Stupor

by Regina Wright

Rating: teen
Tags: Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Human, Princess Luna, Original Character
Length: 7416

Only a fool could catch the attention of the Lady of The Night and think very little of the chaos he wrought.

In the Hereafter, the many realms of dream are in constant disarray. So much so that a human's dying dream could easily catch the attention of the Lady of The Night. Unfortunately.

All the best parts of chapter one was by Gaudior who is a pretty great guy (check him out) but I'm a bandit trying to drop some merchandise before it goes bad.

For the sake of avoiding a writer's slump so here's the story. YOLO.

Rated T for implied gore imagery, psychological torture and swearing.

Published 2015-08-13 18:50:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-08-13 18:50:02 UTC

The Lingering Last Testament of Stuart McKinney, Idiot

Once upon a time ago, before the ponies, before her and all of her baggage that I got caught in, I used to be a man with priorities. You know, responsibilities. Things that make nobodies into somebodies.

That was me: a nobody trying to be a somebody. A desperate second-hand suit wearing, ramen-cup gulping desk monkey. My working hours were spent kissing ass and bending over when directed, all for chump change and cheap promises that went nowhere.

And I loved every moment of it.

A real contrast to Princess Loony, that soft-spoken tyrant. She may put in the hours and do all the leg-work but if things don't pan out the way she wants for them, let's just say I'm glad she fucked up her 'rule the world in eternal darkness' plan when she did. And had one thousand years to cool off. If we met back then, back when she was tripping on power and I was that same living nobody, I can't decide whether she would have vaporized me on the spot or hired me as her court jester to vaporize later.

But this is all about me, not her.

You'll meet her later and get to decide whether I'm being too harsh. Prison changes a dream, you know.

But back to me, you should have seen how I was, flinging myself into that pool of unpaid labor. Working overtime when Carl fucked up the system files and they needed a stooge to dig through the paperwork, manually typing in all of the missing information for three days straight.

Remember that day I drove like the devil was on my heels. Taking Heather's, one of our top representative, place because she wanted a sick day right before the annual conference. You know, that same conference that we needed some good PR for the unfinished product we were pushing? To save our bottom line? Yeah, so they sent this coffee-moving grunt and gave me the wrong stage notes. On purpose. Just to see how I'd do under pressure and save their collective asses by being a sincere-sounding fall guy.

God, I was such a freaking knucklehead. I was taking one for the team, even as they tore me a new one right after. Beau-ti-ful.

I was dumb enough to think they were chances, that they were proof that I could make it. I just had to take my lumps and one day, that one stupid day, I'd be up there. The big times, the important work. Promotion after promotion, me moving to the top, and all the perks that would come with it; my own office, a chance to move out of my tiny apartment and fix the clunker I'd had since high school.

Sense? I had no sense, common or rare.

But I lived off the nickles and dimes from my second job, scrubbing the floor of a restaurant that reeked of cigar blunts and old liquor. Praying low and hard that none of my co-workers would see me on my knees.

What I could put together —in savings, in bank accounts, in loans—, I reinvested. I beefed my portfolio, made bad deals with co-workers, colleagues, acquaintances and I did anything that made me seem like I had an edge. Insider information. Friends in high places. I didn't know who I was trying to fool. Myself, maybe. None of it ever worked but still, I kept trying. There was a part of me that was insistent; promising me a future that would make my present seem nothing more but the unhappy start of a fairy tale.

I struggled, long endless nights in the office. I worked, a single panic attack away from a mental breakdown.

As long as I believed, truly believed, then that 'one day' would come. But it was as if there was this great looming wall between me and my destiny, the reward I would receive for all of my hard work. Impossible to overcome. If I'd been smarter, maybe I could have took that as a sign that it was time to thrown in the towel. To admit things I never wanted to. That maybe everything I believed in was wrong. But it didn't matter how my knuckles bled, attempting to climb over it —it being every single thing I hated about myself, it that was the wall— or how bleak my circumstances got. I did it anyway, over and over until tomorrow and yesterday became bill papers and pharmacy visits.

And what was my dream, my reason for starting in the first place? I hardly remember now.

I could tell you why I did it. I could tell you any of the reasons why I had to do it. But now, these days, I couldn't tell you why I would have done any of those things.

It just doesn't make sense anymore.

