Red froze in place, stunned by Ultimo's incomprehensible exit. Then he limped to the window, the buckled armour crushing his foot, and stared out into the night. After a moment, he holstered his gun and turned towards Jeremy, with a slow, satisfied laugh.

Jeremy wondered what would happen now that Red had won the brawl. If Ultimo protected Jeremy—until his untimely exit—and the dream still played out, what would Red do now?

"Three days." Red spoke the words like a curse. "Three days I've been trying to get past Ultimo—to get to you."

Jeremy frowned. Three days? The same dream for three nights? People at his work spoke about dream-series—where the dream progressed a little each time—but Jeremy had never understood. Mind you, he'd never remembered his dreams at all until a week ago.

"Three days. This is my last chance. I almost failed. But then Ultimo throws himself out the window, and here you are—gaping like a fish out of water. Funny how life works out." He favoured his bad leg all the way to Jeremy. "Well? Nothing to say for yourself?"

Jeremy frowned again. At this point in a movie, the hero would say something pithy and amusing. They didn't teach pithy at accounting school—but it didn't stop Jeremy trying. "Congratulations! You were magnificent. Pity about the foot."

Red stopped. "You!" he said, spitting the word as a blasphemy. "You're all the same, trying to be funny, when you should run for your life." He drew his gun and aimed it at Jeremy's nose. "So long, don't bother writing."

Jeremy stared down the barrel and wondered how it would feel to die in your dream. He'd experienced a lot so far, the dream realistic in the extreme. Would dying hurt? He hoped not.

A sentiment he didn't recognise at first washed through him. His dream. His responses. He could act as he wanted. And, whatever his deeds in real life, here he would be brave! He wouldn't run from this brute. He straightened his shoulders, and glared in defiance at Red. Then he closed his eyes.

"Finally," the Red said, "some backbone." And spat a bullet at Jeremy.

The bullet ricocheted with a clang from a solid metal plate. Red snarled and fired again. And again. Both bounced off … something.

Jeremy opened one eye, and saw a shimmer as the last shot rebounded. "Wow! That is one amazing dream-shield. I didn't even plan it."

Red holstered the gun and covered the remaining distance to Jeremy. He stopped about a foot away, raised his gauntlet and tapped a finger in the air. It stopped inches from Jeremy's face, each time with that strange shimmer and gong. Red tapped it three times.

"A barrier," Red said.

"Yes," replied Jeremy. "A dream-shield—I told you."

"Not you, moron. Ultimo did it with that cylinder at your feet. No wonder he thought he could leave."

"Ultimo?" The set of Jeremy's shoulders drooped. Then he brightened. "I'm still proud of myself. This is an amazing dream."

"Dream, huh?" Red tapped the shield again. "Suppose it would seem like a dream to an imbecile like you. But dream or not—you're still going to die. And I'll make sure it's slow and hurts a lot. Just so you work out it's really happening."

Jeremy blanched. He didn't like the sound of being tortured in his dream. But then another brave conclusion occurred to him. "Not while the shield's in place, you won't."

"That's right." Red nodded and tapped again. "Ultimo must have supposed I'd just blow the room without checking you were dead. Poor type of assassin that would make me. Besides, the biggest kick is watching your eyes when you bleed to death. This'll be even better—when you finally realise it's not a dream."

Jeremy paled. Red seemed insistent, but how could a dream be real? Jeremy shrugged the thoughts away. "There's still the shield."

"Which is funny, because you don't know." Beneath the helmet, a white flash of teeth showed. "Let me educate you. See that shield-source?" Jeremy looked at the cylinder between his feet. "That projects a shield around the first life within half a foot. The shield covers your body, but it doesn't extend below your feet. And it won't work if you move away. Get the idea?"

"Why would I move?" said Jeremy.

The Red fished a tiny globe from his belt, and waggled it in front of Jeremy. "You've got to breathe, which means the shield lets particles through and you'd pass out from this stun-gas. You fall more than a foot away and—poof—no shield. Capiche? But I'm not gonna do that."

Jeremy no longer felt quite so bold. He didn't like the idea of dying in any sense, and the ending of this dream didn't meet his expectations at all; shouldn't the hero win? "Er, why aren't you going to do that?"

"Too easy." The Red pocketed the stun gas. "Besides, you would be unconscious for most of the day—and I'd have to wait until you woke to see your eyes when I kill you. Likewise, I won't shoot the floor out from under you."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Jeremy sweated through his palms. "So what will you do?"

Red smiled—the smile of a predator. He tapped the shield once more. "I'll stand here and keep tapping." The smile grew even larger, exposing canines filed to a point. "Until the power runs out."

The shield would run out of power? That didn't sound good at all. "And when will that happen?"

Red shrugged. "Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max." He tapped again. His entire demeanour oozed cheerfulness.

But Jeremy no longer listened. He'd just spotted a different ending to the dream.

Ultimo crawled back through the window.

***

Jeremy's whole body became clammy. Life or death situations just didn't happen to accountants—even in their dreams. Or did they?

Ultimo put his finger to his lips. Jeremy took the hint and tried not to look, lest he give the game away, even though the shield compelled the Red's entire focus. He stalled for time, struggling to keep his face neutral. "Uh … can't we talk about this?"

