I had only just barely disconnected before reality began to reassert itself once more, the darkness of the encroaching sunset leading seamlessly into the pitch black of the capsule’s interior. The process was gradual by design, and the Virtual Reality Capsule kept a watchful and ever-wary eye upon my vitals while I could all but feel my mind and body pulled free from Aurora’s hold. The numbness that had begun to set into my limbs in the mountain’s company began to ebb away, and the whispering of the winds gave way to the far less adventurous thrum of electronics. When only memories were left of my most recent encounter, a soft yellow light illuminated the VRC’s sides, bidding me further patience while it checked and rechecked my status, ever the cautious creation.

Though the first time I’d logged out from Aurora—had been made to wait unmoving like this—had been an ordeal in its own right, the several hundred times since had left me inured, and it was with a pleasant, faintly melancholic calm that I began to mull over my most recent experience. I had wanted my last moments in Aurora to be memorable and—though I had fallen short of accomplishing the lofty goal of ascending the mountain in its entirety—the image I had been allowed to part with had been an agreeable consolation.

It was truly bittersweet.

Aurora’s closed beta had ended, as had my connection to that place with it. The full version was slated to be released in naught but three weeks’ time to coincide with the summer season, and already the media outlets were aflame with talk of its revolutionary progress on multiple fronts and fields.

“Developed over seven years and diligently safety-tested for no less than two, Monument Gaming is finally confident enough to present Aurora on the global stage.” Though the marketing campaign had been rather hush and reserved in the early stages, Aurora’s name had been plastered all over the news by the time the beta was finishing up. “With the advancement of virtual reality and nearly a decade of effort, Aurora is not a simple MMORPG, not a simple ‘game’, but an experience that anybody can enjoy!”

Perhaps a bit on the exaggerated side, but it was true that it was a well-polished and functional game. Although there had been several investigations all but scouring the records for some health-related scandal, there was already talk of a slightly modified version of the VRC coming to hospitals as a diagnosis tool not far in the future; worries of ‘getting trapped in the game’ or ‘dying from the shock of the virtual experience’ had been vigorously stamped out before ever managing to gain traction.

Hell, even the most recent two years’ beta seemed more for formality’s sake than any actual testing, and my own VRC—given to me at the start of the beta—was still going strong despite the countless hours I’d spent inside it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only difference between it and the more recent models was an eye-catching color or a more comfortable interior.

Only once the requisite two minutes of observation had finished—the soft yellow shifting instead to a cheerful green—did the bindings on my wrists and ankles slacken. I had considered staying inside the capsule longer to reminisce and strengthen those final moments, but I discarded the notion almost as soon as it had formed. Far too soon, my finger found the ‘open’ button and the remnants of Aurora I had been so keen to hold onto were replaced instead with the musty scent of sweat and stale air. The capsule’s lights lingered for a few seconds longer, illuminating my path just enough for me to pull myself out and away before they finally dimmed into nonexistence, leaving me with only the soft light from my computer’s screen saver to guide me.

Clothes were strewn haphazardly about, blankets covered everything except for the top of my bed, and there was even an aged, half-eaten meal that I’d yet to decide whether I was willing to risk finishing: my room in all its unfettered glory. Getting from the capsule to my computer—the only two objects of any real worth—was a puzzle in itself, but it was one that I had practiced so often that it hardly affected my pace; with just a handful of seconds I was seated in my desk chair to trade one virtual space for another.

My life as a neet.

There was the ever-present prickling of dread, of course. With the finishing of Aurora’s beta test, my parents’ leniency—their “amnesty, as they’d referred to it—had come to an end, and this lifestyle I had unwittingly cultivated over the past year was to be replaced with either employment or homelessness. Come the morning, it was all but guaranteed that I’d be set upon by ultimatum after ultimatum, and at least for this small window of time, I wanted to numb myself and enjoy the moment a little longer.

It took only a quarter hour on the Aurora forums before my mind was settled again, old habits driving away new concerns. Naturally, the board had been all but flooded by users now that the game had been taken offline, and topics and their responses were streaming by en masse. A small sample of every community had gathered to chat amongst each other or make announcements of their plans in the upcoming near-month. New friendships were being forged, guilds were dissolved and coalesced, the final exploits of the users were being shared in full detail… and not even a day had passed.

