Sophie wasn’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be at the theater, trying to act in the play she’d memorized lines for, paid good money to avoid work for, but this was her Construct, her experience. She’d go wherever she damn wanted.
The play had been boring anyway. She already knew she couldn’t act, never could. That’s why she became a lawyer. It was stable work, secure work, but lately it hadn’t been so secure. Rumor had it that her whole division was getting the axe, all because their world-renowned jerk of a boss Gus thought AI could do their jobs better than they could. He’d probably get a raise. Saving the corporation money: employee of the month.
Staring up at her work building, the skyscraper loomed over Boston, all dull glass and colorless steel. She still couldn’t believe how identical The Construct was to the real world. She could’ve been in the Financial District on any weekday. The traffic clogging up the Greenway, the bustle of pedestrians, the faint roar of planes leaving Logan overhead, the frigid wind ripping off the Atlantic. She could see why people got lost in these things, how some had even decided to stay. Dr. Holiday had warned her before she’d entered the world he’d designed for her. What she was experiencing was a momentary tango with a fantasy, a snapshot of a life she’d never managed to manifest in the real world, not only because she lacked talent, but because, like most people who abandoned their passions, she lacked the courage to pursue it.
Sophie had tried everything before going to RealityPlus, the brainchild of Dr. Holiday. Television, wine, sex. Hobbies like pickleball, pottery, paint night with friends. They’d all helped for a short time, but the feeling that life was grey and pointless always crept back. She also had pesky stomach issues that no specialist could figure out. Eventually, she made the connection that her ennui and health problems were the result of living a life of routine and monotony, a life on autopilot. So she did what everyone did these days. She called up Dr. Holiday, preeminent designer of virtual realities, builder of dreams. Before starting his business, the computer scientist had worked for NASA, designing virtual experiences for astronauts who preparing for space travel.
And business was good. People flocked to his lab in Cambridge to tell him their dreams. What would you do if money weren’t an issue? What would you do if you couldn’t fail? There were no consequences? That was easy, Sophie had thought, when Dr. Holiday first asked her those questions: she’d punch that blowhard Gus right in his crooked nose. But that seemed like a waste of a weekend and ten grand, so she decided to play out some young adulthood fantasy of acting in a play. But when she got there and acted for that packed audience, delivering her lines as best she could, it didn’t feel like she’d imagined. She’d stumbled a few times, and someone in the audience snickered when she flubbed a line. She didn’t get along with the other actors, either. So at intermission she took off, not knowing where she’d end up. The cast would lose their lead actor, but this was her world, all those people were artificial creations, algorithmic phantoms that would go poof when they pulled her out of her Construct.
It sad, really, Sophie thought, as she walked into the building’s lobby, that she’d had a whole world built for her and she decided to come to work of all places. She didn’t even really know why she was there, but she no intention of going there to do work. She didn’t do much anyway since the merger, since everyone above her was trying to figure out what she did, so they could hand it to the chat bots. When the elevator opened on the eleventh floor, Christmas music was blaring and the smell of cookies and cannolis from Mike’s Pastry wafted in the air. She walked by her cubicle and saw her coworkers packed together in and around the main conference area, holding beer or wine, trying to pretend they cared what their colleague was saying.
They looked exactly like they did in real life. She bet if she walked up to them and engaged them in conversation, they’d act just like they would in the real world. Coming here was a bad idea, she thought. She’d had this Construct built so she could escape from this hellhole. She spun to get back in the elevator, and crashed into Gus, knocking her boss’s papers to the floor. Of course he was holding a stack of papers, and not a drink. The square had gone dry in December and liked to tell anyone who’d listen. He repositioned his stupid Santa hat on his bald head and said Sophie was late to the party! As she helped him pick up his papers, she caught that crappy smell of aftershave that always turned her stomach. He asked if she had a second and that he’d love to talk with her in his office. There was something he’d been meaning to tell her. Was he going to fire her in her own Construct? She thought about turning around, going back to the play to see if it’d crashed and burned, but curiosity won out.
