ONE
This will bedifficult to explain to the police.
“I’m sorry, Officer. I know it’s not in my job description to care for the company fish, but neither was watching them suffer, so here I am.”
Arguing that it’s more of a rescue than anything probably wouldn’t help either. Or telling them I’ve spent my evenings for the last week training forOperationTetra Freedom.But if I’m going to risk my well-paid job for some tiny fish, I’m not going in unprepared.
Ever since Elysium installed sleek cylindrical tanks in several office hallwaysto enhance the workplace aestheticlast week, I’ve been distracted from my usual work as a systems integration specialist, unable to ignore the plight of the fish trapped within. Sure, those tanks look beautiful and are another testament to the company’s commitment to cutting-edge design, but to me, they’re nothing short of a stylish prison.
And I am intimately familiar with those.
So, like any self-respecting tech geek with too much time on her hands, I’ve spent the last few days researching these little guys and using the details of the mission to fine-tune my secret AR project.
I may have also been inspired and informed by the many heist movies I’ve watched during quiet weekends in my apartment—which is every weekend—to know that preparation is everything. Okay, so maybe those thieves never stole fish from their workplace, but the principles are the same, right?
Standing in my apartment, I adjust my glasses and tap the side to activate the AR interface. With a slight hum, my living room fades into the background as the simulation begins, and the real world dissolves completely, replaced by a digital overlay that places me in the office hallway of Elysium, where those poor tetras are currently imprisoned.
My carefully crafted digital world is precise, right down to the last detail of the modern, gray artwork on the walls to the pattern on the floor. If I’m going to steal fish and use technology made by my own hand to do it, I will practice until every element is perfect so I can do it right.
This is the kind of perfectionism I can stomach. The type that innovates technology and improves lives, no matter how small.
The fluorescent lights hum above me, the polished white floors gleam underfoot, and at the end of the hallway stands the sleek, cylindrical aquarium—home to hundreds of iridescent bodies flickering like living jewels. The simulation is so accurate I can almost feel the cool, conditioned air of the office and hear the faint hum of servers working tirelessly in the background.
“Okay, let’s run through this again,” I mutter to myself as I reach out to interact with the floating holographic controls before me, my fingers swiping through virtual menus with practiced ease.
First, the essentials. A small net, a plastic bag, and—just in case I need to do any last-minute recon—a tiny flashlight. The AR world around me responds instantly and intuitively. The net materializes in my hand, the mesh rustling softly. The plastic bag appears next. It’s bigger than what the internet recommendsfor transporting fish their size, but really, I might as well make sure the tetras are comfortable during their escape.
“Here, fishy, fishy,” I whisper, feeling as ridiculous as I probably look to anyone who might see me without the special glasses that reveal my augmented reality. But it’s not like anyone is ever here, so I stretch out on my tiptoes because, even at five foot ten, I still have to stretch to peer over the virtual tank’s rim.
The tetras swim in frantic, tight circles—a sad, desperate dance in their corporate glass cage.
Timing is everything.
I wait for the tetras to drift close enough, and then—swoosh—I scoop with the net, capturing at least twenty of them in one swift motion. Their thrashing is so realistic that I almost feel guilty, wishing I could explain to them that they’re on the way to a better life as I carefully transfer them into the water-filled plastic bag.
Success.
Though this part has been successful the last dozen times I’ve done it, so I hold my celebrations.
The simulation isn’t just about getting the tetras out—it’s about anticipating every possible disaster. I’ve programmed in random events like an office door opening unexpectedly, a coworker walking by with a stack of papers, or the hallway lights flickering at the worst possible moment. Alternatively, someone could throw a peanut at me or have a tragic food accident where a container of peanut sauce is dumped on my head and I die. Because, let’s face it, if something can go wrong, it probably will.
And in this simulation, it always does.
Just as I think it, a virtual coworker steps out of their office across the hall, forcing me to retract my hand quickly since it’s too late to hide behind the aquarium. I tuck the plastic bag behind my back and pretend I’m just admiring the tank.
That was close.
It’s almost like playing a high-stakes video game, except the stakes will be real, and there’s no reset button if I get caught.
Once I’m confident in my timing and have perfected my innocent, nerdy-loiterer look, I move on to the final stage of the simulation—a practice run of the escape. This is where things get serious. I should be able to just walk out of there casually, but I rehearse the exact route back to my apartment, accounting for every possible obstacle. The AR overlays a map of the office building onto my vision, highlighting the least-traveled hallways and the optimal exit points in case I need to make a quick getaway.
I even simulate the weight of the bag in my backpack, adjusting my posture and movements to avoid drawing attention. After all, nothing screamssuspicious,like someone hunched over like they’re smuggling gold bars out of Fort Knox.
The simulation doesn’t end at the office door. I make my way through the streets back to my apartment, feeling the virtual world blend seamlessly with the real one as I walk on the spot. The familiar contours of my living room start to reappear as I approach my simulated apartment, and by the time I ‘open’ the door, I’m already halfway back to reality. The transition is so smooth that, for a moment, it feels as if nothing has changed. The holographic controls fade away, leaving the real world in its place, but the adrenaline in my veins remains.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say to myself, closing the interface with a swipe of my hand.
My heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through me as if I’ve already done the deed. But I’ve rehearsed this enough. I know every step by heart, thanks to my AR.
