It's me again. Just trying to set out a bit more of the story before I get on to the main part. For fans of Fosters' or FOP, this little bit. Enjoy!

Disclaimer : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

January 2025

Cognitive Crimes against the State Act 2022

Article 7 : Any beings formed by the process of the mind are considered to be products of an unstable imagination. Thus the creation and existence of imaginary friends is considered an act of defiance against the Mental Health Act of 2017, and is therefore a crime.

Subsection A : All imaginary friends are to be reported to the local authorities for immediate isolation, quarantine and internment.

Subsection B : Any person or persons whose imaginative or creative processes are manifested in an imaginary friend is/are considered to be mentally unsound, and is/are therefore placed under the jurisdiction of the Mental Health Act of 2017.

Subsection C : Any person or persons found concealing imaginary friends for any purpose commits a crime against the state, and is/are likely to be incarcerated indefinitely.

They came for him in the night.

They'd come and gone so swiftly and efficiently that Mac didn't know his friend was gone until the next morning. He'd broken out in a sweat when he gazed out from the schoolyard gate only to find that the Victorian spires of the Fosters mansion had completely disappeared from view. His only thoughts had been of Bloo and his other friends at Fosters', and what kind of danger they could be in. Without wasting another second, he had darted across the road, paying no mind to the squealing of brakes and the aggravated driver shouting obscenities at him from behind the wheel. When he arrived, he stared incredulously at the smouldering pile of rubble that lay before him. Mdm. Foster was sitting alone on the lawn weeping wretchedly.

"What happened?" he asked her. "Who did this?"

"They did," she replied, "the Keepers."

Crickets chirped their sombre melodies in the bushes outside. Inside the mansion, the residents had already bedded down; some of them were dreaming of what would happen tomorrow, others of a family they could feel a part of, call their own. The hallways, usually bustling with day-to-day activity, had fallen silent. The myriad clocks on the myriad walls ticked away the hours in perfect sequence, but the residents' slumber went undisturbed.

They broke down the front door at about 2 a.m. and swarmed inside, waking everyone in the house simultaneously. Before anyone could realise what was happening, they were racing up stairs, kicking in doors, pointing rifles in frightened faces. Ferocious dogs were let loose inside, driven forward by a savage bloodlust. The malicious glint in their eyes sparkled as they sought out fresh meat.

One of them, by the name of Wilt, tried to come to the aid of some of his friends, putting his ample height to good use. He managed to pull a few of them free before they tranquillised him and sent him crashing to the floor like a statue torn from its pedestal. This was the encounter they'd been anticipating for some time now – for almost three years.

As they were being herded down the many flights of stairs and out of the front door into the grounds, some of them collapsing in confusion and disorientation before being kicked into getting up again by the soldiers, Frankie Foster opened her bedroom door to find torches scouring the corridors like searchlights. Quickly before she could reconsider, she burst up the stairs towards her grandmother's room, hearing bullets fly and permeate the wall behind her, and empty shells scatter on the floorboards. Mrs. Foster awoke with a start as Frankie came crashing through the door.

"Grandma, we gotta go," she panted, "right now. They're here." As her aged grandmother swung herself out of bed, she added, "Come on. We'll take one of the secret passages." She opened a closet door to reveal a path of darkness that led away into oblivion, lit the candle on Mrs. Foster's bedside table, and the two of them made their way as quickly and carefully as possible down the passageway.

Out on the other side, Frankie pushed out the wall panel that led to the back garden. Trying to keep themselves well concealed, they crept silently across to a clump of bushes. 'Hide here, grandma,' Frankie said.

"What?" she replied, scarcely able to comprehend what she'd just been told.

"Hide," Frankie emphasised quickly, "I'm going back."

"Then take me back with you!" Mrs. Foster said, trying in vain to reason with her granddaughter. Something had not been quite right with her of late – she seemed to go about everything in a very cautious manner, peering frequently out of the window, jumping at the slightest sound. Now her eyes were burning with ardour, a determination to fight.

"I can't," she answered, looking around quickly. "All those friends in there are gonna be taken away and locked up. If you come back with me, you will be too." She saw her grandmother look her desperately in the face and sighed. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

There was an uncomfortable silence, only penetrated by the shouts, barks and gunshots from inside the house. One of the soldiers was sent crashing through a window, hit the ground head-first and lay where he fell, crumpled and still.

"I have to go," Frankie said, turning around and hurrying back towards the house.

"Frankie!" she called; her granddaughter turned back to face her again. "Be careful, dear. Please be careful."