It didn’t matter what happened, because this Gus wasn’t real. It was an artificial creation, just computer code. If she wanted, she could tell him what she’d always wanted to say, that he had a weird nose and smelled like manure. When she went to work on Monday, he’d never know. But she’d know! That was the big sales pitch Dr. Holiday always gave. Whatever you needed to get out of you, you could get it out in your Construct, purge it, so you’d feel better in the real life. It was no surprise that many people had affairs, though it wasn’t really considered an affair if you slept with your celebrity crush; the culture had changed enough so that most spouses tolerated such indiscretions. Many wanted to see things they thought they’d never see in real life because they didn’t have the time or money or ambition. They’d ski in the Swiss Alps, drive a van around New Zealand, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. You could do almost anything in your Construct. The only commandment that couldn’t be broken was murder. You couldn’t kill in the Construct. Why? Because, for some people, it had normalized the act of killing, and had led to several murders in the real world. The company almost didn’t survive the last incident.
Sure, Sophie would go to his office, she thought. But, it turned out, Gus didn’t want to go there. He led her back to the elevator and brought them to the rooftop. What were they doing here? Stepping onto the rooftop, the frigid winter air bit at her face, stinging her cheeks and lips. Why hadn’t she chosen the summer season? Gus walked her to the edge of the building so they could look out over Boston, a small city when you compared it to New York or Los Angeles. She was standing there admiring the clock tower, waiting for him to tell her they didn’t need two legal teams (thanks, AI!), when he placed a hand on her lower back and tugged her a little closer.
She held her tongue, but she wished he’d get his chubby hand off her body. She’d noticed his weird hands in the first meeting they’d had together. He droned on about optimizing processes and upgrading their digital tools and platforms, and all she could do was watch his hands, the black ring on his finger tight and strained, as if it didn’t quite belong there. The self-awareness of a cinder block, Guy couldn’t see how uncomfortable his gesture had made her. He said he’d seen she didn’t wear a ring, that she never brought anyone to company outings, that she hadn’t brought anyone tonight. And then, unbelievably, he leaned over and put his lips on hers. Those thin, chapped, asymmetrical lips—on hers.
She pushed him off. You’re married! He was sorry, he whined, backpedaling. He just—just what, she demanded. Thought she’d be interested in a power-hungry nepo baby who was firing everyone she knew and soon firing her? This was a bad idea, he muttered. Please don’t bring this to HR. HR, she said, her fingers curling into fists. And then she thought about where she was. This world was literally designed to fulfill whatever fantasy she’d decided to indulge. Initially, she’d wanted to live out some pipe dream of being an actor, some ridiculous dream that’d never happen, but whatever reason she’d ended up here, with fat-finger Gus, with the adulterous Gus. Her lips curled in disgust as she watched this little man baby back away from her, like he was afraid of her. Yes, scared. Of her! It was intoxicating.
She wondered what Dr. Holiday was thinking as he and his army of analysts watched this play out on their surveillance screens, like digital Gods. She wondered if they’d stop it, if she’d stop it, take a deep breath and walk away, get back in the elevator and do whatever she wanted for the weekend, maybe visit a bar and seduce a young man, get drunk like she’d done in college. But no, here she was, with Gus, and she wasn’t going to waste the moment. He was telling her to calm down, please, and then she just did it. It didn’t take much force, actually, just a little shove really, two hands to his chest and he’d tumbled backwards, the backs of his legs buckling when they hit the wall, and he fell over the ledge. He let out a pathetic little yelp and he was gone.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light and she was back in a sterile exam room and a nurse was removing her helmet and stripping off sensors. The door burst open and Dr. Holiday was there, his long white coat as crisp as the day he’d bought it. He was irate. The rules, the scientist explained, were clearly described in the contract, which she’d signed, and an assistant next to him actually turned his iPad so she could see it, like she had to be reminded. He sat there for a few minutes and jabbered on about the rules, about how murder in virtual worlds wasn’t allowed. But this was her money, Sophie told Dr. Holiday. If she wanted to ditch the play and off her boss, so be it. And that was it. She was banned. He kicked her out and said never return.
In a rideshare back to her condo in Beacon Hill, she realized that she felt great. In Dr. Holiday’s mind, her virtual experience had been a disaster. From her perspective, it had done exactly what it needed to do. Not only because she’d confirmed she was a terrible actor, neutralizing the silly, decades-long fantasy of hers, but also because she’d been able to satisfy an urge that was impossible in real life without going to prison: pushing that corporate wolf off the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper. She could still see his frightened face in her mind’s eye, call to mind that little yelp, that last yip he’d made before his fell to his death.
