A commission piece for Artikyuu on DA. They requested a drawing of their character Yellow, a dream-eating Illusionist. They are blind, can conjure and manipulate reality with smoke, and can speak to you telepathically (which is how I assume they can get into your head/dreams). :) Had lots of fun coloring this one!
Drawn in pencil on paper and then inked/colored digitally.
Yellow belongs to Artikyuu on DeviantArt.
Synopsis: Omari Love never asked to be extraordinary. A gifted cybersecurity analyst in Bethesda, Maryland, Omari juggles the pressures of young adulthood with the shadow of his father’s legacy. His father, Berlin Love — once was celebrated as the dream-manipulating superhero Dream-Eater — publicly revealed his greatest secret during his retirement: he is a mutant.
Torn between admiration for his father and feelings of betrayal for being kept in the dark, Omari must navigate the guilt of his destructive awakening, the fear of a world hostile to mutants, and the weight of expectations tied to his bloodline.
Adopting the mantle of Nocturne, Omari steps into a world of prejudice, politics, and peril. But his path isn’t just about learning to fight. It’s about building trust, finding purpose, and above all else, it's about learning to forgive himself for the scars of the past.
Word Count: 6.9K / 20 pages
Author Notes: Finally! My relaunch is here 😭. It took me an extremely long time to finish this rewrite. Half of it was because everything was sounding cringeworthy to me, and the other half of it was because of my work schedule. But I am satisfied with this final version of it. A special thanks to D_Garner9 for drawing the sketch of the cover art. It's not completely finished yet, but when it is, I'll post it and the comic illustration to go with it. Overall I hope you enjoy reading it. Thank you!!! 💖💖💖
Episode 1: The Awakening of Nocturne
Maryland — the Free State.
A place where history runs deep through the streets, and the Chesapeake Bay is more than just water; it’s a lifeline—a storyteller.
Folks around here say we’ve got the best sound, the best food, and the most attitude, and I’d back those claims any day.
Over six million people call this place home, and every single one of them has a story to share. It’s diverse. It’s dynamic. And there’s a community waiting for you on every corner.
See, the thing is — everyone’s story matters.
Not all of us start out extraordinary. Most of us are just regular, everyday civilians trying to get by. But something happens — a moment, a decision, or an accident — and suddenly you’re more than just another face in the crowd.
Some people get bitten by a radioactive spider.
Others get blasted by cosmic rays or injected with a super serum.
And just like that, boom. Their stories get heard and become legendary. They're treated like celebrities, called heroes, seen as saviors.
But when you’re born different?
When your blood already marks you as “other”?
The world doesn’t worship you the same way — it fears you.
In this world, humans born with something called the X-Gene are set apart from the rest.
They’re called mutants.
And while many of us just want the peace to live an everyday life, or just want their own heroic stories told,
The world only sees monsters.
They’re terrified of what they don’t understand. They hate us because of it.
But no matter how the world chooses to see us,
Many of us still fight to protect it.
Many still rise, still shine, and still leave behind meaningful legacies — even when the world tries to bury our stories.
And like so many who came before me, who had to fight to be seen and heard, I can’t go back to blending in the crowd.
I’m a mutant. Just like them.
And whether the world’s ready for me or not, I’m gonna leave my mark — and leave a legacy that can’t be ignored.
But you didn’t come here for a long-ass exposition, did you?
So, how about I tell you my story?
“Omari, get up. You got work today, don’t you?” came the warm, familiar voice of his mother, Jamila, from the hallway.
Groaning, Omari rubbed his temples as he slowly sat up in bed. The throbbing headache that had constantly plagued him since his early teens was back with a vengeance. He glanced at his phone, the harsh blue light confirming it was indeed a workday. "Yeah, Ma. I do," he said, rubbing his temples.
"Good, cause your father’s retirement speech is today at Baltimore City Hall," Jamila continued, poking her head into his room with a hopeful smile. "I know you don't wanna miss it."
Omari sighed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. "I know, I know. I'll watch it," he assured her, though the pounding in his head made the prospect of attending anything sound unbearable.
"You feeling ok, what’s wrong?" Jamila asked, stepping into the room. She placed a gentle hand on his forehead to check for a fever.
"It's just these headaches, Ma. They're killin' me. I was thinking of calling out today," Omari admitted, leaning into her touch for a moment before pulling away to stretch.
"No, no, baby. You gotta power through. I'll call and help set up a doctor appointment for you this week, okay? Just get through today," she encouraged, her eyes filled with concern.
Omari nodded reluctantly. "Alright, alright. I'll go. But don’t expect me to look thrilled about it," he said with a wry grin, already dragging his feet.
His mother left the room, and Omari groaned as he dragged himself out of bed. The day was already off to a predictably unlucky start. First, he stubbed his toe on the edge of the bed frame, letting out a string of curses as he hopped to the bathroom on one foot.
The mirror greeted him with a familiar sight: weary light brown eyes, dark circles, and a face that hadn’t known real sleep in days. He was broad-shouldered and stocky, built with quiet strength — but it was hard to feel powerful when his bonnet had slipped off in the night, leaving his long curls dried out and matted, with lavender streaks clinging to the ends from all the restless tossing and turning.
He turned on the shower, hoping the heat would shake the grogginess from his bones—no such luck. The water hit him like ice. He fiddled with the knob, grumbling under his breath, but it was no use. And when he reached to adjust the showerhead, it came loose — smacking him square in the forehead and dousing him in a freezing waterfall.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered, teeth chattering as he hastily finished his shower. His head throbbed even more now, a dull ache from the unexpected hit.
