Elena sat at her workstation, the glow of holo-displays casting shadows across her face. The air was thick with the hum of quantum drives and the sharp voices of scientists grappling with the impossible. Her fingers hovered over her comm device, a private file open but untouched: Cats. Dreamed of them last night. They’re real now. Why? The memory of her testing bay experience lingered—the meadow, the cats, that shadowed roar threatening to break through. She’d come close to manifesting again, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Aisha paced nearby, her tablet a constant flicker of data. Since their experiment with Lukas Varn’s music, Aisha had been relentless, cross-referencing EEGs and global reports with a focus that bordered on obsession. The CD, now locked in a secure vault, was the key to the global pandemonium—dreams spilling into reality, from whimsical cats to nightmarish fires. But the why and how remained elusive, and the world outside was fraying faster than they could keep up.
Elena glanced at a holo-feed on the main display: a Moscow square where a child’s dream had conjured a giant teddy bear, only for it to collapse into a swarm of buzzing insects, sending crowds screaming. Another feed showed a Sydney beach where a surfer’s dream had turned waves to glass, shattering underfoot. The manifestations were growing more intense, more unpredictable, and the lab’s task force—backed by GlobalTech and the Global Security Council—was running out of time.
“We’re missing something,” Elena said, her voice cutting through the lab’s din. She leaned back, rubbing her temples. “The music triggers it, sure, but why are some manifestations stronger? Why do they vary so much?”
Aisha paused, her tablet lowering slightly. “It’s not just the music. Look at the data—regions with strong cultural beliefs about dreams are hit harder. Aboriginal communities in Australia, for instance. Their reports describe landscapes reshaping, like their Dreamtime myths coming alive.”
Elena’s eyes widened. She’d read about Dreamtime, where ancestral spirits dreamed the world into being. The idea had seemed poetic then, but now it felt like a clue. “You’re saying culture matters? Like… belief amplifies the effect?”
“Maybe,” Aisha said, her tone cautious but intrigued. “We need to talk to someone who understands this. Not just scientists—anthropologists, cultural experts.”
Victor, overhearing, approached their station, his gray hair more disheveled than usual. “Good idea,” he said, his voice gruff. “We’ve got clearance for global consultations. Set up virtual interviews. I want perspectives from every continent by noon.”
Elena and Aisha wasted no time. They commandeered a holo-conference room, its walls shimmering with virtual feeds. The first expert materialized—a wiry Aboriginal elder named Yara, her face weathered but kind, speaking from a desert community in the Outback. Her voice was steady, carrying the weight of centuries.
“Our stories say the Dreamtime is always here,” Yara began, her eyes glinting in the holo-light. “The land, the spirits—they dream with us. Now, the land is waking. Trees move, rivers sing. It’s like our ancestors’ dreams are breaking free.”
Elena leaned forward, her heart racing. “Have you seen this before? Anything like it?”
Yara’s smile was faint, almost sad. “Not in my lifetime. But our elders spoke of times when dreams shaped the world—when belief was strong. This music you speak of… it’s stirring something old.”
Aisha tapped her tablet, her skepticism softening. “What about the manifestations? Are they stronger there?”
Yara nodded. “Stronger, yes. Our people dream together, always have. When we sing, we call the spirits. This music—it’s like a song, but wild, unbound.”
The call ended, leaving Elena and Aisha in silence. The next expert, Dr. Nia Okoye, a Nigerian anthropologist, appeared from Lagos. Her braided hair framed a face sharp with intellect. “In Yoruba culture, dreams are messages from the Orishas—our deities,” she said. “We’ve seen shrines come alive, ancestors walking among us. But it’s chaotic, not divine. Something’s amplifying our collective dreams.”
Elena’s mind spun. Collective dreaming—Yara’s words echoed Nia’s, hinting at a shared consciousness the music was tapping into. “Is it tied to belief?” she asked. “Like, the stronger the cultural connection to dreams, the more potent the effect?”
Nia’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Possibly. Our rituals focus the mind, make dreams… heavier. This music, it’s like a ritual gone rogue.”
Yara’s words echoed Nia’s, a shared thread across cultures. Others—a Navajo elder, a Tibetan monk—reported similar surges, vision quests and dream yoga spilling into reality, each tied to belief. Each story painted a picture: where cultural beliefs about dreams ran deep, the manifestations were more vivid, more synchronized, as if the music were a spark igniting ancient fires.
Back in the lab, Elena and Aisha compiled their findings, the holo-display now a mosaic of cultural data. “It’s the collective unconscious,” Elena said, her voice alive with realization. “Varn’s music—it’s not just rewiring individual brains. It’s syncing us, like a neural network, amplifying dreams where belief is strongest.”
Aisha’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t dismiss it outright. “That’s… plausible. The EEGs show synchronized theta and delta waves across subjects, even thousands of miles apart. But how? Sound doesn’t do that.”
“It’s not just sound,” Elena said, pulling up the spectral analysis from their last test. “Those subsonic frequencies—they’re resonating with something deeper, maybe quantum-level processes in the brain.” She thought of the shadow in her dream, the roar that wasn’t hers. Was it the music, or something it had awakened?
Victor interrupted, his voice sharp. “Progress report, now.” He stood with the corporate reps, their impatience palpable. Elena shared their findings, emphasizing the cultural link. The GlobalTech exec, the woman with razor-sharp cheekbones, leaned forward. “So, belief makes it worse? Can we suppress these cultures, limit the spread?”
Elena’s stomach churned. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not about suppressing—it’s about understanding. The music’s the trigger, not the people.”
The exec’s eyes were cold. “Understanding takes time. We need containment.”
Aisha stepped in, her voice steady. “We’re working on it. But we need more data—controlled tests, broader samples. And we need Varn.”
Victor nodded, his expression grim. “Find him. And keep this quiet. The last thing we need is a global witch hunt.”
As the meeting broke, Elena felt Aisha’s gaze on her. “You’re pushing hard on this collective idea,” Aisha said, her tone softer but probing. “Why?”
Elena hesitated, the cats flashing in her mind—Pippin’s warmth, Mischief’s grin. “Because it feels right,” she said finally. “This isn’t just science. It’s… us. All of us, connected.”
Aisha didn’t respond, but her eyes held a flicker of something—doubt, maybe, or fear. The holo-feeds flickered behind them, reports pouring in: a Tokyo temple overrun by ghostly samurai, a Rio favela glowing with dream-born stars. The world was dreaming louder, and Elena knew they were running out of time to silence the song before it consumed them all.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
