Back in the dressing room, I pull out my clothes from the shelf where I left them. But none of them seem familiar.

My panties are sheer pink with little opaque stars and moons in the fabric. They're a bikini style and they cut into my butt cheeks.  I guess in the game, I got used to a thong or nothing at all. I briefly consider taking them off. It would be more comfortable, but considering how short the skirt I wore here is, going commando might get me arrested.

The skirt is black and pleated. It barely reaches mid-thigh. I struggle with my bra as though its the first time I've ever put one on. It doesn't match my panties, instead it's a pale blue-gray and on the band the words "Love Pink" is repeated in script all the way around. They give my boobs a bit of lift, and I admire my profile in the mirror. Still, something nags at me... these things are just so... girly.

My top is a white long-sleeved shirt of ribbed fabric that's held together by some decorative string-ties at my bust. Otherwise it scoops down low at the neckline and separates out at the bottom leaving my stomach exposed. I have black knee-high stocking socks and black patent leather shoes with three inch heels.

On another shelf, I find my jewelry: a gold chain necklace with a crescent moon pendant, various earring (three for my right ear, two for my left), and a belly ring. It has a metal bar and three clear crystal stars of descending size. Last, I put my iBand (in glossy bubblegum pink) on my wrist. I flick it, and the holographic display comes up, showing me it's nearly eight o'clock, overcast, and that I have 55 missed notifications and 12 unread messages.

I look myself over. I haven't put on makeup, but there must be some in purse. Even without it, I look like a slutty high-school student. My Hispanic features show in the shape of my nose and the thickness of my eyebrows. My black hair is barely shoulder length and is fluffing up as it dries.

The thought comes again: this isn't me.

But if I'm not this, who am I? The first thing that flashes in my head is my Banshee character. But that isn't right either. Wasn't I tall? Wasn't I older? Wasn't I a—

There's a knock at the door. It's Donna. "Um... I know you said you were fine, but I called your emergency contact, and she said she'd pick you up at the southeast entrance of the mall in ten minutes."

"Oh!" I grab my purse and start to hustle, wondering who's picking me up.

* * *

We sit opposite each other in the car. She's hired a luxury model with plush wide seats facing each other and a small table between them. The automated driver is muted.

She's concentrating on her iBand display and clicking on selections now and then. I see the family resemblance, but I can't help having trouble accepting that she's my mother. I don't remember ever seeing her before in my life.

"There," she says, snapping off the display. "I've managed to make an emergency appointment with your therapist tomorrow. I should contact our lawyer. How dare they leave you in such a state! It's irresponsible! But I suppose there will be time enough to deal with that."

"Therapist?" I have a therapist? "Look, I'd just like to get some rest. I'll probably feel better tomorrow. I don't have to talk to a therapist."

"¡Dios mío! Yes, you do! You didn't even recognize me! You had to go play that stupid game. I told you that it was dangerous. I told you. And now your brains are all scrambled. You will go to her. You will talk to her."

"I can deal with it my own way." I can't believe how small and frail my voice sounds. This woman is really intimidating.

"Triste, you may be eighteen, but for as long as your living in my house, and I'm paying for everything—everything!—you will mind me."

I still live at home? Didn't I move out? I kind of remember moving out.

"But what is talking to a therapist going to do?"

"God if I know. ¡Me cago en ná! If she was as good as they say, she would have stopped you dressing like a whore by now. But what else should I do? What else, huh? Should I take you to the hospital? How about a mental ward? Is that what you want?"

I sink lower into my seat. "No."

* * *

We live in a penthouse condo overlooking the city with a great view of the skyline. It seems I'm rich. Or my mother is. You'd think having money and such a nice place to live would calm her. It doesn't. It only makes matters worse when I can't find my room. The way she carries on, I wonder if she will take me to an asylum after all. 

I shut the door behind me and the lights come on automatically. I must have a night mode set, because only the two bedside lamps and the one on the desk switch on. It's filled with chic furniture like the rest of the apartment. But unlike the rest of the place, it's a mess. Clothes are strewn across the floor. The bed is unmade. A cosmetic store worth of merchandise is piled on the dresser. The terminal on the desk has dozens of portals left open. The television has been left on and the screen is divided with five shows playing at once. 

So, I'm a slob. I guess.

I kick my shoes off and throw myself onto the bed. I go through my notifications and messages. Most of it is the regular stuff. New content for me to see on my favorite channels. A make-up tutorial, a new song from that hot K-pop girl with a rocking body, several cam-girls I follow announcing new shows, a new porn halo. That sort of thing. The messages are mostly from stores announcing sales. The only interesting thing is from someone I guess is a friend. She wants to know if I'm available for a hook up after I get out of the game. There's a follow up from her just a few minutes old. She's heard the news about RoboDyne and wants to know if I'm okay.

I text: "A little confused but ok."

I get back: "Phew!"

Then a moment later: "What to come by?"

This is followed by a crotch pic. Her pussy is wet and glistening.

"We miss U," Pops up.

Staring at the picture, I feel myself salivating. I want to take her up on her offer. The urge is almost irresistible, but I can't remember what the rest of her looks like or where she even lives. So, I text back that I need to get some rest.

This does make me wonder about my friends in Feronia. Especially, Astra and Kerda. Are they out now? They must be. I wonder if there's some way to get in touch with them. Astra says she used her real name, like I did. I search for it, but although there aren't tons of results, there are too many to figure out which one is her without knowing where she's from. Damn! I should have asked more about her life. I really know nothing about her.

Of course, I don't really know anything about me either, at the moment.

I get up glancing at the nightstand. In addition to the lamp, there's an empty glass and and a half-empty coffee cup, a bunch of rings and other jewelry, and a large jug of something with a pump on top. I pick up some of the rings but none of them seem familiar. 

