Dreamweaver : Prelude
"Kagetsuya! Kagetsuya, where are you?"
It's inevitable, he told himself.
Inevitable. The dream, the one he knows is a dream and can't help as it plays itself out. The curtain of misty darkness swirls away, leaving him to once again play his part.
Inevitable...
It was the alley again, the one he'd seen so many times. It was dark, except for the entrance where the dim glow of the streetlights managed to filter through. The rank odor of dead and decaying rodents mingled with the stench of rotting garbage. Closing his eyes, he held his breath and tried to ignore the scritches of the dark side street's four-legged inhabitants.
And waited, settling into his role.
The streetlight on the opposite side of the street began to flicker. The street itself was empty. Where there was usually someone out and about in the wee hours of the night--for that was the time it must be--there was no one. There weren't even any cars driving through. There were none of the telltale high frequency waves that told when a television was on, nor were there the faint sounds of music from a radio turned down low. There was only him and the rats and insects.
It was disturbing. He knew it was just a dream, even told himself so countless times before... But it was disturbing nonetheless. Frightening, even, that there seemed to be no life around him, no hooker at the corner, no teenagers trying to prove something to their parents by breaking curfew, no drunkard stumbling around and ranting to anyone within hearing range.
Nothing.
And inevitable.
Then, suddenly, "No! Let me go! Help! Someone, please! Help me!"
He felt a sharp pang in his hear at the fear and pain in the voice. He'd expected it and it hurt just the same.
Footsteps. Harsh male voices and the muffled cries for help. He wanted to dart out of his hiding place, to save the one whose pleas were sent out to the darkness, to deal the harsh justice the captors deserved.
And yes, anything and everything I do equals to moot. He pounded a fist into the wall behind him, breathing out a curse sufficient enough to skin the hides off rats. Kami, and it's the only way to end this madness...
Everything he did, every trick he tried to pull, it all ended the same. And yet, it was the only way the dream would end. Whether he ran out or stayed where he was, he would have to witness a scene he dreaded before the dream released him from the stranglehold on his mind.
Inevitable.
With a growl, he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped out into the street. "Let him go."
His voice was soft and menacing, but it nevertheless carried to where the only other living beings on the street were. Several pairs of eyes darted to him, most holding an irritation at being interrupted, one filled with a desperate hope.
Their captive, a slight, young man, took the opportunity to attempt escape, pulling away violently and cried out, in a voice filled with hysteric joy, "Kagetsuya!"
"Hold him!" one, clearly the leader by the authority in his tone, snarled, and the rest obeyed in a heartbeat.
"No! Chihaya!"
He didn't get more than two steps in their direction when a flash of silver stopped him. Knife, agai-- The thought faded when he caught sight of the .35-caliber gun in the leader's hand. What the...
"One more step, you winged freak," the man threatened, tracing Chihaya's jaw line with the barrel of the gun, "and your pretty, little boy here gets it."
A strangled sound escaped his throat before he could prevent it. Whatever I do... Chihaya--no! It's a dream, just a stupid dream!
The weapon came to rest at the captive's temple. "That's a good boy." He smiled mockingly. "You know, ehm-- Mr. Kagetsuya, I must applaud for you getting this far. Just for that, maybe we should set this pretty bird free, hm?"
He gave no answer, mind whirling with confusion. Gun? That's the second time. Why does this dream vary? His lines are different and there's less lackeys than usual...
Then, this is impossible, hopeless. That thought angered him. It's a dream, you fool, just a dream. No matter how real it seems.
And still he was filled with indecision. It was a dream, but it was one he couldn't wake up from, not until it ran its course. He had to finish it. But that meant an ending he always dreaded, an ending that made him sick and furious and even just a little bit fearful. The latter because there was a superstition that recurring dreams tended to have a meaning of great importance; not only did the one repeat, but it wouldn't release him until it had played itself out.
He took a deep breath and made his painful choice.
It's inevitable. An inevitable end to the inevitable dream.
He went for them, cutting through the air, his form nonetheless graceful, immaculate wings whiter than snow flaring in the space of a second. He was nothing but a blur of black, white, and gold, flying towards them with a speed matched by only one thing.
A single gunshot.