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Author's Note: See author's profile for extended note on this story.
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Dream
He dreamed of a forest, one where the treetops sprouted pink as much as dark green, and the air was tinged violet by an eerie kind of daylight. The brush beneath his feet made no sound, nor did the branches he had to push aside to get by. The only noise to be heard was a faint moaning wind, which sounded too much like a human voice for his liking.
He walked cautiously, in a nameless direction and acutely aware that the red trim on his uniform was the most vibrant color in this hazy place. The color of a target. He wasn't sure what this place was, or what he was doing here, but if that was true, then why wasn't he surprised to find himself here?
He walked until the endless parade of identical trees ceased without warning or reason, and he found himself in a wide clearing coated with thick blue grass. The sky overhead was now visible, and he realized with a start that it was a clear sea green. It was like the world had been turned on its head.
In the center of that clearing stood a red robed figure, rich scarlet folds pooling around its feet like blood puddles in the grass. The color was deep, much darker than the trim on his uniform, and the fabric was full of shadows. The stranger's face was turned away, away from him and away from the light. He or she stood completely still.
Such menace emanated from this figure, entirely evocative of the Grim Reaper. It kept him hovering on the edge where clearing and trees met, unwilling to go farther into the open. Eventually he backed away, intent on sneaking off because nothing significant was happening. He turned…
And there was the figure looming behind him, the black hole of a shadow beneath its hood mere inches from his face. He leaped back with a startled yelp, heart hammering away in his chest like it wanted to escape. The figure said and did nothing, but a faint hissing rattle cut through the air. He had to wait until his voice was steady again to speak.
"Why am I here?"
He had not intended to say that. He had meant to ask 'who are you' but somehow different words slipped from his mouth. Before him, the red fabric stirred in a wind he could not feel, and in such a way that he got the impression the face beneath it was grinning at him. A smile like that, sinister enough to be felt when it could not be seen, did not bode well. His hand automatically reached to his right side, but his blaster was not there. Neither was his morpher. He had nothing.
The figure lifted its hands, encased in rough brown leather gauntlets, and he took a step back, falling into a defensive stance. He watched the fingers hook with deliberate slowness onto the edges of the hood and ease it back. Every inch it slid raised another hair on the back of his neck.
Dear God...though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
A blackened face that rejected all light appeared. It was savage, grotesquely mutilated. It might have been human—it might have been alive once, but now it was life in ruins. It was not life. It was scars and destruction. It was decomposition and death. The lipless mouth seemed to say with its grin, 'I've got you.'
I will fear no evil.
But he was afraid. He was frozen, his heart pumping ice water. The figure declined its head minutely, and he glanced downward in a panic. There was nothing—a trick. His gaze snapped back up; he couldn't help himself. This was the enthrallment held by all things terrible. But it was a mistake. As soon as his eyes lifted, something icy stabbed him in the chest, so cold it burned like flame, and so roughly it stole his breath. He stiffened, his body going rigid, air unable to pass through. This wasn't the end. It wasn't...
He glanced down. A silver blade was at his heart, edge wet with his life. A brown leather hand held the handle in a movement he never saw.
Art thou with me?
He fell, silently, though he wanted to fight. In this place, his existence wasn't worth a cry. He had been brought here and he had asked the right question. He had been brought here to die.