I am the Brain Tree, and this is my life.

This is my nihilistic, gloomy life.

Something that develops intelligence, a living, carbon organism, is usually able to explore their world. This allows them to satisfy their craving for furthering their insight, and deepen their perception. Their intelligence grows with each new step they take through life, compiling together book smarts, experience and interaction with the outside world.

This is a luxury I am not afforded.

Unlike their limber legs, what links me to the ground chains me there. My roots grow down deep to find the prime nourishment in the emaciated soils of the Haunted Woods, that infertile sand having suffocated many of my brothers. I can only wave about my arms to catch a wayward Pteri from the sky and demand information from him, or rely on daring and greedy Questers to shuttle information from that retch the Esaphogor to me. My lust for knowledge can only be fulfilled through these meager means, and by observing what appears immediately before me.

Some knowledge, though, I would be content to be without. The knowledge of the thing that lurks behind me, for example, would make for a more peaceful existence. Perhaps then I would not feel obliged to grasp and save every adventurer stupid enough to wander into its lair, and reduce the scars striping the back of my trunk. But I know it is impossible. Even as a sapling, centuries in the past, I had been aware of what evil I was planted in front of—of what my boughs were planted to hide. Even if I had not been born with this awareness, I would have discovered it anyway; the scant few I have failed to save from its hungry grasps send shrieks that rattle me as if I were hollow, terrifying and sympathetic.

I would not mind, either, if I had been given such a brain and planted somewhere other than the Haunted Woods. Another guardian to conceal the beast could have suffered my burden, and my seed could have been planted in Meridell. Though I have never seen the place with my own two eyes, passing Draiks have woven wondrous tales of Meridell and Brightvale's beauty, budding with fertility and well-being. Though I may have been shunned, and perhaps chopped down, had I shown my swollen cranium among the described greenery, I would trade a moment in that ripe, delicious sun for a lifetime in this eternal gloom.

The only shrubbery that twists around my trunk are weeds and herbs fit only for Edna's foul potions. While she visits me regularly, and supplies me with Neopian news and occasionally a Neopian Times propped up on a nearby stump (the corpse of a former comrade), her knowledge is limited to spells and other such witchery. I desire a knowledge that spans subjects only dreamed of by scholars. I desire a Neopedia inside my head, delivering whatever knowledge a passerby requests at the drop of a hat.

But such a gesture would be uncommonly kind for me, and I have a cranky reputation to uphold. I am not internally as sour as I appear on my exterior, though a bitterness does linger beneath my bark. When the season is right, Edna comes around to collect the acidic sap that seeps from my pores, claiming it good for more complex and potent potions. At least I can be of use there, even if it is only my natural, physical status that allows this. What fun is there in displaying a talent you were born with, and have not earned?

My story begins like almost any other of my stories—it being nighttime, and myself unable to sleep. Some brave Korbats dangled from my branches, but I did not bother their inverted dreams. I was too busy studying the phase of the moon and, when that was completed, charting the shift of the stars with one of my branches into the ground. The beast rumbled a growl behind me, hungry for the Korbats that dripped from my limbs. I ignored its sinister sounds, enveloped in my studies.

I was tracing the last star into the thick mud, the heavens forced into the sin of the ground, when I noticed something at where my roots intercepted with the ground. Normally, I disregarded the gnarl of barbed weeds at my trunk, but among these typical horrors was something new. I could barely decipher it at first, but as I brushed away the vicious shrubbery that often snapped back at my bough, I discovered what had caught my eye.

It was an out-of-place little plant, tenaciously growing amidst plants hostile to its existence. It had a strong, bright green stem, and at the top, a flower as red as blood bloomed gorgeously. Illuminated by the moonlight, its exotic splendor was only amplified, making it seem preciously lined with platinum.

My first instinct was to pick it—but then I checked myself, and thought better. If I picked the beauty, it would die slowly in my grasps, and not have a chance of proliferating and continuing to shed its miniscule glory on my dismal kingdom. Remaining in the ground, it could delight me in the future, so long as I kept it safe from its surrounding adversaries. It was delicate and rare right then, a peaceful country surrounded by hostile enemies.

