(Dylan)

> Dream 4 – Hunger

>

> Dylan stood on the sidewalk waiting for the sign to cross. He glanced down the street and saw traffic as it stretched on endlessly. The bakery stood just beyond the crosswalk, its window spilling golden light over rows of frosted pastries. They called to him—not with voices, but with an irresistible pull, like sugarcoated gravity reversed.

>

> He waited for the WALK sign. Cars streamed by in a blur, their horns silent, their engines droning like distant bees. But the sign remained blank. His stomach twisted. He glanced at the pastries again, and they seemed closer now, the frosting almost smearing the glass. His mouth watered, but his feet wouldn’t move.

>

> Minutes. Hours. Days. Time had no power here.

>

> The sign finally lit up. He darted forward, heart pounding, stepping in front of shadows—stopped cars that weren’t there. The bakery door loomed, but when he reached it, the word “CLOSED” glared back at him in bold, unyielding letters. He tugged on the handle, but it didn’t budge.

>

> Behind the glass, the pastries were gone, replaced by a mirror. Dylan stared at his reflection—gaunt, hollow-eyed, and wasting away. A rumbling growl rose from his stomach and echoed through the void. It wasn’t fair. He’d finally made it across the street, but now he had to wake up.

This time, it wasn’t Wedge, Runemist, or the twins that woke him. It was the growling of his stomach demanding attention. He woke up clutching his middle, the ache in his gut sharper than before.

Unable to sleep any longer, he rolled out of his hammock and opened his door. It was quiet, early in the morning, and still dark outside—not that it mattered below deck. Hanging lanterns along the walls lit up when they detected movement, though Dylan wasn’t sure if they were powered by magic or just technology, like back on Earth.

He made his way top deck and found Wedge leaning against the port-side railing, staring out in the direction the sun would rise. Dylan was lucky Mother of Dragons spun in the same direction as Earth, so East and West remained familiar concepts.

“Greetings, Dylan. You are up early.” Wedge sounded impressed with that second part, but didn’t turn around, keeping his eyes on the pre-dawn sky.

Dylan found a pleasant spot of railing for himself, a few feet to the left of the big guy. “Not by choice,” he said. “It’s hard to sleep when you’re hungry.”

Wedge was aware of Dylan’s plight but wouldn’t step in unless asked or it became too dangerous—as was his way. The sun was just starting to rise when his stomach’s loud grumbling cut through the quiet morning air.

Wedge turned to Dylan, concern etched on his face, and asked, “How many days can a human go without food?”

Dylan’s fingers rhythmically tapped along the railing as he pondered the same question. “Until I die? Three weeks, I think. Probably a bit more because I’ve got extra storage.” He gently patted his belly.

That answer didn’t seem to be enough for Wedge. “How long until it is unsafe for you to leave the ship?”

He was afraid that’s what the big guy meant. All of his life, he’d played it safe, avoiding risks, staying inside—comfortable. Now he was on another world that had magic. Terrifyingly powerful magic that he was already learning to use.

“I’ve tried fasting before and went like… three days before I was too tired to get out of bed. The headaches and mental fog started after two days, though.” He knew a foggy mind was just as dangerous as slow reflexes in the middle of the jungle. He wanted to lie, to tell Wedge he’d be fine, but it wasn’t only his life that he’d be putting at risk.

But since they’d forced him out of his comfort zone, he’d made friends and started getting back into shape. He was on a mother fucking adventure—a literal quest. He felt as if his life, his real life, had just begun, and he wasn’t about to let starving get in the way.

An idea came to him. “If I can’t eat my calories, maybe I can drink them. Do you think they have any sugar on board?”

Wedge pushed off the railing, glancing briefly at Dylan. “Let us find out.”

Dylan followed him as they made their way to the galley. They were in luck. The lights were on, and Cook Echo was already present, preparing breakfast. He wondered if lamprians ever slept, or even needed to rest—they were always running around and working.

“Hey Echo,” Dylan said as a wall of savory aromas hit him at the door—warm spices mingled with the rich, buttery scent of baking bread. He winced and sighed. “Why does it smell so good in here?”

“That’s the proper smell of a galley. I’m a bit busy at the moment, so you’ll have to walk and talk with me.” Cook Echo opened and closed a cabinet, snatching a mixing bowl in the process.

Dylan blinked. “Wow, you’re fast.”

“Have to be if you want everything done and ready in the proper order. What do you need?” Cook Echo didn’t stop or even slow down.

Dylan hesitated before asking, “Do you have any sugar?”

“What kind?”

“The… sugary kind?” Dylan frowned, unsure if white or brown sugar would work best.

The cook paused long enough to place his skeletal hands on his hips and fix Dylan with an eyeless stare. “Hilarious…” He briskly walked over and pointed to a low-hung shelf that held four large bags, each bearing a magical label.

