The images flash, 120 frames per second, projected right onto the eye. A beautiful world, more textured than the real one, more exotic, safer.
A man's body, going limp, atrophied from disuse, lays in a corner of a flat he can barely afford, but still, he enjoys the lifestyle he always desired. In the Metaverse, he can be a great chef, cooking imaginary meals for imaginary customers. Waiting on imaginary tables, and collecting imaginary tips.
This is the sight Officer Simon sees when he arrives on the scene. An old man laying on the ground- like an addict in the throes of his chosen poison- the debtor doesn't even notice the outside world. The officer uses this to his advantage when bringing the man back to reality.
While being pulled out of the Metaverse may not technically be fatal, it is like waking up a sound sleeper whose been on the bottle all night.
The goggles are torn from his face and in a stupor, the man looks around, dazed, uncertain, and unsure of his surroundings. Then his pupils restrict and clarity crosses his face. He's seen the officer's uniform and realized what's about to happen.
A quick kick to the abdomen brings him into the present. The officer steps on the man's hand when he puts the other up in defense.
"You wire heads are all the same," the officer screams, flecks of spittle running down his jaw, "laying in your filth. Adding nothing to society-" a crazed look enters his eyes, and he continues his assault on the unarmed man, "why should we, the hard-working citizens, pay for your addiction," the brutal pommeling continues.
Later, in the precinct, while the victim is bleeding to death, face unrecognizable from the swelling and bruising. The man- crumpled in a cell waiting to be processed so he can receive medical attention- he won't wonder about the mega-corporations he's worked for over the decades, developing and implementing the Metaverse, he won't wonder why they cast him aside as soon as the side effects of being 'plugged in' for days at a time; i.e. memory loss, disrupted motor functions, constant fidgeting, and hallucinations induced by insomnia, became noticeable and started effecting his work.
No, he won't wonder why the only refuge left, the one he helped build, costs so much. Or why he doesn't have a pension or workman's compensation for damages to his mind and body to help pay for it? He won't wonder why he can't afford medical aid or treatment for his addiction.
What he'll wonder is if his broken windpipe is going to allow enough oxygen into his lungs to feed his brain for another two minutes. And the official reports will read 'failure to comply, the extreme force necessary."
But back in the flat, right now, while his ribs are being cracked by the black combat boot- And his face is being worked over by the practiced hands of a man who loves his job- the man on the floor is wondering if he'll be able to get back in and continue his streak or if someone else will come by and overtake his high-score.
A body is thrown in the back of the cop car, no handcuffs, no restaurants, they aren't necessary. The man has been thoroughly 'apprehended'. He does not attempt to escape, even if he could there would be nowhere to go. He hasn't had close friends since he received his education.
A communal process started from birth where infants are taken from their birth mother to a facility to test their aptitudes. Then set on a standardized path to find a place where they can better help society as a whole.
Leaning his head back blood pools in the man's mouth, and he spits it on the floor, the cop reaches back and tasers him. He never stopped fighting the system, he never started fighting either. He never even had a chance to question his life.
The lights off the marquee fill the car, bright reds, and enticing yellows, encouraging the masses to spend what little income they have left after paying to exist. Funneling the money from the bottom multitudes to the top of an ever-shrinking percentage of tycoons.
He craves the lies they give, generational wealth put to the task of keeping those who are below right where they are. As Alice Hathway Roosevelt once said, "If they had our brains, they'd have our jobs."
The blinking lights shortcircuit the man's brain and high jacks his dopamine receptors, he starts foaming at the mouth, salivating at the chance to win easy cash or meet beautiful people, stress-free.
He starts thrashing around the car, willpower, the desire to consume, overcoming any pain or fear of death. The cop repeatedly tasers the man, but he fights and tries to escape, it's all pointless.
They arrive at the precinct and he gets handcuffed to a chair. Forgotten for a time, then remembered and dealt with when he starts vomiting all the blood he'd swallowed. Robot mice clean the mess.
That night, at home, nuzzled next to his loving wife, the officer will tell her what a good job he did today, protecting the innocent from dangerous criminals.
