The lab was asleep in silence. Then an alarm screamed.
Red lights flared against glass and steel, cutting through the darkness like a wound.
Lines of data spiked across the monitors — wild, erratic, alive.
The sound came not from the main system, but from the isolation room.
Arthur's eyes snapped open where he'd dozed off at his desk.
For a heartbeat, he just stared at the flashing red glow reflecting in his lenses,
then realization hit.
"Oh, shit.." he breathed, pushing his chair back so fast it clattered to the floor.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he sprinted through the corridor, the hum of machines swelling with every step.
The door hissed open.
And there he was.
Alexander Abernathy.
Pale against the white sheets. His chest barely rose, but his lips were moving — faint, fragile.
Arthur froze in the doorway.
His breath caught.
Then;
"Arthur?"
The voice was cracked, dry, but real.
Arthur stumbled forward, his heart slamming. "You're… you're awake."
Abernathy's eyelids fluttered. A weak smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah," he rasped. "Seems like your machine didn't work."
Arthur's throat tightened. "It..it was meant to heal you," he said. His voice trembled. "To end your pain. You were supposed to walk outside again, feel the morning sun on your face… sit in your workshop, dreaming."
He pressed a hand to his face, fighting back tears. "It was meant to save you."
Abernathy's laugh was small, soft, like an old echo trying to remember itself.
"It did, son," he whispered. "It gave me more time. Don't look like that, boy."
Arthur forced a broken laugh. "You shouldn't… talk like that. You're not done yet."
Abernathy blinked slowly, eyes dimming. "How long… was I asleep?"
Arthur hesitated. "Thirteen years."
For a moment, nothing moved.
The machines hummed. The rain outside ticked against the glass.
Thirteen years — lost between a dream and the dying hum of machines.
Abernathy's gaze softened. "You've grown… older than I ever thought I'd see."
He tried to smile, but it faltered, swallowed by fatigue.
Then, the hum of the chamber deepened, turning low and steady, like a heartbeat beneath water.
Arthur looked up. "What's happening?"
Abernathy's breath hitched. His voice came rough and uneven. "Arthur… someone's… awake."
Arthur leaned closer. "What? Who?"
Abernathy's eyes flickered, unfocused. "The dream… someone inside… moved."
The monitors spiked again, a chaotic dance of light and sound.
Arthur's fingers hovered over the controls, panic rising. "No, no, stay with me, Father, please—"
Abernathy's hand twitched toward him, trembling.
"Don't be afraid, Arthur…" he whispered. "This time, I'll wake where I belong."
"Father.."
But the rest was lost.
Arthur's voice shattered. "No, no— stay with me! You were supposed to live, not leave!" His words broke apart, choked by sobs. "I can fix it— I can still fix it.."
Abernathy exhaled softly — a breath that didn't return.
The monitor steadied, then flat lined into a thin, endless tone.
Arthur's knees gave out.
A sound escaped him, not quite a cry, not quite a scream. Just raw, shattered grief.
He pressed his forehead against his father's still hand.
Rain beat harder against the glass.
Then silence, vast and heavy — settled across the room.
The Dreamborn Machine pulsed once more. Then faded to black.
On the darkened monitor a faint reflection lingered. Arthur's face, streaked with tears, lit by the last dying glow of his father's heartbeat.
And then even the light was gone.
Transition to: [The Dream World]
The field was golden again.
Abernathy's body lay still — his face peaceful, eyes closed. The air shimmered faintly above him, like sunlight through water.
Ethan knelt beside him, head bowed.
His hands trembled against the old man's sleeve. He wasn't angry. Not this time. Just hollow, carved out by the weight of goodbye.
He rose slowly, eyes still locked on Abernathy's still form. His body swayed; the world felt heavy, tilting sideways. Every breath burned.
A strange pulse throbbed in his chest, like something had torn loose when Abernathy's dream ended.
His vision blurred. The ground rippled.
He tried to move, but his legs buckled.
He was falling — weightless, fading—
And then, a hand caught him.
A figure loomed through the haze; tall, composed, with eyes that gleamed like storm light.
Dogger steadied him easily, one hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, lad," Dogger said, his voice low and certain. "The dream's not done with you yet."