From the information that Blake possessed and the one that Lorry himself told, a group of terrorists seized power and demanded autonomy and immunity. The Council, based on reconnaissance data, took into account the fact that the enemy had nothing but old plasma guns from the 22nd century. Lorry, along with most of the other chiefs, voted to send several strike groups to a covert operation on Mars to suppress the rebels. No one from the government advertised this.

Two weeks later, several hundred soldiers of the Earth Federation died under the yoke of modern weapons in the terrorist’s possession. They recorded a video of the battle and posted it on the Starnet. Even though all the information was blocked, the secret still surfaced and got into the independent media. Panic began in the military council. People took to the streets. They demanded a scapegoat they could hate.

The Supreme Leader delayed the decision, hoping that everything would calm down. Nevertheless, the people kept up the pressure. Factories, restaurants, cafes, and IT companies have stopped working in hundreds of regions of Earth and Mars. The government had no choice but to order the military council to choose a scapegoat. This exile, by his own will, became Lorry. He took the hit and resigned. The government announced this in the news.

The next day, a real nightmare began. In the morning, hackers leaked his location and data to the network and the nightmare began for Lorry. Universal criticism fell on him, people threw rotten vegetables and fruits at his house, they refused to sell food and water in stores, his email was bursting with angry letters, newspapers called him a murderer of the younger generation, and articles ended with the phrase "Why is he still not in prison?" In some ways, as Lorry later admitted in group classes, they were right.

Soldiers on duty and retired officers were the only ones who supported Lorry all these years and who did not allow him to give up and commit suicide. They hid him at home, shared their stories, mistakes, told how they struggled with PTSD and pressure from society. A few years later, when the clamor around the Lorry case subsided, he decided to create his group to help war veterans, which five years later became a state project.

Blake did not know why he hated the curator, the man always treated him with understanding and all he asked was to attend the meetings, he even did not have to say anything. In return, he signed prescriptions for pills against PTSD and a year ago filed a petition to assign Blake an increased pension for combat veterans.

The heated floor creaked with every slow step. The wall light, lowered to one out of five, hardly diluting the morning darkness. This Friday, the AI automatically selected a fragrance with notes of tree bark, nutmeg, and absinthe, turning it into the scent of rose, magnolia, and jasmine. Blake went to the VR booth and looked at the time again, opened the door, and went inside. In the internal interface, he selected a special tab for virtual conferences. In the pop-up window, he typed the code and found himself in a dark blue room. There were ten chairs, on one of which Blake randomly appeared, in the center sat Lorry - a fat man with a bald head, a second chin, narrow eyes, and an aquiline big nose. He was dressed in a black jacket, under it, a blue shirt buttoned up and a tie with light blue and black stripes. Lorry nodded in greeting.

At exactly seven o'clock, all ten people were gathered and the meeting began. Blake remembered everyone except for one single girl, with gray eyes, a round face, lush shoulder-length hair, and a menacing look. Lorry greeted each participant by name, spoke clearly, pronouncing each letter. This was followed by an introductory speech based on well-known statistics. The leader of the group made a small pause after every second word and nodded his head down slightly while he spoke.

Lorry looked at the man sitting to his right, dressed in a military uniform, dirty and shabby. His greasy hair hung down to his chest. Pain and suffering were clearly expressed in his eyes and wrinkles. Judging by the dirty skin and strange spots on his face, this guy hadn’t washed in a very long time. His name was George. He started talking first and introduced his friends, Anton and Chris, who looked no better than himself. They told their story for twenty minutes, how they lost comrades and how everything got out of hand and did not keep silent about the fact that they did not understand why they did the dirty work for the sake of corrupt politicians who abandoned them after their retirement on the sidelines of life. They asked why the Lord did not take their souls for Himself, why He condemned them to eternal torment.

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"Because there is a God, and there is a soldier. We'll always be on opposite sides of the barricades," Lorry replied and put his hand on the shoulder of a guy with empty, tear-stained eyes and heavy breathing.

Lorry looked at Blake, who was leaning back in his chair and seemed to be dozing with his eyes open, and said to him:

"Do you want to tell us more about yourself? You've always been silent during our meetings, why?"

