverty and into safer lives. You should feel good. You did a nice thing. That’s what I came here to tell you. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was kinda busy starting a new life in a foreign country with a new language, ya know?”
Carmen will laugh, but her laughter will not be enough to settle the unease in your stomach. The real world is so much bigger than the metaverse, you’ll think, with even more places to hide its dark secrets.
You’ll muster a polite sentence: “Well, you look like you’ve done well for yourself.”
“Oh I have. It was an adjustment, but I learned English and found work pretty quickly. It was easier than my old job.”
“So,” you’ll say, knowing no other way to fill the silence after an awkward pause. “What do you do now?”
“I’m in marketing,” she’ll say. “Digital marketing.”
When she takes her leave you’ll go back to the shop to lock up, and you’ll pause for a moment to do what you rarely did in your youth: reflect. Your job, your friends, your habits, interests, passions, dreams, this entire secondhand life you put on like a new pair of pants will have been contingent on a decision that wasn’t yours. And this won’t bother you. Because after many, many refreshes to your page and to the world’s, the distincition between what belongs to you and what belongs to the world will be so muddled that no human eye could discern it.
But that’s all in the future. For now, just be here.