“Take your pick.” The cook resumed his relentless preparations for breakfast as Dylan crouched down to read the labels; Copper Fortified Sugar, Iron Fortified Sugar, Titanium Fortified Sugar, and Lead Fortified Sugar.

“If it’s not on that shelf,” the cook said. “Then I apologize, but we’re out of it.”

Dylan thought about the iron fortified one for a second. But without Nathan’s gummies, he didn’t want to take the chance.

He frowned, pushed himself upright, and asked, “Do you have any… non-fortified sugar?”

Cook Echo stopped again, his growing agitation showing in the lean of his hip. “What for?” he asked. “So I can fortify it myself? Does it look like I’ve got a lot of time on my hands?” He held up his flour coated, bony hands. He’d been kneading some sort of dough. “Sorry to disappoint, but you’ll have to get your fancy organic sugar somewhere else.”

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Dylan was about to stand up when he spotted another label on the floor below the shelf. It read Salt. “What’s your salt fortified with?”

Cook Echo picked up his chef knife mid-chop and aimed the tip all around the galley. “Is this all a joke to you?”

Stunned at the accusation, he stammered, “N-No,” raising his hands defensively.

He looked to Wedge, who shook his head and stepped back, holding out a hand and deferring all questions back to the cook.

“The nerve of some people…” the cook muttered, dicing up a tuber before scooping it up and tossing it into a pot. The loud sizzle quenched shortly after the vegetable hit the hot liquid.

Cook Echo glanced up at Dylan. “There’s no such thing as ‘fortified’ salt. Simply absurd…” He resumed working the dough with his fists, clicking his nonexistent tongue. “What next…? Let me guess, there’s someone on board with a nut allergy?” he scoffed.

“Well, not a nut allergy—” Dylan hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Get out!” the exasperated cook snapped, cutting him off. The knife appeared in his hand, pointing directly at the door.

“May I have some salt?” Dylan asked quickly, taking a cautious step back from the santoku-wielding lamprian.

“Take a bag, if it’ll get you out of my galley.”

Dylan quickly bent down and hefted a fifty-pound bag of salt over his shoulder, grunting at the strain. Two more remained, so he didn’t feel bad taking the one. He waddled out of the galley, his steps uneven under the weight.

“Salt?” Wedge took the bag from Dylan after watching him struggle only a few feet.

“Thanks, and yeah, between the salt and Ostello’s mana recharge ability, I can probably go a few days without being a risk.” They continued down the hall toward the passenger’s quarters.

“Salt…?” the big guy repeated.

Dylan shrugged as he went around the lithkai to get the door. “Something about electrolytes. I saw it on a YouTube video once.” He opened the cabin door, and Wedge casually dropped the bag in the corner of his room.

‘Thanks Past Dylan!’ he thought. Never once did he think binge-watching a bunch of survival videos might come in handy one day. Now if he could only remember how many spoonfuls it was…

“I am not familiar with YouTube,” Wedge said.

Dylan shook his head with a small smile. “That does not surprise me.”

The rest of Everafter’s passengers were now up and eating in the mess hall. To save time, Runemist held the meeting during breakfast. Dylan reluctantly joined them in what he’d started calling the mess hell.

She started the meeting as she stood in line at the buffet. “I’ve spoken with the captain. Her crew is still working on the ship. That means we’ve got another day to figure out a distraction and search for the objective.”

Dylan’s mouth watered as he watched her step forward and skewer three green sausages onto her plate. They were plump, glistening slightly, with a vivid green casing that gave off a faint herbal sheen. W’itney had told him they were tangy with a copper finish.

“Engineer Echo and I have a plan to use explosives to distract the arc beetle,” she said, adding a flaky golden-brown biscuit to her plate.

‘Pastries, my only weakness; along with terror tubes, puns, and lootboxes,’—his thoughts trailed off for a moment—‘Honestly, this whole thing started because of a cupcake…’ The next thing he saw was Runemist shoveling a stack of thick, crispy strips of purple meat. He imagined they tasted like bacon.

“The engineer will prepare the explosives while we figure out how best to use them.”

“Why don’t we just blow it up?” Athrax asked in between stuffing his mouth with his own pile of purple ‘bacon’.

Runemist finished chewing one of her sausages and swallowed. “And if we don’t kill it?” she asked, sniffing her biscuit. “The last thing I want is a rampaging kaiju.”

In one bite, half the biscuit was gone. Dylan watched as crumbs fell to her plate. She washed it down with half a mug of water.

“Any other ideas?” The eager sounds of chewing, swallowing, and lapping filled the mess hell as they continued flaunting their meal.

Dylan crossed his arms, grunted, and tried to distract himself. There was a bit of dirt under his nails, even after his shower.