Back in his room, Omari rushed to get dressed for work. There wasn’t enough time to plait and style his hair the way he preferred, and no matter how much product he used, his curls refused to cooperate. Excellent — now it was a bad hair day on top of everything else. Showing up with an afro wasn’t an option either — the job would call it ‘unprofessional,’ citing their usual mantra: “If you don’t look your best, how can you strive to be your best?”, and promptly send him home for the day. He had already been written up once for showing up to work with box braids, and he couldn’t afford to get another warning for dress-code violations.
With an irritated sigh, he reached for the flat iron and a handful of products, giving himself a quick silk press. It wasn’t his preferred style, feeling as if he looked similar to André 3000, but it’d have to do for now.
He threw on his clothes — a soft baby blue button-up tucked into high-waisted grey slacks, a tan belt cinched at the waist, and black dress boots polished just enough that you can’t see any scuffs or marks. A pair of stylish star-shaped hoop earrings added a quiet sparkle. He grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and his work bag from his desk before heading downstairs with a final glance in the mirror.
In the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee met him like a quiet welcome. Jamila was already there, packing a lunch into a small container.
“Here you go, some leftovers from last night,” she said, handing them over with a smile. “And remember — take it easy, ok baby. Don’t stress yourself too much.”
Omari accepted the container with a soft grunt that passed for gratitude. “ Preciate it, Ma. I’ll try.” He poured himself a cup of hot black tea, letting the steam ease the pressure behind his eyes.
Just as he reached the door, Jamila called out, “And don’t forget to tune in for your father’s speech, Omari. It’s important to him!”
“I know, Love ya, see you when I get home,” he mumbled, turning back briefly to kiss her cheek before heading out.
Outside, the crisp autumn air slipped beneath his hoodie, making him shiver. The streets of Bethesda were already alive — car horns in the distance, footsteps on concrete, the low murmur of conversations as the city shook itself awake. Omari moved through it all, head down, wrapped in the familiar rhythm of a morning too early and a headache too loud.
He reached the bus stop and leaned against the metal pole, shifting the weight of his backpack on one shoulder. Across the street, the convenience store had its usual morning ritual — the outdoor speakers buzzing with the local radio.
The Fugees’ “Ready or Not” spilled into the air, its steady beat riding the breeze like an anthem for the tired and trying. It blended with the hum of traffic, a soundtrack for a city that never paused — not even for bad mornings.
“Wakey-wakey, DMV! Time to rise and shine — it’s your boy, DJ Quicksilva, comin’ at you live on 93.9 WKYS! And y’all, this morning we’ve got a very special guest in the building. I’m talkin’ about the man who fights nightmares while the rest of us sleep — the hero of the hour, the pride of our city… give it up for Dream-Eater!”
Omari’s ears perked up at the mention of his father’s superhero alias. He turned his attention fully to the broadcast, drawn in by the DJ’s booming excitement.
“Heh, good morning, Quicksilva,” came Berlin’s deep, steady voice — calm, warm, and commanding. “It’s a beautiful, chilly day out there. Glad to be here.”
“The honor is ours, Dream-Eater!” Quicksilva shot back, clearly hyped. “Let’s get into it — what’s it like bein’ a hero, man? How’s it feel knowin’ you’ve saved countless lives?”
Berlin chuckled softly — the sound made Omari smile despite himself.
“Well,” he began, “it’s a blessing. But it’s also a responsibility. Every time you suit up, you’re not just chasing glory — you’re stepping out there to protect people. To make a difference. It keeps you grounded.”
“And you’ve definitely made a difference,” Quicksilva agreed. “Tell us, what’s one of the most memorable moments of your career?”
Berlin paused. Omari could almost picture the look on his father’s face — distant, reflective.
“There was this one time I had to rescue a group of kids trapped in a burning building,” Berlin said. “The fear in their eyes, then the relief when I got them out safely… moments like that, they stay with you. They remind you why you do what you do.”
Omari’s chest tightened with pride. His dad had always been a hero — long before the costume or the powers. For Omari, Berlin wasn’t just a father; he was one of his closest friends, someone who never failed to show up, no matter how many lives needed saving. He always made time for himself and his siblings.
And though his parents never played favorites, Omari knew — deep down — he was the apple of his father’s eye.
And hearing him speak like this, hearing how much it all still meant to him, it made everything feel more real.
The DJ’s tone shifted. “Alright, now the big one. The question everyone’s been askin’, "What's it like to lose your powers?”
Silence. Omari held his breath. He knew this topic was a sensitive one for his father.
“It’s…challenging, to say the least,” Berlin said quietly. “It’s like waking up one morning and suddenly losing the ability to walk, to talk, to see. My powers weren’t just tools I could’ve put away when the job was done — they were a part of me.”
“And to have them stripped away during a vicious attack… It’s something I’ll never forget.” His voice dipped with sadness before regaining its calm.
“But losing them gave me a new perspective. You don’t need powers to be a hero. It’s about what you do for others — the lives you touch, the change you bring to your community. Just caring enough to show up, to lend a hand, to stand beside someone in need… that’s what really counts.”
“So yes, I’m heartbroken over the loss of my powers. They were an extension of who I was. But I’m also grateful — because this loss gave me a new path in life, a new opportunity to serve in ways I never expected.”
“That’s what’s up. That’s what we love to hear,” Quicksilva said. “Before we get back to the tunes, anything you wanna say to all the folks listening right now?
