It's New Years morning, 2032. A bright melody expels your dreaming mind, and you awake to a pale blue orb hovering above you. "What the fuck?" you say phlegmingly. You dart back against the head board which slams against the wall, which causes an oil painting of a white horse to drop on your head. A shard of glass darts into your neck and blood squirts across the white linen—*no. wait. Okay cut. No. Okay. That's too dark, I think. Let's try that again.* You're drunk.*Nope. It's the morning*. You're hungover. The blue orb is... normal. It's fine. You knew about it already. You woke up normal. Everything is normal. No one is dying. A pale blue orb guides your hunched body out of the bedroom. You stammer through the hallway and almost knock a frame off the wall. You make it to the kitchen. *By god, this kitchen,* you think. It's so much larger than yours. And you live in Jersey. *How is this possible?* You take your first sip of coffee with your eyes still half closed, and a palm jammed into your temple. *Fuck.* What did you drink, anyway? You're in your late fourties, for Christ's sake. You tryin' to get everyone killed? "My lord," inquires the orb suddenly. You jerk upright and a small brownish drop hops out of the mug and into your lap. "Perchance you are too mature for libations necessitating a small vessel of spirits plunging into a larger vessel before thou drinks it in its entirety?" the orb inquires. You burry your head back into your mug, surprised by how embarrassed that just made you. "But it tasted just like Cinnamon Toast Crunch," you whisper. You straddle your legs around the bar stool and plop your forearms onto the porous surface. Your back arches so that your butt sort of sticks out. *Ding*. A beam a light jets out from the orb and onto the adjacent wall. A woman in a white coat appears. "Here at Trinity Family Medical, we take asshole health *very* seriously. Accordingly to our records, you're due for a rectal exam! So, why don't you bring that hot rumproast over here and let me stick a finger—" "Stop," you shout. The hologram collapses, and the beam of light shoots back into the orb. One of your friends must've played with your ad settings last night when you weren't paying attention. You jam your palm back into your temple in a futile attempt to releive your headache. *Fucking dirt bags. Grow up*. "Adjust tonal setting to professional for all future ads," you order. That blue ball of light hovering over you— the one that just dragged you for filth in a short-term rental unit— that thing is an AuraSphere. Most people just call it "the orb" though. AuraShere is a home bot. It glides through the apartment's interior suspended on a series of magnetic tracks, and uses near field wireless technology to keep itself charged at roughly 83% efficacy. The tracks were retrofitted to the apartment's interior, like every VSCOBnB rental. The company uses this rental unit, and hundreds like it across the city, to showcase AuraShere to young metaverse influencers, and the bridge and tunnel crowd who can't afford to live in the city anymore. You fall into the latter group, obviously. VSCOBnB is similar to the now-defunct AirBnb with one major distinction. Rather than act as a booking conduit, VSCOBnB owns the real estate it rents. Such a model works well for its parent company, Meta Platforms, Inc. (praise be). None of this is really your thing. You didn't even realize Meta owned VSCOBnB. You just figured renting a room would be cheaper than trying to catch a Lyft Bus back to Jersey on New Years Eve. You have a Metaverse account like everyone else, but you could never get used to the suffocating VR head gear. Aurasphere was made for people like you. You must've authenticated with the orb last night because this morning it detected a slight change in your heart beat as you came out of your rem sleep and began executing the morning protocol. The scent of coffee brewing was enough to then pull you out of bed like a cartoon floating towards a warm cherry pie. By the time you entered the kitchen, a fresh cup of Dunkin' Homebrew was waiting for you in your favorite mug, prepared just how you like it. For instance, AuraSphere clocks how hungover you are and projects some breakfast delivery options onto the kitchen island. Most of the listings are ad placements, but you don't care. Why would you? Everything available is there. Besides, most delivery food comes from Amazon satellite facilities. You just need to pick a meal. --- #AuraSphere