In the dream, Lucas was old. He was old, and he'd wasted his life. He knew that he'd wasted his life by what he saw in the mirror, and in the logic of a dream, he didn't need to be told the connection between these two things. He simply knew that the time he'd had was wasted, and that the opportunity to undo his mistakes has long since passed. He was old and he was empty, and he was just waiting for the clock to run out.

 

 

It wasn't a dream he had every night, or even most nights, but it was often enough. When he woke up, he wasn't filled with a sense of relief to discover he was still young (31 was still young, right?). He wasn't elated to discover that it was all just a horrible nightmare and he still had time and opportunity after all. Instead, he was just filled with a sense of dread he couldn't explain in any way other than to call it inevitability. The dream would come true in time; he was just waiting for the clock to run out on this end, too. It was the kind of dread that would creep into everything for days afterward, robbing the flavour from his food and leeching the colour from everyday activities.

 

Video games were, paradoxically, both too much work and not enough to hold his attention for any length of time. He had to be doing something else at the same time; watching a video or listening to a piece of music on top of it. If he didn't, there simply wasn't enough stimulation to prevent the emergence of a thought, and the thoughts would always be bad. He hadn't read a book in years; books simply did not provide anywhere close to enough stimuli. He would get restless and fidgety, put the book down, forget where he'd put it, and after finding it again lose his place.

 

Conversations with friends couldn't hold his attention, and there'd be long pauses between messages - it was purely online at this point, as he couldn't possibly find the energy to go out anywhere. The mere idea of being around people felt exhausting, a feeling that only intensified as his sleep patterns got worse and worse. Sleep was a roll of the dice for which he would eventually run out of luck, so Lucas slept less and less. After a certain point, it became difficult to sleep even at the rare times he actually wanted to. Days and nights blurred into a monotone sensate hell.

 

There was medication he could take for this, he knew, but getting it would take weeks or months of doctors and appointments - just like it had last time. Or it would if he was lucky; the health services were in an even worse state than they had been during his last episode. Honestly, they had more important things to take care of for more important people, and it all seemed like far too much effort just to go back on pills that hid the problem instead of fixing it. There likely wasn't any fixing the problem, so what use were doctors anyway?

 

 

In the dream, Lucas was old. He was old, and he'd wasted his life. He knew that he'd wasted his life by what he saw in the mirror, and in the logic of a dream, he didn't need to be told the connection between these two things. He simply knew that the time he'd had was wasted, and that the opportunity to undo his mistakes has long since passed. He was old and he was empty, and he was just waiting for the clock to run out.

 

Something moved in the corner of his vision, and a deep, feminine voice remarked "oof. Gotta stop free-associating."

 

Lucas had been having this dream for so long now that he knew every second off by heart as if it were scripted, so the introduction of something new was enough to snap him out of the misery so forcefully he woke up. As he did, he heard a yelp and a furious jumble of swear words.

 

 

It was early morning, which was highly unusual for Lucas; usually he slept until noon, sometimes later, and so being awake at the sort of time other people woke up was an odd experience. He'd never thought about it very much, but there had always been a directionality to his room that he'd constructed in his mind, a sense of which wall was the back and which was the the front. In the pale light just after dawn, that whole understanding of his little self-imposed prison was gone. Everything looked different; there was a logical part of his brain that knew nothing could have been changed since he went to sleep, but none of the things he saw looked familiar. Had his desk always been at that angle? Had his Matrix poster always been on that wall?

 

 

He shook himself. That thought just sprung into his head, unbidden. He was no stranger to intrusive thoughts, especially not recently, but the bluntness surprised him. True, this being early morning meant he couldn't possibly have gotten much sleep, and he did feel tired... maybe another few hours wasn't such a bad idea?

 

But did his brain have to be such a dick about it? No, you know what? Lucas wasn't going to listen to negative voices today. He'd finally been able to snap out of that shitty dream before it just bogged down the whole week. He could walk to the corner shop, buy a couple of Creatures and chug them, and actually do something with his day for once. This was a golden opportunity to break himself out of a rut!

