Jeez sorry for another short one. The next one is longer.

Lurid red and gold burst like blobs of paint, sizzling, with more falling from some confusing angle—up? The hissing of their heating and evaporating burned through his body, over and over. There was sound in the place, but he couldn't make any of his own. His mouth opened in pain, yet, still, not even an exhale came out with enough force to be heard. The heat rose first in his chest, then spread to every limb, and the red and gold shapes of circles that fell on top of him tortured him.

Dylan writhed in the white void of nothing except the red and gold and the pain, unable to clearly feel his own limbs. He cried up and shot his head up, abruptly slamming his feet to the ground and rising, hands flat on his desk.

The teacher and all the eyes of students in the room whirled to him, with a grand silence of utter embarrassment rising out of Dylan. He'd nodded off and had a nightmare, then yelled awake from it and was now standing, mortified at his outburst.

"Dylan?" The English teacher curiously questioned. "Are you alright?"

That dream had felt so real! Almost, Dylan could feel tingles of burning running down his arms and through his fingers. He hardly heard the teacher, checking his hands, seeing nothing the matter. But his heart was still pounding and he felt lightheaded.

Without responding, he dropped to his chair, hand on his forehead. That was the second time he'd unfortunately dealt with that particular, exact strange nightmare, and if this second round was any indication, the dream would persist, feeling more real every terrible time. It was just so perplexing, that the confusion alone stressed Dylan further.

He leaned forward, raising his other hand to prop his elbows on the desk, closing his eyes tight in mental pain, now both fists against his forehead.

"Dylan," came the mouse teacher's voice again, this time right at his desk.

"Huh?" Dylan lurched his face up.

She was standing next to him, her eyes downcast with worry, "Do you need to go see the nurse?"

The tone. Dylan eyed those around him still focused on his form. Swallowing, he shook his head, murmuring, "Sorry. I guess I fell asleep. I'll pay attention, really."

He was a good student, so the teacher only nodded and walked back to the front of the class. Everyone knew how diligently he studied and since a few days ago, everyone had also become aware of his special healing ability. The bullying had completely stopped. Some students still eyed him with awe and a bit of mixed trepidation. A few outright avoided him. Dylan had been successfully ignoring the new odd behavior pointed at him, but then the dreams had recommenced.

Dylan clutched a pencil and really tried to listen, but his mind still wandered to the dream. Lest he forget any details, he commenced writing it all out on a sheet of notebook paper as the teacher stood at the front of the class, reading out examples of academic arguments and compare and contrast essays.

With the bell ringing, Dylan rose and hastened out. That was the last period. His mother had some tutoring to handle, so he scurried over to the study center and slid quietly in. Only a few students were present, no surprise due to his ability to outrun everyone. Isolena was silently scribbling red notes on student essays, her eyes focused downward.

Dylan approached and slid his books on the desk before her, "Mom, can I share something with you?"

"Hmm?" She glanced up, then down again. "What it is? Will it take long? I have a student coming in just a minute."

Her cursory tone disappointed him. And, on cue, a teenage male of unprepossessing acne and wiry frame tentatively hesitated into the room and, upon seeing his dreaded tutor, swallowed and trudged over.

"Will you be doing this a while, Mom? I really wanted to tell you about a dream I had," Dylan hopefully spoke.

"Not sure, honestly. But you can tell me tonight. Will that work?" Isolena did give him some seconds of full attention.

He could only nod. The boy was sitting down with an uncertain smile and his mother had to turn to him to begin their session.

Dylan retrieved his books, sighing, "I'll be at home."

"Alright, Dylan. See you later."

That was all the answer he received. Isolena began explaining whatever it was she was tasked to assist with for the student, and so with one last forlorn glance, Dylan exited and took his leave of the school entirely. For some reason, he felt almost compelled to share the terrible dream with someone. Maybe he needed a release. Writing it down hadn't given him that exhale. The fear was still pent up in his body and had to be expelled.

What about Glenda? They hadn't talked in quite some time. Eagerly, Dylan pulled his phone out, was just scrolling to her number when an authoritative voice broke out in front of him.

"Hello! Are you Dylan Marshall?"

Almost with a jump, Dylan gasped and looked up. A human woman with blonde-streaked, dark brown hair and blue eyes was standing just steps to his front. She held a microphone and wore a lavender two-piece suit and black stilettos. Near her, another woman stood, holding a large camera on her shoulder.

Dylan was confused, automatically answering, "Yes. Wh—who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Doll from Station Square Channel Six. Is it true your blood can heal a person of any disease, even terminal ones?"

Her abruptness and overt official tone unsettled Dylan. The microphone was suddenly shoved before him and his mind blanked. He could only stutter, "Y—yes."

"Really? How long have you been able to heal people? Were you born with the ability?"

In a way, he had actually been born with it. His body had, anyway. But, the technicalities of all that was stressful for Dylan. He just didn't want to lie.

