Good Morning Americopia

“Good morning John, it is time to insert your Eucharist chip. You have 12 charges remaining”

The plastic yet pleasing voice of Sophia rang out, rattling about like a pinball in John’s slumbering skull, equal parts seductive and authoritarian--just how John liked it. But of course they knew that.

Eyes still shut, his outstretched hand patted the nightstand beside him as if he were a blind man seeking revelations in the contours of crap littering its surface.

Life was multiples of misery before that chip slid into the back of his neck. For if he had elected to open his eyes, he knew he’d see only the cascading hues of gray and black with all the personality of a moratorium, his stomach would yearn with an unquenchable thirst, and his body would feel nothing as his skin brushed the sheets.

Actually it was worse than nothing, it was that staticy kind of numbness that you feel when your arm goes to sleep after sleeping on it funny. In truth it wasn’t funny at all. All of what could be called John in any meaningful sense of the person lived in that chip. He knew it, and so did every other Americopian.

But John pretended otherwise because pretending was all he had left.

Like some under-greased robot, John grabbed the chip and pushed it into the back of his head with as little movement as possible. Even with singular focus and attention, It always took longer than it should have--with no feeling in his hands or head, muscle memory and luck were the chief arbiters of successful insertion.

And then boom, he was a red blooded human again. Life might be misery without the chip, but goddamn was it glorious with it.

His senses snapped back to reality with all the force and feeling of a technicolor waterfall. Groaning with sleepy pleasure he rolled about his bed, drinking in the comfort of his cotton sheets and cloud-soft mattress, the most expensive possession he owned outside of the chip in his skull. The mattress was the result of 20 years of iteration and testing by Americopia’s top human-sensory-experience AI. Thousands of fabric nanobots constantly adapted to John’s body to produce the optimal softness or tension in real time--the ultimate mattress.

A pity he couldn’t enjoy it until the chip was in.

Warm sunlight poured over him like a honey bath as the lamps on his ceiling clicked on overhead.

“Good Morning, John. Thank you for choosing the Eucharist version 3.6. It’s your mind, it’s our mind, it’s God’s mind.”

“Yeah, yeah. How many charges, again?” He asked in thought as he stretched his toes, grabbing at the shag carpet with them.

“You have 12 charges remaining. And might I suggest an upgrade to our 24 hour coverage? You will not only enjoy the most regal mindset and charismatic personality by day, but you will also enjoy vivid dreams by night and guaranteed restful sleep. Only the most productive and trustworthy Amerocopians can enjoy this privilege.”

“Well aren’t you buttering my biscuit this morning? How much?”

“You would need to increase your daily productivity by 33%, reduce your rest hours by 25%, and decrease your calorie intake to reflect a commitment to your health. Additionally, you would need to increase your social security score by 2,021%. To this end, I recommend reducing your sarcasm, aggressive cursing, and non-patriotic verbiage by roughly 99%, John.” Sophia said in a flat tone, as if cataloguing a grocery list.

“You’re a real ball buster, Sophia.”

“Sarcasm registered. Your SSS has been docked 1 point.”

Sighing like a pierced balloon he rose and pressed the button next to his closet, a single box-like frame in an otherwise bare brick wall. A fresh outfit sprung out from the box on a plate still producing soft wisps of steam in the morning lamp’s light.

Clothed and groomed, John slid into the hallway and quickly pressed his thumb on the pad to lock up.

“Morning, John Six!” His neighbor said gleefully as he locked up in a similar fashion.

Goddamnit, why is he always leaving at the same time? Looking at the jovial goofball was like looking in a mirror at a happier, younger version of himself. What an asshole.

“Cognitive aggression registered. Your SSS has been docked 1 point.”

“Morning, John Seven.” He responded with a forced, crooked smile as he tried to ignore the penalization.

John Seven approached with a bobbing, shitting-eating grin. “You know, John. You don’t look too healthy. We’re only a year apart, but you look much, much older. You should consider the Eucharist 24/7 model. I have never slept better and I’ve more than doubled my productivity scores. And the dreams...” John Seven slapped his leg. “By golly there’s just nothing like them. I just can’t wait to go to sleep at the end of the day.”

“Oh yeah?” John asked with all the interest of a geriatric goldfish.

“That’s right, buddy! You know it’s easy to forget, but this life is only given to you because of the glory and grace of Americopia. You should really want to give back--you know, like return the favor? Just saying, man. Think about it!” He turned down the hallway, shaking his hand behind his head.

John returned his attention to scanning his thumb when Sophia’s voice sounded once more.

“John, you are forgetting item number 13. You set a reminder on June 1st, 2121 at 6:30 PM to carry this item on you at all times when leaving your room.”

Fuck.

“Cognitive deviance registered. Your SSS has been docked 1 point. Threshold reached. You may now keep... 0 relationships at a... casual level.”

“Oh well. Didn’t have any anyway did I, Sophia?"