Back then, 'two plus two equals fish' would have made sense if I'd tried hard enough, but now all I have is a fish that came from nowhere. Stinking up all the sweet and rose-scented memories I had of my life.

Because you see, I, Stuart McKinney, was dead.

Deader than the fly I smashed with my right hand that late afternoon, picking up my boss's dry cleaning. Deader than that bloated animal carcass I drove by, as I wondered where all my tax dollars went if people couldn't keep the road clean. Deader than my car's engine, My faithful Delilah bought under a dreary summer noon, as she drowned in the river water, purring as she sputtered into machine hell.

But I'm kidding. Really. I'm just kidding.

McKinney's dead. But I'm not.

Seriously, don't confuse him with me. I'm better than him in almost every observable way. I just don't have a body to prove it.
I've spent so much time thinking this over and over in my head. If McKinney's dead, then who am I? What am I? Since he's dead, I'm bound to follow him into death. Into the next world after this. But as of now, I'm just dying, wasting away in that hospital room. My own personal hell.

Right now, the only man the news reporters keeps chanting as the media circus gives him his fifteen minutes of fame, Stuart McKinney, is in a coma. He's brain dead in every sense of the word, hooked up to various machines. A shiny tube keeps air flowing into his shuttering lungs. Little wires and IV bags pump nutrients into his withered form. A larger tube for feeding was implanted in his stomach. There's no chance of recovery from the accident. Can't be. There's no chance of surgery with the shrapnel that shot through the back of his skull, making a pin cushion of his brain either. He wouldn't last a second on the operating table. What isn't stuck in his brain is moving through his blood, little knives slitting his skin.

And so he sleeps, forever.

But McKinney did something useful, something you wouldn't think such a unimaginative blockhead could do. He dreamed. He hoped. Every earnest drop in his coffin of a body, every muddy speck: Fear and faith. Terror and temperance. Death and diligence. Any and all he could spare, —the sum of all he was— McKinney crafted a somebody. He made me.

Stuart McKinney, the dying dream of a lingering man.

I call that man dead, not only to differentiate him from me, but because it was the truth of it all. Soon, very soon, his family would have to consider pulling the plug on his care. Such a hard-working man like him, he wouldn't want to be tied to machines and stuck in bed all day. Wouldn't McKinney, their littlest brother, deserve to be put out of his misery?

It's not something I can argue with. I'd do it too if I didn't know better.

I can't even make our eyes blink to make them reconsider.

They don't know that I can hear them. Or that their little brother, the one who avoided them out of shame, regretted every moment of his life up to the accident. Faint memories of his youth bubbled over, the days chasing after his older siblings in a motor home parked in the middle of nowhere. That dreary summer, unexpected snow creeping down a July high noon and the money he held in his hands. Then the fresh blood spilling out under Delilah's rims, Ave Maria screeching in the speakers, "Ave, ave dominus... Dominus tecum...-" and that body going thump in that frost dipped road.

McKinney couldn't stop himself, stuffing all of his sticky, stagnant sins, rotting rancid guilt and a desire, into me.

He gave me his soul. He made me into a real boy.

In a way, I am him but in all the ways that counted, I wasn't. I could never be. But I was born with a duty, a final promise that I was obligated to see out, for the sake of that untamed desire he put inside of me. Six months in, July coming again, I am ready.

I would not end here.

Not in that little hospital room surrounded by his family, sympathy and pity that wouldn't reach his ears. There was so much he could have done and I would find a way to fulfill them, all my idle pleasures, no matter what. Wouldn't it be nice to become eternal, a never-ending dream? I have to secure my survival beyond all things. And then, who knows?

Maybe, that wasn't right... But who could stop me? McKinney?

Yet, of all I know of that man —then and now, now and dead—, I don't know what drove him to such actions. What was his last words, McKinney uttered as he was carved to pieces, glass gutting his face, the water rising over his head? It was a plea, a ode to the heavens but the wording escapes me.

Only the memory of pain lingers and soon, not even that. What need do I have for physical sensations, echos of agony?

I should know, shouldn't I? What do you think of me, McKinney?

Welcome To The Hereafter, Desperation and Courage Only

Down I went, the cleats of my conjured boots aiding each catch and release as I scaled the dream-matter.

I didn't know a thing about rock-climbing, just lazy thoughts McKinney spared when he was forced to wait in a dentist's waiting room. Accepting like a limp-noodle chump the suave choices of nature magazine, nature magazine and baby magazine. Anything to look good in front of the cute receptionist.

