Warning: Bad dreams, gore, sickness and stuff, thoughts of suicide and stuff as well ig. 

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ONE MISINFORMATION ABOUT A Guardian's dreams, according to Tamara Raven Garner was that they weren't dreams at all.

They were more like nightmares.

She was pretty used to it, though. The only thing she hated was the transition. The best example she could find was the previous night.

She'd been dead tired (hah). She hadn't bothered to eat. Who cared anyway? She'd just melted right down onto the floor into the comfortable rug in the living room and fell asleep before she could order herself to.

It had been a good dream. More of a hazy memory, but nonetheless. It had been from the Middle Ages maybe, a handsome man kissing her tenderly, smiling at her at a lakeside as he washed his sword and she washed her dagger, it had just been getting to the good part when it all went dark. And then a door appeared out of nowhere.

She'd wrapped her hand around the knob and twisted, but the door hadn't given way. Her hand had felt wet. When she'd looked at her hand, it had been covered in blood and dread had curled in her belly like a snake.

She'd swallowed and looked at the old, white door. Then, she'd kicked once, twice and it'd slammed open. Inside, there had been a young but weak man, taking his last few breaths.

Tamara had immediately sensed his sadness and desperation.

Her empathy was what set her apart from the others after all.

What she hadn't been able to find was a hint. There was always a hint. A hint as to what could save the dying person. But there had been none. Then, the scene had changed suddenly, three people burying the man in their garden. His siblings. They hadn't seemed very sad. Then the voices had come.

Why do you stay with her? You can have a good life with our new mother, who is actually a mother.

I have my reasons, Roberta.

Oh, yeah. You always do.

Don't talk to me with that tone, Hunter.

God, why are we even trying to convince him? We all know the man's going to do his own thing. Let's just leave.

I'd prefer if you did, Dane.

That was, officially, a lot.

But why were there hints for people who are alive?

The scene had changed again, transitioning into a room with its walls sprayed with blood. The three of them had been on the floor, bloody murder having taken place.

Oh, she'd thought. That's not ideal.

Again, voices had started ringing. A bit more mixed though.

I deserve more than this!

No, you don't! The only thing you'll do is spend it away in your addiction! At least, I'll use it for charities.

Nobody fucking cares about your charities, Robbie. Look, we can't get to a solution this way, guys.

Why the hell are you trying to play judge, Dane? You probably want the money for yourself, don't you?

Then it garbled up fully and faded. And she woke up.

So then, there she was, making coffee, confused about who she was supposed to save. The three others? The sick one? She groaned as she mixed the sugar, milk and coffee together. She hoped that the SFO would have answers.

The doorbell rang and she groaned again, resisting the urge to bang her head on the kitchen table. But, people mustn't be put to wait, her great-grandmother had taught her better than that, so she got off the stool and walked over to the door.

When she saw the guest, she kept her mouth shut, lest another groan escaped. "Hi, Barb," she said, pasting on a cheerful smile, even though she didn't feel like it.

Not one bit.

Barbara smiled back, her eyes shining with happiness.

"Mornin', love. It is a good day, innit?" She asked. Tamara felt her eyebrows furrow as she stepped aside to let the other woman in, but all she did was shake her head and dig into her bag.

"Got no time for that, hon, sorry. Some other time, though, I promise," she said and held out an envelope.

Tamara blinked at the envelope, took it in her hand and stared at it. She looked up to ask what it was but Barbara was gone. She sighed in defeat.

Super speed.

She closed the door and opened the flap of the envelope. She liked to keep things as tidy as she could.

Everything except her cupboard maybe. And the table in her room.

She stared at the too pretty handwriting and huffed in surprise. Amidst the jealousy of not being able to handle writing so well, she found surprise and even more confusion creeping into her mind.

Tamara let out a humorless laugh. Like she could just let go of it. It was the only thing keeping her alive for years. If this was gone, then she was gonna go with it.

But, she still had a job left. She needed to talk about that, get to know what to do.

Before death, she would finish her job.