Explosions shook the ground, as grown men bled out in the street. Echos of death rebounded off nearby walls, filling the air with muffled gasps of terror and pain. Donte Esperanza sat in silence, watching as his best friend stopped breathing. Viscera and gore spilling from him like a torn sack of garbage. There was nothing to do. No stim, compression foam, or medi-gel could put a man's guts back in their body. Holding his friend as his eyes rolled back, the world stopped around him, he sat. Unable to speak, his mouth opened and closed in wordless shock, like a fish out of water.

He knew he had to move, there were others he could save. It was his job. This is what he signed up for, but no one could prepare him for this. No videos, lectures, audio tracks, or combat simulation would ever compare to looking someone in the eyes as darkness took them. Around him, people cried. Some for their mothers, others for a medic. Most called for him. He was the medic, the one person in their unit they thought could save them. Looking up, he saw his Sergeant Anders rushing towards him. A moment later he was being dragged through the street, his broken ankle hanging limp as it scraped along the street.

Blinking, Don focused on the man's face. Bloodstained teeth crushed together as the leader of his commander barked orders. Flecks of spit flew off from the man's lips as his eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, hitting Don on the cheek. To him, it was as if the world slowed. He could feel every tremble of his hand, the dull ache in his knee. With every syllable of his commanding officer's orders, the surrounding noises grew louder. Soon they were too much to bear.

"Fucking help him!" Anders shouted, pointing at a wounded marine to his left. "He's bleeding out. Do your fucking job!"

Jacobs, Don thought as he knelt next to the man. In silence, he pulled his kit from his back and reached for compression foam and a vial of thick sky blue liquid. As blood flowed from a hole in his patient's leg, training and instinct took over. His hands moved on their own, as he pressed the clear plastic tube to the wound.

Holding the injured leg firm, he pressed down on a plunger at the top. Fluorescent looking blue gel filled the hole in an instant, before adhering to exposed flesh. As the anesthetic properties of the medicinal substance kicked in, Jabobs' legs stopped thrashing. After the blood stopped pouring from the wound, Don removed what looked like a miniature paint sprayer from his bag.

With the press of a trigger compression foam covered the injury, sealing it before it shrank and hardened. The massive hole in the man's thigh would heal, eventually, but there were more people to treat. For the next several minutes, Don repeated the process as dust and debris flew around him. On more than one occasion the round of a magrifle punched through the wall of the building his unit was using for cover. While doing what he could to repair a chest wound, one such round entered the skull of his the man he was treating. He kept working as his sergeant pulled him off.

"Get down," His sergeant shouted as the whirring of approaching drones hummed overhead.

Again the world shook around him, before everything turned black.

Images of the ambushed played back in Don's mind like scenes from a movie. His unit was sent to guard the new ambassador of Brazil. Revolutionaries disguised as UWG soldiers opening fire. Their unit taking cover behind the armored vehicle. A PSLR-3, RPG, being fired. Shean getting hit. The world went blank as if it were a damaged film reel. Repeat. The horrid scene replayed for what seemed like days, as Donte saw himself freeze, unable to act.

After what felt like an eternity, the display in his mind faded, being replaced by the sensation of his leg, being pulled apart and put back together. Blinding white lights and the mechanical clicking of a ventilator became his new hell. He survived. When he woke, laying in a brightly lit military hospital, he found a medal sitting on his bedside table. He also found that he was missing his right leg.

Everything past his knee was missing. Replacing it, was a synthetic limb. A mixture of advanced robotics, hydraulics, polymers with tactile response capability, and a simple human-computer interface. It looked and felt real, to everyone but him. The thing even had natural hair and a way to mimic the tone of his real skin. Yet, he knew it was false. A minuscule delay between intention and action, a tug at his mind when he forced himself to wiggle his toes. Grafting self-healing carbon fiber materials to bone leaves the patient with a disconnect between what is real and what is not. He knew what happened without asking. He could feel the slight scaring tug on his side as he tried to sit up, while doctors screamed at him to lie down. There were only a few things that could tear through the armor he wore, mag-rifles, explosives, and plasma weapons. The rebels had fired their RPG. It had killed his best friend, and the localized EMP caused his HUD and coms to fail. A magnetic round would not sever a leg, or leave scars that looked like he had been dipped in melted plastic. To the best of his knowledge, the rebels didn't have access to plasma weapons.

"The drones missed. Didn't they? The fucking AI blew us up, along with the rebels." Don asked, his voice cracked and weak.

"That's not important right now." His doctor replied, nodding to a nurse to hold him down. Her voice was sweet, sincere, and knowing, "What's important is that you're alive, and thanks to you and Anders so is most of your unit, and the ambassador."