Frankie smiled. "They're not getting out of here without taking me." And with that, she fled back into the house, not looking back at the dead man that lay at the base of the wall.

"And what happened then?" Mac asked. "What happened to her?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Foster replied. "But before they left, I saw something out there – " She pointed out towards the gate. " – something horrible."

"What?" Mac pressed her, desperate for answers, "What did you see?"

"All those imaginary friends, being driven like sheep into big, black trucks, crushed inside them, no matter whether big or small. And just before they set fire to the house, I saw them drag Frankie out by the legs; she wasn't moving – I couldn't tell if she was dead or not. Then they flung her into the back of another van, and then the whole convoy took off."

Stunned into silence, Mac stood up again, almost falling over backwards as he stumbled. "What'll happen to them?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Foster wheezed uneasily, "I was hoping this wouldn't ever have to happen." She looked him in the eye and continued. "Mac – they'll be taken to camps…to work off the debt the Keepers think they owe. Maybe some of them will be sold into slavery, I just don't know…oh, my dear boy…I'm so sorry…" She trailed off and her shoulders heaved as she began to sob again.

Mac surveyed the wreckage and thought of Bloo for a minute. The highlight of his day was spending a couple of hours in this house, taking some time to have some fun with his best friend. He couldn't make friends in school – all the kids considered him too weird to hang around with, shunned him in favour of more popular kids. All the people – well, "people" – who liked him for who he was had been at Foster's, and now for whatever reason, people had seen fit to deprive him of something again. Yelling out in frustration, he kicked one of the many splintered shards of wall that were now kindling the fire. Feeling completely alone, completely alienated, he crouched down with his head in his hands and he wept, for the scene of devastation in front of him, for the injustice of everything that had happened last night…but most of all for Bloo, and all the other friends at Foster's, friends he might never see again.

May 2025

He'd been in the house for two hours, but Timmy Turner still felt so giddy he couldn't stop himself jumping about with glee. No parents, but more importantly, no babysitter. He was free to do whatever he wanted, for that afternoon only, and he was going to make the most of it. His faithful fairies, Cosmo and Wanda, smiled fondly at him as they watched his ridiculous celebrations, granting wishes left, right and centre.

"This is so awesome!" Timmy yelled, still scarcely able to contain himself. "This is gonna be the greatest day of my life!" And what made it better was the fact that his two fairy godparents were here to share this with him, the fairy godparents who stuck by him and helped him out no matter what the personal cost.

"Calm down, Timmy!" Wanda smiled, "There's still another couple of hours to go!"

"Yeah!" Cosmo agreed, "So what do you wanna do?"

A mischievous smile crossed Timmy's face. "Oh, that's easy," he grinned, "I wish…" He trailed off as something dark-blue suddenly ducked down outside the window.

"Timmy?" Wanda asked, "What's the –"

Timmy put a finger to his lips and listened intently. A bead of sweat began to trickle down his forehead when he heard someone unlatch the front door – from the outside. "Someone saw," he whispered, "quick, hide!"

"But Timmy," Cosmo protested, "what about –"

"Hide!" Timmy hissed urgently. Suddenly, as the two fairies changed themselves into fish and landed safely in his goldfish bowl, the front door swung open with a bang and six tall, muscular men, each armed with a rifle, burst through into the front room.

"Don't move!" one yelled at him, straightaway pointing his gun in Timmy's direction. Slowly he raised his quailing hands to the sky. Two others grabbed a chair and forced him into it, one holding him down while the other tied his hands behind his back. The lights went out. Timmy could feel his bound hands quailing behind him as footsteps approached, and he groaned with discomfort as a soldier shone a torch directly into his eyes.

"You're Timmy Turner, are you not?" he asked, his steely glare piercing him like a needle.

Still shaking and sweating, Timmy stammered, "Y-y-yes," in response.

"I believe you know why we've come here," the soldier continued. Timmy swallowed nervously. Did they know about Cosmo and Wanda? "We've come for them."

"'Them'? 'Them' who?" Timmy asked, trying not to turn his gaze to the goldfish bowl.

The soldier laughed. "Nice try," he said, his trustworthy smile not faltering. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you? After all, they are yours, aren't they?"

The boy stayed silent, sweat trickling down his forehead. At the back of the room, Owen Ritter watched the interrogation with what could only be described as ambivalence. This was doubtless to aid the Keepers, which is what he himself was supposed to do, but would the ends justify these means? You're distracting yourself, he thought authoritatively, concentrate.

