Ironic
The masked man walked with deliberate slowness through the metal corridor, his steps echoing off the cold, hard surfaces. He moved from one room to another with an air of calm confidence, as though the vast, labyrinthine ship was an extension of his own mind, a place where he belonged. It was as if the ship were deserted, and he alone inhabited its metallic halls.
As he walked, he absentmindedly reflected on the nature of dreams, which he found to be one of the most fascinating aspects of existence. Dreams were truly magical, a concept beyond the grasp of reality.
They were unseen, untouchable, and yet they were real. They existed in the space between thoughts and consciousness, weaving fragments from the recesses of memory, distilling the essence of those fragments, and crafting vivid scenes that could feel as authentic as anything encountered in the waking world.
Dreams were slippery. They eluded capture, slipping through your fingers like a stream of water. You could try to focus on them, to stare directly at their core, but just when you thought you had caught a glimpse of their true nature, they would shift, transform, becoming something else entirely.
It was this elusive quality that made dreams invincible.
The masked man eventually reached the door of the command room. He paused just outside, his gloved hand resting lightly on the metal frame. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in and softly whispered, "Open Sesame."
The words hung in the air for a moment, as if they carried a weight of their own. Then, as though the very syllables had woven themselves into the fabric of the ship's electronic systems, the door responded. The metal panels slid open with a crisp, mechanical clatter, revealing the interior of the command room. The man twirled his cane with a flick of his wrist, the motion graceful and fluid, before striding confidently into the room.
Because in a dream, anything is possible.
He was not merely a visitor in this dream; he was its master, a dream walker, and within this realm, the world itself would bend to his will.
As he entered, the scene before him was one of controlled chaos. The infected who had breached the command room were nearly all neutralized. The agents stationed there were no ordinary operatives; each possessed unique skills, some with abilities that set them apart from the norm. They were seasoned professionals, capable of holding their ground even in the face of overwhelming odds.
The last of the infected had just fallen, a bullet piercing through his skull, sending him tumbling down the metal passageway. His body lay still on the cold floor, lifeless. The agents, having secured the room, quickly returned to their stations. Their focus now was on restoring communication and coordination, critical to regaining control of the ship.
But their most urgent task was to reestablish contact with the chairman.
The screen in the command room had gone dark moments earlier, the image of Commander Ross flickering and then disappearing. The invasion of the infected had followed immediately after, plunging the room into disarray. No one knew where the chairman was; he could be in any part of the ship, perhaps even under siege at that very moment.
An alert flashed on one of the screens, catching the attention of the agents.
"The third entrance to the command room has been opened!"
This was an anomaly. The command room had been sealed off the moment the intrusion was detected; all entrances were supposed to be locked down. The agents turned, almost in unison, towards the third entrance, where they saw the Dreamwalker.
"Intruder!" one of the agents shouted.
Instinctively, one agent fired a shot at him, but the bullet did something impossible. It halted mid-air, spinning as if caught in an invisible force. Then, with a sudden twist, it reversed direction, striking another agent who crumpled to the floor.
The other agents hesitated, their fingers poised on triggers but unwilling to fire.
An agent, bold and quick, leaped from the bridge, aiming to tackle the intruder. But as he soared through the air, the metal railing behind him twisted and coiled like a living serpent, wrapping around his body with the unyielding strength of steel. No matter how he thrashed, the makeshift bonds held him fast.
Another agent, attempting a similar maneuver, found his feet suddenly ensnared by wires that shot down from the ceiling like vipers. The colorful cables, humming with electrical energy, tightened around his ankles and hoisted him into the air, leaving him dangling upside down, helpless.
As one agent closed the distance, determined to apprehend the masked man, he suddenly realized the man had vanished. Panic set in as he looked around frantically, only to see that every agent on the bridge had turned into the masked man, identical copies surrounding him. In a synchronized motion, they all snapped their fingers, and the floor beneath the agent gave way. With a scream, he plummeted into the void below.
"Everyone, calm down!" another agent shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. "The intel shows that the enemy's ability is to create dreams. It's all just illusions—"
Before he could finish, the windshield behind him exploded outward, as if an unseen force had ripped it apart. The agent and those standing nearby were yanked out of the cabin, their bodies hurled into the open sky, falling from the great height of the mothership.
"Maybe," the Dreamwalker mused, a chuckle escaping his lips, "but who can say where the boundary between dreams and reality lies?"
In terms of physical laws, it might indeed be a dream, an illusion constructed in the mind. But the sensory experience was so vivid, so tactile, that it blurred the lines. Those ensnared within it were lost in a vortex of fabricated "reality," unable to discern the shore from the depths.
