AN: Something completely different and unexpected of me. I never thought I'd end up writing a fanfiction about this series (let alone NOT about Yaoi XD), but the idea spilled over and it was way too good to pass up.

For those who don't know, Ib is a game series made in an RPG maker or something and you play as a little girl lost in a freaky art gallery. It's a sort of horror, puzzle game and has different alternate endings. I recommend playing it, or at least watching Pewdiepie or ChaoticMonkey (Cry) on Youtube play it –w- I love it to bits, downloaded it a couple of days ago and can't stop replaying it to get the best ending.

Well, whatever. For anyone reading this, this fanfiction is AU (sorta) and based off the ending 'Memories Crannies', except Garry is the only one who remembers. Story stems from there, more characters are added in and old ones brought back. I really hope I can pull this off as good as I think I can, because the idea is way too awesome (not to toot my own horn or anything XD) to ruin.

Well anyways, this fic is slightly AU, with themes of Angst, Gore (not too much), Romance (not too much of that either), Drama, Angst and Comedy. Outside references will be made also.

As for shipping wise, go ahead and ship whatever you like. However, this fic DOES contain suggestive things for Ib x Garry, but only if you squint.

Disclaimer: This story I'm writing is in no way going to be used for profit, and all material goes to respected artists/authors. It's purely for entertainment purposes, and in no way does Ib or related material belong to me (Hellz yeah, I wish it did) ;w;

Okay, 'nuff of my rambling, and ONTO THE FANFICTION~!

Enjoy :D

Chapter One, A Painting of a Red Rose

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I feel like I am still being watched, almost by a thousand eyes at once. Of course that's impossible; because this is the real world. Any trace of fabrication was left behind when I left that hellhole. But I still wonder, you know?

Even if it was erased, the experience and memories remain. Two sides of the same coin are where the pleasure and pain are stamped into place. To get rid of the horrifying nightmare, I would have to get rid of the one thing I cherish most as well.

I could very well, just as easily as some, numb myself with alcohol and cigarettes (mind you, I quit years back), or even the occasional pill (and believe me, I have tried), but I find it better to leave the longing buzz in place.

I wouldn't give it up for the world, the memory of her. She just means too much to me; which is stupid, because frankly she has no idea who I am. To her, I would just be a stranger she passes by in the street on her way to school, or a distant cloud to her sunny day.

I sound too poetic, don't I? Yet, it comes naturally with all of the writing. I can't fathom what brought me to this state, to be forever in between giving up on hope or striving for it even harder. Nonetheless, even if it hurts, I don't mind. I'm content with just watching her grow.

Or am I?

Well, I guess, Ib, maybe I'm just forever waiting.

-Garry.

"They say that when we draw, or paint, or even write, is an expression of our most inner and deepest desires. Students, raise your pens, and draw what comes to mind; what feels right to you."

She lifted her hand, and steadily began to sketch. The pen made a clicking noise (due to the spiralling wire being slightly out of place) as she dragged it across the paper. First, she made a circle, and then joined it to a line, before finishing by adding four more straight lines poking out of the sides.

Before her eyes, a stick figure was born.

Very creative indeed.

Ib had to admit, the arts had never been her strong side. More formidable in sport, and surprisingly, science, she was an odd combination of both silently ambitious and fascinatingly ambiguous. She had always been a quiet girl, keeping to herself and being known throughout to be a wallflower of sorts.

Her only known friend was Rebekah McAllister, a girl who shed light upon Ib's dulling days. The two seemed to be inseparable from the first moment they laid eyes on one another at a Christmas party back when the former had just turned 10.

Complete and total opposites they were. Rebekah had a nice smile and inquisitive, sapphire eyes, while Ib seemed to be always frowning. Rebekah had curly blonde hair that bounced when she walked, while Ib's was brown and plain. Rebekah was loud, Ib was not. Rebekah had the potential to be popular; Ib wasn't ever going to be, even if she tried. The only, almost trademark trait that made Ib stand out from the rest (however not in the most positive light) was her bright red eyes.

Bright but as red as blood, they both shunned and drew people's attention. Some said she was cursed, others said they were fake; just contacts to make her seem cool. All in all, nobody had time to listen to a defence, but that was because Ib never tried.

She took it all as it came. She never complained about the inattention she received from others, or the fact that somebody else always took the best seat at lunch. She didn't even find the motivation to complain or face up to the rumours spread all around her.

