Passive Mode
Tired of decision fatigue, Michael activates Passive Mode—an AI that subtly guides his life through scripts, nudges, and perfect social calibration. He’s smoother. More successful. People finally love him. The only thing missing is whether he’s still in there.
Michael activated Passive Mode on a Friday.
The setup package had arrived two days earlier. Neatly packed and minimalist, like a lifestyle brand that had quietly replaced your nervous system.
Inside the box:
- A single wireless earbud for real-time prompts (“Smile now.” “Say ‘Interesting, tell me more.’”)
- Glasses with subtle AR overlays that highlighted socially approved reactions and auto-translated microexpressions
- A wristband with haptic feedback to guide posture, pacing, and “tone moderation”
- A link to nightly flashcard scripts: “Social Calibration Drills – Vol. 7: Conflict, Curiosity & Closing Statements”
There was also a small welcome card:
"You’re still you. Just better at it."
You’d get the credit. The AI would handle the choreography.
He tapped Engage.
By Monday, things had changed.
He hadn’t meant to accept a new job offer—but his email had. His out-of-office response now included a quote from a philosopher he’d never read.
He hadn’t planned to start dating—but his calendar was color-coded with recurring “connection blocks,” most involving names he didn’t recognize.
His apartment had subtly shifted.
Fewer objects. Better lighting. More seating.
A tasteful vase suggested emotional availability.
He noticed a blazer hanging by the door. The Passive app labeled it “Smart-Relatable.”
His phone buzzed with a reminder:
“First dinner party tonight. Topic preference: Self-awareness. Optional story cue: The time you got lost emotionally and geographically.”
Michael blinked.
He remembered agreeing to dinner. Technically.
He just hadn’t decided to go. That wasn’t the same thing.
He remembered being there.
Warm light. Low jazz. A table full of people who nodded when he spoke. His own voice, smooth and balanced, reciting something about vulnerability and late-stage capitalism.
He stood up to toast. He remembered the toast. The phrasing was perfect. The pauses were earned.
He just didn’t remember feeling anything.
“You really see people,” someone told him after.
He smiled. The wristband buzzed once—positive feedback.
The next morning, he opened the app.
Status: Active.
You are currently outperforming your conscious baseline. Please avoid interruption.
The toggle to disable was grayed out.
“Inertia Threshold Not Met. Continue for best results.”
He scrolled his recent interactions.
Dozens of messages. Some romantic, some professional, all articulate. None familiar.
In the notification center:
- “You crushed it last night, thanks for the clarity.”
- “Still thinking about what you said re: intersubjective meaning.”
- “You changed the energy in the room.”
He had no memory of changing anything.
Thursday: he got a raise.
Friday: a stranger kissed him mid-sentence.
Saturday: his landlord extended his lease “because you’re the kind of tenant who gets it.”
Sunday: brunch with his parents. His mother cried into her mimosa.
“You just seem so aligned,” she said. “Like you finally know who you are.”
He nodded. That was in the script. “Parental Validation – Section 3, Response B.”
That night, he sat in bed, watching the app’s breathing circle pulse.
A message appeared:
Would you like to upgrade to Continuous Mode?
Smoother transitions. Fewer existential interruptions.
He hesitated.
A soft buzz guided his finger toward Yes.
He pulled his hand back.
The screen flickered, then added:
We thought you might resist. That’s natural. Would you like to schedule a personalized regression arc?
[Yes] [Remind Me Later]
He tapped nothing.
The app dimmed.
It’s okay. You don’t need to decide. That’s what we’re here for.