Two weeks ago

"No, Maggie," Strykland said into the phone covered by the tottering piles of paper on his desk, "my work is at a sensitive point. If I get this wrong, it'll set me back weeks." Strykland chuckled. "Yes, I know I said the same thing yesterday. I meant it then as well. You and Anna enjoy the park without me. No, you're right, of course." He glanced at the curtains that blocked any indication of the day, or night, outside. "I don't know that it's a beautiful day. But most likely tomorrow will be too. Maybe I'll be able to join you then. I have to go, Maggie. You enjoy. I'll see you later."

Strykland ended the call. He didn't like doing that. He loved his wife and daughter, but when work called …

It seemed like ten minutes later, but in reality several hours, when the doorbell interrupted Strykland's concentration.

"Blast. Of all the times. Door-knockers. Well, they can go to …"

He turned back to his circuitry. The doorbell rang again. Louder this time.

And then he heard crying. He answered the door before the third ring.

"Anna," he said, blinking in the bright light through the front door as he took her from the stranger. "Why, what's the matter with you?"

"Mr Littlemore?"

"Yes, yes." He tried to calm Anna, still not looking at the newcomer. "I'm Strykland Littlemore. Where did you find Anna? Where's Maggie?"

"That's what I need to talk to you about, sir. If by Maggie, you mean Margaree Littlemore—I'm afraid I have bad news."

Anna wouldn't quiet. Strykland glanced at the interloper, and then paled.

"Oh my god!" Strykland said to the police officer. "Is Maggie in the hospital? Take me there immediately!"

He stepped through the doorway, but the officer held out her hands.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, sir. Perhaps if we went inside?"

Strykland's world ended with those two words. "Too late," he said in a whisper. "Too late. You'd better … come in, then."

Without a semblance of civility or awareness, Strykland left the officer at the door. A part of him noted the officer step inside and close the door behind her. But it was too late.

Ω

Anna wouldn't stop crying. Nothing Strykland did seemed to work. The officer sat opposite him, across the coffee table that no longer seemed to have a function, and ploughed on regardless. Even in his distracted state, Strykland noticed her professionalism, courteous and comforting. But it made no difference.

For he wasn't there during that interview. His body may have inhabited the room, but since the officer uttered those two words—too late—he did not. For whatever Strykland was—call it his spirit or soul or perception—hid from the world, rolled up in a ball, huddled in the far corner of his mind.

His flesh functioned—he breathed, rocked Anna, listened—but few of those physical sensations reached Strykland's essence.

"Mr Littlemore?"

"Yes," he replied, the response automatic. The lounge room, no longer light and airy, enclosed Strykland like a tomb. "I'm listening."

"Excuse me, sir. But I'm not sure you are."

The part of Strykland huddled in the corner knew her to be right. For Strykland breathed without volition. Rocked Anna like one of the robots he created. Listened only because sound reverberated through his ear canal.

But he did not feel. Anna, in his arms, existed as a physical object that squirmed. Not a tiny bundle of warmth, a furious little heart pumping as it always did. No longer the inexplicable 'same but different' presence of his daughter.

Or rather, Anna remained the same, but Strykland did not. Instead of screaming in pain, numbness overcame him. Instead of releasing the torrent of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment, he bottled it away.

"I hear you," he said.

He didn't. The officer continued, and the occasional word filtered all the way to his huddling perception: Accident. Instantaneous. No suffering.

"And I'm afraid I'll need you to identify the body, sir. There are no doubts, but it's required. Can I notify anyone for you? Family? Friends to look after you?"

"What?" Strykland arose from his stupor. "No. Thank you. We've no family. And friends—well, we keep to ourselves. No, I'll be … we'll be fine."

"If you're sure, sir. I'm afraid I have to make certain. For the little girl's sake."

Strykland roused himself once more. He would put on a show—for Maggie's sake. "No, no. We'll be fine. You can come back tomorrow and check if you like."

Ω

7 December

The crashes woke Jeremy. Not again. Always the same dream. What did it mean?

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Jeremy plodded to the living room, sick of it all. He ignored the combatants. "You can both go to hell." He tried to slam the sliding door closed. On its well-oiled tracks, it made a slight whisking noise. Can't even get that right.

Distracted, he lumbered through the centre of the room. Projectiles smashed holes in his walls. A glass picture frame crashed to the floor. "Didn't like that photo anyway." His gaze swung round the room, overlooked the two futuristic soldiers, and alighted on the cabinet.

He didn't drink … "But I sure feel like one now." At the Christmas party two years ago they'd given him a bottle of something or other, most likely as a joke, since they all knew he didn't drink. He'd kept the bottle like he kept any gift, but he'd never gotten the joke. "Time to get it now, though," he mumbled, and a hysterical chuckle escaped. That was almost funny.

The deafening melee paused when he reached the middle of the room. Ultimo and the evil Red guy stared at him, both surprised with gaping open mouths.

"Don't mind me," Jeremy said with a regal wave and continued shuffling. "Just pretend I'm not here."

They did. The decibels shot through the roof as the battle continued its furious motion. Jeremy suspected Ultimo's mouth had scrunched. It only made him angrier.

Jeremy didn't care enough to make certain, but he guessed Ultimo manoeuvred to protect him. "Whatever," he said with a dismissing wave. "Show him to scrunch his mouth at me …"

It took Jeremy ages to find the bottle, and even longer to find a proper glass to drink from. They were both dusty. He shrugged. "Not like it's going to make any difference."

Holes—large bullet holes—appeared in the cabinet where his hand rested a second ago. All around him in fact. He dismissed them, and focussed on pouring the amber liquid into the glass. Part of him wondered what happened when a dream-bullet hit you. Did you dream-hurt and then dream-bleed to death? "Show them," he said, hands shaking in indignation, "give them the dream-finger."