Sophie decided to get out before her apartment and walk through Boston Common. She’d killed someone, she kept thinking, actually murdered them, and it had been someone she hated, someone she’d even thought, on some level, deserved it. Wait, she thought, Gus was a piece of work, a true psychopath, but he didn’t deserve to die. Criminals deserved to die, and even then did they really? A good case could be made that even the worst offenders in society should rot in a cell, not fry in electric chairs. Sophie was educated, cultured, civilized, and she’d just killed someone—and liked it. She could’ve just slapped the guy, but pushing him off a ledge was a choice, a decidedly unlawful one. And this, it turned out, began to trouble her. Was Dr. Holiday right? Did she deserve to be kicked out of the club? Yes, she thought, she’d been wrong. Suddenly the world that felt so bright, felt dark, and her mood sank as she scurried back to her condo and poured the biggest glass of wine, and tried to forget what she’d done.
On Monday morning, Sophie couldn’t shake the weirdness of seeing her boss prancing around the office like nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, and yet something had changed in her. She couldn’t shake his fearful expression, his pleading, that yelp before he went splat. The first meeting of the day was a check-in with Sophie and her team of three in-house lawyers, who had worked tirelessly for the company and raked in millions for it and its shareholders. What were they doing here, one team member asked. Was this it? Were they getting fired? Sophie truly didn’t know but thought this could, indeed, be it.
Gus strolled into the room and made a joke that he hoped some of them had gotten some rest since a few had gone pretty hard at the party. Not him, though. Dry December. The meeting wasn’t officially starting for some reason. It was curious and made Sophie worried. Gus said they were waiting for one more person. And there it was, Sophie thought. That one more person was no doubt Linda from HR who’d tell them they were all cherished employees, that their commitment was appreciated, but with the widespread adoption of AI in the workplace—
Gus cut Linda off minutes later and said he’d been forced to make some tough decisions. He kept mumbling, kept lying and all Sophie could do was look at his fingers, those baby carrot-looking fingers. Everyone got a packet, a little sheet that let them know what information to give to the government, so they could live on a few hundred dollars a week.
Back in her cubicle, Sophie was in a daze as she tossed possessions into a box. Good luck with AI, she thought. Sure, it had all of the world’s knowledge, but it couldn’t do what she and her team could do and often it just made shit up. Her box was full when she heard a light knock on the door. It was Gus. Really? He said he wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d fought to keep Sophie’s team, especially her. He valued her, cared about her.
He said had a dinner meeting tonight and there were some folks from big name tech companies coming who could use a talent like her. This guy had a lot of nerve, Sophie thought. Where was it, she asked, and he said it was at his apartment. You just fired me and my team and now you’re inviting me to your house, she shot back. Lighten up, it was a dinner! Free drinks, finger foods and sweat treats, an opportunity to network. Sophie rolled her eyes, lifted a pen and thought about saying that she’d rather put the pen in her right eye than go to his house, but she politely declined, instead. Well, he prattled on, it was the Hayward building in the north end, if she changed her mind. Good luck working with your robots, she said, and stormed out.
At her condo, Sophie poured a glass of wine and crashed into the couch. She turned on the TV ready to rot, but she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back to her Construct. Not only had she been a failed actor in real life, now she was a failed lawyer. There had been one good thing about that night. She’d been able to see fear in his eyes and there had been something satisfying about hearing him hit the pavement at high speed. She wondered what Dr. Holiday’s computer-programmed Gus had thought as he tumbled off the building. Someone should make that fucker pay in real life, she thought. These corporate pro-social psychopaths just floating around like menacing great white sharks exploiting and psychologically abusing everyone they came into contact with. Wouldn’t it be nice to hover over his computer code in the real world and hit delete. At least she’d gotten to feel that, even for a moment.
As shitty TV played, Sophie’s mind ran ahead to the next few months. Applying and reapplying to jobs, firing off cover letters no one would read, pathetically begging friends and colleagues to let her know if they’d heard of anything, she’d love to connect! She did the math on her phone, and her heart sank when she realized unemployment would probably only cover half of what she needed. Maybe it was worth entertaining Gus’s offer to network. Maybe his friends could hook her up with something. Or maybe that was just another stupid fantasy.
When Sophie knocked on his door, she had the same thought she’d had when she walked to her office building in the middle of her high-priced Construct. Gus opened the door wearing a horrendous Christmas sweater and an even less appealing grin. He also had a glass of red wine in his hand and, shrugging, said he’d given up on dry December. He was sick of everyone calling him the Grinch. Sophie barely made eye contact when she walked in, and mentioned she was a glass of wine ahead of him.