My rope and harness gear attached to my waist squealed, the little wheel spinning, louder than I thought it would be. Comforting with its senseless, shameless noise. I thumped against the trembling cliff-side, hauling my happy ass further and further from my corpse of a body.

Yes, I am in the middle of getting myself out of McKinney's impending unplugging.

Allow me to explain the process; astral projection and homemade bullshittery.

As a coma patient, McKinney's mind can't help but wander, allowing me the sort of freedom most dreams can't experience. As he dreamed, he imagined me being able to float over his bed while also mentally projecting me over his bed. Back then, I was free to pace his room and listen to conversations. In the ghostly flesh if you can believe it.

Maybe if I kept at it, I would have become a poltergeist. Could have been fun at parties.

But that's how I learned that McKinney was in danger of being sent to meet his maker.

With those two abilities, it took a lot of experimentation to take it to the next level: Entering other people's dreams. As fun and trauma-scarring it was to see the mind-scrambled dreams of the nurses and doctors that watched over my care -Nurse Clarice, call me- I knew that I was onto something. When a dream ends, the special matter that makes up the dream world people create in their heads leaves.

It doesn't vanish. It doesn't stay with the sleeping person. It goes somewhere else.

There was something freaky going on.

I used to be afraid of staying in a dream when it was about to end. I thought when it poofed, I'd poof with it. The curtain falls. The end of me. But I was wrong, yeah, I was really wrong.

I sat around in the dream of my eldest brother, a coward that lived in a artists' commune, as he pondered if it was fair to divvy up the insurance claim money that came with my condition. He did all of this nuanced thinking with interpretative spazzy dance and paint, boring the hell out of me. Probably the reason Julian was the one still kicking.

When his dream ended, him getting woke up by Nurse Clarice, I stayed behind. Curious.

The dream-matter took off but I caught onto it, carried to wherever it went. You see, I had a great revelation. That maybe, just maybe, I could survive McKinney's death. Beyond his very last breath and the moment when his labored heart would beat no more. Call me a fool but I was born to not give any fucks.

And here I was, successfully getting the fuck out of dodge.

I'm not exactly sure how to explain how any of it works or the shit I've seen, treading dream dust to escape my fate. But all dream-matter went to a place I called a realm.

The realm of dreams.

If you're a cocky son of gun, yes, you could use this place to hop into dream worlds and have your way with any dream. But if you're even cockier, you would find that this massive sprawl of dust and matter also leads to other places. Other realms.

Crazy concept, am I right? Of course, I had to try my luck.

I couldn't die twice, could I?

All around me, except for the cliff I'm keeping solid with every concentrated touch, there was truly nothingness. The grand void of blurring, bleeding colors. Despite the realms I've snunk into, the connecting passages never changed; resembling tunnels bleached with neon light and clusters of shifting stars, red giants, duking it out in their reverie.

Misty streams of flickering thoughts and half-wishes whirled around me and my foolishness as they drifted back and fro to their owners, whomever they may be. It was an noisy affair of hasty whispers and random screaming.

Silence didn't exist in the realms of dream.

I heard things I wish I could've ignored. Kept secrets that ate at my insides. Knew terrible stories, shitty stories and heart-breaking stories of anyone whose dream-matter I happened to come across. Everyone wanted to give their despair and joy a soapbox to preach and plead. And what better way could there be if not in a dream?

It just so happened that there were a pair of ears within a bag of opinions to hear each and every last one of them. And my verdict: Mortals were indeed perpetual whiners. It's like a punchline an angel would have made.

I kept up a steady pace, attempting to convince myself to mind my business. And to keep my eyes on my feet. In the realms of dreams, something I called universally the Hereafter, it was important to know where you walked. As long as you were sure of your footing, the realms wouldn't be able to consume you so easily.

But still, my eyes went to the right and down.

Below me and to the side of mostly nothingness, devil-eyed creatures, that I shouldn't be looking at, were feasting on their latest victim. A odd three-legged thing that had wandered out of the boundary of its dream world and into the Hereafter. It's a lot more common that you think. People walking into the realms and getting a ugly end for their troubles. I'm a special exception as I'm not a dreamer. I am a dream, plain and simple. Not worth tearing to shreds. Most of the the time, anyways.

