Our own first encounters were in online offices, eClassrooms, and our immersive yoga studios. “Breathe in,” our teacher instructed. We inhaled, stretched our arms above our heads, and listened to our avatar yogini. “Exhale, plant your hands, and move into chaturanga.”

Indian fusion played in our ears, the sound of a sitar and tabla layered over a slow ebbing bass line, and we lowered ourselves onto the bamboo floor in the golden light of morning. Sunlight broke through the muslin curtains and something shimmered in the air, creating small waves in our vision. We readjusted our headsets, wondering if our system was glitching, but the console seemed fine.

“And stretch into downward dog,” our teacher said, but we kept our eyes on the place where the room was bulging outward until, as though the studio was made of fabric, the air tore open and we gazed into the inky starriness speckled with planets, wondering if this was enlightenment.

It was then that an enormous green leg with small hairs and a chitinous shell pushed through the rip and stepped onto the bamboo floor. Another leg appeared, followed by a colossal mantis head which tore through the top of the gash. The creature’s eyes were the size of dinner plates, and its segmented mouth emitted a series of high-pitched clicks as it examined us with insectile hunger. The instructor screamed and we fled from our yoga mats and ran toward the studio doors. Then, remembering we were online, we pulled the headsets from our eyes. We stood terrified in the safety of our small home offices, our IR consoles whirring quietly as we recalled how the creature had looked. It was almost as if it had been the frightened one.

SPECULATIONS

We assumed the creatures were nothing more than well-developed pranks, the kind of spam dreamed up by the technologically savvy to wreak havoc on our immersive worlds. And soon we received emailed apologies from our content providers confirming our assumptions. Everything, they assured us, was under control; the best of their IT departments were handling the glitches. For a couple of hours, a day at most, our movie streaming services, online games, and immersive environments would be shut down so they could find the virus and deprogram the bugs which were appearing across our landscapes.

Those of us attempting to log on to our meditation classes found SITE NOT AVAILABLE illuminated against the inside of our goggles. Our children, who’d paid for upgrades of cars, planes, and weapons, discovered blank screens instead. College classrooms were gone, as were our day-care centers and gyms. There was nothing but the darkness of our goggles and the blinking lights of our consoles.