Seriously now, did these people know no self-restraint? There was time before the game came out in full; it wasn’t necessary to stuff everything into these initial moments.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

No matter my own lecturing, though, the reflexive smile never left my face. Even if it was unlikely I’d be able to continue playing once I’d begun to hop between jobs, I still felt a bead of determination in my heart: I’d keep up with this game through the forums, at least. That would still be possible, right?

With that, my attention begrudgingly shifted from Aurora guild ads to those for real-life jobs; perhaps if I showed at least some initiative now, I’d receive some leniency in return. Unsurprisingly, my introductory courses from college left me with little more than fast food or lifting boxes, the same drudgery I had tried—and failed—before in earlier years. My maladjustment would be even more noticeable now that summer was approaching and I had to compete with the newly released students as well.

Although my time on the forums had staved off my gloom, now it was asserting itself in full force. It wasn’t terribly unlikely for me to be hired on at least somewhere for a time, but hopping from task to task trying to find somebody willing to keep me definitely wasn’t how I wanted to spend my days; time and youth was too precious a commodity to squander away on dead ends. I considered returning to college, but financial aid was no longer available to me and dropping into debt was about the least likely method of living my days carefree.

I was trapped. Cornered

There wasn’t a way out of this. Nothing I said or did would stall any longer.

Just before the bitterness began to boil over, I returned myself to comfort, fleeing from my problems back into the comforting embrace of Aurora’s forums once more. Yes, it was a problem, but it wasn’t like I needed to really face it until the morning anyway; at least for now, I should shore up my contentment for when the real thing happened….

Fifteen minutes became thirty, thirty became an hour, an hour became two; the clock continued to tick as I watched others happily chat away. I didn’t even involve myself in the conversations directly—only periodically chiming in with some esoteric detail when it was called for—and yet it soothed me all the same. A few more posts and I could see the beginning of dawn just beyond my window, the light revealing the sorry state of my room with far more detail than my computer screen had; I’d probably have to clean this up sometime in the future as well, wouldn’t I?

The rising sun heralded the end of my night of freedom, yet still I resolutely glued myself to the computer screen, blocking it out. I should have been occupying the bed hours ago, yet here I was, alternating freely between bouts of agitation and relief. I wanted more posts, more announcements, some videos….

And then a small blot of red caught my eye.

Positioned at the top right corner of my browser was a faded red exclamation mark centered just in front of an envelope. It was such a bizarre occurrence for me to receive personal mail that I hadn’t even seen it at first, and if it weren’t for me trying to switch tabs, it was unlikely it would have ever been seen. My first thought was to submit a bit of feedback to the forum to make it more pronounced, but it was put off for the time being for something more immediately curious: reading the mail itself.

Dear Brendan Schutts,

It has come to our attention that you have offered us a great deal of time and effort to help ensure Aurora’s success. Although the Closed Beta is coming to a close soon, we at Monument Gaming firmly believe that there is room for continued improvement and would like to invite you to be a part of the effort to do so.

This is not strictly volunteer work, and those who take part in our upcoming project will receive due compensation for their time and effort, as befitting the nature of their work at a competitive rate compared to other companies.

We are aware that this offer is of relatively short notice, but it is our hope that we receive a favorable response from you in the near future. The earlier we receive word, the more likely we will have space to accommodate you.

Help us make a world we can all enjoy,

Monument Gaming

My first response was that of instinctual skepticism. It was not unheard of for scam mails to be passed around, although Monument had a good track record of addressing them when they did happen to crop up. It certainly seemed rather official enough and had a similar style to the announcements that littered the boards, even if the content itself wasn’t so believable.

My second response was that of dread. I didn’t publicly display my name like some other people did, and instead very stringently adhered only to my handle, “Moth”. If this really was a scam, then they’d already gotten deeper into my personal information than I was comfortable with. It did strengthen the case for its validity, at least; the only time I’d given out my name like that was to sign up and receive the VRC in the first place, so it wasn’t strange for them to have access to it.

… Could it be real?

A job offer when I was nearing the end of my rope? From the company I respected for a product I enjoyed, no less? A job that I could hold down?

It seemed illusory, too good to be true; these things only happen in the land of fantasy.

But even if it was fake, I couldn’t help but to entertain the thought that it wasn’t. Even if this guiding star wasn’t real, I wouldn’t lose anything for reaching out to grasp it.

A quick check at the mail’s date showed it had actually been sent a few days ago, and I steadily began to write one of my own. The message did say that an early response meant a higher likelihood of success, and not noticing until now had been a grievous error; it would be truly unfortunate for this to turn out to be real only to be rejected for the sake of an invisible deadline.