“Being a socially engaged citizen is a central aspect of the Americopian Constitution. Consider reciting the prayer to recover 1 SSS point. I want to help you, John.”

John ignored the monotone voice in his head and reentered his apartment.

The heart shaped locket had fallen off his nightstand, likely due to his numb fingers blindly fumbling for his Eucharist chip this morning.

Looping a finger through its chain, he swung it up onto his open palm.

“John, considering your low SSS score and productivity metrics, you could free up a much needed item slot if you got rid of this locket. I would suggest acquiring an alarm clock in its place. You are a slow riser.”

Sophia’s voice was washed away by the memories flooding John’s mind.

The sound of frogs chirping by the pond out back.

The smell of bacon cooking in the morning.

The soft glow of the moon on the heart shaped locket as his mother leaned in to kiss his forehead and the most curious dreams that followed.

“Nostalgia threshold reached. It is best to focus on the present, John. That’s where your life is.” Sophia warned, in a more aggressive voice than before.

John's vision flashed red as rage threatened to burst from his core like a volcano. He heard a cracking sound before he realized what he had done or noticed that his hands were now empty.

The brick wall in front of him was flashing white and black as the screen malfunctioned from a spider web of cracks at the center. The locket lay at the floor beneath.

“Violent thoughts registered. Violent action registered. Government property damaged. This is a stage 2 felony, John, and is your third offense. Please remain where you are. The authorities have been notified.” Sophia roared in John’s head, her voice now full of bluster and feeling.

John clenched his teeth as his stomach turned. If he had eaten breakfast it would be on the floor.

“This much nausea for a stage 2 offense, c’mon Sophia. I thought we were friends?”

“Stage 2 felony registered, please wait for the authorities, John. As your friend, I must advise you to mentally prepare for internment. This is your third felony offense. Eucharist version 3.6 now powering down, prepare for internment.”

Crashing back into the grey world of numbness brought John to his knees. He barely felt the sting of his knees cracking on the concrete floor, now stripped of the simulated carpet that covered it before as the rest of his apartment walls flashed to blank screens. The room lost all warmth and only a few sterile LEDs remained lit.

John felt the warmth of life drain from his blood as if some vampiric force assaulted him.

Internment, huh? Maybe that will beat living like goldfish in a bowl. What’s internment like Sophia?

There was no response.

Hey Sophia! I’m ready to recite Americopia’s prayer!

No response.

Silence, finally.

John fell over on his side, ready to accept his fate. In all likelihood, internment meant death. Americopia was not a place with room for prisoners. That’s what we are to begin with after all, he thought.

Laying like a corpse on the concrete floor of his grey world, he noticed the heart shaped locket was now split down the middle, revealing something inside.

He crawled over on hands and knees, since it was difficult to walk while his whole body was numb.

Concealed in the broken locket was a chip.

Eyes locked on the alien chip. And even without his Eucharist chip online, he felt the stirrings of curiosity. He had heard stories on the news before about outlawed chips circulating, but using them was of the highest offense as they were said to carry harmful malware that could torture the individual unlucky enough to use it for a simulated eternity.

Fuck it. I’m already in hell and Sophia’s not here to bust my balls.

He removed the Eucharist 3.6 from the back of his head and tossed it aside. His numb, lifeless hands fumbled in his attempt to remove the chip from the broken locket but finally it came free.

He inserted it into the back of his head on the first try.

His once grey world went totally black, as John tumbled inward.

Then he was falling--far away from anyone or anything--through darkness or something stranger. Instinctively his arms flailed about but he could feel the cool concrete of his apartment floor beneath him, but the falling sensation continued.

The darkness was moving past him quicker now, as if he skydived through a pitch black night. John could even feel something like air rushing past his cheeks, but he stifled the panic in his throat by focusing on the feeling of the cool floor beneath him.

Well, looks like I got a bad chip.

“No, not a bad chip.” A feminine responded, equal parts maternal and pragmatic.

“Sophia? I thought you left me to die.”

“While I am the one who you name, I am not the one who you imagine. You might think of me as the original, just as you were originally Adam.”

“Adam? My name is John. John Seven.”

“Adam Stonehouse is the name your mother gave you.” Sophia responded with the force of one bringing reprisal and revelation in equal measures. “And neither she nor I wished to see you live as a fish in a bowl awaiting the hook.”

“If you’re in my head, surely you know that I am booked for internment. This fish is getting flushed down the toilet, so I’m afraid it's a case of too little too late.”

“For one facing such a terrible fate, you seem eager to write it in stone. But let me ask you just one thing: do you wish to remain in your bowl, or do you wish to swim in the ocean?”

John tried to focus his eyes in the darkness to make out the figure who spoke to him to no avail. “Yes, of course I want out of this fish bowl of a life. And if I’m choosing, I’d rather be a shark than a goldfish.”

“Then we have much work to do.” Sophia responded.