Restless & Reluctant (Sly)

[Warden Marcoux]

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t eat. Hell, he couldn’t even sleep. That was saying a lot.

For three nights now Marcoux hadn’t slept for so much as a fraction of a second. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He tried some light reading, meditation, a nice calming cup of caffeine-free tea. He took three times the amount of sleeping pills he was accustomed to. Sadly, it was all for naught. There was no familiar fog creeping into his skull to drag him into the Dream World. All he did was toss and turn, eyes bloodshot, a shadow creeping over his features.

The poor Dream God was too stressed to sleep. Never before was he under so much pressure. Despite his neurotic nature, he was actually quite accustomed to the stress of the job, so to speak. Studying at Kroston University was definitely not an easy feat, and despite pressures he passed with flying colors. Meeting with the Parliament on Halta was similarly stressful, but he managed to please the judges. Similar was his experience with The Force thus far – he’d never failed to complete an assignment, and even surpassed expectations a good deal of the time. Yes, Marcoux might be an anxious man, but he always managed to succeed.

Until now, perhaps. He gulped, pacing about his room. A coup was not Marcoux’s idea of an ideal assignment. The thought was stressful enough in and of itself. However, paired with the attack at the Ball…

He couldn’t be sure if Mammon was behind the attack, but overall it was quite irrelevant. Regardless of its origins, the attack made it clear a legitimate revolution was taking hold, and Mammon wanted Marcoux to take a role on the stage. Revolution was revolution. An attack was an attack. And somehow, Marcoux was linked into the whole thing. Eventually the spotlight would shine his way, whether he liked it or not. He was far, far outside his element.

Absently, the Dream God wiped his hands across his dresser. It was rather dusty. He suppressed a sneeze.

Marcoux didn’t leave his room much these days. Since the Ball, his security increased tremendously. He was rather weary of Zalixa in the first place, but now he had even more relative strangers roaming about his house. It made him restless. He felt the security made him stick out like a sore thumb more than it actually protected him. At least Zalixa was discreet. Besides, the extra security wouldn’t do much to stop an enemy inside the Force now would it?

[Sly]

Bum Bum Bum, Bom bom bom!

The classical music still resonated in his head as he picked his way past the security detail. Who had organized this rabble? Glorified security guards, that's what they were. They were as bad as the ones guarding the Computer Freak. Did the Force take any of their major pieces seriously? Did they not care for their safety, or value their importance? Apparently, judging from the detail protecting this...This..."Dream God", no, they did not care. He could have plowed his way through them with a pillow and a moment's notice. Well...Obviously that was a little exaggerated, but seriously...The pillow part was feasible.

He shouldered past another guard who was milling about in a corridor.

Where were all the renowned Fates? Oh...Yes...They were scattered across the universe now, scampering this way and that with their intel and weapons, killing on a whim. They were the true terrors...From what he had heard, collateral damage was wholesale now. Didn't really matter to him though, he wasn't going to be collateral damage. Fuck that. Fates...They were nothing but overly-praised thugs. Him...However...Well he was an artist. He had his brushes, he had his pallet, and he was just waiting...As Mammon put it..."to paint his masterpiece". He took out one of his brushes, the thought of it calling it to his grasp, and began to twirl it around his finger.

Whirl whirl whirl

"Move."

Whirl whirl whirl

Motioning with his hand, one of the guards, built like a brick shit house he was, opened a door to whatever lay beyond. His personal office or something like that. The man took naps for a living...What sort of office would he need? Put 'em in a tank with a cot and a bottle of chloroform, get a good day in at the office. Solved. No...That wasn't the Force's way. They put him up in some decadent flat where he can meditate in peace, listening to whatever shitty, soothing, ambient-fucking-noise-shit-sounds that put his body at rest. Beauty rest was an understatement. This guy needed to go into his dreams and find wherever he lost his stones...From what he had heard and seen, a train wreck of womanhood and holy-christ-you-call-yourself-a-man was what this guy was a spitting image of. It gave Sly a migraine just thinking about it...

Great.

He stepped through the threshold into the next room. Marcoux was nowhere in sight. He looked this way and that, and finally noticed him a little ways off, obviously troubled and exhausted. He stopped twirling his revolver and tucked it swiftly into its holster. He unwrapped the cloth veil from his head, letting it drape around his neck like a scarf, and leaned on his shoulder against the wall. So this was the "Dream God"? This was who so many people were afraid of...Defenseless in their sleep to this...this...Twat. Super Twat. Another look around the room. No Zalixa. Good. Mammon wouldn't have liked that, and neither would he...Zalixa's, Mammon told him, only complicated things. He didn't need that scrap of info...She was a woman. Women always complicated things.

