State of the Art

Friday, August 29th, 2042, Residence of the Davis family, Newport, Bellevue, Washington.

Lisa slowly woke up from a nap, her brain taking several sluggish seconds to remember what day it was and when her next shift started. The digital clock on her nightstand showed an even 1:00 PM.

Friday, right?

A short rush of panic jolted her fully awake—was this a workday? Did she sleep through her alarm? Was she supposed to be charting labs right now or prepping a patient for the OR?

But then she turned her head and saw the pile of clothes spread across Jae's side of the bed—clothes she had bought this morning for her. Clothes that would never fit the old him. The mental fog cleared in a snap.

… Right.

She had called in sick today. She exhaled, rubbing a palm over her face. Her neck ached. Her back ached. Her soul ached. Calling in sick as a nurse always came with the guilt of knowing some coworker had to scramble to pick up her patients. But there had been no universe in which she was leaving Jae unattended today.

Because her partner was slowly transforming into a dragon girl. Those were sufficiently extenuating circumstances, she assured herself.

Lisa swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A faint chill lingered in the room. She pushed herself to her feet and shuffled toward the hallway. There, the air carried a hint of raspberry, butter, and sugar from Jae's earlier spontaneous cooking episode.

The memory of Jae's wardrobe malfunctions brought a smile to her face and a blush to her cheeks.

Lisa's body moved automatically, muscle-memory built from years of pre-shift grogginess: check patient and their vitals.

This time, the "patient" was her partner.

If there was one thing Lisa—as a healthcare worker—appreciated about society's push into FullDive VR, it was the sheer quality of the monitoring data.

Hospitals had been begging for this kind of biometric granularity for decades. Back in nursing school, she had had to fight with cheap pulse-ox sensors that slipped off fingers, blood pressure cuffs that over-inflated, ECG leads that peeled off the moment a patient so much as breathed wrong. The ICU used to drown her in alarms—a symphony of false positives and technical errors that did nothing but shred her nerves.

But the FullDive rigs?

Those things came bundled with a full suite of sensors that put half the hospital's machinery to shame.

Continuous vitals, accurate down to a tenth of a beat. Breathing patterns smoother and more complete than what the portable capnography units could handle. Neural activity mapped in real time with a clarity the EEG techs would have sold their souls for.

And the best part?

The data was not being dragged through three layers of middleware running on 15-year-old medical software that crashed if you looked at it wrong. FullDive rigs logged everything cleanly, clearly, time-stamped, and colour-coded.

She had once joked to a coworker that the hospital should scrap half its gear and replace it with gaming equipment.

The coworker had not laughed. Mostly because she was right.

Even now, as she stood beside the pod, the rig displayed Jae's vitals on a crisp panel—heart rate stable, neural load low, REM indicators drifting upward. If a single parameter slipped outside baseline, she would get a push notification on her phone instantly.

If she could have installed something like this in the ICU ten years ago, she might have aged five fewer years and slept ten more hours a week.

Hell, if the medical boards were not so precious about FDA-certified equipment and clinical oversight, hospitals would have adopted this tech in a heartbeat.

So yes—watching her partner sleep in that pod was terrifying on about twenty different existential levels.

But watching those vitals?

That part—that part was almost comforting.

At least the machine knew exactly what was happening, even when she did not.

She reached the office door and rested her hand on the knob for a moment. Even now, part of her expected to open it and see the old Jae sitting in the pod chair, headset on.

Instead, when she cracked the door open, the faint glow of the FullDive pod spilled across the floor. Jae lay inside, unconscious and impossibly still. Smaller and delicate. Silver hair and golden fins. A youthful silhouette where her husband should have been.

Lisa's breath caught for half a second.

Even after a morning spent studying the impossible, her brain still insisted on glitching at the sight. Her medical training wanted to interpret it as puberty run backwards, or some catastrophic endocrine event, or a cosmetic reconstruction gone really sideways. But the readings on the rig's monitors were not wrong.

Pulse stable, respiration steady. Body temperature slightly cool but not alarming. Neural load within acceptable range. No medical emergency.

Just… magic. Or tech masquerading as magic. Or magic masquerading as tech.

Whatever the hell that game was doing.

She stepped just far enough into the room to check the machine's last diagnostic. Stable. Nothing worsening. Nothing new.

"Okay, baby," she whispered, brushing a thumb across the back of her hand and golden scales. "I've got things covered on this side. You keep doing whatever you're doing in there—and maybe get us some answers."

She left the room as quietly as she had entered and headed downstairs.

Halfway down the steps, reality hit her again—this time not in the form of existential dread, but as the kitchen.

Raspberry streaks on the counter. Half-wiped bowls in the sink.

Lisa let out a tired, fond sigh.

"Of course it falls on me to clean up," Lisa muttered.

