Author's Note: I skipped the scene where they rescued him, because that was self explanatory. Still, I thought there was a little extra we missed and that's why this story's here.

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine.

The Real Deo

All right, so maybe fame had a price and he shouldn't have gone on TV pretending he was up for adoption. And maybe he should have read what he signed instead of just scribbling his name. Maybe he should have thought of Mac for a split second before dashing to the door and leaving without a goodbye. Maybe he should have done all those things, but he didn't. Now, of course, it was too late.

The plastic animal cage was cold and unyielding, not to mention dank and disturbingly small. Despite not possessing an outward nose, Bloo could smell animal feces and shockingly, blood. Whenever he fell asleep in here, it was out of pure exhaustion. Every day was work, work, and more work. He hated it, he hated this place, and he missed Mac terribly.

Not to mention food, but, scrambling for a bit of comfort, he shuddered and hugged himself while his stomach growled. Food wasn't for celebrities, his manager/foster parent had told him while stuffing his face. Bloo had moaned, nearly flung himself at him (yet still within the confines of the wretched cage),but to no avail. His manager didn't care and everyone else was either too intimidated by him or too apathetic to sneak it. Food became a rarity, often seen but rarely experienced.

Was this the way they treated celebrities, like animals? No, he took that back- animals had it better. Were imaginary friends less than human or animal? When they were adopted, did that give the adopter carte blanche to ruin them? No wonder imaginary friends were left to Foster's, or ran away. He didn't blame them.

Never before had he realized how good he'd had it with Mac. At least then, even if he couldn't live with his creator, Mac would show him affection. Sure, his fans adored him, but they never spoke to him, they never listened to his problems. They weren't friends, just people who fell for all the hype. They didn't even know his real name…

By now, he was jaded enough to acknowledge how hopeless his situation really was. No one out there would pay him any mind; he was just a stick of deodorant to them (and not even a good one at that). It was like a bad joke, only he wasn't laughing.

Had he asked for this? Had he really been so selfish to throw everything away for a cheap career as a disposable product? Why had he wanted to be on TV so much? Now he couldn't remember. He thought it'd been the glamour, but what glamour was there when you were treated like garbage? He thought it was the fame, but what good was fame if he couldn't be with Mac and his friends? He thought it was everyone's eyes on him, but their attention was so hollow, so transitive.

Exhaling sharply, he gazed out at the empty studio and mentally cursed at the broken window. At night, surprisingly, a chill breeze rent the room and, bereft of blankets, he shivered in the darkness. Still, he couldn't complain- he'd get shut out before he got in a word edgewise. His manager really couldn't care less, unless, of course he dropped dead. That wasn't likely, but at this rate, Bloo's sense of humor ran very morbid indeed.

He remembered talking to Wilt, Coco, and Ed before he went to sleep, looking at Mac's picture and smiling to himself. He remembered rushing to the door to see Mac and tackling him. He remembered breaking all the rules at Foster's just because he could. He remembered the look on Mr. Herriman's face when he broke said rules, too. It was priceless, just like a normal life.

There had to be a way out of here; he just hadn't thought of it yet. A way to return his beloved Mac and his friends. His ego and blindness had gotten him into this mess, but Bloo was no idiot. He just hadn't looked at everything from every angle yet. Still, until that stroke of genius, he had to bide his time and wait...

He just wished it weren't so terribly cold and he wasn't so terribly, awfully alone…

Mac angrily flung himself on the bed and glowered at the ceiling. Its white paint, of course, did not react to the eight year old. It merely shone back down and he growled, shifting his attention to Bloo's picture. Despite his mother's objections, he'd kept it on his night table, because he was his only friend.

Or, rather, he thought he was. Sure, Bloo could be a jerk at times, but he didn't think he was capable of this. In the beginning, he'd been happy for him, but now, he really didn't care. Let Bloo enjoy his fame, because he had clearly gained it at the loss of his friends.

The problem was, try as he might, Mac couldn't believe it for a second. No matter how self centered Bloo was, it hurt too much to consider he'd cruelly abandoned them. In many ways, he loved him- why else would he risk getting caught by his mother and Terrence to visit? Bloo cheered him, he reminded him there were other things than school and the stigma of being alone. Yet here he was; casting him aside and ostracizing him. How could he do that?

Terrence mocked him more than usual at dinner, but the comments never registered. His mother, weary and gazing resignedly at both of them, merely gave Mac permission to leave the table early. That was the only indication she noticed anything wrong, but maybe she granted him the gift of solitude in that one, tired sentence. At any rate, he'd taken his chance as soon as possible and darted to his room.

