As Tina and I approached the towering double doors leading into the massive structure, I held one open for her, maintaining unwavering eye contact. It was almost as if our gaze formed a silent bond, a wordless exchange of understanding. I wanted her to know that, like her, I felt a knot of fear and nervous energy tightening in my chest. What we were about to do felt monumental, and the weight of it pressed heavily on me.
Inside, the lobby resembled that of a Fortune 500 corporation more than a medical facility. Sleek, modern, and intimidating, it radiated an air of clinical efficiency and power. To our left, a security guard sat at a small desk, monitoring the entrance. As we approached the two metal detectors, he stood and waved us through with a quick, practiced gesture, barely glancing at us before resuming his post.
The space ahead was striking in its sparseness. There was almost no seating, just an expanse of polished floors and sterile emptiness. The only features were the guard's desk, the metal detectors, and a massive logo emblazoned on the far wall that read NeuroNexus. Beneath the logo was a colossal semi-circular desk, seemingly oversized for the lone secretary stationed there. The design was stark and deliberate, more evocative of a business empire than a place of healing.
Unlike the cozy and contained environments of most doctor's offices, where a receptionist or nurse greets you from behind a glass partition, this setup was bold, exposed, and uncomfortably open. It left me feeling vulnerable, as though every step we took was being scrutinized.
I approached the desk, clearing my throat to steady my voice
"Hi, my name is Frank Anderson, and I have an appointment at 8:00 PM with Doctor Lindstrom," I said, my voice carrying a slight waver despite knowing full well I was in the right place. My certainty about the details did little to quell the uneasy flutter in my chest.
The secretary glanced at her screen, her demeanor professional and warm. "Yes, I see you right here on the list," she replied, her tone refreshing yet respectful. She stood, gesturing toward a hallway with a practiced motion. "Go ahead and follow me. Right this way."
She leads me down a long corridor, the echo of our footsteps the only sound in the sterile space. As we pass, I catch glimpses through large glass windows into laboratories and tech offices. Inside, technicians and scientists move with purpose, surrounded by intricate machinery and glowing monitors. The scene feels surreal, like walking through a high-tech zoo or an aquarium, except the exhibits are people immersed in cutting-edge work.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stepped onto another planet. This environment is entirely foreign to me. I’ve worked in a few industries over the years, but nothing comes close to this. It feels like something straight out of a sci-fi movie—the kind where they resurrect dinosaurs or create cyborgs to replace injured cops. It’s strange, almost unsettling, and I can’t help but feel out of place, like an outsider peeking into a world I don’t belong to.
At the end of the hallway, she opens a door, revealing a small room that feels more like a private study in a college library or a home office. It’s plain and quiet—almost oppressively so. Aside from a simple desk and a few chairs, the space is devoid of personality or warmth. The walls are bare, without a single picture or decoration, and there’s no greenery or even a stack of magazines to break up the monotony.
The room feels clinical, stripped of any charm or comfort, like a temporary staging area rather than a functional workspace. It’s as though the design is meant to keep you focused—or unsettled.
"Please, have a seat. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here, and he should be with you momentarily," she says politely before excusing herself and disappearing back down the hallway.
As soon as the door closes, I let out a deep breath, the kind that seems to radiate from my chest down to my feet. It’s like a pressure valve releasing steam from an overworked machine. But I’m no well-oiled machine. If anything, I feel like a rusted 1934 Chevy Step side truck abandoned long ago in a farm field—worn, forgotten, and far from ready for the road ahead.
"This is weird, isn’t it? Did you see all those rooms with the scientists and techs? And all those computers? That looked like some seriously high-tech stuff—straight out of a movie. I wonder what they’re working on," I say, glancing over at Tina. Her wide eyes and slightly parted lips tell me she’s just as awestruck as I am.
“Yeah, it’s something,” she replies, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. Then, she flashes me a reassuring smile. “But remember, you’re the smart one here—you’re the one in college, the one with the good job. I’m just along for moral support, Hun.”
