My Neighbor, Mr. Rogers

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Not Dead

I was dreaming, something important, something dark. No, not dreaming, remembering. What was is? I was just thinking about it...the harder I try to grip the memory the more diaphanous it becomes.

'Diaphanous'. What a lovely word. Why don't people use it more often?

My mind, through a long line of juxtapositions, slips into something rather similar to 'Les Miserables'. Except instead of France, it's Russia, and instead of 'Do You Hear the People Sing?' the mob and I are singing, 'The Farmer and the Cowman' from 'Oklahoma!'.

I know it's a dream, but it's too fabulous to question. I'm not about to ruin it with logic.

As we reach the chorus of "Territory folks should stick together. Territory folks should all be pals," a flash of action on a side street catches my eye. It was very fast, but I'm almost positive it was Natasha punching somebody in the face.

"What's she doing here?" I wonder aloud.

"Isn't she Russian?"

I turn to see Clint standing beside me in his combat gear. "Shouldn't you know?"

"I do, but I'm not me. I'm your projection of me," he explains with a smug smile.

"Right. Talking to myself, as per the norm."

"I don't exactly appreciate this though." He holds up what should be his bow but is instead a large slingshot.

"Well how else could you fire water balloons at a high velocity?" I ask, gesturing to the satchel he's wearing that's filled with them.

His hand flies behind his head, finding nothing. "What'd you do to my arrows?" he questions irritably.

"They're dangerous." I sniff.

"We're marching with a mob," he says flatly.

"Yeah, but it's the flash kind– you know, singing and dancing –not the pitchforks and torches kind. No one's going to get h-hurt." I stumble over my words as I feel warmth pooling across my thigh. Looking down, I see a bright stain of blood. "How'd that get there?" I mutter softly.

"Why?" Clint's repulsed tone catches my attention. I turn to follow his gaze. "Why would you put Tony and Bruce in tights?"

My eyes land on them and I sputter. Both shirtless, Tony is holding a flashlight in each hand and wearing a pair of red men's tights– ballet style –and Bruce is wearing the same only in black. Oh, and he's painted green.

"Clearly, it's so they can dance?" I answer lamely. Vague music filters through and I catch snippets of lyrics like "science bros" and "makin' stuff up and figuring things out."

Subconsciously, I'm obviously a lyrical genius.

"Is 'the other guy' really that vibrant a shade of green? It's almost familiar..." I glance down to see that my other, nonstained pant leg has been eaten away – almost like it was burned, and I can't seem to see the skin beneath. It's just fuzzy and out of focus. I'm getting a headache trying to make sense of it, so I look back up and grimace as Tony and Bruce continue to prance about – pirouetting and spinning.

"I'm so glad I never remember my dreams. This is something I'd pay to forget," I mutter as Tony leaps into the air to be caught by Bruce.

I turn back to Clint to see that we're now sitting in some sort of theater and they're on the stage. He's in the row behind me, so I have to twist quite far to talk to him. "Can we get out of here? I'm really not into watching middle-aged men plié."