With over half of the Egos gone now, things had grown tense between those who remained; many of their 'peacekeepers' no longer there. Wilford and Dark were constantly at each others' throats, the doctors kept getting into arguments, Ed and Silver were getting on everyone's nerves, while Jacques and the Host wouldn't leave their rooms if an argument was going on.

Since the Googles had left (already two weeks ago, now), Dark had been shot twice by Wilford. Jacques, no thanks to Silver and Ed's bickering, had nearly cut off his finger while preparing dinner. The doctors, having gotten into a shoving match when conversation transformed into a heated argument, had even taken a tumble down the stairs together—both now with matching bruises and split lips.

Most of the remaining Egos moved stiffly now, a tenseness to their spines, casting glares toward the others. Honestly, it was only Jacques and, for the most part, Host who were staying out of fights. The two of them had even started talking with one another a little because of it!

A crash from the kitchen made Jacques jump, head jerking toward the sound. The artistic Septic set down his pad and charcoals and slowly pulled himself to his feet. His hands were shaking, face paling with the effort it took to stand, and he was forced to use furniture and walls to stay upright as he moved to the kitchen. He was the most faded of the Egos—however, instead of gradually fading like the others, he remained about the same as he had for the last…well, he'd lost track of when he'd appeared on the channel for Passpartout. Ten? Fifteen years ago? Unlike the others, however, Jacques at times became more visible than usual for him; other times, he was being bumped into because he was just too transparent to notice unless the others were really paying attention.

Jacques kept quiet about that, and no one asked him either. He was the least-known, after all. Sometimes it seemed like even the other Egos forget he existed.

Frowning, he leaned into the kitchen. Ed was the only one in there. It looked like he was cooking—wasn't it Silver's turn?—but at that exact moment was cleaning up the shards of a glass bowl he'd dropped.

"Y'should be restin', kid."

The suddenness of Ed's voice startled the Septic. The older Ego was still kneeling, but now his gaze was directed toward Jacques, arms crossed over one knee. His eyes just barely peeked over dark sunglasses; a chocolate brown like most of the Ipliers, exhaustion in their depths.

"Take a seat." It was more of a command than suggestion as the businessman stood up. He stepped around what was left of the bowl and took Jacques by the arm, guiding him to the massive dining room table. Couldn't really call him a businessman anymore, Jacques mused, he hadn't even brought up his business in years.

"Merci," he murmured, sinking into the chair that was pulled out for him.

Ed returned to the kitchen-area, responding with no more than a tip of the hat.

In time, the other Egos started filtering into the dining room. Some of them clearly distanced themselves from others as they seated themselves, air thick with tension. The table was uncomfortably barren now. With over half of them gone… Jacques had to force himself not to look at the empty seats and imagine the Egos who would usually be sitting there. It was hard not to do.

He thought of Marvin and Jackie sitting next to each other, elbows bumping; imagined the magician being scolded as he enchanted his fork. He imagined Chase ruffling Sophie's hair, and the Twins joking with each other or chatting with Will and Bim about their show. For a moment, he thought he could even hear Oliver and Bing laughing together in the living room. His gaze drifted to the end of the table, opposite Dark, where Anti used to sit. He had to suppress a laugh when he remembered the glitch creating a makeshift catapult from his silverware and sending mashed potatoes right at Schneeplestein's face.

"What's so funny, champ?" Wilford drawled from his place next to Dark. Jacques just looked startled. His eyes were blown wide, hands frozen where they'd been wringing at his shirt. The Septic hadn't realized he was grinning. He immediately ducked his head: He usually kept quiet at the table and wasn't used to being spoken to directly.

"Just…thinking." His voice was so small he wondered if the others had even heard. They must have, he figured, when their attention turned to Ed when the redneck started bringing in the food. It was nothing grand, but there would definitely be leftovers. Too used to cooking for lager numbers, after all.

The dishes were passed around the table, sometimes sliding over the polished wood when there was too much space between Egos to actually reach each other, but never once did something spill. Silver Shepherd helped Jacques dish up—the artist's hands too weak to hold up the serving dishes—while Dr. Iplier helped the Host so that nothing would wind up on his coat or the table.

It was almost unsettling how quiet dinner was that night. Every so often one of the doctors would wince as they got salt in the cuts on their lips, or there was clicking from Wilford at he unconsciously played with his butterfly knife under the table, but no one spoke.

Dark was the first to be done; cleaning up after himself, then departing to his office. Then it was Wilford and the doctors. Ed and Silver both got up to start cleaning up after dinner, arguing over who had to do dishes. That left Jacques and the Host as the only ones left at the table. Host didn't acknowledge the artist. He just sat silently, fingers knit together in front of him and plate pushed forward so it was out of his way. Jacques just kind of poked at his food with a fork.

"The Host would like to know if Jacques intends to inform the others of what he has been doing for the past six years."

Yet again, the artist's eyes were blown wide when he was spoken to. Why would he bring that up now of all times? He curled in on himself and shook his head before remembering the Host couldn't see the action. "Um. No… Why?"

