Three empty cardboard cups lay in various states of smash across the tabletop. Four empty cans bearing flashy labels promising five - no ten - hours of energy stood witness next to their corpses. A pill bottle and two stained coffee mugs made up the last of the army. Next to these, the phone blinked angrily with notification signals.

He didn’t want to answer it. He knew what it wanted.

They only called him as a last resort, so it wouldn’t be long until the ringing came from the doorbell not the device. Yet he still sat there on the floor, sweats hanging limply from a body near twitching from ingested caffeine. Please just go away.

Yet the doorbell chimed as if on cue.

With a resigned sigh, he stood and put on his slippers before cracking the door, chain creaking in protest along with his soul. “Yes?”

“Are you Dreamer?” The man’s black suit suggested “business”, but the barely concealed holster under his arm screamed “mind your own”.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” A wry smile split his pale face. His bangs flopped in front of eyes so blackened they could have passed as gothic art.

“You’re needed, it’s an emergency.”

Shaking his head, he opened the door fully and exited his apartment, pocketing keys into his robe before shutting the door with finality. “It always is,” he breathed, not bothering to put on proper shoes. The man in the black loafers, for his part, said nothing and simply led him downstairs.

-----

The scene might have startled a normal citizen, but Dreamer walked through the carnage as if still asleep, barely nodding at the dead and the dying around him. The epicenter of the disaster lay only a few more yards ahead, a man with a ray gun. How cliche.

“What’s his name?” Dreamer asked softly, staring at the figure clothed in black - typical - and cackling like the madman he obviously was.

“Doctor Death,” the man in the suit replied somberly. He’d been briefed on both his enemy as well as his less-than-enthusiastic partner. “He’s provided ‘the release from the pain of living’ to over two hundred and sixty thousand so far, not including the body count here today.”

Nodding, Dreamer took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Alright. Please step back and keep everyone out of my line of sight.” His arm raised, but his eyelids stayed shut.

“Understood.” Waving to the line of agents on either side, he added, “You’re clear.”

When Dreamer’s eyes finally opened they had morphed into black pools, devoid of pupils and yet filled with a kind of swirling motion if anyone could manage to look that close. Luckily only Doctor Death made that mistake. Pausing from his spree he turned and locked gazes with Dreamer for an instant - and fell to the ground.

The blasting silenced, the man in the suit waited until Dreamer again closed his eyes and nodded, curtly. With a hand wave, he signaled his team to move in and pick up Doctor Death’s limp form, careful to confiscate his weapon and lock it up for safe storage and analysis. When Dreamer finally blinked open again his eyes had returned to their normal, saddened state.

“Thank you for your service,” the agent bowed, his sunglasses hiding his own expression.

Dreamer watched as they carried the former supervillain away. “You’re taking him to Betadrome?”

“Yes. He’ll be placed there with the others.”

Without another word, Dreamer turned and walked back towards the car.

Not pressing further, the agent followed and quietly climbed into the driver seat, returning him to his small apartment and the graveyard of insomnia that made up its not-really-living room.

-----

Dreamer felt drained, as he always did after using his powers. Regret washed over him as he began the long, weary march to his bedroom. He knew he couldn’t put it off any longer; he needed to recharge. Yet he wouldn’t surrender to sleep’s embrace until utter exhaustion finally dragged him under its thrall.

Because unlike his victims, he would actually wake up the next day.

She crouched back, hiding behind the sofa. Covering her eyes, she started humming her song, desperately trying to get her mind carried away. I must not give in. I must stay here. I am a danger to this world. I am a danger to this world...

The glass shattered as the agents broke through into the living room. Tears started trickling down her cheeks, but it was inevitable now; she wouldn't be able to control it any longer. Her body underwent that sensation of becoming lighter, and she gasped, begging again, even though it was no use. Please don't!!! PLEASE!!! I'm going to hurt her!!

Her body shot up against her wishes, sticking to the roof. With her eyes still closed, the tears sank into her cheeks, completely disappearing. The tiredness under her eyes disappeared, her cheeks grew redder, and her slightly grayish-raven locks streaked into a jet-black. Her eyes shot open, the green depths seething with hate.

We're back. Let's get to work; nobody left behind. She glanced down to where she had previously been hiding. Come on, Eins. Wake up; it's diversion time!

The men swung around to the sofa, having heard the gasp. Slowly, she rose up; grayish-raven hair, green eyes reflecting her fright, her face a pale-ashen color. The red dots flickered on her body; they were ready to take her dead, if it must be.

She smirked, watching from above. You didn't read your dossiers, boys. Never aim at the first...Oh, look who joined us! Director Timothy Carlton stepped in, his hands buried in the cavities of his jacket.

"Have you forgotten everything I told you?!" He barked out, resulting in all guns being lowered to the ground, some of the agents even having the decency to show some shame at their disobedience. "That's the diversion! You have to search for Zierlich's counter ego, not her image!"