 

 

"Oh, sure, heard that excuse before," he growled, to no-one but himself, he supposed. "No. Time to get up." He was talking to the voices in his head now - this was a new development! Probably a bad one, but it was still something new, and he'd take it! He wasn't sure why this particular intrusive thought sounded American, but right now he felt a sense of purpose and energy he hadn't felt in months, perhaps years.

 

He threw the duvet off, dug around on the floor for some clothes he'd only worn for one or two days in a row, grabbed his backpack and surprised both his parents - first by coming downstairs before one in the afternoon, and second by announcing that he was going out, and he'd probably stay out all day. This was a tremendous break from routine, but it wasn't like he had anywhere else to be, so the only thing they wanted to know was if he'd be home for supper. He said he'd call by five in the afternoon if so, and if they didn't hear from him by then, they should just assume he'd be taking care of himself in the evening.

 

After stocking up on energy drinks, a brisk ten-minute walk had him at the train station which, being rush hour, was far more crowded than he was used to, but for once the crowds didn't bother him. In fact, unlike the previous few times he'd ventured out into public spaces, he felt like everyone else around him was in monochrome while he finally had colour to his cheeks. The train was jam-packed, so of course there were no free seats, which would usually have annoyed the hell out of him, but it actually worked in his favour today; staying standing up would make it harder to drift off.

 

 

"We're going to London. It's only thirty minutes, and I couldn't fall asleep on a train anyway," Lucas replied, immediately regretting it as a bunch of heads swivelled towards him. His cheeks burned, and he cleared his throat awkwardly without saying anything further.

 

Stupid fucking brain, he thought. And then another thought crossed his mind. Wait, how would you not know where we're going? Great, now I'm having an argument with myself.

 

There was a not-quite-noise - not something Lucas actually heard, more like something he imagined he'd heard, like the mental equivalent of a sigh. Hoo boy, you aren't happy, are you? The voice had a little more sympathy in it now.

 

What gave it away? No, go on, Lucas muttered - hopefully only in his head. Please. Tell me. I'm genuinely fascinated how you sleuthed it out. I thought my facade was perfect.

 

No need to be a dick about it. The voice was less sympathetic now, back to being irritated.

 

 

There was a long mental silence, in which nobody said anything. There as nobody except Lucas, of course, but he was actively not saying hard enough for a whole crowd of people.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke up again. Look, I'm sorry. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I didn't mean to end up here. You've obviously got some demons you're fighting with, and that's - that's rough. I know what that's like, and-

 

Lucas snarled, an expression he was pretty sure made it to his actual face. Oh, you know what it's like? You know what it's like? Of course you know what it's like, you little shit! You're the voice always telling me all the ways I could fuck up my friendships, or that I'm going to die cold and alone and homeless!

 

The voice sounded actively desperate at this point. I am not that person! Look, listen, okay, you have some serious fucking issues that I am not remotely equipped to deal with and I didn't even mean to be here, so if you could just please find a place to take a - a two-hour power nap! 90 minutes, even! Just long enough to enter REM sleep, you know, so you can-

 

So I can have the shitty dream again. Damn, you're not even good at hiding what you want, are you? Lucas chuckled to himself, and realised only too late it was audible when some heads turned towards him again. Goddamnit.

 

There was a sense of revelation that Lucas felt came from outside himself, somehow. Oh, right! That's a recurring nightmare! See, I wondered why you looked way younger in the mirror when you woke up.

 

 

 

Lucas snorted, earning another round of uncomfortable glances. Oh, this is genuinely new! Vague compliments! Do you want to tell me how good a job I'm doing at being the crazy person on the train who makes everyone uncomfortable? You know, the thing I've always found awkward and uncomfortable when I see other people doing it?

 

There was another imagined-noise sensation, like someone struggling over how exactly to phrase something. Okay, that one's not an intrusive thought, that's just you thinking. Even if I WERE your intrusive thoughts - which I REALLY have to stress, I AM NOT - I can't be held responsible for that one. That one's just you being socially awkward.

 

Lucas frowned. Right, good job. Real convinced you're not my intrusive thoughts again.

