Author's Note/Disclaimer: Well, thanks for all the responses, guys. I really do appreciate it. (smiles) I don't have too much to say to you guys except please keep it up and, uh, to the person who wanted the Wilt/Ed- well, first off, this isn't a fanfic simply for pairings. They're not the main story.

Second, I don't really like Wilt. Sorry. So I'm not really going to have much interaction with him and if I do, I really doubt that I'm gong to be focusing a ton on him and Eduardo.

Moving on- Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me. This idea and DIE do.

Chapter Two: Frigid

"No."

Like the crystalline icicles dangling off the edges of houses, his cry was frozen and hung awkwardly in the air. Mac shivered, shoving his mittens inside his red wool jacket but pulling one out to draw his hood further over his eyes. They darted here and there to determine where Bloo's tracks lead. Unfortunately, the snow was not his ally. It fell thick and fast, obliterating any chance of him immediately determining where his imaginary friend had gone. Besides, any he'd deigned ended squarely at the convenience store's electronic doors.

Balling his fists, he glared at the now closed store to determine unfathomable answers. All clues pointed to Bloo either never arriving or being ambushed immediately afterwards. DIE had offices all around the city and their clandestine work, performed in secret labs, would be doubtlessly where they brought him. The sheer hopelessness of the situation made him grit his teeth and bite back a frustrated howl. There had to be something he'd overlooked.

Few people passed him in the streets and not simply because of the snow's cascade. The sun was setting and unless you wished to be stopped by guards posted on the street corners, you'd bustle home. Since Foster's foundation underground twenty-five years ago, obtaining food, necessities, and leisure objects fell to spies and "sliders", whose presence in the main stream society DIE created was virtually non-existent. These were ones without imaginary friends and nothing other than fealty to Madame Foster and her cause holding them there. Often, they risked life and limb to ensure Foster's continued its legacy. He admired their tenacity, though right now he sincerely wished Bloo had left his foraging to them instead of wandering off on his own.

Especially since he left his belt at home, he thought, shivering, not entirely thanks to the chill. Of all friends, he and Mr. Herriman were among the least humanoid and therefore, most likely to be halted and the penalty for being caught without a child was either capture or death. Yet, naturally, Bloo knew and disregarded this. His utter lack of concern for his well being irritated Mac deeply, but his concern outweighed his annoyance. With his mouth, he didn't envision DIE members keeping him around for too long. They'd rather make him target practice.

Thanks to his tenuous mental link with him, he could traverse the city for hours and come up empty handed. The sad truth of the reality was he might never find him. His heart ached and he sniffled, partly due to the cold. Maybe he was playing a prank. Maybe he'd reappear somewhere with a bag of chips and a grin plastered on his face.

Even so, he knew that was unlikely. First, this was not exactly something one joked about. He knew for a fact if any of the friends vanished on their creators, they'd flip out and start panicking like he. Second, too many friends vanished and never came back. All because of stupid above ground expeditions…

"Bloo, this isn't funny," he growled. No answer. The wind eddied and ebbed, rustling his chestnut hair.

"Bloo, come out, damn it!"

No answer. In the back of his mind, someone tore into his beloved and he stood, irresolute and utterly helpless. He shut his eyes to focus on the direction of his anguish, but it was too weak and far to pinpoint. Bloo was hurting…and he was standing in the snow bank and letting it happen.

Frankie glanced at the clock and then at the worried purple furred friend before her. So many of these talks had occurred around the kitchen table, far too many for her tastes. She often ended up placating friends and assuring them their friends would return, regardless of the truth of the matter. Now, she had to convince Eduardo of the same. Unfortunately, since she was wrought with panic over Mac's state as well as Bloo's, her words weren't as helpful as they might have been. Mr. Herriman was off, ensuring imaginary friends understood the implicit danger in leaving though they already memorized the rules. He did this every time one turned up missing.

She sighed heavily, looking out for Wilt in the hopes he might take him off her hands. The two were best friends, maybe more, but that wasn't her business. She hardly encouraged relationships, given how often friends vanished. It reminded her of her own relationship and how tenuous that was. She didn't know what she'd do if Herriman had gone up to the surface and never came back. At the thought, her stomach wrenched and she swallowed hard.

"Bloo es coming back, right?" Eduardo murmured, fearful and on the verge of tears. She hugged herself tightly, not trusting herself to speak.

Too many creatures vanished and after being gone for two hours, the prospects were grim. "Too late, it's gone, it won't come back." First Cheese (though a few less than polite friends were wont to say that his disappearance was a blessing in disguise) and then Uncle Pockets, both within one month. DIE was getting desperate and with that desperation, a suddenly flux in attacks and assaults. News reached them of random people getting beaten for information they never possessed.

"Sure, Ed," she replied absently, wishing Herriman would hurry up and return to her. Though he'd told her repeatedly there was nothing to fear, that he'd never be captured, she knew that of all the imaginary friends, he was the highest on their list. That was why he almost never journeyed to the surface, even for carrots (which she liked to limit him considering he acted like a drug addict after eating them). He was directly connected to Madame Foster and therefore, the perfect target. Whenever he ventured upwards, she insisted on accompanying him and sticking almost painfully close.

"You es worried, Frankie?" he called fretfully, placing his clawed paw atop her hand. Somber jade eyes met his amethyst orbs and she pulled away. She'd failed him and everyone by not being eternally optimistic, but when her own loved one could be just like the others…well, it didn't bear thought. She shivered.