Anyhow, guardians, those cheap shot bastards, came in many forms.

You only knew them by their red eyes and ragged tiny wings, lifting their slithering scaly bodies as they kept the centers of every realm orderly. These ones were like chimera men, having multiple heads of goats and beasts, scale skin with lizard tails while walking upright like humans on two legs.

The monstrous guardians of this place gnawed and gorged down the dreamer's self-awareness until they became a dazed, transparent husk of a dream self. And then even less than that. I don't think dreamers can feel a thing. There would be more screams and limbs being flung around. Guardians didn't like when their prey moved. You were supposed sit and take it until they were full or they moved on.

They may move in packs and did the whole hunting thing but they never liked sharing. There wasn't a single drop of loyalty amongst them. Sometimes, they even tried to eat each other if they couldn't find anything better. And by sometimes, I really mean all of the time.

The guardians devoured the wavering will left behind and fought over the remains. Then they howled their find to the others, making me flinch as I realized I'd stopped moving down. Caught up in the gory show. I shuddered, envious and limply grasping onto the coarse starry rock. My mouth watered. The guardians always had to be so clean.

Couldn't they have left some scraps behind?

It had been a while since I had a meal. And the dreamer wasn't even human, so it would have been fine if I had gotten to them first and knocked their lights out. If I'd been quicker... I bounced against the cliff-side harsher than before, increasing the distance between each thump. I probably would have been chewed on myself.

I glanced down at my boots, the soles wearing thin and the dream-matter holding the cliff together unraveling the further I went. It seemed I was about done, close to the way out. My left hand went to the rope, tugging on the line before I braced myself and leapt away for the last time. The cliff-side collapsed, crumbling as I fell backwards into the twinkling darkness.

I held onto the rope, a mental manipulation of a endless yard stick and a miss-remembered harness I saw once off the side of a magazine cover. The numbers ran up to the thousands as I spun, bored and not-bored. Then restless and dizzy as I considered the digits the rope showed; 6:51:28 of the way down. Numbers never worked right in this place. Who knows how long I've wandered?

Days. Months. Years.

Of should I think of it, hours. Crueler still, minutes.

“What if I haven't gotten anywhere at all?” A wayward thought sat on my head and chirped, trying to slink itself inside of my skull. “What if this is what I deserved?” I swatted that ugly thought away and didn't miss it, watching the awful question fluttering upwards to be trash to someone else. My own reedy voice repeating it until it flew out of sight.

I continued falling and falling until the void became flat and the flat space that-was-and-always-would-be became something of a door. Silhouettes of eyelids sat along where the door's handle could have been, fickle was any door in a dream, looking like crawling smears of not-darkness and not-light, blinking. The door thought itself clever, opening itself slightly with its large keyhole glowing. Nothing more than tricks.

Dreamers, yeah? The ones who wander out of their own dreams. Most of the protective features of any realm; the guardians, the shifting landscape, unexplained logic. They were built for the sole purpose of putting dreamers back into their worlds. Yes, the Hereafter follows a type of logic to counteract any dream-induced logic that any dreamers might follow.

Of course, I don't know why. It's just something I've noticed, using any free-ranged dreamer as a guinea pig when I came across something I couldn't figure out right away.

For example, that door. I've watched dreamers try all sorts of methods of trying to get through. From turning into a key, shrinking small to run underneath the door to even cutting through all of the bullshit and simply growing large enough to use the door handle. None of them ever worked.

I merely imagined that I should be on the other side. And so, I was.

What was left of my boots turned into glittery ash as my feet made contact with the ground of this new realm. I used to have something of a number system, categorizing the types of dream-matter and dreamers that populated the place. I stopped counting somewhere between Realm 162, the skulking six-arm beast lords, and Realm 286, the mutated flora people born from cosmic radiation. You see, every time I kept count of an even numbered realm, I tended to loop back to them like an idiot.

This new realm, it was going for the dark and stormy night theme. I couldn't help but shiver a little.

Clouds cascaded from the star-lit sky, making a path for my bare feet to tread. The soft drizzle of rain poured upwards, splatting on the empty horizon. Fragments of the daily lives of the people here floated aimlessly. I saw carts, castles and even thatched two-story huts drifting up and down as they were formed and then dissembled by the dream-matter.

