[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J2p1lxg.png[/img][/center] [b][CENTER][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]IN DREAMS FINALE[/URL][/CENTER] [/b] [b]New York City[/b] [b]December, 1939[/b] "Whaddya think?" Sandy Hawkins showed off his yellow outfit complete with red gloves, boots, and a red domino mask. It was a stark contrast to Wesley Dodds' suit, fedora, and gasmask. Most masked men and their sidekicks had some sort of matching theme or motif. Hourboy, Bulletgirl, and STRIPE all mimicked the look of their mentors. Sandy, however, was going another way with it. "You'll stand out," said Wesley. "That's for sure." "That's the point," said Sandy. He had the cocksure certainty of any other teenaged kid. It made Wesley proud, and yet slightly fearful. There was a fine line between confidence and arrogance. And in their line of work, arrogance could get you killed. "The others want to follow in someone else's footsteps. Not me. I want to chart my own course." "Plus, The Sandboy doesn't roll off the tongue," Wesley said with a smirk. "Does it?" "No, but... Sandy The Golden Boy? Look out criminals of New York!" Sandy shadowboxed with a barrage of quick punches. He was certainly physically capable. Ted Grant himself had said Sandy was a natural fighter. That was high praise from the champ. Wesley hoped their partnership would work as a perfect compliment. The Sandman's detective skills and planning alongside Sandy's swashbuckling physicality was a perfect match. He was a little unsure about bringing Dian's nephew into his crusade like this, but the boy had been so adamant after finding out Wesley's secret. It was either do it under Wesley's watch, or let the boy go maverick on his own and surely end up hurt or worse. "Do me a favor, Sandy," said Wesley. "Don't... tell your aunt about this just yet. If Dian found about it, she'd go ballistic. Especially if something happens." The kid winked at Wesley. "Don't worry, Uncle Wes. With you watching my back I know I'll be safe." [hr] [b]New York City Now[/b] Wesley Dodds stared down at the medicine on his nightstand. The clock ticked beside the many pill bottles and told him it was just past three in the afternoon. He'd been up a day and a half now, over thirty-six hours since he'd been told about Sandy's murder. Almost twelve hours since he confronted Frankie with the truth of what she'd done. He was so tired now. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. He was tired of this world and tired of living. He felt his age for the first time in a long time. Dian was long gone, and now Sandy was gone with her. What did that leave him left with? A few JSA friends floating in the flotsam and jetsam out there. Kent was somewhere lost in his magic realms, Carter was still alive but Wesley hadn't seen him in fifty years. Courtney and her kids were active but with their own lives that Wesley never really took part in. So... what was left for him in this world? What was so worth sticking around for? He shook a handful of sleeping pills loose from the bottle and held them in his hand. Kind of poetic, actually. Take a bunch of these and fall asleep never to wake up again. And endless sleep. He walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. The sound of a soft knock on the door made him pause. He put the pills on the kitchen counter beside the sink and walked towards the door. "Wesley Dodds?" Detective Paul Gold stood at his door, badge in hand. "Yes, sir," he said, doing his best to pretend he had no idea who Gold was. "Can I help you?" "We need to talk. It's about your nephew, Sanderson Hawkins. Mind if I come in?" Wesley thought about the small pile of pills on the kitchen counter and shook his head. "Umm, actually, there's a diner not far from here where we can talk. Besides, you look like you could use a cup of joe." [hr] "Francesca -- Frankie -- confessed pretty quickly once we woke her up and got her into an interrogation room." Wesley and Gold sat in a booth. It was two over from the booth Wesley and Sandy had sat in thirty years earlier in the lead-up to their falling out. Gold stirred sugar into a cup of coffee while Wesley listened to him talk. He kept a hand on his chin, his fingers hiding his mouth as Gold told the story that he already knew, the story he'd led Gold to discover with his breadcrumbs. "It was greed, simple as that. I'm sorry but that's what got your nephew killed, Mr. Dodds." "He wouldn't be the first victim of it. And he certainly won't be the last, detective..." Sandy looked out the window of the diner, not daring to meet Gold's eyes. "I just... I wish he'd come to me if he needed money. I feel like he would have if we'd been on good terms. We hadn't spoken in nearly thirty years because of me. I was angry at, well, a lot of things. I lashed out at Sandy because he was an easy target. All he ever wanted was to make me proud. I never got the chance to tell him that I was sorry. That I never got to tell him how much I loved him and how proud I was of him." "I don't believe in an afterlife," said Gold. "Not harps and angels and shit. But I think Sandy, or whatever is left of him in this life, is watching and knows that." Wesley shrugged half-heartedly. He had seen so much death and violence over the years it was hard to believe in anything close to a heaven or a benevolent god. But there was the dreams, though. That dream that punched through Wesley's medicated veil to let him know Sandy's death had not been a suicide. Was it just coincidence... or maybe some sort of final message from Sandy? "I do have two questions though," Gold asked, an eyebrow raised slightly. "Sandy's collection of Sandman memorabilia. It looks like some items were missing, and a costume was one of them. But nothing in his records indicated he sold off any suits or costumes to anyone." "Interesting," said Wesley. "Furthermore, I did some research. Your nephew operated as a masked hero known as The Sandman." "That's right." "But Sandy was the second Sandman. He went public with his identity in the 70's. But the first Sandman never came out, and nobody really knows who he was. I say 'was' instead of 'is' because as old as Sandy was, if the fist Sandman were still alive... he'd have to be old. Practically ancient." Gold let the silence hang between them, his eyes fixated on Wesley and a ghost of a smile on his face. Wesley met his gaze without blinking. A knowing look passed between the two men. Gold slowly nodded his head, the closest to a thanks for the help he would ever muster. "You look tired, Detective," Wesley finally said. "All this coffee isn't good for you. Might need to get some sleep." "That's my next stop after here, Mr. Dodds. Home and my