Aerhart's Aerodrome

Every prisoner seeks an escape. He found his when he first donned the mask, and every night since. For the first time in a life unlived – behind that veil of cheap fabric and haphazard stitching – he felt the blood warming his veins, his breath a gale through his lungs. It was more than he could have dreamed, when the headlines celebrating the Saviour of Sixth Street thumped against his door with the arrival of the morning paper.

Now the mask had fallen, and with it departed the magic of escape. It was his fault, really; the unmasking was the consequence of hubris, and an inconveniently located camera. The headlines fell silent – after all, a mysterious Saviour only remains interesting while they have no name. He fully expected his employers to fire him the next day, for his cathartic vigilantism. Instead, his arrival at the office was received by a forced smile from his manager, and reassurances that the rumours would pass soon.

the recognition that we will all one day leave this timeline and board the lonesome train to ride away into the night. this is the existential weight that trots along with all sentient buckaroos, a realization that time will not stop for us. it can be a powerful knowledge when you harness this thought to say 'i will make the most of every moment because one day i will get no more moments' but it can also be overwhelming. finding a balance in this way is a constant journey for chuck, but late at night when you are staring at the dang ceiling and the call of the lonesome train rings out it can be hard for any buckaroo to keep this balance. but that is the journey we are on. eventually we can find comfort in fact that we ALL have to ride the lonesome train one day, which actually makes it not so lonesome after all since it is the one universal experience

i think most buckaroos do not realize the lonesome train is also a REAL TRAIN that would drive past at night when chuck was a young buckaroo. it would call out and i would get a feeling about all the lives existing on this train and all their stories and just how overwhelming that was (to be honest i think having such emotional significance in such an abstract way to a specific sound might be one of chucks autistic trots, not sure)

She’s technically a monster too. She might not look it at first glance and seems mostly human, but it isn’t deniable even despite her looks compared to the other monsters. 

But she realizes that she is still not like the rest of the monsters either and may not have entirely the same experiences as them, which is why she feels that she might not belong to or deserve to go to the support group. By sometimes passing as human, she feels she isn’t worthy of the space. 

The sad reality though is even though she’s mostly human in appearance, that tail she has undeniably would still cause her some struggle. Humans are still gonna look at that tail and think she’s a freak. There are probably still accommodations she needs because of the tail that she may still struggle to have access to. Even if it is just the tail, that tail is still enough to other her from humans and cause her problems and discrimination. 

She should get to belong in that support group even if she gets told she’s not monster “enough”. She still shares some of the same struggles as them that are caused by being a monster, and needs support. 

Dream finds his way. Between the fitful stirrings and illusions of midnight, he is a rush of cold air, flitting through the blur of visions and subconscious conceptions of the living, each made reality in the land of sleep. A businessman stands before a childhood home, long since consumed by the concrete monoliths of the city. An musician clings to a rowboat, tossed by a wine-red sea; teetering on the edge of oblivion. A mother bursts through an endless cascade of doorways to empty rooms, searching for the child sleeping soundly in the next room.

Across these tumultuous realms of flight and fancy, of bliss and terror, Morpheus finds his way. And so, then, does he arrive.

The Lord of Dream steps forth into cool blackness. There is no breeze to pick at the shadowy hems of his robe, no feeling of earth nor cobble to crunch beneath his boots. In this strange purgatory between waking and sleep, he feels his way through the dense nothingness, in search of his host.

“I wondered if you’d be coming back.”

The woman greets Morpheus with a tired smile. He recognises the crisp burgundy suit and glint of silver earrings; the meadow-green irises beneath the short crop of auburn hair. Each and every detail is recreated exactly as she recalls herself – and yet, her failing memory ensures it is never quite the same. Morpheus returns his own faint smile, eyes burning like distant stars in their sockets.

“Charlotte,” he replies. “I see you have been practicing.”