But the most eeriest thing about this place was the fact that it was so still. I brought a hand to my ear and took a moment to listen. It was quiet, echoing the sleepy murmurs of the dreaming folk but little else. I decided that I needed to investigate.

This couldn't be the type of opportunity that I was thinking of, could it?

I stole a cloud, using what was left of my reserves to bring it under my control. God, I really needed something to eat. Then flew up, flying through the sky, ripples distorting the image of a night sky. I wounded up in a complete duplicate of the same place, only a single shade off. The pitch black night now a deep navy blue, the stars replaced with horse muzzles, screaming.

Oh shit, am I actually getting away with this? I need one more test to be sure.

I flew up again, repeating the process. The night sky burned, flames licking the edges of all I could see. The sprawling horizon was bent, crooked as it drooped low as it melted into bluish goo. The realm was alive, shrieks echoing from one corner to the next, crying out because of the intrusion.

I sat back on my cloud, a smile eating half of my face as I waited. Nobody showed up. Not a dream-beast. Not a pack of nightmares. Not even a sentinel, the great warden of any realm. This place was completely unguarded. Ripe for the picking.

Perfect for the, my stomach growled, feasting.

I allowed my form to shift, hands and feet turning into claws. Dense dusk-color fur sprouting on my human skin. I grew wider and taller, a long spiked tail flailing as I outgrew the little cloud. I didn't need it for my plans. My jagged fangs clicked against each other, steaming saliva running down my massive jaw. I looked quite a fright, not at all too shabby for a passable imitation of a dream-beast.

Then I was off, sprinting as my billowy form kept me afloat. The smell of dreamers filled my nostrils as I hunted them down, slipping into their handcrafted dream worlds.

Like a spider to a fly, I stalked them. My paws silent, my teeth sharp.

The first two hardly noticed. Equine creatures caught up in the before-performance jitters of something I couldn't make two tails out of. Roommates. Their dreams resembled each other. They were upset over the same thing. I ripped them to shreds, gorging on their ego and competitive spirit.

The after-taste burned my tongue and I wanted something sweeter to wash it down.

The next four put up a little fight, noticing me before they noticed their missing limb. I grabbed them by their colorful tails and flipped them into the air, gulping their bright bodies down with a single swallow. Their dreams were mixes of romantic confessions and sappy wishes, things they'd never say out loud. I got a buzz after the sixth, wondering how much saccharine fluff I could down before getting drunk.

I yanked a few dreamers out of their dream world, conjuring collars and leases for the group. It would be a while until I found my way to the center of the realm to continue my journey and I like the taste of these six dreamers. I don't know why but they had sugar and spice and everything nice, the dream-matter nibbled off them even changing my fur to a muted rainbow color. Weird.

Then I tugged them along, gnawing on the spare limbs. Hey, they didn't need all four to walk. Sure, I may seem like a relentless beast but I had rules.

No humans.

No children.

No hopes.

I stayed away from those three for an obvious reason. McKinney. My body didn't want or need to be reminded of his current situation so no humans. He remembered every one of his dreamless nights as a child, so no children. And hopes, McKinney was a petty, miserable human. Eating hope-drenched dreams were the equivalent of kicking a puppy and then setting it on fire.

It's best that I stay away from them.

And I'm pretty, pretty sure dreamers can't feel a thing. In fact, they should be grateful that I was the one who ate them and not something real nasty. I'm not the only thing that travels between realms.

With my motley crew of pastel horses, I lazily thought of a flashlight and got a dinky pen light for my trouble. Then with a very necessary eye-roll and deeply sated sigh, I pointed at my feet as I held it in my mouth. Always, in any realm, keep an eye on your feet. Then we traveled, crossing chocolate rivers and fields of grazing apples. No rhyme or reason to any of what we saw.

As we went along, I started to get the munchies again. Once I start eating dreamers, I can't seem to stop until I munch them completely down. It was quite the shame because the whole point of bringing them along was to have emergency and delicious supply. But with so many dreamers to eat, I wouldn't miss these six at all.

I slowed us down and turned my eyes to the winged unicorn, her fur a lavender purple.

She didn't need her wings, did she?

I pulled on her cord, my tongue sliding across my fangs as I got ready to bite. But then the creature planted her hooves down, her head morphing into another of the species. A mane of stars and a unflinching glare greeted me as she morphed the dreamer's form into her own, a towering horse with horn and wings. I stared, my mind grinding to a stop. Dreamers didn't have opened eyes. Dreamers couldn't glare. And dreamers certainly couldn't...

