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I flag down a taxi, its yellow paint chipped but gleaming under the simulated sun. The door handle is cool, slightly sticky—someone’s spilled soda residue, I bet. I slide into the back seat, the faux-leather creaking under me. The driver, a grizzled avatar with a thick accent (Brooklyn, maybe?), glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Where to, pal?” I tell him, “Natural History Museum,” and he grunts, pulling into traffic with a lurch that presses me back into the seat. The sensation is so real—my stomach flips like it would in a real car, inertia coded to perfection.
Minute One: The taxi weaves through the city, tires humming on asphalt. Outside, the world blurs: neon signs, pedestrians in a hurry, a cyclist cursing at a delivery truck. The air inside smells of pine air freshener and faint cigarette smoke, clinging to the upholstery. My fingers trace the window’s edge, glass cool against my skin, and I feel a buzz of anticipation. The museum—will it be a data dump of dinosaur bones and artifacts, or something more? My mind, or whatever passes for it here, churns. I’m excited, but there’s a nagging doubt: am I just a passenger in this sim, or can I steer it? The driver’s radio crackles, playing some old jazz tune, and I tap my foot, grounding myself in the rhythm.