He tapped his cane against the ground, his gaze sweeping the room. He was searching, but the one he sought was absent. A pang of disappointment washed over him as he sighed, "The chairman isn't here? What a pity. I had hoped for a conversation. Unfortunately..."
The sound of shattering glass interrupted his thoughts. A piece of the windshield broke apart, and through the opening, a white figure descended from the sky. The figure's cloak billowed like the crescent moon, and with both feet aimed squarely at the Dreamwalker, the figure kicked with the force of a falling meteor.
Dreamwalker's pupils contracted as he processed the scene.
Unlike the previous illusions, he knew with absolute certainty that this moment was real.
Someone had actually shattered the mothership's reinforced windshield, descending from thousands of meters in the air to deliver a powerful kick.
His first thought, almost ironic, was how unscientific the whole situation was.
Instinctively, Dreamwalker swung his cane, holding it horizontally in front of him. The white combat boots struck the cane with a force that nearly shattered the bones in his arms. The impact reverberated through his body, causing his very bones to hum with the force of it.
The force sent him flying backward, crashing into a screen mounted on the wall. The monitor shattered, sending a cascade of glass shards and exposed wires into the air. The broken glass sliced into his skin, drawing blood, and the metal edges of the screen cut deep.
Moon Knight landed in the center of the room, rising from a half-crouch with deliberate slowness, his movements measured and controlled. He exuded an aura of judgment, like a knight of legend come to life. All eyes turned to him, the agents frozen in place, their minds struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
The agents of the Ninth Special Service Division were no strangers to bizarre occurrences. They knew they were trapped in some kind of dream illusion, a reality manipulated by the masked man standing before them. By all logic, everything they had seen should be nothing more than hallucinations, conjured by his mind.
But that logic faltered when confronted with the sight before them. If this was all his dream, why would he create a scene where he was beaten?
And if this wasn't an illusion, if this was real, then the reality they faced was even more unsettling. Could someone really have kicked through the windshield of a mothership at an altitude of thousands of meters, entering the ship in such a dramatic fashion?
The agents stood, stunned, unable to determine where the line between dream and reality was drawn.
Moon Knight did possess the ability to fly, a gift granted by the Moon God's protection. But this ability wasn't standard; it wasn't part of his regular powers. So, Charlie, who had drawn Moon Knight from the C-level pool, naturally couldn't fly several kilometers into the sky and land in this graveyard.
Tracking the nine motherships had been Batman's job. Batman had flown up in the Batfighter, switched roles mid-air to become Moon Knight, and made a spectacular entrance. Now, Moon Knight stood before them, ready for battle.
And so, the scene from the previous night replayed itself.
Dreamwalker, seemingly undeterred by his previous failure, decided to try his dream ability against Moon Knight once more.
The agents in the command room, still reeling from the confusion of dream and reality, found themselves witnessing a cinematic-level battle unfold before their eyes.
Dreamwalker raised his cane, and the floor of the command room began to ripple, rolling back like waves. Countless screens, suspended from the ceiling, rotated around Moon Knight, forming a dizzying kaleidoscope. Cables, crackling with electric sparks, shot out like venomous snakes, aiming to ensnare him.
But Moon Knight was unfazed.
Ignoring the swirling special effects, he delivered a simple, unembellished left uppercut. The punch connected with devastating force, sending Dreamwalker reeling. The sheer impact of the blow left him staggering, his mind momentarily dazed. He nearly lost his footing as the room spun around him, but he managed to remain upright, albeit barely.
Even as he was pummeled, Dreamwalker continued to speak, though his words were now slurred and muddled. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but the defiance in his eyes remained.
"You... You must think... that you've cracked the secret of dreams... that you've seen the essence of them..." His voice was strained, each word a struggle to get out.
Before he could continue, Moon Knight delivered a swift knee to his midsection, the blow landing with brutal precision. The force of the strike drove all the air from Dreamwalker's lungs, and he felt as though his internal organs were being crushed. He doubled over, gasping for breath, as a wave of pain coursed through his body.
The impact sent Dreamwalker crashing into the metal wall behind him. His back slammed against the unforgiving surface, and he slid down to the floor, crumpled in a heap. Despite the pain, a smile crept across his face, twisted and mocking.
"You underestimate dreams," Dreamwalker whispered, his voice carrying an eerie calmness despite his battered state. "What you're fighting now is merely a nightmare of my own creation. But tell me, what will you do when you face your own nightmare?"
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Wow... I feel like it will be really disgusting to leave you guys hanging on such a steep cliff for a week...
Sooo... keep hanging
Muhahahahaha!!!
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