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DeviantArt description below:\n\n[q]WARNING: This story contains violence, blood, gore, and foul language.\n\nNOTE: While taking place in the Dreamkeepers universe, this story contains minimal spoilers. However, knowledge of the Dreamkeepers universe is required to properly understand the story. It is highly recommended that you at least read the publicly released pages of the Graphic Novel Saga before reading this story.\n\nThis is my first publicly released piece of fiction and my first entry into the 2017 Dreamkeepers Halloween Fanart Contest.\n\nIn this narrative I attempt to explore a part of the Dreamkeepers universe that has yet to be touched upon in the canon material: the human world.\nThe premise: A young human soldier in a time and place unknown to us is confronted by an ancient evil after investigating the mysterious suicide of a young girl.\n\nWhile I have written short stories before, they have been exclusively for school assignments or my own amusement; this will be the first time I present fiction to a public audience. This will also be my first submission on the internet in general. Thus, please forgive any mistakes I make in submitting this story and any constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated. In particular, I want to see how well I am conveying my ideas. While the person who proofread this story is a great fan of written fiction, she has never read Dreamkeepers, so I had to explain the relevant lore so she could understand the story. Therefore, I am interested in seeing what other Dreamkeepers fans think of my story--if you could, please write a comment detailing what you think is going on in my story and what you think I am getting at. This will let me know how well I am getting my ideas across and help me improve my writing skills.\n\nDISCLAIMERS: This a fanfiction--the Dreamkeeprs universe is owned by Dave & Liz Lillie, not me. Also, being a relatively new fan to the Dreamkeepers series, I may have missed canon material that has already addressed the nature of the human world in Dreamkeepers. If this is so, I apologize in advance for any contradictions to the canon in this story. In addition, if someone else has already addressed this subject in previous works of fanfiction, I assure you that any parallels are coincidental--it is not my intention to steal other people's ideas.\n\nFinal note: I hate word limits.[/q]\n\nDreamkeepers owned by @Dreamkeepers.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Originally posted on DeviantArt on October 24, 2017.  DeviantArt description below:

\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
"\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tWARNING:  This story contains violence, blood, gore, and foul language.

NOTE:  While taking place in the Dreamkeepers universe, this story contains minimal spoilers.  However, knowledge of the Dreamkeepers universe is required to properly understand the story.  It is highly recommended that you at least read the publicly released pages of the Graphic Novel Saga before reading this story.

This is my first publicly released piece of fiction and my first entry into the 2017 Dreamkeepers Halloween Fanart Contest.

In this narrative I attempt to explore a part of the Dreamkeepers universe that has yet to be touched upon in the canon material:  the human world.
The premise:  A young human soldier in a time and place unknown to us is confronted by an ancient evil after investigating the mysterious suicide of a young girl.

While I have written short stories before, they have been exclusively for school assignments or my own amusement; this will be the first time I present fiction to a public audience.  This will also be my first submission on the internet in general.  Thus, please forgive any mistakes I make in submitting this story and any constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated.  In particular, I want to see how well I am conveying my ideas.  While the person who proofread this story is a great fan of written fiction, she has never read Dreamkeepers, so I had to explain the relevant lore so she could understand the story.  Therefore, I am interested in seeing what other Dreamkeepers fans think of my story--if you could, please write a comment detailing what you think is going on in my story and what you think I am getting at.  This will let me know how well I am getting my ideas across and help me improve my writing skills.

DISCLAIMERS:  This a fanfiction--the Dreamkeeprs universe is owned by Dave & Liz Lillie, not me.  Also, being a relatively new fan to the Dreamkeepers series, I may have missed canon material that has already addressed the nature of the human world in Dreamkeepers.  If this is so, I apologize in advance for any contradictions to the canon in this story.  In addition, if someone else has already addressed this subject in previous works of fanfiction, I assure you that any parallels are coincidental--it is not my intention to steal other people's ideas.