"Yeah, but not everyone," Donte said, his thoughts going to his friend as he laid back in his bed. "I couldn't save everyone." His voice trembled, with anger at himself for not seeing the ambush coming, for not being able to save his friend. As his hand shook involuntarily, his thoughts went to what would happen next, "How long am I going to be stuck here?"

"Well, that's entirely up to you." The doctor replied, with a slight smile. "You have a lot of work to do. There was slight brain trauma, burns, and we had to replace your leg. You need to be evaluated by a team of physicians, someone from Mobilitech, a counselor, and a neurologist."

As the woman listed everything that he would have to do, Donte sighed and asked his next question, "Tell it to me straight doc. Will I get back to normal? Am I going to be discharged?"

Seeing his frustration the doctor, Sara Anders, His sergeant's wife, asked the nurse to leave, "Look. What you've been through is terrible. I know what happened to Shean. Rick told me all about it. Now, I'm not a psychiatrist, counselor, or mental health expert, but you are at a high risk of PTSD, and you've been injured. Rick, sorry, Sergeant Anders, isn't going to tell anyone about what happened behind the truck, that's up to you. But, you have to ask yourself what you want to do." She paused, putting her hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eyes, "Physically, you'll be fine in a few weeks. The leg is technically stronger and faster than your biological one. It's also bulletproof and self-healing for the most part. Your burns are healed, and I can't see much wrong with your brain other than the concussion and slight swelling. The wounds were severe but treatable. Your mental health, however, that I can't help you with. There are pills and treatments, but I'm not in there. I can't tell how you feel, or what you're thinking." She placed her hand, against Don's cheek, like he were her brother, "You need to do what's best for yourself. Your contract is almost over if you want out, I'll sign whatever I need to. You've done enough." At that, she increased the dosage on whatever pain-relieving drug, he was on and left him to think over his decisions.

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Probably a ketorolac mix, he thought, watching the slow drip of the IV fluids to keep his mind off of what he knew he had to do. He joined the first wave of UWG marines to heal people, he wanted to become a nurse or doctor. The benefits were amazing, and at the time he thought his likelihood of seeing live combat was low. The world was in a period of prolonged peace, coming together after a series of natural and biological disasters. Nations were signing treaties, birthing the first truly global version of the United Nations. A few years later, the United Earth Government was formed, to act as a global federal government. All people, from every nation, under one banner. It was something he could fight for. It was something that could help him forget his past.

When he was fifteen, his mother died. She was one of the last people to die of lung cancer, her body would not accept the vaccine. After that, he found himself in trouble at school and with the law. His older brother, Carlos, didn't have time to keep track of him. Carlos worked, keeping food on the table and a roof over their head in a decent enough neighborhood. Without him, Donte probably would have ended up living with his father. His dad had remarked, started a new family, and left his two kids and his ex-wife behind. His mother had never remarried, thinking only of her two sons. They wanted for nothing, while she worked two jobs.

As she became ill, Don made it his mission to save lives. No one who cared so much should have to suffer the way she did, he told himself, reflecting back on what led him to join the military. As soon as he was of age, he signed the papers. He was smart but needed direction, and he was broke. The military was a perfect way to achieve his goals. That's where he met Sean, a computer nerd who loved retro cartoons and video games almost as much as he did.

When off duty, they would spend every second of their free time playing emulated versions of games from the 1990s and early 2000s. Zombie servers of Ultima Online, World of Warcraft, and Everquest ate up their life outside of work. They played Final Fantasy and did speed runs on the original Mario, while tormented episodes of TMNT played in the background. While the rest of the world adopted AR and VR sims as the standard of gaming, they stuck to the classics. During the day, he worked as an assistant nurse and trained to be a medic. Shean worked, on computers and trained to be a battlefield engineer. At night they drank and gamed until the uprising started. A few weeks later they got the call to ship out.

Donte laughed, as tears streamed down his face, the thought of his friend chugging a PBR while plugged into a commandeered IV of saline solution, playing back in his mind. A moment later, a knock came at his door before a man in a suit walked in. He was tall, his clothes were ironed, and he had a visitor badge hanging from his vest pocket. In his hands was a binder with the UWG logo.

"Lawyer?" Don asked, wiping his face as he forced down his emotions.

"That obvious?" The man said, with a chuckle. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm here to remind you that you signed a contract with the UWG armed forces, and to get you to sign another one. I'm also here to offer you something. My name is Ian Wells, I'm a lawyer for both the UWG and Entech Industries, the medical arm of the VR gaming company who makes Entarra Online."