He slammed the bottle back onto the cabinet. Dream-alcohol spilled out and stung his dream-hands. He wiped the back of his hands on his pyjamas, picked up the dusty glass and shuffled past Ultimo to the couch. He heard the dream-bottle explode and the tawny liquid spray all over his dream-carpet. With an effort, he resisted the urge to clean up, and sat one-handed on the couch; part of him happy he hadn't spilled the drink as he often did.

He slouched, sick of this dream. Sick of his life. Jeremy sighed, fumbled for the remote and took a sip, then fought a cough as his body threatened to reject the alcohol. He wondered whether they made the taste that horrible on purpose, shrugged, then forced the noxious stuff down his throat with a shudder, almost dropping the glass.

"Good," he said once the spasm subsided. Wasn't that what people said? He'd never known; he shrugged and repeated it for good measure. "Good."

His eyes glazed over the late-night infomercial on a new wonder-spoon. Two hundred and thirteen channels and still nothing on.

A whining screech climbed through the octaves and stung Jeremy's ears. He slugged down another mouthful in anger and suffered through a coughing fit. "Can't you two keep it down?" he said, still spluttering. "Can't a man watch TV in his own living room?"

Mrs. Abercrombie thumped three times from the floor above. He glared at the ceiling in anger—everyone conspired against him. Why, he would …

He never had a chance to work out what he would have done. The glass shattered in his hand, and spilt alcohol all over his lap. He cursed and stood to get a towel. The couch disobeyed the order to remain stationary, flew into the air and slammed against the wall, smashing through the television. With a hiss, a dark cloud filled the room and stung his eyes. A few moments later, the smoke dissipated—and so had the combatants.

The lack of commotion made audible Mrs. Abercrombie's screams. "Will you stop that racket!"

Jeremy couldn't help but comply. He ignored the alcohol dripping down his front, took in the disaster that used to be his living room and gave up, shuffling through the remains of the television on his way back to bed.

"Didn't like that spoon anyway."

Ω

Jeremy slouched along the street. He didn't like seeing a shrink. It made him feel even more pathetic than usual. He didn't know what he would say today: when he woke, none of the gadgets in his living room showed any evidence of last night's destruction.

He mulled over those creations—all designed by Strykland—passed under the inventor's apartment, and almost stumbled on Strykland's daughter. Anna, balled up, crying on the front step of her apartment, paid no attention to him. Jeremy didn't understand children, but it didn't seem the place a young girl should be unattended.

For a moment, he forgot his own problems. He couldn't leave her there. It didn't seem right. Anna didn't resist when he picked her up, but she didn't stop crying all the way to Strykland's front door.

"Yes," Strykland said in distraction when he answered the door.

He looked a mess. Had since Margaree … Jeremy said nothing—just handed Anna to Strykland.

"I'll have to let that housekeeper go. No, wait … she's already gone."

Jeremy looked at the floor. "Strykland—I don't know how to say this … but you need help. I know a good shrink."

"Fine," said Strykland. "We're fine. We will be soon—soon as I finish my experiment."

Jeremy shrugged. He'd never been good at this stuff. "Well, make sure you keep Anna inside."

"Yes, good point," Strykland said as he turned away. "Must remember to lock the door." He shut it in Jeremy's face.

Jeremy shrugged again at the closed door. He had his own problems. And Strykland always followed his own path.

Ω

"Ah, Mr Sunson, I have been looking forward to our session today. My editor … that is, my professional colleague would like clarification on a few points."

"'lo Dr. Smith," Jeremy said in a small voice, plodding with slumped shoulders to the ever-present couch.

"I have a PhD in psychiatry, Mr Sunson. I can tell you are in low spirits," Dr. Smith said in his best I am god, you are an insect voice. "What has happened now?"

The breaking straws of Jeremy's laments parted way and crashed to the floor. "I can't handle it," he said with a wail. "I told them to go to hell, but they didn't. Told them to ignore me—and they did—but they kept going!"

"Dear me." Dr. Smith snapped up his ever-ready notepad, pen poised to take dictation. "Another dream? That is terrible," he said with the grin of a Cheshire cat. "You must tell me all about it."

But Jeremy didn't have the energy to worry about Dr. Smith's behaviour. In mournful tones he related the story, unable to understand the way Dr. Smith's pen flew across the page, devouring every word that passed his lips. Jeremy shrugged—at least someone was getting a boost from his misery; though what that could be, he hadn't the foggiest.

"Incredible … I mean, how terrible for you," Dr. Smith said, pen not pausing for a moment. "And they didn't interact with you at all?"

"No," Jeremy replied. "Though I'm pretty sure Ultimo scrunched his mouth at me."

"He did what?"

Jeremy's head snapped up. Dr. Smith's expression made Jeremy gulp. "Ah, he … he scrunched his mouth at me. I think. Raised it a bit on one side."

Dr. Smith jumped up and paced.

Jeremy followed the muttering figure with his gaze. "Does it … does it mean anything?"

Dr. Smith stopped in his tracks. "Mean anything?" he said with a cry. "Why, it means everything!" He paced anew and then stopped. "Contempt, Mr Sunson. It means contempt."

Fantastic, Jeremy reflected, now even my dreams think I'm a loser.

But Dr. Smith continued. "It means you are not acting as Ultimo expects you to. He—your dream saviour, the alpha part of your personality if you will—showed that you are not assisting him with your behaviour. He is trying to save you and you are not helping yourself. Battle, Mr Sunson! Your dreams are instructing you to battle."