The steel cylinder was growing dusty, its shiny surface gradually dulling to the same dingy look as the rest of his apartment's furnishings. Blaine sat in his chair staring at it with all the hostility of an old rat eyeing a new wheel in his cage.

"Just try it," he said aloud, his voice a high mocking falsetto. "It can open your world up! You won't have to leave the apartment, it's a safe space for veterans like you."

Nobody answered him of course. His words rang hollow in the tiny studio, a world of bare tile and bitter thoughts.

"Could have been a maid or a cook," he told the machine in his normal voice. "Could have been a bigger apartment! Could have been a shuttle service to the Grand Canyon so I can wheel myself off the edge!"

He'd made the mistake of reading the instruction manual and now he was curious. As a famous movie had once explained, an idea was the worst parasite. This thing had sat ignored ever since the therapist's assistant had delivered it, his obsequious 'Enjoy' still filling him with disgust. What had the man known? Was it true, what people said about VR divers?

"Take a walk on the beach," he mimicked his therapist again. "Go for a drive! Meet some people!"

The letter caught his eye and he snatched it up. It was a form letter, solemnly informing him that his thirty-six sessions with a licensed therapist had all been used up, and he was no longer a patient of Margaret Schofield. There were crisis numbers listed below in case he felt like listening to call waiting music in the bath tub with his toaster in hand. Like the extension cord would even reach that far. But the second page was a handwritten note from Dr. Schofield, just a few lines of regrets and well wishes, scribbled across a printed list of VR experiences. Mocking aside, he would miss her dry wit. She understood veterans. She wouldn't clutch at the hotline when his humor turned dark, she knew how men like he coped. What really drew his attention on this wasn't the words, or the woman's cramped handwriting, but the single line she'd drawn under a title.

Gun Meister Online.

The title was low on the official list of recommended experiences, with an asterisk that indicated it was not for people suffering combat-related PTSD. Blaine didn't consider himself especially strung out, not like some guys he'd known, but he also knew his official file had him flagged for the condition. So why had she marked it? Was she trying to send him a message? Push him one last time? Or was this a final opiate, a painkiller disguised as painkillers instead of pills? That curiosity was why he'd cracked open the instruction book and finally read over the features. The VR gear was complicated and expensive, but some dingus in charge of budgets had decided that the one-time expense was cheaper than keeping all the other promises made to disabled veterans, for lifestyle aide, shuttle services, physical therapy, personal caretakers... no, just give the rat a wheel and let him tire himself out.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Aaaand now he was back to where he'd started, glaring at the machine. What was this thing even like? Could he control himself within it or was it more of a 4D movie watching experience?

The clock on the far wall caught his eye. It was only a couple of minutes past one in the afternoon. He'd only been in this spiral for forty-five minutes. Damn, he'd been hoping this could distract him until dinnertime. It seemed he would have a lot of free time this afternoon... time to sulk or time to do something.

He nearly turned away. His fingers were on the steel hoops of his chair's wheels, set to whirl him towards the door. But where would he go? Out into the hall and back again? No, he'd have to pretend he didn't see the pity in his neighbor's eyes, grin and thank them for their well-intended platitudes. Sweeping and mopping wouldn't be enough to burn away the time until dinner, and why bother anyway?

In the end, the looming threat of hours at loose ends made up his mind. He wheeled himself forward in his mobility chair and spun it around, settling himself into position. Reaching up he unhooked the helmet and settled it down on his head. Was this his first step into a better world or had he just closed the lid on his own coffin? There was a hiss and a click, and he felt a strange sensation. He was used to numbness in his legs, but the same paralysis was spreading up his chest and out to his arms. He had a moment of panic before everything cut off. No sensation at all. He was a floating ghost, just a point of view, viewing a menu of options. No manipulation, no tactile feedback... not even a cursor, but when he contemplated his actions the menu shifted, responding to his thoughts and points of interest. There was the generic 'Start here' and ''French Cafe Lounge' options that seemed intended for beginners. He ignored them, and the menu whirled to the title that had piqued his interest earlier. A grim-faced man in paramilitary gear brandished a rifle in the game's preview, while a buxom redheaded woman massaged his shoulders. Seemed cheesy, but what the hell? It seemed to try a little harder than Cafe a la Vomit or whatever that starter title had been. Willing himself forward, Blaine selected the game and the world faded into darkness once more as the program took over from the dive helmet's operating system. Defiance surged in his chest for no good reason at all and he fought it back. No. He'd always done every physical therapy exercise to the best of his ability, exactly as specified. This could be no different. He had to trust this, if it was ever to be more than a distraction.

"Let's go already," he said aloud, his voice echoing in his ears, and light bloomed as the game begin.