 

 

Sleep? No, I am wide awake and I have no plans to sleep any time soon! We're not having the shitty old-folks-home dream again! In fact, today and henceforth, I'm breaking up with my bed! A manic grin spread across Lucas face, and he was no longer at all concerned for how unhinged he looked on public transport. In fact, I am never going to sleep, ever again! Fuck you!

 

 

Lucas cut off the voice with a contented sigh. No! This conversation is over. Your speaking privileges are hereby revoked, weird voice in my head! This mental space is now all Lucas, all the time, no guest callers. I'd say it's been lovely having you on the show, but it fucking wasn't! Goodbye!

 

It was stunning to Lucas just how effective the mental image of slamming a phone down was. He even imagined the rapid beeping from the movies, even though it was completely inaccurate to British telephones and would only be heard on the other end anyway, but it was very satisfying nonetheless. In fact, the whole image played out in his head with a vividness that was unusual to him. The telephone was clearly visible in his mind's eye: a vintage rotary-dial phone, its plastic a rich cobalt blue and shiny like a freshly-waxed car. It seemed to have a weight to it, a physicality that he could almost reach out and touch. He visualized picking up the receiver and slamming it down again, and he could almost feel the pressure in his hand, the jolt up his arm as plastic hit plastic. It felt good, and strange, too - he usually had trouble visualising anything, let alone something this vivid.

 

The telephone began to ring, in exactly the sort of old-fashioned Hollywood ring-ring that suited its appearance. On any other day, Lucas would've found it annoying, but it was the only sound in his brain. No other voices. It was just him and the ringing of the phone, and that was close enough to peace to make him happy.

 

 

The day was a blur of noise and stimulation: the Science Museum in Kensington, coffee and a burger near Victoria Station, the Trocadero in Piccadilly Circus, more coffee to keep the buzz going, Forbidden Planet on Shaftesbury Avenue, endless cups of coffee to stave off the creeping ache of sleeplessness, ringing telephone, listening to buskers in Leicester Square, coffee, coffee, coffee, ringing telephone, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, every footstep feeling heavier than the last, some kind of meal at some kind of fast food place near Covent Garden, every waking moment telescoping out into a monstrous kaleidoscopic eternity, coffee, ringing telephone, coffee, watching the night fall over Canary Wharf, ringing telephone, train, interchange, coffee, train, interchange, coffee, ringing telephone, ringing telephone, ringing telephone, ringing telephone, ringing telephone.

 

Somewhere on the train ride back home, Lucas forgot why he wasn't picking the telephone up. That's generally what you do with ringing telephones.

 

 

Right, right, right, that's why he wasn't supposed to pick the telephone up.

 

I thought... we agreed... Lucas-only, Lucas mumbled, somehow slurring his words even in his head.

 

 

Lucas giggled, slapping his knee. "Nope! This is great! I feel great!" The train was much less crowded at this time in the evening - what was it, eleven at night? - so Lucas didn't feel anywhere near as much embarrassment about looking weird.

 

 

Lucas took a deep breath. Okay, yeah, it's shit. But you're not making me have that dream again.

 

 

This was a weird train of thought to be having. Okay, what the fuck does that mean? How the fuck does that work? You're an intrusive thought.

 

 

Now this, this was absolutely novel, a fascinating and unprecedented story. None of Lucas' intrusive thoughts had ever proposed something anywhere close to this before. This was delusional on a whole new level, and Lucas had to admit he was impressed.

 

You're a real person, who can... travel in dreams? And you got stuck in my head, Lucas repeated, as if repetition would make it sound any less ridiculous.

 

Yes, the voice replied.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucas frowned. Yes, actually.

 

Fuck, the voice replied, um. Okay. I can prove it.

 

 

 

Lucas snorted again. Of course I have a smartphone. I'm depressed, not a boomer. He was tired, though, and he decided there was no reason not to see where this bizarre train of thought was going, so he fished it out of his pocket and unlocked it.

 

 

This seemed weirdly specific for an intrusive thought. The handle didn't come up in the search suggestions, but the profile existed, just like the voice said it would. The bio didn't pull any punches.

