Battle? Jeremy ambled home from Dr. Smith, the word strange in his mouth. He'd never fought for anything before, let alone himself. Was that why he always felt a failure? Why he'd taken stress leave?

Battle. As he repeated the syllables in his head, he became more accustomed to them, more familiar with the concept.

Battle? Well, why not? He considered his life so far not at all successful. On any measure he merely existed. Like now: the train he boarded he treated as an inconvenience, not an adventure. A plodder, his third grade teacher labelled him, and he'd never broken out of that mould. Why not start now?

Battle. Yes—he would battle! And what better place to practice than in his dreams?

"Battle," he said with a whisper. The old man next to him on the train glanced at him askance. "Battle." The man moved to another seat.

The train slowed for his stop. Time for action. "Battle!" he said. "I'm going to kill you, Red!"

Women pulled their children out of his way. But Jeremy didn't care. He strode towards battle!

Jeremy didn't know how one went about preparing for battle in one's dreams. He decided that physical preparation—combat training—might put him in the right frame of mind. Combat equipment not forming a traditional part of the tax return process, Jeremy didn't have any, but he remembered adverts about Dancercise or Kickercise. And if they could do it …

Jeremy practiced for the rest of the day. He swung the baseball bat with vigour, ducked out of the way and weaved behind the furniture. Even pulled out an unused pair of sneakers after he stubbed his toe on the couch and hopped around howling in pain. Jeremy discovered that kicks were much more effective using the heel instead of the toe, and especially so when you didn't wear slippers. He certainly taught that couch a lesson!

After his foot became stuck in the couch with a well-placed heel strike, he decided he needed something a little less expensive and more durable to use as an enemy. Jeremy propped a mattress against the wall and used it for target practice with the bat, only missing once or twice. After several hours non-stop practice when he'd swung, kicked, rolled and shouted like never before, Mrs. Abercrombie knocked on the door and asked if everything was all right.

"Fine, thank you, Mrs. Abercrombie." Jeremy wiped his cheeks, certain the unaccustomed moisture more than just tears, though his shin still ached from where the mattress repulsed a furious attack from the bat a moment ago. "I'm just trying to prepare. You know, get in shape."

Mrs. Abercrombie didn't seem to know, but she nodded with that patient gleam in her eye when she talked of her late husband—who woke that last day after eighty-two years deciding he could fly. Jeremy didn't know why she gave him that look now: he had no intention of gluing feathers to his arms and finding, after he jumped off a six storey building, that he could not in fact fly. But Mrs. Abercrombie nodded with a sad smile once more, asked him to keep the shouting to a minimum, and let him know she would be upstairs if he needed anyone to talk to.

Jeremy didn't know why he needed anyone to talk to: didn't everyone prepare for battle? He used the respite to attend to the shin smashed by the baseball bat and tie two cushions around his chest as body armour. But he gave up on the cushions when he found himself unable to move his arms. The cushions acted like that inflatable sumo-wrestling costume they'd forced him into one year at the team-building event. He decided against buying body armour—that sounded a tad extreme, and he might not even have it during the dream-fight with Red. No, best to rely on himself. After that, Jeremy attacked the mattress once more, careful to keep the bat from his shins, and only shouted in his head.

Now he needed a few surprises.

Ω

A thud woke Jeremy. Ultimo and the Red were in the living room. Again. Jeremy smiled. Battle they wanted, battle they would get! He jumped up. His cunning plan had worked and his tracksuit pants joined him in the dream. And the bat and sneakers awaited him by the bed. Wouldn't Red get a surprise!

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He tip-toed to the sliding door, the sneakers making a squeak that sounded too loud in his ears. Ear to the door, he waited for an opportune moment; hands no longer slick with sweat gripped the bat in comfort. They seemed to be on this side of the room. Jeremy eased open the sliding door and peeped through. Red stood with his back to Jeremy. Perfect! His best chance would be surprise.

With a dream-roar, Jeremy flung open the door and jumped into the room, swinging with all his might. The bat jarred in his hands as it hit—the upright light. Glass shards flew at Red and Jeremy dove forward behind the couch, as though he planned that exact move.

