Dash winced inwardly as his last self fell, remaining outwardly calm. /Here's where it gets interesting/. Up until this point, he'd known what would happen. Ever since the first dream an eternal three hours ago, he'd known how it would all play out. Up until now.
Three of the tag-along thugs still stood, and two of the assassins, one suited up, the other plainclothes. He was going to have to play this one by ear. As the last dreamer twitched out his terminal spasms, the killer in the suit slid his knife back into its handle and looked up at Dash.
“So, Mr Casey, it seems you are out of guards. Such a pity. They fought very well. And I do not recognize them at all. Where did you get them?”
Dash grinned warily, casually shifting the cane propped against his knee. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
The man's eyes tightened. “I grow tired of playing, Mr Casey.”
“Really? But the games are so much fun.”
The assassin smiled thinly, as though seeing an opening. “Indeed. You certainly seem to have enjoyed yourself. But now, I'm sorry, Mr Casey,” his smile widened as he shifted stance and dropped his gravity blade back into fighting position, transparently pausing for a pre-ass-kicking one-liner.
/Fuck that./
“Call me Dash.” He pulled the hidden trigger on the cane. With an echoing boom, the killer's head blossomed into a chunky red soup. Without signal or hesitation, the remaining men leaped forward to attack, but Dash was already rising, tossing the expended blaster--etc.