cinder || dnf

chapter thirty three

The silk tux felt like poison ivy sliding over Dream's skin. He stared down at the suit, with its smooth tie and pearl buttons, and wanted to shrivel inside of it and disappear. This was not his suit. He was a fake in it, an imposter.

Oddly, the fact that it was as wrinkled as an old man's face made him feel better.

He snatched the old foot from the shelf- the small, rusted thing he'd woken up with after his operation, when he was a confused, unloved eleven year old boy. He'd sworn to never put it on again, but at this moment it might have been made of crystal for how precious it looked to him. It was a little small for Callahan's dress shoes, though.

Dream fell into his chair and whisked out a screwdriver. It was the most hurried fix he'd ever done, and the foot was even smaller and more uncomfortable than he'd remembered it, but soon he was on two feet again.

The silk gloves felt too fine, too delicate, too flimsy, and he worried he might snag them on some poorly placed screw. At least they too were covered in grease smudges, completing the affront.

He was a walking disaster and he knew it. He'd be lucky if they let him into the ball at all.

But he would deal with that when he got there.

The elevator was empty as he made his way to the parking garage. He rushed toward the abandoned car, the boots clipping awkwardly on the concrete floor as he tried not to trip on the too small foot and sprain his ankle. He could feel it precariously attached to the end of his leg. Not having had time to connect it to his wired nervous system, he felt like he was dragging around a paperweight. He tried to ignore it, thinking only of George and the announcement he was supposed to make that night.

He reached the dark corner of the garage, already sweating from his exertion, and knowing it would only get worse once he got out into the city's relentless humidity. Before him, the car was sandwiched between two sleek, chrome-accented hovers. Its awful orange paint was filled by the garage's flickering lights. It didn't belong.

Dream knew how it felt.

He slipped into the driver's seat, and the smell of old garage and mildew embraced him. At least he'd replaced the seat's stuffing and covered it in a scavenged blanket so he didn't have to worry about sitting on rat droppings. Still, he could only imagine what stains the car's frame and floorboards were leaving on Callahan's tuxedo.

Shoving his thoughts to the back of his mind, he reached under the steering column and grasped the power supply and circuit wires he'd already stripped and wrapped. He fumbled for the brown ignition wire.

Holding his breath, he tapped the wires together.

Nothing happened.

A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead. He flicked them together again. Again. "Please, please, please."

A spark lashed out from the wires, followed by unhappy clattering from the engine.

"Yes!" He pressed down on the accelerator, revving the engine, feeling the car thrum and rumble beneath him.

Dream allowed one overwhelming cry of relief, then jammed his foot into the clutch and pulled the transmission out of neutral, reciting the instructions he'd downloaded a week ago and had been studying ever since. How to drive.

Maneuvering out of the garage proved the most difficult part. Once on the road, his way was guided by solar street-lamps and the pale yellow glow from apartment windows- the city's constant light was a blessing, as the car's headlights had been busted out. Dream was surprised at how rocky the roads were, how much garbage and debris littered the pavement since hovers no longer required an open path. The ride was jerky and harsh, and yet Dream felt a surge of power with every turn of the wheel, press of the accelerator, rattle of the stick shift, screech of rubber.