I cleared way for it quickly, not caring for the weeds I smashed in the process. Soon, only that beauty—that Neopian beauty—stood alone in that patch before me, shining like a ruby amongst the muck.

I am Max the Skeith, and this is my life.

This is my guarded, concealed life, hidden beneath my black suit and briefcase.

You probably know me. You've probably seen me as you've come in to start an account, or collect your interest from the National Neopian. It's a nice banking firm, and I like to believe we do a great service for our clients—we keep their money safe from the grasps of the Tax Beast, or any other anonymous offender in Neopia. I always love to see the face of the fresh Neopians as they come in to make their first bank account, shy and timid with the few Neopoints crinkled in their hand. I even don't mind enormously when customers continuously withdraw from their account, slowly leeching away their funds and blowing them on Paint Brushes and pricey Petpetpets.

That doesn't mean I love my job.

I always had a knack for math, even as a young Neopian, wide-eyed, naïve, and wishing for the next Space Faerie action figure. Little did I know this blessing, in the scheme of things, could be turned into, by public education, a curse.

"Max!" my teachers cried, their faces ruddy with joy and hands all accepting. "We can't believe how well you did on the last calculus test. You're a natural, you know." I would nod and agree, a blush turning my green skin slightly purple. They would pat me on the back heavily, nodding all the time. "We'll see great things out of you in the future, Max. It's a rare thing to be so talented with numbers. Great things, you mark my words."

I did mark their words—every one of them in a private diary used to pump my self-esteem and give me the shred of self-worth my owner never provided to me. But as I advanced in years, I realized a talent in math is just as superfluous as one in English—it only hid under the guise of practicality. My limited options were revealed to me on disappointing job search sites: accountant, tax collector, math teacher and freelance mathematician.

Tax collector involved selling out to the Man.

Math teacher involved guiding snot-nosed kids.

Freelance mathematician involved periods of going without food for lack of money. My last option, by the deduction property, lay in accountant. And you can see me working that job now, dressed head to toe in the priciest suit I can afford to attract new customers. But luxurious clothes doesn't always do the trick. You've got to compete for clients, and that involves having the quickest wit and smashing good looks. The wit you can work on—the smashing good looks can only be found two ways: naturally, or through purchasing power.

I had to rely on the latter.

I passed by Kauvara's Magic Shop religiously. Though my savings and my paycheck couldn't quite pay for it yet, I often caught glimpses of my ultimate goal in the window, only to be plucked from the shelf by some rich owner with a Cybunny at their side. I would scowl, and often pretend that my eyes had only happened to fall upon the shop for casual window shopping purposes, but it was hard to hide my disappointment, even if I knew I couldn't yet afford that precious bottle. Quickly, I'd continue along the road, thumping my briefcase, depressed, against my thigh.

Worse were the days that Kauvara noticed me practically salivating at the window before the delicate glass vial was purchased by someone less deserving. She'd come up to the window with a quizzical look on her face, adjusting her magician's cap and tapping back on the window at me. She's smile, and wave her hoof.

"Hey, Max. How's my money faring at the National Neopian?"

Internally, I'd curse her, but as someone who worked in a job that was practically public relations, I had acquired a decent poker face. I smiled broadly.

"It's fabulous, Ms. Kauvara. You're increasing your profits as we speak. Just don't forget to collect your interest everyday."

"I won't!" she would call back, and would seem satisfied with this exchange in dialogue. Irritated, I'd walk off nonchalantly, and then once out of sight in my home, string together a line of curses so foul even Frank Sloth himself would blush. More aggravatingly, Kauvara never did forget to collect her interest, so I was daily forced to remember the fact that I could not get my paws on the object of my desire.

Sometimes, I'd try to convince myself to ask Kauvara to put one of those potions on hold, or perhaps to give me a discount—especially since I had weaseled the system to give her a better account service than her balance allowed by policy. Yet every time I thought I had wracked up the courage to make the casual request, as soon as I saw her starry hide the bravery deflated from me. We'd end up exchanging the normal politely detached repartee, and when she retreated I'd watch her until she disappeared, infuriated at my cowardice and her ridiculous prices.

