I sat in my apartment, listening as the newscaster droned on about the current state of affairs around the world today. But she didn't say anything interesting, so I wheeled over to my dresser and found a pair of khaki pants. Before I slithered out of my wheelchair and changed my shorts out, I looked at my atrophied white legs. Useless pieces of meat. They were the size of twigs and had no muscle in them. My kneecaps were nearly poking through my skin, pointed at sickeningly bizarre angles. And this was only after one year in a wheelchair. I thought about what they would look like in…wait, that might be nightmarishly bad. Let's not go there. I shuddered as the newscaster kept talking. I listened for a heartbeat, just to see if there was anything interesting on the news yet.

"…bengal tigers are making a comeback after more than a century of extinction. The cloned cubs at the Beijing Zoo have survived their first month and will receive names at the end of the week. You can submit names at the website at the bottom of your screen…" A rare bit of good news, but nothing interesting yet. Wait, why Beijing? If I thought the pollution was bad in the United States, then there was no word that could describe the air in China. I figured those tiger cubs wouldn't survive much longer. Never mind on the good news.

After my discharge, the military said they would pay for a year's worth of rent in a standard apartment complex. I thought the more appropriate word was "jail." I was living in a box with two rooms: a living room/kitchenette/dining room/bedroom and a bathroom/closet. My bed was shoved into the far corner of my unit, into a small corridor, about five feet away from the other wall. A portion of that wall was a big-screen TV. It came standard with the apartment. Other than that, this box was pretty drab. And it was falling apart, too. The living room was generally spacious, and the military was at least kind enough to provide a large, soft mat to make it look somewhat livable. Looking back toward the door was the kitchenette and to the left, just before you got there, was the bathroom/closet. This place never held heat very well because it was all stone. The wall next to my bed was sloughing off, revealing grayish brick that had been contaminated by pollution. The floor was always freezing since it was concrete. It really wasn't any wonder that I always sounded like I had a cold. I figured that the only way that the military could afford to have so many people on welfare was to give them the cheapest places available.

My year was set to end in three weeks, and I had been job-hunting to make sure that I could make ends meet when my expenses would begin to outweigh my vet benefits. And to get the hell out of this concrete box. I counted the number of interviews I had been through in my head. Seven…no, eight, counting last week. Nobody wanted to take a "disabled" worker in this world. Even for a job that required you to stare at a computer screen all day and push buttons. I was going to continue working toward a job, hoping someone wouldn't tell me that I couldn't do a certain task because I was in a wheelchair. I knew I could find the right fit. But tonight, I was going to relax.

I slid out of my wheelchair onto the bed and laid on my back. I began inching the shorts off my dead legs, working one side a few inches and then the other a few more inches. Back and forth, back and forth. I sat up and slid the shorts off my knees, then ankles and then feet. I picked up my pants and started working them on, having to stretch my arms to my feet. I bent my right leg with one arm and used the other to work the pants leg on. Then I did the same with the other leg. Slowly, I worked the pants up to my waist, inches at a time. Eventually I got the waist on and buttoned and zipped the pants up. Before moving anymore, I rested for a brief minute, listening some more to the news.

"For those stargazers out there, tonight's going to be a clear night in the city. If you face south, Alpha Centauri will be clearly visible in the night sky. What you're seeing onscreen now is a diagram of what the southern sky will look like tonight. AC is highlighted in the orange circle.

"Speaking of the Alpha Centauri system, we've received more news from Pandora." I glanced at the wall, wondering if I would catch anything interesting. "Scientists on Pandora have isolated the compounds responsible for the bioluminescence that is ubiquitous in the plant life there. Stay tuned to find out how it will help Earth become a better place." Nope, nothing of interest. The wall went blank, and a commercial started.

A better place. Heck, anything someone brought back from Pandora would make Earth a "better place," wouldn't it? I rolled my eyes as the commercial switched to a new type of filter that supposedly lasted longer in exopacks. That certainly wasn't from Pandora. I slithered into my wheelchair and rolled away as the wall droned on. I was headed south, toward the kitchenette. Being alive meant I had to eat.

