In this world

The dream's of children

Are the only thing pure

And full of truth.


Waking up always took forever, and always included a morning routine - unless the person was nocturnal, then it was a night time routine. However, upon waking up, Imogen could not tell what time it was, nor could she tell where she was. The bed was unfamiliar with new, white sheets and pillows and blankets, all of which she had never lain her eyes on before. It was a four poster bed, and upon removing the veil-like, transparent white curtains, she could not tell where she was based on the room the bed was located in. Ideas boggled about in her skull until her head began to ache. The walls were painted black, the doors were white. The floors were large black and white tiles, a yard by a yard wide. For now, the setting was bland, but Imogen was a Dream Weaver. The only limitations she knew were those of her imagination and creativity.

The woman of twenty-three sprung from the bed and landed on her hands. She hopped onto a white tile and pressed a black tile next to it with her foot. It immediately sprung up to her full height. Inside the prism was a wardrobe of outfits, in stepped the young woman. "Now to see where I have fallen," Imogen murmured to herself as she exited the closet in a tank top and long, flowing skirt. The prism returned to its life as a tile and the young woman's feet carried her to the door which she walked right through. The hallway she entered went to the right, to the left, and straight, so she took a left.

A man came running at her from behind, screaming something. "Hey! You! You, get back here! Don't walk away from me! You know I'm talking to you, freak!" He was dressed in a suit, and he was bald for the most part.

Imogen turned around and smiled at him. Her long skirt ruffled and twisted around her, flickering specks of white at her bare feet a few times before settling to a somewhat still position. "Well, aren't you in a chipper mood, sir. You call me "Freak" and I'll call you..." Imogen put a finger to her chin as she thought about a nickname for the rude man. "I could call you "Baldy" or "Ornery" I think that one's cute," giggled the woman as she rested her hands back at her sides and walked through him. "So tell me, Ornery, what is this place and why am I here?" She inquired lightheartedly.

"Just follow me," grumbled the man as he headed the way they had come.

"Oh, I see, you're Bossy!" Imogen giggled as she followed him down the hallways then into a study. "Are you going to tell me anything at all, Bossy?" The walls were covered in books and the room was decorated with Victorian Era furniture. Personally, the young woman was impressed by the collection. There was an old musty smell about the room which was generally brought about by an old book being open or from dusty, old oak window panes. "It smells like Father's study, the way it did before I passed..." the woman thought grimly and let out a heavy sigh.

"Suddenly not so chipper, Freak," the man taunted coldly.

Imogen looked up at the man with upset eyes. "I don't see you as a ghost, Bossy, but I suggest you don't anger those who decide whether you have the gift of a dream or a nightmare."

Bossy rolled his eyes and turned away from Imogen to look about the room. "Where did Krauss go?" He questioned into the empty, musty air. Then the man in the suit went into the hallway for a moment then came back. After a few minutes, several other people walked in. One was red, another was blue, there was a woman, than a man in what bore very close resemblance to an old diving suit. "So, tell me, who are you."

"I am Imogen... Somethin'-or-another."

"And?"

"Aaaaand?" Imogen taunted. "You're quite rude, Bossy. Not even tellin' me yer name! Not much of a gentleman you are! Father always told me people like you were people I should not trust. I think you deserve nightmares!"

The red man with horns and a tail and funny legs sat down in a red, leather chair. "You talk like you're a little kid," he scoffed as he lit up a cigar.

"As I should!" Imogen retorted with a Hurumph!

"What are you exactly?" The tin can asked.

Imogen grinned and triumphantly replied, "I'm a Dream Weaver!" The woman was sincerely proud of her title.

If the thing could smile, it probably would have. "And that means what exactly?"

"It means I've been dead a loooong time, and I know a lot, and I make dreams and nightmares, and I've passed a lot of tests in the afterlife, because I wanted to be a Weaver," replied Imogen quickly. "Father was really sad when it happened, and started smoking and drinking a lot more, but I helped a little. I gave him good dreams and nice sleepy times. Mama... Mama didn't last too long though. That was when Father was overwhelmed with sadness, and I couldn't help much after that, because Mama lingered."

"Is that so now?" The diver wondered. "Did you know that you fell out of Agent Sherman's ear?"

"Oh really?" Imogen tilted her head to the side as she thought about it. "Oh! I remember now! Miss, you have such a pretty little head, I left you're dreams 'cus I thought you were really sweet. And- Well I can't exactly say the personal stuff in front of everyone, now can I? That would be awfully mean of me."


I don't own Hellboy.

I hope you enjoyed.