Once upon a time, I had been something. Now life had me trapped in a room with an elderly woman, a robotic humanoid, and a giant device that looked like a bed but was far more. My current job involved traveling to homes like this one as a mobile customer service. The work kept me distracted.

“This module looks good. There were three nice beeps. We’re clear on this side,” I said with a practiced cadence.

"Checkpoints seven through fifteen show positive results," the robotic humanoid responded.

"Thanks, Hal Pal," I said. Each one of these humanoid machines was called Hal Pal. The AI remotely operated hundreds of sleek gray bodies across the world, and this one traveled with me for work.

"What are you doing now?" The third person in the room was our shaking client, and she had spent the last twenty minutes wringing her hands in worry. Other conversation topics had included complaints about Trillium's pricing and asking if I knew the time.

"Well, we swapped out the broken part for a new one. Now Hal Pal and I need to finish making sure it's all functioning correctly." I was good at demonstrating patience and justifying why small parts cost two hundred dollars. Unemployment was at an all-time high across the globe, so any job was good. Trillium paid out on a per-job basis, allowing me to grind my sanity to a nub while chasing dollar signs I didn't really need.

“Are you done?” the client asked.

“We’re almost done, Miss Yonks. There are a few final tests to ensure your connection is stable and that nothing’s at risk.” I clapped and tried to sound reassuring. “The ARC lines up with your consciousness, so Trillium has high safety requirements. When we do service calls like this, we aim well beyond Trillium's requirements for your peace of mind.” We referred to me and the networked AI on the other end of Hal Pal. Its robotic shell was here, but the consciousness was stored off in cyberspace somehow.

“Initial scan complete. Results positive. Deep scan initiating.” Its voice didn't sound robotic, but there was no mistaking Hal Pal for a human. Those choppy word strings were a vast improvement over the text-to-speech programs of my childhood though.

“How long does that take?” she asked while quivering.

“Not long with Hal at the wheel,” I answered for the AI.

Hal Pal and its metal suit didn't respond. It was too busy cycling through walls of code for possible errors.

I sighed, then once again lay down on the floor. “Hal Pal, I’m starting a visual review of the underside.”

Hal Pal would log the words for processing once it had completed the digital scan.

This piece of science fiction was called an ARC, or Alternate Reality Capsule, and it had broken on Miss Yonks recently. Any malfunctioning device was quickly registered on Trillium's database, and a technician, such as me, was sent. Hal Pal and I came to the homes, replaced the parts, and tested them. My hands roamed with deliberate slowness over steel and plastic. Fingertips felt curves and grooves in the manufactured brilliance. This device weighed over two thousand pounds, and each inch was packed with gadgets so complicated they came in modules.

Miss Yonks’s feverish actions elevated to pacing around the front room. My job was to reassure the customers. Hal Pal could have repaired the ARC machine all on its own.

“Hal, status check,” I said, using the keywords provided during training.

“Sixty percent. Performance within required range. Optimal connection conditions still under review.”

“Great to hear, Hal.” I gave Miss Yonks my best friendly smile and tried not to feel guilty about taking credit for Hal Pal's actions. “We’re right on track, Miss Yonks, no worries. You’ll be back online soon.”

I put my face a little farther under the ARC and slid an arm into the access panel. Images of the machine’s interior projected from a tiny camera on my wrist, providing a second look at what I’d already felt. Her machine was fine. Each part replaced along the bottom end had been successfully installed.

“Thank goodness. So, soon then? I’ll be able to log back on soon? I have a game to play.”

Miss Yonks was today’s fourth client and acted like a junkie.

The Internet was an addictive world where dreams could come true. Never mind the children playing in the streets with light projection armbands. The Internet held too many possibilities. I’d heard of at least twenty cases of people who’d played themselves into near-comas, then tried to sue those they felt were responsible.

Trillium International presided over most online hardware. Every year they issued health warnings against overusing the ARC. So far, they hadn't paid out a dime as a part of any lawsuit. Besides, overall, people loved them.

"A few more minutes to run our final tests and we'll be good," I said.

Last week, I’d fixed a man's system, and his software preference focused on interactive ladies of the clothing-optional variety. Adult entertainment wasn't limited to men either. I did my darnedest to ignore all questionable programs.

Some people used the virtual reality machines for work. Others used them for training. Years ago, the first few devices went to hospitals. They assisted in coma-patient recovery with a thirty-percent success rate. That alone had endeared the ARC and Trillium to the masses.

“Checks complete. All systems verified and functioning. All network links established.” Hal Pal stated the information as if it were a printed report. “Were any errors found during the visual review?”

“Nothing out of place. Everything in,” I said for the AI. If all Hal Pal’s system checks came back positive, then asking me was only useful for our client. “Locked, smooth as can be.”

