(Indie Hycara=Gamzee Makara)

     Looking down at the heavy sleeper, he smiled. He was simply glad he was asleep in the first place... His hands carded through hair, and he giggled when his friend snored loudly. He rubbed the bags under his friend's eyes gently. Purple paint got on his fingers, and it just made him sigh and grin.

--

    It was always this dream. It always had to be this dream, huh? It always started off so innocently. A twisted version of a childhood carnival. Broken down rides, creepy music. And him, sitting smack dab in the middle. His clubs weren't next to him, never were.

    Not that it mattered. He knew he would soon forget it was a dream. He always did. He gripped his thighs, and gritted his teeth. And then there were footsteps. They came right on time each time.

    And when he looked up, there was the dark figure, face covered by a ridiculous looking hood, grinning sinsterly. He had almost gotten used to the look. But for whatever reason, it still sent chills down his spine. His judgement started to stop, he started to forget that he was asleep in his best friend's lap. But he couldn't!

    The sinister person pulled something out of their pocket, and he, looking at the ground, could only at first see drops of blood. Looking up, there it was. A thought ran through his mind; a single 'no'. A 'no' full of desperation, full of pain, asking the pain to stop and not repeat itself. But there was the copper necklace and the woven friendship bracelet. The two precious possessions of the ones he couldn't lose. The possessions of the one this figure had killed.

    And he forgot it was a dream. The sinister figure had his clubs, but, running, enraged, he ripped one out of his hand. He was screaming as he took a swing, but the figure's head simply bent at a strange angle, then straightened. As if he'd never hit them...

   It made him angrier. He grabbed his club, and he jumped back. Turning the handle towards the slowly turning figure, he screamed in rage again, teeth bared, pulling a hidden trigger. And yet, the figure grinned more, and the bullet holes healed. It was always so aggravating. It gave him more rage to fuel his fire, and He knew soon that the devastation would make him cry. They were dead, he thought. The ones he loved were gone, and he couldn't save them...

    And that set his temper and soul on fire. It angered him even more than the fact that his attacks for nothing. Everything was red, and he was bashing and shooting the figure. The figure took it. And then, the figure was in half, ripped apart by bullets. Then he began to heal.

--
    In the world of the waking, the beloved one looked down at his dreaming friend. The dreamer's eyebrows creased, and the beloved frowned. Setting a kiss to his hair, he prayed that he would overcome this dream.
--

    The figure was coming together, piece by damn piece. And the figure was laughing. And that laugh, it sounded too familiar. And then he pulled off the hood. And the dreamer saw something awful.

    It was him. The figure was the dreamer, but his face was maimed, his hair was matted and tangled. And he looked like he wanted to see blood. The figure that turned out to be him, spoke. Now he knew why the sinister grin was so chilling. Why the laugh was so familiar.

    "My turn." In devastation, he realized it was because it was his own.

    And the figure stepped towards him.

    And he took a step back. He knew he was horrified. He knew tears dripped down his cheeks. Another step forward, and another one back. And then, the figure's grin; HIS grin; got bigger. And then, he was being chased.

    Cursing, he ran. He jumped and bounced off an invisible wall. He tried to tell himself it was a dream, but it didn't work. But as he soared through the air, he was hit. And unlike the figure, he couldn't instantly heal.

    He stumbled as he landed, but then fell. His head was spinning, and he tasted his own blood. He tried to stand. He wasn't going to go down so easily. He wasn't going down without a fight. He would fight to the end. For Crar. For Aes. He would let their mwmory, their vengence, fuel him.

    The figure attacked. He bashed and shot, and while the dreamer tried to dodge, it was hard. He tried. He tried so hard. But then, there was a hit to his leg. The figure raised the handle of his club to his chest. He was still wearing that damn grin.

    And he shot.

    And the dreamer woke screaming.

C I A N