Countless stories were born from loss—losing a lover, losing innocence, losing freedom, losing youth, losing anything at all. Almost anything could be turned into a story.
The only difference lay in whether the various outer trappings of those stories could move people's hearts.
If they could, then the story would be performed.
If not, they would be left in the Dreaming, within this castle amid the Dream Dimension, to slumber forever on bookshelves even Dream would never remember.
Yet the crack in the Dreaming's sky remained. Emptiness had replaced faith. Something had been "lost," but the story of the Dreaming itself was nowhere to be found.
"So what are we doing here?"
Bobo disliked places like this very much. In dreams, there were rabbits in vests that could talk, porcupines carrying apples across the road, Little Red Riding Hood with an Uzi Submachine Gun in her basket, and Pac-Men seemingly made of pixels running everywhere.
He felt ordinary here. People would see a talking ape and not even give him a second glance.
On Earth, he hated the looks people gave him as though they were visiting some rare animal. Yet here, he instead feared being ignored or forgotten.
Though he was an ape, he had the same flaws as a human. Right now, he wanted to return to the Main World, stride down the street with his head held high, face the astonished stares coming from all directions, and say, "This is great."
But he could not. All he could do was follow behind Deathstroke and chatter nonstop.
The two humans and one ape had passed through Hell to enter the Dreaming. The war between angels and devils still raged within that sulfur-reeking dimension. Fortunately, Mazikeen was clearly still satisfied with the many recordings Deathstroke had given her last