Final note:  I hate word limits.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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Dreamkeepers owned by \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tDreamkeepers\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t		\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tDreamkeepers\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
.", "writing": "[b]Upside Down[/b]\n\nThe monster wearing the face of Mr. Pasters screeched, the reverberations tearing through Conor’s head as though living nails were burrowing through his skull and into his brain.\n\nIt did not diminish the grim pleasure of seeing the miniature sun bathe the creature in hues of blue while its flesh briefly burned red—then white—before disintegrating into a flurry of sparks that danced upon the walls, cooling to dull orange embers before extinguishing themselves.\n\nDepleted uranium slugs with magnetic cores, slung forth by sequentially activated coils in a cloud of super-heated plasma—Castor rounds could carry the plasma no more than 100 meters as the intense heat melted down the bullet into a blob of liquid metal that eventually disperses and evaporates, leaving the plasma at the mercy of atmospheric “blooming,” the once deadly nebula diffusing into the surrounding air. The effective range pales in comparison to the average coilgun’s 700 meters, but no one doubts its unrivalled armor penetration or the ability to leave a target screaming in agony from third-degree burns.\n\nAt a range of only about 10 meters, the weapon would have over-penetrated, leaving a nicely-cauterized hole in the creature, but little else—and it seemed to absorb bullets with disturbing glee.\n\nSo Conor had overcharged the Castor’s capacitors, heating the stored plasma well beyond the recommended safe operating temperature as outlined in the Peacekeeper Weapons Manual. The slug was already melting in the chamber, exiting in a spray of molten metal as a glob of blindingly bright-orange light trailing a nimbus of white-blue that sailed right into Mr. Paster’s face.\n\nHe could already see that it wasn’t enough.\n\nWarped, black, human flesh burst into stars as surrounding skin cooked, hardened, and sloughed off. Beneath lay ribbons of nauseating reds, yellows, and greens, undulating into tendrils and clawed hands that burst forth to take revenge for the destruction of their disguise.\n\n He had already anticipated that the creature would survive the blast.\n\nThe now-useless smoking hulk of the Castor was thrown at the still-human feet of the monster, causing it to stumble, one of the larger appendages snapping forward to keep it upright. Conor drew his Devon—a conventional, one-handed, chemical-based slug-thrower—and took advantage of the delay to backpedal past the elevator door, aiming for the zero button on the console with his DID card in hand.\n\nAs the doors closed, Mr. Paster’s right eye suddenly swelled and burst like a grotesque balloon, a single needle-thin black tendril shooting forward at impossible speed.\n\nConor quickly thumbed the emergency shut button and shoved off, falling to the floor and bashing his head against the wall.\n\nAnother screech slithered between the doors just before they slammed shut, cutting off both the wail and the tendril with a snap not unlike that of a pencil.\n\nThe tendril was buried in the opposite wall, above him, rigid and lifeless.\n\nHis breath escaped as he collapsed against the wall, one hand reaching up to nurse the bump emerging at the back of his skull.\n\nHis eyes were drawn upwards to the single bulb above, encased within beautiful stained glass bearing a stylistic rendering of the Twin Towers that sit at the center of the grand city of America—the very towers where evil itself had arisen before his eyes—and he wept.\n\n*******\n\n“Cono-ooo-rrrr… Long time, no see…”\n\nConor was secretly glad that Sean didn’t open the conversation with a punch to the stomach.\n\n“So glad you could take some time out of your busy schedule to grace us poor orphans with your presence.”\n\nHe shifted uncomfortably in his armor, perspiration running down his back in little rivulets, and braced for impact.\n\n“Sean, I—“\n\n“The fuck, James?”\n\nConor winced.\n\nOverhead the sun beat unceasingly upon Manter’s Docks, a repair and refit yard for sea-vessels, one of the best, if not the largest. An ironclad—the AXS Appalachia—was currently being refitted; a special order by the Expeditionary Committee for a long-term voyage into uncharted waters to the south. Electricians, welders, engineers, and various assistants crawled all over the gleaming silver hulk, working overtime to meet the contract deadline.\n\nConor spied the owner, Manter Furrlow, bitching out a couple of familiar faces. It was still startling to see the burly man sober, though his aggressive mannerisms and almost unintelligible speech still meshed neatly with his childhood memories.\n\nA couple of years ago, Manter’s Docks used to be Manter’s Orphanage, a run-down abomination of rickety plank platforms erected around Manter’s old sailing ship, where many an orphan slaved away to support a cheap fishing business.\n\nOver three years ago, Conor used to live here with Sean.\n\nConor eyed Sean apprehensively, still wary of a sudden jab to the gut—it wouldn’t be out of character for him to reach for a welding torch either.\n\nInstead, seeing that Conor was out of range, the tanned, wiry youth continued to murder an armor plate with a rivet gun (no less deadly than the torch—Conor kept his distance).\n\nHe raised his hand as if to ward off a potential attack.\n\n“I couldn’t just let it—“\n\nClang.\n\nConor started as the plate was slammed into the table.\n\n“Yes, you could! It’s not your problem! You should’ve been here, for her…”\n\nSean sighed and set the rivet gun down. He turned to Conor, gloved hands on his hips.\n\n“Dammit, Conor. I… sorry. I wasn’t there to see it, so how could I understand what’s goin’ through your head? I mean, why would that girl just… jump, right in front of you. I guess you’re thinkin’ that if you could at least figure out the why, you could bring her parents some peace. Right?”