Tru U: Finding Self in Virtual Utopia

Tao-Yi transitions from marketing to helping others at Tru U in a virtual utopia called Gaia. She encounters Navin amidst a New Year's Eve bonfire with other Gen Virtual youth.

The title still appears unusual to Tao-Yi’s ears, even though she’s been at her task for half a year. She’s still getting her head around relocating from a marketing gig, manipulating people right into buying even more stuff, to a location like Tru U, assisting shed hearts back in the direction of their real selves.

A New Beginning at Tru U

The sky’s all incorrect tonight. Oversaturated blue, it pixelates at the perspective right into streaky salt water, and is hole-punched by the sunlight sinking in the direction of its puffed up reflection. The tide beats versus the coast. One, two, 3 up the sand. One, 2, three, four– leaving a sine wave of foam.

In the edge of her vision, a countdown glimmers neon: 9:00 pm, 31 December 2087. Primarily clips, four-second video fragments liquifying as soon as she absorbs them into her focus: pals dancing at open-air performances, go-karting under electronic fireworks, clinking stim shots to a backdrop of pounding beats.

New Year’s Eve 2087 in Gaia

Tao-Yi sits with her legs folded under her, revolving a nearly empty beer bottle in her hands. Long darkness trickle from the sandstone developments around her. In this tucked-away cove, secured by ruddy cliffs, she can not see the others, but she can hear them yelling and laughing as they collect driftwood for a bonfire.

A rustle of sand yard heralds Navin’s method. He’s virtually a complete stranger– lean and high in his short-sleeved t-shirt and khaki pants, black fringe falling choppily throughout his eyebrow, an at risk smile. He holds up another container of beer.

Encounter with Navin

Tao-Yi wills away the countdown and the snips. She’s wearing a pastel outfit from her normal wardrobe, her dark brown hair is prepared in braids and her cheeks are decorated with gothic decals.

In between the dunes and the sea, the others have filled up a superficial pit with driftwood. There are a lots or two capstone-educated twenty-somethings like herself and Navin, all sharp glimpses and amusing witticism. Gen Virtual. They’re the lucky generation– birthed right into activity, saturated with potential, cresting a wave of change.

The Bonfire and Gen Virtual

She’s putting on a pastel dress from her typical closet, her dark brown hair is arranged in braids and her cheeks are decorated with gothic decals.

Tao-Yi sits with her legs folded up under her, revolving a nearly vacant beer container in her hands. She waits for the gust to roll into coast, to lift tendrils of hair from her neck, yet it never comes– the air in Gaia is as stagnant as a subway passage.

“Usoo, Tao-Yi, do not claim to be a cynic. I recognize you’re actually a softie below,” Evelyn states. “Offer it a couple of even more months, and you’ll be spreading out feel-good virus like your employer.

Doubts and Cynicism

In this passage from the opening of Poise Chan’s sci-fi story, the November review for the New Scientist Publication Club, we are presented to her lead characters as they hang out in a virtual utopia which is becoming progressively appealing in a passing away world

She follows him out of the cove, skirting a cluster of boulders, and back along the shore. His tee shirt hangs loose on his frame, catching the bottom edges of his shoulder blades.

He’s nearly a complete stranger– high and lean in his short-sleeved t shirt and khaki pants, black edge falling choppily across his brow, a vulnerable smile. Mainly clips, four-second video fragments liquifying as quickly as she absorbs them right into her focus: close friends dancing at open-air shows, go-karting under electronic fireworks, clinking stim shots to a background of pounding beats.

The container stays ice-cold versus her hands, unsusceptible her temperature. She raises the rim to her lips. The last gulp pieces down her throat. The ocean ruffles like a silk skirt in a wind, wrinkled and nontransparent. She waits on the gust to roll into shore, to lift tendrils of hair from her neck, yet it never comes– the air in Gaia is as stale as a metro passage.

Zach relocates via the group easily, the others drawn to him like insects to shallow water. He leans over the driftwood, a lit match extended like a conductor’s baton in between long brown fingers.