“Take care of one another, despite your differences. Whether someone’s human, mutant, alien — haha, whatever — at the end of the day, we all share the same Earth. And it doesn’t hurt to be good to one another.”
“Man… Beautiful stuff,” the DJ replied with a chuckle. “You know you were always my favorite hero growing up. Spider-Man can eat his heart out, for real.”
Dream-Eater laughed warmly in response.
“We’re gonna come back to Dream-Eater in just a bit,” The DJ continued, “but for now, let’s get back to the music and open up the phone lines so y’all can ask the Dream-Man your own questions! Don’t touch that dial, we’ve got more things coming up from the protector of the DMV before his big retirement ceremony later today, where the mayor’s giving him the key to the city for all his years of service!”
Omari nodded to himself, feeling a deep respect for his father. Despite everything, Berlin was still the same brave and caring man he’d always looked up to. Watching him finally get the recognition he deserved felt right.
As the bus pulled up and he stepped on, a quiet determination settled in his chest. If his father could face his hardships with that much grace, then Omari could push through his own headaches, his doubts, and all the pressure that came with his life.
He sank into his seat as the low hum of the engine and gentle sway of the ride settled his nerves. Outside, rows of hoses blurred into busy streets and looming buildings, the morning sun flickering through the windows in shifting patterns across his lap.
The throbbing behind his eyes had dulled. Maybe it was the crisp air. Perhaps it was the motion. Either way, he welcomed the relief.
He slipped on his headphones. “True Colors” by Rain City Drive hit his ears — raw, heavy, and oddly soothing. The noise drowned out the world, the lyrics wrapping around his thoughts like armor.
Then a buzz in his pocket snapped him back—a text from his best friend, Juelz.
Juelz:
Yo, how’s your day goin’?
Omari glanced at the screen, a faint smile tugging at his lip despite the dull throb in his skull.
Omari:
Bruh. My head is pounding so bad right now it feels like someone’s hammering an ice pick into it, about to down a whole bottle of Benadryl and call it a day.
Juelz:Allergy medication for a headache? Yeah, that's really gonna solve your migraine problems for sure.
Omari:
This finna be my final migraine 😭
Juelz:
Me at your funeral
Omari:
💀💀💀
Nigga fuck you
Omari:
Anyways, how’s the ranch goin’?
The reply came quickly.
Juelz:
Same old, same old. Feeding animals, fixin’ broken equipment, dodging cow shit.
Peaceful though.
Omari:
Wish I could trade places for a day.
Juelz:Even if you had to deal with the barn rats? 😏
Omari stopped as his body shuddered at the thought.
Omari:
Eww, nah, nvm, lol.
My dad's retirement speech is today, you going?
Juelz:
Yeah, I was gonna head over there after I finish these chores. You going?
Omari paused, staring at the screen. The guilt was nagging at him a bit for not taking the time off work to support his father.
Omari:
Can’t. Gotta head to work.
Juelz:
Damn. Imagine working during your father's retirement speech. Couldn’t be me.
Omari:
Bitch
Juelz:
💀💀💀
I’ll snap some pics for you. Just survive the day, aight?
Omari:Preciate it. Good luck with those chores.
Juelz:Always. Take care of that head, man.
Stepping off the bus, Omari locked his phone and inhaled the crisp autumn air, letting it steady him. The streets buzzed with the morning rush — footsteps echoing, horns blaring, conversations rising and falling like a city-wide symphony. As he approached his office, its sleek glass-and-steel frame stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding historic buildings, catching the morning sun and gleaming like a monument to modern ambition. He paused at the entrance, rolled his shoulders back, and stepped inside. The lobby greeted him with clean lines and cold elegance — minimalist, pristine, and humming with quiet professionalism.
As he made his way to his desk, Omari exchanged nods and brief greetings with a few coworkers. Janet, one of the office managers, waved brightly.
“Morning, Omari! I just adore what you did with your hair today. It looks good on you!”
Omari let out a forced chuckle. “Thanks. Just felt like switching things up,” he replied, flashing a polite grin while hiding his discomfort.
“Well, I love it! Now let’s start the day off right and lead with our best foot forward!”
“Mhm. You said it,” he mumbled as he passed her, rolling his eyes the moment her back turned.
His cubicle was tucked in the back — a modest workspace adorned with a small potted plant, a framed photo of his family, and a few anime and superhero figures standing guard over a stack of sticky notes. He sank into his chair, cracked his knuckles, and slipped on his headset, already scanning his morning queue.
He worked as an information security analyst at KeyDefenders — one of the top-tier cybersecurity firms in America. Fresh out of college, he was among the lucky few who passed all three stages of the interview process. His role was demanding: scanning for anomalies, resolving breaches, and helping clients patch vulnerabilities before their entire networks collapsed.
His finger danced across the keyboard, juggling lines of code, system alerts, and support tickets with practiced ease. His voice stayed calm and professional, even as a dull throb built behind his eyes, making it increasingly more complex to focus. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps, and the constant ping of alerts gnawed at his already fraying nerves.
He could only groan at the minor annoyances, but still, he pressed on.
By lunchtime, work in the office had begun to slow down, and he was able to take a deserved break to get his mind together. He retrieved the container of leftovers his mom had packed — crispy chicken cutlets, on a bed of white rice, with a side of vegetables. As he popped the lid, the familiar aroma of the food offered a moment of comfort, fleeting but grounding.
“Just a few more hours of this and I'll be back in my little icebox, wrapped up in a blanket,” he mumbled with a tired smile, chewing lazily between bites.
