#char:dreamwalker

The first thing that should have exposed the flaw in this design was the 13th hour on the clock. One would think that if someone were to orchestrate an entire world for another to reside in, they would be meticulous on details such as that. The only explanation is that it was an intentional oversight—or maybe he was just as tired as you were.

You squint at it subtly from where you sit in an expansive lobby area. Beyond glass walls you could see individuals moving around, some with papers in their hands, some with tablets. A woman with her hair done up in a high ponytail types at her desktop with a glazed look in her eyes. In the corner, two men and another woman appear to be gossiping about something; one of the men leans forward with his eyes wide, as though hearing something he cannot believe, and you feel a pull of curiosity as to what they may be saying. You glance back at the old wall clock again, and at that number 13. No one else seems to notice or be bothered by it. They walk on by like this is just another day in the office. 

“NEXT!” A woman's sharp voice calls from a desk. She sits behind a plaque that reads ‘Secretary’ in large, bold lettering. Her official title, not her name. You look around to see that you’re the only person sitting here, and so you rise dutifully before her shrill voice can really pop your eardrums. 

“Um, hi.” You’re holding a paper in your hand. A quick glance down shows it to be in the template of a resume, but the writing is all garbled and moving sluggishly across the page. Your brow furrows. “I’m here… for a job?”

The woman’s sharp blue eyes snap up at the hesitation in your voice. She looks between your face and the paper you hold in your hand before snatching the resume up. “What job?” She snaps, the sound of her chewing gum seeming to grow louder with her agitation. 

Her question draws you to a stop as you look at your now empty hand. What job? You don’t remember applying to anything, let alone showing up to this corporate death with the intention of joining its ranks. Sure, you want to know what the gossip is, but that doesn’t mean you want to dedicate 8-10 hours working to get it. 

“Seh…” You squint. “Security.” 

The secretary lowers your paper from her face and gives you a deliberate once over. You can read the skepticism all over her features more clearly than you can read whatever is on that resume. She raises one perfectly plucked brow before tossing the resume into a drop box behind her. It vanishes with a cheerful chime, and then she rolls back to her desk before hitting a button beneath the keyboard. “Third door down to your right.” 

Upon saying this, she returns to her work, leaving you standing dumbly for a few seconds before it clicks that she isn’t going to speak further. You give her a tight, polite smile before turning and following her curt directions towards your apparent interview. You have no notebook, you have no knowledge of what this company is, you have no pre-selected questions or awareness of what your own qualifications are. You’re about to raw dog this entire process, and the only thing you can do is hope your improv abilities suddenly come to fruition. 

The door you stop at is a large, mahogany beast that stands easily twice your height. It’s a far cry from the glass windows and corporate misery that you’ve been wading through on the way here. Your fist raises to knock twice, and after a pause, you hear a deep voice call from within. 

“Come in.” 

The knob twists with ease as you nudge the door open and poke your head inside. The office space itself was sparse and clean. A black bookcase dominated one wall, while the far wall consisted entirely of a window overlooking what you might call a swirling black void. Colours occasionally flash from within, like tiny supernovas, before it recedes back to nothingness as quickly as it arrived. You gape at it for a moment in confusion until a voice clearing draws your gaze downwards. Sitting at the desk before the window is a man who is about as average and plain as a man can get. He wears a dark charcoal coloured suit, expertly tailored, and a blue tie. His wavy hair is pushed back, his lips are set to a frown, and his golden eyes watch you with a touch of impatience in their stare. “You’re letting the eyes in.” 

“The…” You look back and see that the individuals behind the glass walls have all stopped to stare at you. The woman at the desktop, the three people gossiping, and even the man you had watched fighting a fax machine for ten minutes. Only the secretary continues to work with a bored expression on her face. A sharp pang of unease fills you and you step into the office, closing the door harshly as you do. Silence hovers over you both before you inch towards the spare chair at the desk and take a tentative seat. The man watches you with that same impatient stare up until you take that seat. Only then does he grab a paper next to him and raise it to give it a read. 

“So.” He hums, the words leaving him in a soft tone as his gaze skims over your resume. You have no idea how he’s reading any of the jargon on there, but his eyebrow quirks upwards in interest before he drops the paper on his desk again. His lips, full and dark, curl to a polite smile. “Security.” 

