Brent McCoy, NFL Quarterback

Brett McCoy touched his reflection in the mirror, feeling the cool glass under his fingertips. Incredible, he thought. He breathed in the crisp air around him, feeling the plush carpet below his feet. The bastards finally did it: true virtual reality! He loaded another Construct, cringing slightly as his fancy Roman hotel suite fell away around him. Now he was standing in a cozy French apartment with the Eiffel Tower visible outside his balcony.

The NFL quarterback grinned as he traipsed out onto the balcony, groping himself openly. Classic Peugeots, Renaults and Citroens plied the streets below. Everything seemed just a little too exaggerated: the autumn leaves a bit too vibrant; the people just a little too stylish; the streets a little too clean. He breathed in the morning Parisian air: baking bread instead of stale piss. Faintly, he could even hear someone playing an accordion in the distance.

Nobody on the street below seemed to mind the pale, muscular American masturbating on the balcony. They wouldn't until he made them. He rubbed his hands together in glee, wondering where he would start.