Author's Note/: Alright. So. There's this wonderful game called Ib. It seriously needs more love, people. Well, I was playing it and talking to a friend... And this was spawned.

Since this is growing to be a favourite of mine, I'd definitely appreciate some constructive criticism~. Thanks!

Alfred F. Jones moved through the gallery at a rather slow, thoughtful pace, pushing easily past anyone who was in his way- being abnormally strong for his size and age helped, too, in that task. His eyes perused the various paintings and sculptures, despite having to squint for some reason. No one else he knew squinted. It irritated him vaguely; but, at the moment, that irritation was only a soft pressure at the back of his mind, stabbing right at the back of his neck where his skull joined his spine, right upwards as if to cut through the fatty tissues therein. It was easily forgotten, as he could always make up for it by pressing closer to the objects of his fascination.

The guardian of the ten year old, Arthur Kirkland, kept a distasteful eye on him, still irritated at the child for taking a pair of scissors to his favourite coat, cutting out all sorts of nonsense designs on them. Settled in the crook of his elbow was Alfred's own jacket, various papers, bits of twine, and other curiosities one often found in the streets crammed in the pockets until it seemed like they'd split right open, dumping everything to the ground in a cascade of childish innocence. Arthur wished the child would stop squinting. It created premature wrinkles and generally did not look like something a gentleman did, and if he was to help guide his adoptive brother into being a gentleman, then it needed to stop. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd figure out the cause.

"Don't touch!" he snapped, grabbing Alfred's shoulder and jerking him back. Alfred frowned petulantly at the adult, sticking his lip out and retracting the outstretched hand that had been trying to grasp at one of the more interesting sculptures. The artist on display had been rather prolific and fairly decent. It was almost surprising, even. But, oh, there went Arthur on his lecture. Alfred tuned him out, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder and allowing the crowd to separate them once more. Fine. He wouldn't touch. Next, he mused in a slightly annoyed fashion, he supposed he'd be banned from even looking at the stupid drawings. Not like he'd wanted to come, anyways; the stupid things were taking away from his video games. He had to catch that Pikachu, darn it!

He turned, pulling at the odd formalwear he had on, reserved specifically for such occasions as this, where they went to some new and exotic place full of mystery and, in general, utter boredom. It made him feel too uptight, like Arthur. Speaking of which… "Artie!" he called, effectively ending his brother's lecture rather rudely. "I'm going to go poke about upstairs, okay?"

The Brit sighed in exasperation. He also had to do something about that rather unsophisticated accent… It sounded fine when Alfred was around six or seven, but now, when hitting puberty? It was starting to make him sound rather uncouth- besides, who kept their accent for that long anyways? He grimaced, unintended agitation leaking into his tone. "Go, then! Just don't bother the other patrons! And take your belongings with you!" He'd just remembered that the reason Alfred had kept that stupid American accent for so long? Was because they lived in America, since Alfred already had friends, and who knew how well he'd get along with the other, more sophisticated children that lived in Britain? He thrust the jacket at the child, who hastened to put it on, zipping it as he ran up the stairs, black, hard soled shoes clacking away on the tile. Arthur sighed, eyeing the paintings warily. There was something about them that was… off-putting. Too realistic, too… human. Like they could reach out of the painting and drag themselves out- or, alternatively, pull you in, leering at you with their bright, upturned faces… Maybe it wasn't a good idea to take Alfred with him. The poor child might have nightmares. Didn't the upstairs house the more disturbing works?

Cursing, he took off after the brat, moving through the throng of people as best as he could without upsetting anyone.

Not even caring about any possible ruckus, Alfred continued on his way, jogging briskly up the flight of stairs and bursting through the doors to the more interesting bits of the gallery. That month, they were displaying the works of someone by the name of blahblahblah Vargas- at least, that's what he'd heard come out of Arthur's mouth. Alfred was starting to dismiss the older man as of late, finding him to be too controlling, too oppressive. Besides, it wasn't like they were really brothers.

