(Dylan)
> Dream 1 - Homework
>
> Dylan sat in the middle of a classroom, zoning out and staring blankly at the chalkboard. It looked like any other school day—except for the way the light kept flickering in strange, inconsistent pulses overhead. The teacher at the front, a vaguely familiar figure, scribbled rapidly, chalk tapping against the board like a countdown.
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> 'What class am I in?' Dylan wondered, fidgeting in his seat. The edges of the desk dug uncomfortably into his sides. He glanced at the board but couldn’t make sense of the teacher’s handwriting. It was so terrible he couldn’t tell whether they were letters or numbers.
>
> Then, the teacher turned around. “Alright, everyone, get out your homework.”
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> The sound of unzipping bags and shuffling papers filled the room. Dylan leaned over and reached into his backpack, a pit forming in his gut. No crinkle of papers, no notes, no textbooks—nothing.
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> The teacher strode down the aisles, collecting assignments. He stopped in front of Dylan.
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> “Where’s your homework?” the teacher asked impatiently.
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> “I—uh—it’s—” A cold sweat ran down Dylan’s back. He always did his homework. So why was his bag empty?
>
> The teacher frowned, waiting. Students turned in their seats, glaring at him, whispering under their breath. The whispers swelled, ringing in his ears like a swarm of buzzing insects.
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> “You’re unprepared,” the teacher sneered, staring down at him. “Did you think you could just show up without doing the work?”
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> Dylan’s mouth went dry. The whispers behind him grew louder—condemnation, disappointment, ridicule.
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> “Dylan,” the teacher said, sounding annoyed.
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> He opened his mouth to explain, but no words came.
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> “Dylan...” the teacher repeated, his voice echoing strangely.
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> He couldn’t explain why he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t even remember what he was supposed to do. His head dropped into his arms, and he buried his face. Everything smelled like campfire and peppermint.
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> “Dylan...” the teacher called again—insistent—louder.
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> His heart pounded as the teacher loomed closer, his shadow engulfing Dylan’s desk. The lights flickered again, dimming as the room seemed to close in on him. His chest tightened.
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> “Dylan!” Charles yelled, his voice cutting through the haze.
>
> “I don’t have it!” Dylan blurted, jerking upright in bed, his heart still racing as his surroundings came into focus.
Dylan found himself in Charles’ bed, turning to see the rugged elf standing over him, holding the glowing arrow.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “Had that dream again, where I’m back in school.” He stretched, glancing around. “Are we there yet?”
“What did you do to my threads?” Charles asked, stepping aside and pointing to the craft area with the arrow.
“I organized them,” Dylan replied, patting the bed in search of his cloak. Sleeping shirtless was one thing, but being pantsless again? Not happening.
After his disappointment with the books, it took all of five minutes before boredom threatened his sanity. Normally, he’d be glued to his phone, endlessly scrolling memes, but the cupcake incident forced him to go cold turkey on his internet dopamine.
The glowing arrow provided about ten minutes of entertainment. He danced around the room, brandishing it like a wand while trying to recall the spells and curses from his childhood.
“Aloha-mora!” Surprisingly, did not unlock the other room in the treehouse. “Expectorant!” Earned him a concerned question from Charles whether he had a cough. “Whiskey!” Only made his rash tingle, but that turned out to be a new symptom. And for the grand finale, the most heinous of curses: “Abra Cadaver!” Luckily, no one was around to get hurt—or witness his antics.
He considered the craft corner but the sewing machine, with all its moving parts, was intimidating. Plus, he wasn’t a fan of needles. But a rack full of colored threads had caught his eye, Charles had neglected to put them back in any semblance of order—all in complete disarray.
Dylan spent the next hour organizing them by color, with the rainbow as his guide. Starting with red and ending with purple, he even sorted the gray, black, and brown threads. Those went under the rainbow, arranged from lightest to darkest.
“Organized?” Charles raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I sorted them by color.” Dylan finally found the cloak and bunched it up in his lap.