Before he could take another bite of his food, his coworker Mark approached from behind him. “Hey, Omari, it’s also time for Dream-Eater’s retirement speech. Everyone’s heading to the break room to watch it together. You coming?”
Omari felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety. He nodded and followed Mark to the break room, where a small crowd of his other coworkers had already gathered. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. The large screen was tuned to a live broadcast from Baltimore City Hall.
The Baltimore mayor stood at the podium, already speaking passionately about Dream-Eater and his legacy. “Dream-Eater has been a savior for Washington, D.C., Maryland, and Virginia for many years. He never gave up hope and protected anyone who needed it. Today, we honor his incredible contributions!”
As the mayor finished his introduction, he introduced Dream-Eater to the stage. Omari’s heart swelled with pride as his father stepped up to the podium, his presence commanding respect. Dressed in a dignified suit and his yellow domino mask that hid his identity, Berlin looked every bit the hero Omari had always known him to be.
Berlin began his speech, his voice steady and robust.
“First, I just want to thank you all for being here and for honoring me today. I’m so grateful to have touched the hearts of so many and just proud to leave such a significant impact on all of you. When I first started my journey as Dream-Eater, I faced more obstacles than I can count. People doubted me, ridiculed me — some outright hated me because of the color of my skin.
But I didn’t let that stop me. I believed that my actions would speak louder than the prejudice thrown my way.”
He paused, scanning the crowd. His eyes shimmered with emotion.
“Being a hero has been the most incredible honor of my life.
As a black man in America, I’ve lived both the struggle and the triumph. I’ve felt the weight of discrimination — and I’ve seen the strength of our people rise despite it.
I wanted to be a symbol — for my children, my grandchildren, and for every man, woman, and child watching who’s ever been told they aren’t enough.
I wanted to prove that no matter the odds, we can rise, we can lead, and we can make a difference.”
Omari’s eyes welled with tears. His father’s words weren’t just about being a hero — they were about the weight of a journey carried in silence.
Berlin’s voice wavered slightly as he pressed on, vulnerability slipping through as he spoke.
“I’ve had the privilege of saving lives…
Of offering hope to people who had none.
I’ve fought villains, stopped world-ending disasters, and stood side by side with great heroes of my peers, such as the Avengers — symbols of justice, resilience, and perseverance..
But through all of it, I carried a secret.
One I feared would’ve eclipsed everything I’ve done.”
He took a steady breath, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. For a moment, the air felt suspended in stillness — everyone waiting for the truth to fall.
“I am a mutant.”
The weight of those four words left the world reeling.
Omari’s breath was caught in his throat. The world around him seemed to pause — the hum of the breakroom TV, the faint crunch of someone chewing chips nearby, the whispers of those around him — it all vanished beneath a growing, deafening silence in his mind.
“My x-gene gave me the abilities that allowed me to protect and save lives. For years, I hid this part of myself because I was afraid. Afraid of how I would be judged, of how people would rather choose death than be saved by something they despised.”
Each word struck harder than the last. Omari’s pulse thundered in his ears. His father — the man who raised him, protected him, guided him — had carried this secret all his life, and never said a word.
Not to him.
Not even once.
His hands trembled slightly at his side. The room was still — everyone's eyes glued to the screen, mouths still somewhat open from shock — but all Omari could focus on was the sudden chasm between who he thought his father was and the man now speaking to the world.
Berlin exhaled slowly. Gripping the edges of the podium as if grounding himself.
“I’ve always believed in honesty and integrity,” he began, his voice low and wavering.” But the truth is — I haven’t been honest. Not with you and not with myself.”
He paused once again, the silence between words stretching like a wire pulled tight. “I lied. Not to deceive, but to survive. To protect myself and my loved ones.”
His eyes lowered for a moment, visibly struggling to hold his gaze with the audience standing in front of him. “But hiding who I am has only deepened the shame I swore I’d never carry.”
He took another breath. One hand briefly trembled before he clenched it.
“I am a mutant — but I’m also Human!”
The words hung in the air like thunder.
“My x-gene — the part of me that once defined me as a hero, gave me the strength to save lives, and touched the hearts of many — is no longer active. I didn’t lie about that. But me losing my powers doesn’t erase who I am.”
His voice cracked slightly but steadied. “I hope that my retiring and coming out today can inspire others to be true to themselves and to embrace who they truly are, regardless of the consequences. I believe that truth still matters. That maybe by standing here, terrified but unmasked, someone out there will see they’re not alone.” He looked onward, no longer feeling shame or fear. “And if you see me differently now, then so be it. But at least you’re seeing the real me.”
“We live in a world divided by fear and misunderstanding. But I stand here hoping to bridge those divides. To show that being different doesn’t make us dangerous. It makes us human. And we can’t keep living divided by fear. As Dr. King once said, ‘We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.’ We must move beyond our prejudices. It’s time to stand united, not just as humans or mutants, but as a single, powerful community capable of great change.”
The crowd erupted — a clash of emotions spilling throughout the audience. Some faces twisted with fury, voices rising in anger, shouting about being deceived by just another “Mutie.” But through the naysayers, an applause swelled into a wave of sound, a roaring crescendo of support. Even some who had jeered at first from the initial shock of being a mutant now found themselves clapping, swept up by Dream-Eater for his honesty and bravery, their cheers cutting through the hostility like a beacon of hope.
Berlin stood tall, a quiet but grateful smile tugging at his lips. He had leapt into the river of uncertainty and swam through its turbulent currents, emerging on the uneasy shores of change. In revealing his truth, he hadn’t just unmasked himself—he’d ignited the possibility of something greater. A chance to build a world rooted in understanding. A future that didn’t just tolerate difference, but embraced it. As he stepped back from the podium, the echo of the crowd’s reaction filled his ears, and for the first time in a long while… he felt hope.
