1943 — Washington, D.C.
The applause came first—loud, hollow, endless.
Dream stood at the back of the theater, unseen, as the curtain fell on another performance.
On stage, Steve Rogers stood in the glare of a dozen spotlights, sweat running down his neck beneath the painted blue of his new uniform. He raised the shield awkwardly, forcing a smile while the crowd—civilians and soldiers alike—cheered the name they had given him.
"Ladies and gentlemen—Captain America!"
Streamers fell like rain. The band struck up its familiar tune. Behind Steve, dancers in sequined stars and stripes kicked in perfect time, their laughter a bright veneer over a darker world.
Dream's eyes moved from the stage to the audience. Rows upon rows of faces—mothers, children, soldiers on leave—smiling, laughing, clapping. But behind every grin, he could see the dream forming. The idea.
They didn't see a man. They saw hope wearing a flag.
And hope, he thought, was the most dangerous dream of all.
⸻
Hours later, the train rattled east toward another city, carrying crates of costumes, prop shields, and a single exhausted soldier.
Steve Rogers sat alone near the back, half-asleep, still in his uniform. The hum of the tracks lulled him under, and soon the rhythm became softer, slower—like a heartbeat.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't on the train anymore.
He stood in Brooklyn. Or at least, a version of it—half lit by sunset, half lost to shadow. Storefronts blurred and rippled like reflections in water. A paperboy's voice echoed faintly through the haze, calling out headlines from a war that hadn't yet ended.
Steve turned slowly. "This… isn't real."
"Real enough," came a calm voice behind him.
Dream stepped from the mist, tall, lean, draped in a coat that moved like smoke. His eyes held a glint of starlight, the kind that lived between seconds and thoughts.
"Where am I?" Steve asked, instinctively reaching for a shield that wasn't there.
"In a place between waking and memory," Dream said. "You know it as sleep. I know it as home."
Steve frowned. "You talk like one of those old stories."
"Perhaps I am one," Dream replied. "Or perhaps the stories remember me."
Steve took a breath, looking around. The streets shimmered like watercolors. The posters in the windows bore his face—the same painted grin, the same raised shield. "This is… what people see when they look at me."
Dream nodded. "They see the dream. Not the man."
Steve's voice was tight. "They cheer for something I didn't earn."
"You earned the dream," said Dream softly. "They gave it a name."
Steve looked down at his gloved hands. "I didn't choose it."
"Names rarely belong to those who bear them," Dream said, stepping closer. "They belong to those who need them."
The wind picked up. In its wake, the streets changed—Brooklyn fading into a battlefield. Sandbags and trenches, the smell of gunpowder, the faint cry of distant orders. Steve's reflection stared back at him from a broken pane of glass—helmeted, proud, immortalized.
Steve shook his head. "That's not me."
Dream tilted his head. "Then tell me who is."
"The kid from Brooklyn," Steve said. "Who just wanted to do what was right."
"Then that is what they dream of," Dream answered. "Not perfection. Not strength. The will to stand when others fall."
Steve turned away, jaw tight. "You make it sound easy."
"It never is," Dream said. "Dreams are burdens, not gifts."
There was silence. Only the wind and the faint, rhythmic pulse of distant drums—the heartbeat of a nation, the sound of faith pretending to be certainty.
Steve looked back at him. "You said this place was your home. Why show me this?"
Dream's gaze softened, though his face remained unreadable. "Because what you are becoming will shape more than a war. Mortals dream of symbols. Symbols endure. And endurance, Captain, is my domain."
Steve blinked, the title hanging in the air like a weight. "I didn't tell you my name."
Dream gave the smallest smile. "You didn't have to."
The dream began to fade—the trenches dissolving, the smoke thinning until only Brooklyn remained. The sunset bled into morning light.
Steve's voice came quiet, uncertain. "Will I see you again?"
Dream's expression was distant, but his tone was almost kind. "In every dream where hope refuses to die."
Then the world dissolved.
⸻
Steve woke with a start, the train whistle cutting through dawn. The city stretched before him, wrapped in gold. For a moment, he could almost still hear that voice—the echo of a truth too large for one man to hold.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. Maybe it had been a dream. Or maybe it had been something else entirely.
Outside the window, a child waved a newspaper. On its front page was a photo of Steve—smiling, shield raised, the caption bold and proud:
"They Call Him Captain America."
Dream watched from afar, standing at the edge of the sleeping world, the wind tugging gently at his coat. The name carried across time and thought like a prayer.
"Then that," he murmured, "is what he shall be."
⸻
That night, the Dreaming pulsed with a thousand new visions—posters, hopes, whispers of courage drawn from one man's quiet refusal to give up.
Dream felt them all.
He smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "Perhaps," he said to the stars, "you mortals no longer need us at all."
And yet, somewhere deep in the sleeping hearts of humankind, he heard it again—the faint echo of Steve Rogers' voice, refusing surrender.
Dream's smile widened. "No," he whispered. "You still dream."