“By color?” Charles didn’t look or sound particularly thrilled.
“I know what you’re thinking: brown is technically dark orange and could go in the rainbow, but I made an executive decision to lump it in with the light-to-darks. It would've ruined the whole rainbow vibe.”
“Dylan,” Charles sighed, motioning around the room with the arrow. “There aren’t any lights in here.”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah, I noticed.”
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“I prefer to work in the dark. That means I can’t actually see the thread colors.”
“Then how do you know which thread to use?” Dylan asked, frowning.
“I had them sorted alphabetically. It was easy to remember.”
“Oh…” Dylan realized he’d messed up Charles’ system. “Sorry about that.”
The rugged elf closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve arrived at Dartmouth. Did you touch anything else?”
“I tried the books, but it turns out I can’t read,” Dylan said, gesturing toward the bookshelf.
Charles followed his gesture. “That’s unfortunate. You really should learn to read. Illiteracy is—"
“No,” Dylan interrupted, “I know how to read. I just couldn’t read your books.”
“That’s peculiar,” Charles replied. “Only two of them are mundane.”
“What?” Dylan squinted at Charles.
“I keep two mundane books around to practice reading. The rest work like your ring,” Charles explained, twirling the arrow and pointing its tip at the band on Dylan’s finger. “They translate the words so you can understand in your own language.”
“Only two...” Dylan said. ‘If I’d just checked one more,’ he thought, thinking of all the wasted hours he could’ve spent reading. “Okay, but how do you read if there’s no light in the treehouse?”
“I don’t,” Charles replied, gesturing to the reading nook. “That’s my library, where I keep my books. I travel often, which gives me plenty of time to read while I drive during the day.”
Charles glanced back at Dylan. “What did you do with the rest of the time?”
“Slept,” Dylan replied.
“An entire day?” Charles raised an eyebrow.
“Well, not the entire day. I tried reading a couple of books, dabbled in some wizardry, and organized your thread rack. I only slept most of the day.”
“How’s that possible?” Charles frowned. “A day is an exceedingly long time to sleep.”
Dylan shrugged. “Depression, mostly.”
Charles walked away, leaving the room and taking the only light source with him. The sound of another door opening was enough to get Dylan out of bed. He’d been curious about the magical treasures hidden behind the forbidden locked door. Charles hadn’t explicitly said he couldn’t enter, but the magical lock spoke volumes.
Fumbling in the dark, Dylan accidentally kicked the bucket, sending it flying across the room. Charles reappeared with the glowing arrow and a bundle under one arm, snatching the bucket mid-flight like a goddamned ninja.
“How…” Dylan was speechless.
“Buckets aren’t toys,” Charles said, placing it back beside the nightstand.
“I didn’t—”
Charles pushed the bundle into Dylan’s chest, forcing him to take it. Two items: first, a plain gray shirt, and on top of it, a loaf suspiciously wrapped in kraft paper. Noticing Dylan staring at it, Charles said, “That’s for when you get hungry.”
Dylan picked it up, gave Charles a look, and asked, “Is it…?”
“Yes,” Charles confirmed.
Dylan sighed. “Thanks.” Trying not to sound rude, he pulled on the shirt, which, of course, fit perfectly. Then he stood and slipped on the rust-colored cloak.
“We need to get you registered with the League of Adventurers first, then we’ll visit the hospital to check your injuries,” Charles said.
Right now, ‘oh my god it itches’ had custody of Dylan. Rubbing his palms up and down his legs helped a lot; friction was his friend.
“Or...” Dylan raised a finger, “we could swing by the hospital first, and then do that hall of justice pledge thing.”
Charles shook his head. “While inconvenient, your medical issues aren’t life-threatening. It’s more important to get you into the system for your own protection.” He turned, walking toward the hallway, still holding the only light.
“How’s that going to protect me?” Dylan asked, trailing after him—no way he was getting left in the dark.
Charles turned around. “I’m tired, Dylan. I haven’t slept for more than a quick nap in days. Once you’re registered and safe, I can finally rest.”