The living room was decorated like a dorm room, but the space was enormous and had ceilings that were over twenty feet high. Where was everyone, Sophie asked. Gus said they were late, and he set some chips and guacamole on the table and invited her to sit, chill. She did and he poured a glass of wine, filling it to the brim. Gus then made his best frowny face and said he needed to apologize again for today. The board had pushed him to make the changes and he’d delayed it as long as he could. Sophie didn’t give a shit about how hard it was for him to manage the weight of firing his employees, but she said it was helpful that he’d offered to help find a job, since there was no way she’d survive on unemployment without—
Listen, Gus cut in, he couldn’t keep this ruse up any longer. What did she mean, Sophie asked. Nobody was coming. There was no dinner party, he said. It was just him and her. You lied to me, Sophie shot back. He had a confession, he muttered, biting his lip. He was crazy about her, thought he might be in love with her. Ever since the merger, ever since they’d met, he couldn’t think straight whenever he was around her. She couldn’t believe this. He was married, for God’s sake, but he lifted his hand; he’d taken off his ring. Separated! Sophie was beside herself, dizzy with rage, and asked Gus for a glass of water.
This fucking guy, she thought. First, he fires her, then he tricks her to his apartment, to what? Enter into a relationship? As if she’d even for one second entertain hooking up with this douche. As he was in the kitchen getting water, she walked to the fireplace and stared into the flames and then she had a thought. She pulled out her phone and opened Facebook and found Gus’s profile and clicked on it. She saw a message on his profile from his wife who’d written that she was going to race him down the mountain at Killington this weekend. This weekend. This guy was an unimaginable piece of shit. She needed to get out of here now.
Just then, Sophie felt two hands wrap around her waist and she smelled that disgusting aftershave fill up her nose. He’d always loved redheads, he whispered, rubbing his face into her neck. She screamed, jerking her head back. She heard a crack and a shriek and turned to see Gus’s wine glass shatter on the floor. He was holding his nose, blood poured through his fingers. She watched the blood squeeze through his fat fingers and stain his expensive carpet.
And then, it just happened. Too fast, almost like she’d stepped outside herself, watching as she reached down and wrapped her hand around the fireplace poker. He stumbled backward, hand clamped over his nose. She lifted it and swung as hard as she could, the poker connecting with his head, splitting it open. Blood spurted as a ragged flap of scalp slid open, and he stared at her in stunned disbelief. She lifted it again. No pause this time. She swung harder, faster, smashing into his cheek, the impact knocking his jaw crooked, inches out of place.
Gus fell to his knees as his face poured blood all over his carpet, and Sophie lifted the poker again. He weakly put a hand in the air to stop her, but she brought it down on top of his head, and it caved inward. He tipped over and started convulsing and coughing blood. She bent down and watched him twitch, watched him bleed out, watched his eyes go blank until they rolled into the back of his head.
A knock at the door cut through the silence. What the fuck. She thought about hiding the poker, throwing it out the window, but she shew she was fucked. The door flew open and people in white lab gowns poured in, moving past her like she wasn’t there. No one looked at her. They went straight to Gus, unzipping a black bag and spreading it out beside the body. To be honest, a voice said from behind her, nobody thought she’d do it. Sophie turned and saw Dr. Holiday standing there, shaking his head in disbelief.
What was he doing here, she asked. He said they had to keep an eye on her since she’d killed in her Construct. They knew she was at increased risk, but still they didn’t think she’d actually do it. It took a lot to kill. Most didn’t have the stomach for it, especially normies like her, even in virtual reality. Sophie was still in a daze. She could barely accept what she’d done, even if he’d had it coming. Dr. Holiday watched his team lift Gus’s body and place it in a bag, and others removed the carpet from the floor and placed it carefully into another bag, and others scrubbed the carpet, and another wiped the blood specks from the poker and placed it gently in the exact place it had been.
What about security tapes, and evidence and—Dr. Holiday waved a hand. He built entire worlds for a living; he could spin a story that’d throw authorities off the scent. Did he need anything from her? No, she should go, but he suggested getting out of town for a while. The assistant stepped forward with an iPad, showing her a flight to Florida in the morning, a little trip on them. She didn’t know what to say.
Don’t say anything, Dr. Holiday told her. She’d have days to process it all, to come to terms, or fall apart. But if it made her feel any better, he added, glancing at the bag being carried out the door, the world might be a little better off without a guy like him. So, this was it, she replied, as she held out her hand. Yes, he said, shaking it, this was it. Stay out of trouble.
Sophie nodded and left, and didn’t look back.