I opened the cabinet that had been modified for me and my wheelchair and looked inside. Powder. This was all supermarkets stocked nowadays. If you were really lucky and had more money than God, occasionally you'd be able to get something like hamburger meat or steak or shrimp. But for the rest of us, we got spices. Or flavorings. To put on algae. It was the only sustainable food source we could reliably stock the world with. The air in the good ol' U.S. of A. was too corrupted to support any significant crop growth, and places that could just kept their crops to themselves. They had enough people to feed as it was. The world was nicely overpopulated at twenty billion people, but the population seemed to have held steady there for the past twenty years or so. That was a lot of mouths to feed. Every now and then, I sarcastically wondered if God would reduce the population of the Earth. After all the trashing of the planet we had done, maybe we deserved to have our global population reduced.

Tonight, the choices were…limited. "Crap," I mumbled. One package left. Salmon. It had come in a variety pack that was slightly cheaper than standard packs of flavorings. The supermarket wrote itself on the places-to-visit-within-the-near-future list.

The recipe was the same every meal. One package of flavoring, one-and-a-half cups of algae and one tablespoon of water. Mix and microwave for two-and-a-half minutes, and you had instant gourmet algae. Voila. I was sick and tired of algae. But I ate it because I was hungry and there was nothing else. Every bite was revolting. The flavoring tonight was too sweet, and the algae always had a horrible texture. I wondered if real salmon tasted like this. I always had the wall on so that I could listen while I was eating. Keeping my mind focused on something other than the food in front of me was the only thing separating me from vomiting. I listened to the newscaster as I ate.

"…in South America, the US Armed Forces is still fighting in Venezuela. We just received word six hours ago that one of the satellite villages near Caracas has been liberated from any drug cartel control. Any remaining cartel members have fled to other locations. One officer simply described it as a 'step in the right direction.' There has been no word, however, as to how long it will take for all of Caracas to be liberated."

"Never gonna happen," I mumbled into my bowl that was nearly empty of light pink algae. After finishing dinner, I placed the bowl and spoon into the sink. I turned off the wall, grabbed my keys, wallet and phone off the table and rolled out of my apartment, locking the door behind me. I started wheeling east toward my destination, which was a couple of blocks away from my apartment.

After about three pumps, I realized I had forgotten my exopack. "Dammit," I mumbled under my breath. I turned around and reentered my apartment, grabbing the exopack and fitting it on. I closed the door behind me again and locked it. I stopped and activated the flow of clean air through the mask. I thought it was peculiar that I had to keep the filter in my lap, instead of hidden underneath a coat, or on a holster at my waist. I had figured I was an easy target for an exopack robbery, but nobody paid me any mind ever since I showed up in Anytown, USA, even though I had seen four people robbed at knifepoint or gunpoint of their exopacks in the last month. I looked forward and started that way.

On my way, I glanced at the skyline above the buildings in the distance. A neon holographic sign was advertising "SimuSex," whatever the hell that was. That advertisement had been there for about a month now. I shuddered, trying to picture in my mind what that "service" might include. Gross. I returned my eyes back to the path in front of me, squeezing my way between throngs of people jammed up shoulder-to-shoulder, walking like moving sardines in a can. Slowly, I headed in the direction I needed to go.

I had to cross an intersection to get there. I pulled up to the traffic stop and waited with about eight other people to cross the street. Nobody looked down at me. I counted five of them wearing exopacks, trying to keep the pollution in the air they were breathing to a minimum. For a brief moment, I wondered if any of them were using that new-fangled filter the commercial was advertising. The other three people were simply wearing surgeon's masks. I figured they wouldn't last much longer. Our district was a few blocks away from some production and manufacturing plants. All I could think of was the strong prey on the weak, and nobody does anything about it. Those peoples' possessions would either go to their immediate family members or they'd just become property of the bank. Then it would be time for an auction.

