The purple-eyed boy spat out his banana milk when he heard his mother's words.
No. Way.
There was no way she was being serious.
"W—W—What?!" His tongue was practically having an epileptic episode from how much it was trembling.
He sprang to his feet, the milk box flying out of his hand to who knows where. He rushed over to his mother and grabbed her shoulders.
"I heard wrong, right? You didn't actually say you signed me up for THAT, right? It was just an ear/brain glitch on my end, right? Right??"
Treacherous tears began to well up in his eyes. He couldn't help it. The one thing he'd feared the most was about to happen.
Pause.
You see this crybaby over here? His name is Zev. Seventeen. Professional banana milk enjoyer. The family's "black sheep" though he'd often argue on the color choice. "White sheep" feels more natural to him.
So, white sheep Zev has a big problem.
He comes from a long line of elite nightmare crafters. Yes, nightmare crafters in the literal sense.
Zev isn't your average human rando who lives in some obscure neighborhood somewhere on the earth's surface.
No, he's a denizen of Dreamsdale. The Realm of Dreams.
His kind are known as Dreamweavers. Though 'known as' is kind of reaching because mankind has zero knowledge of them. (Not that humans have a lot of otherworld knowledge to begin with.)
When a person falls asleep, their mind slips into a dormant state where it creates stories, images, and feelings which feel real but aren't.
This state is, of course, familiar to everyone (that's not a soul-dead psychopath), regardless of age, class, gender, culture, beliefs, or lifespan.
The dream state.
Everyone experiences it—unless, again, you're an oblivious psychopath.
Throughout the course of evolutionary time, people have always scratched their heads and wondered: where exactly do dreams come from?
Let's briefly turn to science, humanity's coping mechanism for all things supernatural and unexplainable.
An unnamed theory suggests that dreams represent the mind's interpretation of random neural activity during sleep, as if the brain is trying to make sense of internal signals.
Some scientists also propose that dreams may be a way for the brain to simulate potential threats or regulate emotions, allowing us to better handle similar situations in the future.
That sounds about right. If only dreams featuring out-of-the-blue nakedness in school halls weren't a thing.
But hey, science tried its best.
Now for the reveal.
In this funny little story, dreams are manufactured like products. They even come with origin tags attached. 'Made in Dreamsdale.' That part is invisible for plot-related reasons, of course.
Dreamsdale mass produces three flavours of dreams all year round: happy dates, fearsome currants, and lusty peaches.
The titles speak for themselves.
Happy dreams feature the happy things. Promotions. Getting a new job. Finding a lost valued item. Seeing a dead family member again. Soaring high up in the sky like a second-rate bird. And all that jazz.
Nightmares feature those blood-curdling experiences that most people can't even say out loud. Being chased by wild animals. Getting shot. A loved one's death. Peeing and pooping in public spaces. Encountering your freaking doppelganger who's out to kill you. The list spirals on.
And lastly, we have the degenerates' favorite. The erotic dreams. Nocturnal emissions. Nightfalls. Of course, they have a special class of their own. Though some in the fandom might argue that they're very much happy dreams.
Yeah okay, degenerates. That's cool and all but the dreamweavers don't think so.
Speaking of dreamweavers. We have Zev, the milk-loving crybaby who triggered this trip down lore lane.
His family belongs to the Nightmare Faction. His ancestors, his father, his mother, his older brother. They're all A-listers in the industry.
Then there's him… the alien who wants nothing to do with nightmares. He detests them so much, he plans to join the opposite team as soon as he clocks eighteen.
His family never minded his orientation. They gave him the freedom of choice. 'Every dreamweaver has their own calling regardless of their background', is what they said.
But it seemed that was far from what they really thought.
"Zev, darling, now that your father and I have retired, you can't afford to keep your head in the clouds," Alicia said sternly.
She took Zev's trembling hands on her shoulders into her warm ones.
"You're a McTerror. You don't belong among those hillbillies and riffraff that spin tales from rainbows, sunshine, and glitter."
Those two words hit Zev in the chest like fiery darts.
Riffraff? Hillbillies??
Was that how she really felt about the Happydream Faction? Had his mother been a closeted classist this entire time?
"Argh! But mum!" he whined, flailing his arms like a constipated snowman. "Aren't they dreamweavers just like us? Why'd you gotta be classist? The medieval times are gone!"
Alicia sighed, the kind of sigh that smelled like disappointment and expensive rose tea.
"I'm not being classist," she said, her tone radiating surgical indifference. "I'm being practical. Dreamsdale's future isn't in sunshine tales and glitter parties. It's in nightmares. The Otherkin have made that clear."
Ah yes. The Otherkin.