You stare at each other until you realize he’s waiting for you to speak, and you shift to sit up straighter. “Um, yup. Security. Graduated from…” You roll your lips and try to think of a plausible name. “Constellis Academy. Did two years of warehouse security at Pinkerton, and now I’m looking for more challenging experiences.” 

Lies, lies, lies, but then again, who doesn’t lie in the job market? The man observes you with slight amusement as he lifts your resume. While he does this, you take a second to look around some more. There are no personal artifacts in his office, but you guess that this dream wouldn’t be able to make any up on the fly. You also note that he lacks a plaque like the secretary has. Maybe your mind can’t think of any name for him, either. 

“How do you handle high stress situations?” The man asks, not looking up from the paper. You raise your eyebrows. God, you wish you had a walkthrough to tell you the best answers here, but you guess that you can wing something based on what the man seems like. 

“I’m someone who takes a moment to assess the situation before diving right in. I like to cover all my basis to ensure that if anything goes wrong, I have a plan on how to handle it.” You blurt, channeling all the police movies your sibling used to laugh at in your childhood into this moment. The man hums before turning the resume upside down. The action makes your brow furrow and your head tilt. 

“How do you handle conflict with a coworker?” He asks next, still not meeting your eyes. 

“I try to see things from their perspective. Everyone has unique experiences, so to understand why they may disagree with me, I should try and understand their logic. I think working to an agreeable result is the best approach.” You glance past him towards the void again as another burst of color erupts. The man nods as if absorbing your answers and actually giving them consideration. This, you decide, is a weird ass dream. Maybe the ghosts of your months job hunting are returning to haunt you in your stressful present life. Job hunting, after all, is a lot easier to stress about than hunting your sibling in an eldritch and powered minefield. 

“How do you handle conflict with your sibling?” The man asks next. Your mouth opens to reply automatically before your brain stutters to a pause. Your brow furrows again and you turn your head slightly, giving the man a sidelong glance. 

“I… my sibling?” You ask, eyes narrowing slightly. The man finally sets your resume down as he clasps his hands on his desk, leaning forward a touch. His golden eyes are no longer brimming with impatience. Now, you see a touch of coldness in them that seems to leak into the air around you both. 

“Yes, traveller. Your sibling. How do you handle conflict with them? How do you handle months of no responses to your texts, your memes, your calls? How do you handle the fact that they’ve dropped off the face of this earth and you’re wasting your time chasing after a ghost? Wasting my time making me constantly sweep you off my tracks?” 

His words sink into your brain like fingers, digging deep and squeezing the matter tightly. Another burst of color erupts behind him, flooding the room in red, except this time the color seems to look more like a monster writhing than a nebulous burst. Your jaw works silently as you glance at your resume again. The jargon has arranged itself to spell ‘MISSING’ across the top, with a picture of your siblings smiling face beneath it. You look back up at the man's face.

“"You are real, aren't you? I have such real dreams very often. You might be one of them."

The man blinks languidly before leaning back in his seat. His hands settle down to rest on his thighs, and he tilts his head, giving you a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It might even be called charming in another scenario. “So, security, right?” 

His one hand rises to brush his fingers across the surface of his desk. He pushes a pen holder aside and presses his index finger down on a small, elevated panel beneath it. 

“Consider yourself a person of interest, mi cariño.”

_____

You jolt awake to the smell of burning oil from the kitchens beneath your room. The distant shouting of Deadlock is accompanied by a cackle that you can only pinpoint as Helios. You remain lying in bed for a moment as your brain buffers back to life, replaying the strange, interview-esque scenario you were just dragged through. It isn’t fear that fills your heart - it’s confusion. Frankly, if someone was trying to get your attention, dragging you through the hellscape that is the employment arc is certainly not the way to do it. 

You groan, rolling over in bed as the sound of Deadlock’s shouting increases alongside the burning scent of oil.

Little Lamb who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? 

A prodigal son who has all but forgotten his origins, Dreamwalker has become an iconography of the darkest corners Attollo holds. Serving as the voice and eyes of Ovo when its grotesque founder is absent, Dreamwalker's words are taken as the only law the Undercity follows.

