The iFactor Read Online Free

face replaces hers “I’m sorry Matt,” his old friend handed him a small blood covered computer ship in an evidence bag. “She’s dead.”
Unexplainable feelings of loss and torment clouded his visions. The world swirled into chaos, eventually clarifying into memories of earth and his old life, into the familiar streets of Dallas. People gathered in the decomposing tenements, yelling and waving sticks and pipes.
A woman broke into a run and the sound of gunfire.
Blackness.
Faces appeared in dark cells. Endless rows of inexpressive faces, people strapped to chairs, viewing the world with vacant eyes.
Sounds of screaming, glass shattering, gunfire, and people crying. The city of Dallas shattered around him.
A little girl about seven years old cried for her mother. She ran into the street, into an intense gunfight. Then her head exploded.
“Don't!” Matt awoke screaming. The chair was overturned and he was crouched behind it. Humiliation swept over him again; shame at being damaged, and shame for the things he'd done and couldn't remember.
The wall felt cold on his back and he sat there, looking at his overturned glass. It had poured onto the carpet. It would cause a large orange colored stain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He took several deep breaths. The pills were not working as well as they used to. Nevertheless, he recovered the glass from the orange spot on the carpet, took it into to the kitchen, filled it with water and took another pill. When the emotions faded, he turned his chair upright again and pulled a plastic handgun from a pouch on its side. The game would help . His psychiatrist said it would.
“Activate proscribed interactive video treatment beta.” The screen lit up presenting an accurate depiction of a city tenement, albeit a generic city. The game was set during the gang wars of 2043. He aimed at the screen and said. “Activate the last saved game.”
Mobsters and civilians of all sexes and ages entered the screen, approaching from alleys, doorways and opening windows. It was a simple game. Shoot the bad guys and save the citizens. The psychiatrist intended the scenario to help him by making his eyes complete therapeutic motions while permitting the player to work through their issues. All he cared about was that it would allow him to save some people, even if they only existed in the program. At least it was something.
Matt played until his eyes burned and wouldn’t stay open for more than a few moments at a time. He won, saved the civilians, or at least most of them. Nobody could save them all. This was also a lesson the game was supposed to bring home. It was the seventh time he'd beaten the program. He'd learned its secrets and now he could foresee what would happen next.
“Voice mail to Doctor Denny Garcia.” Matt put down the toy gun. “This game is getting repetitive and boring, request proscription for another. Will talk to you about it at meeting tomorrow. End.”
“Incoming call. Identity Ken Vanderhaar.” The monitor displayed in larger bright letters accompanies with a pleasant attention-grabbing, digital ring.
“Answer.”
The screen transformed, to reveal a somewhat more extravagant and well-furnished apartment than the one he sat in. The chair the chief sat looked expensive very pricey. Leather ? On an officer’s salary, it had to be synthetic . Ken was the chief of security in a cooperate settlement, however, and Matt really had no idea how much his old partner made. He was willing to bet that it was considerably more than he did.
“How are you feeling?” Chief Vanderhaar asked. “You looked a bit spooked today.”
“I handled it.” Matt replied. He was comforted that he could at least talk to the chief about his problems. They been partners in Dallas together when the Post Traumatic Stress diagnosis had cost him his badge. “It was just a little close in there, too many people walking around.”
“Are you taking your meds?” he asked.
“Only when I need