Parasomnic. erreralock
Bullets fired in consecutive rounds. Breathless. The red haired woman ran past people. Countless people. Those who were firing, and those who simply got in the way. Civilians. Innocent people, mothers, children, teachers, people who had good to offer in life. While they died, she fired back. Only adding to the bloodshed. Turning a cold shoulder, she let their blood be spilled for a cause. Even if it was a cause she herself was never clear on. She was a soldier, she was ordered to kill, ordered to serve. To stay at the top of the leader board, she could never stray from the mission. Focus on the mission. She would tell her teammates. Let them die, was something she might as well have said. Agent Carolina, the best of the best. At least some people would call her that, but never… Never had it been enough. Not enough to impress him. She wasn’t good enough. Stronger. She needed to get better.
Carolina’s desire, to win. Ultimately lead to the death of countless people. Her lack of leadership was the cause of her teams fall. If she hadn’t been so blind, if she learned to let things go. To accept things as what they were, they would still be here. She was blind. The people who trusted her, the people she should have trusted, were let down by their leader. Why couldn’t she see? Blood continued to be spilled, corpses lay in front of her. The soldiers fought until they fell. Nothing would stop them. Until they all fell. Her team. Her friends. Gone. They were all gone. She was alone. Abandoned by her own selfishness, betrayed by no one other than herself. Alone.
Little would she know, despite the vividness of the things she experienced. It was all the in the past. Right now, was history repeating itself in her head. She was dreaming. It wasn’t real. Well, the experience was real but it wasn’t current. As real as the world she was experiencing in that moment felt, it was just a memory. The past doesn’t define who you are. She once told a someone something along the lines of that. Carolina told herself, she would learn to let go. Despite her attempts and her nonchalant attitude towards it, she never did. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t forgive herself. Even if right now was a dream, not a second goes by the once great leader doesn’t remember the things she did. The people she hurt. And every night, when she finally falls asleep. She was reminded.
Although she was dreaming, the woman laying in her bed in the cheap apartment with peeling wall paper, was screaming. She was covered in cold sweat from head to toe, screaming. Everything she had done, everyone she had lost. All of the things that she did wrong, every night she payed for it. Usually Carolina avoided sleeping, though with the help of Epsilon, sometimes she gave herself a break. But now, Epsilon was gone. The reds and Blues were gone, her team. Everyone was gone. Her screaming only came to a halt when a faint knocking awoken her. The fiery haired woman sat up, green eyes flickered in the moonlight. “Dammit.” She said under her breath. The knocking continued. It didn’t take long for Carolina to realize she had another episode. Something worse than a nightmare. The woman dried her skin with her bed sheets, then shuffled to the door. Slowly, she unlocked the door and swung it open.
He didn’t want this. Weary shoulders slumped as York climbed the creaking steps of the apartment complex. Suspicious glares were sent his way and he, eyes staring at the gum stuck between the cracks in the wood, ignored them. As he reached his floor, York raised his head and breathed a sigh. The hallway was dim, crackling light-bulb dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, casting flickering shadows against the dirtied white walls. Paint peeled, curled, to reveal cement and age. York’s footsteps echoed, the thump thump thump’s loud in the silence, the apartment’s held breath. It was like they knew that no one wanted to be here. He didn’t want to be here.
But he didn’t have a choice. He ran a hand over his helmet. Waking up in some alley was one thing, finding out that it was likely a whole other planet or time was another. And he had the luck of ducking inside some shady store. They helped him but only in the way the witch helped Hansel and Gretel or the farmer their cows. Running a hand over the will, York picked off the stray pieces of paint and chipped rock. From 1 to 10, I give this place a 9-1-1. If that’s still a thing. He chuckled, a low, barely audible sound. “Hey, D, d’ya know i-” Then he was quiet. “God, this is gonna take some getting used to.” An attempt at a joke. He didn’t laugh but shook his head.
His room was near the end of the hall, the 2 hung precariously on the door right next to the indent which would have held a 1. York shook his head again and hoped the inside would look even just a bit better than what he imagined. Opening the door, he reached around the wall to search for a switch hidden in the darkness. Flick. The light revealed a short hallway leading to the bathroom, living room, kitchen, and bedroom. He raised a brow in appreciation, trudged down the hallway, struggled to get out of his gear, and fell onto the sofa. “Well, Nightshade has good taste in furniture at least.” He said aloud. He had started to get into the habit of talking aloud, but usually someone else answered him after. York breathed in, not caring for the slightly stale air or the questionable state of the rest of his apartment, and he breathed out. His eyes closed. But sleep didn’t come. Yelling did.
Screaming.
“Woah, okay!” Bolting up from the couch, York jogged over to his bedroom. When a quick peek found no one inside, he checked the bathroom, and then the kitchen. No one. The yelling continued. And continued. York stood at the end of his hallway, hand on the knob of his door. Did he care? Should he? Everyone here was most likely affiliated with the not-so legal business that had hooked him up, at least most of them probably were. He shook his head again, knowing the answer. Opening his door, slipping his key into his pocket, he moved over and quickly knocked on the other person’s door.
“You alright in there?” He questioned, still knocking until the screaming would stop. Then he would cross his arms and wait, knowing full well that he was probably in a clearly sweaty T-shirt and in his boxers. Just a quick ‘hello, are you okay?’ and that’s it. A proper introduction could wait.
