Mirror

New couples had no business being in nightclubs. If a budding romance were flash paper, your average London nightclub was purpose-built to ignite it. Every drop of alcohol and note of music added fuel. Then all it took was the spark of a misspoken word, a misread glance, an insecurity coming to the surface—poof, up in smoke before you’d even met their parents.

Twelve years ago, on a dreary Thursday in January, a young Virginia Rose danced with her new boyfriend Samir at Camden’s premier tinderbox, The Roundhouse. They’d come there to see Virginia’s favourite band, an acoustic emo group from Brighton she’d loved since she was in middle school. The fuel that night had been far too many gin gimlets, a drink she would never again enjoy. And the spark came courtesy of the opening act: a song, written by a machine, about the ephemeral nature of love.

“Good vibes only!” He repeated the name of the song, which was also around three-quarters of the lyrics. “It makes so much sense!”

“Are you serious?” It caught Virginia off-guard. She didn’t know much about music, but she knew Sam. The band was real, but the song was surely generated. Precise, quantised, algorithmic perfection. Everything he hated. Her stomach lurched, roiled as ever by his unpredictability.

“It’s so powerful!” Sam shouted and gestured toward the stage, whisky in hand.

She smiled through a wave of jet lag. Nights like this always made her feel like an outsider. In her mind, she loved this band more than almost anything. But in the entry line, the bar line, the toilet line, and now on the floor, she’d been surrounded by people who seemed to have made the band their entire personality. They knew every detail of where every member went to school, how they’d met, which relationships in Henry’s life inspired each song, who those were with, what brand of guitar strings Stefan used. All Virginia knew was that one of their songs meant the world to her when she was fourteen.

“There’s another,” Sam whispered in her ear, and gestured to a nearby girl. They’d made a game of counting just how many of the exact same shirt-jeans-shoes combination they’d seen that night.

“Fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” he said as he pointed to the girl’s friend, also dressed identically.

“Maybe it was on a mannequin at Hot Topic,” Virginia chuckled. But Sam hadn’t heard her. He’d resumed bopping his head to this interminable song. I don’t understand. Why does he like this? Virginia’s smile was fragile. Her mind rewound and replayed the lyrics as she tried to contextualise what he was telling her.

“This is smart!” The music thumped and blared, Sam’s voice barely audible above the generated beats. She watched his lips as he spoke in hopes of understanding. “If something’s not good, you shouldn’t stay together just because it used to be good. You know? Good vibes only!” He stood a head above her, clad in faux leather and his adorably out-of-date hair style, his beard so meticulously groomed.

“Wait, stay together?” She thought she must’ve misheard him. “What?” A wave of joy and terror flooded through her. Logical thoughts mixed with gin and muddled with mint. Another clone squeezed between them in the crowd.

“We can split up if you want,” he shouted.

“No!” The stage lights pulsed and flickered as the bass dropped, overwhelming her senses. She grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him into a kiss. Any notion of a world apart from Sam evaporated. His plastic cup hit the floor, ice cubes cracked and rolled.

“Just let me know, babe!”

Ugh. This boy! This maddening boy who had pulled her hair in homeroom ten years ago, walked her to the bus stop that afternoon, and then every day after. Her shadow, her constant companion. The trip had been his idea, and he’d gotten his hands on the concert tickets through a mutual friend. Getting travel visas to the UK had become nearly impossible and she thought the turbulence during the flight was going to kill them both. But they were out in the world. Starting a life together. “I love you, Samir.” Tears flooded her eyes at the release of having said it.

“What?” He glanced over at her and made a drinking gesture. “You want another?”

“What, no. I said I love you.”

“Oh! Babe, that’s so complicated.” Sam shouted with the matter-of-factness of a sociopath. Her stomach was in full revolt. The opening band, Turk’s Revenge, finished their algorithmic anthem about dumping people if they’re in a bad mood. Suddenly they could hear each other again, the din of the crowd and the dun-dun-dun of a distortion pedal the only noise left.

“Sam, I don’t understand.” She pawed at him, desperate for some kind of explanation. He could be a bonehead, but cruelty was new.

“It’s more about loving someone’s energy, like how we love each other’s energy, the way we make each other feel.” Sam explained as if she should find this pleasant to hear, or clever in some way. “Good vibes only, right? Don’t build a bond so strong you can’t break it if things go bad.” A roadie walked onto the stage behind Sam and disconnected some wires. The distortion stopped, but she swore she could still hear it.

“Sam…” She was stuck. She couldn’t process, couldn’t compose her thoughts. Tears streamed down her face.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

The question infuriated her. She shouldn’t need to explain. “That’s so awful.”

“Oh, babe I’m sorry.” He pulled her into a side hug and squeezed her tight.

“Mmmmm.” She grabbed a fistful of jacket as he began to leave. “Babe. I wanted you to say it back. Please.”

“Can we pause? I want to get in the bar queue before it’s too long.”

“Please,” her voice cracked. “Say it?” But he was already walking away.