"Let me guess, an NDA and a reminder that military operations are classified material. I get it, I'll sign whatever. I'm sure it was just a malfunctioning AI or something." Donte replied, not wanting to deal with the suit any longer than necessary.

He always hated lawyers.

While pulling up a seat next to Donte's bed, Ian tossed his binder on the small table beside him, "Yes, and yes. The drone that dropped the plasma missle on your head was one of ours. Apparently the rebels, who are now being called terrorists, have found a way to simulate the identification codes given to actual UWG military personnel. We don't know how, yet, but we will figure it out. Rather than abandoning the mission, the AI took the shot. It did so in a way that protected the ambassador and gave a window for reinforcement to show up. Unfortunately, that lead to your injuries as well as the death of one of your men." Ian said, opening up the folder and playing two forms on Donte's chest. One is the NDA, the other is an agreement to follow a guided testimony if ever asked to explain the situation."

"So you want me to lie, tell them they blew us up?"

"Yes and no." The lawyer replied, "We would like you to say that you cannot accurately describe the events that occurred. As you were unconscious, and what I just told you is classified, that would not be a lie. Think of it more as an omission of opinion, and sensitive information. Either way, you have to sign, so tell yourself whatever you need to."

"Just for, uh, curiosity's sake. What happens if I don't?"

With a sigh, Ian started listing what would happen, if the ink did not meet paper, "I hate this part. First, you would most likely be dishonorably discharged for a violation of direct orders. Secondly, there is a high likelihood you would be court marshaled and arrested if you ever spoke about what happened. Lastly, you would miss out on an opportunity to go back to normal life."

Anger rose up, as the lawyer finished his words, "What do you mean an opportunity to go back to normal life? What the fuck do you mean normal? My best friend fucking died. How is that normal? I'm missing a leg, because of bad intelligence. Those aren't rebels and terrorists, they are military personnel who don't want to be a part of the UWG. You're the ones who blew me up, killed a member of my unit, and cost me my leg. Good people died to get some fucking ambassador into a country that doesn't want him there. Now you tell me that if I don't go along with your story, I can go to jail? This is bullshit man." Don screamed, throwing the papers from his chest.

He knew he would sign, and the AI probably made the correct call. It didn't make it feel any better. His friend was dead, and he was missing a leg.

Calmly, Ian picked up the scattered paper and stacked them neatly on the table, "Look. I get it. I don't want to do this, but it's my job. As it is now, you are most likely going to have severe mental trauma. You were laughing, and crying when I came in here. You're going to need help. PTSD and mental trauma are serious issues. We can help you, free of charge. If you sign these contracts."

More tears, streamed down Don's eyes as the reality of his situation washed over him, "Yeah, and how are you going to do that? Are you going to bring Shean back? Are you going to give me my fucking leg back? He chuckled, not knowing why. "My real leg?

Raising his head, Ian continued, "We have new treatments, ones that look promising. They will get that leg of yours feeling just like you're old one. It's long term Virtual Reality immersion, inside of either the game itself or a therapeutic setting of your choice. We cannot bring your friend back, but we can help you cope with your loss. We can give you time to understand your emotions after speaking with the best counselors we have access to before you go under. It will be a safe environment for you to greave, a way to normalize the trauma without subjecting you to the stresses of reality. You can finish out your enlistment inside of a video game while getting help. If you agree to the terms and conditions."

Clutching at the railing of his bed, to stop the movement in his hand, Donte thought over the mans proposal. He had questions, "So what, is this some sort of experimental treatment? What do I need to do? Are there side effects? How will some shitty pixelated headset and haptic suit fix me?" His words came out like rounds from an automatic rifle, no space between one sentence to the next.

"Yes, it is experimental. However, this isn't a simple headset unit. We are offering you a fully immersive virtual reality pod, for at least six months. It will be indistinguishable from reality. The only known side effects are positive. Increased muscle tone, slight regenerative effects, mood stabilization, and increased neurological function. As for what you have to do, that's simple. Sign the papers. When you come out, the pod will have fixed whatever damage was done to your brain, your connectivity to your new leg will be as good as your biological leg, and you should have an easier time managing any trauma-related issues that might have occurred from live combat. All, while you play the most lifelike MMORPG that's ever existed." Ian's words trailed off, as a grin formed on his face.

The lawyer knew, as well as Donte, that the papers would be signed. The choice was dishonorable discharge or playing a video game for six months. As Don's hand reached for the bedside table, Ian pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked it once, and laid it on the baby blue medical blanket next to his hand.