She opened her mouth, her voice booming. "I know what you are and what you have done, accursed dream-eater!"

...Talk. Talking does not happen, but I guess you learn something new.

I can't claim to be a complete expert of the Hereafter, now can I?

Regardless, I smirked, revealing my three sets of pearly whites. "You shouldn't have revealed yourself to me." I cackled, my voice deep and dark. "You reek of the undeniable stench of a dreamer and I do believe that I can and I will eat you. Sweet dreams."

If Gods Can't Bleed, They Should At Least Be Able To Trip

I'm thinking that I should have thought this through.

“Where do you think you can run, fool!”

Attacking something that I had no information on or experience with. That's just asking for a bad time.

“How dare you attack my ponies in their slumber! Is there not an ounce of shame in your body, beast?”

But it feels like I'm winning.

I haven't been completely cooked by her lightning strikes.

"I am the Princess of The Night and you shall know my wraith! I shall strip you bare and make a magnificent robe from your hide."

Yikes. Is it wrong that I've been enjoying our one-sided chat? It's been too long since I've heard words that came from a genuine mouth and been talked to directly. Hell, she was even speaking English. The Hereafter is a small place after all, go figure.

My tail was singed, a single black flame caught on the stub of fur that survived my entire rear end being fried by her magic. I took off like a headless chicken, narrowly avoiding another beam of lightning death by the giant angry lady. Then shifted my form into that of a gray wolf, picking up speed as I dived in and out of dream worlds, trying shake the mare.

There was no time for a quick bite. Only because I wanted to put in a little exercise for the next course.

That righteous winged unicorn was on my heels, a half mile put in by my speed easily matched by her colossal hooves. I swear to god, that wasn't fair. And then she had to cheat, trying to teleport ahead of me. That wasn't going to happen. I've dance with plenty of sentinels that tried to same trick, acting all-seeing and all-powerful. If she thought that sleight of hand was going work, her being the slowest responding sentinel I've ever met, she had another thing coming.

Why couldn't she get the hint? Take a better form to chase me and risk being eaten alive.

What else could she do? She was lucky I hadn't hid in a dream world and waited her out. I could've done that in less than a heartbeat. But I'm a dream that chases thrills, does the impossible and yes, I will dine on that magic horse if it's the last thing I do.

And who would there be to stop me if I took her out and made myself king of the night?

At the slightest flicker of her after-image forming in front of me, I'd pivot on my paws and corkscrew into another direction. Left. Right. Left. Right. Those hooves of hers weren't meant built to outmaneuver a wolf. I cackled, my laughter bubbling out as wolfish yips. Mocking her as I escaped again and again. I even tried my luck, having a quick victory lap around her sequoia tree sized hoof. Daring her to try to squish me and trip in the attempt.

There were so many way to bring that titan down. I just needed to think of the best one.

“It was you, wasn't it!” A blast here, a blast there. Shame she can't hit what she can't see. I'm beginning to think she's not even trying. With a risk to my escape, I had a quick glance back. Interesting. What a money-making sight. “If I only I could prove that my work wasn't...” Hell, she even sounds calmer.

That princess looked distracted, muttering words that blew the hovering clouds away from her over-sized head. Her hooves casually crushing the town around her as she read a floating document. Thank goodness, we left the dreamer in that forest. This was sort of blatant interference that gave dreamers the bright and clever idea to wake up.

The winged unicorn didn't have any sort of scroll with her earlier so I couldn't help but wonder when she got bored with our little song and dance. No wonder her 'I hate you, you intruder' speech sounded so uninspired. She's not giving the whole hundred percent. And you know what, I think I like this chick.

And as if triggered by my praise of slackerism, I heard her growl of anger before I felt it in the earth. The winged unicorn rose onto her hind legs and stomped, the aftershocks throwing everything not nailed down into the air. Then she roasted all that was falling to the ground, her horn obliterating the broken houses and buildings into ash. Thank god, I sunk my paws and claws into a tree when I had the chance. But I knew I couldn't last another one of her slick moves.

No lady, keep your eyes to your important looking work.

Pay no mind to me, I'm just small fry. A piranha the size of a guppy.

