I closed my eyes and I slipped away

It’s more than a feeling

When I hear that old song they used to–

Nea, stop. 

Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” the song perfectly selected to transition my brain from unconscious to a happy consciousness, ceases. I open my eyes and instantaneously feel wide awake. Warm rays of sunlight cast a bright cheery glow into my immaculate bedroom. I can hear the soft sound of waves gently rolling up the shore. My bed faces an oversized pane of glass overlooking the ocean to the east; the sun hangs just above the horizon. From this window, I enjoy both awakening sunrises and breathtaking sunsets.

Nea, what do I have today?

“You’re having breakfast with Ethan at Easy Eats Cafe in twenty-eight minutes.” 

Okay, great. Anything else?

“Your weekly health checkup is scheduled for two o’clock this afternoon. Does that work for you, Nelson?”

Yeah, that’s fine. I pace over to a full-size mirror placed over my door. As of now, I’m wearing a red henley with khaki pants and black socks. My default. Nea, show me my wardrobe. A visual interface springs before me, hovering weightlessly in space. I scan through several shirts, then select a dark blue Polo. Instantaneously, my reflection changes; the henley is gone, replaced with the Polo shirt.

This is how I will perceive it, this is how Ethan will perceive it, and this is how everyone who I come into contact with today will perceive it. That’s one of the advantages to our hive mind; we can all choose how we want the world to lie to us, and to others. To an extent.

The Easy Eats Cafe is within five minutes walking distance from my residency. It’s actually five minutes walking distance from anyone’s residency. All of those operating under Nea have a restaurant nearby. That restaurant can be whatever the individual wants it to be. The atmosphere, the crowd, the food–pretty much everything is adjustable to their specific preference. Most of us have presets; the Easy Eats Cafe is one of mine.

Its interior is homey; the worn rustic wooden chairs and tables are illuminated by rays of golden sunlight. The hubbub of other patrons, the sound of sizzling bacon, and the live jazz band create an energetic yet carefree medley. Ethan has never visited this particular mental creation of mine. As of now, he is late.

Nea, put me on with Ethan.

“I’m sorry, I’m experiencing technical difficulties. Please try again.” On rare occasions, our personal Neas will have issues connecting to what’s called the Terminea: the massive computer database that stores each citizen’s data and connects us together. On the rare occasion that there’s a connection issue, the chips in our heads can usually run on saved cache until they reconnect. No one has ever heard of it causing a real issue.

Ethan appears in the seat across the table. 

“Sorry I’m late, my Nea’s been having some issues this morning. I couldn’t get her to connect to your room code. How’ve you been?” It’s a somewhat silly question, a relic from a different time. No one is ever anything but great anymore. With access to the brain's physiological functions, Nea regulates us and ensures there is never a case of sadness caused by chemical imbalances in the brain.

“I’ve been doing great. How ‘bout yourself?”

“Great!” he smiles. A waiter appears by our table to take our orders. This is another leftover formality. She isn’t real. She’s simply an image generated by the Terminea. Ethan orders biscuits and gravy with a mess of eggs and I order a Belgian waffle complete with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about switching units,” states Ethan. I bite into my food. The strawberries are sweet, the waffle crisp on the outside and light on the inside. “There are some new ones that are a little closer to my hometown.” The strawberries are such a vibrant red. “I figure that way I can restore some of my memories. You know? Have some of those places be real again.” 

“That sounds like a solid plan,” I answer vaguely.

Nea, check my vital stats, I feel kinda off.

“I’m sorry, we are experiencing technical difficulties. Please try again.”

Nea, what do my vitals look like?

“Plus, they’ll have whatever the latest tech is built-in, so I can–” Ethan vanishes, and his fork tumbles to the ground without a sound.

“I’m sorry, we are experiencing technical difficulties. Pleas–” the jazz band disappears, but I can still hear their instruments. The sunlight that at one time poured generously from the windows flickers away. My mouth is suddenly very dry. A dull grey brick rests on my plate. One of the corners has been wrecked by my fork into a crumbly mess.

“–try again.”

The chip in my head is white-hot. I cannot breathe, my lungs are forced perpetually open. I cannot move or scream. My body feels as though every ounce of liquid is boiling within me. I fall to the ground; my body convulses violently. The lights are gone, the music is gone, the people, the food, the windows–everything but the table and chair has vanished.

Stop it! Make it stop now! 

My vision turns dark, and the pain stops.

“Disconnected.”