Chapter Text
Dirt got stuck in the teeth of the sole as the man's fast feet carried him through the alleys. Cold drops fell on the fabric of the clothes, soaking and burning. Steps and breathing were erratic. Right now, his brain is clearly not in the right state to focus on technique. He needs to run.
Run.
Run until he's gone. Run until he's safe. Run until they lose him. Run…
Fingers dig into the icy, rusty metal. He pulls himself up, grabbing the next rung. And more, more, more. Foot grazes the railing as he falls onto the balcony, and then through the open window.
Home. Safety.
A painful groan escapes Dream's lips as he falls to the floor. Blood stains the old parquet. The man pulls himself up with difficulty, puts his palms under his chest and gets on all fours. It's humiliating, but it's unlikely that he'll be able to fully get back on his feet. The wounded man gets to the mattress and just falls down, finally passing out.
* * *
- Trick or treat! - A voice is heard right behind him. What a strange phrase. It was like a child saying it, asking for Halloween sweets. It sounded even stranger coming from an adult man pointing a gun at him. Well. It's not a very pleasant way to get home after a 16-hour shift. Life is shit and he's in shit.
There are no more than 10 dollars in wallet. The heroes won't arrive in this area in less than half an hour. Even if he uses the special signal that SapNap gave him, he will be shot sooner. Well.
He raises his hands in surrender, and the opponent grins. Dream examines him. Cap, hood, hoodie, gloves. An ordinary bandit, not even a villain. That's a plus.
— Now give me the money and all the valuables you have, and I'll think about not putting lead in your pretty head and taking everything from your corpse, you rotten boy. — The bandit shot into the sky.
Okay, not a plus. The villains at least have charisma and at least some common sense, and don't behave like… like… like this guy. If a shot doesn't attract heroes or the police, then other criminals will.
Obviously, this bandit didn't have both common sense and brains, because when Dream reached into his pocket for his wallet, this idiot took it as an attempted attack and fired.
Dream barely managed to jump out of the way, but the bullet grazed his side anyway. He's not a hero to be able to dodge a bullet head-on, and he understands that. But we need to act quickly, or he will die. And he didn't want to die, his salary was due the day after tomorrow. And who's going to feed the Patches if not him? George? This colorblind person does not distinguish dog food from cat food.
And now Dream is already jumping on the bandit, getting another bullet in the shoulder. Stupid? Yes. Does it hurt? It's hellish. But he managed to knock his opponent to the ground and, with the help of a blow to the jaw with his still healthy hand, stunned him. The next blow landed with a knee to the stomach and the man dropped the gun, which Dream had already picked up. He gets to his feet, points the muzzle of the gun at the bandit and…
What is he doing?
What the hell is he doing?!
But the frightened body acts faster than the conscious mind, and the alley is shaken by the second shot that evening.
* * *
He jumps up on the bed with a soft sigh, but immediately regrets it. Arm hurts like it's been ground in a meat grinder. The whole bed is covered in blood. Now it's clear why his head hurts so much. What a miracle that he is awake at all and not suffering from anemia.
Boots rustle softly on the floor as Dream listlessly trudges into the bathroom to the already familiar first-aid kit.
You killed him.
No, I`m not.
Dream takes a pair of forceps out of the disinfectant tank with his left, healthy hand and pulls off the excess drops.
You shot him in the head.
No, it was a leg.
A hiss escapes his lips as he treats the wounds. The first bullet left a noticeable dent in his stomach, and the second went through the bicep of his right arm. How can he even move that arm now?
Because you're a fucking monster.
— I think, so I'm human. And stop distorting my memories.
Well, Dream is pretty sure he has schizophrenia. OR his conscience is a sarcastic beast. Or both. In any case, he continues his manipulations with bandages and other things.
What happened yesterday? Man tried to rob him and shot him twice. He knocked down his opponent, hit him several times and shot him in the leg.
And ran away like coward.
— Yeah, and ran away like coward. What time is it?
