Howdy

The night was lit up by fireworks in the sky, the stillness of the desert air broken by the cheering crowd. I stepped out from under an awning and into the dirt road that ran along the center of town, nearly filled with people watching the show. The fourth of July. Seems like a good party, but I felt myself drawn to a two story building across the street.
I never dreamed of the old west before, in spite of the John Wayne movies I've seen as a kid. It never really appealed to me as a setting. But here I was. Moseying. I walked into the building and a bearded man beckoned me over to the counter. I cringed as the jingling of spurs met my ears, and when I got to the counter he tossed me a paper.
He told me a shipment of diamonds was carried off of a train last week, and that there were some suspicious characters that had checked out a room upstairs. He didn't want any trouble, but the reward money would more than pay for any damages, and he would be willing to split it. Generous of him, since I was the one doing the work. I got the feeling I worked there. I didn't realize they had hotel detectives back in those days, but it seemed that was the job.
He gave me the spare key to the room and I set down the paper before starting up the stairs. The explosions outside were muted to a quiet pop in the corridor. Reaching down, I couldn't find a six-gun, and was confused for a moment until I reached behind my back to feel the long bone handle of a bowie knife. I drew it from my belt, revealing a broad blade with a clip point. That'll do.
I held it in a reverse grip with my right hand, using my left to unlock the door. The key clicked loudly in the lock, and I paused a moment. I didn't hear any movement inside. I turned the knob and pushed, standing aside in case of a shot. Nothing. Very carefully, I eased my head around the frame.
Two large beds occupied the center of the room, both unmade, and one a bloody mess with a large man lying atop it. He had several holes in him, and tears in his clothing. He put up a fight, but the blade that killed him didn't seem to have an edge. An icepick, perhaps? He bled out more from the wound on his neck, most likely having his carotid artery punctured. A hard shot with a slim blade like that.
Next to the bed was a short dresser with a large jewelry box sitting atop it. All it's drawers were open, some were missing, and scattered all around were gems of various shapes, shades, and sizes. But no diamonds.
Guess I spoke too soon. In the dim lamplight, a glimmer from the corner by the window caught my eye. It was a small one, but looked real enough. Even if I don't catch the rest of the gang, it could be worth something. I tucked it into my hat and looked over to the window. A boot imprint was visible on the sill, and down below was a long awning that looked to be the roof of the stables. So that's how they got away.
Climbing out the window, I jumped down from the roof of the stables. The flashes from the fireworks overhead caused shadows to dance along the ground, illuminating the hoof prints of their horses. The smoke dissipated further along their trail, the stars and moon overhead would light the way. Sheathing my knife, I saddled the nearest horse and rode after them.
It didn't take long to track them down. There was an abandoned homestead not far from town, and they seemed to have stopped there for the night. I hitched my horse to a tree behind a hill and reconnoitered. One lookout, with a cigarette in his face, and a rifle slung across his back. Piece of cake.
I snuck around from the far side of the house, being careful when passing under the window. Drawing my knife, I cut a piece of rope from a length that was lying on the ground and wrapped it around my left fist, leaving a length dangling. With my knife back in it's sheathe, I took off my hat for a peak around the corner. His back was turned. I ran up, whipping the rope around his throat and pulling tight, garroting him. Though the rope was taught around his neck, he flailed wildly. I managed to cut off enough of his air for him to pass out, but the commotion probably alerted those inside. I'm out of time.
Bursting through the door, I had my knife in hand, and assessed the situation right away. I had four guns pointed at me from four corners of the room. I jumped through the window in front of me just as they went off. Getting back to my feet, I took a peek back inside. That's four of them down. I wonder if the reward needed them back alive.
A shadow from behind had me jump aside, leaving me with just a slash in my arm rather than my neck. He had on a black vest, a black hat, and a large machete with my blood on it. I lifted the brim of my hat using the tip of my blade and spun it back into a reverse grip. He made the first swing. I parried with my blade and turned, using my other hand to catch his head and throw him into the broken window. He didn't go all the way through, hanging over the edge of the sill. And as he came back up, bits of broken glass clung to him. His blade changed hands, and he reached down for his gun. I spun my knife around, readying it for a throw.
When I got up, I had a pain in my neck and a splitting headache. The sun was shining through my windows, and as I reached over for my glasses, I wondered what brought that dream on. And whether or not I had won my quick draw duel.