She just didn't see any point.

And so, it was to be, that day after school, that she hadn't even thought to take it into consideration when Rebekah had asked, "So, do you know who your artist is going to be?"

Pulled from her thoughts, Ib stopped abruptly on the path, and inclined her head upwards, but only slightly. "What?" She asked, blinking in confusion.

Rebekah laughed. "Oh there you go, daydreaming once again! Hehe, Ib, that's too adorable."

A daydreamer, huh? To think…

"What does that have to do with what you asked me before?" She stated, matter-of-factly, crossing her arms in what looked like annoyance but was merely curiosity. As such, Rebekah knew that her friend wasn't as irritated as she looked.

"In Studio Studies, remember? Mrs Palen asked you to do an assignment on famous artists throughout history. I think you should do the famous photographer, David Hockney-"

"But he's a photographer, not an artist."

Rebekah scowled. "Well, I think photography is an art within itself, okay? And I'm pretty sure Mrs Palen meant for the class to choose anyone they wanted, regardless of their expertise. You know, someone you look up to? Sort of like an inspiration of sorts."

Ib remained still. An inspiration…

No one in particular came to mind, it seemed. She racked her brain for anyone she admired, anyone at all, just so she could have anywhere to start. But it came up nada, and she went to sigh, until a peculiar sort of memory flashed through her mind suddenly, leaving her feeling rather bizarre.

"Welcome to the World of Guertena." We truly thank you for attending today. We're currently holding an exhibition for the great artist Weiss Guertena. We hope you deeply enjoy the art of the late Guertena, whose creations carry such mystery and beauty both.

She remembered attending the opening of an art gallery back when she was about nine years old. The gallery held an odd assortment of pieces, paintings and sculptures alike, from an artist called Guertena, who had been considered worldwide as "The Mad Painter."

Why he was considered as such, she didn't know, but she suddenly found herself eager to find out. While having read up on Guertena considerably throughout her years, she had never indulged because of her extreme lack of artistic skill. She had lost confidence within herself in that retrospect, and looked up to the Mad Painter for his ability to paint despite his credibility, to which he gained a redeemed reputation.

"I mean, photographers, dancers, singers, and all that…It's not fair if they aren't viewed like artists as well-"

"Weiss Guertena."

Silence.

"Uh, he's my choice…"

Rebekah looked as if she was about to walk off, perhaps from the fact that she had been cut off mid-sentence, but instead she stood right in front of Ib, with a kind of distant look on her face. "Do you know anything about him?"

"Kind of…" Ib confessed. "I'm no ace at this kind of thing, but he was a really famous artist back…not too long ago, actually. Maybe 80 years? And he was most famous for his work, the-"

"Abyss of the Deep. Yeah, I know."

Ib was a little stunned, but it was to be expected. After all, the older girl had a wider range of knowledge surrounding art and its stemmed categories. It was just another thing to add onto the list of the opposing traits they both held.

"My dad's really into his stuff…And by really, I mean…sometimes it's all he talks about…" Ib could see how much this was troubling Rebekah, because she was standing there with furrowed eyebrows and tight lips, looking at her and trying not to scowl. Ib had knowledge of this already, considering the main source of information about Guertena she received was from Dr Ryan Mcalister.

"Well, that's great!" Ib tried a smile, and a reassuring wave of the hand, trying to dismiss Dr Mcalister's eerie fascination of the topic that seemed to completely unnerve his daughter. "You could really help me out then…We could work together on the project, and get higher marks that way!" The positive staunch didn't hold for long, however, and Ib lowered her hand, kicking at the gravel absentmindedly.

"You know, forget about-"

"Okay, we'll do it." Rebekah sighed, brushing a few curls from her face and tapping her foot in response.

Ib's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait, seriously? For a minute there…"

"It's not a problem, really. Come on, we've wasted enough time just standing here; I'm pretty sure your parents are worried about you." And with that, she picked up her heels and began to walk, forcing Ib to almost trip over her feet as she hurried along after her friend.

In the distance, the sun was already beginning to set, painting the sky a rather unsettling orange. Or perhaps it only seemed unsettling because of the events that had just taken place prior. Nevertheless, once they parted ways, Ib walked back home the preferred way; along a train line that was long but abandoned, near a station that accompanied the rugged scenery as well.