\n\nNot entirely correct, but glad for the reprieve, he nodded anyway.\n\n“And then, I mean, right after, Hayfa…”\n\nConor’s fingers reflexively curled into fists. The name stung, reminding him of his guilt.\n\nSean sighed, closing his eyes.\n\n“You could have at least tried to be at her funeral.”\n\nWhy did he have to remember now? Hayfa hanging on his arm, Sean and Keiran dueling with sticks, and Whip—\n\nWhip?\n\nNo—there was no other.\n\nConor forced himself to relax.\n\n“I know. I’m sorry.”\n\nSean scrutinized him for a moment.\n\n“Well, just because I understand, doesn’t mean Keiran will.”\n\nConor looked upwards to a small boy in a work harness suspended from the scaffolding, sealing a joint with a welding torch.\n\n“Could you—?”\n\nSean cut him off with a quick jab to the gut.\n\n“No, Conor. You’ll have to talk to him yourself.”\n\nThank God for armor, otherwise he would’ve been on his knees. Instead he only flinched. He almost smiled.\n\nBut… No, it was far from over. And he doesn’t think he could bear to face Mace now, with no answers to give.\n\nHow could he tell him that the girl knew what would happen to Paige? That if he believed her, then Paige might still be alive?\n\nThat it was his fault.\n\n“Sean, I can’t—“\n\nSean reached for the torch.\n\n“Hear me out, Sean.”\n\nHe stopped mid-motion.\n\n“I still have to check something out. Just tell Mace that—“\n\n“Who?”\n\nConor froze.\n\nMemories and old dreams bubbled to the surface, threatening to drown him; he struggled to control his breathing.\n\n“Listen, Sean, I have to go—I’ll call you later, okay?”\n\nConor turned to leave.\n\n“What the fuck is going on, Conor!?” Sean called after him.\n\n“Later, Sean!”\n\nHe walked out as fast as he could, resisting the temptation to run.\n\nIt felt like a ghost was at his heels.\n\n*******\n\n“Mr. Pasters?”\n\nBeyond the grand windows, far above the clouds and the lights of the city, billions of stars twinkled and delivered their brilliance into the Archive lobby unhindered.\n\nAn aging, dark-skinned man garbed in robes of velvet and sapphire raised his bespectacled eyes from the digipad propped upon the desk.\n\n“Yes… and who might you be?”\n\nConor took off his helmet and placed it underneath his right arm.\n\n“Corporal Conor James, sir. We talked on the comm.”\n\nThe man peered at the rifle slung over Conor’s back and the gun in his holster.\n\n“You dare bring weapons into a place of learning?”\n\n“Sir, I am required to be armed at all times and am authorized to carry them anywhere inside the Towers.”\n\nMr. Pasters raised an eyebrow.\n\n“Really? And that includes bringing a MA-42 Castor anti-armor rifle? Overkill, wouldn’t you agree?”\n\nConor was taken aback and lost a bit of his composure.\n\n“Sir—?”\n\nThe librarian extended his arms outward and waved them at the numerous tomes that lay upon the shelves surrounding him.\n\n“I am an avid consumer and preserver of knowledge, be it the chronicling of the First War of Kings or the weaponry used by our Peacekeepers.”\n\nHe lowered his arms and folded his hands beneath his robes.\n\n“This includes knowing that you are not a Peacekeeper, but a Wall Patrol Officer, and that carrying anything larger than a sidearm requires special permission from the Twin Tower Security Authority.”\n\n“Sir, I—“\n\n“You are here about ‘Dream Sickness,’ no? The ancient myth concerning nightmarish beings from another world that stole the bodies of humans using their dreams as a bridge? What might have actually been a plague, wildly theorized to be responsible for the Silent Centuries? A fairy tale that, for some insane reason, you not only believe has some merit, but also connected to that terrible incident on the Wall?”\n\nConor shifted uncomfortably.\n\n“I guess I’m becoming pretty famous.”\n\nThe old man smiled.\n\n“Indeed you are.”\n\nHe reached down and retrieved a key card from the desk.\n\n“Come, young man.”\n\nConor stared in bewilderment.\n\n“Excuse me?”\n\n“You desire answers, a reason for what happened to that poor young woman.”\n\n“I—“\n\nHe held up the card, shushing him.\n\n“I don’t know how you came to conclude that a mythological disease had anything to do with that terrible event, but if it will put your mind at ease, I have a few writings on the subject that you could look at. But I must warn you, they hold no answers for you.”\n\nConor bowed his head.\n\n“Thank you, sir. This means a lot, even if you don’t believe me.”\n\nThe librarian’s smile grew wider. Almost impossibly wide.\n\n“Oh, dear boy. Quite the contrary.”\n\n*******\n\n\n“I GUNNA SMASH YOUS!!!”\n\nThe children screamed in terror as their caretaker thumped across the planks in a rage, the remnants of Sasuke’s latest prank plastered all over his face.\n\nDespite his bulk and drunken gait, every orphan at Manter’s knew full well his aptitude for tracking down and catching his unruly charges—then beating them to a pulp.\n\nSean observed this with boredom; it has been a regular tradition at the orphanage for as long as he could remember and unlikely to ever change. \n\nHe sat down on a piece of driftwood, next to his 11-year-old companion, who was sketching on his pad.\n\nLooking over, he could see the rough pencil lines beginning to take on the image of a boy in a torn shirt and pants, no different than any of the other orphans, but sporting tall tufted ears and a long, thin tail.\n\nConor had been drawing this ‘cat-boy’ for a while now. Sean didn’t get why he was so obsessed. \n\nNormally didn’t care much either, but what else is there to do on this stupid beach?\n\n“Hey, Conor. Who’s he?”\n\nConor did not look up.\n\n“My… friend.”\n\n“Friend?”\n\n“Friend.”\n\nWhat a stimulating conversation.\n\n“Like, what? Imaginary friend?”\n\nConor’s brow furrowed.\n\n“Not really. I see him in my dreams.”\n\n“Huh.”\n\n“He comes from the upside down.”\n\nNow that sounded even more stupid. Not even gonna bother asking.\n\n“Does he have a name?”\n\nAbruptly Conor looked up at Sean, bewildered.\n\n“Of course he does.”\n\nSean rolled his eyes.\n\n“Then what is his name, doofus?”\n\nConor replied in a tone suggesting that the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.\n\n“Bobby, of course.”\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Upside Down

