[unknown]

[mr_gaeta]

Once upon a time, New Caprica City sat on the dusty mouth of a riverbed.

The alluvial deposits have turned rust red, oxidized by air that scrapes at Gaeta's mouth every time he breathes. He stands at the boundary between water and ground, arms tucked close, shivering as he stares out at the river. The water, too, has turned red.

It's not water.

It laps at Gaeta's shoes -- both shoes, both feet -- and he can feel its sickly warmth even through the thickness of his boots. Every so often, something washes ashore. A torn jacket. A hand. A limb.

(He can't tell if it's his own lost limb or not.)

His stomach clenches, and he can't stop shaking, and his eyes are frozen open: unable to blink, let alone look away from the shoreline.

Comments

[the_shaper]

Gaeta would be forgiven for not noticing the sand beginning to swirl behind him.

He would be forgiven for not noticing the gathering feeling of presence.

Black robes flutter in his peripheral vision; if he turns -- if -- there will be nothing there.

[mr_gaeta]

Something -- unseen beneath the river -- bumps against his right foot.

Maybe it's that. Maybe it's the acute realization that while he may have been alone before, it certainly doesn't feel that way now. What is most important is the end result:

Gaeta blinks.

And all at once, he can move more than just his eyes. Gasping, he wrenches himself backward and whirls around. The shadow at the corner of his eyes flutters; this time, when he freezes, it's by choice.

[the_shaper]

No one is there.

Nothing but wind, and sand swirling even faster, sand gristing in his shoes.





Behind him, something settles in the river with a sick plop.

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta whips back toward the river, fast enough to make something in his neck pop.

Don't shiver, he thinks. You'll give away your position.

The sand pricks at his skin, stinging his eyes; slowly, he maneuvers himself into a crouch, trying to protect his face from the wind.

[the_shaper]

"Enough."





The wind dies down.

The voice comes from behind him (mostly). It belongs to a very tall figure in a dark chiton and long, rippling chlamys.

His hair is very black, his skin very white.

His eyes are a sight with which Felix Gaeta is intimately familiar.

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta looks over his shoulder. Looks up.

His first thought is corpse; his next is burial shroud, the flag must have been burnt somehow before they wrapped him in it -- and then his attention settles on the man's eyes. It's very different, seeing the constellations from ground level and seeing the same stars in the vastness of open space.

This is very, very much the latter.

And though it's easier to breathe without the wind bearing down on him, his breath still snags in his throat before he can whisper, "Sir?"

[the_shaper]

Dream inclines his head slightly.

He does not smile. (He rarely does.)

"At ease. Lieutenant."

[mr_gaeta]

His mouth twitches, in some approximation of the expression this man does not wear.

"Not anymore," he mumbles, and gingerly pushes himself back to standing. (Straightened back; shoulders squared.)

Behind him, the water has muddied, losing the bright edges to its color. Gaeta knows this without having to turn around.

[the_shaper]

"Not in this place," Dream agrees -- and whether he speaks of what occurs in Gaeta's waking world, or of what occurred in this bleak delta country, it is unclear.

(It doesn't matter.)

"You find comfort in titles nonetheless."

Beside which, Dream appreciates courtesy.

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta nods acknowledgment. He wants to look at his feet, but it's been so long since he's seen the stars that bright; besides, he can't put himself at ease. Not yet.

Uncertain, "May I ask yours, sir?"

(The man's familiar in a way he can't place, despite how alien his features seem -- like a face seen long ago and nearly forgotten.)

[the_shaper]

"I am the Lord of Dreams."

Unblinking.

"You are Felix Gaeta."

[mr_gaeta]

Oh.

"Yes," he says dumbly, and almost drops back to one knee. Gaeta barely moves at all, but it feels like he fell nearly to the ground before catching himself and straightening again. "Lord Morpheus. I, ah."

His throat bobs. What is he supposed to do?

"I didn't realize you were here."

[the_shaper]

"Clearly," says Dream, dry as the dust around them.

[mr_gaeta]

His cheeks flush hot. "I'm sorry, sir."

Gaeta folds his arms, finally tearing his gaze away from Morpheus' eyes. It drifts to his boots. Despite the thick soles, he can make out grains of sand beneath his right foot, and --

"Oh," he whispers to himself as it dawns on him. "That's why."

The water shifts, red leaking back into foam that washes around his feet. He looks up.

"I'm not at the bar."

[the_shaper]

"Neither are you awake," says Dream, to be helpful.

You know. For the record.

[mr_gaeta]

He presses his lips together. After a beat, he nods again, trying for businesslike and failing by a mile.

"For how long?"

What he means: will he have to endure this nightmare -- one more in a constant stream -- for only a few more minutes? For hours?

Is this going to be another night where he accidentally wakes up Louis when he screams himself awake?

[the_shaper]

Dream's eyes narrow a little. One shoulder lifts, drops.

"You should know," he says, almost absently (and with no blame), "that the way you conceive of time means little when you come to this place."

[mr_gaeta]

"I know," he says, "but..."

Gaeta falters.



"I've been here enough already," he finishes at last, very soft. "Sir."

[the_shaper]

"You visit this place frequently."

Dream lifts his head and looks around -- even though, technically speaking, he does not need to. "Some dreams do not carry the weight of significance for the dreamer. This one, I think, is not one of them."

[mr_gaeta]

"It's not," he agrees, no louder.

In the bar, neither Demeter nor Aphrodite knew the details of Gaeta's universe. It stands to reason Morpheus wouldn't, either.

"This is New Caprica." He turns his head enough to look back to the water. When a piece of metal -- part of a Centurion's face, the red light still swinging back and forth where its eyes ought to be -- he turns back, hastily. "I spent sixteen months here. There was..."

The wind stirs, and he closes his eyes against it.

"I caused some bad things."

The understatement isn't intentional. He doesn't know where to begin, or any way he could accurately convey the horror of what he did.

[the_shaper]

I caused some bad things.

As self-deluding as Dream can be, even he must admit that this resonates.

"This is not uncommon."

[mr_gaeta]

"I know. But it -- "

His eyes sting. This time, it has nothing to do with the wind.

"Two hundred people should be alive. And they're not."

[the_shaper]

Dream is silent for a moment.

(The wind dies down again.)

"You hastened the inevitable," he says finally. "It is the way of humans to die. I think you know this."

One white hand extends, one long finger pointing to the river, where a leg below the knee, boot still on the foot, drags slowly across the sand before being drawn into a deeper eddy.

"I do not think you accept it."

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta follows where Morpheus points. He shudders, and turns away; he can no longer feel the sand beneath his right foot.

"They shouldn't have had to die like that," he says, with a tinge of desperation. "I thought. I thought I was helping."

[the_shaper]

Isn't that always the way?

Dream makes no reply.