"Conform and be dull."

- James Frank Dobie

04:31 p.m

8 days earlie

“Do you know the kind of world we live in right now?” Adam said, circling Clay.

The teen was bound by his hands and legs to a steel chair, bolted to the floor. Breathing heavily, with blood flowing from the corner of his lips and bruises that added on to the ones he already had, he stared at his knee in silence, drained of energy from the events of the past few days and the pain of the abuse that the drug dealer had put him through.

Adam wiped the dust off the sleeves of his suit and continued, “A world where sleep is a commodity and Somnidin the currency,” he leaned into the armrest of the chair, bringing his face close to Clay. “Look around you boy. I am the richest of us all.”

Surrounding them were crates and boxes, stacked to the brim of the small storage room, with only the centre kept bare to hold Clay in place. The dank lighting composed of a single fluorescent lamp that hung above his head. The swinging lamp was enough to make the scene look like a 90s torture-interrogation chamber.

Adam continued, “I like your style. Smart, quick witted, I could use someone like you. So, last offer,” he held up a pill bottle of Somnidin to Clay's face. “Join me. And I'll give you all the Somnidin you'll ever need. Reject me, and I'll torture you for the funs,” he finished with a smile.

Clay looked up, face-to-face with the criminal. But his stare was on the bottle, a wanting glare that sought the solace of a night's rest. “I...”

“Come on. You're a smart boy. Logical even,” Adam shook the bottle, rattling the teen in the heart and mind. “Take it.”

With sparse breath, Clay replied, “I...I would...I would rather fuck a cactus,” he spat at the man's face.

Adam wiped the spit off his face with his sleeves. Letting out a small chuckle, “Too bad. I like you kid. You're funny. You're like me. You probably learned to run before you could walk. That makes you different. Some sort of misplaced pride in your nonconformity,” he half-turned to walk away but stepped back and backhanded Clay, hard. “But your pride will be the death of you.”

The door to the storage room opened and one of Adam's henchman walked through. Clay recognized him as the tattooed Mexican from their previous meeting.

Adam asked Tattoo, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting the payment for the guys, boss.”

“Right. The cop killers,” Adam replied calmly. “Take one box to them. And here's a little bonus,” he tossed Clay's pill bottle to him.

Tattoo raised the bottle in thanks, pocketed it, and picked up a box of the drug nearest to him. “Thanks boss.”

Adam asked, “What's happening at the police station?”

“They just got their first responders. The entire city's civil force is out chasing all this death by Sin cases. No one's available to even clean up the bodies.”

“Good. That means we can do whatever we want. See you later,” Adam said. The tattooed man nodded and left with the drugs. Adam turned back to Clay. Holding up his prisoner's face by a vice grip on his jaw. He growled, “Now, let's see how long you can stay awake before the nightmare gets you.”

XXX

06:57 p.m

8 days earlier

Westlay Street was deserted, with overturned vehicles blocking the road. Some ambers glowed within some of the charred cars, a remnant of the destruction that happened the day before. Tim looked up and down the road from his seat in the sole café that remained opened. Broken bottles, baseball bats, crowbars, and other makeshift melee weapons laid on the tar road, bathed red by the setting sun like the aftermath of a blood-soaked battlefield. A lone street sweeper on the other side of the road repeatedly brushed garbage off the pavement. A waitress stepped out of the café, a tray in hand. She set the tray down on the table next to Tim and from it, removed the cup of coffee, placing it softly on the table.

“Here you go,” she said happily. “First customer of the day.”

“First customer?” Tim looked around and noticed that every single chair around him were still pushed into their tables. “Not a single person came in the whole day?”

“Nope,” the waitress tucked the tray under her arm. Her name tag read Lily. “Just you. Not surprising, after what happened last night.”

“I'm guessing riot?” Tim assessed the overturned cars.

“Yeah. Stretched out the whole block. I think the whole city knows by now,” she said in surprised by Tim's lack of knowledge. “Where were you the past day?”