The monster wearing the face of Mr. Pasters screeched, the reverberations tearing through Conor’s head as though living nails were burrowing through his skull and into his brain.

It did not diminish the grim pleasure of seeing the miniature sun bathe the creature in hues of blue while its flesh briefly burned red—then white—before disintegrating into a flurry of sparks that danced upon the walls, cooling to dull orange embers before extinguishing themselves.

Depleted uranium slugs with magnetic cores, slung forth by sequentially activated coils in a cloud of super-heated plasma—Castor rounds could carry the plasma no more than 100 meters as the intense heat melted down the bullet into a blob of liquid metal that eventually disperses and evaporates, leaving the plasma at the mercy of atmospheric “blooming,” the once deadly nebula diffusing into the surrounding air.  The effective range pales in comparison to the average coilgun’s 700 meters, but no one doubts its unrivalled armor penetration or the ability to leave a target screaming in agony from third-degree burns.

At a range of only about 10 meters, the weapon would have over-penetrated, leaving a nicely-cauterized hole in the creature, but little else—and it seemed to absorb bullets with disturbing glee.

So Conor had overcharged the Castor’s capacitors, heating the stored plasma well beyond the recommended safe operating temperature as outlined in the Peacekeeper Weapons Manual.  The slug was already melting in the chamber, exiting in a spray of molten metal as a glob of blindingly bright-orange light trailing a nimbus of white-blue that sailed right into Mr. Paster’s face.

He could already see that it wasn’t enough.

Warped, black, human flesh burst into stars as surrounding skin cooked, hardened, and sloughed off.  Beneath lay ribbons of nauseating reds, yellows, and greens, undulating into tendrils and clawed hands that burst forth to take revenge for the destruction of their disguise.

 He had already anticipated that the creature would survive the blast.