The soldier's grin widened a little. "From all my years of experience, kid, you wouldn't believe what I'd be able to do to you if you don't tell me right now. I'd probably start by pulling your fingernails out one by one…" He watched as the boy's eyes widened in horror, and he could actually hear his teeth chattering by now. "Maybe even your teeth, should the need arise…but we don't really need to go through that, do we? It's such an effort, after all. It would be so much easier, for both of us, if you simply tell us where they are." The boy was whimpering by now, on the verge of tears, but the awaited words didn't come. The soldier turned to face one of his colleagues. "Pass me the pliers."

This is crazy!, Timmy thought, They can't possibly… But he was proved horribly wrong as the soldier took the pliers and clamped them down on one of his fingernails. "No, wait! Please!" he begged them, gasping for breath.

The pliers parted and withdrew from his finger, and the soldier leaned in and asked, "Why don't you tell us?"

"Yes, all right," Timmy conceded, "I'll admit it." He glanced back at the fishbowl again. Cosmo and Wanda were desperately mouthing at him not to do it, but he knew deep down that he had to – it was safer for him and for them. "I'll admit that I have fairy godparents!" he yelled loud enough that the entire room could hear.

Suddenly, bits of timber began to fall as the ceiling split open with a searing flash of light. The soldiers looked on, stunned, as a colossal being floated down through the hole. Whatever it was, it was ten feet tall and built like a tank. The light subsided, and the stranger pointed what looked like a staff square at Timmy's face.

"Timmy Turner!" it barked with a distinguishable German accent, "You have broken the most important rule by revealing the existence of your fairies! You know the consequences!"

"Jorgen, no, you can't!" a woman's voice said as two other, considerably smaller creatures appeared next to the giant. That's them, Ritter thought, that's what Crocker was talking about all along… "What choice did Timmy have?" the voice said. "Just look at the people in this room! How could he not say it?"

"Yeah!" another voice, this time a man's, agreed, "These guys might have captured us if it weren't for Timmy!"

"That does not matter!" the giant thundered. "The circumstances are irrelevant! You still broke the rules, Timmy Turner, and for that, you will lose your fairies – forever!"

Despite Cosmo and Wanda's pleas, Jorgen was not convinced as he held his staff over them. They turned around sadly to face him. "Sorry, Timmy," Wanda said, starting to cry, "we tried, we really…"

"That's OK," said Timmy, just as tearful, "you'll be safe now."

"Goodbye, sport," Cosmo waved forlornly as a pillar of light sprung forth from Jorgen's staff, making he and Wanda waver like a hologram. "Goodbye…"

Shit, Ritter thought as he watched the events unfold, and decided not to wait any longer. Without a moment's hesitation, he fled out of the front door and took cover below the windowpane.

"We love you, Timmy!" the two fairies shouted in tandem. Slowly, they began to fade into the light.

"I love you guys, too…" Timmy called to them before they disappeared entirely, lost to him forever. Jorgen slammed his staff on the ground, and disappeared in another blinding flash.

Ritter covered his head as he saw the light break through the window like the northern lights, before it subsided. Once he thought the coast was clear, he cautiously got to his feet and re-entered the house. His men were still there, but they were standing around like lost travellers, unsure why they were there.

One of them saw him enter the room and said, "Evening, sir." He paused, then added, "Forgive me, sir, but…what exactly are we doing here?"

Ritter ignored him. Instead he marched over to Timmy and seized him by the shoulders. "What is your name?" he asked, desperate to find out the extent of the amnesia. "What is your name?" he shouted when the boy didn't reply.

"Timmy Turner," the boy answered, shrinking back from the harsh sound of his voice. "Why…who are you? What are you doing here?"

Again Ritter took no notice of the question and motioned to his men, "Move out. We're heading back to HQ." His order was greeted by some puzzled looks, but gradually they filed out of the room one by one. At least they remember who they are, Ritter thought. He stopped one of the men and whispered to him so they boy couldn't hear, "Give the child a sedative and then untie him. He'll wake up and think this was all a dream." The man nodded, and Ritter watched as he lay his case down and opened it, withdrawing a syringe and filling it from a vial. The boy protested at first as the soldier tried to administer the sedative, but fell silent once it entered his bloodstream. He fell forward limply and the soldier removed the shackles from his hands, leaving him to slouch over and sleep. As his men clambered back into their vans and took off back towards Metropolis, Ritter turned the night's events over and over again in his mind, trying to comprehend what he'd just witnessed and trying not to think how Crocker was going to crucify him when he returned empty-handed.

