Life is a dark place full of pain and bereft of hope. Or, at least, sometimes Dorian felt like his was.

A message came back from the publisher that day. They told him that they thought his book about the Californian Resistance during Mutant Registration was "too intense." That this made it unsuitable for publication. These same publishers had printed a book about child trafficking (eugh!), but they couldn't possibly print anything about one of the bloodiest conflicts to take place on American soil for the last – few decades? Century and a half? Was there anything that happened in America that was worse than the Registration, other than the Civil War? Dorian wasn't sure.

Dorian realized that some might consider his political views too extreme. That was why he made sure that they never made their way into his book in the first place. All he had in there was the facts. The stories themselves, as he and his compatriots remembered. He even had the story from the perspective of the military men who they sent in to quell their rebellion, as well as tales from the ones who were sent to the camps. He went to hell and back researching every little minute detail. He checked and double checked facts, and made note of any discrepancies. He spent years on this thing. It was his baby. And to help it succeed, he tried to make it as sterile and factual as possible. And he didn't include anything like the imagery in the aforementioned documentary on eugh, which had made him physically ill when he read it.

Yet eugh got the green light, while his book, which was probably as "intense" as a high school history book, didn't make the cut.

In response, Dorian sent them some angry mail, then headed out by himself for a local bar. It came well-recommended by Sanctuary residents for selling good (read: powerful) drinks on the cheap. It was called "Blunderbore's." The owner/bartender was a man made of some kind of formless, ever-shifting clay. Apparently he had gotten on the bad side of some mutant vigilantes back in 2006, and since then he had never been quite... right, in the head. Though, the way some people tell it, he was outright criminally insane before his run-in with the vigilante types, and that his current state was a vast improvement. The patrons at this bar were generally the criminal, dangerous mutant types, or the well-armed human types, or the dangerous, well armed, mutant criminal types. Blunderbore managed to keep the place from being incinerated or blown up on a regular basis. But just barely.

Dorian didn't quite care about all this stuff, though; he just wanted to get so drunk he wouldn't remember how much of a failure his life felt like. Hard rock and cigarette smoke inundated the air in Blunderbore's. He tried to remember what the name of that drink was that they recommended back at the Sanctuary. Hand grenade? The hapless mime scribbled I'll have a hand grenade on his notepad and showed it to the bartender. Blunderbore smiled at this; at least, that's how Dorian could have interpreted the expression on that ever-shifting mass where the clay-man's face should be, if it wasn't the expressionless, ever-shifting mass that it was.

Maybe he should have figured out what was in that drink before going out and orderi- hold that thought.

The man sitting next to him. Was that...?

That was Joe Enders!

Dorian scribbled a note, then poked the man on his shoulder to draw his attention to it. The note read: Hey, Sparkles. Remember me?

Joe liked this bar it the farthest down the list of dive bars you could go, it was a bit hectic and Joe was pretty certain he was the only one there who didn’t have a rap sheet longer than the constitution but hey the drinks were strong and best of all cheap so a little undesirables was a small price to pay. Joe was having a crazy month between the monster attack and the gang trying to jump him Joe needed a little down time and as he sipped on his tall glass of whiskey Joe couldn’t help but enjoy the down time. Bringing his cigar up to his mouth Joe took a drag from his cigar and let the smoke slowly roll from his nose and mouth. Joe paid no mind as a man sat down near him obviously disgruntled about something and began scribbling on a paper before showing it to the bartender. It was noisy in here but not loud enough that the bartender wouldn’t have been able to hear the man’s order but Joe reminded himself to keep to himself and enjoy his time alone. Taking another sip from his glass Joe felt someone poke him on the shoulder. Instantly Joe felt his good mood begin to drain and as he lowered his glass back down to the bar he turned to look at the skinny thing of a man sitting down next to him his face blank of emotion.

Reading the note over quickly Joe felt a ping of anger flare up inside him, who the hell was he to call Joe sparkles number one and number two how did he know Joe was a mutant. Looking back up at the man Joe tried to see if it was someone he recognized but nothing came to his mind, he certainly didn’t seem like any Marines Joe recognized and Joe really didn’t remember any of the kids he used to hang out with back before he joined the Corps. “No.” Joe said as he turned back to face the bartender and with a tap of his knuckles on the bar order a refill for his drink which was quickly supplied to him. “I don’t know who you are but you ever call me sparkles we’ll have a problem.” Joe said before taking a quick sip of his drink.