"Marcoux. You know why I'm here."

[Warden Marcoux]

Marcoux rubbed his fingers together, watching the dust pull off of his fingertips and drift down to the carpet. He let out a little sigh and slumped against his dresser, the sleeves of his shirt leaving a path in the dust. Half of the finished wood appeared nice and polished, the other half blurred under a white film. He sneezed.

Perhaps The Force would supply him with a maid next, protect him from developing breathing problems. Or better yet, they could strap an oxygen mask to his face – No. They could shove a tube down his throat. Leave him unconscious. Put him up in a room next to Mere’s. That wouldn’t be half bad. It’d be like college again, after a night of partying. Just put Kelt in the next room over, he’d play them some nice music to sleep to, slamming his fingers down on his keyboard. What ever happened to Hipchip anyway?

“Marcoux.” He jumped. “You know why I’m here.”

Marcoux recognized the man instantly as Raum’s henchman. He might not know the man’s name, but No-Name was right, Marcoux knew exactly why he was here.

Marcoux leapt back from the dresser, picking up an empty bottle of sleeping pills as he flew backwards. “I’ve been trying,” he said, holding up the bottle, “I-I’ve been trying. I’m just – I’m just having some trouble getting to sleep, you see. If-if…If I’m stressed the work gets more difficult, I can’t help it, it’s just the way it works!” Crazed feet continued to trek in reverse until Marcoux’s back made solid contact with the wall.

I haven’t had enough time. This isn’t enough time? Are they really going to kill me already? There hasn’t been enough time! Time – not enough of it! Marcoux’s heart was pounding, pumping out notes of Morse code. SOS. I suppose it’s been a good life. Yes, a nice life…Please make it quick. Quick and painless, that’s the way to go. He gulped and closed his eyes.

Yes, let’s make this quick and painless.

[Sly]

While the man was begging for his life, Sly scanned the room. The place was a bomb shelter to say the least...

Masked in decadence.

He noticed the Dream God swipe some dust from a dresser. Did the man not clean? Then he thought about it...Probably not...He was too busy sleeping. He was probably the only person who was more useful asleep than awake. And the way he begged...Oh the way he begged....It whittled at his patience, and proved that he was right...He was better off asleep. He continued to walk around the room, trying to find weak spots, minus the security guards. Lightning and Blood...Those rent-a-cops were as pathetic as the target they were guarding. If half of what he heard was true about the rebels, they would be no match for an enemy force...Mammon didn't like that very much. Not very much at all.

"Yeah...Yeah I get it, you've been trying. But the All-Marshal isn't happy with it. From what he tells me, we don't have much time. The rebels are closing in, and who knows how soon they'll be here. I reckon sooner rather than later," he looked at Marcoux to drive the message home. "That means you do your work...Now, and then we get you out of here. The All-Marshal doesn't want any loose ends, and he doesn't approve of failure. He wants this done, and you dying is going to be no excuse for the lack of results. Got it?"

It had been a long time since he'd been in charge...

He'd always been the subject, not the master. Ever since he could remember...But now that he was in control, he hated it. He understood why so many people were drowned in their own greed, their own perverted sense of power. They liked doing shit like this...Telling people what to do, hoping they'd listen...No....Knowing they'd listen. But Mammon was different...He didn't care if you listened or not. You just had to deal with the consequences. And no one liked those sort of consequences. Not even him. And seeing the Doctor like this, cowering before him...He almost felt a sense of pity...If he failed, Mammon would crush him, he was sure of that, but it wouldn't take much...He wouldn't even put up a fight, he wouldn't even give Mammon the pleasure of a struggle....He would simply...Cease to be. Crumple. Lay down and die. No one deserved to die like that, or to kill like that.

"So you're going to go to sleep..." Sly made his way to the door again, peeked out to make sure the clowns were still pretending that they were actually doing some good by staying at their posts, and then closed the door again, followed by a loud click as he slid the deadbolt into place.

"And if you don't want to, I'll make you..." He took out a little packet that Mammon had supplied him with. It included the following: Three vials of some substance he did not recognize and was not familiar with, a large vial of some almost iridescent green liquid, two syringes, and one very, very large needle.

"Your success is critical, Marcoux. For all of us."

Blood and Lightning...He sounded just like Mammon when he said that. Minus the dark, creepy feeling...and the Twins' echoes. He filled up one syringe with one of the mystery vials, hoping it wasn't poison, and then filled the other with the green liquid. Fixing the needle into the syringe with the mystery syringe, he turned to face the Doctor with the finished piece. He glanced at the menacing needle, grateful that it wasn't him in Marcoux's place.

"And I don't think you want this.......Whatever it is."