talking fish heads

The road stretches out towards the horizon, cutting a line between the never ending corn fields. The edges of Dream’s vision swim in the green of the stalks, washed out by his headlights, while he does his best to focus on the asphalt ahead. The exhaustion that tugs at him is relentless, but he’s determined to not give in. He twists the volume dial for the radio to be louder, hoping that whatever trashy pop song is playing will be enough to keep him awake. Something about this stretch of the drive is almost too peaceful though, and it threatens to lull him to sleep. Driving on some random back road in the middle of nowhere in the contiguous United States makes him feel almost unreal, like he could blink, and he would fade from existence as easily as his namesake does. He likes the feeling a bit too much. He can’t help but think that if he just keeps driving, maybe he can chase the feeling until it becomes permanent. 

It’s all too tempting.

“Can you pull over?” Wilbur asks, breaking Dream’s train of thought. 

Dream spares him a brief glance—he’s fidgeting with a cigarette while leaning his head against the passenger window, staring intently at the blurred scenery. A part of Dream can’t help but wonder what he finds so interesting out there, but the curiosity isn’t strong enough to prompt him to ask. 

“No,” Dream says, turning his gaze back to the road. “We’re making good time. We could get to a city at this rate.”

“So? The city will still be there tomorrow,” Wilbur counters. “Pull over.”

Dream briefly toys with the idea of pulling over just to kick Wilbur out of his car, but abandoning him in rural Nebraska in the middle of the night feels a bit too needlessly cruel. Dream taps his fingers against the steering wheel as he mulls over what to do, debating the pros and cons of giving into Wilbur’s small request. Really, it’s not like he owes Wilbur anything—if anything, it should be Wilbur who owes him something—but there’s also not much of a reason to refute the request, especially when, logically, Dream knows he’s dangerously close to falling asleep behind the wheel.

Dream pulls over and brings the car to a halt. Wilbur unbuckles himself and steps out of the car before Dream even has the chance to turn off the engine, and Dream finds himself just staring at the passenger seat as his mind tries to catch up with everything. 

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The smell of smoke lingers, trapped between the porcelain of Dream’s mask and the flesh of his face. There’s exhilaration coursing through him, mixing with the adrenaline in his veins and turning his energy up to a near-feverish level. Echoes of the explosions continue to ring in his head. He barely notes the too quick rise and fall of his chest, too focused on the smouldering remains that lie before him. The die has been cast, and it has tipped in his favor; L’manberg is in ruins, a thorn in his side finally removed so that he can turn his focus to more pressing matters.

The server lets out a sharp chime for Dream’s ears alone.

Even from here, he can hear as the other server members let out gasps and shouts, either in surprise or alarm or maybe even a mix of both. His fingers twitch, but he makes no move to grab his communicator. He doesn’t need the chat message to confirm what the server has already told him. Still, his eyes are pulled towards the scene that has captivated the attention of most everyone else: Wilbur, dead, lying limply in the arms of Death’s angel, blood pooling and staining the both of them.

Pitiful king of kings, a voice, more Wilbur than Dream’s, whispers in his mind.

Dream swallows the lump in his throat, clenches his fist around his axe, pulls his shield closer.

He looks away.

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