Darn, he thought. But all was not lost. Red lost momentum, distracted by the glass, and the sudden appearance of Jeremy. The mirror on the wall showed Jeremy the advantage now lay with Ultimo. And Ultimo didn't lose a moment. The bronze figure fired again and again, then sprung at Red in one seamless move. Dancercise didn't hold a candle to this!

Jeremy figured they would lose track of him as they grappled together, so he scrambled to the other side of the couch. He leapt up, swung once again at Red's head—and connected!

He roared his success to the ceiling. Mrs. Abercrombie banged on the floor. Jeremy looked down at his victim and a bronze helmet stared back at him. Bronze? Uh oh.

Red chuckled as he rose from all fours. Ultimo lay motionless to the side. Jeremy must have knocked off his helmet. So far, the battle hadn't proceeded in accordance with Jeremy's plan.

"You." Red let out a mocking laugh. "You are a piece of work. When the last Redwin died, I expected you would be a challenge. Turns out the challenge is to protect you. I just have to keep out of your way and let you do my job for me. Want to finish the job and throw yourself out the window?"

Jeremy didn't respond. He gripped the bat tighter. Held it at the ready position.

"Don't worry. You won't need to use that." Red sneered and pointed the hand cannon at Jeremy. "I'll just shoot you from here."

Jeremy stepped to the side, working his way behind the couch. The clarity of his mind surprised him. If the Red killed him, he would die. He accepted the outcome with a shrug. It was his dream and he would die fighting!

"And that couch won't be any use." Red followed Jeremy with the cannon, and moved to the centre of the room. "This is much easier than I expected."

Jeremy fumbled in his pocket.

"You have a gun in there to make this interesting?"

With exaggerated care, Jeremy removed his hand and let Red inspect the contents.

"A remote?" Red said in disbelief. "I give you time to make this interesting and you threaten me with a remote! What are you going to do—force me to watch late night TV?"

"No." Jeremy took a leaf out of Ultimo's book. To the side of Red, just out of his line of vision, a cupboard door opened, motor unheard over Jeremy's voice, to reveal three bricks suspended by robotic arms cobbled together by Jeremy from his array of gadgets. He hid his pleasure that the arms followed him into his dream. "This doesn't control the TV. It's supposed to …"

Jeremy pressed the button before he finished speaking. The compressed air cylinders released and hurled the bricks at Red.

Red saw the movement this time, and swung the cannon towards the cupboard—only to receive the payload in his face! One brick scored his helmet, and another sent the cannon bouncing to the other side of the room. Jeremy hit another button and forks and knives propelled themselves at Red. Red cried out as at least one scored, lodged between the armour plates.

"Clever." Red grunted, held his side, and pulled a knife from the hole in the armour. "Can't say I expected that."

Blood covered the end of the knife. Not a lot, but some. Jeremy hoped it hurt.

Red inspected the knife, then tossed it away and glared at Jeremy. Intent on killing Jeremy before, now every line of his armour reflected fury. The Red pulled out another gun—just how many did he have?—and advanced on Jeremy.

Jeremy backed to the wall. The bat couldn't save him now. His eyes jerked from side to side, searching for options.

"Any more tricks like that? Don't bother answering. I can see you don't."

His back pressed to the wall, Jeremy considered diving behind the couch, or running for the door. No—all too far. He didn't move. He'd battled, but in the end he had lost. Only one thing left to do: die with honour. He raised his chin and glared in defiance.

Red laughed. "You are a piece of work. After all your tricks, you're still going to die. Anything to say for yourself? No? Well, then …"

Red raised the gun. Jeremy closed his eyes as Red pulled the trigger. He heard the gun spit and sensed death rush towards him. Then Ultimo shoved him out of the way.

Red cursed as the projectile smashed a hole in the wall, and shot again.

From the floor, Jeremy's hope faded as the second shot did its job. Ultimo's armour crumpled—the bronze clothing now resembled tin foil kicked by a horse. The end had come.

But Ultimo wasn't dead yet. Ultimo groaned in agony as, with final strength, he rolled and flung a cylinder at Red.

The cylinder seemed to hang in mid-air. Jeremy knew Red's eyes widened as the mouth under the helmet took on an 'oh no' shape. Then the cylinder regained momentum, and with a deafening roar, Red evaporated in a cloud of smoke.

And so did half the apartment.

Thrown against the wall, Jeremy's world went black. But not before Ultimo's legs buckled and the bronze form fell to the ground.