December at the Galleria
Hitting the shops in the festive season post AGI
Maya stepped into the maglev pod at 10 AM, settling into a seat that adjusted to her body contours. The door sealed with a soft hiss.
“Northgate Galleria, express route,” she told the system.
The pod launched. Through the transparent walls, the city blurred into streaks of color as they accelerated through the subterranean transit network. What used to be a forty-minute slog through Christmas traffic was now an eight-minute glide through illuminated tunnels, the suspension so smooth her coffee didn’t ripple.
She could have holoshopped—finished everything in an hour from her couch. But just as in the dark days pre-AGI, December shopping was about experience and not just efficiency . And even in an age of extreme convenience , the Galleria had become an experience worth traveling for.
The pod surfaced directly into the shopping center’s transit hub. Maya stepped out into a soaring atrium that took her breath away, even though she’d been here before.
The Galleria had been expanded—massively. What was once a three-story mall now stretched across twelve vertical levels and occupied four city blocks. The central atrium rose impossibly high, crisscrossed with floating walkways and vertical gardens that seemed to defy gravity. Holographic snowflakes drifted down from the ceiling, disappearing just before they touched shoppers.
“Welcome back, Maya,” her personal assistant said through her earpiece. “I’ve prepared a curated route based on your list and current crowd density. Want to start?”
“Show me the route, but let me wander first.”
A subtle holographic path appeared in her vision—courtesy of her AR glasses—mapping an efficient loop through the center. Maya ignored it and drifted along the ground floor.
The decor was staggering. Walls of smart glass shifted between transparent, mirrored, and dynamic art. Floors of polished stone seemed to glow from within. Ceiling installations resembled frozen auroras.
A few years ago, this would have been reserved for Chanel or Hermès. Now, the Gap looked like this.
She entered a toy store—shopping for her nephew—and stopped dead.
The interior was a three-story wonderland: interactive displays where toys demonstrated themselves; a holographic dragon her nephew could ride virtually before she bought the physical toy; play areas where kids tested products while parents browsed in peace.
“The Bot-Racer X-9,” Maya said, pointing.
An assistant appeared beside her—a friendly holographic figure that looked vaguely like a toy-store employee from a 1950s advert. “Excellent choice. I can show you a demo, check compatibility with his other toys, and confirm stock.”
“You don’t have it here?”
“We keep floor inventory lean. The X-9 is at our hub two kilometers away—but it’ll arrive at your home before you do. Shall I complete the purchase?”
Maya confirmed. Payment processed instantly. No checkout lines. No carrying bags. The toy would be waiting at her apartment by the time she got home.
She continued on. Each store was a revelation:
A clothing boutique with holographic fitting rooms—she stepped into a booth and saw herself in different outfits without changing, the system adjusting to her measurements and showing how fabrics would drape in real life.
A bookstore that was part library, part café, part salon—with reading nooks that tuned lighting and temperature to the mood of the book, and staff who could actually recommend something without rushing.
A technology shop where you could test any gadget inside a holographic simulation of your own home, seeing exactly how it would fit before buying.
And Level 5 wasn’t a food court—it was a culinary district. Dozens of kitchens, from Michelin-level to street-food perfect, all moving at speed because the boring parts of cooking had been automated— pretty much every geographic area of human cuisine covered.
Maya stopped at a directory kiosk. “Where’s the Scandinavian design store?”
A holographic map appeared, showing not just the route, but real-time crowd density, estimated walking time, and which elevators were least packed.
The centre’s AGI notified shoppers constantly of congested areas,offering the alternative option of using the widespread holo-booths to visit the store holo-fronts.
When she found the store, it had exactly what she wanted: minimalist candleholders. The assistant confirmed stock (no more “sorry, that display model is our last one”), showed them in her dining room via AR overlay, and suggested a few alternatives she actually liked.
She bought four sets. They’d be delivered within three hours.
By noon, Maya had finished shopping for fifteen people. She hadn’t carried a single bag, waited in a single checkout line, or hit a single out-of-stock wall. The center’s logistics meant everything stayed available—restocked quietly from distributed hubs as demand moved around the city.
She stopped at a café on Level 8 and ordered a cortado that was somehow better than any she’d had in old-school places—pulled by an AI-tuned machine, finished by a barista who had time to chat because the machine handled the precision.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she watched the city sprawl below: shoppers arriving via maglev, autonomous vehicles, and the new aerial tram that connected rooftop hubs.
Holoshopping was convenient. But this—the cathedral-like architecture, the variety, the lack of stress, the social atmosphere, the delight of physical browsing without physical hassle— provided yet another amazing way to enjoy Christmas shopping.
Of course you could still make that trip to the local charming Christmas market with friends. But now thanks to AGI, the Star Trek like experience that would have been existed only in science fiction a few years earlier was also now available.
And with AGI tech still advancing who knew what next year could bring?