That hurt to admit, but he ignored the small sting.

Now, without Arthur, he could touch any painting that he wanted, fingers brushing along the dusty glass keeping the contents clean without leaving anything other than clean streaks. After a bit, he withdrew his hand, wiping the grime off on his vest- or waistcoat, as Arthur called it. It was brown; who would notice? Not him, certainly.

Eventually, he came across a large mural that no one seemed to be looking at, judging by the emptiness of the hall around it. It certainly was interesting, full of all sorts of detail that he couldn't quite soak in with a single glance. There was a lady falling out of a canvas, brown hair cascading down as she clutched a rose to her chest forlornly, clad entirely in a soft, crinkly, rather shiny green dress. Her hair gave birth to new passageways, morphing into actual roads that lead to everywhere, looping back on each other endlessly. Odd, headless statues in red, blue, and yellow dresses walked along those roads, which circled around two nearly identical children huddled in the center. The art was too abstract to really tell what gender or even basic features besides downcast eyes, hazel and amber. The backdrop was dark, a muddy mixture of greys and reds, giving it a faintly unsettling feel. The placard beneath it proudly declared the title of the mural. "Fabricated World?" he mumbled, tracing underneath it. As soon as the last syllable slipped past his lips, the lights flickered, turning off and making him flinch.

That wasn't supposed to happen, right? The sounds from the people stopped, too, making him wonder. He shivered despite the layers of clothes he was wearing, hurrying away from the mural. Maybe he shouldn't have gone away from Arthur. He edged towards the stairs, eyes widening when he noticed everyone was gone.

The upstairs had been just as packed as the downstairs! A cold feeling rose in his chest before he smothered it, admonishing himself. No. They were just downstairs, perhaps- perhaps they'd closed the upstairs and no one had noticed him, so he hadn't been aware. It seemed to take an eternity to traverse the distance between the corridor the mural was stashed in and the brass handles of the door leading to the stairs, his heels clacking loudly on the floor, echoing unnervingly. He hugged himself, tugging on his jacket so that it tightened around himself protectively before reaching out, wrapping his fingers around an ice-cold doorknob and twisting, shoving it open.

Even from upstairs, he couldn't see anyone down there, let alone hear them. Alfred whimpered, tears pricking the back of his eyes as he made his way down. Nothing to worry about, right? The dark had stopped scaring him long ago, when he'd decided that he'd be a hero to everyone and everything. Better than Superman, even! And Superman never got scared, so why should he? With that bolstering thought- 'Be like Superman, Alfred'- he continued going downstairs. One step, two steps, three at a time… Then his feet hit the floor, just in time for the footsteps to start up.

Soft, thudding, careful, thoughtful… They echoed around him, not seeming to be going anywhere. They reminded him of the stories he'd been told of strangers following children like him, luring them in- those who seemed like one shouldn't dread them, but they'd leave you to stain their gardens red or something. He wasn't quite sure, to be frank, nor did he really care at the moment what the quote had been.

The lights downstairs flickered again, turning back on, though that did nothing to assuage his fear of what was going on. Maybe the windows would tell him something… He scampered to the nearest one, fingers gripping the window sill tightly enough to turn the knuckles white as he lifted himself up to peer out. It was just as bright and cheery as before, though when he tried to open the window, it wouldn't budge. Strange. Most windows opened fairly easily, right? He slammed his fist into it. No dice- even then, it didn't break. Didn't even bend, didn't even crack. His apprehension grew as he pressed his palm against the glass.

Alfred's whole body jerked, his arms shoving him backwards. What he saw was just beyond comprehension for him- windows did not suddenly leak blood. He fell on his rear with a groan, scooting backwards. Twitching in fear, he let out a quiet, strangled noise when it reached the ground. He scrambled up to his feet, using his arms to propel him a short distance. Finally, he straightened up in mid-dash, his feet skidding on the tile horribly- this wasn't making his flight easier! Every time he tried to slow down, something even more unnatural would happen- a portrait of a sick man would cough loudly and violently, a painting of a kitten would meow at him, he would see the silhouette of a person in the window. Eventually, he slammed into a wall, falling backwards in a daze.