The woman prodded on, though, without waiting for his response, "How does your ability work? Is it because of the chaos emerald powder that's in your blood? Can you explain the process to us for the news?"

Wait—she was talking too fast, too constantly, and already bewildered at being accosted by a news station, Dylan stepped back to try to focus his thoughts with some coherency. And reduce his intimidation at the reporter. She kept persisting with related questions, but Dylan withdrew into his mind to sort himself out.

After a few seconds, he took a breath and decided to face her, as it would probably be best to address all potential media head-on instead of avoid them. He wouldn't dodge anyone or anything anymore. The cowardice had to stop.

"Yes, the chaos emerald powder is what heals people," Dylan broke in over whatever she was rambling on about.

She grew silent a second, then asked, "By itself? I've never heard of that before."

"No. It works with my blood."

"How can that be? Is your blood special?"

He had to think about if or what to say to that, as the more information he might reveal meant the further she and others might dig and thus reach for the truth of his human past, which Dylan still didn't want to reveal.

Therefore, he could only respond with, "There is an element in my blood that works with the powder. Together, it can heal people."

Then, jarring him, Doll asked, "Is your mother really Isolena Marshall, the ex-G.U.N. scientist that was the focal point of the Project Miracle fiasco?"

"No comment," he whispered, gut dropping. This is what courage brought: panic, worry, crushing alarm. No comment would just prolong this Doll reporter and others from, indeed, finding the truth. Being a healer probably brought him some positive clout. On the opposite spectrum, being discovered as the disembodied son of a mad scientist that had been cut and sewn back together as a hedgehog would certainly create a gasp of horror for him: repulsion and public ostracizing for his mother, and pity and even perhaps vile interest of him by unkind groups that would seek to abuse him for their own purposes.

"You must know about her past," Doll persisted. "Were you part of her experimentation? Why else would she adopt you as her son?"

Suddenly stung with her words, Dylan half glared up at her and responded, "Excuse me? Does my mother need a reason like that to adopt me? Is it so impossible for you to think that maybe, just maybe, she adopted me because she wanted me and loved me? Why is it so hard to believe that a human would want a mobian?" After catching his breath, he tried to calm down, "Look, I think your remark is innocent. You're just fishing for stories. But, I'm tired of your kind of questions, because it just shows me that humans still dislike mobians. I'm tired of it. I may get backlash from saying this, but I don't care anymore! Humans and mobians need to get over their prejudices of each other and live in harmony! I'm not going to live the rest of my life letting all this get me down, though. There's more out there than those stupid feelings! Now, I gotta go."

"Wait—"

Dylan zoomed away. Anger more than fear permeated his soul. He just let himself run through streets, not knowing where he was or caring at all. He was far more than fast enough to exist as a streak through block after block. No wonder Sonic and Shadow destressed like this. It felt great! Cold, yes, but he didn't care about that, either. Maybe only a few minutes passed. Maybe longer. He ran with no destination until he had to stop, panting for breath.

He leaned against a random street pole to let his body calm down. Then his phone rumbled.

Dylan whipped it out. It was Flicka! Suppressing excitement, he instantly answered, "Hey?"

"Hey! Wait. Why are you so breathless?"

"I've been on a run," he admitted.

She hesitated, "Was this because of that snooping reporter babe?"

"How'd you know?"

"Uh, excuse me? You didn't notice the several dozen people filming your interaction with her? I totally just saw the video online and so did a lot of others."

Dylan leaned his head against the pole, "Figures. Yeah, I—I needed to let off some anger, I guess."

Flicka's tone lowered in a flirtatious manner, "Well, I thought you were quite brave." Cutting even thicker with the smooth syllables, she asked, "Hey, can I bring take out over to your place tonight for dinner? Are you busy?"

He wasn't, but Dylan felt a new wash of something alien: terror over being in a place with her, without his mother there, even if it was his own house. His throat cramped up and he stepped away from the pole, unsure suddenly of where he was. Was this a stay-at-home date?

Pressing down his nerves, Dylan nodded, though she wasn't there to see, "Sure."

"Great! I'll be by at six with food from Saucy Sally's. It's this really great Italian place!"

"Okay. That's fine. My mom may not be home."

"Oh, that's great!" Flick gleefully giggled and hung up.

Things had really turned around between he and that cat in such an almost unbelievably short amount of time, considering especially that he'd told her about his past. Almost, it was too much for Dylan's mind to handle. He marveled at how Flicka had seemingly so easily accepted who and what he was, but he also tried not to dig into why that was, lest he doubt the girls' sincerity.

Why destroy something so nice that was forming between them? Maybe she just liked him for him and it was as simple as that.

Dylan shook his head and ran home. He attempted to work through homework, to bide his time, but then his mother did step into the house before six. Thus, though he felt disappointed, Dylan was still very pleased when Flicka arrived and settled into being content that he had to, again, share their time with his mother. Eventually, he'd go out on a real date with Flicka. Good things came to those who were patient.