Though his motives remain scarcely known beyond a handful of those he trusts, including Desdemona and Sysba, it is apparent to the lawful denizens and the unlawful that what he may be planning is a swan song of rapturous proportions. Or that was his plan, until an unexpected arrival has cut his song short.

Tired, and famished. Dreamwalker knows no sleep himself, although he thrives in the realm of the dreaming. With powers that include sleep manipulation, which permits him to puppet a dream to his liking, Dreamwalker also carries perception manipulation to hide what he truly looks like. Despite this, he still adorns a mask covering the upper half of his face as a precaution.

Dreamwalker's features are not known by many of the Attollo denizens. He has been seen by Sysba, W, Desdemona, and whoever knew him before his leader burned this moniker into his being.

He is tall, however, and stands at about 6'4". He has a broader frame that implies he once lived a life of activity, though he is rarely seen now. The sparse bit of skin that can be seen is deeply tanned in color, though it is his eyes that capture the most attention. Golden and without pupils, they glow like twin suns, cutting through the shadows to reveal all that may try to hide. He possesses dark wavy hair, cut short and pushed back to allow his mask to sit comfortably.

“You look murderous right now. It's quite sexy, actually." He turns his attention away from the one party-goer he was watching—a blonde man, trying far too hard to hit on another—and focuses on his new companion, whose painted lips are pulled into a lascivious grin. The glimmer of their jewellery makes them practically glow in the dark, and he notes that they’ve dressed in their best attire.

In turn, he raises an eyebrow with a frown. “I have no idea what you mean, Sysba. I’m merely enjoying the show around me.”

Sysba looks out onto the crowd, and he watches as their expression shifts into one of pity and amusement. “Ah, the first wave is always the most fascinating to observe. For some reason or another, they go much harder than the second or third, who usually come later in the night.”

“Perhaps they go harder because they wish to enter a state of inebriation faster, so they can therefore drown out how miserable they are with their lives.” He leans back against the booth and crosses his arms over his chest as he glances at the crowd. In his peripheral vision, he can see Sysba fixing him with a dubious stare.

The falling rain adds a murky soundtrack to the gray world that surrounds you as you walk, concealed beneath the arch of an umbrella, along a poorly-tended concrete path. Derelict houses with chain fences surrounding them are the scenery to your left; most of their windows are boarded up, but there are a few that remain open, with shadows moving around inside. They’re hardly habitable—but in the Gutter District, hardly habitable is still somewhere to live. 

You pull your umbrella closer to your side and focus on avoiding the potholes filled with water rather than the unseen audience you may have. Mud sloshes up your pant legs, and you can’t help but grimace at the cold, wet feeling as it seeps through to your skin. You wouldn’t be out here right now if you hadn’t received the message that you did; truthfully, you hadn’t seen Dreamwalker in quite some time, and so the eagerness of encountering him again greatly outweighed your trepidation over the weather. 

Which is why when you turn a corner and spot an old car idling on the side of the road, its brake lights like red eyes watching you within the storm, you pick up your pace despite the mess such a move will make. Dreamwalker himself doesn’t drive, so you close your umbrella—trying to ignore how quickly the rest of you becomes soaked in the rain—and yank open the back door before sliding your way in. 

“Are you alone?” is the first thing you hear as soon as you slam the door shut. There’s a man you don’t recognize sitting in the driver's seat, and one that you do in the passengers, with his dark hair and familiar grim expression. His head is turned just enough to see you as he waits to hear your response. 

“No one saw me but the few people still living on this street.” You tug your seat belt on and glance back at the driver. It isn’t the reunion you were hoping for, but it’s one you’ve come to expect. Dreamwalker nods, and the driver shifts gears to start moving again. The hum of the heat and the faint sound of the radio—a morning talk show, it sounds like—are the only sources of noise in the car. You watch out the window as you move through the Gutter District. 

