Crack Of Dawn (Dream x GeorgeNotFound)

Dilemma

George had been waiting with bated breath ever since he'd heard two pairs of feet shuffling around outside the basement door. It seemed Clay hadn't come back from the hunt alone.

There was a quiet creak as the rusty hinges swung out to let a thread of light streak in. Two silhouettes cast shadows on the ground before George, silently announcing their presence.

He instantly recognized the psycopath's outline, - after all, it'd been one of the only things he'd constantly been seeing for the past few days - but the figure next to him was unfamiliar.

Clay came into view soon enough with a stranger in tow. He gestured to an empty chair in a wordless invitation which the man took, moving in almost inhumane strides. It reminded George of the puppets he used to watch on the TV - how their limbs dangled and twisted on threads held by some other force.

Nothing about the newcomer seemed to carry a semblance of life, except for maybe his stained button-up. He sat across from George with glossed over eyes, hands folded in his lap. He'd shown no signs of struggle. Was he here voluntarily?

George couldn't fathom the idea. After all, he would have given everything to be out of the damned basement. The scent of mildew and blood did little to grow on him, instead becoming more and more overbearing by the day. He'd have probably given an arm and a leg to be able to feel sunlight on his face again.

The man had an air of unfamiliarity around him, looking more... lost than anything.

"Tell us your name." Clay spoke, tinkering with something at his workstation.

"Michael Reyes." The newcomer's voice was hardly any different from his movements, words monotone and even. It made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up.

"Okay, and Mike- can I call you Mike?" He looked over his shoulder at the two of them, neither of which dared to move as the psycopath spoke. "Of course I can. Tell us what you were doing at The Phantom."

George watched the man oblige, not once shifting in his seat. "Distributing PCP, sir."

"Ah, so you're one of those cops." Clay turned around, stirring a clear concoction with a metal straw. The clinking sound it made as it hit the walls of the glass dish grinded on George's ears, but he didn't speak up. "A fan of making some quick cash, huh? Selling drugs to college kids."

George scoffed. "Hypocrite."

The room went dead quiet for a few moments as Clay turned to face him instead. "Hm?"

"You're a hypocrite. Criticizing him for giving out drugs for goods in exchange when you're doing exactly the same thing."

All eyes in the room were on him. The emotionless, blank stare of the newcomer instilled an unreasonable amount of rage in him.

Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so unfazed about poking around in the psycopath's basement, having arrived here voluntarily. There wasn't anything George wasn't willing to give up in exchange of freedom, and here the guy was, prancing around - or rather, sitting still like a statue - in a murderer's lair.

"Dare I say that's a ridiculous analogy?" The masked figure laid his glass container down, walking around Michael's chair to stand in front of George. "I exchange angel dust for humans, George. Not cash. Get it straight."

"Pfft, big difference."

"Do you mean to tell me a human life isn't more valuable than a stack of paper?" The man tilted his head, voice coated with slyness as if he was backing George into a corner. "Are you saying a soul can be bought with currency? I don't think so, George."

The last person he'd expected to give him a lecture on a life's worth was a serial killer whose basement he was trapped in.

The analogy was flawed, but George knew when not to argue. The power imbalance was clear, and any efforts to smart mouth the guy would surely backfire.

"I- no, I guess not." He rolled his eyes when he was sure the psycopath wasn't looking. "Wow. You're really smart."

Despite the evident irony dripping off George's tongue, Clay gave a genuine reply. "Thank you."

No one spoke after that. George took the time while the murderer's back was turned to look the newcomer up and down.

He didn't look too special. Not a single intimidating feature about him, or a hint that give him away. In fact, he seemed just like any other guy he'd usually encounter on their smoke break outside their work office building while running errands for his mom.

His gaze flitted up to Michael's face in a half-hearted attempt to communicate through eye contact, but it soon became clear the man wanted nothing to do with him.

His eyes stayed glued to a fixed spot on the wall behind George, not moving once. Or darting around in alarm, like the first cop's.

Clay walked over to his shelves to retrieve a small tin container. He paused to read a small label scrawled on the lid, seemingly satisfied.

George watched him unhurriedly get closer to the chairs and make a straight beeline for him.

Once he was close enough, he cracked the lid slightly open, just enough for George to spot white clumps of powder.

"I know you're not a... big fan of hallucinogens, George." Clay tilted his head. The blank smile on his mask stared mockingly. "Although I'm curious to hear what you think this is."

He tilted the container to the side to allow George a better look. There were no ideas that instantly popped into his head, though he had a few theories floating around.

"I don't fucking know, coke?" He rolled his eyes. "Get to the point."

Clay straightened, pushing the lid back down. "Eager to start the fun, aren't we?" He placed the box down on the table, returning to his workstation. "I see you're excited."

George strained his neck to get a look at what the psycopath was doing, but his body completely obscured the view.

After a while he turned around, eyeing the two of them. "I found him at the Phantom, gambling away his drug money. He actually recognized me, you know." Clay crossed his arms. "Said he'd follow me if I made his execution fun enough. The guy's a masochist."

The explanation, as absurd as it seemed, at least cleared up why the man had acted as if he were in a trance, completely unbothered. He had come here voluntarily.

He couldn't wrap his head around how someone could actively seek out a gruesome way to be murdered. But if there was someone out there willing to carry out the execution, he figured there'd be an equally twisted person fantasizing over being on the receiving side.

George rolled his eyes, trying to maintain an indifferent exterior. "I don't remember asking."

"I'm getting to the good part." Clay turned around to clear up some space on his workstation to sit on. "So, I figured... Why not get you in on the fun?"

"If you're saying what I think you are-"

"I want you to kill this man, George."

George squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the sudden overbearing thoughts.

"And if I refuse?"

Clay pushed himself up on the table, taking a seat. He seemed unsettlingly calm as he spoke.

"You'll die."