That’s one thing about Tina, even after all these years of marriage since I got out of the service—she doesn’t give herself enough credit. She downplays her intelligence, as if it only counts when measured by degrees or academic achievements. It’s a mindset we both grew up with, believing that expensive pieces of paper from universities held the key to the world.
It’s ironic because that belief is what led me to enlist. I had the grades but not the money. After high school, I worked tirelessly, trying to scrape together enough to afford college, but it was never enough. Eventually, I gave up and joined the military. Their promise to pay for college and let me see the world felt like a fair trade at the time.
But now, sitting in this cold, unfamiliar building, weighed down by depression, anxiety, and fear of tasks that once seemed so simple, I’m not so sure anymore. Years of struggling to ask for help, of trying to act like everything was fine—was it really worth it? Maybe it wasn’t such a fair exchange after all.
I sit there, wrestling with the awkward silence and the weight of what feels like impending doom. My mind churns as I try to brace myself mentally for what’s to come, though I’m not even sure what exactly that is.
A quick, sharp tap on the door breaks my thoughts, and then it swings open. Dr. Nazir steps inside, her presence immediately commanding the room.
"Good morning, Frank! How are you doing today?" she asks brightly, her tone almost too cheerful for the moment.
I blink, caught off guard. "I was expecting to see Dr. Lindstrom," I reply cautiously.
“Oh, yes! He’ll be right in," she says with a reassuring smile. "I just wanted to pop in real quick to touch base with you, you know, and see if you had any questions. I know he’s going to explain a lot when he comes in, but I didn’t want you just sitting here alone. So, is there anything I can help you with before he arrives?"
I hesitate, my thoughts swirling. "Honestly, I’ve been sitting here trying to wrap my head around everything—what to expect, what today’s going to entail, the treatment plan... It’s a lot to process. I am a little concerned about—"
Before I can finish, the door bursts open, and in strides Dr. Lindstrom.
He’s the kind of person who looks like he hasn’t slept in days but thrives on it—his hair a controlled mess, as if styled just enough to appear effortless. His sharp, angular features are softened by a scruffy beard, and a pair of sleek, rectangular glasses frames his bright, inquisitive eyes. Dressed in a blazer over a graphic tee that reads "Start Game " and a pair of dark jeans, he exudes a mix of eccentric genius and casual charm.
"Good morning, everyone! Hey, Frank, nice to meet you!" he says, flashing a charismatic grin. "I’m Dr. Lindstrom, but please, call me Pat. Or Doc. No need for formalities like ‘Mr. Lindstrom.’ That just sounds weird."
He turns to Tina, extending his hand
“All right, let’s get started,” Dr. Lindstrom says, his tone shifting to a more serious one. "I want to go over everything we’ve discussed and lay out the treatment plan for you. We’ll start this morning. There are a few things I need to explain first. This isn’t going to be some PowerPoint presentation or a demo. But as you walked down the hallway and saw the labs, the techs, and everything we do here at NeuroNexus, I want you to understand that this new treatment plan is unlike anything that’s been tested before. It’s still very much under wraps, both with the government and health boards."
He pauses for a moment and motions to Dr Nazir, who’s standing off to the side. She steps forward and places a stack of papers on the table, slipping a pen next to them. It’s clear she’s prepared.
“With that being said," he continues, his voice calm and deliberate, "these NDAs you’ll be signing ensure that not only will we be treating you for whatever we discuss today, just like a typical therapy, psychiatry, or psychological evaluation, but we need to keep everything in-house. If you decide to move forward with the program and come into our labs, we ask that the details of what you experience here stay within these walls. We can’t have you going out and reporting it to the news or social media—it’s highly confidential, and the general public has no idea what’s going on here."
His tone is serious but calm, almost trusting, which catches me off guard. It feels like a weight being placed on my shoulders, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like a burden—it feels like a shared responsibility.
“Just one quick question,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “So, what we’re essentially signing is an agreement not to talk about the treatment options you’re giving us here. The only thing I’m worried about is, is there anything that could hurt me or possibly put me in a worse state than I’m already in?”