Although you’re leaving the area affectionately known as The Slums, you seem to be moving deeper into the District itself, until the car finally arrives outside of what looks like a rundown Motel. When the car comes to a full stop and Dreamwalker undoes his seat belt, you realize that this is the place you’re set to speak in. You both get out and you watch as the car pulls away, leaving you standing in a cracked parking lot with no means of getting home and a sense of unease in your heart. 

Dreamwalker is already inside by the time you enter. The lobby looks like it’s from the 1960’s, and it also looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since then, considering the stains you note on the walls as you go to stand by his side. He’s thumbing an old brass key as a woman types away on an ancient computer, boredom evident on her aged face. She squints at the screen and glances over at the two of you, scrutinizing the way you both look, before she turns  away. She mumbles something into a device attached to her shirt, types a few more things, and then the whirring of a receipt machine fills the air. 

“M’kay, you should be good to go,” she finally says, a faint accent in her words as she slides the receipt over. “The room is at the very end if you walk straight. It’s already all prepared for you.”   

“What’s all of this?” you inquire, following after him as he moves down the hall. He doesn’t reply, but he does reach back to take a hold of your wrist, as though the act will provide some sense of reassurance. It doesn’t, and when the two of you finally enter your designated room, he only gives you a response when he closes and locks the door. 

“Accept my apologies for the… location,” he sighs, taking off the sunglasses he’s been wearing and tossing them onto the room’s singular table. He looks tired—as he always does—and when he sits down on the bed, his body slumps. “The Gutter District’s Motel tends to be the one place you can meet and talk without interruption or care. I promise you this room has been cleaned, though.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you grumble, sitting down next to him. You try to ignore the fact that your clothes are still soaking wet as you press your thigh against his. “You know, considering how long it’s been.” 

He winces at your words, and upon closer inspection, you can see how ruffled and unkempt he really is. In his absence, he’s likely been going through hell—par usual. “I wish I could have contacted sooner, but unfortunately a lot of things happened at once that were unavoidable. Which is why this meeting was unorganized on my part—it was last minute, and I didn’t want to miss the chance.” 

You lean forward to get a good look at his face, which causes him to frown, only further pushing the budding amusement you’re feeling about this situation. With a coy grin, you give him a nudge. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Nonsense.” The reply is sharp and immediate, but when he pushes himself to stand back up, you know he doesn’t mean it. He always tries to go when he’s feeling embarrassed about something. You reach out to grasp his wrist and tug him towards you—which he follows with, begrudgingly—until you have him standing between your legs. 

“How long do we have, then?” You ask, reaching up to play with his tie. It’s already loose, probably done because of stress, and he reaches to hold onto your hand in response. 

“A few hours, give or take.” 

A few hours is frustrating to you—you do wish you could monopolize all of his time—but this is what you signed up for when you chose a crime leader as your companion. You pull until his hands rest on either side of you, and you’re close enough to see the faint stubble from a missed-day shave along his jaw. “Pity,” you mumble, leaning in to kiss away his response before he can give it. 

Maybe because it’s been so long, or maybe it’s just your pent up frustrations, but you’re quick to take control of the situation—and for once, he hands it over. This is probably his way of apologizing, but right now you really don’t care. You feel like you’re a part of some illicit affair, to be kissing in the dark rooms of the sparse moments you can both afford, and the thrill of the criminality only seems to heighten the passion forming between you both. 

Your hand quickly comes up to grasp at his slight curls as you angle yourself to deepen the kiss, drinking in every part of him that you can get before he vanishes again. The familiar aroma of sandalwood is intoxicating, and when you tug at those strands—earning a low groan in response—you find yourself driven to a frenzy of desire. He pushes until you fall back on the bed, a huff of laughter escaping from you at the action. He presses a messy kiss on your jaw, your neck, as his hand slides up your shirt. He’s so undone, so unlike how he usually is, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of possessiveness that you’re the only one to see him in this state.

Then he stops, and he withdraws with a frown, breaking the entire illusion. 

“Your clothes are soaked,” he huffs, his hair disarrayed and his tie now entirely unsalvageable. You can’t help but grin up at him as you drink in this state. 

“Help me get out of them, then?” You retort. He stares down at you for a moment, and then an expression that can only be described as wicked appears on his face. His hand comes up to caress your cheek while the other begins to travel down to your waistband. When he chuckles, it’s a low sound that goes right to your core. 

