In the past, present and future, (also, never); there may have been a man. This man must have had a name though no one could tell you what it was. He may have been mad, they said but no one really knew why, aside from him not making much sense pretty much most of the time. This, the man had found to be normal as he went about his business, unfettered by their op.
The man was obsessed with life, the universe and everything, to the point of genuinely believing there was something wrong with it all. He was by no means the first to make these claims but may have been one of the few foolhardy enough to look for proof.
His search led him to all corners of the globe, meeting wise and mad men alike, scientists and preachers, but found no answer adequate enough.
As coincidence would have it, he met a man just before he would embark on his journey home, who told him of a modern prophet he needed to visit before giving up.
And so the man followed directions he was given and arrived at an ordinary building.
He chuckled at how ordinary it all looked before realising the building had no bells or buttons, no names or numbers anywhere.
He was given no time to continue his examination of the house before someone opened the door.
"Come this way mad one, our prophet is waiting." Said a clearly audible but soft female voice. She was hooded like a western monk, her robes were so large and oversized her that it seemed no one was wearing them. She let him up several flight of stairs before arriving at a corridor with only two ways to go.
"Worry yourself not with me and follow the light to the prophet." The monk spoke before walking off in the exact opposite direction that she was pointing.
And so he followed the light, quite literally. It seemed the hallways, stairs and the second door from the right were all lit with a strip of lights to help guide the way, there was no getting lost.
The man walked in to find a fatter older person sitting on a futon in an offensively asian themed room. The fat man was clearly not asian and felt very out of place in this room. Any features that could have indicated ethnicity, had it mattered at all, were hidden under layers of wrinkles and long grey hairs.
"Welcome mad one, I am the prophet Molodo, it is wonderful to finally meet you in the flesh, in a manner of speaking."
"You know me?" asked the mad man.
"I wouldn't say that as such, I have however seen you in my dreams, our meeting is what you may call fate."
"I'm not sure I'd call it fate if you send for me." The mad man replied.
The fat man smiled, amused by something only known to him.
"But never mind that. You seek answers about the world, and you have now found them," the fat man stated, "I am the man who dreams the world."
The mad one gave him a weird look.
"You do know how absurd that sounds, right?" He mocked.
The fat man laughed quite audibly again, which made the monk from earlier walk into the room in a mildly anxious strut. The fat prophet waved his hand at the monk and the monk sat down.
"I am sure it sounds absurd, but more absurd is that I know you possess a tool in that backpack that will prove I am not lying."
The mad man took a moment to think and started going through his backpack, looking for a specific tool. He wasn't sure if his scanning device was what the fat man meant, but he had an idea.
He took the scanner and stood there in silence as the machine made all manner of digital and whirring sounds, analysing the fat man from top to bottom. After several minutes of these excruciating low-bit noises, the prophet had gone surprisingly quiet. A monk came into the room to sit beside him but was unable to sit still for more than 3 seconds at a time.
The scanner did reveal something, announced by a flashing green light which lit up the mad man's face. He tried hard but failed to conceal a far too disheartening smile as a single bell sound announcing it had completed its full analysis.
The mad man made no attempt to explain anything as he went rummaging through his bag once more. He took out what looked like a small telescope and started looking at the prophet through it. He scanned the fat man from tip to toe, which took a while, but eventually he settled on the man's head.
"Well, well, well," he said, going back to his backpack, "You aren't right or wrong, my chubby friend, but I will admit you may be exceeding my expectations."
The prophet didn't respond.
"Our prophet has narcolepsy," said the monk beside him, "He very rarely wakes up."
The mad man laughed true to his name.
"I guess if you're going to dream the world," he began, "That would be an appropriate super-power."
He took from his backpack a device that looked rather suspiciously like a gun, then proceeded to point it at the fat man's head. The monk, having noticed this, jumped up and reached for the gun as it was pointed at their prophet.