Blankly, Tim replied, “Out of town.”

His attention was caught by an old, black car that had driven up across the street, parking right across the café. A heavily tattooed man exited the vehicle, circling around to the back. From the trunk, he carried out a cardboard box. With a beep audible within the dead quiet city, he locked the car and proceeded down the street with his delivery.

“Got to go,” Tim got up from his seat and meandered out of the café, only turning back once to shoot the waitress two thumbs up. “Coffee's on me.”

He jogged across the littered road just as Tattoo turned into an alley. With the sun past the edges of the buildings, a sudden shadow fell over the streets, only to be instantly illuminated by spots of white as the street lamps turned on.

At the car, he looked through the driver side window, hoping to find a GPS that could lead him to the car's last travelled location. The dashboard was empty, and Tim comforted himself by reasoning GPS might not even be working with the world's media in the disarray that it was in.

He went around to the trunk, looking to the café to make sure the waitress had went back inside. The street sweeper had turned a corner to Aston Avenue, leaving Tim the last man on the road. He picked up a nearby crowbar, with dried blood stuck to the edge of the tool.

Shoving the crowbar into the gap between the trunk, he hoped the lock was weak or worn out. Given the state of the car – dents, rust and all – it was a reasonable request. He was proven right when without much effort, the trunk popped opened. The boot was empty, which bode well for his plan as it meant the tattooed man would have no reason to look back in. Tim climbed in with his new crowbar, closing the trunk just enough so that the lock only engaged lightly.

In complete darkness, he waited, occasionally lighting up his watch to check the time.

A minute passed. Then two. Ten. Twenty. Half an hour flew by and Tim wondered if he had made a mistake, and that perhaps the henchman had intended to leave the car here to get rid of some sort of evidence, and instead was hoofing it to wherever Adam was holding out at. The boot was getting warmer by the minute. A slight thirst took him and he wished he had drank that cup of coffee.

Then, the car shook as a door opened and the man he assumed was the Mexican got in. A slam indicated the shutting of the door. Soon after, the engine revved. Tim held onto the sides of the boot with his hands and feet as the car accelerated off.

XXX

08:33 p.m

8 days earlier

Tim blamed action movies for making kidnappings and sneaking into enemy compounds look too exciting. Real life gave plenty of free time to him; Time spent patiently waiting within the trunk boot as they travelled to their destination. Throughout the hour, he fought the urge to sleep. Partially because he worried of the deadly consequences that might befall him in the dream world, but also as a precaution to the deadly consequences that might befall him in the real world.

He felt the car turn and drive over a hump, as if leaving the main road behind. A while later, the vehicle slowed down to a stop before reversing into what he assumed was a parking space. The engines turned off and the opening and closing of the driver door followed. They had reached wherever they were.

Tim gave ten minutes to waiting and listening, making sure that there was absolutely no one audibly near him before crowbarring the trunk open again. He climbed out, careful to avoid his left leg which had gone numb during the ride. Gently, he closed the trunk, all the while nursing the blood back into his leg with tiny shakes. He took a quick scan of the area.

He was in the middle of a storage lot, with rows of storage lockers extending left and right, cutting off at the fenced boundary. Now in 'enemy' territories, he drew his revolver and holstered the crowbar onto one of his belt loop. He did a quick check to make sure his gun was loaded, before feeling the cold brunt of a metal pipe slamming into the back of his neck. His legs buckled from the pain and his vision blurred, his body falling to the ground.

“What should we do with him?” Tim heard a man say. His body, paralysed by the hit to the tip of his spine, refused to move. The only thing he saw was the ground before him.

Adam's voice replied, “Throw him in with that Clay kid. We'll deal with them both later.”

As the world around him dimmed, he watched from his view of the concrete lot as a well shined leather shoe stepped into his view.

“Timmy boy,” he heard Adam said. “You shouldn't have come.”

One of the shoes raised into the air, before swinging against his face.