When I thought about it at another dinner alone (my owner away as always with her favorite, Uilikee the Tyrannian Kougra, spending the money I earned for a night on the town), fuming over how Patrick the Cloud Uni had made more business today, or how Jenny the Maraquan Acara managed, even from the kiddie pool her body forced her to stay in, to charm a rich client into starting an Ultimate Riches account, I only became more irritated at myself for not having the mettle to reach for what I wanted. Surely I could take a loan from the company—a transaction only allowed for employees—and buy the item on credit, but how would I explain my sudden need for a loan of 100,000NP and beyond? My vain purposes would surely be shot down, and not only would I suffer the embarrassment of that, my employer would also secretly snicker behind my back at that 'ugly, desperate Skeith.'

See, Neopian officials want you to believe that you're perfect as you are, and that you shouldn't seek to change yourself. Anyone who's caught in such a compromising situation is bound to be stigmatized for being such a desperate idealist, and not being able to be content with how they were created. But the truth is, this happens almost constantly behind closed doors. So long as you're not caught buying the potion, or drinking it, you're freed from the mark of wanting a change. Instead, you've just "improved" yourself—never mind how it happened or how much you spent.

If the next day at work you come in a Robot Pet, your business is destined to skyrocket, and no one will say a word.

So up to this day I accumulate cash quietly in a private account under an alias, waiting for the day to buy that elusive, career-changing potion in the window:

A Faerie Ixi Morphing Potion.

I am Princess Fernypoo, and this is my life.

My anxious, uncertain life on a pedestal.

Oh, I do love luxuries—I do love sitting amongst velvet pillows and going to stores where the clerks, upon my arrival, bring out the finest cashmere clothing an Acara could ask for. I love elaborate restaurants, like the kelp, with marble fountains and the wait staff in tuxedos that one can only gain access to through celebrity reservation. I love the pretentious wine lists and the connoisseurs who are only nice if you stuff Neopoints in their pockets. I love the small portions of exquisite and dangerous sea food served almost as much as I love being escorted there in a carriage pulled by Maraquan Lupes and made of the finest Maracite for defense. I love coming home to a castle and an owner who feeds me premium Neopain Food so that I might become part of the Gourmet Food Club on all of the delicacies she stuffs me with. I love knowing my superiority as I stroke my Moltenore while watching it play with its Mootix, a goofy smile on its face.

There is only one thing I loathe about the charmed life I lead as a Royal Acara, one of the finest and rarest breed of Neopet. It is the knowledge that this charm could vanish in the simple zap of electricity.

Here is my confession: I am a lab pet.

Avid Cheat! players may be surprised. Perhaps I seem one of those privileged Neopets who, while not only possessing a wealth of Neopoints and beauty, also does not answer to the wild whims of an owner. This is untrue. I used to live independently, when I had still been the beloved daughter of King Ferny who taught me to play Cheat!. Once I went off to make it on my own, however, I was forced to resort, for my own safety, to being looked after by an owner, putting myself up for adoption for a ridiculous sum until a rich, enterprising owner came along.

Now, I am just as much a captive of an owner—who also oversees the growth and well-being of my sister, Validated, or Vali, the Baby Grarrl—as any other common Neopet, my life only made lush by her discretion. Daily, I must cater to her favor, whatever it may be—whether be it bringing in the Neopoints through my endless font of luck, or giving her affluence by showing off my costly and unusual color.

Luckily for my owner, the price on my looks came cheap—namely, free. After months of saving for archaic pieces of what looked like a washed out, soaking map, my owner set off on a quest for the target that was mapped out on the shoddily reassembled map. Once she had found the destination, she urged me to follow her, at that time still just a Blue Acara. "Come, Fernypoo," she urged, taking me by the wrist. "I've found something marvelous."