The now-useless smoking hulk of the Castor was thrown at the still-human feet of the monster, causing it to stumble, one of the larger appendages snapping forward to keep it upright.  Conor drew his Devon—a conventional, one-handed, chemical-based slug-thrower—and took advantage of the delay to backpedal past the elevator door, aiming for the zero button on the console with his DID card in hand.

As the doors closed, Mr. Paster’s right eye suddenly swelled and burst like a grotesque balloon, a single needle-thin black tendril shooting forward at impossible speed.

Conor quickly thumbed the emergency shut button and shoved off, falling to the floor and bashing his head against the wall.

Another screech slithered between the doors just before they slammed shut, cutting off both the wail and the tendril with a snap not unlike that of a pencil.

The tendril was buried in the opposite wall, above him, rigid and lifeless.

His breath escaped as he collapsed against the wall, one hand reaching up to nurse the bump emerging at the back of his skull.

His eyes were drawn upwards to the single bulb above, encased within beautiful stained glass bearing a stylistic rendering of the Twin Towers that sit at the center of the grand city of America—the very towers where evil itself had arisen before his eyes—and he wept.

*******

“Cono-ooo-rrrr… Long time, no see…”

Conor was secretly glad that Sean didn’t open the conversation with a punch to the stomach.

“So glad you could take some time out of your busy schedule to grace us poor orphans with your presence.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his armor, perspiration running down his back in little rivulets, and braced for impact.

“Sean, I—“

“The fuck, James?”

Conor winced.

Overhead the sun beat unceasingly upon Manter’s Docks, a repair and refit yard for sea-vessels, one of the best, if not the largest.  An ironclad—the AXS Appalachia—was currently being refitted; a special order by the Expeditionary Committee for a long-term voyage into uncharted waters to the south.  Electricians, welders, engineers, and various assistants crawled all over the gleaming silver hulk, working overtime to meet the contract deadline.

Conor spied the owner, Manter Furrlow, bitching out a couple of familiar faces.  It was still startling to see the burly man sober, though his aggressive mannerisms and almost unintelligible speech still meshed neatly with his childhood memories.

A couple of years ago, Manter’s Docks used to be Manter’s Orphanage, a run-down abomination of rickety plank platforms erected around Manter’s old sailing ship, where many an orphan slaved away to support a cheap fishing business.

Over three years ago, Conor used to live here with Sean.

Conor eyed Sean apprehensively, still wary of a sudden jab to the gut—it wouldn’t be out of character for him to reach for a welding torch either.

Instead, seeing that Conor was out of range, the tanned, wiry youth continued to murder an armor plate with a rivet gun (no less deadly than the torch—Conor kept his distance).

He raised his hand as if to ward off a potential attack.

“I couldn’t just let it—“

Clang.

Conor started as the plate was slammed into the table.

“Yes, you could!  It’s not your problem!  You should’ve been here, for her…”

Sean sighed and set the rivet gun down.  He turned to Conor, gloved hands on his hips.

“Dammit, Conor.  I… sorry.  I wasn’t there to see it, so how could I understand what’s goin’ through your head?  I mean, why would that girl just… jump, right in front of you.  I guess you’re thinkin’ that if you could at least figure out the why, you could bring her parents some peace.  Right?”

Not entirely correct, but glad for the reprieve, he nodded anyway.

“And then, I mean, right after, Hayfa…”

Conor’s fingers reflexively curled into fists.  The name stung, reminding him of his guilt.

Sean sighed, closing his eyes.

“You could have at least tried to be at her funeral.”

Why did he have to remember now? Hayfa hanging on his arm, Sean and Keiran dueling with sticks, and Whip—

Whip?

No—there was no other.

Conor forced himself to relax.

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

Sean scrutinized him for a moment.

“Well, just because I understand, doesn’t mean Keiran will.”

Conor looked upwards to a small boy in a work harness suspended from the scaffolding, sealing a joint with a welding torch.

“Could you—?”

Sean cut him off with a quick jab to the gut.

“No, Conor.  You’ll have to talk to him yourself.”

Thank God for armor, otherwise he would’ve been on his knees.  Instead he only flinched.  He almost smiled.

But… No, it was far from over.  And he doesn’t think he could bear to face Mace now, with no answers to give.

How could he tell him that the girl knew what would happen to Paige?  That if he believed her, then Paige might still be alive?

That it was his fault.

“Sean, I can’t—“

Sean reached for the torch.

“Hear me out, Sean.”

He stopped mid-motion.

“I still have to check something out.  Just tell Mace that—“

“Who?”

