Three. Other Dreams.

It had been the bots’ nanotechnology – the ability to plug into a human body, connect with the mind and interpret brain signals – that had introduced the bots to the entity known as Nightmare, in the Year of the First Harvest.

In Goar Head, Alaska, Bruce and Delmar had been at work breaking down a section of decommissioned UFC pipeline. Out there in the bitter wilderness, they had been focused on their work all day, and were alone with one another - shunned by those who'd only just learned they were bots - when they received a call on the radio from back in town: they were under attack. The seaplane, their only means of escape from the town, had been torn apart. People were dead in the street, and those still alive were holed up in the local tavern.

With no further information, they’d hastened into town. And there, they saw the swarm coming, saw the Harvesters in all their horrible glory.

Using their Gyros, they fought their way into the tavern. Though Bruce hadn’t taken notice at the time, there had been little actual resistance from the Harvesters, who only struck at the bots in defense against their fiery charge. After the frantic barricading of the tavern, the next priority was the mortal wound of a corporate employee. The man was ranting feverishly, as if infected by the razor claws that had pierced him, slipping in and out of consciousness and saying one word again and again: “Nightmare...” And the tremulous inflection of his voice indicated a fear greater than his pain. He seemed to know something, to have gained a fragment of terrible knowledge from his near-fatal brush with the creatures; and Bruce needed to know too.

So he had plugged in with his nanotech. And there the first encounter occurred.

#

It was twilight when Bruce was ready. Seated beside the unconscious man, the synth closed his eyes and disabled his external sensors. He was now alone with this human’s subconscious.

It came to him in a convoluted rush, a mess of blurred images and overlapping sounds that surrounded him in his "mind's eye" as he stood calmly. The storm of sensations began to resolve itself. There was earth beneath Bruce's feet. A warm, whispering wind that pushed clouds across a mountainous horizon. Sunlight from some indistinct point overhead.

Bruce knelt and touched the ground. Even though he was merely translating the man’s electrical impulses within his own positronic brain, it all felt authentic. Remarkable.

But the man himself was not there.

No, a voice said, he isn't. It's just you and me. And what are you?

The voice was a strange, lilting one that seemed to come from all around Bruce. "What are you?" he asked back.

I am...Nightmare.

This is the name Man has given me. I rather like it, though. You see, this dear boy isn't the first human I've made deep contact with. So many of them, in fact, have powers of perception that they don't even realize...

Now, what are you?

"I am one of the dreams of men," Bruce replied.

Clever, came the response.

"He said that they--that you--want dreams. What does that mean?"

Yes, the Harvesters have been sent for the dream-meat, to bring it to us, so that we may dream... so that we might not go MAD in our infinite slumber! To think that humans have the ability to do this, but not the gods!

"You believe yourself a god, then?"

One among many.

"And you're not one of the creatures outside... you merely sent them."

Made them, as Man made you. We slumber far from your world, in the court of chaos. Here, we awaken only to dance our infernal dance around the throne of Azathoth, before our mounting terror--a terror beyond your understanding!--begs a respite...

The respite of dreams...

But I tire of you, machine. Soon we will have this man’s dream-meat, along with the others.

And suddenly Bruce realized what this Nightmare meant by dream-meat--he knew what the Harvesters were after, what they sought to devour.

He tore himself from the human’s subconscious just in time to see a rain of claws tearing through the tavern door.

All this time, Delmar had been sitting prone in a chair by the wall. He sprang into action, throwing his bulk against the barricade and the blindly grasping the hands of the Harvesters and shouting, "Give me a gun, Bruce!"

Then a single claw burst through his head, jutting rudely from one sparking eyeball. Delmar shook and gibbered while the humans screamed.

The synth collapsed against the barricade, which itself began to come apart. Bruce detached himself from the human and drew the Gyros. "Everyone away from the door!"

I'm still here, Nightmare sang in Bruce's head.

"What?" he cried. "How?"

And then Bruce was assailed by a vision, a frequency-jamming transmission from the very heart of chaos, from Nightmare's mind to his own--he saw city streets overrun by Harvesters, mountain roads littered with headless corpses, ships adrift in tossing seas, dead crewmen floating in crimson froth.

Just let them come, machine. The minds of all men will live on in us. You see? Even now, all over your world, the Harvest is taking place. The minds of all men will serve us through eternity.

It was a simple statement, simple and true. And it allowed Bruce to make a simple decision.

The door caved in and the Harvesters forced their way through. Bruce took aim with the Gyros. He wouldn't--couldn't--allow any human mind to suffer in the infinite with these mad gods. It was a fate worse than death.

He emptied both guns.

When it was done, the Harvesters stared blankly at him, claws dragging along the floor, jaws slack. Then they trudged back out into the cold.

Bruce surveyed the scene. He'd hit every intended target. There was no dream-meat remaining for the harvest.

They all looked peaceful there on the floor. He thought he detected the slightest hint of a smile among what little remained of them.

An arm wrapped around his neck and tightened with the brute strength of a python. His feet left the floor, kicking, and he thrashed in the relentless grip, feeling the wall of his throat begin to crack.

"Why?" Cinnamon yelled into his ear. "What have you done? We are made to protect and serve them, not--not--"

"I had to!" Bruce barked. "It was to save them!"

Cinnamon relinquished her hold; he heard her stepping back and kneeling on the floor. Bruce turned, gingerly fingering his neck.

"I don't understand," she said softly, cradling the body of Paulie, her employer, in her arms.

"I'll explain," Bruce said, and, ignoring the screaming in his brain, the wailing and gnashing of the angry gods, he did.

#

Filing away his memory of the account, Bruce said to Delmar, “We need a plan.”

“For what?”

“For Gotham.”