"Don't worry," he said as he took a step back, "I know what it looks like but it won't hurt him. It will go right through him, it's a - how to best explain this - it's a 4D gun, it shoots through a dimension we don't use right now."
"Don't you have a different tool you can use?" the monk replied without thought.
The mad man sighed and put the gun down next to his backpack.
"I suppose I have one other tool that could do the job."
He pulled out what looked suspiciously like a knife.
"This also won't hurt him," he said as he stood in front of the monk, showing her the knife, "None of us will feel any of this."
The monk looked over at it while the mad man held it up to her.
As she stretched her arm out to grab it, the mad man sliced through her fingers as well as the fat man's head in a swift and rather graceful swing. For a moment it felt like the world held its breath. The monk flinched, but realised after having done so that she didn't actually feel anything. She looked over and to her surprise not even the drops of sweat on the prophets head had been displaced.
"See," he said as he inspected the knife and the sleeping man with the scope, "Goes right through."
"It's done, then?" Molodo asked, barely awoke and having trouble remaining so.
"I think so, I'll know for certain in a few minutes." the mad man replied as he set the scanner next to the knife.
He then turned away from the knife to face the prophet.
"So, for real, Molodo," He began, "Do they know what this is? your -euh- 'Order'?"
"They know the prophecy I've shared with them," he said drowsily, "They know what must be done, and what is to come."
"And what about her?" the mad man asked, pointing at the monk sitting next to Molodo, failing to hide her anxiety.
Molodo was silent. The mad man looked over to the monk.
"Look, I'm sorry, your father is dying. Nothing anyone could have done will prevent that but he may have bought himself some time by finding me. Cherish the time."
The scanner rang a fanfare that broke the silence that had hung awkwardly.
"Well it's confirmed," He said as he turned around to look at the scanner, "I took it out."
He got up and packed all his equipment away. He put the knife carefully into its sheath and packed it away into a separate compartment of his bag.
"A couple of years down the line we may feel today's events but I wouldn't worry too much." He said as he looked over at Molodo, "What am I to do with it after I'm done probing?"
"I want it to have..." Molodo began before pausing, no one could say whether he was pensive or asleep, "No, I need it to have a new dream. One I have seen only you can provide. You will understand when you get home and do your thing."
Molodo was falling asleep again, but he signalled for the mad man to come closer so he could whisper.
"Thank you, Trevor, and I'm sorry..." the old man slurred in whispers as he fell asleep once more.
The mad man was slightly surprised.
"What did he say?" the monks asked.
"He thanked me, and called me a thief." He lied.
"Then you must go," The monk said while turning her head, "Go fulfil my father's prophecy and leave us be."
Trevor agreed, grabbed his bag and made his way over to the door. On his way out he bowed before Molodo and his daughter, both. As he exited he saw that soft tears on the monk's face were visible under her hood.
He walked out of the house the same way he had come. When he exited the and closed the front door behind him, he heard a sad lullaby being sung from one of the open windows; one that stuck with him all the way back home.
When he got home he immediately set up his garage equipment onto the knife and within hours he was impatiently waiting for image results of exactly what he had removed from Molodo - The Dreamer. It took hours to process. Many hours of Trevor running madly up and down the room, impatiently nervously fidgeting every moment.
Finally is computer pinged for his attention while he was dazing on the couch. He jumped up excitedly and opened the image generated.
In the end he had the proof he needed, the proof he wanted. In plain sight, below a beautiful dense shiny pearl exterior, could be seen a constellation of dust most familiar indeed. And there, third from the middle, the most beautiful blue marble he's ever laid eyes upon.
He collapsed into the nearest piece of furniture, which luckily was his desk chair.
I will give us all a new dream, he thought, and I will keep us safe.
I will put this pearl at the heart of a machine to last the eons. I will give it a new place and a dream of stars and beauty. But most of all, whispers will resonate in all our dreams, past, present and future, of a man who bargained in death with a thief to save us all.