It's time to play, boys. The Director has arrived...The situation has just been escalated.

Eins came into motion, sprinting out of the room, into the hallway. The agents started after her, but their director quickly dashed their hopes of a chase.

"No! Just two of you. Keep an eye on her." Tense, they waited for the command; everybody wanted this call. "Brown and Collier; go." Some groaning arose, but it was quickly stifled under the director's warning glare. "Please order yourself, men! Stop standing around like nervous schoolgirls wanting to audition for a play. Disorder does not fit into the qualifying criteria of a secret agent."

Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht, Neun, Zehn...Aufwachen...

As the men quickly filed into their respective positions, the outlines of girls appeared slowly. The nine look-alikes became fully visible, startling the men. Director Carlton lost his composure, the fear quickly spreading from his eyes to his whole body.

"Don't stand there like some lily-livered schoolboys! SHOOT!!!"

Elf, Zwölf, Dreizehn, Vierzehn, Fünfzehn, Sechzehn, Siebzehn, Achtzehn, Neunzehn, Zwanzig...Aufwachen...

(Eins = One)

("Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht, Neun, Zehn...Aufwachen..." = "Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten...Wake up...")

("Elf, Zwölf, Dreizehn, Vierzehn, Fünfzehn, Sechzehn, Siebzehn, Achtzehn, Neunzehn, Zwanzig...Aufwachen..." = "Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty...Wake up...")

The doctor arrived to join the group of seven that had been waiting around the bed for the inevitable to begin. The nurse would have included herself among the count but the sound of the chatter, the machines, and the monitor were too loud, so she had to step away. Not to mention her mask. She explained the situation to the family on the other end of the call desperately hoping they would overturn their decision to resuscitate him if it was necessary.

She said her piece and waited.

As soon as it was clear the answer was not what she was hoping for, she rejoined the group but stayed on the phone to let the appointed representative of the family say what he wanted. Her attention was split. Her eyes darted back and forth from the monitor that continued to chip away at hope and the individual who gathered their now group of nine to the bed. His skin was turning grey, his eyes were crusted from extended time under sedation, and his mouth was hanging open to allow space for the tube that kept him alive to this point. A mess of tubing that ran from his arm, through a monstrous set up of pumps, and finally to different bags that contained complex formulations that placated death's approach, but they all knew it was simply a matter of time.

The numbers on the monitor continued to fall. The nurse made her way closer to the pumps to see if there anymore changes she could make to buy more time to sell her case to the family. Nothing. The doctor asked the nurse to check the for a pulse. She switched the phone to her other hand. It was there, but it was weak. She held the phone to her ear and shifted her focus back to the voice on the other end offering his words of assurance that his father would come back to them and it will be just like before, but the nurse could not help but think that this man would never be the same again. She could not shake the inescapable reality that though every fiber over her being wanted the son's reality to be true exactly as he described it, it simply would not.

Just as the nurse began to slip away to take one more attempt at reasoning with the family, the alarms on the monitor went from a simple chime to a frantic warning signal. The doctor called for a pulse check. There was none. A male nurse began compressions. Despite all the sounds around that bed of the pumps, the monitor, the ventilator, the voices of the congregation, or even the voices of the family in her ear, nothing was more clear than the sound of ribs breaking with he first couple compressions. She notified the family. Medications were being given on strict time intervals followed by short pauses only to check if a pulse had reinitiated. With each failure to feel the heart working, the cycle continued. Two-minute intervals never felt so long.

She continued to keep family aware of the events as best as she could in the hopes that she would hear three simple words," Let him go". They persisted. This entire production of events continued for another six to eight minutes before an aide was able to find a pulse.

The nurse was torn. At her core she was elated that the team was able to bring this patient back from death, but the thought was haunted by the sinister idea of what kind of life this man would have if he ever made it back. She became a nurse to save lives and help people like the man in front of her and the family on the phone, so why was the thought of this man surviving paralyzing her.

She did not have much time to search her soul for answers. She looked at the monitor and knew that round two was going to begin. Fortunately, the rest of the team did not have a chance to get far, and they began preparations for the second assault. The nurse once again, made her pitch to the family, even allowing the doctor an opportunity to help them realize what each member of team already knew. The family pushed on.

Shortly after the phone was given back to the nurse, the time had come. the process began anew.

The cycle repeated itself five times that night. Loss of pulse, start CPR, give medications, pausing to check, eventual return, and eventual decline. It was not until the entire process was completed five times that the family decided that it was time to stop.

The team stopped and next phase began with the old man. Family had their time to say their last words to him over the phone, the bay was cleaned and different tubes and wires were disconnected from his now lifeless body, and the nurse was finally released from the paralyzing grip of her imaginings. It was over. The man who endured can finally rest.

The nurse finally sat down and was able to begin her charting on the events that had just transpired. She perused the notes a member of the team took and noted the total time. fifty-two minutes.

She glanced at her watch.

Only ten more hours to go.