Dr. Lindstrom looks at me for a moment, his expression softening as if he’s carefully considering his words. “Listen, Frank, I’d love to tell you ‘no,’ but that wouldn’t be honest.
Part of this new technology is still in its early stages. I will disclose to you now—this is why we’re doing this. What we have here, and what we’re building at NeuroNexus, could not only help you—it could help thousands of other vets who are struggling. That’s the bigger picture. And I’m confident that this has the potential to make a real difference.”
Tina looks at me, hesitating, her gaze fixed on the pen. She hasn't moved toward it yet. Without thinking, I take the pen from the top of her disclosure agreement and sign mine quickly, then turn it back around and hand her the pen so she can do the same.
Of course, in the back of my mind, a small voice nags at me—I probably should have read the fine print. The last time I signed something without fully understanding it, I ended up on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and well, that’s how I ended up with these problems.
Tina doesn’t hesitate much longer. She turns the paper around, signs it, and slides it back across the table.
“Okay, now that we’ve got the legal stuff out of the way, I want to let you both know that your wife will be able to accompany you to the facility every day during your treatment,” Dr. Lindstrom says, his tone both reassuring and professional. “I’m going to show you the area where you’ll be and the room where you’ll come each day for your treatment. For our first walk-through, I’ll take you through the entire process. Let’s head down to the main laboratory facility.” He gestures for us to follow as he heads toward the door.
We step out of the room, turning right and then quickly left down another corridor. Dr. Lindstrom motions toward a door on the left. “That’s the waiting room,” he says. “There’s food, snacks, drinks—anything you could want. It’s free for you while you are here. We’ve also got a library of books and a computer system for Tina to use while she waits.”
I glance at Tina, a wide-eyed look crossing my face. I’m a sucker for books, constantly researching and looking things up. In that moment, I can’t help but feel a hint of envy. Tina gets to relax in there while I’m off trying to figure out what exactly I’m doing.
We walk down the hallway, then take a sharp right. Dr. Lindstrom opens the door to the laboratory facility, and I’m immediately struck by the sight. The room feels like something straight out of a sci-fi movie—like the command center of a spaceship or the cockpit of the Starship Enterprise.
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The walls are lined with towering computers, each one humming softly with life. The space is vast, with sleek, high-tech consoles and glowing panels illuminating the room in a soft, sterile light. At the far end, two technicians sit at a mainframe console, their eyes fixed on a giant screen mounted on the wall—more like a TV than a computer monitor, its size commanding attention. The screen flickers with data and graphs that I can’t quite understand.
Beneath the screen, what catches my eye next is a strange, capsule-like structure, its design sleek and futuristic. Inside, there’s a bed that looks almost like a medical cot, but far more advanced. The capsule has a smooth, metallic sheen and is surrounded by cables and sensors that look like something out of a high-budget science fiction film. It seems both impressive and intimidating, as if the future of medicine and technology is wrapped up inside that very capsule.
“All right, Frank, here’s what we’re going to do. Using our advanced nanotechnology, paired with generative AI, we’re going to place you in a state similar to what you might experience with traditional therapy. You’ve probably done something like this before, where you sit down, maybe lie on a couch, close your eyes, and meditate to relax. We’re going to take that same concept, but we’re doing it in a much more controlled, immersive environment—inside virtual reality.
Based on the files we’ve collected from your medical history, including statements from your doctors over the years regarding your anxiety, depression, PTSD, and the various scenarios you’ve shared in your claims, we’ll use all that information to build a unique experience tailored to you. This is not just passive relaxation; we’ll be pulling directly from your mind and your subconscious to create a world that will allow us to address these issues in real time.
Imagine this: Instead of a therapist asking you to close your eyes and picture yourself on a cold beach, early in the morning, watching the waves roll in—we can actually place you on that beach. You’ll feel the chill of the water splashing against your skin, the sensation of sand between your toes, and even the grains scraping against the bottom of your feet. This isn’t just visualization; this is a fully immersive experience.
