Veritas, Libertas

David Calgary was having a dream. He was immediately glad that it wasn't his own.

He stood in an open doorway, staring down and out into endless rows of belts and gears, an assembly line like a wicked engine, thrumming with pistons and the vivid stink of oil. Sparks danced like chained demons, cruel and compelling all at once, the only light except for a pervasive, sourceless red. This place was industry. This place was hell. To the owner of this dream, it was both.

This hell was not empty, either. Men, if you could call them men, stood in chains before the endless, grinding belts. Some small and lean, others long and so beautiful as to bring ice tears to a loving eye – David did not have loving eyes, but he found his breath stolen nonetheless. Fat and squat, lean and thin, every step between and all of them with eyes of a vibrant, dangerous green. They did not belong in this place of black and red and steel. To the owner of this dream, it was their hell.

It was another's industry. Shapeless and looming, his shadow danced on three of the walls, the fourth lost to the darkness of offstage, of possibility. This is where David's door led him. The shadows rose, eyeglasses glinting red in reflection. David supposed he was supposed to make it right. He supposed that to the owner of this dream, he was the hero.

It was true enough. He strode forward, a sledgehammer heavy in his hands. VERITAS was burned into the iron on one side, LIBERTAS on the other. The owner of the dream was dramatic in that sense – David was now certain he'd never dream this up on his own. Taking up the weight of her need, he marched on, and when he raised his arms, the gears gasped and paused.

When he brought them down, it shattered. Belt. Gears. Chains. Shadows. The red shattered like the red of the overseer's glasses. Everything collapsed with a single dose of VERITAS, LIBERTAS clattering to the floor. The owner of the dream, a young and beautiful woman, looked up at him from the mess – the only one still in chains. Her face was plain – David remembered her gratitude - her body was unremarkable, for that matter, but in her dreams, she was beautiful.

“You saved me...you freed me. Freed all of us.” She raised her chained wrists. She changed.

Her hair was now silver. Her eyes were an endless, shining gray. Her face was slight and fragile and pure. Her lips were open. “You did this to me.” Her eyes were so very sad. All around, the shattering and clattering of glass played on, an endless rain in David's ears.

David's dream had found him. “J-”

*****

“-ust get up already. You're going to be late. You know how Dwight gets.” David's eyes snapped open. He was sitting in an awkward position, like Cassiopeia on a borrowed couch. The entire apartment was borrowed. He was borrowing it from Glenn, who let him. Glenn, after all, owed him more than half a soul, by all rights.

Glenn was burdened with an overabundance – something David could definitely understand.

Glenn's dreams were different, however. Glenn dreamed of Heaven. Something inside of Glenn cried every night. Glenn had to comfort her, and in return, she had grown fiecely loyal. David considered himself lucky. The woman of his dreams at least had the courtesy to stay there.
“All right. I'm up...” He went over to shave. He never bothered with his hair, but he always shaved, then showered, then put on a freshly pressed shirt, tie, and slacks. He added the odd boots from his last job – he told strangers who stared that they'd been made for him by elves. They thought he was lying.
“All right,” he repeated. He stared into the mirror. Her silver eyes were watching. So much for courtesy these days, he thought.

“I'm up.”