The robot was running a polite personality right now. It switched depending on our clientele. A computer telling clients that everything was fine was often met with doubt and questioning disdain. Having a human face interpreting for the machine helped all parties involved. In the end, Trillium paid me to act a part.

I pulled myself out from under the giant machine. It was a bit bigger than a twin bed, and it even switched positions automatically to reduce stress. There was a series of digital projections that would cast about the room for anyone to interface with. If the user lay down and placed their head in the right spot, it would capture them and start a virtual dive into the digital world. Which, ultimately, was the point of having one.

All these clever inventions combined into the greatest piece of entertainment technology in existence. Miss Yonks had a nice eggshell-colored ARC; mine was a wooden brown. Trillium had provided me an ARC and the robot free with employment. Both barely fit into my tiny house, so I usually left the Hal Pal shell out in the garage.

“Sounds like we’re nearly done.” I stood and tried not to think about dust and crumbs. “Go ahead and do an external log-in. If it connects, we’re good.” I motioned to the side panel display.

Miss Yonks walked over and quivered while speaking. Her voice print woke up the machine. A friendly smiley face stood on the upper left side of the screen. She looked at me, then at the screen again before speaking her pass-phrase. One of her frail arms was inside the visual range of the ARC. Both were security measures to identify her on the local device. Retinal scans and brain-wave mapping would get her a full immersion dive onto the network.

“Looking good,” I said.

"Yes. I should be able to get back on in time. I think." She nodded while waving through the ARC digital menus.

Every ARC came with the ability to project a three dimensional image or a flattened one. Miss Yonks had a flat display that showed a room looking similar to the one here in reality. Normal computers had a desktop; ARCs had an Atrium. Anyone who mentally dived into the virtual world using this ARC would start in her Atrium.

Software programs were always reflected in the Atrium. This was similar to computer screens and their desktop icons. Miss Yonks had a random mess of extra doors and items littered around the projected room. A few games lined one shelf. She had chat programs and virtual meeting rooms installed. Piles of junk and other adware filled her virtual trash bin. Her suite was that of a standard user. She even had a copy of Continue Online, which was the bestselling game for twenty months running. Four of those months were before it was even released. Pre-orders had broken global records.

“Yay.” For a moment, Miss Yonks sounded years younger. “This looks a lot better.”

“We aim to please.” When I first arrived, her screen had a frowning sick emoticon instead of the normal cheery one.

“How much?” she asked.

I recited the numbers. We settled up the bill by verbal agreement then waving a charge card near my watch. This device told time, took calls, measured my pulse, accessed Internet searches, and operated the car. All manner of modern convenience without the need to pull something out of my pocket.

Miss Yonks eagerly ushered me out of the door. I nodded while putting effort into a friendly good-bye. Our parting was professional and personable. Hal Pal even gave a small bow. We went to the van, where I opened the rear door and let the AI into its charging dock.

Mere moments later, we had our next appointment programmed in. ARCs almost always needed repair. Not because they were poorly made, but because there were so many and people were more urgent about them than plumbing. I gave a vocal command to the van. We would stop for food first. Technology had advanced far enough that I could place my order before we arrived and my meal would be ready to go by the time the van pulled into the restaurant.

My grandparents had barely experienced what technology could accomplish. A generation ago, nothing could have linked up to a car’s global position to establish when food needed to be ready. Cars now piloted themselves by weaving in and out of traffic at frightening speeds.

With Alternate Reality Capsules, no one needed to travel to gain the illusion of face to face conversation. Telework programs were more successful. Business meetings, along with vacations and theme parks, took place in cyberspace. Virtual thrill rides felt real, and were both a click away and cheaper than physical vacations. People stayed at home, preferring the ease of digital connections over real life logistical complications. ARC drunkenness was cheaper. As a result, the highways were rarely congested, even during rush hours.

Not everything was positive. Class divisions grew clearer cut. The poor couldn't afford personal ARCs. Software had skyrocketed in price to go along with the technical complexity. Two hundred bucks would buy a user one pretty sweet shooter game or a month's worth of groceries for one person.

Our van passed all sorts of places on the way to its next location. From the highway overpass, I could see a neighborhood playing movies against a tall building. Poorer areas recreated the drive-in experience using dated technology. Houses were lined up side by side and ran all the ranges between clean and dilapidated.

One side of the upcoming highway tunnel looked run-down. Upon emerging, our scenery was different. The middle-to-upper class had larger properties despite being mostly plugged in. Lawn maintenance was performed by a fleet of robots like Hal Pal. Neighborhood housing committees often owned the local maintenance robots that covered a lot of mundane tasks, including removal of spray paint, hedge trimming, cleaning sidewalks, and mail delivery. Mechanics of that caliber belonged to those who could afford the extra few hundred a month in rent or mortgages.

