Chapter 53

I Don't Dream of Jeannie

Memory and reality phase and shift into a disconcerting alignment as I stalk through the halls of my dreams. It is surreal, to be walking in reality step by step through a memory. I feel like a boat sending out ripples in my wake, but in reverse, the ripples instead closing in on me, drawing me forward.

A man's voice comes across the speakers, both distant and present, echoing down the halls and back.

"Code C. All units to containment positions." It says twice, and then, in a way that is strangely familiar, the voice says "make me proud of you."

Containment positions. Does that mean take me down or take me out? If the roles were reversed, if I was the soldier facing… whatever it is they think I am… a creature strong enough to break their security glass and absorb their shock weapons? Well, I would seal the exits and set a trap too, but my choice of armaments would be more of the bullet-y, grenade-y type. I can't help it, but I think of Buffy's riddled, broken body. Slayers were not created in a time when high velocity rounds were an issue. And here is me, new to the job, untrained, exhausted and alone against what could be a small army.

Still, as much as the halls are causing me deja vu, that voice is too. I know that voice. I remember moving through halls not dissimilar to this once… or was that a dream too? Or a memory of a dream? Or strange feedback from my new gift?

It feels somehow important, just lurking in the unformed peripheral of my mind's eye. That voice, these halls… looking for Willow.

I have to stop and take a deep, steadying breath, grip my fists tight, shake them loose. A memory of a taste… bitter, acrid… choking… poisonous. Then a door crumpling, and…

A snarl brings me back to attention, and I press myself against the cool damp stone to peek around the corner of the juncture. The corridor beyond is lined with cells on my right side, the exposed rock face on the left is strung about with bundles of cables as thick as my arm. No guards. I edge around, fists raised. The first cell contains a vampire, an emaciated male with white skin and short cropped hair, shirtless, his tattered burial suit trousers his only clothing remaining. His face is withered and gaunt, the yellow eyes sunken deep, like the grooves on his ribs. Seeing me, he slumps forward, pounding on the electrified glass, the desiccated flesh burning blue like paper. Little remains of his fingers.

I tear my gaze down to a pile of blood packets on the floor, hospital standard, all untouched. The vampire steps back, eyes locked on my throat, mouth drooling thick viscous grey liquid like syrup.

I have never felt sorry for a vampire before. Since Jesse crumbled onto me the night of The Harvest. No remorse, nothing but hatred. I never felt for tortured Angel, or Spike when the love of his long unlife left him. Not even vampire Willow, stranded in another universe away from… and still processing this… alterna vamp Xander me.

No, I have never felt sorry for a vampire. Not a pinch. But the sickening sight of a starved vampire? Maybe. Maybe it was my revulsion at the cruelty of those who could do this… all of this… that sat heavy on my scales. Either way, I made no mistake about what I would do if that barrier had not been there, for I would offer it the only kindness I could give a vampire. If I had a stake.

I step away from the glass, and force myself to keep walking, keep following the path in my dream. In the next cell contains another vampire, equally emaciated despite the packets of blood piled in the middle of the room. It is so hunched over and twisted it barely resembles a human. Its gender is hard to tell, the hair stripped away, sleeves ripped, the pallid arms punchered over and over with bites like track marks. God, it is eating itself, rather than drinking the blood.

As I warily stride on, the scenes revealed in each cell grow more and more disturbing. The demons and vampires all appear sliced open, that 'T' shape you see from autopsies, (I have broken into the morgue more times than I care to count) but these… these... monsters are very much awake, aware- their tormented forms stitched and stapled together.

By the eighth cell, the experiments have grown more and more insane. I see body parts grafted together from a dozen demons, humans… oh god, they look in agony.

By the tenth cell I notice the thing inside still, silent. And the next, and the next; these, I can tell are, mercifully, dead. I stop sharply at the last cell in the row and my breath hitches. Inside, slumped against the far wall is the body of a woman. Well, the predominant parts are, at least, for her limbs are blue and spiked claws, threaded with silvery cables. The ribs are of something yellow green, not human at all, the chest cavity open as the demonic tissue is slowly breaking down into green goo, revealing layers of circuits.

I have to remind myself to breathe, have to force my eyes to blink. The face that stares blankly up at the ceiling is one I recognise. Light brown skin, tight black curls and eyes I saw only briefly when she took off her shades to talk softly to me.

"Agent Clacy." I whisper.

A movement draws my eyes up to see the cell's camera light flicker on and turn to look directly at me. I curse under my breath and back away from the door. The camera.

I step away, and notice another red light flicker on in the previous cell, and the next. All three slowly turn to track me as I edge away.

Many eyes. I shudder at the vision in my dream. Literal or metaphorical, it made me shiver.

I raise an arm quickly, wincing slightly as the cuts on my flesh rub against the fabric. One of the three cameras shift slowly to follow it. Not motion automated. I throw up another arm, and another slowly moves to track it. Slowly. The servomotors are slow.

I smile and flip the bird with both fingers and quickly exit, stage right even. By the time they track to my position I am already wedged in fissure like stone ceiling, amongst the cables and pipes, my back braced against the wall, feet pressing against the sides.

Because I realise Slayer dreams often require translating. And I think I am starting to speak a little.