Villains and Damsels

Villains and Damsels

By Garnett Gibson

Part 1: The Somnigo

* * *

Sam stepped out of the shower and recognized the sound of banging, loud enough to reach the bathroom all the way from the front of his apartment. Someone urgently knocking, probably with their entire forearm.

He ran through the potential list of visitors as quickly as he could while he searched for a clean towel. He was pretty sure he didn't owe anyone money right now, at least no one who would try to collect this aggressively. Could be a family member, his mom or someone, coming to tell him that someone had died. The cops? His boss?

"Coming, coming!" he yelled, clutching the towel around his waist. The knocking was so intense and deafening that Sam didn't even check the peephole before opening the door.

"Fuck," he said.

Natalie had been about to strike the door again. Her arm was still in the air, and her expression was almost as shocked as his.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to say..." He rubbed his mouth with his free hand, wishing that he had shaved his stubble. She'd always hated when he had stubble. She looked...well, she looked horrible, to be frank. His normally poised and polished ex-girlfriend had dark shadows around her eyes, brown hair haphazardly pulled into a ponytail with some undyed grays at her roots, and a wrinkled sweater to cap it all off.

"It's okay," she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, like maybe she'd been crying. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I thought my grandma died or something," he said.

She gave an embarrassed laugh, adjusted her purse on her shoulder. God, even like this, she was still...

Nope. Nope. That ship sailed a long time ago. He tried to send that message to his crotch, where the towel was hiding the fact that his dick was responding as if he and Natalie were still together. "Sorry, it's just, it's been a year, and well, you know that, but..." He cleared his throat. "You wanna come in?"

She nodded, and stepped inside when he opened the door wider. "I tried calling or texting, but you didn't pick up, and Jeff told me you were still living here." She looked around the apartment appraisingly. Her thoughts and opinions, as always, were in the impenetrable fortress of her mind, but based on what he knew about her, he doubted she approved of the state of his living space.

"It's been on the charger," he said. "Hang on, let me get dressed." He disappeared into his room, desperately searching for acceptable clothes. He didn't want to leave her alone long enough to find any stray takeout containers left around the living room.

"I would have thought you'd moved," she said, loud enough for him to hear.

He sniffed a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, shrugged to himself, and put them on. "Why's that?" He came back into the living room.

"Your new career. Thought it would have been a lucrative one." She'd settled into his recliner, hunched over. "I saw you posting it on LinkedIn."

He tried to change the subject. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"That'd be great."

Sam nodded and grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge, then came back to the living room and handed it to her. "So, what brings you by? You remembered something else you left behind?" He grinned sheepishly, instantly wishing he'd said something cooler, and maybe less likely to be interpreted as hostile.

"No." She seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him, staring at some point on the wall behind him. "I, um." She cracked open the bottlecap and took a drink. "Sorry, it's just..." She took a deep breath in and out, and blinked away burgeoning tears.

"Nat?" He could safely say that he'd never seen her like this. To be honest, it was a little disturbing.

"This is hard for me to say, that's all," she said. "I practiced in the mirror at home, but...it's different, being here."

"Okay?" He sat on the couch across from her, trying to look sympathetic, even though he had no idea what she was about to say. If she was going to admit something, or accuse him or something, or...what?

She looked down at the water bottle. "I've...I've been having...nightmares."

Oh.

Oh, fuck. That was why she had mentioned--

"I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't be sure she would ask for his help. Maybe he wouldn't have to disappoint her.

She sat back in the chair. "I thought it was so, so stupid, when they started selling those policies. Like, we have this amazing but scary new technology, and of

course

the insurance companies find a way to make money off it." She laughed weakly and took a sip of water. "But for weeks now, I haven't been able to sleep. And when I do, I wake up still exhausted. I've never felt anything like this. My performance at work is slipping. I've had to take the bus or Ubers everywhere because I was nodding off behind the wheel. Three psychiatrists haven't been able to help me understand what it means or how to stop it from coming back." Her voice cracked, and she turned to wipe away a stray tear.

