They named her UMWELT, and she was the metric by which all internal experiences could be judged. They scanned her mind and sampled her stem cells daily to make those little cybernetic pills. Artists could pop one of those candy-coated globs of circuits and cells into their mouths and, when it hooked up to their brainstems, they could see their acrylics in the exact same shades she saw, correcting for defects in their sensory experiences. Chefs would taste their food with her tongue, knowing that their critics would too. She was a miracle for science, a perfect measuring point for any cognitive or metacognitive tests. UMWELT standardized sight, sound, scent, taste, touch. She was the control point, the objective experience.
Soon, the radio was dominated by classical music and Cambodian rock, because UMWELT loved those genres. She loved Moroccan restaurants, which soared to popularity, ambrosia on her tongue. She was taken to galas in fine silk dresses purchased by her handlers. She loved the dresses. The handlers had dosed up on UMWELT before shopping. So they were the perfect dresses. If you didn’t love them, you were reminded that your experience was substandard.
Same if you expressed concern for the way that UMWELT floated through charity banquets and press releases, a handler’s hand always on the open back of her dress, pushing her like a cloud. The way her glazed eyes stared into shadows. UMWELT never expressed concern for herself, and her experience was objective. There was nothing to worry about.
Humanity understood the universe better, unfettered by differing biases. Everyone felt what she felt, experienced her eyes and ears and mouth and hands. UMWELT’s body hurt, a little bit, everywhere, always, and if yours didn’t, you’d be grateful, but you would grimace in recognition of your imperfect body. UMWELT remembered her dreams every night and most of them were nightmares. UMWELT liked the taste of iron. UMWELT jumped at footsteps and started shaking at loud sounds. UMWELT was dizzy when she saw the sky.
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Juniper White (she/her) is a red fox, a librarian, and a ghost haunting a house in Portland, OR, where she studies creative writing and theater. Find her on Bluesky @JuneWhiteWrites. She is a trans author of Palestinian descent. If she was a plant, she’d be a wisteria.