“No? Good. Thanks to P’reslen and Eury, we have a second pair of echo locators.” She pushed her plate away, shooting Athrax a disapproving look.

The old soldier, feeling the judgmental gaze of his peers, stopped licking his plate clean. “What…?”

She ignored him and continued the meeting. “Now we can cover more ground by separating into two groups—”

“What if we encounter the arc beetle? Wouldn’t it be better if we’re together?” W’itney asked.

“Even as a group, we don’t survive that encounter,” Dylan said offhandedly. The room got quiet. He stopped picking his nails, glancing up at the silence to find everyone staring at him. He narrowed his eyes at them. “I said that part out loud, didn’t I?”

Ostello raised an eyebrow, and said, “That’s dark…”

“It pains me to say, but Dylan’s right. We’ve no chance against an uncommon-ranked kaiju. The safest plan is to avoid it. Which is why we’re tracking it,” Runemist said.

Dylan saw all the unfinished food on their plates and sighed. His stomach clenched in protest, and he forced himself to look away.

“I will take Tome & Key and search closer to the arc beetle, while Wedge leads the initiates to search the areas further from it. Questions?”

There were none. Both groups geared up, the air filling with the quiet checking of buckles, belts, and pouches. Tome & Key was going to meet up with Quinten and relieve him from tracking the arc beetle. Ostello would take his place.

Wedge let the initiates decide on who got to hold the echo locator. W’itney felt bad for their prank on Dylan yesterday. Eury had no desire to play communications officer. Hay’len, meanwhile, noticed the joy Dylan had for new experiences. In the end, Dylan got to be in charge of the ‘rockie-talkie.’

Both groups struck out together as they approached the arc beetle’s area. It began to rain just as they reached their first destination and went their separate ways. The two draconi and Wedge appeared unfazed by the frequent showers. However, Dylan found Eury to be especially short-tempered when she was soaking wet. Her cloak was another casualty of the crash landing.

Dylan’s cloak prevented the rain from getting in, but did nothing to help with his constant sweating. He was in the middle of a hot and humid jungle, wearing a cloak. So he was just hot, sort of dry, and very hungry.

The gray skies lit up with a silent flash of lightning. Dylan counted to seven before the crack of thunder followed. He knew the storm was about one and a half miles away. Those YouTube videos were really paying off.

The rain continued to pour down on them, and Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Perun was doing it on purpose. That question would plague him every time it rained now that he’d met the god. Was Perun the god of storms on Mother of Dragons alone, or did his domain extend everywhere? His questions were like hydras—answering one only brought up two more.

Thirty minutes later and the storm had finally passed. Wedge paused for a moment and tilted his head before pulling out both shields. With a metallic scrape, he spun on his heels and took off, his heavy boots splashing them as he ran past.

“Stay behind me,” Wedge said, his shields raised as he surged forward toward the tree line. This time, he didn’t stop to apply an orbiting shield around Dylan. He would need both for what came next.

There was a primal roar that sounded more like a man than a beast. Two young trees were pushed apart as a large, hairless, scaly gorilla barreled through them. It stopped, reared back on its hind legs, and beat its thick, muscular chest.

Brown, plated scales covered its body, and horned growths lined its joints and spine. Dual, thick black horns sloped off its skull.

Its face resembled that of a dragon or dinosaur. A thick tail followed behind it, giving it balance as it moved—a draconi version of a gorilla.

“What the fuck is that?” Dylan slowly turned his head toward Hay’len.

“That’s a… a…” Hay’len stuttered, their hand trembling as they pointed a shaky clawed finger.

“A goreasaur…” Eury whispered.

Compared to Dylan, Wedge was huge, standing at least seven and a half feet tall. The gore-zilla, or whatever they called it, dwarfed the big guy. It stood over nine feet tall, much longer if measured from head to tail.

Dylan caught himself reaching for his shotgun, but thought better of it, remembering what happened the last time he tried ‘helping’. But this time, he didn’t have a mender to patch him back up.

W’itney panicked, their eyes wide, and said, “Run—”

“Do not run!” Wedge yelled back at them. He didn’t take his attention from the towering monster. That was the first time Dylan had ever heard him raise his voice.

Eury grabbed the twins by their arms to make sure they all stayed together.

“It—”

Wedge stopped talking to raise a shield, the metallic clang echoing as the monster’s swipe slammed into it. The force of the blow made him grunt, but he held his ground.

“If you run, it’ll chase after you,” Hay’len said, their voice trembling as they gestured toward the monster.

W’itney covered their eyes and looked away. “I can’t watch.”

The monster roared again, stepping forward, its claws tearing into the wet earth with a slurping scrape. The ground quaked beneath its massive weight as it prepared to charge.