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.

It was later than normal, darker than normal. A strong wind whistled about. Somewhere a dog barked with nervous energy. Closer-by, someone’s back-porch windchimes busily tinkled out harsh claxons of warning. A metal trash can paid no heed to the “Children at Play” sign, rolling past her as though it had someplace important to be.

A taxing day was nearly over. She just wanted to get out of her heels, to pour a glass of wine, and to relax. Winnie was now all that stood in her way. “Come on, Winnie, just do your business, already!”

This night‘s wind was strangely warm, and absent of rain, lending to the night an eeriness which reminded her that tomorrow was Halloween. She made a mental note to pick up a bag of candy or two on her way home tomorrow. Looking around, she hoped for better weather tomorrow, for the children’s sake. Overhead a steady stream of cloud silhouettes raced through the washy glow of a low-hung, cartoonish moon. Across the way, beyond the dim light of an outmatched street lamp, an obscure tree-line swayed wildly, with partially bare limbs flailing their desperation overtop rooted, concrete feet. From the wooded copse loud cracks, and crashes carried over to her through the gales while the crinkling leaves of a dying summer cascaded to the street in waves, skittering in scratchy circles there beneath the underpowered street lamp. She should probably get inside.

No matter which direction she turned her head wild strands of hair found her eyes and mouth, so that her free hand was unceasingly tucking it behind her ears. With her face bent downward away from the gusts she pleaded with Winnie to get her business done, but Winnie, oblivious to the harrowing night, continued her sniffing, and stalling... a dog’s repayment, she supposed, for the extra time spent home alone, as work had kept her late once again.

Another ear-splitting crack drew her eyes back to the copse. She saw something this time that she hadn’t noticed previously. Beneath the lamppost, amongst the circling leaves, stood a man. How had she failed to see him before? Something besides the warm wind produced a shiver inside her. “Come on Winnie. Let’s go home.”

When she started back, the man began walking as well, unhurried, keeping pace. She lifted up on Winnie’s leash, pulling the little dog along behind her. “Come on, Winnie!”

Winnie saw the man now. She stopped walking, and snuffled the wind. She pulled against her leash, emitting a low, menacing growl that added to the woman’s unease. Winnie was a friendly dog, and liked everyone. She whispered to the dog through tight, angry lips. “Stop it, Winnie. Come on!”

Once away from the lamp the man was hard to see. She peered in his direction, looking for movement, but his dark clothes blended in with the dark woods behind him. She could make out just enough to know that he was walking faster now. She felt a stronger surge of fear this time. She pulled the startled dog to her with the leash and scooped it up in her arms. Even tucked in safely against her the dog continued its growling. She walked faster, her heels clicking hard on the asphalt. The man had pulled slightly ahead. He started across, slanting toward her side of the street. In a few moments he would be between her and her house. It was probably silly. She was being irrational. The man was probably a neighbor, and harmless, but she began to run anyway.

She could not run fast, not with a dog in her arms and with high heels on her feet, but she felt an undeniable urgency, so she ran along as best she could. She was quickly winded though, and slowed back to a fast walk. Winnie was barking now, her little body rigid as she pulled it in closer in a failed attempt to comfort. Across the way the man broke into a jog of his own. She panicked now. He was faster. Much faster. He was going to cut her off. She stopped walking. “Who are you?” She yelled. “What do you want?” Her voice sounded unusually weak beneath the howling wind, and the barking dog.

The man made her side of the road a good twenty yards ahead of her. He made no attempt to answer her questions. She wondered if he had even heard her? She wanted to turn around, to go the other way, to put distance between herself and the stranger, but that would take her further from home, further from it’s safety. If she could stall long enough a car might come by. If one did she would flag it down. The man turned around and started toward her.

”What do you want?” She screamed it this time, desperate to be heard. She tried to make out his face in the shadows, his expression, but could see nothing. She was truly panicked now. “What do I do?“ She repeated the words over and over, her mind blank. There was pepper spray in her purse, and her phone was there too, but her purse was on the table beside the front door. She had only planned to be out for a minute. How careless she had been!

The man was close now. Her every instincy screamed “Danger.” Not knowing what else to do she turned and ran in the opposite direction. She heard his footsteps behind her. A whimper escaped her as a strong hand grasped her bicep. Winnie snapped viciously at the hand, and it let go. She was crying now. She ran faster, as fast as she could. She ran for her life.

She was pushed violently then from behind. Winnie yelped. The little dog flew from her arms as she sprawled face first onto the rough, unforgiving asphalt. Ignoring the pain, she rolled herself over to find him looming over top of her. She struck at his shadowy face with both hands.

“Leave me alone! What are you doing?”

There was no answer, but neither did he move away. She was caught. There was nothing to do but surrender. She stopped struggling. “Are you going to kill me?” She asked him.

His voice was low, steady, calming when it finally spoke, more like a teacher to a pupil than a man about to commit murder. “Yes, among other things.”

“Why?” Her voice was somehow calm too.

“I was sent here. All of these years you have gotten treats., but this year is different. This year I am your “Trick-or-Treat.”

”You were sent here?” There was desperation now in her voice. “Sent by whom?”

”Ah!” She was able to make out a twisted smile in the shadows of his face. “Now there is the question. You will find that out soon enough. I am here to take you to him, but I am only the messenger.”

There was no more sound but the wind as cold, boney fingers circled her neck.

Have you ever held a bird in your hand?

Not the ones you can buy at the store,

But the wild ones who have only known sky

And wet dirt from your backyard.

Have you felt their tiny hearts racing?

The sheer panic?

Have you ever said

You should be afraid of me

You should fear death

Your life is in my hands

I can steal the sky and dry out your lands?

Have you ever realized the amount of power you hold?

Even though you would never do these things,

Hurt that bird you’ve admired from afar,

Fed and given shelter to,

Have you at least wanted to?

A bird got caught in my screened in porch

And I spent an hour trying to set it free,

But it kept running into doors and windows

And flying into the corners of the room,

Even though the screen door was wide open

And I begged it to get out,

I begged it to focus, to fight, to escape

So I wouldn’t have to risk its life.

It eventually grew tired, so I grabbed a light towel,

Tried to throw it over the bird as it scurried across the floor

As I have often done,

But every time it would barely escape,

Run to another corner of the room and I would patiently

Follow it.

It got stuck in the process of hiding from me.

I begged it to stop moving,

To give me just one more moment,

But it refused.

I never heard its neck snap, but I saw the blood in its beak.

I held it in my bare hands,

Rubbed its belly and apologized until the tears

Silenced me, my voice ragged.

I sat it in the leaves, thought maybe it’s just stunned,

But its body soon turned cold,

Tightened up and stiffened into rigor mortis.

I buried it under a tree so that when its body

Decayed its nutrients would be memorialized

In its roots, trunk, and leaves.

I never intended to kill the bird

As we often never intend to ruin

The buildings we burn,

And I envy my cat for doing it and making

It look like an art,

But I’m too human and not enough machine.