That 'something' involved a yellow, hare-brained Scorchio with a crazed smile and coke-bottle glasses. He urged me to follow him to the back room without my owner, and I complied, shooting a nervous look to my owner. She gave me an encouraging look and shooed me towards the Scorchio with a smile. Cautiously, I turned myself back to the Scorchio and allowed myself to be led into a room filled with a variety of vials of chemicals, some bubbling and spitting poisons into the air. I shivered, especially disturbed as the heavy cast-iron door behind us closed.

The Scorchio, suddenly, grasped me and strapped me to a cast-iron bed. I struggled against the bonds, but the Scorchio assured me, with a guttural, insanity-stricken laugh, that there was no need to be frightened. Once he had fixed the barrel of an ominous machine towards my body, he climbed back to where I was, and stroked the fur beneath my chin with a cracked fascination.

"You're a gorgeous little specimen," he cackled, twirling my fur painfully around his claw. "Let's hope that your owner brings you back in the future, hmmm?"

I was outraged. How dare an off-his-rocket scientist treat me, a princess, with so little dignity? I was not a common Neopet to be trifled with, to be groped by his hands stained with potent solutions. I opened my mouth to protest, my indignation overruling my terror, but he was already back at the machine, fiddling around with the switches. He finally sat back in the chair stationed at the other end of the machine, and grinned down at me with glittering canines.

"Brace yourself, pretty one!"

With little extra warning, a bolt of electricity shot from the barrel of the machine, striking me dead-on. I screamed at the pain, at how it made my insides writhe, changing things haphazardly and without pattern. The pain diminished in seconds, but its blazing memory did not. As soon as I regained myself, my muscles still tingling from the blast, I shrieked up at the Scorchio, balling my fists.

"Who do you think you are?" I cried. "I am Princess Fernypoo! Who gave you the authority to do such things to me! Come over here right now, I'll show you what happens when you do such heinous things to someone of royal blood!"

"Do calm down, do calm down," encouraged the Scorchio, still giggling madly as he climbed off his post behind the machine. Instead of heading to release me, he headed back to the door, unlocking it with a swift motion. My owner immediately raced into the room, a look of honest concern on her face. She ran over to where I was locked, petting my head fiercely as if I were a common Petpet. I hated when she showed such condescending sentimentality, and strained against her palm.

"Fernypoo, are you okay?" she demanded, looking me straight in the eyes. I loathed her whenever she tried to act like my mother—as I had informed her before, I already had a mother who was of much higher status than her lowly self—I had a mother who was a queen. Also, she often omitted my full title—instead of calling me Princess Fernypoo, she reduced it to the humiliating status of only 'Fernypoo.'

"Princess Fernypoo," I corrected. "And no, I'm NOT okay. This madman here—he zapped me with that horrible gun over there!" I indicated the barrel that still pointed at me with a jerk of my head.

My owner's head snapped towards the Scorchio, who had approached me from the other side and was beginning to unlock my bonds. He snickered underneath his breath, audible for only me, and then looked back to my owner. "No worries, no worries. Fernypoo here was just a little ruffled by the process."

"Princess Fernypoo!"

"Right, Princess Fernypoo. Anyhow, she increased in strength by three points by my calculations." The Scorchio released me, and I darted from the bonds to behind my owner. If she was good for nothing else, she made an ample shield. "You should come back tomorrow. Who knows what will happen the next time you come …"

While the statement sounded ominous to me, it must've rang quite differently in my owner's ears, as her eyes widened, intrigued. She would not say whether or not she planned to go to the laboratory again until she was dragging me out the door bright and early the next morning, goading me with promises of rich food and expensive beauty maintenance items.

With these bribes, I agreed to go—but later, after she had used these reasons to compel me to the lab, I realized something: what good would expensive beauty items do if I were transformed into something like a Green Quiggle? More importantly, what would become of me if I became a Green Quiggle, or something worse? Would I still receive special discounts at my favorite stores? Would toy store companies still lavish me with the newest plushies? Would the kelp still accept me for fifty percent off?

