Three pylons came into view, from beyond the fog; yellow, triangular, and tall, as high above the calm ocean waters as his mind could bear. O'ryan heard a voice, before he had shape, it was a whisper booming across the cosmos.
"I have been called-" the voice said, with its image taking form for O'ryan. There was the hood of a cloak, shiny, pulled back to reveal an awfully iron face. With one eye missing, and one eye made of a long telescopic red lens. It grinned as it spoke, and had bullet casings for teeth.
"-to do business." The figure now had a body, and it was wholly mechanical. Machined precision, with sharp angles and lines, yet strange inclinations of tone jumped at O'ryan. The being's shoulders, smooth and operational, gave him the notion of a taught horn bow from some ancient civilization. At the joints there was a sense of gears, but those specific gears which rotated the huge mounted artillery on seabourn warships of the prior century. Two bandoliers draped across a bombshell chestplate, where shotguns shells might be there were only vials of poisons and sludge. The malforming creature gained two arms composed of dozens of swords, articulated knives for hands, and the stilt-like legs of submachine guns attached to long barreled sniper rifles. The cloak, too, was composed of nothing but spear heads.
O'ryan watched as the walking arsenal lept, so high and so fast it left the atmosphere of the vague ocean world it was born from, and sailed through a tunnel of light, heading right for him. He began to ache, and the intensity of the light was as if he was traveling through the tunnel, and not the creature. When it was over, the being stood several paces from him, though he noticed, upon looking around, that they were in fact nowhere, and worse, he himself had no body. This worried him, but he didn't know why, and he felt confused, but he couldn't surmise why he should be, either.
O'ryan spent his next moments looking around into the darkness and the less dark floor, which he knew was a floor, but not how, as it had no different appearance than the rest of the place. This seemed to irritate his companion.
"You called me, now you speak." it said.
"I called you?" O'ryan voiced his confusion, "Are you sure?"
The menace of arms took seat on a three legged stool that was previously not there. It turned its head to the side, to observe O'ryan, and its telescopic lens rotated to take focus.
"I am sure." it said, matter of factly. "I see that you are attendant to the tomb of a sunken king."
"-a what?"
"No matter. You purchased my service, now you must choose."
Shelves of black, lacquered wood, and display cases of ethereal glass surrounded the two of them in a gust of wind. With a brief glance, O'ryan noticed wares of warfare, similar to the kind this merchant was built of, but when he looked at any given item he saw no more detail, but a fuzzy scene played out. Some animal was being murdered in each little video in fantastic ways.
"Wait… choose, what? What's all this?" He started to panic. "Who are you?" He recognized that animal, that was a human. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Delivery of death is not my business. I am a death dealer. There are many who would sever your life from limb, that is why I am here. You made your request, we must deal." said the Merchant.
"What do you mean?" clarity started to form in O'ryan's mind. Memory. He was, in fact, O'ryan. He was a person, too, and human. He could see his body now. He could hear his own voice. 'How was I talking before? 'He thought. But it did not last, he wanted to protest, and found some identity.
"I don't have any enemies! I'm clean! twenty years in the trade, cleanest public enterprise on Earth, never harmed or threatened a soul! I mean-" he was interrupted, the Merchant's voice now faster and louder.
"There is none who would be your enemy at present. You were arranged to die of an unknown brain tumor in some years time. A valuable death, in high demand. Early death of any variety is in high demand, you now seek to trade yours for another's. Theirs are far later in life than is desirable. This is an easy trade, you have many suitors. You requested a specialist in conflict, I have arrived."
Silence.
Gears turned in O'ryans mind, he looked at his hands. Then back at the Merchant. Something was off about all this. He pointed one finger at the palm of his opposite hand, and pushed it straight through. His eyes widened and he let out a noise of surprise, but there was no pain, no blood, nothing.
"Ah-I get it. I'm dreaming! hah." he leaned over the counter, gaining confidence and looking down at the scenes, drawing shapes absentmindedly with his finger. "So some people are willing to trade their long life for my short one?" The Merchant remained silent. " Sheesh, how do I come up with this stuff?" He started to laugh, and he felt the soft familiar texture of linen on his arm. The entire area began to quake and rumble, but it looked as if the Merchant didn't notice.
"You must choose now." the Merchant said.
The scene began to blur and fog. "Or what? I'll wake up? C'mon, these are all lame anyway," O'ryan pointed at an item. "This guy here is getting popped by a crackhead, and this other guy gets stabbed trying to rob a convenience store." O'ryan looked up at the Merchant, and saw no change, but looking closer the face creeped him out.
"You have already purchased an exchange, next time you will choose, or I will select the best bargain for myself."
The lights returned, he could sense the tunnel, and the pressure was intense, O'ryan could feel reality creeping in on him like a dense blanket. He had not noticed his own subtlety in the dream till now. He gasped, sweating, and stood up in his apartment, turning on the light, and looking at his clock.
'4:02 AM'
"I can't even wake up right." he got back in bed, staring at his aluminum ceiling, and closed his eyes.
He made a mental note to file a complaint on the newest bone density supplements, then went back to sleep.