For the first time, Dylan saw past the rugged exterior. Days of constant consciousness had worn him down. Heavy eyelids sat above his eyes, and even his sun-kissed skin looked blanched. Charles appeared every bit as tired as he claimed.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan muttered, guilt creeping in. “You’re right. You fed me, clothed me, and let me stay in your treehouse. Thanks for helping me.” Remembering Charles had also killed him three times, Dylan decided his rash could wait until after he joined the Guardians of the League—or The Adventurers, or whatever they were called.
Charles grunted and led them out of the treehouse. Dylan reached the doorway and froze. Panic overwhelmed him. Unable to see past his unresolved trauma, reason abandoned him.
Dozens of them. Scaled monsters everywhere: lurking on the sidewalk, stalking across the street. One even waved at Charles, who nodded back. They paraded in clothes, with teeth, claws, and hidden blades. Memories—flashes of getting stabbed and left to bleed out—raked across Dylan’s mind. Mentally, he was back in the cells, but physically, he trembled in the treehouse doorway.
“What’s the matter?” Charles asked. Dylan latched onto the rugged elf’s voice, a beacon pulling him out of the waking nightmare. He quickly retreated back into the treehouse.
“There’s a lot of them out there,” Dylan said.
“The draconi?” Charles scanned the area for unseen threats before returning his attention to the chubby man hiding in his treehouse.
“Yeah,” Dylan said, “there’s a lot of them.”
“That’s unavoidable. Mother of Dragons is their homeworld,” Charles replied.
“Could we drive there?” Dylan asked. “And just drop me off at the justice league?”
“No, the League of Adventurers Hall doesn’t have parking.” Charles stepped back into the treehouse. “Besides, I have a permit for this spot. It’s where I’m allowed to park and sell my wares.”
The sun was well past its prime, the evening air cooling, but Dylan felt warm. Sweat pooled on his palms, brow, underarms, and in other less fortunate areas. His shirt grew damp and sticky under his arms and chest. Even ‘I’m literally on fire’ joined the fun. Dylan really didn’t want to go back out there.
“The hall’s not a far walk. I’d like to get there before the night shift starts,” Charles said.
“I can’t.” Dylan’s throat tightened, his chest aching, and his breath refused to come. All he could manage was a shake of his head. He was having a panic attack; he realized.
It was a good thing Charles noticed. The rugged elf took a deep, long breath, his chest expanding, and slowly let it out. Dylan unconsciously mirrored him—breathing in, holding, releasing, and repeating. His urge to throw up and die subsided, and his pulse finally slowed.
“They’re real. The claws, the teeth, everything’s real. It’s not just pretend—those are actual monsters out there.”
“They’re not monsters,” Charles said calmly. “They’re just people, like you and me.”
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way she looked at me, or the things she did.” Dylan fought not to slip back into the memory.
He’d almost forgotten Charles had killed him too—more than Bronze, even. The rugged elf had that effect: calm, logical, controlled, until he found a reason to get violent.
Dylan searched through his feelings and thoughts, desperate to find a way past his terror. Dying sucked—he didn’t dispute that—but he needed to understand their motives. That was the key to getting through this. There was a difference between Charles and Bronze.
Charles had killed him out of a misguided sense of compassion. His heart had been in the right place; the dagger hadn’t. All Dylan ever saw in that man’s eyes was compassion, understanding, and occasionally annoyance. He genuinely believed Charles cared.
Bronze despised him from the start. She took pleasure in hurting him, killing him. Malice was all he ever saw in her eyes, and without a way to communicate, he couldn’t even ask why.
He realized dying wasn’t the real problem. Sure, it terrified him and usually hurt like a motherfucker, but the issue ran deeper. Not being accepted—not understanding why—was worse. He could live with dying, funny enough, but not knowing why she hated him hurt in ways worse than death.
It left him wondering, ‘What’s wrong with me? What did I do wrong?’ These were the same questions he’d been asking since his mom left when he was eight. He was never good enough, and no one would tell him why.