At Tokyo Station, I saw someone willingly cease being themself. I’d heard it was becoming an issue, but this was the first time I’d actually seen it happen. Wait, we just got here, wow, no way, the city really is a scary place. My friend Cocoro and I transmitted these thoughts back and forth as we blinked away, taking snapshots.

By the time we left the station, giddy with excitement—Tokyo! We’re in Tokyo!—more than half of the person’s P-Pod had already melted off, forty-two yards ahead of us. Its beautiful egg shape was collapsing in on itself, and through a plume of billowing white smoke, we could faintly discern something wriggling inside. P-Pods—Persona Pods—are made with a flexible yet durable synthetic skin that is flame-retardant, water-resistant, and shock-absorbent, so in order to melt one, you need a proprietary solvent, which requires an advanced license for handling hazardous chemicals. But recently, illegal solvents from overseas have become more affordable. Then again, inferior foreign-made solvents can apparently cause inflammation in biotic skin.

A throng of P-Pods had begun to form. Cocoro and I drew closer, cautiously, until we were twenty yards from the scene. We huddled together, waiting for the person to cease being I. Eventually the smoke cleared, and we saw the trembling flesh inside, its biotic skin laid bare as it elongated slowly upward. Cocoro nestled her P-Pod against mine. These days even schoolchildren know what’s inside, that is, the basic form of the human body. Seeing a newborn before they receive their pod is one thing, but when do you ever see an adult without one?

That was the head, those were the arms, hands, fingers—I zoomed in and blinked each individual part. Back, buttocks, legs. I counted the components, and from what I could see, the person was equipped with what is considered an anatomically correct body. At the same time, their biotic skin, rather than having a uniform color and texture, was uneven and varied, particularly at the elbows, just below the buttocks, and behind the knees. I didn’t know if the irregularities were caused by an illegal solvent or if they had always been that way. I was also unable to ascertain the sex. The only standard of judgment available here—crude classification via the appearance of the genitals—would require me to examine the front of the body. But determining their sex wouldn’t bring me closer to understanding the person. As I came to this extremely banal realization, and as I snapped shots of the watery remains of the P-Pod pooled at their feet, I very nearly modulated my surface-color to display “sadness.”

*

There’s no social consensus yet on how best to respond to those who willingly cease being themselves. Carelessly laughing or getting angry, or showing sadness, is considered rude behavior. But still, I thought that it must be an unbearably brutal thing, to cease being yourself. I mean, you can’t be who you want to be anymore . . . Even I can imagine how frustrating and painful it must be to go on living with only your biotic skin to rely on. Physical dimensions, skin color, approximate age—at most, biotic skin can indicate these surface-level details, but even then, there’s no guarantee that you can clearly convey the self you want to be. It’d be impossible to see data normally transmitted via infrared, like gender identity and sexual orientation, even someone’s name. How would you display your emotions in a way that left no room for misinterpretation?

For biotic skin to be the outermost layer of the body would be unfair and absurd. Imagine if your whole life was decided based on what you were born with: whether your parts were the right shape and whether you had the right number of them, or whether you were attractive or unattractive. Barbaric! In our civilized society, meeting a uniform standard for physical ability and beauty is a basic human right.

*

The person who had ceased being themself moved their jumble of rod-shaped limbs, twisted their body, shook their head violently, and began to emit sounds from their throat. The skin of their face rippled and quivered, contorted and stretched. We had no idea who this person was, where they came from, how they were feeling. It was utterly incomprehensible to us why they would throw away the perfect P-Pod that allowed everyone to live as equals. 

Let’s go, Cocoro signaled to me. I turned to face her P-Pod once more. Cocoro, who was smooth and egg-shaped, simple and beautiful—just like me. Yeah, let’s go, I signaled back, and so, hovering, we quietly glided away.