I glanced upward as I heard a low, hollow roar above us. A maglev train was streaking overhead, intent on reaching its destination. As far as I could tell, that was the only reason we had to go to Pandora for Unobtanium: for construction of the maglev rails. We had plenty of them around, that was for sure. But where else did the Unobtanium go? I'm sure plenty of other people were wondering the same thing. I returned my gaze to my front, where I could clearly see the other side of the intersection. Slowly, cars, buses and trucks crawled down the street. They couldn't move quickly because there was just so much crap going on every night. It might have been easier for them just to walk, even if it meant they'd have to carry their loads.

Bing! The chime sounded, signaling us to walk or roll across the intersection. I pumped along with the crowd, seeing for the kazillionth time that everyone was walking shoulder-to-shoulder, shuffling along, intent only on reaching their destinations. Just like the maglev trains. Nobody cared about anybody else. I crossed the street and rolled down the sidewalk, passing other apartment complexes that looked exactly the same as mine. I glanced at them and saw that what was once white stone had become a drab grey, thanks to the pollution floating around. Half the people I passed also had that grey color. Every time they took a step, dust fell off their clothing and hair, leaving a floating trail of soot, ash and other pollutants. I tried to hurry to get to where I wanted to go. I didn't want to become like them. So I started moving faster.

Eventually, I came up to the doorway to my destination. My favorite bar in town. I liked it because the bartender was nice to me. Not feeling sorry for my condition, but he was just respectful towards me. Just like he was to everyone else. I liked that. I pulled the mask off and placed it in my lap along with the filter.

"Howdy, Jake," the bartender said as I approached.

"Hey, can I get a tequila shot?" I asked.

"Sure, gimme one sec." The bartender ducked momentarily behind the counter and produced a shot glass. He filled it with tequila.

"Thanks." I grabbed the shot and rolled to the middle of the floor in the bar. Time for the show.

As I approached the open area, I tilted my head back and placed the shot glass on my chin. I made sure that I could balance it there for a few seconds. I heard a few catcalls and cheers come from the rest of the bar. Just wait, I thought. You ain't seen nothin' yet.

Holding the shot glass with my right hand, I used my left to rock my wheelchair onto its back wheels. As I found my balance, my right hand came off the shot glass. I held it away from my wheelchair, only using my left hand to hold on to the wheel. People in the bar were certainly getting worked up about my little shenanigan. I heard the cheers get louder as I held the shot on my chin while balancing on two wheels. I smiled a little, basking in the attention. Occasionally, being "less-abled" had its perks.

Eventually, my left arm got tired of holding the wheelchair, so I tilted forward slightly as my left hand came off the wheel. My wheelchair crunched down on its front wheels as the shot glass left my chin. I caught it in midair with my right hand and slammed the shot down without spilling a drop. The bar patrons exploded in a round of applause. I held the shot glass up triumphantly, rolled over to the bartender and thunked the empty glass upside-down on the bar, like you would do in a drinking contest.

"That's pretty crazy," he said, laughing. I smiled.

Just then, the flying dreams popped into my head. They certainly had a habit of showing up unannounced. Without trying to draw his concern, I said, "Heineken, please." He nodded and gave me the beer and a frosted mug.

Before I was going to roll away, the bartender said, "Hey, those two drinks are on the house. Thanks for the show, Jake."

I smiled sheepishly, trying to hide the sudden change in my state of mind and said, "Thanks." He winked back at me before turning his attention to a couple of customers at the bar.

I wheeled my way to an open table, opened the beer and poured it into the mug. I placed the empty can, mug and my exopack onto the table. Maybe I could figure these dreams out over the beer. So I started drinking. Slowly. I wanted to have time to decipher all this. They had been taking a toll on my life for the past year. It had gotten so bad that I almost couldn't perform everyday activities, like waking up or eating. I stared at my distorted reflection in the glass, thinking. My face had a golden tone because of the beer. I picked up the glass again and took another sip. As I put the glass down, I retraced the dream in my head. I felt like I was flying over a burned landscape. A few jagged tree trunks were standing up, peppering the ground. There were no features to the land, just a flat plain, well, what should have been a plain as far as the eye could see. No other animals or people, just me, alone, surveying the destruction. Just looking. Every time I tried to look around, I saw the same thing: destruction. But I never cast a shadow.