These worries began to dissolve the moment I was zapped into a Royal Acara, further emphasizing the validity of my demands for the finest objects. My owner was ecstatic, but I was smug—I knew I deserved this form all along, and it was only a matter of time before fate bestowed it upon me. My owner had adopted Vali by that time, and when I arrived home, Vali cooed and fawned over my newly acquired robes and crown, impressed by their authenticity despite my owner not having paid a cent to the Hidden Tower. With my new wardrobe and color, I found even more invitations stacked at my door for Cheat! competitions as well as parties and store visits, my fame seeming to spread across Neopia.

But this is just the beginning of my story. This story begins after I had been transformed, and, secretly, a regular visitor to the lab ray. This story was, surprisingly, not sparked by me—and as such, the reigns of control fell out of my grasp, and led me bumpily towards the end. The story really begins one fateful morning when I checked in Vali's crib to find the diapered Grarrl vanished, and in her place a piece of paper with a clipped-out threat neatly ransom note inside.

I am Albert the Kacheek, and this is my life.

This is my sad, distorted, freshly hellbound life.

I won't mince words. You might know my story already, but if you don't, here's a brief recap: that jerk the Esaphogor grabbed me by the tail when I was trying to plant some pineapple plants in the Haunted Woods (it's worthwhile to note here that I used to be a fairly ambitious gardener, and had some floosy idealist dream of planting flowers everywhere in Neopia) because the brat was hungry, and turned my speckled hide to one that now quite grotesquely displays my brain. A mutant, really, in the Virtupet tradition.

I don't grow too many flowers anymore.

Mostly, I just scavenge for food for the Esophagor. That lousy excuse for a quest monster sends me packing day and night to find all sorts of strange, exotic food in the Graveyard. It's impossible, most of the time, 'cause he requests this gourmet stuff that's near impossible to find by the Shop Wizard, let alone in the swamps of the Haunted Woods. That jerk the Esophagor, he keeps saying if one day, I manage to supply him with all the food he requests in a twenty-four hour period, he'll lift this curse offa me and I'll be back to normal. Needless to say, that's motivation enough to get my rear scooting off to the nearest graveyard to wade through Ghostkerchiefs for a Sun-Dried Techo Claw.

But lately, I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't just a huge scam for the Esophagor to have a never-ending supply of food, served to him by his live-in slave: me, Albert the Kacheek.

A Neopet gets desperate sometimes, y'know. Most of the time, I can actually see the foods that the Esophagor requests—it's just what he's craving at the moment happens to be too darn expensive for the few Neopoints he spits at me. It's just within my reach, and sometimes I even try petty thievery to nab it and get away, vowing internally I'll pay for it later. (This is mostly a form of self-deception.) But that Halloween Bruce vendor always catches my hand dipping into his supplies, even while he's distracted, and then chases me away while hitting me with his bat wings. Then once I get home, red spidery marks all over my face from where that Bruce gave me a beating, the Esophagor's only comment is he's hungry and he wants a Spooky Shake.

Ungrateful fatty.

So, basically, I've been concocting ways to make money for the past few months. I tried not to dip into a criminal mentality, but in the Haunted Woods, it's hard not to. The fact that it's only actual daytime for roughly two hours here makes for an external darkness that creeps to the interior faster than preventable. Before I came here, I would've never thought of stealing from that Bruce's stand—now, it was a commonplace occurrence.

I decided my best bet was to go for something non-violent. Bank robbing could become more of a hassle than a bargained for, armed or not. Besides, I wasn't very adept with weapons, nor did I know which ones would be right for the job. With all my luck, I would end up holding a bank clerk with a floozy Chia Bubble Gun and be carted to jail faster than I could blink.

So I decided on kidnapping.

I knew I needed to nab a loved one of someone rich, though preferably not famous. If they were rich without fame, I could get all the ransom I needed without attracting a mountain of media attention. Figuring gamers would have the most amount of dough, I began to leaf through the public records of high score lists, seeing who had the most consistent wins without me simultaneously knowing their name.

It was on the Cheat! scores that I stumbled upon my victim. Princess Fernypoo, they said her name was—once an independent Neopet turned a slave to her owner. (Although I was slave to the Esophagor, I had always thanked a higher power that I never had to answer to some snotty-nosed human child who knew nothing about Neopia.) Turning immediately to the computer database, I searched her user lookup to find that she had one other sibling: a Baby Grarrl named Validated.