"I'm so sorry." Sam hated repeating himself, especially to Natalie, but at least adding a "so" emphasized his sincerity. He was sincere. Seeing her like this was, fuck, it was awful. To see her brought down by her own mind. It was hard enough to see it in his clients or their loved ones, but in Natalie?

"I talked to a broker, but of course the policies don't cover 'pre-existing recurrences.'" She grimaced at repeating the corporate speak, like the words tasted sour. "And I can't afford a bounty hunter or a bodyguard or whatever you guys are calling yourselves."

"The vernacular's still being worked out," Sam said with a tiny smile. His own LinkedIn page identified him as a, "Certified Somnigo Dream Consultant," but he'd seen it listed in multiple ways as more and more people tried to break into the budding industry. "You really can't...?" He stopped himself without elaborating. Her finances were none of his business. "You could get a loan," he offered limply.

She shook her head. "The interest rates are insane, and I can't find a broker that doesn't feel shady as fuck." She was avoiding asking him, he knew. She wanted him to offer his help of his own volition. And it wasn't that he didn't want to help her, but how could he admit the truth?

"How'd you get yours, anyway?" she asked. "Did

you

get a loan?"

"The Somnigo? God, no." He laughed. "I don't think even the sketchiest lenders would have touched me. No, I uh, I actually won it in a raffle."

Now, at last, she gave a real laugh. "You're kidding."

"Swear to God. I saw an ad on Facebook. All the money went to a charity for hurricane victims, so I bought a couple tickets at five bucks a pop. I figured, if nothing else, at least it was for a good cause but didn't think I had a chance in hell. But, I got it. I can show you the email and the letter they sent me with the package. I couldn't believe it either, until it showed up at my door."

"I thought...when I saw your post about it on LinkedIn, I guess I assumed you'd found your calling," she said.

He looked away in embarrassment. "My first thought was to sell it. I probably could have paid rent for six months straight if I did. But I heard about how much some people were making using it, and I looked over the certification materials and thought, 'Shit, that doesn't look so hard.' And it wasn't. Turns out, the certification process is scarily easy."

"Oh, great," she said sarcastically, but laughed. Sam realized, then, that they hadn't had a conversation this easy and comfortable since the earliest months of their relationship.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "But the market is, well, it's saturated. And actually going into someone's head, actually helping them that way..." He struggled to find the right words that he'd never had to say out loud. "You need to be one of two things." He put out his index finger. "You need to be a counselor, someone with comprehensive knowledge of the human psyche," he extended his next finger, "or you need to be strong, with quick reflexes. Big firms will hire both types to be able to handle any situation, like former hostage negotiators or retired professional athletes, but for one-man operations, you really need to be both, and preferably top-notch in both. I'm, well, I'm not really either." He chuckled with embarrassment for himself, but Natalie's calm, even kind expression didn't change. She didn't look disappointed by his admission. She didn't look like she was about to gather her bag, thank him for his time, and be on her way.

"I didn't think strength would be all that important," she admitted. "It's a dream. Aren't you as strong as you imagine?"

"That's not really how it works," he said. "It's not the consultant's dream. The dreamer can try to make them stronger, but the problem is, you're up against things that don't exist in the real world. Minotaurs, vampires, shit like that. These are manifestations of people's darkest fears, and if it's gotten bad enough that they need to hire someone, chances are they're stronger than you."

"Can they hurt you?" Natalie asked.

"Not really. I could wake up sore, but that's about it." He shrugged. "But if I can't defeat them one way or another, I'm not much use to my clients."

"What kind of stuff have you done?"

"Mostly, it's kids, honestly. Or rather their parents, who don't know how else to deal with the fact that little Suzy or Jimmy can't sleep alone anymore. I guess it's easier to hire someone like me than to actually talk to their kid, because almost every time it's something like, their dog died and they're sad about it, or some other kid's bullying them. It's easier to tackle and less complex than adult brains, but it's depressing as hell. All that's to say, I'm not very good at it and I don't think I'm going to be in this business for much longer. It's not even my primary source of income at this point." He looked at her tentatively.

"Oh," she said.

"I'm sorry."