She tied her hair into a low, exasperated bun and started picking up bowls. The kind of domestic autopilot that got her through twelve-hour shifts also worked for post-metamorphosis cleanup, apparently.

She had just got the sink running when the doorbell chimed.

Lisa froze mid-motion, a spatula in hand.

She frowned. After Madison's unannounced visit earlier in the morning, Lisa had assumed she had used up her quota of surprise visitors for the day.

Who else would be dropping by?

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On any other Friday afternoon, Jae should have been at work. As for her… her schedule changed so often, even she could not predict when she would be home. Their house was not the type people casually dropped into. Bellevue etiquette leaned toward texts, scheduled brunches, and very clear boundaries.

She wiped her hands and walked toward the front hall, her brain already narrowing possibilities like a diagnostic flowchart.

If someone was outside, they would have seen her car in the driveway.
Which meant they already knew she was home.

And someone making decisions based on the presence of her car meant familiarity—someone close enough to know their routines, or confident enough to assume access.

That eliminated delivery drivers and random neighbours.

Leaving only family or friends.

Lisa approached the door with growing certainty.

Only a very short list of people would ring the bell on a day like this.

And that list had one name she really, really did not have the energy for.

She checked through the peephole.

The first thing she spotted was Claire's obscenely expensive self-driving sedan.

Lisa closed her eyes for a long, steady breath.

"Perfect," she muttered under her breath. "Just what I need."

She squared her shoulders, smoothed back her bun, and opened the door.

Claire swept inside without waiting for an invitation—of course she did.
She moved like a gust of cold air wearing heels and perfume.

In one hand, she carried a sleek matte-black takeout bag from a restaurant Lisa could never afford, even if she worked three doubles. In the other, she held an iced coffee from some upper-class boutique where the cheapest offering set you back three digits.

"Oh, thank God you're here, Lisa," Claire said, dramatically exhaling, as if she had just escaped a war zone. She set her drink on the console table without asking. "I was going crazy out there."

Lisa blinked once. "Out where? My driveway?"

Claire ignored that, stepping out of her heels and walking straight into the living room like she owned the place.

"I swear, this city is falling apart. Have you seen what's happening with this—this avatar glitch? Half my colleagues are running around VR court looking like they're auditioning for some fantasy movie. It's humiliating."

She deposited the takeout bag on Lisa's granite countertop like an offering to a goddess who had demanded tributes of overpriced salmon sashimi.

Lisa crossed her arms. "You're talking about the tech issue? Yeah, it's… a thing."

"A 'thing'?" Claire barked out a humourless laugh. "Lisa, it's a catastrophe. I had a deposition this morning and one of the lawyers showed up with—"

She waved a hand in a circle, searching for her words. "—pointy ears, Lisa. Barely five feet tall. And her hair was pink. Pink."

"Uh-huh."

"And she kept insisting she was 'Attorney Morozov,' like I was supposed to just accept that because she said so! As if voice matching isn't a basic expectation in a professional environment. It sounded nothing like him."

Lisa felt her jaw clench.

Claire took that as encouragement and kept going.

"And don't get me started on the judge. Judge Rutherford? He was a—God, what do you even call it? A cat-person? A furry? I don't know!"

She flung a manicured hand dramatically.

"He had fur and striped ears, Lisa. And he had the nerve to tell me it was still him, like I'm delusional. He didn't even look human!"

Lisa inhaled quietly through her nose. "Right. Imagine that."

"You remember when we were students, right? This is just like the Cat Layer from 2021! That judge from the 394th?"

It was impossible to forget. That video had gone viral.

"After that incident, it was made clear: no filters, distortions, or virtual appearances that obscure identity. What happened to the court guidelines? Real face, real voice, confirmable identity? I spent the entire meeting trying to keep my composure while everyone else acted like this was perfectly acceptable."

Lisa swallowed down the sharp retort that rose in her throat.

If everyone else accepted it, it was probably because they knew something Claire did not—or refused to understand. The FullDive rigs authenticated identity at the neural level. There was no need for faces or voices anymore. Those were relics from an era when all you had was a webcam and wishful thinking.

And honestly—what did "real face" even mean in VR?
What did "real voice" mean when the body was just a rendered shell?

Claire carried on, flipping her hair back in irritation.

"One of the clerks even had the audacity to tell me—me, Lisa—that she was still 'the real Rachel.' She's thirty-two, she looked like a goddamn bunny, and she expects me to believe she's competent to handle official court documents?"

She scoffed.

"Honestly, I don't care what people do on their own time, but the moment they bring it into our professional spaces? No. Absolutely not. I refuse to pretend everything's fine when everything's on fire."

Lisa bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron.

Claire paused long enough to take a sip of her artisanal coffee, then wrinkled her nose.

"And if this is happening in my circle? I can't even imagine what kind of disaster it's causing to… you know, everywhere else."