Omari stood in the breakroom, feeling a cold knot of fear and nausea form in the pit of his stomach. The air felt too thin whilst the migraine that had nagged him all morning now pounded with sharp intensity.
Around him, coworkers started to talk amongst themselves about what they just heard while the TV replayed the news footage of Dream-Eater.
“That poor man,” A woman said, wiping the tears away from her eye. “Can you imagine carrying a weight like that? That kind of guilt has to just eat at you.”
A disgruntled man scoffed at her response. “Guilt? Please. It was dumb to hide it in the first place. Who cares if he’s a mutant? The world didn’t end because he came out. Why make it political?”
The woman turned to the man, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Because it is political, Deon. The government hasn’t exactly been kind to mutants. He had his reasons why he didn’t want to come forward sooner.”
Another voice chimed in. “Don’t get me wrong, LaTavia, I love Dream-Eater, I do—but he didn’t ‘really’ need to make it about being a mutant. It took away from the rest of his retirement speech.”
“Did y’all even listen to what he said?” LaTavia shot back. “He told you why—”
Their debate blurred into noise as Omari began to lose track of his thoughts.
His hand clenched around his stomach as his breathing quickened.
Dad’s a mutant?
The room spun violently, his stomach lurching. He turned on his heels and bolted for the hallway, desperate to reach the bathroom—so focused on escape that he slammed straight into Mr. Thompson, his boss.
“Whoa, Omari. You okay? You look pale.”
Omari quickly forced a tight smile. “Oh, um, yeah, sorry about that. I think it's something I ate.”
Thompson nodded. “Well, take ten if you need it. We’ve still got a lot of work we gotta finish today.”
“Ok, thanks,” He nodded back, barely registering Mr. Thompson’s words as he slipped past him.
He staggered into the restroom, clutching the sink as his lunch tore back up in hot, heavy chunks. He snatched a paper towel and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his mind still racing. How could this be possible? His heart beat in shallow and uneven patterns. Panic clawed at his chest as he sobbed from the excruciating pain he was in.
The bathroom lights flickered. Once. Twice. A low hum filled the air, sharp and grating. The hand dryers roared to life on their own. The mirror split with a jagged crack, a web of fractures spreading outward from its center.
Omari struggled to stand. His vision began to blur, bending at the edges so he couldn’t tell what was what anymore. He felt as if he was about to collapse from the pressure that filled his brain. A dark manifestation of energy began to swirl around his body. A strange sensation burned through his veins—dreadfully familiar. The last time he felt something like this, a disaster soon followed—so many good people had lost their lives—a memory he had buried deep, never wanting to recount that terrible day. He had to get out. Now. He grabbed the bathroom door handle and struggled to get back to his desk.
As he slipped out of the bathroom, the dark energy that surrounded his body began to cause havoc in the office. Computers crashed, the ground started to shake, and the phone lines went dead. The air conditioners sputtered to life and then began blasting at full force, causing the entire office to become cold while sending papers and files flying every which way.
Two of his coworkers looked around, bewildered. "What's going on?"Janet exclaimed.
"I don't know, but this is nuts," Deon replied, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding flickering lights.
Suddenly, a loud pop echoed through the office, followed by the smell of burning plastic. One of the many servers blew up, and smoke began to fill the room while the fire alarms blared to life, adding to the cacophony of computers and light beeping and buzzing.
"Everyone out! Now!" Mr. Thompson shouted, trying to herd his panicked employees toward the exits.
Many people fled the building as the smoke thickened, stinging their eyes and making it difficult to breathe. The suffocating atmosphere left many struggling to escape.
Once everyone had been evacuated from inside, a fire raged from the office floor, and the wail of sirens filled the air as firefighters finally arrived on the scene. Mr. Thompson and security did a proper head count, making sure everyone was safe. Omari was already several city blocks away from the commotion going on. A wave of mixed emotions washed over him: guilt for sneaking off without letting anyone know where he was going, and relief that they had all made it out all right. Strangely, the pressure in his head had vanished, and his vision began to come back.
He found himself regaining his balance and clarity, the chaos of the moment fading into a distant blur.
When he finally arrived home, the familiar aroma of spices and cooked meat greeted him as he stepped through the front door. His mother, Jamila, was sitting on the couch, reading a book while the TV played softly in the background as white noise. She had finished preparing dinner and left everything in the oven to keep warm while waiting for her husband and son to return. The warm, savory smells filled the air, a comforting reminder that he was safe.
"Hey, Ma," Omari greeted, trying to sound casual despite the turmoil inside him.
Jamila looked up from the couch, closing her book as she rose to greet her son. Her eyes softened the moment she saw him. "Hey, baby. How was work?" she asked, her voice warm and welcoming.
Omari took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “It was horrible, Ma. After Dad’s speech, my head felt like it was going to explode. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I thought I was going to pass out.”
Jamila’s face paled with concern. “Oh my god,” she gasped. “Are you okay now, Mari? Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine now, better even. I don’t know why,” Omari replied, still feeling a little unsettled by it all.
“Maybe you should go downstairs and rest for a bit,” she said, her voice filled with worry. “I’m glad you’re okay, but I don’t want you overexerting yourself.”
Omari hesitated, not wanting to change the subject. The unanswered questions still burned in his mind. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out: “Why didn’t you tell me Dad was a mutant?”