I wander over to the desk and glance at the work on the terminal. There's all kinds of stuff from news articles to vacation brochures, but the actual work is all high school stuff. Senior level, but still. Aren't I in college? I seem to remember studying...

It's like its on the edge of my tongue, and I just can draw it out.

I flip through the portals, until I come across a college application. Maybe that's it. Maybe I've been dreaming of going to college, and I'm just mixed up. It's for an art school. I'm applying to their dance program. Of course! That's it! I want to be a dancer!

Right?

It must be. Maybe that's why I took the dancing spell in the game.

I leave the desk and kick some clothes out of the way. Some of them are parts of a school uniform. Green tartan skirt, white blouse, navy blazer with the school crest. Damn! I can't believe I'm a private school girl. The whole idea is so strange.

My dresser is a good three feet wide with three long drawers. I open the top one. Panties and bras. A few for exercise but most are designed to be sexy—lots of silk and lace. The middle one contains tops and sweaters. I shut it and open the bottom one.

I stand there stunned with my mouth wide open.

Inside the drawer is the largest collection of sex toys I have ever seen. There has to be a dozen dildos of various colors and sizes. Half as many vibrators including one giant industrial looking monster. There are harnesses for strap-ons and an assortment of butt plugs.

What the actual hell?!?

Something clicks in my head, and I run back to the nightstand and take a good look at the jug. It's a gallon container of lube. From its weight in my hands, I can tell it's nearly empty.

What the actual hell?!?

* * *

I'm sitting in my therapists office. It's stuffy and old-fashioned with oak bookshelves and faux-leather chairs like a psychiatrist's office in an old movie. She's a woman of about fifty with steel-gray hair. She's pretty sharp looking for her age. There's no doubt she once was a hottie—no! Still is a hottie. And her age has lent her an air of sophistication. I've just finished telling her all bout my experience in Feronia and afterward. Although, I have tried to hide some of my more extreme amnesia.

"I see," she says, appraising me. "Let me ask you this: how has your sex addiction been lately?"

"Sex addiction?!? I don't have a sex addiction."

"Let's not start that again. We both know you most certainly do. Even if that's wasn't the reason your mother brought you to me, the fact you tried to seduce me during our first three sessions would have clued me in. Now, let me rephrase the question: have you fucked anyone since exiting the game?"

"No." I can hear the pride in my voice. I most definitely did not have sex with anyone.

"Good. How about masturbation? Did you masturbate last night?"

I turn red and squeak, "Yes."

"For how long? How much time did you spend masturbating?"

I mumble, 'Two hours." Okay, it was more like two hours and forty-five minutes. Sue me if I rounded down.

My embarrassment increases, however, as the memory of exploring my toy collection comes back to me. I can't believe some of the things I was able to fit inside of me and how hard a came. It makes me want to give myself a little attention right now. Maybe Dr. Granger might be willing to join in...

I take a deep breath and try and clear my head. I say, "I don't see what that has to do with what happened to me in the game."

"It makes perfect sense." She pauses and adjusts her glasses. "I've read the media reports on the incident. Every player has a different account, and if you put it all together, it doesn't take a genius to see that everyone got a game that somehow tapped into their emotional needs."

"What? That can't be true."

What about the others I played with? We were we all in the same version. There's no doubt about that. Unless they were just computer constructs and the game was tricking me to think I was playing with other people.

"Don't take my word for it, pull up any news feed about it. Watch the account of the bullied weakling who became a fifty foot god-like being in a land of munchkins. Or the attention starved forty-year-old, who found himself in an over-populated city, playing with a system that required Non-Player Characters to seduce him. Then there's you, a young-woman who can't face herself and who uses sex as a way to cope with her insecurities somehow playing in a a completely lewd game."

"But it was terrible. I didn't like it at all," I tell her in a pleading voice.

"Just so. You found yourself in a world of sexual promiscuity, where you were an uptight prude, who was somehow forced to engage in these activities. Forced, so you didn't need to take any responsibility for your actions. You didn't need to feel guilt over your action. Sort of perfect for you, don't you think?"

"No. It wasn't like that. I don't... Look, forget about the game. What about the effects I've been feeling? Should I see a specialist? I mean, ever since I got out of the pod, everything has felt off. Like I'm not supposed to be me—" I gesture at my body. "Be this! It's almost like I woke up in someone else's pod, somehow took over someone else's body—life."

"Disorientation is normal after an emergency extraction. All the medical texts agree. And this isn't anything new for you."

"It isn't?"

"Triste, you have to start accepting yourself. Loving yourself. These constant fantasies of yours about being someone else are just as self-destructive as your constant need for sex. So, you feel as though you should be taller, older, more educated... it's about your need to feel in control. Just like last week when you told me how sometimes you think you were supposed to be a man. Or before that when you thought you were adopted and were supposed to have an entirely different life? Every time you build these elaborate stories around it until you almost convince yourself it's true."

"I..." Constant fantasies? Was the confusion from being pulled from the game just exaggerating my psychological problems?

"Have you been doing your mindfulness exercises?"

I stare at her blankly.

"I'll take that as a no. Let's go over them again. I'd also like to add some general meditation and breathing exercises in as well. I think until you're fully recovered from the extraction, it's extremely important to center you in the here and now and get yourself out of your own imagination. Now, I want you to do a full routine of these three times a day until our next session. Morning, afternoon, and before bed. Will you do that?"

I reluctantly agree.

"This is important, Triste," she tells me sternly. "Do you want to feel that you lost the real you in some fantasy game for the rest of your life?"

"No."

"Then do the meditation. I promise, if you follow this routine, you'll start to feel more like your old self in no time. Who knows, it might even help you feel better about your old self too. And don't you want that?"