The High Road

My dreams usually feel like something out of a video game and this was no exception. The details are getting kind of fuzzy now, but for the first part, I was blasted out of a cannon, landed on top of a grassy mesa. It was right up against the side of a cliff face, which wasn't a difficult climb. It did lead to a rocky path that came out to a small village.
It looked like something out of Disneyland, or Thief: The Dark Project. The cobblestone streets were lined with shops. Following it to the right, the path stopped at a railing overlooking a view of Disneyland. Guess I got the first part right, except I was very high up, and there's nothing like this at Disneyland.
I backtracked, following the path up and to the right. Just about all the shops seemed closed, though there were a few that looked open. One souvenir shop even had racks of display swords out front, some of which looked to be as long as I am tall, with two blades. The longer blade was thick at the base and swept up in a long fin shape, about four feet long. The handle was red wrapped in black cord, which ended in a shorter blade with a similar shape, but less than a foot long. Interesting, but hardly practical.
I walked back the way I came and noticed an open door in a side corridor. Inside looked like a cross between an antique shop and a museum. It was a mix of dusty mannequins, ancient armors, wooden furniture and fixtures hand made by craftsmen. The lamplight, faded by the years, casts a yellow glow along the red brick walls. And along one wall, from the rafters to atop a cabinet, was a rack of longbows. Their quality varied from simple to ornate, one of which looked strikingly similar to one I saw in a comic book once.
"I know what you're thinking. It's real."
Hearing that voice, I was expecting Archer, probably an association I made when looking at the bows. But I looked over and saw a young woman, tall, dark brown hair that reached to the small of her back, and luminous brown eyes. She had a lithe figure under a navy sweatshirt with a hood and dark jeans that were quite flattering to her form. She nodded her head towards the bows up on the wall.
"English royalty would sometimes thin their bows so they wouldn't intimidate visiting dignitaries." She told me.
I didn't believe her. For one, the longbow was a peasant weapon. Royals wouldn't use one, save for perhaps when hunting. Secondly, noblesse oblige would probably be a foreign concept to them during the time such weapons would be in use. And "thinning" doesn't sound like an actual archery term or practice, and if it were, it doesn't sound like it would serve any practical purpose. I was about to say so when she walked off, and I found myself following her to another room of the shop.
She ran her fingers along the counter tops as she walked. Her steps were so smooth she almost seemed to be gliding across the floor. She opened a door on the far wall, and I followed her into a narrow white hallway. The door was right in the corner, the hall leading forwards and to the right, with barely enough room for my shoulders either way. She paused after a few steps and looked back past me, to the door I had just came through.
The door opened once again, and out came a photographer with an interesting fashion sense. He was slim as to be almost skeletal, and the short pink mohawk was particularly glaring to look at. I didn't get a good look at his face, his camera came up as he declared that it was time to replace her portrait and snapped away at her.
The girl I was following stood taller and posed as her picture was taken, a very demure look coming upon her face as the photographer snapped picture after picture. This only lasted for a few seconds until he turned around and vanished through the door. That was when I noticed the recessed frame in the wall. I only caught a glimpse of the picture when she had reached in, grabbed it, and carelessly tossed it down the hall. She even stepped on it as though it weren't even there as she continued on, suddenly taking on a hauteur that was jarring, and even rather ugly to witness.
I didn't bother following, instead reaching down to the floor to pick up the photo. Her eyes were brighter than they had seemed when I first met her by the longbows, outshone only by her smile. I wondered how it would feel to kiss her. Then I remembered how she looked and acted just now in the hallway and wondered why I would ever consider that in the first place. Whatever. Folding the picture, I tucked it neatly under my vest, into the pocket of my shirt and walked on in the direction that she went.
I was awakened by a knocking at the door. As I snapped upright in bed, I remembered that I had to help clean out the storage unit today. Going over the dream in my mind, I started piecing together where my subconscious had dug up each part from. The mesa felt like something out of a Mario game from the previous generation, right down to being blasted out of a cannon. The cobble stone streets, and much of the shops was indeed something out of the Thief series, although the area by the swords felt like the marina over at Redondo Beach.
The antique shop was unique. It was unlike anything I have experienced, yet would be something I would very much like to run across in real life. Perhaps I'll get the chance to someday. The longbows didn't bring to mind anything, save for one which did resemble one I saw in an issue of Young Avengers. And then there was the girl.
At first I thought she was Caitlyn, a character in my writings. She sounded like how I imagine Archer would speak, but Cait has hazel eyes and jet black, shoulder length hair. Truthfully, the girl I dreamed up could match up to any number of women I've seen. I'm leaning strongly towards someone I may have seen at work, though it could be anyone. As it is now, I'm having trouble remembering the details of her face, but I still remember her eyes.