Jamila’s heart ached with concern for her son’s well-being, but hearing the weight in Omari’s voice, she knew this was about more than just his health. His realization that his father had been hiding something so significant made her pause, choosing her words carefully. She swallowed the rising guilt, her eyes softening as she approached him.
“Omari," she began gently, her voice steady but laced with emotion, "I-it wasn’t my secret to share. Your father said he wanted to handle this when he was ready. I wish he had told you first before he did his retirement speech, but he must’ve had his reasons.” Her gaze flickered, hoping he understood just how difficult it had been to carry that burden in silence.
Jamila walked over to her son, placing a gentle hand on his arm, trying to comfort him. "Omari," she said softly, "your father loves you. Just think about the situation for just one moment,"
Omari pulled away, his frustration boiling over. His jaw tightened as he asked, “Does Sapphire know? What about Tatum?”
She hesitated before answering, her voice soft. "Yes, they both know."
The revelation hit Omari like a stab through his heart. He took a deep breath, his anger and confusion still simmering beneath the surface, though tempered by his mother's sincerity. Both of his sisters had known all this time, and they had kept this secret from him, as well. He had always hated being the last to find out things in his family, but this, this felt different. He didn’t know where to start, trying to process the anger and betrayal that stormed inside him.
"Aight, cool, whatever," he muttered, the words barely escaping past the lump in his throat. He turned away, feeling the weight of everything crashing down around him.
He trudged downstairs, shutting his bedroom door with a sharp click. Face-first, he collapsed into his pillow, a muffled groan slipping out—frustrated, drained, worn thin by the entire ordeal. Stripping out of his work clothes, Omari slid under the covers, hoping that sleep, at least, might quiet his mind and offer him the peace the day had denied.
Hours slipped by before the basement steps finally groaned under Berlin’s weight. He descended slowly, every step deliberate, his broad frame stretching into a long shadow beneath the dim light. He stopped at his son’s door, pushed it open, and lingered in silence—bracing himself.
“You just gonna stand there, or you gonna say something?” Omari muttered, voice dry, tired.
Berlin exhaled. “I was just tryin’ to give you space, Twilight.”
Omari scoffed, sitting up, eyes sharp now. “Space? You had years of space and opportunity to tell me the truth. Instead, I had to hear it on live TV.”
“I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But watch your tone, boy. I won’t take disrespect from anyone—not even you.”
Omari’s glare hardened. “Then tell it to me straight. How come you never told me? I had no idea you were a mutant.”
“Your mother wanted to tell you sooner,” Berlin began, his voice heavy. “But with everything going on in the world, the timing never felt right. It’s not an easy conversation to have.”
Omari shook his head, his voice breaking with anger. “But it was ok for Sapphire and Tatum to know. Why the hell was I the last to know?”
“Omari, listen—” Berlin reached for his son’s shoulder.
Omari smacked his hand away and stood, Anger burning in his voice. “Stop! That’s bullshit, and you know it! Just tell me the truth, please!”
Berlin let out a long sigh. He knew he couldn’t hide the truth any longer, and so he did what he should’ve done a long time ago. “I did it to protect you! Don’t you understand! Your mother and your sisters were already at risk just for knowing about me. And if I told you the truth, you would have realized,” he stopped, not wanting to finish the thought.
He stopped there, the unfinished thought hanging heavy in the air.“I- I’m a mutant?” Omari’s voice trembled, the words barely leaving his lips.
The answer was in his father’s eye. No words, just confirmation. Omari saw the hurt reflected on his face when he gazed at his father; the look of betrayal cut deeper than anything he’d ever felt. His throat tightened. “How long? Have you known?”
“Since your accident,” Berlin admitted, his voice low. “I originally thought it skipped your generation because your X-gene never manifested in the same years when mine did. But the day of that crash, when you were rushed to the hospital, I had you blood tested just to be sure, and your results came back positive. I didn’t have the heart to tell you the truth. You’re right, son, I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry.”
His father's apology had cracked something open inside him. Everything he’d buried away since that unfortunate day was able to claw its way back to the forefront of his mind—visions flashing like fire. Half-conscious. Flames raging. Screams begging for mercy. The night the world believed was a freak accident—the night hundreds died. And now, realizing it could have been him.
“No… no, no, no…” Omari staggered back, softly muttering to himself, “Oh God, no…” he bawled, choking up on his own tears. He buried his face in his hands, guilt gnawing at him like teeth.
Berlin pulled his son into a firm embrace, holding him as if he could shield him from the truth itself.
“If the world had known you were a mutant after that day, they’d have hunted you down,” Berlin expressed with lingering sadness in his voice. “ They would’ve wanted you dead! So I had to cover it up; I had to pull some strings as Dream-Eater. I had to use my powers to wipe the memories of the results from the doctor's mind and the records from the hospital. I told the press it was because of a car’s faulty brakes, and that was the reason behind the car crash, so that it couldn’t be traced back to you. I made the family keep quiet about it, so you didn’t have to live with that guilt. I’ve seen what happens when truth comes out too soon. Children dragged from their homes, men and women beaten to death in the streets for something they had no control over. No one ever looks for mercy or reason when it comes to an accident; they just see a monster who took innocent lives and wishes them to be gone.”
His tone cracked, the pain creeping in. “You think I wanted to lie to you? Every damn day, I carried the weight of that secret, hating myself for it. But I did it because I couldn’t let them take you away from me! I couldn’t, Omari.”