She was silent for a moment, and he thought for sure that this was it, that she was going to leave, and this would probably be the last time he'd ever see her. She pressed her feet to the floor like she was going to stand, but then shook her head. "If you can't help me," she said, her voice cracking with more tears, "if you can't even

try

, then I honestly don't know what else I'm going to do."

She seemed so small, so afraid. How could he turn her away now? How could he say no?

"I know you're not the most qualified, and I swear I don't mean that as an insult. But you are qualified, and I don't trust anyone else to do this. Even if they were cheaper, I don't care how much experience they have. I still don't know if I trust this technology, and I don't want anyone else in my head. All I'm asking is that you try. Please, Sam. Please."

She'd never begged for anything when they were together. She'd never had to.

He'd been unsuccessful with his adult clients more times than not. But he'd never messed any of them up. So, at least, he was confident that he wouldn't hurt her. At least not more than she'd already been hurt.

"Okay," he said. "I'll do it. I'll try. I can't make any guarantees, but I'll try."

Unbelievable relief washed over her face. "That's all I want, Sam. Thank you. Oh, fuck." She shook with a grateful sob and covered her mouth. "Thank you so much."

"Of course," he said, like he'd never thought of offering otherwise.

They sat in silence for a moment while Natalie composed herself. He wanted to offer her a tissue or something, but he didn't have any. Besides, that would probably just embarrass her.

"So," she said at last, "how does it, uh, how does it work? I guess I should tell you--"

"No." He held up a hand. "No, if this is a recurrence, you shouldn't tell me anything about the dream. It could affect how you behave once you're in there, and make it harder for me to work."

"Am I going to know you're there?" she asked.

"Some people know. Others don't. Depends on the mode too, and no way to really tell in advance...but let me go get it."

Sam rushed into his room and unearthed the Somnigo from a corner. It was covered in empty soda cans. He hadn't had many clients in the past few months. He checked the outside of the box for any stray sticky spots and brought it back to the living room, setting it on the coffee table.

"I don't think I've ever seen one in person," she said, peering at it curiously.

"Yeah, they're a trip," he acknowledged. It was a white rectangular box, with a slot for a removable earpiece on one side, a pair of slim goggles that came off the front, and a panel that opened in the middle. "This is for the client." He picked up the earpiece and handed it to her. "And this is for the consultant." He took out the goggles, then released the panel to reveal the device's controls. "There's two basic modes. Observation mode, essentially read-only rights. I'm going through your dream and seeing what you see. Sometimes that means I'll be looking through your eyes, other times that means I'll be looking at you like a third-person video game character. Usually, it's both in the same dream, because that's how a lot of people dream, shifting perceptions every once in awhile. That's what we'll use the first night. I'll go through and see what's going on, and if you ever find yourself aware of me, try not to let it affect your actions."

She nodded with understanding.

"From there, I can form a plan of action and then the next time I go in, I'll be in Participation mode. That means I'll be able to talk to you, talk to other characters in your dream, though they're under no obligation to talk back or tell me the truth. I'll be able to touch things, affect what's going on in some ways, but it's still your mind and even if it doesn't feel like it, you'll be the one in control."

"When does it start?" she asked.

"Before you get into bed, put the earpiece in. The Somnigo will alert me when you fall into REM sleep, if I don't already have the goggles on. It's like VR, pretty much."

"What's to stop me from just stealing the earpiece?" she asked with a smirk.

He smiled back. "It's coded to my device. You could jailbreak it, but usually my clients pay so much for their sessions, plus they'd still have to get a unit to go with the earpiece, so there's not much point. Why? You feeling naughty?" He allowed himself an almost-wicked grin. The kind that usually made her burst out laughing.

She did laugh, but it mostly seemed to be at herself. "No. No, no. This is just...I honestly didn't know much about these things. It's interesting."

He nodded.

"I think it's good you've been trying to help people with it," she said. "I'm sorry it's not working out the way you hoped."

"I did it to make money." He felt like it was important to say that, even though it seemed shameful. Though Natalie had never apologized for her ambition, he reminded himself, and that had never made him love her less.

"There's other ways to make money." She put the earpiece into a side pocket of her purse and zipped it shut. Then she stood. "I'll see you tonight, Sam."