Far away from there, back in the Core, Denzel Crocker sat expectantly in his gloomy office, eagerly awaiting Ritter's arrival.

He'd used to be a weapons developer; in fact, for much of his young life, he'd had ambitions in the medical field. However, he had discovered during his sophomore year the unparalleled allure of pathology and studies of other diseases. His obsession with the subject stretched beyond involved, even bordering on morbid, and prompted the authorities to raise doubts about his mental stability. In spite of their worries, his progress soon led to a degree, which in turn branched out to job opportunities. However, by now his passion for helping people had waned considerably; the years spent on his own, experimenting and viewing weak strains of virus and bacteria after hours, the solitary light in a darkened laboratory, had helped him to realise the sheer power contained by only a simple membrane. It had sown some seeds in his mind that had taken root and left him twisted and warped. The only place he could possibly utilise his abilities was with the Keepers and their fledgling weapons programme.

Fifteen years later, here he was, with his own office, having progressed rapidly through the ranks. He didn't wield a great amount of power, incomparable to that which the Inner Circle possessed. He still had the authority to order "rub-outs"; the Keepers preferred not to use such a gangland term, but that was essentially what they were. They were simple, and they were cheap; call in an assassin or a militia from the armed forces, supply with a name, address, description, pay them their dues – job done. The unlucky person would never be seen or heard from again.

But his other, far darker obsession, one that was rarely discussed even among Party members, was one with fairy godparents, magical beings who had the power to do anything. Since an early age, he'd somehow convinced himself that they were as real as the nose on his face. At first he thought it lunacy, but it was a notion that never really left him, one that stayed festering in a dark corner of his mind until it had become malignant and completely consumed him. Some day, he'd repeated to himself over the years, like a mantra, he'd catch one and prove it to the world, prove how useful they were – and how effective a weapon they would be. He'd tried to prove this to the Keepers. With their mastery of all things unfathomable, nobody would be able to stop them. Not only would they conquer the continent – they could conquer the globe. Their empire would rule for a thousand years at least.

Naturally they hadn't listened to him. For this reason, some in the Keepers' hierarchy thought that he was clinically insane, and it was the opinion of many that he was on a steady downward spiral. Yet no-one within the Party had had the audacity to oppose him before now. Eventually, frustrated after all his efforts, he'd retired to his office and thought what to do next. Thoughts of betrayal were the first things on his mind. They'd had their chance to jump on the bandwagon, and in their blind ignorance, they had lost it for good. Why should he be forced to share such power and invincibility with such sheer mortals? He would be the one to rule for a thousand years. Whatever he wished, they had to grant – eternal life, world domination, complete sovereignty not just over Metropolis, but the entire planet –

Crocker's yellowing teeth bared themselves as he grinned at the prospect. The common people had submitted themselves collectively to the Keepers; now they would bow to him. If anyone displeased him in any way, it would be the last anyone would ever hear from them. He'd be the wrath of God – no, he would be God…

At that moment, his musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. His thick-soled boots tapping loudly on the wooden floor, Owen Ritter wandered in and stood at ease in front of his desk.

"Ah, Owen," he said. "Where are you holding them?"

Ritter said nothing before replying, "We don't have them, sir."

So convinced of his victory, Crocker was sure for a brief moment that Ritter was kidding. The mercenary's expression did not change, and he was stunned as the truth knocked him from off his high horse. How could this be? Uttering a small laugh of disbelief, he asked, "What?"

All of a sudden, Ritter felt slightly uneasy. Although quiet, Crocker's voice was still as threatening as the rumble of a tank or the distant growl of a tiger. "We don't have them –"

"I heard you the first time, you idiot!" Crocker screamed at him, surging up and slamming his fist on the table, "I want to know why you don't have them!"

Ritter swallowed. "The kid…told us he had them. There was a flash of light, and this giant came out of the sky, uttered something about breaking the rules. I admit, I fled. I ran outside, and when I came back…the fairies were gone, the kid didn't remember a thing, neither did my team. It was like some sort of specific memory loss – the kid remembered everything except the fact that he'd even had those things."

Crocker took his seat again, pondering the consequences that would doubtless arise from this fiasco. The fairies, his orb and sceptre, his Ark of the Covenant – they were gone, wrenched from his grasp when they had been so tantalisingly close. The Inner Circle would no longer hold him in such high regard. He would undoubtedly be punished for his mistake. The only thing left that he could do was cover it up.