As his son trembled in his arms, Berlin’s chest ached with the weight of everything that transpired. He never meant to hurt his child; he only wanted to protect him from the cruelty of the world. But secrets always come with a price, and he may not have known it now, but the bond he and his son once shared has been fractured.
And he has no choice but to face the consequences of his actions.
Meanwhile, far from the warmth of the Love family household, in a cold, sterile office building in Downtown D.C., a different kind of tension simmered. Inside a pitch-black conference room, a man sat alone, the only light coming from the cold, blue glow of a TV screen. The screen’s flickering light cast eerie shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his features. He watched Dream-Eater’s retirement speech with a chilling intensity, his eyes narrowing with every word. As the speech came to an end, the man leaned back in his chair, his expression twisted into one of disgust. Silence filled the room for a moment before he broke it, his voice low, dripping with venom.
"Fool," he muttered, the word hanging in the air like a curse. "Dream-Eater, a full-fledged mutant," he spat, each word laced with contempt. "I should have known. Always siding with them, protecting them, whereas others chose to look the other way. Mutants, always hiding in the shadows, shying away from the scrutiny they so deserve." His lip curled in disgust as he leaned forward, the cold blue glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes.
"It's sickening how the so-called 'next step in human evolution' needs to be coddled, sheltered away like frightened animals, whining the moment life gets hard." He paused, his voice dropping lower, venomous. "It's disgusting."
The man stood from his seat, his silhouette looming large against the backdrop of the dimly lit room. He paced back and forth in the conference room, each step echoing in the confined space, his mind racing with plans and schemes. “Dream-Eater, you think you can inspire change, bring about a new era of equality. Preposterous, I won’t let that happen. I can’t let that happen.”
The man reached out, pressing a button on his desk, causing the monitor to flicker off, plunging the room into total darkness once again. He stood there for a moment, the silence thick with malevolence, before turning on his heel and striding out of the room. The door closed behind him with a final resounding thud.
This was more of a design sketch, more of an example for what I was doing to add to a rp that me and 2 other friends do. But I decided to keep them, since they pretty cute.
Dream-Eater belongs to me
(Reblogs are appreciated/Don’t repost art without permission/Don't trace my art/Please don't take my art and claim it as your own)
Blake’s Gengar, Fade, is a bit of an odd case. He makes himself look all creepy and crawly, but it seems that if he gets to know you he’ll occasionally help you with something, or some other nice gesture.
Sometimes Nico will let his former trainer keep watch over his children, if he needs to be somewhere overnight for example. Taffy ended up sleeping over on an unfortunate night where she had a nightmare. Fade barely knows her, but his past efforts in scaring her ended up in her giggling it off, confusing him and making him wonder if she’s scared of anything.
Fade has the move Dream Eater, which can be used as an offensive move in battle… Really, that only works with good dreams - nightmares are not painful to eat for the target. Seeing the poor little shaymin whining in fear, crying for help… well. He couldn’t just let her suffer!
commission for @zelsnyder
full size image can be accessed via my patreon! - https://www.patreon.com/screamoshaymin
Dream Eater: The $40,000 Horror Masterpiece That Terrified Eli Roth - An In-Depth Interview
The $40,000 Nightmare: How Three Filmmakers and Eli Roth Created 2025's Most Terrifying Found Footage Experience
In an era where "independent film" often means multi-million dollar productions with A-list stars and studio backing, true indie horror has become increasingly rare. Enter Blind Luck Pictures—the filmmaking collective of Mallory Drumm, Jay Drakulic, and Alex Lee Williams—who embody the purest spirit of independent cinema. Their latest creation, Dream Eater, represents everything authentic about grassroots horror: raw passion, creative ingenuity, and the willingness to sacrifice everything for the art.
What makes this story even more remarkable is the involvement of horror legend Eli Roth, whose company The Horror Section is distributing the film. When the director of Cabin Fever and Hostel says a movie "scared the fuck out of me," the genre community takes notice.
The Birth of a Nightmare
Dream Eater emerged from the most personal places—the filmmakers' own experiences with sleep disorders. Mallory Drumm's history with lucid dreaming and night terrors, combined with Jay Drakulic's childhood sleepwalking episodes, provided the authentic foundation for their "available footage" parasomniac nightmare.
"For me, it got so bad that I ended up teaching myself to lucid dream," Drumm explains. "When I was having a night terror, I could tell myself, 'Okay, Mal, this is just a dream. You can change what's happening,' so I wouldn't get zero sleep all the time. Those moments definitely came into play when we were building out the scares."
Drakulic's childhood experiences were equally unsettling: "My brother would say, 'I found you standing in my doorway in the middle of the night, staring and mumbling.' Or my mom would say, 'You walked into the room and said, Dracula's in my bedroom.' Those were things we used, like the 'standing-in-the-doorway' moment; it's literally in the movie."
Research Meets Horror
The team didn't rely solely on personal experience. Their deep dive into sleep science and parasomnia research revealed disturbing real-world cases that informed their fictional narrative. "There was a guy in Canada who drove to his in-laws', murdered them, drove back home and went to sleep. He got off because he was sleepwalking," Drakulic reveals. "That's the kind of real danger we drew from, then put a horror spin on it."
This commitment to authenticity extends to the film's technical approach. Rather than traditional found footage, they coined the term "available footage," acknowledging their creative liberties while respecting the subgenre's conventions. "We're taking the rules that are there and expanding on them, and we feel comfortable breaking the rules because we respect them," Williams explains.
