Chapter 18 - City Park Hotel, Gotham
Can a nightmare dream?
The simple answer is no. Those created in the Dreaming cannot dream themselves, any more than a man can lift himself up in the air by reaching down, grabbing his own ankles and pulling upwards.
But simple answers rarely tell the whole story, and the Corinthian was never one to let the impossible get in his way. He might not be able to dream, but there substitutes if one were creative enough for him.
The most common form of relaxation he had was secondary memory. Thoughts and perceptions that were not originally his, but which he could nonetheless experience. The Lord of the Dreaming had given him that gift at his creation and he was truly grateful for it.
As he lay back on his comfortable bed in the City Park Hotel, he savoured… images.
There was an old myth that the eyes retained the last image they saw when they died, (as in the habit of Victorian Police photographing murder victims eyes in the hope of finding an image of the murderer) but humans had never been much for subtlety. In fact the eyes remembered everything they had ever seen, every ray of light that fell on an optic nerve was recorded at some level, just as every ray of light that fell on a photographic plate marked it. It took a very special kind of perception to be aware of this, but the Corinthian certainly had that.
He savoured most the eyes of those who had seen cruelty but not been completely destroyed by it, the mingled flavours of innocence, corruption and personal agony were his favourites. Not that he killed only to feed mind you, only animals did that. He killed because he could and because it was his mission, the fact he was good at it was merely a pleasant bonus.
He hadn't had long to enjoy his work last night, but the flavours had been marvellous. He settled back and replayed some of the images that he had absorbed from his most recent victims. Images, sensations of humiliation, neglect, disillusionment, fear, pain and loneliness all mingled, sometimes from Carlos, sometimes from Brad, sometimes from victims long since gone, whose names he could recall, but rarely bothered to. He smiled warmly as he basked in the sheer accumulated misery of their lives and the agony they had experienced at his own hands… They had truly known the stuff of nightmares in their lives, and had met an end to match.
In this state, as close to dreaming as a dream could ever come, the Corinthian relaxed, contented and temporarily sated on dreams... He had things to do later in the day, but in the meantime he smiled, and smiled and smiled.
Can a nightmare dream?
The simple answer is no. Those created in the Dreaming cannot dream themselves, any more than a man can lift himself up in the air by reaching down, grabbing his own ankles and pulling upwards.
But simple answers rarely tell the whole story, and the Corinthian was never one to let the impossible get in his way. He might not be able to dream, but there substitutes if one were creative enough for him.
The most common form of relaxation he had was secondary memory. Thoughts and perceptions that were not originally his, but which he could nonetheless experience. The Lord of the Dreaming had given him that gift at his creation and he was truly grateful for it.
As he lay back on his comfortable bed in the City Park Hotel, he savoured… images.
There was an old myth that the eyes retained the last image they saw when they died, (as in the habit of Victorian Police photographing murder victims eyes in the hope of finding an image of the murderer) but humans had never been much for subtlety. In fact the eyes remembered everything they had ever seen, every ray of light that fell on an optic nerve was recorded at some level, just as every ray of light that fell on a photographic plate marked it. It took a very special kind of perception to be aware of this, but the Corinthian certainly had that.
He savoured most the eyes of those who had seen cruelty but not been completely destroyed by it, the mingled flavours of innocence, corruption and personal agony were his favourites. Not that he killed only to feed mind you, only animals did that. He killed because he could and because it was his mission, the fact he was good at it was merely a pleasant bonus.
He hadn't had long to enjoy his work last night, but the flavours had been marvellous. He settled back and replayed some of the images that he had absorbed from his most recent victims. Images, sensations of humiliation, neglect, disillusionment, fear, pain and loneliness all mingled, sometimes from Carlos, sometimes from Brad, sometimes from victims long since gone, whose names he could recall, but rarely bothered to. He smiled warmly as he basked in the sheer accumulated misery of their lives and the agony they had experienced at his own hands… They had truly known the stuff of nightmares in their lives, and had met an end to match.
In this state, as close to dreaming as a dream could ever come, the Corinthian relaxed, contented and temporarily sated on dreams... He had things to do later in the day, but in the meantime he smiled, and smiled and smiled.