"Jacques knows why." The Host groped for his napkin. Upon finding it, he dabbed at the blood on his face so he could take a drink without risking getting it in his water.

The Septic wrung his hands together. "So? They don't have to know."

"The Host understands Jacques is not one to enjoy attention from the other Egos. He would also like to remind Jacques that this is an important subject."

Cursing in French, Jacques's gaze cut to the side. "Far as they're concerned, the Googles have kept us all from fading, no?"

A frown etched its way into the Host's face. Jacques could only return it.

"The Host advises Jacques against hiding this for any longer."

"And Jacques," the Septic growled, "will remind the Host that Jacques is nothing in the others' eyes and they wouldn't believe him anyway. No?"

In all honestly, the Host looked surprised; even Silver and Ed had stopped their bickering to lean back into the dining room and stare Jacques down. The artist never raised his voice at others, never sounded cold. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head.

"What's goin' on?" the redneck demanded.

Despite the Host's lack of eyes, Jacques could feel that stare boring into him.

"Nothing. Tout est bien. Just tired."

Silver and Ed seemed to accept that answer and disappeared back into the kitchen. The Host, however, didn't budge. Really, he could just go blab away to any of the other Egos about the 'problem', but Jacques didn't want that. As such:

"Look. My abilities aren't powerful like the rest of yours. But if I don't want you bringing it up, you can't and you won't. I—"

The Host held up a hand, so Jacques fell silent. "The Host understands the limits of Jacques's abilities. What he does not understand is why Jacques refuses to let the information be known. The 'leak' could only benefit him."

"I am not doing it for popularity, Host. And do you think anyone would believe either of us? Let the Googles take the credit."

"Then why do it?"

"Just because the rest of you don't care about me," he paused, taking a breath to keep his voice from raising, "does not mean I want to watch you fade."

The Host opened his mouth, so Jacques threw his fork down onto his plate to shut the other up. "Listen to me!" the artist shouted, leaping to his feet.

Wrong move. He'd stood too quickly; the world seemed to spin. His chair had tipped backward with the sudden movement, and Jacques with it. The shout had the other two peek out from the kitchen once more, but the thud brought them running and Host up to his own feet.

Silver was already slipping his mittens off and running his fingers over Jacques's head, feeling for any blood. Judging by the sound, he'd gone down hard—there was bound to be a wound somewhere, right? Ed already had his phone out and was shooting a text to one—or both?—of the doctors.

Dr. Iplier had been the one to arrive. Turned out Jacques had a concussion, and would be on bed rest for a day or two, and no work for a week.

In the time that the artist was on rest for only a day, Silver and Ed had gotten into an argument that quickly turned physical. The TV now had a crack spiderwebbing across it, one of the end tables a broken leg, and Silver a black eye. The redneck had stormed out after they were reprimanded by Dark. It wasn't until a few hours later that the others had realized Ed hadn't returned to his room. It took a few hours more for them to figure out that he'd left completely. Right through the back door and into the humans' plane with nothing but the clothes on his back and his cellphone—which he had turned off. It was another hour of Silver fuming, two of him trying to drag Jacques out of bed. The Septic had thrown up three times in the superhero's attempts.

The next time Silver entered their room (Jacques having been shoved into the superhero's when the Septics started staying at Egos, Inc.) he was wearing regular clothes; dark jeans and an off-white button-up. Silver's girlfriend followed him in, pulling a suitcase behind her.

"Is that Jacques?" she asked as she leaned the case against the wall—she'd never met most of the other Egos. The hero just nodded, and Roxanne approached the bed. "All right, buddy. We need to go."

The Septic just kind of grumbled and pulled the blanket over his head.

Silver ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll carry you if I have to. But we were supposed to leave with Ed and he's gone, Jacques! If we leave now, we've got a chance of running into him."

Jacques groaned, but slowly sat up. "Fine," he mumbled, "but only because you won't leave me the fuck alone." Roxanne helped him out of the bed and toward his dresser. Silver tossed a backpack their way.

The remaining five didn't so much as bat an eye when they left. At most, there was a curled lip in a poor attempt to suppress a snarl, or narrowing eyes, but nothing more.

The Septic was the last to stumble out of the doorway, Roxanne and Silver catching him by the arms once Outside as he tripped over the threshold. He still felt nauseous and dizzy from his concussion, but there was a sudden strength in his limbs he hadn't felt since Passpartout was a fresh series on Seán's channel so many years ago, now.

Jacques sank to his knees then, staring at his hands. He looked dumbstruck, close to tears, as he studied them. He had never, not once, been completely opaque aside from in his videos themselves. There was always a transparency to him; a clear sign that not enough fans remembered him. Even less had ever even acknowledged him as a legitimate Ego. "I…I have ne-ever had a solid form before…"

The woman was smiling gently, and pulled the Septic back to his feet. "Well. Now you do." Roxanne pulled out her phone and turned turned on the GPS. She tossed her head in the direction of downtown LA. "All right, boys. Let's find a place to stay for the night."