A Very Rude Awakening

There was very little lighting in the narrow corridor I was walking down. It was bright enough to see where I was going, and to see the other people walking by me, but the faint illumination only served to wash the color out of the scene. I didn't know anybody walking by, just nameless, faceless people. They could've been anybody from anywhere, but they held no importance. We just passed each other on by without a word.
Save for one. Not only did he have a face and a name, it was someone I knew more than I would have liked. He reached out to me. He was saying something. He wanted to talk, to reconcile, to work things out. He wanted to be my father again. The shock only lasted a moment.
The next instant had my fist in his face. It felt like punching a sack of flour, and he exploded like one, disappearing in a puff of smoke. He was gone, and I was alone in the corridor.
Opening my eyes, I felt my head against the pillow and saw the door to my room past the bundle of swords against the wall. I was about to close my eyes and go back to sleep when I felt someone there and I jerked my neck to up to see my father standing at the side of my bed. He lunged at me with his arms outstretched with the speed of a cobra and I kicked my legs against the bed, pushing myself back and away.
My back slammed against the wall hard, as did my head. I didn't waste time with the pain, raising my arms to fend off an attack that wasn't there. Looking around, there was no sign of my father. Just the sounds of the early morning and the faint light coming through my window. Running my hand over my face, I was certain I was awake this time. Of course that's what I had thought the last time. Still, when I set my head back on the pillow, I never really could get back to sleep.

The Muse's Song

It felt like I was back in that lava tube in Hawaii. Pitch black, but with a cool dampness. There was a solid floor underfoot, and the wall felt natural, but without a torch, I had to pick my way carefully.
I still had a light at the end of the tunnel. It was there that I had found the helmet. It was made up of solid steel plates that were riveted together, forming a cross across the face with eye slits under the arms. I had this in mind earlier, when I was still at work. My muse has the most inopportune timing sometimes. I kept this particular story going through my mind over and over so as not to forget.
She usually inspires with poetry, and lately with Nero's somewhat half-boiled adventures. That night, she was singing, and a ballad at that. She sung a story of a knight that kept the face of his lady behind his shield. Of course, whenever anyone looked, there was no such image on the shield itself. The story itself is rather depressing, right up until the end. Sometimes the bittersweet stories are the best. Of course, I still have to write this one down.
With the helmet in hand, I followed the tunnel until it opened up into a dense forest. It felt more like a mountainous area rather then the rain forests of Hawaii, significantly cooler in the twilight and less humid. And yet the sounds still carried well.
I couldn't make out all the words, but she was singing. And as the song progressed, I caught glimpses of the narrative in the forest, the young knight and his lady, the battles he fought throughout the years, all were taking place in the trees around me as I walked on. When she came to the part about the knight facing an infamous rival in battle her voice suddenly became silent.
From the shadows of the forest came the rival from the story, a knight whose armor was rusted from the blood of those he's slain. It's ruddy hue wasn't much of a contrast to the black helmet in my hands. I hadn't noticed until then, but they were encased in blackened steel gauntlets, and I had matching greaves over my boots. Yet the rest of my "armor" was composed of jeans and a black leather jacket. And he had a horse. Doesn't seem like a fair match up at all.
While I was contemplating the large sword in his hand, he gave a kick with his spurs and came charging at me. I only just had enough time to roll to the side, his blade coming close enough to my head to slice at some strands of hair. That was much too close for comfort. And while I didn't know where it had been, I had no other protection on hand aside from the helmet. I took a breath and slipped it on, panicking slightly from the blindness until my eyes found the slits. Just in time to see the knight charging at me again.
What's the first rule of self-defense again? Ah, that's right. RUN! And run I did, through the trees and the brush, stumbling over roots and fallen branches with the sound of the rider in pursuit behind me. I changed direction, time and again, cutting through rough foliage that should have at least given him pause. Unfortunately, that last shrub I jumped over was at the top of a steep incline.
I landed with all the grace of a rock and found myself looking up at the stars between the branches overhead. The sounds of the bloody knight echoed off into the distance, but I was too tired to care. I just lay there, listening to my breath filter through the thin slits in the helmet. And then her song reached my ears once again. I closed my eyes to listen, and when I opened them again, they saw sunlight instead of stars.

