If you're wondering why I haven't updated in a while... this is why. I told some of you privately about this story... well, here it is! Hopefully I can update this story fairly frequently, and it's possible that the entire thing's finished by next week. Now, turn off your cell phone, put on your 3D reading glasses, and enjoy the show!

Why do I even need to say that I don't own Phineas and Ferb?

Chapter 1: It's Been a Long, Long Time Since I Smiled

"Phineas?"

I look up from my cot. A woman is standing there, undoubtedly one of the many paid assistants around here.

"The Doctor will see you now," she told me. I knew she would say that.

I look at the woman, and see the sincerity in her eyes. I'm sure she thinks my life is great. I get to be the lab assistant for greatest scientist who ever lived. I get to see all his creations before the rest of the world.

If only she knew the whole story.

"Phineas?" the woman asks again, when I don't move. "The Doctor wishes to-"

"I know," I say, as politely as I can. It's not her I'm fighting. It's him. The Doctor.

Well, he calls himself the Doctor.

I call him the Anarchist.

I trudge out the door, then miserably begin the long walk down the hallway to the testing room, wondering what infernal creation he has in mind this time.

I'm no fool. I've read the papers. This man has won every single Nobel Prize, five years running. There isn't a man on earth more well-known or loved than him.

But there isn't a man on earth—besides the Anarchist and I—who knows the whole story. Alive, that is.

Oh, there are others out there who know parts of it. But none of them will be able to piece it all together. The last person who knew the truth passed away two years ago. I know because I'm the one who killed him.

Finally, I arrive at the end of the hall. I push open the door, and walk into the testing room, where the Anarchist is already waiting for me, standing next to a metal cot. A body lies on the cot, covered in a white sheet.

"Hello, Phineas," the Anarchist says. "I'm glad you could make it." He's pretending to be polite, but I can see right through that fake smile of his. He knows it, too.

"What do you want this time?" I snarl, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

The Anarchist feigns surprise. "Why so hostile?" he asks, mockingly. "I'm trying to help you."

"You want to help me? Why don't you turn the clocks back five years and kidnap some other people, you rotten son of a—"

"Me? Rotten?" the Anarchist asks, continuing his mocking tone of voice. "Haven't you read the papers? I'm a hero."

"You're not a hero," I growl. "Everything you did—EVERYTHING!—you owe it all to me. And what have you done in return?"

I wait, but he doesn't respond. So I continue, yelling, "NOTHING! You've stolen me and all my friends from our homes, left our families distraught, and then killed off all my friends! You're no hero."

"Such accusations!" the Anarchist cries, as if he's completely innocent. "And I suppose your resilience makes you a hero? Let's not forget who among us killed his own brother."

I draw up short. From the way he looks at me, I know that he can tell he's made me really mad. Then he smiles. One of those sickening, evil smiles, too. I can't take it much longer.

"You're no hero, either," the Anarchist says, laughing. "That's far worse than anything I ever did."

I sit down on the floor, beaten. As much as I hate to admit it, he is telling the truth. I made a conscious choice to kill my brother. And now I can't take it back.

Knowing he's won, the Anarchist moves on to his next infernal invention that he wants—no, demands—me to test.

"As I was saying," he says, mockingly polite, "I'm trying to help you this time."

He pulls the sheet off the body, and I gasp, recognizing the lifeless corpse.

It's my brother. Ferb.

"I want to try and bring him back to life," he explains. "The only problem is, this potion that I've concocted is missing an ingredient."

"One, and how many others?" I ask, knowing it will go wrong, even when he gets that one ingredient. It always does. And I have to fix it, or else I'll die. I just wish I could have fixed his other inventions in time to save my friends.

"Just one," he says, ignoring the hatred in my voice. "It needs the life of a living, breathing relative."

"I hope you know I'm not actually related to him by blood," I say, not ready to give up the life I had so painstakingly preserved these past five years.

"Well, I made up the 'relative' part," the Anarchist admits. "I just wanted to make it clear that you're volunteering."

I want to scream and run away, but since I'm trapped here, I restrain myself, and instead think about my options for a moment.

"In that case," I finally say. "Let me fix your mistakes first."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," he replies. "I'm quite sure this one is functional."

I laugh, but not because it's funny. "You mean like your Light-Speed And Beyond Rocket? Which was missing a stabilizer to prevent wormholes?" I ask.

The Anarchist is silent, so I continue.

"Or the Indestructible Bodysuit? You know, the one that wasn't indestructible?"

"Well, um-"

I interrupt him first. "How about the Animal Tamer that didn't tame animals? And the drink which was supposed to make oxygen unnecessary, but instead made it toxic?"

There is no defense to these flaws, so the Anarchist doesn't bother mounting one.

"Out of fear for my own life, I think I will double-check your work," I finish.

"You realize that you will have to die anyways?" the Anarchist asks.

"I at least want my death to serve a purpose," I retort, snatching the potion out of his hand. Immediately, I head out the doors and to the laboratory. For some reason, I know the Anarchist won't follow me.

After examining the elixir thoroughly, I have determined one thing. Resurrecting the dead is not possible. Ferb cannot come back to life. The closest you can get is to reanimate the dead body, but that's not real living. You can make the rest of the body operate, but it is impossible to make the brain think. So Ferb will remain dead.

A single tear falls out of my eye, and runs down my cheek. My friends are dead, my family is dead, and I'm sure it won't be long before I am dead too. The thought of escape flickers through my mind. It does every time. But the only way out of this slavery is death.

I turn back to the Anarchist's concoction, which right now can't do much of anything. If there isn't a way to get this to work, then what can I do? I know he doesn't accept failure. I learned that the hard way after the memory chip incident. He told me that next time I can't fix an invention of his, he will kill me. I lean back in my chair, and close my eyes. I need to think.

I have two choices. I can make an elixir and die, or I can not make an elixir and die. Either way, I'm dead. Then again, maybe death isn't such a bad thing, considering.

No, I decide. I must not die. Otherwise my friends will have died for nothing.

There has to be a way out of this.

But the only way to escape this building is by dying.

That's it!

I spring to life, and scramble around, looking for the right ingredients. I know he has them. If I must die, I will die getting out of here.

My plan is simple. The Anarchist believes that Ferb can only be resurrected if I die in his stead. However, Ferb cannot be resurrected, so I only need to pretend to die. Then, when my body is moved to the graveyard, I can make my escape. It's risky, but it's the only way I don't die.

Before long, I've fashioned a potion that, when injected into my bloodstream, should make my pulse undetectable. I can easily pass off as dead, then. Finished, I make my way back to the testing room, where the Anarchist is patiently waiting for me.

"It's done," I tell him. "It works."

"I'm delighted," says the Anarchist. "Let's get straight to it, then."

He takes a syringe from out of his pocket, and inserts it into the potion. He fills it up with the concoction, and then turns to me.

"Go ahead," I say. "It'll be the only fair death you've caused."

"You know," the Anarchist confesses. "I'm starting to feel a little bit sentimental. You've been good company these past years."

"I wish I could say the same about you," I spit.

He needs no further incentive than that to push the needle into my arm.

"What kind of last words are those?" he asks, injecting the potion into my bloodstream.

"Mine," I tell him.

Immediately, I go into a convulsive fit, as the concoction works its magic. Just before I pass out entirely, I am able to say one more prayer.

It's been a good run. Don't make it end here.

I collapse to the floor, and the world goes black around me.

Okay, I admit it. It's another of those stories that aren't the type you enjoy. But I actually start this after all the worst stuff happened, so it's not as bad as it could have been.