The $40,000 Miracle
Perhaps the most astonishing aspect of Dream Eater is its microscopic budget. When Eli Roth first encountered the film, he assumed it cost over a million dollars. The reality? A mere $40,000—a testament to the filmmakers' resourcefulness and dedication.
"These guys just put in their blood, sweat, tears, and literally froze themselves for it," Roth marvels. The physical commitment was extreme: when other actors refused to endure the harsh conditions, Drumm and Williams stepped into the lead roles themselves, subjecting their bodies to brutal Quebec winter conditions for the sake of authenticity.
"Her legs were fucking black and blue after some of these Foley takes," Drakulic recalls about Drumm's dedication. "The camera would take a spill, so she had to now take a spill for that sound—to be authentic."
Cinematic Influences and Happy Accidents
The film's winter setting wasn't originally planned. A scheduling conflict pushed production from fall 2022 to March 2023, coinciding with record Quebec snowfall. Rather than compromise their vision, the team embraced the elements, drawing inspiration from Black Christmas and other winter horror classics.
"It felt like all the movie gods were telling us, 'No, this has to be the coldest movie since fucking My Bloody Valentine that's going to reach the screen,'" Williams reflects.
This adaptability led to some of the film's most memorable moments. When a planned mountain scene became inaccessible due to snow, they pivoted to a wood-chopping sequence inspired by The Amityville Horror—with Williams learning to split logs just minutes before filming.
The Eli Roth Seal of Approval
For a filmmaker who's seen everything the horror genre has to offer, Eli Roth's enthusiasm for Dream Eater is particularly significant. He compares the film's climactic crawl space sequence to the attic scene in Paranormal Activity and the final moments of [REC]—high praise indeed.
"The last 15 minutes of this movie are among the scariest I've seen in anything," Roth declares. "It's so tense and so frightening, and I rarely get scared like that. As a fan, it was such a delight to watch."
Roth's involvement through The Horror Section represents more than just distribution—it's a validation of authentic independent horror in an increasingly corporate landscape. "I wanted this movie to have its best shot, and I wanted the fans to have that experience of getting to go out and see it on the big screen."
Technical Excellence on a Shoestring
Despite its minimal budget, Dream Eater achieves remarkable technical sophistication. Cinematographer Mike Katarina's handheld work creates what Drakulic describes as "beautiful cinematography, but not jarring to the narrative." The team's meticulous approach to sound design—re-recording scenes specifically for Foley work—demonstrates their commitment to professional standards regardless of financial constraints.
"They would shoot the scene and they would go back and Foley it," Roth explains. "They're getting the footsteps in the snow and the sound of the house creaking and the howling wind. They redo the scene so they have clean Foley because the sound is so spectacular in the movie."
The Future of Independent Horror
Dream Eater's success—playing in 350 theaters nationwide—proves that authentic independent horror can still find its audience. The film's partnership with Blackcraft Cult for limited-edition merchandise further demonstrates the power of grassroots marketing and community building.
"What Dream Eater reignited in me is, you can make cool stuff with nothing," reflects one of the filmmakers. "And when people really want to do it, you can do things quickly, you can do things cheaply. You can do things with very talented people who aren't famous, who don't have a name that's going to be the thing that sells it."
A New Standard for Found Footage
In a subgenre often criticized for lazy filmmaking and cheap scares, Dream Eater represents a return to the innovation that made early found footage films so effective. By grounding their supernatural elements in real sleep disorders and pushing themselves to physical extremes, Blind Luck Pictures has created something genuinely unsettling.
"Nothing's cheap in the movie, except the price," Roth concludes. "It's really incredible."
As horror continues to evolve in the streaming age, Dream Eater serves as a reminder that the genre's most powerful moments still come from passionate filmmakers willing to sacrifice everything for their vision. In an industry increasingly dominated by algorithms and market research, there's something beautifully subversive about three filmmakers who simply refused to compromise.
For horror fans seeking authentic scares over manufactured thrills, Dream Eater represents everything the genre can be when creators prioritize passion over profit. It's a nightmare born from real dreams—and real nightmares—that reminds us why independent horror matters.
Dream Eater is currently playing in theaters nationwide through The Horror Section. The film represents a new model for independent horror distribution and community engagement.
CW - rough sex, mind-breaking, and piss
🎨: @/vvulfbara
King Namor’s latest attempt to drown the surface world ended in crushing failure, repelled by heroes from every corner of the globe.
But the victory came at a cost.
Countless lives were saved, yet many were hurt amid the chaos. Among them… Nocturne — Omari Love.
When Berlin Love saw his son wounded with his fellow heroes, something ancient stirred within him. He donned his suit and mask once again, becoming the Dream-Eater.
He descended upon Atlantis not as a man… but as a god searching for vengeance.
“Yeah. I know. We’ve all got nightmares. We’ve all seen...things. But it’s never about being afraid - it’s about keeping your feet moving. Can’t do anything when you’re dead, you follow? No hunter likes being useless.
Same thing happens when you close your eyes. Your purpose fades. Everything that drives you; your goals, your hopes, your desires - gone. Replaced with dreams. And the longer you’re dark, the harder it is to pull it all back.
There’s no agency in dreams. Empty wishes, solipsistic promises. We’ve heard that trap before, haven’t we? Used to be a saying: “Sleep when you’re dead.” Turns out, sleep’s a luxury the dead can’t afford.
So I don’t.
I hunted my dreams across that long dark. I peeled them from the deepness where they hid and taunted me, and I wove them into a mantle. Now I am cloaked in the reverie of the woken. Now my blade is keen and true. Now my path is clear:
When you have eaten your dreams, only the Real remains.”
