1943 — Brooklyn, New York
The night air over Brooklyn was thick with the scent of coal smoke and warm bread. Beneath the dim glow of streetlamps, boys in threadbare coats ran between alleyways shouting headlines about war and heroism. Posters plastered to brick walls called young men to enlist—"Do Your Part!"—their colors faded by rain and time.
Dream walked among them unseen, his boots leaving no mark on the pavement. Humanity had changed since he last watched them—fierce, desperate, and endlessly stubborn. He had witnessed empires rise and crumble, kings and gods trading power like gamblers' chips. But these mortals—fragile, flawed, defiant—were building legends out of hope itself.
And tonight, one legend was about to begin.
He followed the dream of a small man with a soldier's heart.
Steve Rogers sat alone outside a recruitment office, his rejection slip crumpled in his fist. The words "4-F" mocked him in the pale glow of a streetlight. Around him, the world kept moving—men in uniform laughing, a girl waving goodbye, a mother crying quietly into her scarf. Steve said nothing. He only stared at the paper, jaw tight, as if willing it to change.
Dream knelt beside him, invisible, watching the fire behind the man's blue eyes. It wasn't rage. It was conviction—the kind of quiet defiance Dream had only ever seen in the hearts of gods and fools.
"You can't fight the tide," Dream murmured, voice like a breath of wind through the alley. "Yet you still try."
Steve didn't hear him, but his shoulders squared. Somewhere deep in his heart, a voice—his own or something older—answered, "Then I'll drown standing."
Dream smiled. Humanity was beautiful in its defiance.
⸻
Days passed. Dream drifted through Brooklyn's tenements, through the sleeping minds of those who prayed for victory or vengeance. He felt their dreams: mothers imagining sons coming home, children pretending to be soldiers, and lovers waiting beside windows that looked out over the river. Each dream was a fragile candle against the dark.
He could have left—there were other worlds, other lives—but something in this era called to him. The dreams of men like Steve Rogers were reshaping the collective unconscious. From them, myths would grow.
And when the experiment began—when Dr. Erskine's lab filled with soldiers and nervous scientists—Dream was there.
The serum chamber gleamed beneath sterile lights. Steve lay inside, fragile body trembling, determination unbroken. Outside the glass, Erskine adjusted dials with trembling hands. Peggy Carter stood still, her eyes unreadable but proud. Howard Stark quipped nervously, but his hands betrayed the tension he hid.
Dream watched them all. Each one carried a fragment of the greater dream—belief in a better tomorrow, belief in their own defiance of fate.
When the machine roared to life, the dreams of everyone in the room converged into a single heartbeat.
Light erupted, gold and violent. Screams. Heat. The air shimmered. Dream felt something vast stir in the Dreaming—the mortal world's collective consciousness trembling as one.
When the light died, the chamber door opened, and Steve Rogers stepped out, breathless and reborn.
He was not a god, but humanity would make him one.
Around him, the scientists gaped. Stark muttered something about perfection. Peggy took one step forward and stopped, staring like she was seeing the impossible. In the corners of their minds, Dream felt it—the ripple of awe, the realization that they had done it. That man could make a miracle.
And Dream… smiled.
"A dream made flesh," he whispered. "You have taken my realm and shaped it with your hands."
Then came the gunfire. Chaos. The spy, the chase through the streets, the grenade that would never detonate because one man dove upon it first. Dream followed silently, watching Steve sprint through the alleyways barefoot, determination burning like a nova.
This was not the dream of conquest. This was the dream of sacrifice.
And for the first time in an age, Dream felt pride. Not for himself—but for them.
⸻
Later, as night settled over Brooklyn once more, Dream stood upon a rooftop overlooking the river. The water caught the light of distant ships like scattered stars.
Death appeared beside him, her presence soft as the wind. She wore mortal guise tonight—dark hair, a simple dress, and the faint smile that could calm even the end of all things.
"Watching your favorites again?" she teased gently.
Dream didn't answer right away. His gaze remained on the street below, where Steve Rogers walked beside Peggy Carter. They didn't know it yet, but their dreams were already being written into history.
"They dream louder than most," he said finally. "Louder than kings. Louder than gods. It's… beautiful."
Death tilted her head, studying him. "You're attached."
"Perhaps."
"You always said attachment is dangerous."
Dream smiled faintly. "So is hope."
They stood together in silence. Around them, Brooklyn breathed—cars rumbling, couples arguing, radios murmuring war reports. And beneath all that noise, Dream could hear the heartbeat of humanity, fragile but unyielding.
Death leaned against him slightly. "They remind you of yourself," she said softly. "You tried to fix a universe once with your dreams."
He didn't deny it. "Maybe they'll do better."
She laughed quietly, the sound like bells carried by wind. "Ever the optimist, my gloomy lord."
"Not optimism," he said, eyes fixed on the horizon where dawn began to rise. "Faith."
⸻
In the days that followed, Dream wandered through the minds of those inspired by the legend beginning to form. The children of Brooklyn dreamed of wearing the same shield. The soldiers at the front dreamed of the man who could not be broken. Even those who doubted began to dream again.
He did not alter their dreams. He only watched—and, when he could, nudged their nightmares away.
Every legend needed a spark. Every world needed a dream worth fighting for.
And as Steve Rogers began his journey from man to myth, Dream smiled and whispered into the night:
"Go, little soldier. Carry their hopes. Carry mine."
The dawn broke over the city, and for the first time since the stars were young, Dream felt something close to belonging.