As soon as the world stopped spinning, he looked up at the drawing he'd ended up under- Bitter Fruit. The fruit in question was teetering on its frame, as if his crash had knocked it loose, before it fell into his lap and splattered right on his stomach, soaking into his clothes. The strangled noise returned, birthing a howl as he kicked his legs, scooting away backwards and trying to scoop the oily substance off of his lap.

He heard his name screamed off in the distance; desperately, he tried to reply, finding himself somehow unable. It was odd… Something snatched up his words before he could manage that, leaving him breathless and struggling to breathe. At least the remains of the berry slid neatly off his jacket, and his shorts were black, so it didn't really show. That way, Arthur wouldn't be mad…

He hadn't even noticed until then that the lights had gone off again. They must have done so when the window began bleeding… Alfred had to suppress a cry deep in his chest, feeling sick to his stomach as he shakily stood, leaning against a barrier protecting a painting on the floor from being trampled and thus, destroyed. He turned, ignoring the ever-present footsteps as he tried to calm his racing heart by staring at it. It, like the mural before it, was vast and detailed, though everything had a much stronger presence in this one than the other. It was like someone had snapped a photo of, perhaps, the Cretaceous period, though perhaps he was getting his plesiosaurs wrong. It had been a while since he read the dictionary he'd gotten one Christmas… Still, it was of some long-necked underwater serpent, flippers in the act of pushing it along, the monster's mouth opened to reveal countless rows of teeth. Fish swam away from it, fearing, clearly, for their lives. Slowly, he read the inscription on the plaque in front of him.

"'Abyss of the Deep: A realm where man will never stand. To realize that world," he mumbled, "I shall engrave it within the canvas'… What kind of a loony is this Vargas person?" The water was pretty, though; it sort of made him thirsty, despite the fact he knew it was more than likely saltwater. Something that big had to live in the ocean, in the deepest depths.

Where the light could never reach…

Maybe, Alfred hoped firmly, maybe, if he went back up to the mural and looked at it again, stared it right in its nonexistent eyes, held his ground, so to speak, he could get everything back to normal. That was his only idea besides just fleeing the art gallery- but that meant he might never see Arthur again…

That was why the reexamination of the mural had to work. Leaving the deep-sea terror behind him, he walked as calmly and coolly as he could back up the stairs, walking past another window and purposely pretending not to notice the fact that another silhouette walked past it. He was, however, unable to ignore the fact that someone rapped on it loudly, making him squeak and sending him ducking for cover under… what? There was nothing he could hide under, leading to the rather awkward hiding place of him pressed up in the space where the floor met the wall, his face crushed up against the wood paneling. Nothing else happened; that didn't stop him from hiding for another few minutes, the eternal pounding of footsteps around him. Was it just him, or were they starting to sound more and more rushed as time went by?

No matter. He stood shakily and glanced at the window- there was a filthy handprint on it now, like someone had actually slapped the window instead of just knocking. He shuddered, walking backwards and staring at it. As a result, he smacked right into the fencing protecting another work of art, crashing into the statues inside it and knocking them over. He groaned, looking over his shoulder at the mess before climbing out. Hopefully no one would realize that that was him… As soon as his feet hit the floor, he started jogging. The mural was too close for running to really be necessary, and there was a burning pain going up along his side, indicative that he was starting to get tired. His breath came in short pants, though that may have just been fear.

It was so cold in there… He paused in front of the mural. There was nothing new about it besides the fact that it was leaking blue paint, which worried him. Had he killed it, somehow? He bent down to inspect the paint, paying no head to the sound of things… He couldn't really describe it. It sounded like when someone slammed a stamp down on a piece of paper to create a huge red 'DENIED' on it, except louder and like someone was doing it all over the walls. No, the paint was a lot more interesting than the noises because as soon as he leaned down, they began forming words.