 

There were also a great deal of pictures. A very tall - Lucas would've said statuesque - lady with her hair shaved completely off on one side of her head, dyed a revolving carousel of colours depending on the mood she seemed to be going for. Each photo had a different outfit, few of them safe to display in a public place and all of them posed in a way to communicate either power or raw, animal lust. She wasn't shy about showing off every part of her body, and while there were more than enough pictures of her breasts or her cock (gosh, was she bigger than him?), she seemed even more eager to show her broad shoulders, her toned thighs and her neck, which never seemed to be without a hickey or visible bite marks that nonetheless seemed perfectly placed to accentuate her beauty.

 

Lucas sighed. Oh. Right. We're at this again.

 

 

 

There was a not-noise: a groan of despair. Oh, fuck, no. There was a long, exasperated sigh, too. Honey...

 

Lucas raised a triumphant finger that nobody other than him would understand. You're trying to get me to send her a stupid fucking message. "Hey, baby, did you know you've invaded my dreams?" And then she'll post it, and everyone will just have a nice big round of "look at the freak."

 

 

Lucas did have to admit that would seem a little far-fetched. Yeah, I suppose that would be pretty weird.

 

 

You know, Lucas replied, I didn't even think of that until you brought it up.

 

Fu- come o- okay, let's just... The voice made a not-noise like blowing air through clenched teeth. Let's just skip past that one, and log into my account. My password is Zer0sc0p!cM4Ncubu$, capital-Z 3 r 0 s c 0 p exclamation point c capital-M 4 capital-N c u b u dollar-sign, and I am super changing that password once I get back to my body, no offense.

 

That's, uh, that's good password security, Lucas commented, not really knowing what to say. Strong. Not random string strong, but strong.

 

Thank you! It's actually nice to have someone who can appreciate it. The voice perked up briefly, before slipping back to its business-like tone. Log in, please.

 

Lucas typed the password in, which was not an easy feat on a phone keyboard. Mancubus like the Doom enemy?

 

Doom II, actually.

 

Lucas snapped his finger. Right, right.

 

The password worked. He was logged in as HypnospacePsychonaut.

 

What the fuck.

 

Told you, the voice chirped.

 

 

And yet, here you are, logged into my Tumult account. If you check my DMs, you'll probably meet my weird stalker from Biloxi!

 

Lucas was stammering, sputtering, even inside his own head. There must be some kind of-

 

 

Good boy - those two sent a shiver down Lucas' spine, and also stung in a way he wasn't quite prepared for, and certainly wasn't ready to deal with, so he pushed it deep down inside and asked the other question on his mind.

 

Is magic real? It was the only thing he could think to say.

 

 

 

There was something that was definitely not a noise - more a visual, the platonic concept of someone nodding. Yeah, honestly, if I had a better explanation, I'd be using it. Is any other type of magic real? Like, probably, I guess? I've never seen it, but like, I can't be the only person who can do stuff like this, surely.

 

Lucas nodded back, to nobody. I mean, having a truly unique talent is possible, but the law of averages probably means someone else at some point in history was able to do this.

 

There was the impression of a chuckle. God, at least I'm stuck in a smart boy's head.

 

Was Lucas blushing? Um, thanks, I guess?

 

 

That sounds... pretty cool, actually. Lucas wished he could think of something more profound to say.

 

 

Lucas looked around. I'm not going to sleep on a fucking train.

 

There was a sigh, and then a gesture of acceptance. Yeah, okay, I guess that's a big ask, and you probably wouldn't have time to get to REM sleep anyway. But will you please just agree to sleep?

 

Lucas looked away - from what, he wasn't sure. This all seemed too surreal to process. I don't want to sleep again.

 

 

Lucas shook his head. I don't want to talk about the dream.

 

 

Lucas looked out of the window, into the night and the suburbs rushing past, but then he caught sight of his reflection and turned away. He said nothing.

 

Please. We got off to a real bad start, but if I can help out before I go, I want to. You seem to be in a bad place. The voice sounded genuine, genuine in a way that his intrusive thoughts never did.

 

 

Too late for what? The voice asked.

 

 

 

 

The voice raised its eyebrow, somehow. You never had a dream as a kid? Something you wanted to be?