Using our system, we can manipulate and generate a world that’s not only built from the information you’ve provided but also taps into those deeper layers of your subconscious—those feelings and memories that are hard to articulate or even understand yourself. From the way you’ve described your emotions before—lost, confused, desperate, scared, angry—we believe that this technology will allow us to create a treatment plan that works with your subconscious, helping you unravel and work through the core of what’s been weighing you down.”
“I mean, that does sound pretty cool. But you mentioned I could feel the cold coming off the waves and the sand on my feet... does that mean I could also feel pain?” I asked, a hint of fear creeping into my voice.
“Absolutely,” Dr. Lindstrom replied, his tone steady but serious. “What we’ve done here at NeuroNexus is take nanomight technology, combine it with generative AI, and integrate it with virtual reality in a way that completely shatters what you might think of when it comes to typical VR experiences, especially in gaming. We’ve gone beyond that. I don’t want to scare you with all the technical details, but I also want to be open and honest with you because that’s something you haven’t had from your previous care providers.”
He leaned in slightly, ensuring I was fully listening.
“You don’t have to go through with this. You’ve signed an NDA, and you’re free to walk away at any time. But I want you to know that what we’re offering here could change how you experience your treatment, and it’s completely up to you whether you want to move forward or not.”
I stand there for a moment, my gaze drifting over to Tina as the weight of anxiety builds up inside me. My chest tightens, and I feel like I’m about to collapse under it all.
“You know," I begin, my voice strained, "I've tried everything else... I look in the mirror now, and I don’t see myself anymore. I see a stranger. Life—life is nothing but pain these days. I wake up in pain, I go to bed in pain, hell, I go to work in pain." My voice starts to crack, and I can feel the tears welling up, the emotions threatening to break free. "I just want to get fixed... I’m tired of being broken."
I pause, struggling to keep it together, but the words just spill out. “At this point, I feel like I’ve got no other options. I know I could say no, walk away... but the old me? The old me would've said yes without thinking twice. Just jumped in head first without any hesitation."
I look at Dr. Lindstrom, my eyes desperate, pleading. "So what’s the process? What do we need to do?"
As I finish speaking, the doctor looks at me, his expression softening with a heart full of emotion. It’s clear he’s not just listening; he’s feeling what I’m going through. There’s a connection in his eyes, like he’s trying to tie himself to my pain, to understand it in a way no one else has before. Aside from Dr. Nazir, this is the first time I’ve ever had someone genuinely try to meet me on this emotional level.
“So, we’ve made a few improvements during our development process,” Dr. Lindstrom begins, a spark of excitement in his voice. “The original design almost had you hooked in like The Matrix, suspended in a vat of goo with wires all over you. But we’ve moved past that.” He reaches for something on the table, picking up a sleek, metallic-looking band. It flops loosely in his hand, looking more like rubber than metal. The band’s visual appeal is striking in its simplicity. “Instead, we’re using this band. It wraps around your head, and from there, you’ll lay down into the pod.”
He gestures to the pod, an almost futuristic-looking structure with a glowing, seamless design. “The pod itself has a built-in healthcare system—completely automated and equipped with medical machinery. For example, if something were to happen—say, a heart attack—God willing that won’t happen, but with your health issues, it's worth noting... this machine will automatically administer CPR, first aid, and notify the authorities. It’s a state-of-the-art healthcare system, far beyond a normal hospital bed.”
He pauses, allowing the information to settle in before continuing. “In a traditional hospital, you'd wait for a nurse to come around to administer an IV or medication. But with this system, everything is automated. The pod will continuously monitor your vitals, running tests in real time to detect exactly what you need and when. It’s a whole new level of precision."
He leans forward slightly, his eyes glinting with enthusiasm. “And that’s not all. Once you’re inside the pod, we’ll attach these small sensors to different areas of your body—think of them like motion-capture markers used in film. They’ll track every movement, every response. These sensors allow the nanotechnology within the pod to interact with your body on a deeply personal level. Instead of being filled with goo, like the early concepts, the pod is packed with microscopic computers, each one measuring and assessing your body’s reactions in real-time. Everything—your body, the technology, and the generative AI—becomes interconnected. This synergy will give us the ability to assist you in ways traditional medicine simply can’t.”