I made my way to the edge of the dream and clawed my way out so fast, I knew she had to notice. There was a subtle way of leaving dreams and there was my way, tearing holes into the constructed dream-matter to the point that the dream would drain out in less than a minute. Back out into the realm and skidding on a paved road made out of bunnies, I turned into a pile of harmless rope. Even changed myself green, a calming and totally not suspicious color.

A clap of thunder announced her arrival before the rest of her, teleporting to where she assumed I was. And she was right, I was still here. I couldn't wait to ask her how was the weather up there. I wrapped myself around her back hoof and pulled, imagining that I was as strong as a hurricane drowning a little island in the pacific. My body heaved as I was filled with strength, ready to put this mountain of a mare into the ground.

Prepared to be strung up like a pinata, Princess.

The winged unicorn merely lifted her hind leg and shook me off, flinging my sorry self miles into the air.

Okay, I should have imagined bigger. Grander. You know, sometimes I get a little too full of myself.

Flying through the air like a baseball about to hit a prized vase, I went for a quick save by immediately changing myself into a tiny canary. I have to think. What are horses afraid of in nature...? Snakes! It has to be snakes!

I grew, finally matching the winged unicorn in size as I took the form of a basilisk. My foe didn't not even falter, bowing her head as she charged with her deadly looking horn. I thew myself forward, narrowly avoiding being completely pierced.

Oh god, it burns.

The acid-like shit that spew from the tip of her horn stuck to my scales, eating through my transformation by the second. I quickly wrapped my coils around her body, holding her in place for my next move. Then I sunk my fangs into her furry flank.

At first, it was rather unpleasant. How often does one lick horse hair with a forked tongue? I really couldn't handle the conflicting textures but then I got what I wanted after all. The sweet, sweet meat of dreamer flesh. The winged unicorn, for lack of a better word, roared. Her hell-lit voice rung out, creating a surge of rain and lightning as she flew us into the air.

“You dare try to sample me!”

Too late. I enjoyed the little bite, soaking in the memory and power I stole. I focused onto the guilt, allowing myself to become whatever she feared. The winged unicorn threw me off her, somehow levitating me away in her glow. I'm surprised she didn't take the chance to crush me in her grip. Her mouth moved but it seemed my form had her speechless.

“Luna.” My voice had become that of a chiding woman, a single tone off from disappointment. “It has been a long time since you patrolled our ponies' dreams.” Looks like someone has some issues. “Things have changed since that time you sealed off that plane of yours a thousand years ago. We have experts and doctors to explain things that we couldn't back then.”

"Why can't you accept the help?” I took one step at a time, backpedaling on my four hooves. I don't fight things I can't beat and I did waste my surplus of energy all on the basilisk form. There would be a round two when I could sneak up on her later. I had a feeling we would see each other again.

The winged unicorn shrunk from her mighty height to size matching mine. Her wings clung to her sides and she glared at me before words tumbled out of her mouth.

Oh, how guilty were you, Luna?

“I don't need the help, sister.” She mumbled, her voice flat. “I have everything perfectly under control.”

My memory built body tilted its head, a sigh and then a thin, tight-lipped smile. Smooth, reminds me of my fifth grade teacher. Her sister knew her stuff.

“Ponies have been having more nightmares, reported as horrific terrors, since you've returned to your dream faring duties. For every pony that you reach, ten more suffer throughout the night. And with this dreaming disease that has led to fatal cases, I'm not sure of what to think.”

“How can I relearn what I've have lost if you won't give me the time.” The winged unicorn looked down, a scowl breaking out on her face. Ah, good old family drama. Now only if I could make a quick getaway. “I hate it when you believe you are right!”

Luna went on, ranting. “Everyone must drop what they are doing and hurry to hear out your needs. You act if I haven't dealt with these trifling troubles before.” She scoffed. “Equestria has lived through an age where their dreams were nothing but gurgled memories of their daily lives. Not true dreams. Not real dreams that, require, no, demand you seek answers from your inner self. To do less than that is giving in to the fears.”

“But what does have to do with you? You only deal with ponies during the day.” Luna huffed, her horn alight as she pointed it straight at me. “Forgive me sister, I have no shame in taking my frustrations out on you. And this doesn't mean that I have deep-seated things I need to work out with a specialist. I am perfectly fine, in both mental and physical heath, and I will prove to you that my work in dreams have reason.”

Then strangely, she lowered her horn.