My heart leapt with crooked joy at this realization. Not only were Baby Neopets cherished by their owners, they were also ridiculously gullible and laughably trusting. I located them with the click of a mouse in the Maraquan complexes—some of the fanciest—and began to piece together how I'd break in and capture the little tyke. After a few moments of fretting over a plan, I threw caution to the wind and decided to wing it. I knew it was a fairly irresponsible decision, but you've got to understand—I'd been the Esophagor's personal food slave for more than three years now. Anything was preferable than finding him another set of Peanut Butter Spiders—even jail.

I ended up entering the apartment in a rather unconventional way during nighttime. With binoculars, I at first watched as Princess Fernypoo and her owner, from a shroud of nearby seaweed, tucked in the little babe into a crib, so I knew where I could find the slobbery thing. I watched them sing it wordless songs in a sickening fashion, turn on a glowing mobile, and then turn off the light, retreating from the room. I waited for them to exit out of the door and hail a cab, then stashed my binoculars and got to work.

While I wasn't in league with the Brown Meerca Brothers as far as criminal activity went, I did know a thing or two from fraternizing with enough people at the Deserted Fairground. I knew that the best way to get into the building was to appear like someone who should be in the building, rather than sneak in through a window like in a gaudy spy movie. I figured by best bet was the mailman ploy (as then I'd even have a large sack to carry my freshly-acquired hostage out in), so I tackled a Maraquan mailman on the next stop of his route, stole his clothes and identification and proceeded to the front desk.

The manager in the lobby gave me a queer look when he took my I.D., comparing me to the Maraquan Chomby in the picture. Shoving my mail cap harder over my head to conceal my brain, I smiled a shut-lipped smile.

"Lab ray," I explained with an apologetic smile, and the manager grunted in approval, giving me back the card. He proceeded to give me an all-access card, which I shoved into my pocket with a sense of accomplishment, moving to the elevators.

I skipped delivering the mail, immediately jumping to the tenth floor where my goal was. I passed the doorways quickly, ducking into side hallways I ever saw a resident coming through--I feared they might request their mail. After mentally counting the windows I would have to pass, I came to what I assumed was the right door and opened the lock by sliding the key card between the door and the wall. For such fancy-schmancy apartments, they sure didn't know how to robber proof their rooms.

I slipped in, checking around the hallway to see that I was undetected. I shut the door quickly behind me, and kept the lights off. I had to get rid of all the excess mail in my bag, so I dumped the majority of the letters into the sink, which was spotless and had its faucet handles gilded. I paused, wondering if it was worth the trouble to pry the handles from the sink, then got paranoid that I would be caught and raced to the back room where the cradle was.

Vali was sleeping soundly in her cradle, swaddled in silken blankets. I wondered what the point of this luxury was, as the Grarrl was already ruining them by drooling all over them, but the rich, as I understood, had strange ways that the poor couldn't understand. Even as it stood, Vali, who was a sixth of my age if that, had a room that was bigger than any house I had ever even considered. Everything was neatly arranged on shelves that stacked up to the wall, and murals of Unis dancing down rainbows circled the walls. The tyke had a collection of plushies that was stacked in a pyramid against the wall—her obsession seemed to be with Cybunnies, and she had a Cybunny plushie in every color imaginable.

If I could only have stolen that environment rather than its inhabitant, I would've been content for the remainder of my life. Vali, young as she was, had no conception or appreciation for what surrounded her—I, on the other hand, a Kacheek jaded by years in Neopia, could waltz through the splendor and wonder how such the ungrateful people were always granted the glory. In the moments before I picked up Vali and deposited her in my mailbag, I lived in the world I aspired to see one day, only with my own mark lingering like a phantom over each precious possession. I pretended, for a moment, that this reality was mine, and then as soon as I exited the room, swore it would be one day, Vali's sleeping body rustling softly in the mailbag.

I nodded to the desk clerk on the way out, and, throwing the unneeded uniform on top of the unconscious Chomby in the seaweed on the way out, headed back to the Haunted Woods for the Brain Tree.