('come down below and play with us alfred')

Sighing, he turned, feeling his whole body freeze up. All over the walls, the floor, even the ceiling… were the same words, over and over again, in red paint: 'COME ALFRED COME ALFRED COME ALFRED COME ALFRED.'

"All right, all right," he muttered softly, more to himself than anything- after all, who could hear him? "I'll see what y'all want." Oh, how Arthur hated the word 'y'all'- too… rustic? Had that been the word used? He'd never know. Besides, what did it matter? He was all alone. He'd talk however the heck he wanted to talk.

Summoning his courage, he scooted back over to the stairs, going down them one at a time, first placing one foot on a stair, then another, making his slow and gradual way down until he hopped off the last step. His whole body shuddered, stomach clenching as he walked closer to the art, heading through the lobby easily enough. Footsteps led the way, as if someone had stepped in blue paint and began walking, taking him to the Abyss of the Deep floor painting. Someone had removed part of the fencing keeping it blocked off, leaving a good gap between the red, velvet rope, through which the person had clearly walked through. He grimaced, clutching the rope tightly when he reached the end, the smell of salt reaching his nose. Funny… It looked almost like an actual ocean…

He nearly slapped himself. Why should the realism be any different from what was happening in there? With a tremulous sigh, he stepped down onto the painting, squealing when he proceeded to fall forwards as his foot broke through the water. In fact, the only thing that saved him was something grabbing onto his waist, hauling him out before he could get much farther than knee-deep. He struggled temporarily when whatever it was spun him around and crushed him to their chest. It was only when he recognized the clothing of his brother that he stopped, allowing himself to dig his fingers into the slightly rough fabric. Still, despite the prickling sensation at the back of his eyes, he refused to let himself cry. At least, he wouldn't let himself cry in front of Arthur- maybe because it somehow didn't feel real to him, like he expected Arthur to melt into a puddle of, perhaps, more paint. He pressed his nose into the lapel of his jacket, frowning. He didn't smell like paint…

"Bloody hell, Alfred, what were you thinking?" Arthur clutched at the boy tighter, finally pulling him away to examine the poor thing. "Why would you do that? I've been looking all over here for you!" He hugged him again, shuddering. He'd been examining a painting when the lights just switched off… And then the footsteps had started, rather sharp and hurried. He'd tried to follow them, but at one point they'd just grown too chaotic, like someone had been running from something… Had it been Alfred? He stroked the younger's hair, feeling a sense of relief. At least he had a companion for this mess… "Let me go check the front door. With any luck, we can get out and put this all behind us, right, Alfie?" He pulled away again, smiling and tousling the young boy's hair.

Somehow, he couldn't help feeling a little irritated at how unresponsive the boy was being. Alfred was just looking off to the side, as if staring at the painting through the corner of his eye. Why was the painting so important..? Furthermore, how had Alfred managed to partially fall into it? It was just a painting, after all. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do them all some good. He could have sworn he smelled paint fumes when he walked in; maybe that was it. He stood, but not before pressing a soft kiss to the forehead of the boy, striding over with false confidence to the door. Alfred didn't follow, but that was perfectly fine with him, just so long as he stayed put.

Arthur grasped the doorknob, twisting it with a grin on his face. His grin faded, however, when it refused to turn more than a quarter, despite repeated jiggling of the brass. From behind him, Alfred gave a gasp, making him whirl around in concern. "Alfred!"

Something had clearly spooked the boy, causing him to jump and snap his head to the side, scuttling to the side to avoid it. Arthur began sprinting, diving for Alfred as the boy stepped onto the surface of the water, falling backwards through it as his foot sank. Arthur howled, his fingers crashing into solid canvas as he watched the ten year old fall through the ocean depths, staring at him, reaching for him pathetically. The creature depicted in the painting gave a shudder, diving deep down, taking the boy with it. Arthur smashed his fist into the painting, sending a ripple through it before pressing his forehead against it, shaking.

What was he to do..?