“Now only if I remember to say this during tomorrow's meeting.” She chuckled before blasting me dead in the center, my form poofing. I shook my non-existent fist at her, watching all of my stolen dream-matter go back into the realm. I'd eaten those ponies fair and square, damn it! I closed my non-eyes. The sensation of my being, my purpose disintegrating as I first went blind, then deaf and finally numb.

I'd regenerate at some point, somewhere in this realm but I didn't look forward to the loss of time.

I still have McKinney to think about.

“And let the record show that the time of death was...”

Words went in and out of my head, drowned out by the vertigo I was experiencing. I never exactly enjoyed the regeneration experience for so many reasons I could write a book on. But I was back and ready for round two. Now only if I could get myself a little breakfast.

I felt a weight resting on my chest, warm water soaking through the fabric thrown over me. A sheet, maybe? Then I heard the sobbing, the cries of a woman in pain and along with the half-sniffles from other voices. Her grief-stricken moans poured through my body, shaking the slanted mattress under me. I tried wiggling my toes, couldn't, and got a bed spring creak that was missed by everyone else in the room.

I wondered what kind of dream I found myself in. Most dreams that deal with death tends to be more surreal and revolving around the dreamer in some factor. I didn't usually come back as a person. I tended to be reformed as the closest object near the dreamer like a rock or a tree. Nice things could strike a dreamer down with ease. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about returning as a corpse.

“Magnolia, we have to go. Magnolia! They... They have to take him to the morgue.”

“Get away from me!” The woman still crying shouted, gripping the sheets that I was under. “It's not fair. I shouldn't have to bury my son. Not my golden boy. You can't have him! You won't have him!”

“Magnolia, we talked about this being a possibility.” I didn't know who said it but it seemed he was speaking for the others. The atmosphere changing to that of a grim conclusion. “We knew that there was a chance-”

“Why can't you just shut up? Leave me alone! His body isn't even cold! If you listen,” She rubbed over my front, a few inches of where my heart might have been. “-his heart hasn't stopped. It's still going a-bump a-bump. We can't let them cut him up if his heart is still going.”

“Mother, please.”

There was a strange pressure building in my throat, accompanied by a sharp, darting pain in my skull. I rolled my neck, trying to ignore it. I had to play along. Letting the dreamer act out their morbid fantasy until I could safely get the drop on them. But I couldn't stop these weird impulses running through my veins, things I never felt personally but remembered from McKinney. My left foot itched. My butt was numb. There was a weight on my head that was uncomfortable as gravity kept on reminding me it was there.

My mouth felt dry and stale, no scent or taste waiting on my tongue. I couldn't tell where the dreamer was. I couldn't tell what was up or down. Something was wrong. And why would my insides be squeezing? Wasn't I a dead man? Was this the start of a nightmare for the dreamer, me morphing into some terrifying monster?

The pain increased and with a burst of energy, I bolted upright, the sheet falling off my head. My body groaned, my lips parting as I took in my very first breath of air. Inhale. Exhale. The throbbing pain went away, receding as my lungs went to work filtering the oxygen. Then I opened my eyes, confused with the trouble it took me to move the crusty lids. What the fuck was this?

I turned to the six people in the room, including the aged mare sputtering at the sight of me. They were ponies, no different than the ones I chewed on a while ago. Some had horns, some had wings. A trio wore white coats, their collective faces going white. And the one in a nurse's outfit rushed out the room to call the main doctor. The door slid shut behind her like a gun fired in a street. Everyone was waiting for me to play my part but I didn't give a damn about my lines. Why do I feel so heavy and thick?

I threw a bony arm to my lap and struggled to lift it to my face. My hoof rubbed against the extended muzzle that took up most of the space of my newly acquired face. I tapped at the end of my nose and inhaled, trying to catch the odor of a dreamer.

Nothing too strong but I shouldn't expect much from this form.

The smell of the dreamer was faint, scattered and divided by the ponies still stuck in shell-shock. One of them had to be the dreamer and if not, a little dream-matter was better than none.

I moved my hoof to rest on the mare closest to me, the one who must have been Magnolia. She looked up to me, tears running down her broken face. I leaned closer, our snouts nearly touching before I opened my maw and drained the essence from her form. She crumpled like an unstrung puppet, sliding to the floor with a loud, echoing thud.

It was delicious but oh, how hungry I was for more.