"You've been forgotten."

His voice is sotto voce, drawling out from where he sits with a curious smile toying his lips. His fingers slowly run along the edge of the desk, as though to caress it before he continues.

"It was meant to be an hour ago now, was it not?"

Your eyebrow twitches upwards in response as you continue to stare at the door. The seconds feel like they're drawing into hours, ticking on, and on, and on. You look back at him and note the way his golden eyes seem to glimmer in mirth; he looks far too happy about your predicament for your liking. "They're just busy."

"Busy enough to be over an hour late? Ah, perhaps you should have gone with my suggestion instead." That curious little smile now grows into a cocky grin as he continues to watch you. Your own jaw clenches in response as you pull out your phone again, glaring angrily down at the app. The delivery mans little icon shows him still at the restaurant, and you begin to wonder if something has happened.

"Was Ovo planning on robbing any take-out places?" You grumble, sending a sour glance to your partner. His expression morphs to innocent shock.

"Oh goodness no. Ovo is a proud supporter of our essential workers, you know."

"Pro-crime but also pro-union; truly an organization for the people." you scoff, leaning back in your seat as you say so. Dreamwalker's smile returns as his eyes narrow.

"They do go hand in hand, after all. So no, I am not responsible for our delayed dinner, which we could have had an hour ago now had you simply gone with my suggestion of visiting a restaurant rather than relying on delivery services—"

You turn then, raising a finger and pressing it harshly against his lips in the 'silence' gesture. The man only looks startled for a moment before one eyebrow raises and an unimpressed look begins to dance on his features. It brightens your mood a little; you do love to cause him some stress.

"We aren't going to the expensive restaurants you so enjoy," you reply, dropping your hand. Dreamwalker is silent for only a moment before he speaks again.

"Of course. Because cold takeout is clearly the superior choice, even though I would have paid."

You give him a small, mocking little smile as you pat his hand. "You can just buy me something shiny later on, okay?"

"Perhaps I will." Is all he offers back, his own bemused look in his gaze as your phone chimes out. When you glance down, you see that the driver is finally leaving the restaurant. Dreamwalker leans forward to look at the phone before scoffing and fixing his gaze on you.

It's unusual, and that's perhaps why it puts you on edge. The space isn't unusual; in fact, it's rather nice. A private dining room to yourselves, with blinds acting as a barrier to the rest of the restaurant and candles flickering on the table as the heady aroma of wine fills the air. The staff weren't unusual; in fact, they were rather nice as well.

What was unusual was the situation itself—and the man you were in the situation with.

His golden gaze flickers in the moody light of the room like the candles that adorn your table, making you feel more like you're at a ritual rather than an anniversary dinner. He eats in his usual reserved and proper manner, making you feel painfully self-aware every time your fork scrapes the plate, or you drink your drink too loudly. Conversation flows from his lips so naturally, while it falls from yours like stuttering droplets of rain. Even as he waves the waiter away, he makes it seem so natural.

You feel out of your element, and he notices. His eyebrow quirks every time you shift in your seat, or correct your posture, and it's only when he finally pays off the bill (which has far too many 0's for your liking) that you finally begin to relax. You grab your coat and rise quickly from your seat—only to have him clear his throat.

"One more thing." His voice is soft—softer than usual—as he rises from his seat. You watch in mute interest as he draws his own coat on before approaching. His hand is in his pocket, and there it remains as he comes to a stop behind you. You try to turn your head to look at him as you feel his cold fingers rest on the skin between your neck and shoulder.

"What—" you begin, only to have him hush you with a soft sound. You press your lips together and furrow your brow in confusion; when you feel cold metal replace his touch, you jerk in surprise and glance down.

A necklace rests against your skin. It consists of a thin, silver chain, ending in a pendant that appears as a symbol you've seen many times: a snake, consuming its own tail in a neverending loop of existence. The ouroboros—a secondary symbol that Ovo enjoys using, and one which represents an eternal devotion.

He withdraws once the necklace is clasped in place and rests his hand lightly on your waist instead. You can feel the heat coming off of his body as his lips brush lightly against your cheek and he simply says;