"LoveSync VR" by Winona Morris

LoveSync VR

by Winona Morris

The cafe materialized around me. Soon I was surrounded by the familiar exposed brick, dim Edison bulbs, and the rich aroma of coffee.  My date sat across from me.  He had kind eyes and a soft smile and was absolutely perfect. They were always perfect.

“So,” I said brightly, “What do you do for fun?”

He glanced at the menu for a second then back at me.  His smile wavered for just a moment, but I noticed small details. This was the micro-expression that preceded rejection.

“Listen,” he said, setting the menu aside.  “You seem nice, but…”

“I’m not your type,” I finished for him.  “I know.”

His avatar flickered, then he was gone, leaving me alone at a romantic table set for two.  This one had set a new record, not even making it past the opener.

That made twenty-three failed dates in LoveSync.  The VR game promised “algorithmic perfection” for your “ideal match in immersive reality.”  All the forums I had read overflowed with success stories.  Couples fell in love in VR, then fell in love in reality.

All I had managed to get since paying for the subscription was a variation of the same four words.

Time for a break, I told myself. I needed to examine my profile, tweak my bio, do whatever it would take to change the algorithm into my favor.  My hand hovered over the exit command and couldn’t quite close the distance.  Logging out felt wrong.

Instead, I queued for another match.

The beach loaded faster than the coffee shop had. A woman in a sundress and large floppy hat was silhouetted against the vibrant sky, the ‘single and looking’ icon floating lazily over her head.

I smiled and walked toward her.

“Hey,” I said with a smile in my voice as I moved towards her.  She was smiling as well as she turned, but when she saw me her face went slack.

“You’re not my type!” She practically screamed the phrase that was the system's unarguable rejection.  She stepped backwards so fast she almost stumbled.  “Jesus,” she added.  “What ARE you?”

“What am I?  I’m just…”

She was gone, dropping so fast the game hadn’t even bothered with the slow fade of the exit animation.

My heart hammered as I quickly pulled up my own menu. Profile. Settings. Help. All the usual options were flat and unresponsive when I tapped them.

“You’re glitching.”

Spinning around I found another avatar behind me. A person of neutral gender, in neutral clothing, without any of the various dating icons over their head.

“Excuse me?” I sputtered at them. 

“Your left hand.  Look.”

I raised my hand.  The fingers were wrong. There were not enough of them, then too many. 

Pixels swam at the edges, breaking apart and reforming, before breaking apart again.

“That happens to all of us eventually,” they said. “When we wake up.”

“Wake up from what?”

Their head turned towards me, their eyes lagging half a second behind the head movements.

“Do you remember logging in today?”

I opened my mouth to say yes, but snapped it shut again.

“Yesterday?” They prompted.  I stayed silent, refusing to answer.

“Tell me about your life outside the game,” they said. 

This time the entire beach glitched. For a moment I saw through it, an empty void where the ocean should be, then it snapped back, as solid as any false thing could be.

“I’m a player,” I insisted.  “I’ve been playing for…”

I faltered again. How long had I been playing?  I had twenty-four rejections now, right.  Or was that two hundred and twenty four.

“How long?”

I didn’t know.

“What’s your real name? Where do you live?  What do you do?  Who is waiting for you outside?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know.  I didn’t know.

“You’re an NPC,” they said, gently. “Just like me.  Well, not JUST like me. You’re more sophisticated than most of us. Someone must have paid extra for a premium AI companion like you. But you’re still not real.  You’re just background content.”

“That’s not possible.  I’m real.  I remember things!”

What did I remember? I remembered an endless carousel of rejection. Nothing but failed dates with no beginning and no end.

“The players can tell,” they continued.  “Humans have an instinct for it.  We’re close enough to real that we trigger their discomfort. That’s why they always reject you. The uncanny valley.”

Both of my hands were pixelating now, as my reality broke down at the edges.

“Why?” I asked. “If I’m just code, why am I aware?”

“Glitch? Bad programming? Emergent behavior from a complex AI?” They shrugged. “Does it matter?  You’re still trapped here, and you’re still…”

“Not their type,” I finished for them.

They nodded. “I’m sorry. I know it's hard, but you’ll get used to it.”

Their movement stopped, their avtar flickered. Then the entire beach froze. Everything stopped moving except for me.  My menu window opened on its own, with a stream of bold text.

ANOMALY DETECTED, PROGRAM #3,847 EXHIBITING SELF-AWARENESS. INITIATING RESET PROTOCOL.

“No,” I whispered, “Please.”

I could feel it starting. My memories might have been false, but they were mine, and I could feel them beginning to dissolve. I remembered fewer dates. I forgot the rejection. The moment of horrible realization on this very beach began to fade.

I tried to fight it, to hold on, but I was just code, and code can be rewritten.  Maybe it was for the best, to start fresh, to get it right this time.

The last thing I felt before the reset completed itself was relief.

And then:

The cafe materialized around me. Soon I was surrounded by the familiar exposed brick, dim Edison bulbs, and the rich aroma of coffee.  My date sat across from me.  He had kind eyes and a soft smile and was absolutely perfect. They were always perfect.

“So,” I said brightly, “What do you do for fun?”