Step into the Metaverse. Mark van Rijmenam
helped them steal days like this every now and then. Before we had virtual AI assistants to do the paperwork.
They said their goodbyes and promised to see each other, in person, for dinner that evening.
With that, Laya brought up the central directory and opened a door to The Imperial College of Arts' new metaverse performance space.
* * *
It was always the sound first. As Laya stepped through the door the noise of a full hall poured over her. A wave of conversation, laughs, and cries from excited kids and teens reverberated through her headset. She adjusted the volume on the right side of the headset and looked around the large, darkened hall.
A stage sat at the far end, brightly illuminated by invisible lights. She looked up and noticed the hall just faded off into blackness, never actually coming to a ceiling, just an endless void.
Ms. Hutchkings, the school's principal, had turned up to personally guide Laya through the crowd of mixed avatars. Digital twins, some sporting tuxedos, others shorts and T-shirts, lined the hall. Some more outlandish avatars were also dotted about, including what looked like a Ninja Turtle, or at least some type of giant walking reptile.
They found their way to the designated viewing area, and within minutes, the hall fell silent. A row of masked faces appeared center stage. The show had begun. Students began showcasing content they created in their Content Creation Module, a module added to the national curriculum as part of Laya's 5-Step Modernization Program.
About 30 minutes in, Mia's digital twin came on dressed in a tutu. Mia had tweaked the color scheme and appeared black and white, almost film Noir-esque.
She stood center stage and took a ballet pose, as she softly moved, a black bar appeared at the bottom of Laya's vision. Bach - Air on the G String, Suite No. 3, BWV 1068 gently scrolled across in a small white font. The haunting sound of a stringed orchestra rose through Laya's ears as her daughter gracefully began moving with the music. As she moved, her fingers would leave brush strokes behind them, hanging in the air.
Mia danced beautifully, the changing colors flowing out from her hands as she did. Dark blues, a deep green, violet, gold, blacks, whites—a palette of colors drifted out from her hands staining the air. At the piece's crescendo, Mia struck a pose in front of the picture she'd just birthed. From a thousand seemingly random lines and colors, a vision of Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night had formed.
Mia bowed to the audience. Cheers and whistles swelled from the crowd, with the occasional digital firework being let off too. Laya jumped up in excitement, waving like a madwoman to her daughter on stage who, thanks to a family setting on the avatar filter, could see her mother and gave an excited handwave back.
Laya had missed this. She'd missed being around when her kids did incredible things. With a smile on her face, a single tear slowly rolled down Laya's real cheek, catching in the reservoir where her headset meets her face.
Laya kept cheering for her daughter, but eventually, the crowd settled, and the next student came on.
Laya moved out of the viewing area, and having beckoned a door, she went backstage. Unable to see her daughter in the crowd of frantic students and teachers, Laya pulled open her menu—a rather simple trick achieved by winking your right eye—and invited Mia to a private chat. As Mia accepted, their avatars were compelled together and the surrounding sights and sounds darkened.
“I'm so proud of you, sweetie,” Laya told her daughter. The pair chatted for a while about the show, the song, the whole thing. They'd obviously missed each other and were in dire need of some mother-daughter time.
Right in the middle of their celebrations, the red flashing light appeared once more. It's Ae again. Hiding her annoyance in front of her daughter, she apologized and answered. “Does this need to go through me, or can Daryl handle it?”
Ae explained how Sweden had just announced the same education reforms that Laya was working on. They'd just secured a contract with one of the tech-goliaths to supply all Swedish schools with the latest headsets and lidar systems and even build the Swedish government a metaverse embassy, something all governments were beginning to do.
Mia stood there watching her mother speak with an invisible person, Mia's enthusiasm slowly fading as she remembered why her mom's job annoyed her so much. Laya looked at her daughter knowingly. She gestured her hand and muted Ae, midway through a breakdown on the details of the Swedish deal.
“I'm so sorry darling. You did so well today. I'm super proud. I'll see you at home later.”
They exchanged loving emojis, and Mia disappeared back into the crowd. Laya unmuted her mic. “Save the details for later, Ae. Can you locate my other one? Zack should be finishing school soon.” Within moments, Ae had a position.
“He's in the Pondbox,” Ae reported, her tone preempting Laya's disappointment.
* * *
Pondbox was a newer region of the metaverse. She had told Zack, her 12-year-old son, not to go there as the whole area was Non-GAC Protected. GAC was Government Anti-Cheat software.
The region had hundreds of new experimental game types, content, and NFTs, but it lacked any guidelines or rules. It reminded Laya of the internet in the early 2000s, when she used to scroll sites like FunnyJunk and the earliest version of YouTube. And just like the internet back then, there was a boatload of bots and catfish phishing for passwords and a whole lot of unrestricted adult content. It was not exactly a place a parent wants their 12-year-old to hang out.
Ae had tracked Zack down to a password-protected shoot-'em-up concept a rouge programmer had dreamt up. Using her Ministerial Digital ID, Laya went straight past the password-protected door. On the other side, she saw Zack and Mia talking. The words, “Can't you just lend me yours?” rang out just as Laya stepped through.
They all turned to face each other, Zack and Laya looking equally confused. Mia's expression, on the other hand, didn't alter and had a certain, almost, uncanny quality to it.
Zack hated it when his mom checked in on him. “Mom,” he explained. “You don't need to check up on me.” Zack turned back to Mia. “Now, stop bugging me. Ask Mom.” He then turned his back to them, taking the stance of a soldier in the midst of an invisible battle.
Laya knew something was up. She reached out her left hand, freezing both avatars, and lifted her right to the panic button on her headset, opening a direct line to the M.C.P. and an emergency exit to her right.
Back in the real world, in a nondescript building halfway across the country, a well-rehearsed parade began. A team of programmers and coders donned headsets and wrist-mounted devices. The gentle sound of a low humming interrupted by the occasional murmuring bounced off the dimly lit blue wall. The sign “M.C.P - Ministerial Cyber Police” shone dustless in the well-ventilated room.
Dragging Zack's avatar, Laya stepped through the emergency exit. As the door closed behind them, multiple M.C.P agents appeared around the fake Mia. Laya and Zack were now in a digital twin of their own back garden, permanently set to a mid-summer's afternoon. Laya unfroze Zack and guided him to sit in his real-world safety chair.
“Zack…,” Laya started softly, “You know that wasn't your sister, right?”
Zack was confused at first, but his expression quickly changed into one of shame and embarrassment. Through tears, Zack confessed to his digital mom that he was going to lend Mia their home password. “She said she'd lost it,” he reasoned.
Laya comforted her son as best she could, but no words could replace a real hug. She felt a sudden sadness wash over her as she so desperately wanted to comfort her son.
“I'll be home soon. I love you.”
* * *
Determined to get home, Laya replaced her headset with a pair of AR glasses and marched out of her office door. As she did, the red light flashed again. “This better be important.”
“Always,