Tonight, the lost little Piper lambs all have the same dream. Everyone else? Their sleep is remarkably restful.
But Tom, Illyana, Nadia, and Walter slide deep into something that is so vivid that it seems impossible that they're actually /asleep/. The air around them is warm, thick with the scent of tropical plants and sweat and humidity. Beneath their feet, the ground is spongy and damp with a recent rain. The steady, sharp retort of gunfire rings in their ears, and the persistent trickle of sweat crawls down the backs of their necks, inch by inch.
As their dream selves stop to look around, twisting their heads this way and then that, they see that they're in the middle of a long firing range. The feel of an automatic weapon is heavily familiar in their hands, and every figure down the line holds one just like it. Some of the faces are familiar. Three of them are fellow agents, now, although in this dream they look younger, harder, focused on their work as they bend to sight their weapons. One of the faces is Gregor Novotny. His is the only face in the line which is turned toward you.
In fact, he's standing quite still, his weapon at his side as he looks at you with his dark, dark eyes. Baffled, you stare back. Down the line, the steady sound of gunfire continues.
Slowly, with steady deliberateness, Gregor smiles at you. The curve of his lips is not exactly pleasant. He turns his head to look down the length of the firing range. Without thought, almost without willing it, you turn your head so that your gaze can follows his.
In the distance a slim, petite Latina woman is striding your way, her face a study in cool fury. Although you don't know where it comes from or why, there's a sudden feeling of panic that tightens your chest and closes off your throat.
A voice says your name, and then there is a desperate, sharp, throbbing pain that seizes your thoughts and twists them, clawing barbed talons into your mind. Gasping aloud, you fall to your knees. Your hand clenches at your temple as if doing so might make it /stop/. Kneeling there with your forehead pressed against the damp ground, you swallow down rising bile. Around you, gunshots continue to sound. You have the sense that no one is looking at you. That they are /afraid/ to.
As the woman closes in, the pain in your head becomes unbearable, an echoing scream that drowns out any hope of thought or action. As her shadow falls over your crumpled form, you black out.
And you wake up.