"Yeah, everywhere else," Lisa echoed flatly.

Claire did not notice the tone. She never did.

She was already pacing toward the living room, rant-energy coiling back up like a spring. But Lisa stayed rooted in place, one hand braced on the edge of the counter as her thoughts skidded sideways.

If this was how Claire reacted to VR skins, how would she react to the truth?

Lisa's stomach tightened.

Surely Claire must have heard the news by now. Two days ago, this would have sounded like sci-fi.

But yesterday, it was breaking news. And today, it was Lisa's partner.

Claire had to have run into it.

Lisa exhaled sharply through her nose.

Her friend lived in a bubble built out of court briefs, curated social feeds, and the smug certainty that she could out-argue objective reality. If she did not like a fact, she dismissed it. If a situation made her uncomfortable, she blamed someone else for causing it.

Across the room, Claire was still talking, oblivious.

"…frankly, I'm shocked the Bar Association hasn't already issued sanctions for this behavior. If people want to cosplay, do it on your own time. Don't drag it into court—"

Lisa tuned her out.

A small part of her wondered—hoped—that maybe Claire would catch up on her own. Read the reports. Hear it from someone she actually trusted professionally.

Lisa inhaled, then exhaled slowly through her nose.

Enough dancing around it.

Fine. Time to rip the bandaid.

"Claire," Lisa said, voice steady. "You must have heard about them, but, what do you think about the real-world transformations?"

Claire froze mid-stride.

It was subtle—half a second, maybe—but Lisa saw it. A hitch. A tightening around the shoulders. Like someone yanking the emergency brake on a train.

Then Claire scoffed loudly, a brittle sound made of equal parts dismissal and discomfort.

"Oh, that nonsense?" she said, waving her coffee in the air as though swatting a fly. "Please. You don't actually believe that, do you? It's just click-bait journalism."

Lisa kept her face neutral. "You didn't answer the question."

"I did," Claire insisted, voice sharpening. "Unsubstantiated. Obviously, it's all fake. Manufactured drama. People online are bored and trying to get attention—and frankly, it's working. Every time I scroll through the news, it's the same thing. Grainy videos, heavily edited clips, people claiming their bodies 'changed overnight.' Right. Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."

Lisa stared at her.

Claire forged ahead, irritation rising like steam.

"I mean, come on, Lisa. Use your head. You're a nurse. You actually know biology. You know this isn't possible." She tapped her temple with the hand holding her drink, sloshing ice. "Bodies don't just… change. Not like that. You can't grow six inches overnight or shrink or—whatever they're claiming. That's not science. That's… special effects. That's kids roleplaying too hard. That's people looking for a chance at being famous."

Lisa felt a muscle in her jaw tick.

"Some of those reports came from hospitals," she said carefully.

Claire scoffed again, louder this time. "Hospitals fall for hoaxes all the time. You know how many fake emergencies happened during the pandemic? People walking in demanding treatment for diseases they Googled five minutes earlier? This is the same thing. Attention-seekers. People who want sympathy. People pretending."

Pretending. The word hit Lisa like a slap.

She swallowed hard. "There's biometric data."

"I've seen 'biometric data,' too," Claire said, making air quotes so exaggerated they were nearly theatrical. "Anyone can mock up a chart. Anyone can fabricate a vitals report. This is 2042—half the planet uses AI to write their grocery lists. Of course scammers are using it to fake medical graphs."

Lisa said nothing, so Claire took that as an invitation to double down.

"And you know what really pisses me off? People are falling for it. Perfectly intelligent adults letting strangers on the internet convince them they're suddenly elves or catgirls or whatever. It's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous."

Lisa's heartbeat thudded in her ears.

She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her expression mild. She had done this before—talking families down from delusion, talking patients through panic, talking coworkers through unbearable grief.

But Claire was not panicked. She was arrogant, and that made everything infinitely worse.

"Claire," Lisa said, voice low. "You're telling me you think every single video, every single report, every single person posting these changes… is lying?"

"Yes," Claire said immediately. "Or delusional. Or seeking attention. Or all three."

"And the hospitals?"

"Misidentification," Claire said dismissively. "People trying to take advantage of a system that's already overwhelmed. I don't know. They're trying to appear interesting. More important. I refuse to indulge it."

Lisa went still. The kitchen felt cold around her.

Because Claire had just said plainly how she refused to believe anything that did not conform to her worldview.

"And if," Lisa said slowly, "it turned out to be real?"

Claire laughed again—sharp, incredulous, dismissive.

"Then the world has officially lost its mind," she said. "And I'm not going with it."

Lisa pressed her fingertips into the edge of the countertop, grounding herself.

Because she suddenly, acutely, understood how Claire was not ready to learn the truth about Emmy and Jae.

Not even a little.