With the way the world was going, and nearly down to her last cent, she could ill-afford a large place.

Plus, she was lazy.

This 26-year-old dream warrior had more important things on her mind that cook or clean.

Please.

Her dreams troubled her enough.

Such frequent dreams.

Of Angels and demons.

Mostly demons, feasting on unsuspecting humans.

Oh, the stories she could tell you!

Demons know who are theirs, and who are not.

She definitely wasn't theirs.

So, they hounded her continually.

Ah, but she's used to it.

As her jaded brother would say, "What else is new?"

Well, it's all new for her.

It's not as if her dreams duplicated each other.

Nope.

Hardly.

The demons made sure their ways and presence were felt, even as they were put a veil on humans, making them think it was just their imagination, or perhaps, they were mad.

Demons were like sorcerers.

They made you destroy yourself.

Fortunately, Stone, her Angel, kept her informed as she slept.

Yeah, maybe that was it.

She only wished he'd speak to her outright, but no, it was the dreams that spoke – leaving her to figure it out for herself.

But there was a pattern.

Some tired, ancient, warriors seemed to need her help.

They'd give her a look as they sat, bloodied and wounded, weariness upon their faces.

They asked she take up the torch.

She was to continue where they left off.

They were bereft of life or energy.

It had been a long battle.

She, 26-year-old Scribu, the dream warrior, was to take up that torch and torch the b.u.t.t off those demons, even as they're already wallowing in enough flames.

But you get the idea, don't you?

Those pesky demons have to be sent packing, with a one-way ticket, never to be seen or experienced again.

So, Scribu would wake up each day at 3 a.m. – what they call the "witching hour" – when all h.e.l.l was awake and in search of souls to malign or destroy.

Of course, they started much earlier, around midnight, but since the light bulb was invented, plus the electronic age, who sleeps at 12 midnight?

Three a.m. is just fine, perfect for their dirty deeds, creating havoc in people's minds, feeding off their l.u.s.ts and desires, and whatever evil lurked in their souls.

You see, demons merely feed off what you already have.

They get lazy, too, unimpressed with the mild intelligence of humans.

They don't need to do much really, merely spark the anger that's already there, and maybe turn it to revenge.

Or probably fuel a male's libido and l.u.s.t towards willing or unwilling females.

Or most of the time, feed off the vanity circuit, where most men and women thrive on, mostly women – wanting to be the most beautiful, nubile, desired, wealthiest, or popular gal around.

The men sure could be the riches, s.p.u.n.kiest, most fas.h.i.+onable dudes, with many a girl draped on their arms, as they drive their red-hot cars.

Let Mom and Dad pay for everything.

These young appet.i.tes are legendary.

Mom and Dad will succ.u.mb to the young ones' requests or demands, for they, too, desire what their young desire.

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It makes Scribu sick sometimes, seeing the greed, the waste, the compet.i.tion, the viciousness, the insatiable desires.

Sometimes, her dreams pale in comparison to these people's ways.

Well, perhaps she's jealous?

Maybe, but no, not really.

She's so used to being penniless, a $100 right now would be a dream.

So, why did G.o.d choose her for this task?

Whoa!

G.o.d chose her?

A 26-year-old who doesn't really care to be bothered by anyone, as she bothers no one.

A kid who shuns social media and the like.

A kid who'd put up her feet on her old bed, as she leaned against her Dad's old, red chair – something they call a "bucket seat", so low on the ground but perfect enough to elevate her tired feet.

A kid who enjoys a fresh cup of frothy coffee – one of her few luxuries, as she can't afford more than that.

But coffee she had to have.

And putting up her feet on that bed, sitting on that old chair, sipping that hot mug of coffee, as the old lamp's light droned on, gets her thinking.

And today, she's thinking of that Scorpion Girl dream she had moments ago.

Mind you, it's but one of the 11 dreams she will tell you about – the kind where the world's fate hangs heavily on.

Why her?

Perhaps, the question is: "Why not her?"