"No point." Another clang. "Only thing you can offer me is your head—and I'll take that anyway. Why spoil the fun?"

Ultimo padded closer, gun in hand. Why didn't he shoot, for Pete's sake?

Sweat dripped from his forehead, and Jeremy concluded his role must be to keep the Red occupied. "What would you do if I ran? If I picked up the shield and ran?"

Red's finger stopped just before it hit the shield. Jeremy knew the Red's eyes bored into him through the helmet. "That might be a challenge. Not much of one, but the hunt would last longer. I might even enjoy it. Go on. I'll even give you a head start."

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Jeremy's hooked nose. Ultimo stood right behind the Red. Jeremy prayed that with a little more distraction it would be over soon.

He tried pithy. "Or you could just die."

Red snorted. "Now that's lame. Can't you manage something bet—"

Red's eyes widened and he spun around, but his crippled foot betrayed him. Ultimo fired and Red crumpled to the ground. Jeremy slumped, about to lean on the wall.

"Don't." Ultimo held out a hand in warning, but didn't take his eyes off the Red. "Stay where you are." Ultimo knelt and tapped buttons on Red's wrist—a bracelet that mirrored Ultimo's own. The Red faded from view, beamed away once more, and Ultimo straightened. "Now you can move."

Jeremy leant back against the wall, and the shield fizzled away.

Ultimo's bronze hand picked up the cylinder. A virtual display sprang into existence, hovering above the capsule. "You did well. Only two minutes left."

"Two minutes?" Jeremy bounced from the wall, indignant. "Two minutes? Then why did you take so long?"

Ultimo stared him in the face. "You could say thank you."

"Uh, right. Thank you. But—why wait so long?"

"That armour's tough." Ultimo repacked his belt. "You need to get close to make sure the shot penetrates. Particularly when you're down to one round."

"You jumped out the window on purpose?" The concept jammed in Jeremy's mind. "This might all be a dream, but isn't that cutting it fine? What if I stepped out of the shield while you played with the window?"

Ultimo stopped and looked hard at Jeremy. "A calculated risk. And for your information, falling out of a five storey building and then climbing back up is no mean feat."

"Right," Jeremy looked at his feet, chastised. "Sorry. So what do we do now?"

"We do nothing. You go back to bed. And I go back to the start."

"Bed. Sure. I suppose sleeping in a dream is normal." The rubber sole of Jeremy's slippers squeaked when they met the tiled hallway. He didn't understand. Nothing unusual there. He threw a question over his shoulder. "Why are you going back to the start?"

Even though Ultimo followed right behind, Jeremy strained to catch the response.

"Because this is no dream. And I get to save your thankless hide again tomorrow."

"Wha—"

A sharp pain in his neck. Jeremy's last reflection, that even his dream-saviours thought little of him, chased his vision into darkness.

***

"And the next thing I knew, I woke in bed with a thumping pain in the neck." Jeremy squirmed on the reclining black leather chair. He rubbed the neck even though it last twinged hours ago. "So what do you make of it, Dr. Smith?"

Dr. Smith made a very important note on his pad. It seemed to Jeremy that he transcribed every word—over ten pages. "And what time did you wake?"

"When my alarm went off at quarter to six. Startled me so much I almost fell off the bed."

Dr. Smith made a faint noise through his long, thin nose, and pushed the bridge of his turtle-shell glasses with his pen. "And did you notice any damage?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, according to your story," Dr. Smith laid a delicate stress on the word, "this bronze-cloaked saviour," he consulted his notes, "this Mr Ultimate …"

"Ultimo."

"Thank you, Mr Sunson," Dr. Smith said with a patient smile. "As I understand your story, Mr Ultimo knocked you out and carried you to your bed. You are not overweight, but not a small man. Such an act would presumably be difficult without knocking against furniture or scraping the walls. So I ask you, was anything out of place?"

"You mean aside from the fact that the living room was untouched?"

Dr. Smith's long-suffering smile extended. "Precisely."

Jeremy frowned. "My shoes weren't side by side as I normally leave them," he said, hopeful. "And my wallet was under the couch."

"Finding the wallet you misplaced the other day does not count, Mr Sunson. Please answer the question."

Jeremy shook his head. "No. No damage. Nothing out of place. There never is."

"And am I to understand," said Dr. Smith, "that it is this pain in your neck that leads you to imagine this episode is different? That it is proof that something happened, when all other evidence suggests otherwise? It is not possible you hurt your neck in any other manner?"

"Didn't think of that." Jeremy deflated. Even his shrink considered him an idiot. But he tried one final time. "So you don't think this time it could've been real?"

"I am not here to validate your fantasies, Mr Sunson. If you are seeking support for the theory that futuristic assassins blew up your living room and then restored it, I suggest you join Alien Abductees Anonymous. I understand they have a chapter down the street." Dr. Smith paused, and then spoke again in a softer tone—his I'm here to help you tone. "But if you are seeking help for your condition— which I sincerely hope you are—then I am here to help you. Have you looked for your self-worth, Mr Sunson? For example, I can assure you that your imagination is first-rate. I have never come across a series of evidentially false episodes so internally consistent."

Jeremy's hopes fell to the floor. It sounded to him that he'd been pronounced an internally consistent fruitcake.