An elite crowd of unknowable entities with a suspicious interest in human vulnerability.
They weren't gods. Or angels. Or aliens. Or investors. They were all of the above and none of the above.
An audience without faces, watching human dreams like livestreams, reacting with digital stickers, ratings, comments, and that one emoji that looked like a frog wearing sunglasses.
Fear sold best.
And Dreamsdale had become their favorite streaming service.
Every dream was broadcasted. Every nightmare was monetized.
A gift shop even existed somewhere in the ether, where the Otherkin flung intangible currency at the best-performing crafters.
Reviews included:
[Painlapain: Absolute cinema. Take all my money right now! Give me more!]
[yummytears456: The trauma felt organic. Especially the part where the man had an emotional meltdown. I could watch it all day.]
[Ieatweeds: LOL peeing in a public scene? You fuxking genius. Subscribed.]
This was the economy Zev was being shoved into.
"I don't care about any of that!" he practically screamed.
Alicia just didn't understand.
Of course she didn't. Unlike him, she had emotional steel in her bloodstream. Which was ironic, considering he was the actual possessor of balls, not her.
Zev didn't just hate nightmares.
He feared them.
And we're talking about the palm sweating, bone creaking, heartbeat spiking, blood curdling, spine freezing kind of fear.
He couldn't even watch horror films without crying on the inside. (Or the outside.)
How was he supposed to create something he was chemically terrified of?
He collapsed to his knees and clung to his mother's dress like a sinking man gripping driftwood.
"Mum, you cannot do this to me!" he sobbed. "If you let them take me, I'll actually die. They'll find my corpse curled up in a fetal position next to a jar of tears."
He was aware of how pathetic he sounded. But this was a code red situation. Decorum had already packed its bags and yeeted itself out the nearest window.
"It's me, mum. Your second favorite son!"
Alicia had only two sons.
"Please! I'll do more chores. I'll stop leaving the toilet seat open. I'll take out the trash before you even ask me to. I'll—I'll…"
He grabbed the nearest straw.
"I'll even quit drinking banana milk! I swear! We'll save millions! Just—please, don't send me there. Anywhere but there."
Alicia smiled gently. The kind of smile you use when euthanizing a childhood pet.
"If it makes you feel any better, we'll visit often. And you can come home for the holidays. It's just one year, Zev. Don't be so melodramatic."
She placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair. It was supposed to be comforting. It felt more like getting pet before slaughter.
"Beloved mother—"
Before he could continue his emotional monologue, the doorbell rang.
They weren't expecting anyone.
"Come in!" Alicia chirped, still locked in Zev's sweaty embrace.
The door creaked open to reveal two burly men in wrinkled uniforms that screamed low-effort authority.
They looked like professional baby candy thieves.
One stepped forward, holding a small glowing tablet.
"We're from Fearcraft Academy," he said in a voice that sounded like it had a criminal record. "Here to notify Applicant Zev McTerror of his acceptance."
Zev made a sound that could only be described as scream-choke-squeak.
Then, as if trying to cosplay joy, the second man whipped out a confetti stick and popped it.
"Congratulations!"
"Oh my days! That's amazing!" Alicia cheered.
"Oh my word! That's terrible!" Zev whimpered.
No. No no no.
He was officially accepted. He was officially doomed.
But there was still hope. No matter how small, flickering, and pathetic.
"Mum, you know how scrawny I am. I'll be the bullies' chew toy by day two. You wouldn't actually send me there knowing that, right?"
His eyes widened. Puppy dog mode: activated.
But Alicia was no stranger to puppy eyes.
She turned to the two men, who were standing awkwardly like NPCs waiting for dialogue.
Then she smiled sweetly.
"My shy boy here would love a personal escort to the academy grounds. Why don't you help him out?"
"With pleasure, madam," said the talkative brute, licking his lips. "We're experts at handling little boys like this."
Zev hadn't even processed the betrayal when two sets of meaty hands grabbed his arms and hoisted him into the air like a screaming sack of potatoes.
He dangled like a rejected chandelier, flailing and yelling profanities that would've made a sailor blink.
"No! Let me go! Mum! Help me! They're taking me away! Argh, I said let go, you imbeciles!"
"Language, sweetie," Alicia cooed. "I'll send your bags over to your dormitory in a few hours. Be a good boy for mummy and don't cause any trouble, okay?"
Zev could barely breathe.
His legs kicked. His arms twisted. His tears betrayed him.
And as the door swung shut behind him, he caught one last glimpse of his mother waving sweetly with that soft death smile.
His scream echoed off the walls as the two men dragged him toward the fear-shaped future he never wanted.