My company van ran between destinations silently. We worked two more repair jobs for middle-class addicts before the night’s excursions came to a close. Home was my final stop and way out in the less-populated countryside. A quiet hour later—during which I played a terrible game of chess against Hal Pal—we finally turned into my neighborhood. The van slowed as we met up with the residential housing. This area wasn't poor or rich, not this far out.

I’d chosen this area because this region had the lowest amount of ARC devices per capita. Not everyone invested in today’s future technology. Some, thankfully, still enjoyed real life. The company I worked for loved my home location. This van was an advertisement in a wide open market. I parked my van in the garage to reduce curb presence though. I also avoided polluting the neighborhood with the company slogan of “ARC, be more”.

Hal Pal whirred to life behind me and tilted its head in my direction. "Are you done for the night, User Legate?"

"I am. We'll do some more jobs tomorrow," I told Hal Pal.

"Very well. I shall review our stock and go into idle," the machine intelligence responded.

“Good night, Hal.” I stepped out of the van and set a lock on the vehicle with my watch. Not that Hal Pal was likely to run off with the ride unless a company recall was issued.

“Good night, User Legate.” The AI’s automated reply was devoid of inflection or tone. A whirl of arms and mechanical limbs followed the parting as Hal Pal shuffled around the van. It would run the shell for another twenty minutes doing inventory and testing equipment.

I closed the door to the garage and stepped into my mixed up front room. It was about the size of a single-car garage and had all the items any human might need. There was a small kitchen counter, a table, two chairs, and one laundry machine built into the back wall. The bedroom was smaller than the front room and taken up by my mostly brown Alternate Reality Capsule. No cat, no dog, no roommates—just five hundred square feet of real estate big enough to fit one man. Once, years ago, I had a lot more. Everything from the past was nearly gone now. Sold off or given away in pieces.

I disrobed from the work jumpsuit and slid my pile of dirty clothes into the laundry machine. Instead of the giant clunky pair of devices from decades ago, this was an almost square panel that items were placed in. They would come out an hour later, cleaned, pressed, and folded. The process was almost too easy.

Mom still complained about having to do my father’s laundry. “A taxing chore from the devil himself,” she labeled it. I never sorted out which part was the devil: my father or the laundry. Mom probably meant both of them on alternating days. She said the same thing about cooking too, which was equally simplified in the last decade.

I felt uncomfortable walking around naked, even home and alone in a basement building with no windows. My nighttime clothes consisted of two pieces: boxers were worn for comfort, and a short-sleeve shirt hid the half-formed gut from where I’d given up years ago. My hair might follow soon but had held on so far.

Lights in the front room were shut off by an old-fashioned switch. In routine order, teeth were brushed, then personal messages cleared from the ARC’s external display. Once read, I lay down inside the unit to log in.

One finger pressed the manual activation button. My vision swam in a blur of blacks being overcome by the Atrium awakening. Reality was displaced by a virtual landscape that proved every bit as tangible as my home. I navigated my digital body through the Atrium into one of the few programs installed. Once I was through the passageway, my ARC initiated other changes as the program loaded.

I checked my transforming clothes and looked around. My digital wear had been replaced by a suit stuffed with frills. This part of the program took effect once I left the Atrium. This month was focused on learning classical dance. A quiet ballroom had formed simultaneously with the clothing change. Opposite me was a still rendering of my fiancée. It was not real. This was no virtual meeting space to connect a long-distance lover and me. She was part of the program, like my clothes, like the pushed-aside tables that littered the dance floor's edge.

"Hey, babe," I said while putting out a hand.

The computer never answered me in words. She gave a programmed dip, then reached for my hand. All her mannerisms felt wrong when compared to my memories. Nothing lined up perfectly. I was not the man I had been years ago. She had never smiled this much. But it was all that remained of her, and I tortured myself with her facsimile too often.

“Program, queue up something nice for us.”

The imperfect replication of my fiancée smiled in artificial joy. I smiled back and tried not to feel morose. Trying not to compare the slight sag of my skin to my memories was difficult. She was still as beautiful as I remembered.

I could never forget those eyes. Swirls of amber flowed outward to a reddish brown. Looking other people in the eyes sometimes scared me. Not hers though. She had always been easy to look at.

"Here we go," I said.

Music started, and we danced, the two of us alone in a room that didn't exist. Visually, this place was real. Sensations of touch, sound, even the smell of light perfume invaded my senses. On the nights I dared to kiss her, I tasted a hint of a lipstick my fiancée had never worn.

Stolen hours with a computer kept me going. This was my happy place, and it hurt with every step.