There is no parry

He got a good hit in. The punch sent me stumbling back a few steps and popped my jaw. Working the muscles of my face snapped it back into place and I deflected another hit before striking back with a punch of my own. No good. He was too quick to block, I didn't have enough speed to connect.
I tried maneuvering to his weak side, using quick small steps to keep from sacrificing agility. He was able to keep up with me, each of my blows being blocked or deflected by his arm. He was about as tall as I was, though more strongly built. And fast for someone of his body type. We were fighting in shadow, the dim bulbs overhead casting faint columns of light that we weaved in and out of as we fought.
He was a boxer, that much felt obvious from his stance and his style of fighting. I'm not limiting myself to one particular style, but each punch or kick I throw doesn't get through. He lands another blow and I fall to one knee.
There is no parry. Only parry-riposte.
A lesson from my old fencing coach came to mind, and I rose to my feet with those words at heart. Stepping forward, I jab quickly with my left, having it blocked again. This time, I followed up right away with my right, my fist landing square on his jaw. I try again, feinting with the right this time and he moves to block, allowing me an opening for my left. I connect.
He picks up the pace, trying to prevent me from hitting him, and I move faster as well. Soon he's flailing, and I'm hitting him with every other punch I throw. I started to feel a sense of elation at that. I was winning.
I let my guard down. He was able to take a step back and landed his fist right into my gut, knocking the wind out of me. I doubled over, screwing my eyes shut as I tried to get a breath in. And as the air wheezed back into my lungs, I opened my eyes to see a bus pulling up in front of me. I was outside, it was a bright day with the sun shining overhead and the light traffic of the mid-afternoon on the street before me.
I climbed aboard the bus, passing by the driver without paying the fare, and took a seat a few places down from the front. I leaned back into the seat, gazing out the window at a passing scenery. I didn't recognize any of it, but the shops themselves were discernible. There was an Italian place that looked good enough to take a date, with a florist shop conveniently close by. A Mexican restaurant was a few doors down from there followed by some apartments. And on we went down the street.
I felt some hands settle onto my shoulders. Soft hands with strong but nimble fingers. They gently probed the muscles there and slowly started to work out the tension I had leftover from the fight. I looked up to see a pair of warm brown eyes gazing serenely down at me. She had a faint smile on her lips, and her light brown hair was pulled back. And as I leaned further back, hanging my head over the edge of the seat to look at her, I could see that she was wearing a knitted shrug over a white dress with a floral print. Quite a lovely sight.
She was still working on my shoulders and I reached a hand up to brush it along her face and through her hair. Her smile brightened a shade, and she leaned over as if to kiss my forehead, stopping an inch above it. She made a comment about a the beating I took. I shrugged and asked if she knew a good place to get a cup of coffee. She said she did. And right before she could say anything more, I felt myself get pulled away as I woke up to the sun reflecting off the walls in my bedroom.