Not to mention Mac had always exercised as much caution with Bloo as she did with Herriman. More so, because Bloo hated living underground. She remembered when the two came down here, he'd had to yank the blob down because he insisted on clutching the asphalt and street frantically. He spent the next two weeks declaring that this would kill him. He pretended he was about to die, gasped for air, and put his creator in a panic. Then again, Mac had only been about six when this happened. Considering the traumatic turn of events his life had taken, it wasn't hard to worry him in those days.

Orphaned, his only sibling abandoning him, he'd been too shocked to do anything but let Bloo talk for him. Then again, his mother had been killed in front of him for defending him. She'd been a rising compatriot of Madame Foster's and insisted that not only did her son deserve Bloo, but they deserved a happy childhood together. Her rousing speech only inspired them to silence her forever.

Terrence, terrified, sped off and was never heard from again. From her understanding, Mac and Bloo had lived on the streets for a while until Mac heard of Foster's underground system and convinced his friend (albeit with a great deal of difficulty) to join. Then again, that version might be skewed, considering Bloo was the one who told her in the first place.

Maybe his propensity to rework the truth in his favor would save his skin. Maybe he'd be clever enough to weasel his way out of their clutches. Maybe he'd keep his mouth shut long enough to avoid being killed. Maybe, but the odds were stacked against him.

I hope, for Mac's sake, he finds him…otherwise…

She couldn't bring herself to complete the sentence.

"No!" Bloo cried, for an entirely different reason than his creator. His body quaked, but he maintained control. Well, relatively speaking. Hot tears streamed down thanks to the weapons and physical abuse she reaped. He'd never wanted to hurt someone more in his life. He stubbornly wiped his eyes and spat in her face.

Two chains snaked their way out of the wall and their shackles bound his arms. Unlike other prisoners before him, however, they were rather loose and the chains themselves were rusted thanks to various imaginaries' powers. Bloo eyed them capriciously and rattled them soundlessly to test their endurance. His lower arms slipped and slid within. This might have its benefits.

Meanwhile, his strawberry, curly haired investigator paced, apparently deep in thought. He swung back and forth, wincing as his bruises were rubbed raw by the rust. His entire lower body was unconfined and that was the secret to his escape. In a few minutes, with a bit more musing, he ought to be able to slip out from under her.

Like all the investigators, her mission was to pry, albeit through torture or any other means, Foster's bases' location and his creator's identity. Unfortunately, his muttering of "Mac" proved useless because it matched nothing in their databases and could have been a lover, not a creator. Thought the thought disgusted, humans had been known to develop relationships with their imaginary friends or others'. Some couples they knew about, others they remained ignorant. It was those that worried them the highest, because those clearly were the biggest areas of concern. Who knew what power they wielded?

Those most corrupt in their power always feared someone overturning them at a moment of weakness. DIE was no exception. Though they loathed and appalled all imaginary friends and their creators, a secret part of them feared them. Anything they didn't understand was unsettling and best left to the incinerator. Emotions such as compassion and love were beyond them.

Clearly, this creature and his creator shared something akin to this and they had to figure out what and how so they could shut it down permanently. Stomp out all objections until they had absolute control and obedience, especially from Eleanor Foster and her clan. She was a blight on their radar, the scratch they just could not reach. They'd corrupted society thirty five years ago, but her last proclamation, that they would silence her and her followers when they pried Mr. Herriman from her cold, dead fingers, haunted them. More so than random imaginary friends, they sought information regarding her. So far, nothing. No imaginaries would talk and those who did lied. They were loyal to her to the end…and thus irritated them to no end. Would no one give them the information they sought?

Wiping off her face, she procured a long, extremely sharp knife and jabbed it at his stomach. All struggling ceased and the only indication of his inner fight was the fire burning in his eyes and utter loathing contorted his features. Despite his aversion to their "methods", he hated her too much to let anything slip. He'd rather bite, punch, or kick than admit anything. However, she didn't know this. Nor did she know about the wheels churning in his mind…

"Tell me what you know about Eleanor Foster, creator of an imaginary friend named 'Herriman'," she snapped suddenly, lunging and catching the knife point in his throat. Blood pooled and she snickered, certain she had him where she wanted. He coughed, blood in his mouth, and then, raising his head defiantly, spat in her eyes.

"No way in hell, bitch," he snarled, yanking on his chains. They finally gave and he fell hard to the floor. It smacked him in the face, but he knew he had to take advantage of her temporary incapacitation (she frantically rubbed her eyes). He swiftly, despite his many injuries, rose to his feet and then darted out of the room. She swore softly, spurting to the door to lock it, but, like a bullet out of a gun, he evaded her. He then hopped up, locked the door, cackled, and took off.

The hallways were a myriad of drones, occasional lab workers, and a devilish blue blur. Overhead, the pipes burst, splattering water everywhere and causing many people to choke on their coffee or wince as now ceiling plaster joined it. People halted, stared, and before they could even open their mouths, he sped by. Electronic devices crackled and exploded in his wake.

"That'll teach you to capture me!" he cackled, avoiding the sparks and irate workers. The electronic doors whooshed open and, to this day, only the main interrogator had the faintest clue what was going on. Of course, they didn't get her testimony for a few hours. She was too busy banging on her locked door.