“I’ll get you a water,” he shouted back.

A numbness took hold in the parts of her that didn’t feel sick. Her legs were rubber. Virginia nodded, though her smile was gone. Maybe she could use the water. She watched her boyfriend wander off to the bar, leaving her alone in a sea of clones.

Their relationship survived through the sheer force of Virginia’s will, but the night bedded into their psyches. In the years that followed, their coupling was characterised by its own existence—two celestial bodies trapped in orbit around a dead sun, inert but convincing if observed from afar. Negativity was off-limits, as was any discussion of the relationship itself. Too risky, Virginia thought. Better to just walk on eggshells as best she could.

Both of them could trace their careers back to that night in London. Samir had taken an inexplicable but overpowering interest in the music industry, which led him to a role at a boutique music label. And Virginia became fascinated with the power of algorithms, having witnessed them move the one she loved so profoundly, more than she ever could. That, plus the need for someone in the relationship to actually make money, led her to a role at the Magenta Corporation. Working for the global leaders in artificial intelligence put her at odds with Samir, whose hatred of generated music had widened into a fiery indictment of anything more sophisticated than a pocket calculator.

Eight years ago, Virginia raced home to their modest Los Angeles apartment. Sam was just back from another trip to London, one where they hadn’t spoken at all. Timezones, babe. And I know you’re not interested in all this stuff anyway, people who make music their whole personality. Her frustration had hardened into a desperate hope. In her hand, she held the prototype she believed could bridge the achingly-wide gap between them.

“Hi Sam,” said the phone on the counter, in a pitch-perfect replica of Virginia’s voice. “It’s so great to finally see you. I know so much about you!” It had a digital sketch of her face on the screen, which would animate when it spoke. She wished that part were better, but in her excitement she’d decided to show him this early version. To get a glimmer of validation, of hope.

Samir studied it before giving a quick nod. He tugged at his ear and took a half-step back from the counter where the phone rested. “It’s impressive. It sounds just like you, babe.”

“It is just like me!” She couldn’t contain her joy over finally showing him the fruits of the past few years of her labour. “It’s a digital doppelgänger. They’re going to call them Mirrors, because it reflects who you are.”

“Magenta Mirror. That’s cute. What’s it for?”

She fidgeted with the device awkwardly, squaring the corner of it with the corner of a tile on the counter. Sam had the usual unease in his voice, as he always did when they discussed her work. The outward disdain for anything with an algorithm. She needed it to be different this time.

“That’s for the product team to decide,” she said. “My team is just working on the underlying technology. But we think they could be for anything that you could do.”

“Anything?”

“Like when I’m working late and we can’t talk, or when you’re over in London for work. Timezones, you know. Or if I’m not at my best because I’m too tired, or because I don’t have the context for what you’re talking about.” She slipped her hand around his arm. “Which I know is more often than it should be, babe.”

“But it’s not you though,” Sam said. “It’s just replicating your voice.”

Virginia drummed her fingers on his back. “Yes, but it’s more than that. It’s how I would say it, how I would react. It has access to everything I’ve said, what I write, watch, anything that makes me… me. The more of the original signal it gets, the more accurate it is. But it’ll also understand things I wouldn’t.” She tapped the screen, and the virtual face perked up. “Go on, ask it about one of your bands.”

Sam stared at the device. “Um, hi.”

“Samir, hello.” The Mirror answered rather formally, which made the real Virginia grimace a bit. That was just because they aren’t familiar with each other yet.

“So,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Eh. Babe, this is silly.” The virtual Virginia looked up from the screen with doe eyes.

“I know it can be awkward at first,” said the real Virginia. “But our user studies have shown the awkwardness goes away quickly. It becomes natural, like any phone call.”

“Fine.” He sighed and picked up the phone, then held it in front of his face as if it were a video call. “What would you say if I said Sublime’s revival music was better than their original stuff from the Nineties?”

The virtual Virginia rolled its eyes. “I’d maybe agree, if you meant Sublime With Rome. Jakob was a soulless imitation.”

Sam blinked and pulled the phone back from his face, then burst out laughing. “Holy shit. Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

“What, it’s true,” it insisted, the virtual eyes narrowing, the synthetic voice laced with a cynicism Virginia recognised as her own, but on a topic she knew nothing about. “Liking Sublime became a religion and Jakob relished being their false god. Clones.”

“Wow,” Sam said with another laugh. He broke away from Virginia and rested his back against the counter, still cradling the phone. “How does it do that?”

The real Virginia was bursting with pride. “It’s just science.”

“What was that one band,” Sam asked the phone. “From Brighton, that one you loved since you were sixteen.”

“You mean Burnt Pier? Babe,” the virtual Virginia chastised, “I was fourteen when I first heard them, not sixteen. You know that. Weren’t they so good when we saw them, though? I still think about it all the time. Chills.”

“Yeah… yes, they were.” Sam had pulled the phone closer to him, and cradled it with both hands. “I missed the first few songs.”

“You did, and you were wasted when you walked back up. You jerk.”