Oh, Sparkles. Cheerful as ever. He was a font of good feelings back when he and Dorian went through World War 3 together, too. Or, at least, the part when the nukes started flying around and everyone stopped caring about the whole "who's on what side" thing. Enders didn't seem to recognize his old mime friend, though. It had been a few years since the future dreams happened. Maybe Joe needed his memory refreshed. Dorian wrote another note, and showed it to him.

It's Dorian. We met in China, in WWIII. Remember now?

Dorian found it hard to imagine that somebody could forget doing all the medal-of-honor type stuff that he saw Enders doing. Even if it was just a dream.

Joe formed the single crystal shard in his hand as he read the new note the man next to him had written and with a quick jab impaled the note his eyes locked on the thin man. “I don’t know what game your playing at but I’d stop if I were you.” Joe turned back to his drink and took another sip from his drink. Little did Joe know there was no game being played the mime sitting next to him at the bar had been a battle buddy of Joe’s when in some strange alternate future war had broken out once again and the memories of which had bled over into this time. The reason Joe had no recollection of the events though was because he had been drugged up in some Middle Eastern lab and none of the memories carried over to him while in that state.

Joe thought as he drank down his whiskey, what could this strange little man be talking about. The thoughts itched at the back of his mind and turning back to the skinny man he gave him a questioning look. “What the hell are you talking about World War three?” Joe hated battle but he knew that if the need arouse he would find the will to fight again so what was this World War three this Dorian was talking about.

Dorian was starting to think that Joe didn't have a future dream. And this shouldn't have surprised him. Future dreams were truly rare; he only knew a handful of people who had one, and he'd spent several months of his life looking for them. That said, Ender was one of the few people who he felt he'd been able to connect with, back when the bombs were falling in China. Even though they were supposed to be on opposite sides at first, Dorian would take a bullet in the head for this man, and he was almost certain that Joe felt the same way.

But that was the future. This was now, before they'd ever met. And they would probably never be able to meet again under those same circumstances. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Thankfully, he didn't need to know how to feel about anything for much longer: Blunderbore had his drink!

"Here y'are," said the clay man, handing him a highball glass full of yellow-green fluid. Dorian nodded and took a sip. Then a few gulps.

Now, Joe was asking about World War 3. He scrawled a quick note for him:

Ever hear about those future dreams from a few years ago?

Another gulp, then more writing. I had one. We knew each other in the dream.

Joe watched as the amorphous bartender brought over the strangely colored drink Joe took a quick shot from his drink and a long drag from his cigar. Joe began to read as the silent man wrote in response to Joe’s question, in his short duration since his return to New York Joe had heard about and seen some strange powers but this future dream business seemed ridicules even for that but nothing was impossible Joe supposed. Joe scanned the skinny man once again; this guy had a Future Dream about him and Joe meeting up. Joe tried to wrap his mind about around the possible consequences of how a Future Dream would affect the very future it was showing. With a quick shake of his head Joe stopped before the headaches could commence.

“No I’ve never even heard of these Future Dream’s. I don’t understand how would we know each other. Better yet what the hell were we doing in China of all places?” Joe took another drag of his cigar. Joe never considered himself much of an intellectual but the situation was certainly interesting to hear about and Joe was being drawn in. Joe thought about all that had happened since he arrived in New York the freakish mutant monster killing humans, the pink aura’d woman saying she was ready to form an army to fight against the human’s. This city was fast approaching the boiling point and Joe really didn’t want to be involved in another war, perhaps this could all be avoided somehow.

This would be tricky to explain. He thoughtfully tapped his chin with his pencil. And he took a drink. Then, he started writing on the notepad where Joe could see it. He took a break here and there to drink.

Back in 2008, a lot of people all over the world had the same dream. In the dream, it was 2018, everyone was ten years older, and Russia went to war with China, and it turned into WWIII. I had that dream, and you were in it. You fought with USA/Russia, I with Australia/China. But that stopped mattering when the nuking started.

There were a lot of things that stopped mattering when the nuking started. You know what else just stopped mattering? Dorian's blood/alcohol level. It wasn't like he owned a car. Or really had anywhere to be tomorrow. What did matter was that his highball glass was already empty, and he was only feeling a little buzzed. This simply wouldn't do. He ripped that note off for Sparkles' continued reading pleasure, while he wrote a top-priority missive for the barkeep.

More please. Rum+coke this tiem time.