The Purging of Asgard

Chapter 1

           "Excuse me?" A customer jars you from your near-napping state.

           "Oh! I am so sorry." You jump up from the stool behind the front counter, "Hard night last night. Will this be all?" The woman looks at you sympathetically and nods as her son sets his biweekly comic on the counter. "Ah, leaving Marvel behind for a couple of weeks?" You ask him, scanning his Aquaman issue. He nods thoughtfully, 
           "My friends keep telling me Marvel isn't as good as DC, so I thought I should try this." 
           "Tell me something, kid," you lean over the counter, "do you like Marvel?" He nods enthusiastically, "then it doesn't matter what your friends say. Give DC a try anyway, you may like it just as much, but you don't have to pick just one. And it certainly doesn't have to be just because your friends say it." You slip the book into a bag and hand it to him.
           "Which one is your favorite?" He asks, you lean closer to him and whisper conspiratorially,
           "I like every single one." And you wink at him. He and his mother leave smiling, which is your aim for all of your customers, and you think that's why your modest comic book store has survived this long. You have several regular customers, the young boy and his mother are two of them, you had dubbed him Thor, since he first came in after a kids Halloween party, wearing a full Thor costume, and the kid seemed to have a heart of gold. There is also Captain Winter Falcon, who is obviously a huge fan-boy of Captain America, but can't seem to decide which character is his favorite, so he wears a shirt with an auto-mail sleeve (though, with the red-white-and-blue star of the redeemed Winter Soldier instead of the red Communist star), always has his Captain America shield on his back, and wears Falcon's goggles on his head. He really was a sweet guy, but it took ages for you to find out considering his near-debilitating shyness.
Then there was the Collector. He always ordered the rarest comics, sometimes it would take you weeks to track them down, and they weren't exactly cheap, but even telling him he owed you $800 for a single comic, he never batted an eyelash. Today, he came in promptly, always looking like he'd just come from a business meeting, and held his new comic like a newborn baby, cradling it carefully, staring reverently at the pristine cover. He sets is carefully in his briefcase and offers a smile and nod of gratitude, right as a monstrous yawn overtakes you. 
He pauses, chuckling lightly,

"Is everything okay, Miss Y/L/N?" 
            "Oh, it's fine, I just had a horrible dream last night, that's actually been happening a lot lately. It just kept me from getting any restful sleep. Nothing, really." You try to brush it off, thinking it a bit weird to share your bizarre nightmare with a customer, 
            "Well," he turns back to you, "what I always do when I have stress dreams stealing my sleep, I drink a measure of brandy just before bed. Whiskey if the boogy-man is particularly insistent." You smile at the advice, 
            "Thank you, I'll see what I can scrounge, I don't exactly have any whiskey lying around." You chuckle, and you both nod your farewells. 
            "Let me know if you boys need any help." You call to the back of your store. There was a group of teenage boys who also came in fairly regularly; you usually just refer to them as the Justice League. The Flash, so named for his expedient visits, constantly trying to hurry his friends along; Aquaman, who was apparently very sporty, but would more often than not wear a high school swim team shirt; and then there was the Green Arrow, you nicknamed him after overhearing a story about when he shot himself in the foot at an archery range. The League always went straight to the DC section, though lately Aquaman seems to have migrated to the Dark Horse rack.
            "Did you say you were having trouble sleeping?" Three young ladies practically materialized in front of you, you've taken to calling them the All-Mother. All three of them together. You started out calling them Charlie's Angels, but they were just too cool once you had chatted with them for a little while, so you felt they deserved a cooler name.
            "Oh, yeah, just some weird dreams, no big deal." 
            "Well" one third of the All-Mother began; you think her name is Andi, or maybe Annie. "My sister always told me that if you want a good night's sleep, you should find yourself a good man. Ya know, one who can tire you out so much you don't even have the energy to dream." You blink. Okay... She gets elbowed by her friend, who added
            "Since beginning such a relationship in the next six hours is not advisable, unless you already have someone who fits the description, I would just try to keep myself extra busy, hoping the work could keep my mind off of whatever was worrying me." The first girl was still rubbing her ribs as you quickly scanned their purchases, rather amused at the suggestion. Yes, you were single, and only partly by choice. You would love to find yourself a guy who knew how to tire you out, but you were generally too busy to go out and meet people. 
The Justice League watches as the All-Mother heads out, chatting amongst themselves about their favorite character arcs in the Spider-Man comics. The Flash can't stop looking out the front window, even after the girls have gone.
            "Can I help you?" You giggle; he jumps slightly, "did you find something you'd like to buy? Do you want me to get the girls' phone numbers next time they're in? Or I can search a title for you." 
            "What?” he keeps glancing at the door, still in a star-struck daze, “Oh, no… I mean, I think I'll take this one." Green Lantern. He definitely wasn't paying attention, one thing you do know about him is that he hates the Green Lantern. 
            "Hey, kid?" He finally really looks at you; you're waving the cover in his face until he notices the title,
            "Oh, ew. Hang on." The whole League comes back about five minutes later, each with their own purchases. "Ya know,” Flash says, turning back at the door, “if these dreams are really creeping you out, maybe it would help more to write them down instead of ignoring them. Even if it doesn't take your mind off of it, you could end up with a wicked comic series." That was actually not a bad idea. 
            "Yeah, maybe. I could even sell it here." You start thinking out loud. They start heading out the door, "by the way," you add, and they turn around, "the girls come in after school every Wednesday." The Flash smiles, nodding, they take off, you look at the clock. Six hours to go, you feel like closing up early. Although, Flash did have a point. You grab your journal and a pen from your bag and, sitting behind your front counter, you take a deep breath and recall the horrors of your dream. Imprisoning them on paper and freeing your mind from the memories of last night's terror. It's just a story now. It was just a dream anyway. No big deal. Right?