When he glanced around, he sensed Bloo everywhere he looked. Everywhere held a memory, some miserable, and others good. For the most part, they were there for each other. What happened in the past didn't matter to Bloo, did it? If he could just throw him away, then nothing they'd accomplished, nothing they'd been through counted. He wasn't sure what he meant to Bloo, but at the moment, he hung his head and doubted it was very much.

What was he besides his creator, giving him life? He'd housed him, cared for him, dare he say loved him, and this was his treatment? Well, fine then, if he was going to throw him away, then good riddance. Why should he care if Bloo didn't?

Eyes sparkling with anger, he reached to grab the picture and smash it on the floor, but his arm froze midway. No, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite all the resentment, the mistreatment, that was his only picture of him. If he destroyed it, there was nothing left. Nothing at all…

Mac flopped uselessly back on his bed and imagined Bloo next to him. Creators could only imagine one imaginary friend per lifetime because they were part of them, a reflection of the traits they desired and what they wished to be. This imaginary Bloo, therefore, was going to stay right in his mind. Unfortunately, much like the real Bloo, it refused to remain in his daydream and he scowled. So even his imaginary imaginary friends were ignoring him now.

Grimacing, he stared up at the ceiling until, exhausted, he simply fell unconscious. Distant dreams of Bloo howling and banging against bars, reached him, but they made no sense and when he awoke he didn't remember them.

Bloo refrained from speaking unless it was absolutely necessary, a complete shift from normal. Anyone who really knew him would recognize his submissive behavior right then and there and become instantly worried, but no one knew him. Therefore, he just plodded onward…hoping for Mac…

Secretly, since he wouldn't dare speak it aloud, Mac changed too. His objections were louder and much ruder than normal, almost as though he were turning into his other half. He pretended not to notice if he was called on it and strove to prevent anyone at Foster's from knowing. He hoped his friend would come to his senses…

Sulking had only worked for so long, so he was back to protesting his imprisonment. However, this time, a nasty surprise waited. Complaints were tolerated for so long and then, snap. Unfortunately for Bloo, used to complaining and getting his way, it came as the largest shock in his life. The second trailed after.

"I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I want to go home," Bloo snapped. "And you're going to take me home or-"

"Or what?" Kip snarled, snatching the small imaginary friend from his cage and pressing his face precariously close to the bars. Bloo, fearless (relatively), glowered in response. No adult human, no matter how much power he thought he wielded, was going to bar him from seeing Mac. Mac was his creator and this stupid human was going to let him out and take him immediately…or so he thought.

"Or I quit!" The blue blob retorted, drawing himself to his insubstantial full height. For a moment, silence reigned and the creature thought he'd won. Once again, though,he'd missed the mark.

Cold, cruel, mocking laughter filled the air and Kip opened the cage to pick Bloo up by the scruff of what, on anyone else, might be considered a neck. A malevolent air hung about the blonde human, much like Duchess but perhaps, if possible, worse. The stench of inhumanity clung to him and though he ignored it, he sensed there was little he would not stoop to. Laws were made to be broken.

Bloo glared balefully, irked at his mistreatment. More than an imaginary friend, he was a star and celebrities weren't supposed to be treated like roadkill. Unfortunately, cockiness blinded him to the truth. There were some people in this world who would not stop to consider the little guy and Kip was one of them.

No words passed, but a nasty look lit Kip's features and he slammed him repeatedly into the concrete wall. Unlike the rubber pig, no squeak emitted from the small, blue imaginary friend. He saw stars and then blood trickled down the side of his face. At least when that bully had preyed on him, he'd only been smashed into the ground once. Compared to the soil, however, the wall was like a ton of bricks. (Imagine that).

He struggled, swinging himself back and forth to gain momentum enough to attack, but Kip pinned him with his other hand. Suddenly, Bloo had a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach that he might have gotten himself into something he couldn't beg, plead, or weasel his way out of. How on earth had he managed that? Almost everyone else in the world fell to his charms. He was, after all, Blooregard Q. Kazoo, the best imaginary friend ever.

"You quit and I'll get you," Kip said slickly. "I know where Foster's is and any time I feel like it, I can just mosey on down and make you wish you were never created."

Hotly, he replied, "You don't have the right to treat me this way-"

"Sure I do. It's all in your contract. And if you try to escape, I'll end your pitiful existence."