He wanted to reach out to her hand, but she was already halfway to the door. "See you tonight, Nat."

#

Sam usually tried to take a late afternoon nap before a session, since he'd technically be awake during his time in his clients' heads, and a session could take up the whole night. He'd make himself a cup of chamomile tea, turn off the lights, play some soothing music, and usually that would be enough to knock him out.

But today, it wasn't. None of it worked. He ended up just pacing the room, thinking about what Nat's nightmare could possibly be. He'd followed best practices by asking her not to tell him in advance, but now he regretted it terribly. It was driving him mad.

It would probably end up being something innocuous and easy to solve. Maybe she was due for a promotion at work and anxiety about it was manifesting in dreams about her constantly being late or forgetting to go into the office. In that case, he'd work on laying reminders in her subconscious about work, maybe get the dream versions of her coworkers and bosses to tell her what a good job she was doing. Or maybe it was something more existential, like a fear of drowning. Those were trickier, but he'd do whatever he could to help her.

But neither of those seemed like the sort of things that could rattle Nat. He couldn't think of anything that could. Not enough to make her come crawling for his help.

Well, he admitted to himself, she hadn't exactly

crawled

.

When the tea and music didn't do anything to help him sleep, he could think of only one thing that could release the serotonin he needed to relax. He whipped his dick out, but paused when it was thick in his hand, because the only woman that came to mind was Natalie. It wouldn't be the first time he'd jerked off to her since they broke up, but it felt wrong now. Like a violation of her trust, even if she'd have no way of knowing about it. It wasn't

his

head they'd be exploring tonight.

Natalie, fucking gorgeous Natalie. He sighed. She was definitely the only one of his clients he could say he'd seen naked, or that he'd fucked.

Natalie, with her long, shiny brown hair and her athletic body that she took such good care of. She used to let him touch it, kiss it, explore every inch of it. She was so soft, even where she was tight. So fucking soft.

Natalie, who had once compared him to a young Brad Pitt, and sure she'd been drunk, but who cared? There were times when she made him feel like he was the most important man in the world. Someone who could do anything. She screamed for him, screamed his name into the dark. No one had ever made three letters sound so incredible.

If he couldn't stop thinking of her, he told himself, he should at least try to make the thoughts more innocent. Sure, sure, well...

Natalie, who didn't want anyone to know about the birthmark on her right shoulder, the one that kind of looked like a rabbit. Natalie, who mostly liked Indian food and mostly hated Italian but could pack away a slice of tiramisu like no one else.

His thoughts floated to an image of her at a café, pressing her fork into the moist layers, sticky liquid seeping onto the plate, the smell of the coffee and syrup overwhelming his nostrils. She'd take small, slow bites, with a look that was a mixture of guilt and excitement at first, but the guilt would melt away quickly once the spongy cake passed between her lips. He'd know exactly when the flavors hit her tongue, because her eyes would light up and she'd give him a look like,

Oh fuck you have to try this.

Sometimes she'd share with him, and sometimes it'd be just for her. He didn't really care either way. He just liked watching her enjoy herself.

Sam didn't realize he'd started stroking himself to the memory of her eating dessert until he opened his eyes and gasped with the sudden pleasure. His body shook and he tried to shoo the image of Natalie away like a cloud of smoke. Someone else, someone else. Quick.

His mind wandered over possibilities, and the lingering thought of cafes brought him to a perky blonde that worked at the coffee shop down the street from his apartment, which definitely didn't serve tiramisu. The girl was younger, maybe early 20's. Petite and friendly. He knew it was mostly for the tips, but she was cute anyway. He pictured her in just her green apron, hair tied in tight pigtails, the youthful giggle she gave whenever someone said anything mildly funny. She danced for him in his head, jiggled her tits around, rubbed them, ran her hands along her body. He bit his lip and then spasmed as his cum burst out and splashed onto his hand.

He groaned against the back of his chair, told himself that tonight of all nights, he should be proud that he'd been able to climax without an image of Natalie in the forefront of his mind. He cleaned himself up, turned off the lights, and got in bed.