It Was All a Dream

Stepping out of the lift in full breaching gear, me and my partner are greeted by a mostly empty hallway. The only person there quickly ducks back into their apartment, thankfully not the one we are here for.

As we carefully move towards our target I instinctively switch my carbine to single fire to reduce the risk of collateral damage to neighbouring apartments. Nobody should be getting body bagged just because they live next to known criminals with a penchant for violence.

Sliding up to the door I feel a tap on my shoulder as I get into position from my partner letting me know they are ready.

Muttering the standard mantra of our unit before any breach, "I am deliberate and afraid of nothing," I lean forward to enter the master code that will unlock the door.

On a three count I pulled the door and stepped to the gap only to swiftly retreat as a hail of rounds whizzed past me, hitting the opposite wall and obliterating a picturesque painting of verdant meadows that must have been put there in a futile effort to uplift the spirits of the residents of this rat infested shit-hole.

Retreating, I watch as my partner preps a banger, steps next to me and fully sends it through the doorway. The walls shake with a terrifying roar and they follow its path, unleashing rounds into the unseen enemy.

In the silence that follows I cautiously step into the apartment, weapon ready. The only things that greet me are my partner covering the other exits from the room and a lone sub-gun wielding arsehole sporting some new air holes.

I've never quite understood why these scum fight back. Their illusory hope of winning and escaping always prove futile.

With the perp down, we press forward into the back rooms of this alleged drug stash house. What we find behind the first door is far worse than expected.

Within the room, a number of individuals are tethered to machinery designed to deliver Reverie into their veins from IV bags. Lost in the immersive embrace of this illicit substance they find solace within the lucid dreams it provides, using it to escape the confines of society and its harsh realities.

The price extracted by the drug is severe. These fabricated realms become all-consuming, crushing the users grip on the real and poisoning their soul as they think only about the next hit and how to get it lest they face the looming fate from withdrawal that is nothing less than a death sentence.

"Looks like we've stumbled on a house of dreams," my partner says as I step in behind them.

Aware that these places normally only bother with a guard out front I make a suggestion. "Check the other rooms just in case while I ID these and call it in."

Before I can raise my portable ID Scanner to their face, shock forces me to release it. The sleeping figure in front of me was one of my closest childhood friends which doesn't logically make any sense. The last I knew they were ascending the corporate ladder with haste and determination.

Setting aside the bewildering discovery I move on to the next person only to find it is my brother who I haven't spoken to in close to a decade. The third is a distant relative who dies in a food riot four years ago.

Scanning other nearby people I am greeted by more impossibilities as each one has some sort of connection to me. It also becomes apparent that the room is far larger and more overcrowded that should be possible for a regular hab apartment.

Needing to escape from the perplexities found within the room I retreat back out to the corridor to be confronted by the painting that was not just peppered with bullets but also coated in a fine layer of blood. In front of it is a gravely injured body.

My Body.

A ping at the end of the corridor catches my attention and I see the elevator doors open, releasing a team of EMTs who sprint to where I lay.

All I can hope is that their expertise can salvage something, anything, because the odd are undeniably stacked against me.