Blake shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you think because it's pointless?"

"It's interesting to hear the story of the newcomer," he replied and pointed at the girl.

Anton looked at him and said:

"You're changing the subject."

"And you're getting into the conversation."

"Who did you work for?" Lorry asked.

Blake pulled up his sleeve and showed them a tattoo in the form of an oval helmet with a visor with three slits for eyes on each side. Everyone looked at it. Chris's eyes widened in fright. Lorry noticed this and asked him:

"Do you know who this tattoo belongs to?"

"Yeah. To the Anti-terrorist organization. I heard what happened to them. There are few details, but that was enough for me."

"Blake, you have a confirmed diagnosis of PTSD. Can you tell us how you manage to cope with it?"

"Yeah, you're so calm all the time," said a young guy without a right hand, sitting to his left. "Won't you share the secret?"

Blake was silent.

"You don't see us as comrades," Lorry said. "But we are all brothers in arms. Each of those gathered here fought, watched as a mortally wounded friend pales before his eyes, and as the spirit comes out of him. We all know the feeling when you can't believe that you won't be able to play cards with him, fool around, tell stories in between outings. It's hard and it's worth talking about."

"Lorry said," the only woman in the group began, "that people need a scapegoat. Blake needed him, too. Therefore, he pulled away from people because he thinks they are to be blamed. Am I right? However, not all people are maniacs and psychopaths, Blake. We are no different from each other here, the only difference is that you hide behind a wall of indifference, like a child, but in fact, you melt inside. Did you want to know who I am? Your reflection, only more reasonable. Actually, like everyone else here."

Everyone looked at her and clapped.

"These meetings, boy, will take place for you endlessly until you open up."

Blake leaned forward a little, kept his elbows on the armrests, and glued his palms together, turned his head slightly to the side, and answered:

"Okay. I'll tell. I feel like shit. I have many problems. Smoking, depression, loss of orientation in space…"

Everyone nodded, because they felt the same way, and Blake continued:

"Generally speaking, there's nothing fucking new. When I sleep, I have nightmares, when I'm awake, I see hell that changed my life. The past follows me like a Cerberus on a chain. I know the smell of rot, slops best of all because they have never left me after retirement. How many times have I heard the AI of my house say that I'm not myself, that it calls a doctor, how many times the eyes filled with tears of the wives and mothers of my comrades have been coming to me since the funeral? Only recently, I stopped seeing hallucinations and stopped twitching when children are firing fireworks nearby. I guess I'll never stop feeling that I don't belong in this world.… Nevertheless, as my father once told me: move into the future, but don't forget about the past. That's what I'm trying to do and I advise you."

Everyone bent down towards Blake and did not take their eyes off him.

"Let's not put pressure on our friend," Lorry said after a moment of silence, "today he told us more than last year combined. Thank you, Blake."

"You're welcome."

"What helps you cope?" Anton asked. "Please share with us."

"What were you listening to me for? Ass?"

"One phrase is not enough to cope with the heavy load inside."

"For me, it's enough."

"Don't bullshit us."

"Anton!"

"Lorrie! He doesn’t respect anyone around him, tries to seem comically harsh and gloomy. All he has done is to tell what is already clear to everyone. Look at him. Yes, he would gladly prefer the infernal cauldron to reality. He's not sincere, it's even worse than being silent. So what," he continued and turned to Blake and looked into his eyes, "you don't have enough balls to finish, do you?"

"Don't push him. Sincerity is a long job. This guy has known only his father's love and war all his life. And then he didn't even have that left. Only PTSD, which he struggles with every day. How do you think a person should communicate in such a situation?"

"Not like an asshole."

"Not like an asshole. We all got a lot here."

"The subject is closed," Lorry replied in a menacing voice and got up from his chair. "We are not going to measure our dicks, figuring out who is worse."

Everyone went quiet. Anton started to apologize, but Blake interrupted him:

"VR. I play Guns and Magic."

Lorry's eyes widened for a few seconds as if he had seen a ghost, and then came back to normal. The meeting ended ten minutes later.