Unfortunately, the inner voice was not kind enough to respond. However, the wall clock said it was 11:27. Why would he need a clock in the bathroom? He just tends to get lost in his own thoughts. Very much immersed in thoughts. Anyway, it's still almost 3 hours before his shift at the cafe. There's time to eat, be sad, and maybe do something useful.
The bloodstained hoodie was left lying on the bathroom floor, and the bread was already warming in the toaster. Dream, like a bag of peas, spread out in a puddle on the chair. It's an amazing calmness for a man who almost bled to death and was shot almost at close range. Alternatively, just don't care. How many times has this happened? 3? 10? 20? That's the kind of district to live in. It's not that Dream doesn't earn enough. Not at all. Damn it, he worked two jobs and two part-time jobs! His bank account was replenished with 10,000 dollars every month! He could afford to rent in a better district. Well, at least nicer than the Badlands. A telling name, isn't it? But there is a problem. Or even a few.
He has a debt of $800,000 and has to pay for his sister's studies. How did he end up in this situation? Well, their mother left them about 15 years ago, and their father was a bastard. He would have been happy to just not inherit, but in that case Drista would have been given to distant relatives who were not known for their benevolence towards WasTaken siblings.
Upon inheriting, Dream received this apartment (of course, it's his own apartment, even he wouldn't rent in such a place) and the guardianship authorities considered him worthy of leaving the child with him.
…
Idiots.
Complete idiots.
Sometimes it seems to him that very little separates him from villainy.
If only he had…
The sound of a toast jumping out brought Dream out of his thoughts. Yes, that's right. Breakfast.
Jam on toast, coffee in a mug, Dream in clothes. Pulling on a shirt over bandages was unpleasant. Damn, should he take the day off? And a psychologist. Or a therapist. But in order to pay for a therapist, he needs to take another part-time job, and then everyone else will need a therapist.
After checking the notes in his notebook, Dream added a new one about last night and made sure that today would be a simple day. Relatively simple. He only has a shift at the cafe from 15 to 23 and that's it. Maybe he'll do another project tonight. Bruuuh.
* * *
— Hello, Dream!
— Hello, Niki. How was your shift?
Dream smiled at the pink-haired girl. Niki was his colleague (at least at THIS job) and a very nice girl. She got along well with the other staff, deftly resolved conflicts and cooked delicious cookies when she helped in the kitchen.
— There are a lot of customers today! Otherwise, everything was calm. How was your three-day weekend?
Weekend. What is a weekend? Weekend is the day when Drista calls him. She hadn't called him since Saturday. So it's not the weekend yet.
— As usual.
Dream threw his backpack under the counter and tied his apron after washing his hands.
After taking over the shift, he quickly joined the process. Cappuccino, americano, cheesecake, donuts, latte, tea, Americano again… Sometimes it seems to him that everything has turned into a gray mass, and time is just a mark on the clock for some business. None of this makes sense. HE doesn't make sense. Hmm, we need to bring coffee beans from the warehouse. And transfer the money to Drista for weekly expenses. And…
— Tommy, we've been coming here for the third day, what are you trying to show us?
— Shut up, bitch, it's not my fault that you're so scary that he ran away!
Dream looked up, looking at a chaotic teenager in a red and white T-shirt.
— I didn't know you had any friends, Tommy.
Tommy grinned with all his teeth, his braces flashing brightly.
— Hey, big D! My most favorite barista! Where have you been? Is adult life so hard for you that you couldn't stand a couple of days of work? I could easily make coffee. How can you get tired of brewing coffee? It's the easiest job in the world!
— Puffy gave me 3 days off. - He definitely ignores most of the teenager's words. "Who are your friends, Tommy?"
He looks around at the other two teenagers. One is quite short, with fluffy brown hair and bangs falling over his eyes. He has sheep's ears and small horns. A ram hybrid?
The second one is tall. Really tall. Maybe 7 feet? Or almost 7 feet. Her black and white hair is perfectly split in the middle, and her eyes look anywhere but at people's faces.
— Ranboo is not my friend!" And this is Tabbo. And we're definitely not here to meet you.
— Whatever you say, Tommy.