***
Holding my breath, I walk the length of tunnel behind Miranda's bobbing lantern. Fractured shards of flame and shadow play on the wall. I try to focus on the movement instead of on where I am.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Miranda whispers. "I mean, aside from the fact that if Matt finds out...." She trails off, turning to peer at me over her shoulder. "Are you OK?"
I take a deep gulp of air. It tastes like cold earth. Like a grave. I swallow and nod, though inside I'm already screaming. "Just go," I growl. Miranda scowls as she turns back to where she's going.
We arrive at a metal doorway set into the end of the corridor. Miranda fiddles with the key in the first lock, but the second turns smoothly. She pushes the door open, sets her lantern down as we come inside, and closes the door quietly behind us.
The room we've come into is not large, but it's enough to alleviate my claustrophobia. A simple square hollowed out of the earth. There's a second door on the opposite wall, but I really don't care what's behind it. We're here for the VR machine that sits in the middle.
A web of electrodes is worked inside a clear helmet on a swiveling machine arm. Beneath it is a half-reclined chair with heavy nylon straps at the neck, shoulders, lap, ankles, and wrists. The upholstery on the arms, at the very ends, is torn. Clawed. The seat is dressed with concentric stains— whatever body fluids its many victims have ejected in the throes of their distress.
I sit down, trying not to think about the other people who've sat in this chair before me. My eyes scan along the machine arm, following its multiple twist of umbilical cords across to the console where Miranda is standing. She's frowning, but working away, her face lit with the haunting cobalt glow of the aether tank beside her. I can only hope she knows what she's doing. Her hands move across buttons, and keys, and dials. I watch her face. Her intense eyes. The focused turn of her mouth. The uncertain little twitch of her lower eyelid.
At last, she looks at me. She frowns. "You're sure?"
I reach for the helmet, swinging it down over my head. "Let's go."
Miranda's frown deepens. She walks across the room and fusses about me, adjusting the way the helmet sits, working a strap across the chin. When she's satisfied that the electrodes are in place, she tightens a hand-bolt on the swivel. "I wonder if I should strap you in," she ponders, hand on chin.
I shrug.
"Don't move," she snaps. She turns and walks away without strapping me in.
I take a deep breath and try to prepare myself.
"The first part will just feel a little weird," Miranda says. "The machine synching with your brain or something."
"Or something?" I mumble.
"Shh."
I shut up, close my eyes, and consider the fact that if this goes wrong, I might forget my troubles all together.