It was one of those "WTF!?" moments. Was I supposed to be concerned about this? Was I supposed to be sad that someone had just taken a giant flamethrower to a forest? Angry? Happy? I had been seeing this exact same vision for the past year. It was like a broken record, replaying the same portion over and over again. The image never, ever changed. It was always the same charred landscape. Even if it was green or tickle-me-pink or some other color besides black, I knew Venezuela didn't look like this. Well, at least the area around Caracas didn't. I didn't remember seeing this landscape anywhere; it just popped into my head right after I returned to the US. Something weird was going on, but I was at a loss to figure out what it was.

I took another sip, hoping something would come to me.

A loud smack and a scream jolted me out of my dreamscape. I looked toward the source of the sound. One of the patrons had just hit his girl. His head could have looked like a cue ball from a distance. I wondered if it was their first date together. Doubt it. But something inside me started welling up. I couldn't stop it. I had always had a rule that you should never hit a woman, especially when she's good-looking. But what really threw me over the edge was his attitude toward his girl. "I bet you're not gonna say that again to me, bitch!"

I white-knuckled the grips on my wheelchair and slowly rolled over to the guy. He was burly, that was for sure. But he didn't see me roll up. He was still looking at the girl, who was now sobbing hysterically. So I grabbed his bar stool and yanked. Hard. His seat flew out from underneath him and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, still trying to figure out what was going on. I leapt from my wheelchair onto him, punching. Angry punches. Lots of them. He had no shot at getting me off of him I was so ticked.

The bouncers, though, had plenty of time to hoist me up, still seething and seeing red. The guy looked at me like I had tried to kill him with a knife, but missed. His right temple was bleeding. I hoped it would require stitches. The two bouncers dragged me to the doorway and threw me out like I was a Frisbee. My legs still didn't work, even from the beating, so I had no way to break the fall. My wheelchair came flying out and landed inches away from my head. Pretty good aim, but if they were trying to hit me with it, they missed. The door slammed behind them.

"YOU ASSHOLES JUST LOST A CUSTOMER!" I screamed back at the closed door. I realized my exopack was still at the table with my unfinished beer. Crap. I didn't have the money to buy a new one. Those things were expensive. I guessed a surgeon's mask would have to do. I figured my life just got a hell of a lot shorter.

It was raining, because the night couldn't get any worse. I mean, I had been living in a hellhole for the past year for crying out loud. Pollution was terrible, wars were going on nonstop. And we called it "civilized." I didn't see anything "civilized" about the way we were living, especially from that skinhead. Boy, I seriously hoped he would need lots of stitches at the least.

A neon sign caught my attention. I squinted at it through the falling rain as a maglev train zipped by overhead. It was advertising that "SimuSex" again. Whatever it was, it certainly was everywhere. Apparently, the United States of Hell had no idea what morals meant anymore.

Then the door swung open again. Two men in suits and trench coats came up and found me lying on the ground. My wallet had flown out of my pocket. One of the suits picked it up, but didn't reach for the money. He found my ID. The other one came up to me and handed my exopack to me, saying, "You'll need this."

"Jake Sully," the first suit said to me. "Correct?" He handed my wallet back to me. I grabbed it from him and checked to make sure nothing was taken. Everything was in place. Why the hell would he pick up my wallet to check my ID and give it back? Was he a police officer? Nah, he was wearing a suit. He was probably FBI.

"Leemelone," I mumbled. "You're ruining my good mood." I started to struggle my way to my wheelchair, but the other suit stepped between me and my ride.

"Jake, would you come with us?" the suit between me and my wheelchair asked.

"Why?"

"It's about your brother."

"Tommy?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

Oh, crap. I didn't want to ask, but I already knew the answer.

I stayed mum. They loaded me and my wheelchair into a white van and began driving.