"We need to take care of the boy," Crocker said. "He'll remember that you were there, he'll tell his parents, they might inform the neighbours, the police – the entire city will know about it."

Ritter shifted slightly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Dead men tell no lies," Crocker said, looking back up at Ritter. "Kill him. And his parents. This can't be allowed to circulate."

"As you wish, sir." Ritter saluted then walked calmly out of the office. By now he felt very uneasy, even more so than during Crocker's sudden fit of anger. His conscience itself was raging inside him, hurling conflicting questions at him left, right and centre. Kill a child, he thought to himself as he went through the glass double doors that led out of the building, Had he heard him right? It was a thought that had never occurred to him before, because he'd never been put in such an awkward position before. He'd done his share of killings and arrests on the Keepers' behalf, but to kill a child? Was that right? All human beings – well, most­ – knew by simple intuition that some things were right and some were wrong. Through his years under the Keepers' watchful eye, his had altered. Murder, for example. If someone out in Metropolis had killed another person himself, or was actively conspiring against the Keepers, their death would not weigh heavily upon his conscience. But he knew that to kill an innocent person was wrong, and especially so if it was a child. Had this boy done anything wrong? No. Neither had his parents. But Crocker wanted all three of them dead, nevertheless.

But what position was he in to refuse? Crocker, or so Ritter perceived, was a man who was standing on the brink of insanity, prepared to take the plunge at any given moment. If he refused, that was it. Even if he fled, even managed to escape to another country, they would find him. They had terrifyingly sophisticated methods of tracking people wherever they went. When they found him, they would kill him, probably stick him in court on charges of treason first, another bit of propaganda to shove down the throats of their doting public. It was a remorseless system in Metropolis, one where you could only survive through co-operation and personal submission. He was nothing but a cog in these works, an insignificant part that could easily be discarded and replaced.

Better to accept the less of two evils, he decided. Reluctantly he set out for his post again to collect some troops and do the deed before he ended up doing something he'd really regret later.

On the next day, Timmy trudged up the sidewalk that led to his house. It had been enough effort to stay awake that day, never mind get through school. A horrifying nightmare had woken him up in the middle of the night; he couldn't remember what it entailed now, but the impression it had left was so deep that he hadn't been able to get back to sleep. He nodded off at various points that day, only for a single image from this dream to appear and wake him up. Maybe it was due to his tiredness, but he felt a bit depressed as well today, as if someone very close to him had disappeared from his life.

Eager to simply lay down his head and sleep, Timmy reached for the handle of the front door, but it swung open with him even having to turn the knob. Although the curtains were open, the interior still appeared to be shrouded in gloom as he peered in through the doorway.

"Mom?" he called, "Dad?" The walls themselves seemed to resonate with the sounds of his voice, sending his words echoing up the stairwell and through the entire house. An eerie feeling of isolation began to creep up on him. He tried again to get his parents' attention, but still no answer came. He felt scared. His parents didn't normally go out without telling him, or at least getting in his hated babysitter for the evening and then telling him. As he walked into the kitchen, he swallowed nervously. Plates were smashed, the kitchen table was overturned, numerous items of crockery lay strewn across the floor.

Lying just in front of the table was a piece of paper, and Timmy picked it up. It was slightly crumpled, and the handwriting revealed that it had been written in a hurry. A horrifying realisation dawned on him as he examined the note and realised that it was in his mother's handwriting. Hands trembling, he read it.

Timmy,

Your dad and I can see men out in the front yard. They're hiding. Some have guns. We're scared, but all we care about is that you stay safe. If you find this note, we both want you to run, run as far away as you can… He struggled to read the last couple of lines as the writing became more frenzied. We may not see each other again, but we know you'll be all right. Timmy – never forget that no matter what, we love you…

Suppressing the urge to vomit out of sheer terror, Timmy allowed the letter to float harmlessly to the floor. His parents were gone, maybe even dead – and now he was alone, stranded inside his own neighbourhood. He couldn't go to anyone because nobody would help him. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he agonised over where they might be.

All of a sudden, something caught his eye and he spun around to see a man pointing a gun at him. The image from his dream appeared before him again as the man rested his finger on the trigger. He screamed and ran in blind panic through the front door. His footsteps thundering in his ears, he failed to see that the mysterious gunman had been nothing more than a hat-stand and an umbrella. His thoughts were only on escape, and as he fled into Metropolis, it would be a little while before he came to realise that he'd left part of his childhood behind as well.