Afterwards, she would turn left, come out through the trees and her large, stone-white home was just at the end of the lane, shining brightly in all of its proud valour. Her neighbourhood was scarce at this time of evening, unless it was on weekends which were when the neighbours held garden parties to commemorate whatever high status they achieved in the same week as buying a new car.

Living in the banks that held a posh air was a little suffocating for Ib, and she was thankful for the freedom her parents gave to her, despite their naturally preserved and protective resolution. She passed by the Mason's large home, with their etiquette, neatly cut lawn and trees shaped like birds, and then by the Parson's, who were famous for their religious ways.

Finally turning the corner and looking up at the house, she saw her father on the roof. Of course, Ib and her family were considered an odd bunch, but that didn't matter much. After all, her parents were more the hands on sort of type rather than the, 'sit back and watch the peasants do all my work for me' kind of thing.

In recognition of the saying, her father was replacing a tile that had come loose during a storm. When he saw his daughter pass through the driveway, he raised an eager hand to wave, but dropped his screwdriver as he did so.

Ib stepped out of the way as it rolled off the roof and came clanging down beside her. She rolled her eyes, scooped it up and proceeded to make her way inside. What he needed with a screwdriver while fixing a loose tile was beyond her (it was actually just part of the collection of tools he happened to carry whenever he was on the job, regardless of whether or not they were needed), and she simply put it in her bag so she wouldn't forget about it later on.

For now, she just needed to lie down. She made her way upstairs, greeting her mother with a wave, before closing her bedroom door behind her. With her bag sinking to the floor, Ib flopped down onto her bed with a strained yet satisfied groan, smothering herself in the woollen sheets with a faint smile. It was the simple things like this that pleased her the most; just relaxing on this bed while the waning sun washed away the problems of the day…

Suddenly, the alarm beside her bed began to go off, quite loudly, and she almost hissed at it in contempt, before realizing that it was 5:30 and rather, the most important time of the day. She quickly rolled off her bed, landing on her floor with a thud, and scrambled up towards her desk, reaching out blindly for an object. When her fingers wrapped around a small radio, Ib smiled in triumph, before flicking it on just to hear the starting lyrics to a song;

"There she waits, for me, and I wonder if I'm dreaming.

Is this really, another life that I am seeing?

Can this withered rose bloom, in the face of all the doom?

Yes, I'm sure it can, when the red rose is in bloom…"

Ib smiled and began to sing along, albeit quietly so as not to let her mother hear. There was a moment as the smooth guitar came in, and instead she began to hum. A few months back, an anonymous artist had started to write and record his own songs, before submitting them into various radio stations until they became rather popular amongst the people and all throughout the town.

What the best part about it was though, was that he didn't even expect to be paid. He did it solely for his own enjoyment, and so much so that others had begun to do it as well. There was a flood of new music coming in, and the companies decided to make another radio channel solely for these independent and anonymous artists.

But it was always at 5:30pm, on each and every night that they would play a handful of songs made by the First Anonymous, who was simply known as Fa. Red Rose had been his first, and Ib was lucky to have caught it just as it started. By far it was her favourite song of his, yet it came close to being tied with Marvelous Night and Worry. After the song ended, she simply lay down and listened to the next one as it began to play.

It was at that moment that she came to realize something. Fa, was an inspiration. He was exactly the kind of considerate person Ib looked up to, and he was an artist in his own right. It was only too bad there was too little information to come up with a viable project of sorts that would help her pass the standard grade.

It was, just sometimes, she wished she could meet someone just like him.

I wonder if we could ever meet again.

-End of chapter one-

Haha, well! I think this turned out kind of swell :'D

Excuse me for the input of Rebekah, and for the kind of…'corniness' this really is, but if you've managed to read this far then kudos!

Don't worry. Rebekah isn't some mary (hah) sue chick who will get in the way of the storyline or fall in love with Gary NAH. NAH NAH NAH I HATE CHARACTERS LIKE THAT, AND DON'T EVER EXPECT THERE TO BE ANY FROM ME (Canon x Oc gives me the heeby jeebies). She is important, however. Pretty important, so don't deter because of her bubbly personality.

On another note, I apologize for the slight OOCness of (maybe) Ib and Garry, but it's my first time writing in their POV's and everything gets explained and blerp.

R&R would be much appreciated. Constructive criticism as well, but if flames happen I SHALL DESTROY YOU –w-

~Tkb4.