Redhawk Caldera Monster

Sleep. That was something he knew, despite the fact that sleep had been hard to come by for as long as he could remember. But, when he did, he dreamed. Vibrant dreams full of color and latent memory that had been pushed to the deepest recesses of Whip's conscious mind. In truth, his memory of his brother was hazy at best. He could barely even recall the contours of his face... Yet in his dreams, Whip could see him clearly. Peter. Yet the memory would never last for long. His face would always slip through Whip's grasp after he had woke.

He tried to understand. He truly did. The pain had come when Whip had been unable to process, and it had been intense and he had had no outlet. Like the brightest of light bulbs, the child simply burnt-out. But, now there was no pain. In fact, there was nothing at all. He felt no joy, nor anger -- just numb. Stunted like a spring flower stripped bare from a late frost. He only felt such things in dreams.

He turned his gaze from his father and brother and stared down at the beetle he had crushed beneath his paw. "Do they dream?" He asked curiously.