The Children of Hypnos

sandma

The Sandman cannot see the outside world, ensconced in his cocoon as he is, but he feels the aura of his two hopes as they leave him. Marcia and Daniel. The Amazon and the Texan. As his sedative abated, his memories of them began to come back, but so did the overwhelming flood of pain and confusion.

He feels his other body in the cocoon beside him. Pestilence. Plaguebringer. He must kill that other self. That other self will kill him. It licks against the walls of its cage, smearing poison, hungering for him.

He will go insane locked inside his opaque prison, bound in this soft white casket, sailing in the aether. He hears voices outside but can't place them. They're low, harried, thrumming with fear. He cannot feel the Dream. His other body still has that damned collar on, cutting him off. He knows it is the only thing keeping him alive, but he hates it; it holds him in this infernal suspension, not allowed to struggle, not allowed to die. He cannot even fight against it because it is on his other body. He can't even see it.

Where did Marcia go? It doesn't matter. She is away from him, so she is safe. But is she safe from that rumbling? Is she safe from the screams that now float on the wind, from the thick ozone in the air of a brewing storm? No, not brewing—falling. The rain hammers his prison. If only he could feel it, perhaps the rain would bring him back to himself. Perhaps he could be healed.

He finds his voice and cries out.

Let me out! Let me out let me out letmeoutletmeoutLETMEOUT

He will suffocate. He will grind his own teeth to dust. He will burst from his skin.

Then there is a vicious CRACK and the Sandman flies sideways. The cocoon flickers and vanishes in a cloud; his mattress is exposed to the rain, and it goes sliding across a paved pathway lined with trees. Lightning arcs over his head. Nearby, Pestilence spits with rage. Rain splatters the Sandman's face and he gulps it in, savoring the sensation. There is yelling nearby and he knows these voices, Lana and Stainer and teenagers he is familiar with, if only in passing, but he can't focus on what they're saying because the cool summer rain feels so good against his closed eyelids.

For a blessed moment, he can t h i n k.

"Get him up," says a calm voice, a man. The Sandman doesn't recognize it, but he speaks with authority. "As long as the collar is on that one, we don't have to worry about him. No, no, dream death won't be necessary. We have some use for him yet."

The Sandman's restraints disappear, replaced with dreamforms. They're cool against his wrists and back, levering him up. They support his head, too. That's kind of them. These hunters who surround him, who bring both he and Pestilence to bear. Lana, Stainer, the kids—they're locked up in dreamform restraints, too. Lana is unconscious. A new kind of panic fills the Sandman. He needs Lana. Lana is powerful, Lana is smart, Lana cannot be unconscious. Did they hit her with sleeping sand, or just knock her out? It is possible to do to a dreamkiller, but difficult.

"You've been a real pain to me, Mr. Warwick," says the authoritative voice again. A man steps into view, holding a black umbrella in a black-gloved hand. He is kempt but his suit is several decades out of date. He looks at the silver and gold watch on his wrist. "I intend to get some use out of you before putting you down. I think we'll see how you fare against a dreambreaker, hm?"

Dreambreaker? The Sandman laughs. There's no dreambreaker in the Sleeping City. He hasn't heard of a real dreambreaker existing in his lifetime, or the lifetimes of generations of dreamhunters before him. Not for long, anyway. The State kills them. They're more like myths.

But when he tips his head back to the clouds, he swears he sees the the massive coils of a metal spring surge with blue lightning, and the ripped fabric of a cat's paw disappear into the heavens.