Conor froze.

Memories and old dreams bubbled to the surface, threatening to drown him; he struggled to control his breathing.

“Listen, Sean, I have to go—I’ll call you later, okay?”

Conor turned to leave.

“What the fuck is going on, Conor!?” Sean called after him.

“Later, Sean!”

He walked out as fast as he could, resisting the temptation to run.

It felt like a ghost was at his heels.

*******

“Mr. Pasters?”

Beyond the grand windows, far above the clouds and the lights of the city, billions of stars twinkled and delivered their brilliance into the Archive lobby unhindered.

An aging, dark-skinned man garbed in robes of velvet and sapphire raised his bespectacled eyes from the digipad propped upon the desk.

“Yes… and who might you be?”

Conor took off his helmet and placed it underneath his right arm.

“Corporal Conor James, sir.  We talked on the comm.”

The man peered at the rifle slung over Conor’s back and the gun in his holster.

“You dare bring weapons into a place of learning?”

“Sir, I am required to be armed at all times and am authorized to carry them anywhere inside the Towers.”

Mr. Pasters raised an eyebrow.

“Really?  And that includes bringing a MA-42 Castor anti-armor rifle?  Overkill, wouldn’t you agree?”

Conor was taken aback and lost a bit of his composure.

“Sir—?”

The librarian extended his arms outward and waved them at the numerous tomes that lay upon the shelves surrounding him.

“I am an avid consumer and preserver of knowledge, be it the chronicling of the First War of Kings or the weaponry used by our Peacekeepers.”

He lowered his arms and folded his hands beneath his robes.

“This includes knowing that you are not a Peacekeeper, but a Wall Patrol Officer, and that carrying anything larger than a sidearm requires special permission from the Twin Tower Security Authority.”

“Sir, I—“

“You are here about ‘Dream Sickness,’ no?  The ancient myth concerning nightmarish beings from another world that stole the bodies of humans using their dreams as a bridge?  What might have actually been a plague, wildly theorized to be responsible for the Silent Centuries?  A fairy tale that, for some insane reason, you not only believe has some merit, but also connected to that terrible incident on the Wall?”

Conor shifted uncomfortably.

“I guess I’m becoming pretty famous.”

The old man smiled.

“Indeed you are.”

He reached down and retrieved a key card from the desk.

“Come, young man.”

Conor stared in bewilderment.

“Excuse me?”

“You desire answers, a reason for what happened to that poor young woman.”

“I—“

He held up the card, shushing him.

“I don’t know how you came to conclude that a mythological disease had anything to do with that terrible event, but if it will put your mind at ease, I have a few writings on the subject that you could look at.  But I must warn you, they hold no answers for you.”

Conor bowed his head.

“Thank you, sir. This means a lot, even if you don’t believe me.”

The librarian’s smile grew wider.  Almost impossibly wide.

“Oh, dear boy.  Quite the contrary.”

*******


“I GUNNA SMASH YOUS!!!”

The children screamed in terror as their caretaker thumped across the planks in a rage, the remnants of Sasuke’s latest prank plastered all over his face.

Despite his bulk and drunken gait, every orphan at Manter’s knew full well his aptitude for tracking down and catching his unruly charges—then beating them to a pulp.

Sean observed this with boredom; it has been a regular tradition at the orphanage for as long as he could remember and unlikely to ever change.

He sat down on a piece of driftwood, next to his 11-year-old companion, who was sketching on his pad.

Looking over, he could see the rough pencil lines beginning to take on the image of a boy in a torn shirt and pants, no different than any of the other orphans, but sporting tall tufted ears and a long, thin tail.

Conor had been drawing this ‘cat-boy’ for a while now.  Sean didn’t get why he was so obsessed.  

Normally didn’t care much either, but what else is there to do on this stupid beach?

“Hey, Conor.  Who’s he?”

Conor did not look up.

“My… friend.”

“Friend?”

“Friend.”

What a stimulating conversation.

“Like, what?  Imaginary friend?”

Conor’s brow furrowed.

“Not really.  I see him in my dreams.”

“Huh.”

“He comes from the upside down.”

Now that sounded even more stupid.  Not even gonna bother asking.

“Does he have a name?”

Abruptly Conor looked up at Sean, bewildered.

“Of course he does.”

Sean rolled his eyes.

“Then what is his name, doofus?”

Conor replied in a tone suggesting that the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Bobby, of course.”
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