Awestruck, the blue imaginary friend merely gazed openly, mouth agape. The part of his brain that continued to function, despite the threat, insisted it was nothing he couldn't protect himself against. There was nothing he couldn't outthink or outwit himself out of, no matter how difficult it might appear superficially. With the amount of time he had at night, since sleep refused him, he could formulate a plan. The wheels spun madly- yes, threats and violence were all well and good, but he had something better. He was his own secret weapon.

Derisive laughter reached his internal ears because, apparently, Kip had figured out where his train of thought lay. Bloo ignored it, believing he was in the clear. Threats on his well-being he could diffuse easily, given the right circumstances. Honestly, did he really think he was omnipotent? Bloo thought like a fox and now, trapped in a cage, his mind only worked quicker.

"And Mac's."

Dully, the wheels halted in mid-swing and he returned to the here and now. Kip had said Mac's name, but in connection with what? What did he want with his creator? Was he going to bring him to see him? Was that it?

"You're going to let me see him?" Bloo burst out happily.

"I'm going to kill him. If you aren't afraid of me for harming you, maybe you'll think twice if I touch your creator."

Bloo felt like he'd been punched in the stomach hard. All the color drained from his face, seemingly all the blood from his body, and no breath filled his lungs. For one of the first times in his short life, fear held him within its grasp. Intimidating him was all well and good, but threatening Mac was a different ballgame. Threatening Mac wasn't, well, fair.

"You-you can't!" He protested weakly, tears springing to his eyes.

Smirking broadly, "I can. I'm above the law."

With that, he tossed Bloo back into the cage, locked it, and strolled off chilly. Not a sound was heard for a good minute, until Kip called back. Bloo wished he hadn't, because he was sick of his voice. In fact, he was sick of everything.

"Just remember- his life's on your head."

Then, he was gone and Bloo, choking back tears and the air that refused to enter his lungs, collapsed.

Bloo was afraid of him and fatigued to boot. Whenever he could think of his creator, his eyes welled up and he found himself arguing someone out of a phone, only to have it snatched away by Kip. He couldn't call him…he couldn't think anymore…and he might be dead…

"Mac…"

He wasn't going to watch any more of his performances. He'd lied to him, ignored him, and essentially spat on him. He didn't need friends like that. Still, nagging in the back of his mind was the sensation Bloo was not all right. In fact, he was far from it.

The night of the performance was soon at hand, but Bloo had never wanted anything less in his life. He shuffled from one gig to another, mindful of Kip's words, forever dangling above his head. However, he knew one thing- he had to get a message out to Mac, no matter. The problem became how, if he wasn't allowed to call or visit. Unbeknownst to his conscious, the wheels began to turn innately.

It was Bloo's big live show, but Mac couldn't care less. What was his friend to him but a traitor? After all, he hadn't the decency to call after a few months and he'd looked right at him and not seen him. What kind of friend was he? With friends like that, he didn't need enemies. Sometimes, he wished he'd never created him in the first place.

In the middle of another plea for Mac's attention, Bloo felt rather than saw his creator. Fatigued and ravenous, he ignored it. Probably a figment of his overworked mind, more than likely. If Mac had made up his mind not to watch him, then there was no way he could be here…

Shivering despite the warmth in the bus, Mac murmured, "Just hold on, Bloo…"

The rescue had gone off without a hitch, in most of their minds. Wilt and Coco talked quietly, Ed raved about his potato skit, and Mac eyed his imaginary friend warily. After all that excitement, one would think he'd be just as energetic as Eduardo. Yet he hadn't said a word since he entered the bus.

Bloo was oddly quiet. Meekly, he'd selected a seat next to Mac and stared blankly out the window. Despite his performance, he'd regressed to when Kip threatened his creator. Somehow, having Mac here made it more palpable instead of less. He had to keep reminding himself he was in jail and he couldn't hurt him.

"Hey, are you okay?" Wilt called gently, breaking Bloo out of his reverie. His normal eye gazed at Bloo sympathetically.

Shaking his head, Bloo forced a grin on his face and replied, "Of course I am. I was on TV, wasn't I? And everyone saw me!"

Mac, however, remained unconvinced. "You keep looking out the window and swallowing like someone's out to get you."

"I'm looking out for my fans and keeping them trailing after me. Jeez, Mac, don't you know how boring it is with just you five in the bus?" Smirking, Bloo yawned, feigning the exhaustion he truly felt, and curled up.

"Think there's something he's not telling us?" Wilt asked mildly.

"Let him rest," Frankie replied, scowling at the driver in front, switching lanes without signaling. "He's probably drained from the life of glamour, ritz, and fame."

Before he fell asleep, his arm wrapped around his creator's waist, Bloo thought, you have no idea, Frankie my dear, you have no idea…