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Chapter Five: Faith

Mac's head thundered and when he awoke, the world blurred before him. Rising awkwardly, he groaned and swallowed hard. In accompaniment, his stomach grumbled painfully. Overhead, stars dotted the sky and the moon shone. Yet the eight year old could muster no enthusiasm for the starlit night and its beauty. His hunger was too great.

The last day and a half he'd spent either on the road or sleeping. It wasn't surprising that he'd forgotten to eat, though now his body reminded him quite painfully. The only problem was his money was in his bag…about fifty miles away, if not more. He was broke, starving, in need of a decent shower if his clothes were any indication, and still stuck with Bloo in the back of his head. If he weren't so focused on locating his father and having Terrence's points explained, the sheer hopelessness of the situation might completely tear him down.

Bloo floated overhead as usual and glanced concernedly at his best friend. He had no idea what ailed him, but he was determined to find out. Unfortunately, swooping in front, glaring, and snapping did no good, simply because he had no corporal form here and his voice belonged in the real world, not the dreamlands. Mac's mind was open enough to let him visit, but not receptive to his suggestions. Like it or lump it, Bloo was wasting time trying to shove himself in.

To the eight year old boy's left after a good walk was a pizzeria. Delicious doughy smells wafted towards his nose and he practically drooled. Parmesan cheese, marinara sauce, and grated cheddar mingled with mushrooms and extra mozzarella cheese. In a patron's hands was a single slice, its heavenly aroma tantalizing imaginary and human tastebuds alike. Mac stared, tongue hanging out like a dog. He'd never been more famished in his life nor so close to a food article without being able to masticate it.

Swallowing hard, he wondered which was more important- his self respect or his grumbling stomach. However, before he had time to debate the subject, the man finished, tossed the remains away (never mind that Mac was hungry enough to devour the crust particles), opened his car door, and drove off. Sorrowful brown eyes followed his progress down the street, towards the stoplight, and then into nothingness. His stomach moaned piteously and he groaned. Food…food…

Like a dog, Mac pivoted in the direction of a teen's call. Bloo cringed; maybe he wasn't well versed in male teen voices, but this tone was dangerously close to Terrence. It mocked derisively rather than beckoned and threatened rather than promised. However, not only was Mac clueless, he was desperate. Anyone could tell you that was a volatile combination. Bloo screamed his name, but, like usual, he never heard him.

He trotted towards the dank, cluttered alleyway. A dumpster sat on his left side and darkened red bricks to his right. Other than a half hidden door on the right and the way he entered, he had no other exits. Judging by the rust on the handle, he doubted it would open. He was walking straight into a trap and he still hadn't noticed?

Maybe the hunger pangs are stabbing his brain, Bloo thought angrily. Nothing else could contend for his spectacular lack of good judgment. He knew Mac was smart…just not street smart. That was why he had Bloo- or, in this case, didn't have him.

"Hello?" he called into the darkness. It reverberated and he sounded like a lost kitten, in other words, a sitting duck. Bloo screamed again, the eternal voice in the back of his head, but he clearly wasn't getting that channel. With each passing second, his frustration and anxiety doubled. No matter what he did, including clapping his arms and whacking the air above him, nothing worked.

A gangly teenager materialized; a dark, malevolent look in his steely grey eyes. Dyed grey bangs covered his forehead and concealed much of his intentions in his eyes. A large something in his front left pocket jangled ominously and his jaw set determinedly, a smirk crossing his lips. Mac trembled visibly, but whether it was from trepidation or hunger, he couldn't tell.

"I can get you some food," the youth murmured, twirling a golden chain on his index finger. In his other hand, he toyed with a lighter. Bloo had the sudden, horrifying image of his creator alight and cried out, shoving against the mental block. It wedged itself tightly, locking him out effectively. It was enough to make him scream again, however pointless that was.

"That's-that's okay," he lied. "I'm not terribly hungry."

His stomach, nonetheless, told a different story. It grumbled loudly, not in the mood to be ignored by its lying mouth. The youth snickered, stepping forward to drape an arm around his shoulders. Swallowing hard, he tried to move away, but the grip became painful. He crammed him to his side and, powerless, the brown haired boy glanced up into his cruel gaze.

"No, really, I insist. But, first, you have to do something for me," he sneered, lowering his face and halting only when they were close enough to kiss or smell his fear (Bloo would have spat in his face). In either case, he disliked this immensely.

"What?" he squeaked, quaking. Again, the youth snickered, relishing it. Bloo's arms balled into fists in his sleep. God, he wanted to hit him. How dare he get that close and then laugh at his creator! That was why he needed him…how could he abandon him like that? His heart panged and he ached for him.

"You have to steal it for me," he grinned evilly. "What, you thought I'd get it myself? Get real, kid. Get it for me…or hunger pangs will be the least of your problems."

Both creation and creator swallowed hard, Mac whimpering inaudibly. He was in over his head again.

…

Meanwhile, in the real world, Wilt stood worriedly over Bloo. The alarm clock beside his bed read three forty five a.m., yet two of the four imaginary friends were far from sleep. Eduardo glanced down concernedly at his bunk bedmate and then glanced at Wilt again. They were at a loss.

