Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
— ✚
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? He's Zev. Sixteen. 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 architects. Yes, nightmare architects 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.
Quick postcard from the city: Dreamsdale is a futuristic megalopolis. Humongous skyscrapers, 24/7 traffic jams, billboards that stream last night's top dreams across seven portals like an interdimensional Netflix.
The sidewalks buzz with existential thrill. Elevators probably giggle. The moon runs on sponsorships. If a place could sell you intergalactic drugs, Dreamsdale would.
Zev's kind are known as Dreamweavers. Though "known" is kind of a stretch since 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 regardless of age, class, gender, culture, beliefs, or lifespan.
The dreaming state.
Throughout the course of evolutionary time, humans have always scratched their heads and wondered: where exactly do dreams come from?
Well, let's turn to science: humanity's coping mechanism for all things supernatural and unexplainable.
A 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. Whatever that means.
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 did its best.
Now for the reveal.
In this funny little story, dreams are mass-produced like factory goods and streamed like influencer content.
Yep. They even come with origin tags attached. 'Made in Dreamsdale.' Though that part is invisible for plot-related reasons.
Dreamsdale isn't just a city; it's a stage, and every Dreamweaver is both a worker and performer.
Three flavours of dreams are churned out all year round: happy dates, fearsome currants, and lusty peaches.
Ahem. The titles speak for themselves.
Happy dreams feature happy concepts. Promotions. Receiving a confession from a crush. Finding a lost item. Seeing a dead family member again. Soaring high up in the sky like a second-rate bird.
Nightmares feature those blood-curdling experiences that most can't even say out loud. Being chased by wild animals. Getting shot. A loved one's death. Encountering your freaking doppelganger who's out to kill you. The list spirals on.
And lastly, we have the degenerates' favorite. The erotic dreams. Of course, they have a special class of their own. Though some in the fandom (aka 'Men of culture') 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 them, we have Zev, the milk-loving white sheep who triggered this trip down lore lane.
His family belongs to the infamous Nightmare Faction. His predecessors, 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 happydream 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 gently pulled her son's trembling hands off her shoulders and held them in her own. Zev felt his thumbs tingle.
"You're a McTerror. You don't belong among those hillbillies and riffraff that spin cheap 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?
"But mum!" he whined, flailing his arms around. "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, rubbing her temples. "I'm being realistic."
"Honey, the future of Dreamsdale doesn't lie in smiles and giggles, or the frantic collision of genitals."
She paused.
"It lies in fear."
Cue thunder. Cue lightning. Cue dramatic violin.
Of course, none of those happened. But Zev felt it.
"Everyone knows that the Otherkin prefer nightmares," she continued with a kind of reverence that made his skin itch. "That's just how it is."
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.
And thanks to their weird tastes, the Dreamweaver economy had gone full influencer mode.
Every dream was broadcasted. Every nightmare was monetized.
Fear sold best.
A gift shop even existed somewhere in the ether, where the Otherkin flung intangible currency at the best-performing crafters.
Some "interesting" instances included:
[Painlapain gifted x10 Scream Pop!]
[Painlapain: Absolute cinema. Take all my money right now! Give me more!]
[yummytears456 reacted with a rare digital sticker!]
[yummytears456: Honestly, the trauma felt so organic. Especially the part where the man had a complete emotional meltdown. I could watch it all day.]
[Ieatweeds subscribed to your channel!]
[Ieatweeds: LOL peeing her pants in a public scene? You fuxking genius. I never clicked the subscribe button so fast.]
Nightmare crafters reigned supreme because mental and emotional unravelling was the top currency.
But that wasn't all.
Some Otherkin had niche interests.
They funded the Happydream Faction, throwing praise and cosmic confetti at dreams filled with puppies, forgiveness, and sudden rainbows.
Others... leaned into lust.
Yes, the Lustdream Faction had its own loyal audience. With very questionable taste. Those viewers left comments that probably violated several laws of morality and hygiene.
But still. They paid.
That's why Dreamsdale kept the factories running. And that's why Alicia had taken things into her own hands.
"I only want two things for you, my sweet boy," she said, her eyes suddenly soft, like gel warming to the touch. "Stability, of course, and a reputation that is completely unblemished. You must rise above the weight of our name, become successful in your own right, and achieve feats that overshadow even your father and me."
Zev was still trying to process everything she just said when the punchline hit:
"I sent in your application to Fearcraft Academy myself."
Her voice was final, leaving no room for argument.
"Unfortunately, the McTerror name is both a blessing and a stain. To truly live free, you need more than comfort... You need validation. Only by conquering the most grueling academy will you earn the kind of reputation that silences the whispers about our lineage. That school is where you'll forge the unblemished legend you deserve."