“I didn’t have much else to do,” Charlotte quips back, gesturing to the void around her. “Maybe I have control of my own mind – but as you’re so fond of pointing out, the realm of dreams is yours.”

Dream offers a nod of understanding. With a motion of his pale hands, he addresses the sheer blackness. A brief gesture coaxes form from emptiness, and light from the overwhelming dark. Colours and sounds bloom from everywhere, and nowhere. And, in a moment, the pair find themselves standing in the verdant embrace of a clifftop garden, the endless sunset painting the sky over distant echoes of waves crashing below.

For a long moment, Charlotte simply basks in the experience. She feels the caress of the evening wind and the mild blistering of the sun’s dying rays; the taste of salt on the air.

“I look forward to your visits, you know.” Charlotte doesn’t turn around, continuing instead to enjoy her brief respite from her usual monotony.

“I apologise for my delay,” Dream says. “But as you are aware, I have res-”

“Responsibilities,” she laughs. “Yes, I know. You say that every time. But I’m glad you managed. Especially this time.”

Morpheus watches Charlotte’s smile weaken.

“You know why I have come, then?” Morpheus whispers.

Charlotte says nothing. Instead, she raises a hand, index finger outstretched to the sky. Listen, it says. Dream obliges.

The sounds are faint, even distorted and stretched – and distant beneath the breeze of the garden and breakers beneath. But they are unmistakable. A strained electric wailing over a deep rumble. Frenzied voices, and the rattling of metal.

“Something must have gone wrong,” Charlotte muses. “They’re moving me. Probably to the hospital across town, that’s the only one with enough ventilators free, I think.

“It’s a ten-minute trip, not long… But I doubt there’s any coincidence as to the timing of your visit. Is there?”

“I am not my sister,” Dream counters solemnly.

“But I’m not wrong, am I?”

Dream sighs heavily, casting his gaze aside.

“You were never one to lack for perceptiveness.” Dream gives a mirthless chuckle. “No, you are not wrong, Charlotte.”

“And I suppose you don’t have a way to stop this, do you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“As I say; I am not my sister.”

Charlotte lets her hand fall, the trundling reverberations of the ambulance dissolving away once more. The weariness in her eyes creeps across the rest of her face as she turns from dream and ambles over to the cliffside, finally sitting down on its edge. Wordlessly, Dream follows at her side. No tears fall from Charlotte’s face – but her resignation is plain for them both.

“So… what happens now?”

“My sister will come for you. Together, you will journey to the Sunless Lands. What lies beyond that… is up to you.”

“Up to me, huh?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Dream moves up to Charlotte, coming to rest on cliffside perch by her side. Charlotte finally turns to Dream; voice steady, but eyes pleading.

“What if I want to go with you?”

“With me?”

Surprise is a rare thing to see upon the face of the Lord of Dreams, and fleeting. But Charlotte catches it nonetheless. She gazes expectantly at him, holding fragile hope. And in that moment, Morpheus weakens. He takes her hands in his; her living warmth clasped in icy palms.

“It is… up to you, Charlotte.” His eyes meet hers, twinkling in their umbral setting. “Do you understand?”

The realisation dawns.

“I think so,” she whispers. “I think so.”

Above them, the crimson flame of sunset has cooled to a deep violet. The deep blue-black shadows of night begin to settle around them. They say nothing – for an instant, for an eternity. In the distance, the piercing wail of the ambulance siren begins to rise again.

“It is time.”

Morpheus helps Charlotte to her feet. He holds her trembling hand in his, standing at the edge of the precipice. Far below, the ocean continues its indifferent beat upon the cliffside. Charlotte glances at him a final time – terrified; determined. Her voice breaks as she offers him a final farewell.

“I’ll see you again, Dream.”

Morpheus offers her a warm smile.

“I have no doubt.”

And with a single step, they are gone. All around, the dream dissolves, cascading back into darkness and emptiness. The air falls still; the waters cease their churning. The sunset surrenders to endless night.