 

Lucas snorted, his face falling. I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to go to space. Stupid.

 

 

Because it was unrealistic, Lucas lied.

 

 

Lucas clenched his eyes shut. People bullied me when they found out. Is that what you want to hear?

 

 

Well, thanks, I guess, weird dream-invader, Lucas replied, trying not to let sarcasm creep into his not-voice.

 

 

Lucas was about to answer, but that was the moment the train began to slow and his stop was announced, so he checked out of the conversation briefly to deal with getting off the train and out of the station. By the time he had gotten to talking again, the moment had passed. He'd been through his town in the dark a hundred times, but it looked different tonight - or rather, he was noticing things he didn't usually notice. The colour of leaves under streetlights - he hadn't realised there could be so many different shades of green on a single plant. He could smell the night air, sweet and sour notes both. There was the distant roar of the motorway, the sound of birds disturbed by his passing, a fox scurrying about in the undergrowth. The steps he walked were the same, but corners looked different, the bricks and paving stones vibrant and unfamiliar in the midnight hour. He felt he had a second set of eyes and ears noticing things for him, which he supposed might just be true.

 

Nice neighbourhood, the voice remarked.

 

Lucas shrugged. Yeah, it's... not bad, I suppose! Could be worse. Could be Bromley.

 

 

 

Lucas' parents had turned in long before he arrived home, so he kept things quiet as he came in. Once he'd stripped out of his coat and shoes he stumbled upstairs, pulled off a bunch of his clothes and dumped them back on the floor in roughly the same place he'd scrounged them up in the morning and fell face down on the bed.

 

Five full minutes passed in total silence, in which Lucas remained agonizingly wakeful.

 

 

Lucas rolled over. I don't want to have the dream again.

 

The voice practically sang with compassion. I promise. Before I leave, I will give you a different dream.

 

Lucas, who just minutes earlier had had trouble keeping his eyes open, now couldn't keep them closed. I'm so tired, but I can't sleep.

 

 

Lucas took a deep breath. Okay.

 

 

Lucas twitched his toes back and forth a little, and found it was actually sort of difficult to stop once he'd started doing it.

 

 

The voice was right. They were stock still.

 

 

It was the strangest thing. Lucas felt like he could move his toes if he wanted to, but he didn't want to. He felt sure, absolutely sure he could move them if he wanted to, but again, he didn't want to. He tried to want to move them, and even that felt blocked, somehow.

 

 

There was the impression of a smile. Good! Now, can you roll your ankles for me?

 

It was a very strange sensation, rolling his ankles without moving his toes, but they just wouldn't budge, like they were frozen solid at the end of his feet.

 

 

He didn't move his ankles. He didn't want to move his ankles. He couldn't even want to move his ankles.

 

 

The voice stopped for a moment. If you're uncomfortable, I can stop and we can try something else.

 

 

 

Lucas hesitated in answering for a moment that stretched too long to be passed off as accidental. The voice in his head seemed to be raising an eyebrow.

 

Finally, Lucas sighed. It never worked before.

 

 

 

 

Lucas flexed the muscles in his calves, which was a lot harder now that he couldn't move his ankles or his toes. He felt like he was discovering new muscles that he'd never consciously manipulated before.

 

 

Lucas' calves locked up, in precisely the same manner as his toes and ankles.

 

 

It kept on in this manner for a while. Lucas would tense a part of his body, the voice would pass the light over it, over it, over it and past it, and he would stop wanting to move that group of muscles. There was a little embarrassment when they got to the groin, but the voice kept it professional, not commenting on anything Lucas might've been feeling at the time or anything that might've been happening down there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucas was lying completely immobile. He was absolutely sure he could move any part of his body he wanted, but he was absolutely sure that he didn't want to move any part of his body. He'd tried to push it a few times, to fight past he languor and move, not even to resist the voice, just to see if he could. The best he'd managed was a few slight twitches of his fingers that he probably wouldn't even have felt if he hadn't known he was doing it. He had long since moved past trying to articulate just how strange it was to be hypnotised by a voice in his own head. This was just happening to him.