Combat Commander

"Razor 2-1 setting up Recycler now. Deploying Armory on eastern geyser."
Strange for me to be starting out in a Razor scout tank. One is usually deployed in a Grizzly to start with, but then this is a reconnaissance mission. So why send a Recycler at all?
This dream started out on a red planet. Mars at night? It's too cool for Io. The Recycler is a mobile factory unit, the cornerstone of any base. It takes bio-metal scrap and turns it into other units. And it's powered using the energy from the geysers that are scattered throughout the landscape. Once it's set up, I'll have it turn out a scavenger to pick up material for defensive turrets. But it should be fine on it's own. For now.
I drove over to check on the armory, another factory unit used to make weapon enhancements. It also has a built in catapult to launch ammo and regeneration packs where needed. It can also be used to launch a Day-Wrecker bomb. For now, I'm just using it to attach a little something to my rocket hard point.
By the time that was done, the Recycler already had a Scavenger making runs for scrap. And I had a nav point to go investigate. It's been years since I've been behind the stick, but the Razor handles more like an airplane than a tank. It's even shaped like one with wings extending from the rear mounted engine as well as canards mounted on the nose in front of the cockpit. Fast and nimble as I maneuvered it down a shallow canyon. The area was littered with volcanic rocks and boulders, but they proved no trouble. The Razor, like most bio-metal vehicles, hovers.
I was halfway to the nav beacon when I reached a dead end in a box canyon. It wouldn't be too much of a problem to get out of there, at full speed, my jump jets could handle it. But then a gigantic six wheeled vehicle leaped from the ridge above, making a sharp turn as it landed in front of me. A soviet BTR.
An unusual thing to find in space. But then, it is much more massive than it's earthbound counterparts, and it practically bristled with heavy machine guns. Not something a Razor would likely to stand up to on it's own. I let loose a rocket and jetted back down the way I came. My shot did minimal damage, and the metal behemoth turned and gave chase, letting loose a torrent of metal with it's cannons. I swerved my tank up the walls of the canyon and down, much like a half-pipe. I didn't have enough momentum to escape up, but it was enough to evade.
I didn't have enough fire power to take it on my own, and even the turrets back at base wouldn't be a match. That limits my options. I clicked up the Armory on my HUD, and selected a spot up ahead. I'd have to time this just right, but it should work. I just prayed I lived through it.
My armor took a hit, and my engines and reactor were red-lined. It still wasn't enough to outrun the BTR. Looking up, I saw the package I had called in falling steadily to the ground. This was going to be close. I hit my jump jets and tilted my craft forward, hoping for a speed boost. It wasn't enough.
The Day-Wrecker exploded upon hitting the ground, sending my craft into a wild tumble. The engine blew, and life support started failing. I tried to level off as best I could, and hit the eject button. The seals on my helmet closed, filling it with air as the cockpit blew and I was shot into the air, my tank turning into a ball of flame and shrapnel beneath me.
There was too much dust in the air for me to get a clear picture of the ground. Shifting my body weight, I maneuvered my fall towards a nearby hill. My drop pack cut off just before I touched the ground, and I crouched, bringing my rifle up to scan the area. All guns in the future are boxy. At least this semi-automatic pulse rifle has an alternate fire mode with a scope and armor piercing rounds. Handy for jacking a tank, but I had already called up the Recycler to setup another Razor to pick me up.
I scanned the dust cloud through my scope, looking for any sign of the BTR. I figured the bomb would have destroyed it as it did my tank. The roar of it's engine had me snapping my scope to the right to see it driving away. It seems that drove it off, at least, but I'm going to need some heavier firepower if I'm going to take that thing out.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to look at the person seated next to me. Suddenly, I wasn't on mars anymore, finding myself seated on a bench in the middle of a white hallway. There were a few entryways set at regular intervals, and over to the right, it opened up into a large area with a slanted glass ceiling.
The guy sitting next to me was in a dark blue jacket with matching pants, and a ball cap hanging low over his eyes. He didn't say a word. I didn't offer any. I started to stand when I blinked, finding myself with a face full of sun from my bedroom window.

O_o

This dream was particularly strange for a number of reasons. I don't remember where it started exactly, but I remember the girl. She was vivacious, spirited, and I distinctly remember holding her about her waist with both hands as we danced. It wasn't a waltz or anything that formal that I can recall. I just remembered holding her by the waistband of her jeans as we twirled, lifting her up, her hands on my shoulders, hearing her laughter and seeing her hair flare out in the sun. And when I brought her back down to earth, her arms surrounded my neck as she pressed her form against me.
We danced like that for some time, and I knew of nothing else but her smile and the warmth of her body in my hands. As well as the softness of her lips. When we finally came to a stop she peeled herself from me smoothly, like two statically charged pages of a magazine tearing reluctantly away from each other, until only our hands remained in contact. She held mine loosely around my knuckles and lead me over to an examination table.
I couldn't recall it's shape or form, or even if it had one at all. It was a part of the white space that made up the fog of the dream, or my memory of it. It was there and wasn't. She had released my hand, suddenly and inexplicably divested of her clothing, and lay down upon the table to stare up at the void around us. She seemed almost nervous, yet smiled reassuringly when I reached up to her face, my fingers tracing from her ear to her chin.
I leaned over and pressed my lips gently against hers, breathing in her sigh as my hand continued down to palm her neck, following the curve of her shoulder. I broke the kiss, lifting myself up as my hand traced her breast and settled onto the ribs beneath it. My fingers traced the bone beneath her flesh, and she stifled a giggle. I could feel the smile tug at the corners of my lips at that, and I looked up to see her swallow before asking me a question.
"Trying to find the quickest way to my heart?"
"You mean other than between the third and fourth rib?"
She smiled at the joke, and I spread my hand out against her body, watching it rise and fall with each breath she took. And then I opened my eyes, the brightness of her smile replaced by the sun reflecting off the walls of my bedroom.
This wasn't the first time I dreamed of her, but as things stand I almost hope that it's the last. I realize that, if there is any meaning to dreams they're probably more than as they initially seem. If there's any meaning. Regardless of what my subconscious may be trying to tell me, I'd rather it find a different... approach.