The Dreamer

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.