I steal a glance at Tina. Her eyes are wide, and I can tell she’s almost in a state of information overload—she’s not alone, though; I feel about the same. But in her eyes, I see what I know she sees in mine. She just wants the best for me, and I can tell she’s worried.
“Okay, so aside from the probes, the band, and the pod itself... what else do I need to do? Is it more like a relaxing meditation?”
Doctor Lindstrom enthusiastically raises his hands. “That’s the best part of this! We have dozens of scenarios we can put you through, and that’s where the fun comes in.” He gestures toward the big screen, which now displays a list of virtual reality environments for treatment. As I look down the list, I see options like Post-Apocalyptic, Wild Frontier, Amusement Park, Famous Spots Around the World, World Champion, and many more.
“So, I just pick a world and get to enjoy it? Like the one labeled ‘Fantasy’—what does that entail?”
“That’s the fun of it, Frank,” Doctor Lindstrom says, his eyes lighting up. “In the Fantasy realm, we’ve designed a land of make-believe where you’ll be dropped into a fantasy world you could only imagine in books you’ve read. You’ll see sceneries that you’ve only seen in movies, and you’ll get to experience life in another dimension. Now, I don’t want to give too much away, but you’re going to be dropped into a new world called Avalon. Based on your medical records, your therapist’s notes, and other physicians' records, we’ve tailored your attributes—it’s almost like creating yourself in a video game. But here’s the thing: While we’ve pre-modeled something for you to dive into, we haven’t fleshed it all out. The world will be something for you to explore.
Think of it this way—rather than saying, ‘Hey, we’re going to drop you into the Wild West, and you’re going to be a cowboy, and this is what you’ll see,’ I want you to explore Avalon. I want you to discover it. Every interaction you have in that world will be part of your treatment plan. That’s the key. So, while we’re dropping you into a virtual reality world, time will move differently than it does here. But don’t worry—if there are any important updates or notifications we need to pass along, we’ll notify you directly through the system.”
He pauses for a moment, giving us space to talk or discuss amongst ourselves.
I glance at Tina, then shrug my shoulders and say, “Let’s do this.”
With a clap of his hands, Dr. Lindstrom signals to two of the technicians, who come over to help me get situated with the new sensors and load me into the chamber pod. At the same time, he tells Dr. Nazir to escort my wife down to the waiting room. She kisses me, telling me she’ll see me in a bit. Dr. Lindstrom, speaking directly to her in front of me, reassures her that this will only be a two-hour session and that if she needs anything, she should let the staff know.
As I lie back in the pod, I watch Tina leave the room, the door closing behind her. The technicians finish hooking me up to the system. Doctor Lindstrom knocks on the pod and says to me, “Embrace this experience so you get the most out of it, and welcome to Project Sanctuary .”
I lay back and relax, feeling a sense of drowsiness like that of the odd sensation of going under anesthesia for surgery. I close my eyes, and everything goes black. I’m unsure of how long I’ve been lying there—time seems to blur. Seconds? Minutes? I don’t know. The anxiety in my chest beats like a drum, my blood pulsates in my ears, my throat tightening as the feeling of panic builds. But then, suddenly, my body feels lighter, almost as if someone has lifted all the weight off me.
It’s as if the darkness around me is fading away, like someone is slowly turning the lights back on. Light begins to emerge, and I open my eyes, now realizing that I’m falling through the clouds. Strangely, there’s no immediate rush of fear. There’s no sensation of falling, like when you jump from a high structure. Instead, I feel calm, as if I’m simply drifting.
As I look around, I start to notice the world beneath me—a lush landscape filled with green forests, cascading waterfalls, towering mountains, deserts, snow, jungles—every type of ecosystem I could imagine. I’m falling toward it, but there’s no fear, no nervousness. I simply take in the sights, the beauty of this strange world. There’s no vertigo, no sense of dizziness. I feel completely at peace.
Suddenly, I glance down and see the ground rushing below me. There, etched in the earth, are the words: Avalon.
I’ve arrived.