Virginia wrapped her fingers around the edges of the device and pulled it gently from his hands. She tapped the button on the top and the screen went dark. “Well?”

“It’s insane, babe. It’s unbelievable. Reminds me of how easy we used to be.”

“Cool.” The words had struck without warning. Her stomach tensed and she nearly doubled over, her face crinkled up. “I’m glad you like it.”

“What if it talks to someone and they think it’s actually you?”

She forced a smile. “That’s the idea.”

Her triumph became her undoing. Samir’s relationship with Virginia starved as his relationship with the Mirror deepened, a Dorian-esque nightmare of her own making. They settled into a quiet pact of mutual convenience: stability, predictability, someone to go to pub quiz with. Until one day, the bubble burst. Samir lost his job, and the music label dissolved. She observed from afar as his unemployment stretched from days to months to years, his time dedicated not to finding a job, but to conversations with her Mirror and a host of other digital companions.

As she watched him sink into the sofa, a portrait of defeat, twelve years of frustration finally boiled over.

“I wish you’d let me at least try to get you a job.” Virginia was exasperated as she squared off with him in the den of their modest Los Angeles apartment. “Or talk to me. Or talk to someone.”

“I do talk to people.” Sam seemed even smaller than usual. He sank into their worn-out sofa, the only piece of furniture she’d allowed him to select. He’d seen it in the window of a thrift shop, and spent the next five minutes in a full assault about environmentalism and the need to reuse. Rather than point out the sofa’s obvious flaws and inflated price, she’d chosen instead to relent. It was a regret she believed they both shared.

“Real people,” she said. “Talk to real people.”

“You always say dops are real people.”

“You know what I mean. And don’t use the slang, please, it’s offensive.”

“What would your corporate blessed terminology be then?

Virginia gritted her teeth. She spoke methodically as she tried to tamp down her anger. “Mirrors.”

“Yes, ma’am. Apologise to Magenta for me.”

“Sam!” She was forceful, unexpectedly so. She needed to guide herself back into a more measured tone before it was too late.

“Let it come out,” he groaned. “This can go differently for once.”

“Goddamn you, Sam. I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t want to need help. Okay? If your company hadn’t destroyed mine, I wouldn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well.” His face burned red hot. His hands mopped up the condensation on his pint of lager. “It’s true.”

“Are you actually blaming me for being laid off?”

“No.” He gulped. “I don’t know.”

Virginia fixed her hands to the back of her head, her wings spread wide. “Sam, we’ve tried to save your job. Your whole industry.”

“By automating it all away.”

“Since when have you…” Virginia paused and composed herself. Any flare-up of emotion within her, she doused at once. It was a reflex she had perfected for his benefit, because it was easier for him and his need for good vibes only. She’d do her best to walk on the eggshells, to try to prevent him from storming off. It worked less and less often these days. “Sam, you’re going to blame people for preferring generated music? You’ve been listening to it for a decade. Some of your favourite artists…”

“Stop.” Sam shook his head violently. “You’ve never cared about what happened to me, or to Gemma, or any of the bands, any of it.”

“So, now you’re asking if I care about what happens to… Gemma Thomson? Your alcoholic boss who verbally abused you? She’s as much to blame as anyone.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Sam, listen, you might not even know…”

“No, look, we can leave Gemma out of it. I know you don’t like her. And that’s fine because I just want you to admit that you don’t care I lost my whole career, the one person I was passionate about, and it was because of the company you work for.”

Virginia let out a piercing sigh. “The one person you were passionate about.”

“Thing,” Sam sputtered. “You know what I mean. Fuck.” He finished his pint and went to put it down, but somehow it slipped his hand and crashed onto the table, shattering and sending shards of thin glass all over.

She stared at him, then looked down at the glass. He’d frozen, mouth agape, and his throat clicked like he had a bad relay. He took a half-step backwards but his foot caught the edge of the sofa and he fell straight down. Across the room she caught herself in the mirror: her face pocked and blotchy, her dark hair a tussled mess, her shapeless pyjama shirt adorned with a disapproving cat. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d tried to look nice for this man, or for herself. But after the brief glimpse of herself she averted her eyes, turned and walked into the kitchen. This was her way of freeing Samir from his obligations, from the very whisper of a bad vibe. Her gaze was the chain that bound him to that spot. But the moment she turned away, he would slip into the guest room. Tucked away with his earpiece, with his virtual Virginia, chattering away about his problems with herself, the real Virginia. Or was her Mirror the real Virginia now? It had the husband, the interest in his hobbies, the social skills to let her show it. The ability to make him feel loved.

The methodic clinking of a teaspoon against ceramic soothed her. At some point, lost in her thoughts, she’d begun fixing herself a camomile. It was the only manual task she allowed herself these days, and only here at home–never at the office. At best it was a ritual. And at least, it masked the sound of the door to the guest room shutting.

They hadn’t gone up in a flash that night. The spark twelve years ago had just lit a long fuse. And they were about to detonate.