Day Eight-Hundred-Seventy: Spoilers

The moment the Catastrophe erupted from his hands, its wild energies flowing up through his broken arms and out of his very soul, Dragomir dreamed.

He did not fall asleep. He was not knocked out by the severe pain from his dislocated joints, which, despite being rather elastic thanks to his Non physiology, still hurt rather a bit. He did not begin to hallucinate, either from fear, worry, panic, or some gastrointestinal distress. He simply dreamed, because that is what a prophet does, and Dragomir was the closest thing the world had to an honest-to-god prophet. Not that he, or most everyone else, seemed to realize it.

Dragomir dreamed that Arabella, standing nearby on the platform, was looking behind her. He wasn’t sure why, but he suspected that somebody was coming out onto the balcony to witness the execution. Possibly, even, to put a stop to it. But this was still several seconds into the future, and the vision bled out of Dragomir’s dream.

Dragomir dreamed that he died again. Or that he came very, very close. This seemed rather a minor point, and even though he was caught in his dreams, Dragomir was surprised by that fact. But not enough to stop dreaming.

Dragomir dreamed of a bird, carried on ragged wings, flying beyond the boundaries of the world. He had no idea what lay beyond, but he suspected that the bird would become. It didn’t matter too much to him what becoming meant.

Dragomir dreamed that he would meet his mother again in the not-too-distant future. But his mother did not look like his mother, but, rather, a twisted freak with pincers jutting out of her mouth. He did and didn’t want to see her.

Dragomir dreamed that his father would, some day, become a robot. Dragomir did not know what a robot was, and this vision confused him more than most, which was quite a feat in and of itself.

Dragomir dreamed of victory and defeat. He couldn’t tell to whom victory belonged, nor to whom defeat belonged. He knew, however, that both were somehow associated with crazy, yellowed eyeballs.

Dragomir dreamed of a snapping sound. It was loud, and vicious, and not associated with any images. It filled him with dread the likes of which he’d never known, which, given the shitty nature of his life, was saying rather a lot.

Dragomir dreamed of arguments, of people screaming at each other across a darkened hallway. He stood in the middle.

Dragomir dreamed of a box. It contained something.

Dragomir dreamed of division. He saw the world, and down the middle he saw a huge, red line. Then, sweeping out of a west, he saw a portly giant step out of the shadows, clutch the line in one spindly finger, and throw it away. The world was instantly remade the moment the giant set its foot upon the soil of the Imperium, spiralling up and around the giant, remade almost in his image. The people of the world danced at the giant’s feet, screaming and protesting, but the giant seemed willfully deaf to their pleas.

Dragomir dreamed of Fynn. He would get so big.

Dragomir dreamed of a girl wielding a sword. He dreamed, also, of the girl’s younger sister. Both were fiercely protective of one another. Dragomir felt a fierce, protective kinship with one, and a vague nausea for the other. He wasn’t certain which feeling belonged to which sister.

Dragomir dreamed.

Dragomir’s dreams collapsed in on themselves. His visions, pushing so far into the future, abruptly folded and swept into reverse. He was pulled through time to Pubton, to the zombie camps, to the rat’s base, to the desert, to endless fields of travel, to the mountain, to an undeveloped swamp, to a ruined home. To a complete home. To the best home he’d ever known. He would know it again, but he didn’t know when, or why, or how. He just knew that he was going there again, and soon.

Its glitch powers released, the Catastrophe sizzled through every fibre of Dragomir’s being. It ran rampant throughout his synapses, rewriting Dragomir’s code and crushing his Non powers. In an instant of ill-advised release, triggered by a vengeful executioner with an elephant’s head, Dragomir the Farsighted ceased to be in every respect but one, and he screamed in pain as an ability he’d never learned to control died. 

One dream remained. A dream he had feared might come to pass for a long, long time. If he survived the next few minutes - and he didn’t know whether he would live or not, not anymore - Dragomir knew it would harry his sleep for a long time to come.

As Dragomir fell asleep in earnest, utterly wasted by the experience, Philip began to rant.