warm bed and cold wife." Gold stood and put some money on the table for his coffee. "You know I actually know of the original Sandman very well, probably better than most. My family has a lot to thank that man for, you see. My grandmother was a woman named Meg Turner. She had rough upbringing, Mr. Dodds. Used and abused by all kinds of men. She came to the city in the 30's and found herself turning tricks to survive. She almost was killed by some serial killer called The Tar-" "Tarantula," Wesley said softly. He felt a lump forming in his throat. "Yes... Sandy always said that case was one of The Sandman's best." "Yes, and my grandmother never got to thank the man who saved her life. After that night she was able to get off the streets and live a normal life. He changed her life. And plenty of others. I mean, I wouldn't be standing here right now if not that that man. Neither would two whole generations of children, three if you count mine and my sister's kids. All because one man did the right thing. Her one regret was she never got to shake his hand and give him her thanks." Gold stuck his hand out. Wesley could feel the tears streaming down his face as he and Gold shook hands. "Thank you, Mr. Dodds. And I am truly sorry for your loss." "Thank you, Detective," Wesley said. "Get some rest... pleasant dreams." [hr] [b][center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]Mood Music[/url][/center][/b] [center][i]A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper Go to sleep, everything is alright[/i][/center] Wesley watched the sleeping pills disappear down the flushing toilet. He'd dumped them all into the water and flushed. He'd thought about Gold's words on the way back home. He knew exactly what he was living for now. It wasn't for loved ones, or really for himself. It was for the dreams. Like it had been some ninety years ago when they first started. Dreams of human suffering, dreams of horrors that had happened and horrors yet to happen. It was the dreams that the Sandman had even existed in the first place. And it was the dreams that kept him alive for as long as it had. Of that he was convinced. It was his purpose, his destiny. He slipped under the covers and prepared for sleep to take him. His eyes felt heavy as he blinked once, twice, and finally a third time before his eyelids rested in place. Within thirty seconds he was asleep. And for the first time in decades, when he slept he dreamed. [center][i]I close my eyes then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.[/i][/center] In Washington Heights, naked women moved to a hip-hop beat as they cut and packaged drugs into little baggies. They weren't completely naked. Topless and bottomless, yes, but they all wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. At one large table, six women packaged cocaine while six more packaged heroin at an adjacent table. They were naked to prevent any stealing. Though in truth each of them were illegal immigrants and had too much to lose by skimming any of the top. Raymond Jones still made them strip because... well, he got off on the power trip. Raymond watched the girls working from the catwalk landing above the floor. In his dreams, Wesley watched Raymond smile. Two rows of razor-sharp metal teeth shinned in the trap house light. [center][i]In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you're mine all of the time We're together in dreams, in dreams[/i][/center] Wesley watched the masked man slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Wesley saw flashbacks go through his mind, killing a Somali pirate with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. The masked man didn’t believe in the stereotype of born killers, but he was a killer now thanks to Uncle Sam. Like a chunk of coal the government had applied pressure and polished him up to turn him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential. Three guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. He kept the flashlight beam low and was able to make out one figure in the dim light. His target acquired he aimed. [sup]"Bang."[/sup] Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off a suppressed shot. [sup]"Bang. Bang. Bang."[/sup] Three rounds hissed through the room, three bullets exploding the three men's heads. He fired off three more to each man's heart to be sure they were dead before he started down the rickety stairs. [sup]"Creak."[/sup] Without another look back the masked man disappeared into the night. [center][i]But just before the dawn I awake and find you gone I can't help it I can't help it If I cry I remember that you said goodbye[/i][/center] The bald, malnourished old man stared out blankly from his cell inside Arkham. His straightjacket was wrapped snuggly around his waist, his arms secured. The name on his breast pocket read J. Dee #102589. His face held a healthy amount of gray stubble, his lips cracked and dried. His glazed over eyes slowly tracked around the room and looked at something that wasn't there. "I can see you," he said in a raspy voice. "Yes, you. Wesley Dodds. Hello... I can't wait to meet you. 'Badubabua... Goodnight sweetheart, well, it's time to go... Goodnight sweetheart, well, it's time to go...I hate to leave you but I really must say... Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight." [center][i]It's too bad that all these things Can only happen in my dreams Only in dreams In beautiful dreams[/i][/center] Detective Paul Gold looked over the strange crime scene. Two armed robbers were laying face down on the pavement, snoring their asses off while their guns lay beside them. The two men had tired to take off a night time armored car as it restocked ATM machines around the Upper East Side. "It was the weirdest thing," the security guard said to the patrolman interviewing him. "These fuckers had barely started their spiel when they get smacked in the face by some gas. They started coughing and collapsed right away. Next thing I know they're sawing logs. I look over to my right and there's this guy standing there with a... goddamn gasmask on. He has on some kind of wide brimmed hat. He just tips it at me and turns around, says something about sleep well tonight or something, I dunno. Jesus Christ... I gotta stop working nights..." "Gasmask, huh," Gold said. His eyes glanced up the side of the nearest building. He followed the path of a fire escape. For just a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of movement somewhere on the building's rooftop. A small smile formed on his face and he turned to look at the security guard. "You might be right... we could all do with a little shut eye and a visit from the sandman." [center][b]END: PART I[/b][/center]