One didn't immediately enter the Spell upon contracting the Nightmare Disease. It took several days to a week before the drowsiness reached the critical point, where your souls was forcefully plucked from your body and sent hurtling towards nigh-certain doom. The Spell wasn't kind or gentle, but it was hella efficient. Of course, according to those from the Age of Heroes-was it one of the Nine? Noctis? Or maybe Anake?-Awakened back then weren't even guaranteed an Aspect, and had to manually cultivate their Rank.
Compared to then, the Spell was indeed a "crash course speed run" to Godhood. Anyways, the point was there was protocol follow for soon-to-be Dreamers: report to the nearest police station, where you will be assigned both a room for your convenience and an executioner for theirs. I spent the first three days measuring the growth of the Spell's pull, and figured I wouldn't last a full week. So on the morning of the fourth day, I set out.
'Wonder if I'll get Master Jet like Sunny. What are the chances?'
I wondered aimlessly as I made my way across the slums. Thankfully, no one bothered me, likely because they recognised me from all the alms selling Father Malachi got up to. The neighbourhood knew he was dead, and even those I recognised as belonging to specifically vicious gangs just passed over me. A rare kindness, perhaps helped by my despondent and blank look. The death of the priest hit me hard, even though I only knew him for under two weeks. The memories of the original Adam were purely informational, with very little emotion attached. And yet, I felt tears nearly fall several times as I walked. Maybe the Priest would become something of a local myth in the area, or maybe I would be the only one to remember him.
Maybe the world would simply forget and moved on if I died in my Nightmare. The novel never actually described where Sunny began the story. He was just in a park, and then walked to a police station. I knew I wasn't in the same area as him because I didn't spot any of the landmarks he later revealed while on a date with Nephis, but my exact location was still a mystery. Even the old man didn't really know where we were on the map, he just wandered from place to place and only sporadically contacted some fellow priests scattered around.
So, I just followed the path of slowly improving buildings until I reached a place somewhat better than the slums. This should be the bottom of the "actually human" ladder that the Government and Great Clans created. Minimum wage and barely hanging above the red, but above it nonetheless.
There were no police checkpoints, something I always found strange in the novel-with such big elitist classism, I expected armed guards at every crossroads-but maybe they were only stationed in the middle-income and higher parts. Anyways, my journey was smooth sailing all the way. Makes sense though, even Sunny only started getting his shit rocked upon unlocking [Fated]. Surely I couldn't have even worse luck than the treacherous Lost from Light?
I knew I had made a wise decision, as by the time I had figured out where the nearest station actually was (courtesy of a passing pedestrian) I was physically yawning and felt my senses start to dull. Did the Spell accelerate based on intent? I thought I would have a couple more hours, but now I figured I had only two at most. I hurried my body as much as I could and managed to find my target-a squat and dull grey building nestled between what looked like offices. The inside was quite impressive though: reinforced armor plates on the walls and poorly hidden turret nests in the ceiling. The officer at the desk was just as scruffy as Sunny's too. I wasn't the only one here: Officers moved with a tired purpose, their eyes avoiding mine as I approached the front desk. The man behind it, his uniform crisp but his face etched with a deep weariness, looked up. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he saw me—a too-young boy, alone, dressed in the black rags of a mostly-abandoned faith.
"I'm infected," I said, my voice flat, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. "The Nightmare Spell."
A flicker of something—pity? fear?—crossed his features before he schooled it into professional neutrality. He didn't ask my name. He didn't need to. He simply nodded, a sharp, jerky motion, and keyed something into his terminal.
"Roberts!" he barked, his voice too loud in the tense quiet. A larger, bulkier officer emerged from a side door. He had the grim, resigned look of a man who'd done this too many times. "New arrival. Prep Room Three."
Officer Roberts looked me over, his gaze impersonal, like a butcher assessing a cut of meat. "This way, kid."
He led me down a sterile, brightly lit hallway to a heavy metal door. Inside was a sparse, windowless room. Its sole feature was a stark metal-framed bed, bolted to the floor, with thick leather restraints on the wrists and ankles.
"Lie down," Roberts instructed, his voice devoid of inflection.
I did as I was told. The metal was cold through my thin clothes. He moved with practiced efficiency, pulling the straps tight, securing my wrists and ankles. The leather was stiff and unyielding. I was utterly, completely helpless in them. 'Is this how Sunny felt, how Cassie and Nephis did too?'
He finished and stood back, looking down at me. The clinical detachment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying than outright malice.
"Listen close," he said, his voice a low rumble. "This is how it works. You're going back to sleep. When you do, you won't be here anymore. You'll be somewhere else. That's the First Nightmare."