Who: Nike [Open to Morpheus] What: What does Victory dream of, if Victory itself is a dream to be had? Where: In Nike's dream. When: Tuesday, late evening Warnings: N/A
Dreams were intangible, flexible, always changing, never the constant.
They had their uses in plans, schemes and plots, but never as effective as a knife through the heart could be achieved.
Nike was biased.
All her life, it was one hand on the hilt and one ear towards logic. As time passed, if she couldn't see it, she didn't believe in it. If it wasn't solid, sharp, and lethal, it wasn't to be relied on.
Victory was a conclusive decision and not a cliffhanger. If there were elements to be regarded that would bring about another conflict, then it was her siblings that would pick up the cycle again. Not her role.
Her dreams were rare because they were inconclusive. There was never an end to them, nor was she able to achieve one.
Roadways split into ten, all arrows pointing down each lane, not even knowing where they led. All roads did not lead to Rome nor Olympus. Nor Afghanistan or New York. Logic did not exist here, so she could not think. But watched as her feet picked up from the ground, her wings spread wide as she took one step after another, down the center road. With each step forward, a foot of the road was lost behind, lost in a black void that was breathing down her neck as it followed, at a slug's pace.
Three rivers spliced through the road up ahead, each with a ferryman of their own.
Zeus looked ahead, not seeing her as Nike stopped before him, kneeling down onto the pavement, her head hung low. He did not blink, he did not see. Athena stood at his side, her eyes comforting, filled with reason that did not exist in such dreams. Her hand reached out for her sister in arms, but Zeus stopped it, his own hand outreaching towards her. Asking for a price.
Her father looked down upon her, a smile on his face. He offered her a hand that she could not grasp, always stepping backwards when she reached for it, drawing her deeper and deeper into the cold black waters. When finally he stopped, she could not breathe. Water filled her ears, her nostrils, forcing open her mouth, throat, lungs, suffocating her. The water had engulfed them both and all she could see was the ghostly image of her father floating ahead of her, smiling, out of reach.
"Sergeant. Can you help me?"
Nike turned, her bare feet wet, yet silent against white sand.
Jared gestured towards the fallen limb that laid within her reach. Nike took hold of the prone arm and handed it back to him. But he did not reach for it. He only looked behind her.