2035

Fictional interlude #5

I still leave at 7:15.

The highway moves more smoothly than it used to. Most people no longer drive to desks. They drive to docks. The traffic report calls it “synchronous flow.” No one sounds proud of that.

The office park has replaced half its parking with charging bays for mobile interface vans. The sign outside our building reads:

ON-SITE REMOTE OPERATIONS CENTER

It used to just say our company name.

Inside, the lobby is clean and quiet. No reception desk anymore. Just a row of kiosks where you confirm your physical attendance before proceeding upstairs.

The elevator opens onto what used to be an open office. The desks are gone. In their place are rows of reclining chairs separated by privacy screens. Soft lighting. Integrated hydration lines. A faint medicinal smell.

People greet each other softly.

“Morning.”

“Big day?”

“Full schedule at home.”

There is something sincere in these exchanges.

I slide into my assigned chair. My badge logs my arrival. A green light confirms I am present.

The technician checks the ports at my temples and asks the standard question.

“Primary residence?”

“Yes.”

“Secondary embodiment active?”

“Yes.”

“Any latency issues yesterday?”

“Minor.”

She nods and lowers the visor.

The first sensation is always temperature. My apartment runs warmer than the building. Then the angle of light shifts. The couch appears in front of me. The indentation in the left cushion is familiar. I had meant to rotate it.

I look down. My hands are resting on my knees. They are steadier than they are in the chair across town.

The calendar reminder pulses. I open the call.

Everyone appears from their homes. Kitchens. Living rooms. Bookshelves. You can tell who has upgraded their domestic chassis by the quality of their eye contact. The newer models track microexpressions better. They lean forward at the correct moments.

“Good to see everyone,” my manager says.

She appears from what looks like a spare bedroom. Behind her, a plant is positioned just inside the frame. I have never seen the rest of her house.

We discuss quarterly goals. At one point I reach for my coffee. The cup is exactly where it should be. The motion is fluid. No small spill on the counter. No hesitation.

There is a brief flicker and I feel a tightening at the base of my neck. The office chair adjusts automatically to prevent muscle fatigue.

I am aware, dimly, of my body reclining in a gray pod forty miles away. It is being monitored for posture compliance.

Around noon I stand and walk into the kitchen. The refrigerator inventory is displayed in the corner of my vision. The system suggests a high focus lunch. I select one of the options and watch my hand prepare it with careful precision. As I have the sensation of eating, I feel the tube placed in my throat.

A message arrives from Facilities.

Reminder: Physical presence metrics will be reviewed this quarter. Continued eligibility for remote embodiment requires 90 percent on-site engagement.

I glance down at the floor of my apartment. The sunlight looks real. The hardwood reflects it convincingly.

In the office, a throat clears.

The sound comes through the open channel. Someone has momentarily “unmuted” their biological self. There is a brief ripple of embarrassment. The technician moves quickly to correct it.

In the afternoon my manager requests an in-person conversation.

We meet in a conference room rendered to resemble a neutral workspace. Her domestic proxy enters from the right side of the frame. Mine sits opposite.

“It is important we maintain culture,” she says. “Remote embodiment works best when grounded in shared physical commitment.”

I nod.

Across town, my biological body performs the same nod in an empty chair.

When the workday ends, the light in my apartment dims slightly. The couch loses some of its warmth. The visor lifts.

The office returns.

Rows of us sit upright, blinking. Some stretch. One person wipes drool discreetly from the corner of his mouth. The technician makes notes on a tablet.

“How was home?” she asks.

“Clear,” I say. “Minimal lag.”

She smiles. “Good. We are piloting a firmware update next week. It should make the transition feel more natural.”

I drive back as the sky darkens.

When I open the door to my apartment, my domestic chassis is seated on the couch. Perfect posture. Hands resting evenly on its knees. It has powered down for the evening.

The indentation in the cushion is deeper than I remember.

I stand there for a long moment.

All day I was here. The metrics confirm it. My presence score is high. My engagement heatmap is strong.

Still, the air feels unused.

Tomorrow I will wake up early. Traffic is lighter on Thursdays. I like arriving before the others. It makes it easier to believe I am choosing this.

I switch off the lights and sit where the chassis has been sitting.

The couch is still warm.