A whimper escaped Zev's throat like a dying bird choking on feathers.
She was the one who sent in his application to that dreadful academy—not even his dad?
This wasn't just betrayal. This was betrayal with sprinkles.
"But I don't care about any of that!" he practically sobbed.
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 loathe nightmares.
He was terrified of them.
And we're talking about the palm wetting, blood curdling, spine freezing kind of trauma. He couldn't even watch horror films without combusting on the inside. (Or the outside.)
How was he supposed to create and be celebrated for something he was chemically allergic to?
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 begged.
"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 unreasonable 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.
She frowned at his choice of words. "Zev—"
"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. I hate nightmares, Mum... Why can't you just accept that?"
His voice broke pitifully.
Alicia's expression softened, but her resolve didn't waver.
"Sweetheart, there are some responsibilities that are simply out of our control. Duties we cannot run from, no matter how hard we try. You are a McTerror. Nightmares were ingrained in your blood before you even knew what they were. You cannot hate what you are."
Dejected, Zev looked up.
"Where's the freedom in that then? Didn't you say you wanted me to live a stable, independent life? How the heck am I supposed to do that if I'm stuck doing the one thing I despise the most?"
A brief silence fell, the full weight of his despair settling in the room.
Then Alicia smiled, a sad, distant look in her eyes that didn't quite reach her lips.
"Some people," she replied, her voice weak, "have found their greatest purpose doing the one thing they thought they despised. Things change, Zev. People change. All it takes is a little nudge for you to see the opportunities you would have missed if you had remained closed-minded."
She squeezed his shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort but feeling like a seal on his fate.
"If it makes you feel any better, we'll visit often. And you can always come home for the holidays. It's just three years, Zev. You'll survive."
Her tone was light, but the message was absolute: there was no negotiation.
Before Zev could muster another desperate response, the sharp chime of the home communication system cut through the air, signaling that the last moment of his freedom was over.
A maid's polite voice flooded the room:
"Madam, guests have arrived at the front entrance. Shall I let them in?"
"I wonder who they are," Alicia muttered, still locked in Zev's anxious embrace. They weren't expecting anyone.
"Buzz them in," she instructed the auto-system.
For a few tense seconds, mother and son remained frozen, holding their exact positions as they waited patiently for the guests to arrive.
Then, the heavy sound of footsteps approached, and the door creaked open to reveal two burly men in wrinkled uniforms that screamed low-effort authority. They looked exactly like professional baby-candy thieves.
One stepped forward, holding a small glowing tablet.
"Good afternoon. We're from Fearcraft Academy," he announced, tapping the fancy badge on his uniform. "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! Isn't that amazing, darling?! I knew you'd get in!" Alicia cheered, excitement evident in her eyes as she turned to Zev.
'That's not amazing! That's terrible!' Zev whimpered on the inside.
No. No no no.
He was officially accepted. He was officially doomed. But there was still hope! No matter how small, flickering, and pathetic.
"M–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 her son's puppy dog eyes.
She sighed inwardly.
'Zev, more than anything, I'd hate for that man to be right about you. This is the only chance you have to prove him wrong. All you need is a nudge. I'm fine playing the bad guy if it means you'll grow.'
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 second betrayal when two sets of meaty hands grabbed his arms and hoisted him into the air like a screaming sack of potatoes.
He dangled helplessly, 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 bit. 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.
Outside, Dreamsdale's skyline blinked like a thousand ominous eyes, quietly rating his terror out of ten.
► — ✚
[ Lore drop: World Note ]
Contrary to what Zev's melodramatic whining might suggest, Dreamweavers aren't all chained to a desk, making dreamscape streams for the Otherkin.
Like any functioning city (futuristic megalopolis edition), Dreamsdale needs variety.
Someone's gotta sell the food, design the skyline ads, run the streaming portals, sing idol ballads, host late-night comedy shows, and yes, even craft delicious dream-boba.
So not every Dreamweaver is a crafter. Some are entertainers. Some are athletes. Some are cooks. Some are literally the reason your subconscious invented the concept of "cat cafés."
Specialized schools like FCA exist mainly for the Nightmare Faction (and the brave/tragic souls who defect there), but most young Dreamweavers go through "normal" schools first.
Though their syllabus depends on faction culture: Happydream kids grow up in rainbow-lit prep schools, Lustdream heirs might attend academies with a genital or two in their brochures, and Nightmare children... well, they get schools like Fearcraft Academy.
So, yeah. Zev could've been an idol. Or a food vlogger. Or a professional banana milk taster. But nope. Mama McTerror decided to drop him in FCA's fear-shaped blender~