Bloo's fists pounded on the mattress and he hissed, "Leave him alone. Don't you jerks have something better to do than pick on a little kid, like get a brain? Leave him alone!"

On this last plea/demand, he pounded the mattress so hard, both jumped. The springs panged and the imaginary friend was hoisted into the air. However, so deeply asleep was he that he hardly noticed his flight. In fact, he settled back down with the exact same expression. This was no good- one of them had to alert Madame Foster, Frankie, or Mr. Herriman. Not only was he worrying them, but Mac was evidently in danger again.

"We told them we'd get them…" Wilt began uncertainly, placing a hand on Bloo's forehead. Bloo snarled, rolling over onto his side and baring his teeth. Eduardo squeaked, burrowing his head in his pillows. He poked an eye out cautiously.

"Maybe this es a dream," Ed murmured desperately, though he knew this was not the case. He had to find a way to explain Bloo's behavior short of the supernatural…and if it was indeed a dream, it would end soon. Bloo had been struggling and wrestling his blankets for over an hour. In fact, it was his screams over Mac that woke them in the first place.

Stillness, broken only by Coco's bizarre snores, swept the small room. Bloo lay dormant, like a volcano about to erupt if only given the proper signal. He quaked, jaw working furiously, and Wilt sighed heavily. Under his breath they caught snippets of threats, coaxing, and pleas. It was no good. They couldn't wait until he started randomly attacking things in his sleep and believing he was protecting Mac.

"I'll go get them…" Wilt sighed, resigned, and left Eduardo to peer anxiously over his friend. Meanwhile, in Bloo's 'dream', he did the same.

…

Mac swallowed hard and presented a wrapped egg salad sandwich and cold cuts to the youth. Both hands trembled and, reaching into a concealed pocket, he gave him a small flagon of whiskey. The teen grabbed them eagerly, shoving him to the ground. Mac stared blankly up, unable to speak momentarily as he gulped down everything. He doubled over, his stomach killing him.

"Thanks for nothing, twerp!" he crooned, swigging the whiskey like one would water in a dessert. His vision blurred and he leered at him. Trembling, Mac drew against the wall and crept away until he backed himself into a corner. Bloo hissed, snapping, screaming, and doing whatever it required to get his attention. Yet again, nothing worked.

He stepped away from the corner and the other boy slammed him back in. Every time Mac tried to retreat, he found himself at the receiving end of a punch, shove, or kick. Mac cried out, clutching his sore stomach. Not only did hunger gnaw, but he'd an iron punch there too. In fact, the instant he covered it, a fist beat down on his head like a drum. This was like Terrence, yet, somehow, worse because there were no holds barred. Terrence would never beat him to a pulp- this guy probably would.

"Don't just stand there! Fight him!" Bloo cried, swinging his blobby arms in the arm. Unfortunately, Mac neither heard nor saw him. Instead, vision flickering, he attempted to waylay his attacks or avoid them. He managed to sidestep a punch to the gut only to be kicked in the groin. Like a sack, the child went down.

"Stupid brat," he snickered, kicking him in the side. Mac moaned, curled in a fetal position. A few more kicks and then he left, tossing him the crusts and the bottle. It thudded hard against his head and his vision started to fade into black.

"Mac…why can't you hear me?" Bloo whispered and recognition flickered in the boy's eyes. His voice reached him from a distance, like the two were on opposite ends of a football field. The youth's laughter echoed back to them and Mac extended trembling fingertips towards Bloo, but the instant they came within a few inches, he passed out. In that same second, Bloo was shoved back to consciousness, bewildered, anxious, and upset.

…

"He made a connection," Madame Foster said confidently, stroking his sweaty brow. Herriman scowled, displeased, disbelieving, and slightly jealous. He and Madame Foster were supposed to be the only pairs close enough to affect each other's dreams or, in this case, actual events. They were the only ones to be able to read each other's emotions…not him. He had nothing against Master Mac, but the very idea of Master Bloo having those powers too made him feel, well, less special. What, so they were handing out powers to anyone who wanted it? It didn't matter that he hardly deserved it.

"Mac…come back to me…" Bloo murmured, curling up into a ball. Frankie frowned, dabbing his brow with a wet rag. She glanced at the creation/creator duo; maybe she was insane, but she thought she detected envy in his expression. That was preposterous. What would that rabbit have to be jealous of? Honestly, he was the head of Foster's, second only to her grandmother. He ran and or ruined people's lives. Bloo was just a blob compared to him with absolutely no power other than the one to irritate the hell out of him.

"What connection?" Frankie interjected, leaning onto the bed to cradle him in his arms. At least in his sleep he was innocent. Probably the only time in his life he hadn't done anything wrong.

Madame Foster offered her a weak smile. "Imaginary friends have seen their creators die because of those dreams. I wasn't fibbing. However, there are some pairs that can affect each other more deeply because their bond is that tight. I thought Mac and Bloo were that close, but I didn't want to give him false hope.

"Now all we have to do is hope Bloo can get through to him and get him to come home…"

If he comes home…Bloo thought, surprising himself with his pessimism.

…

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