Author's Note/Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. If you're not reviewing, why not? I don't bite. :P And I'll be sure to reply unless you don't leave your e-mail. Then I can't help you.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me, but DIE does.

Chapter Six: Unnerved

Nightmares lasted until the sleeper woke, shrugged off their fears, and fell back asleep in a warm bed. By the morning, they were vague terrors in the middle of the night. They held as much sway over the creature as a pebble had over a riverbed. Lost in the ebbs and flows of the day, it drifted far and wide, always within reach but never fully realized. A moment might occur where it snagged and, eyes widened, one stopped to reflect, but otherwise, the pebble never impacted the stream significantly. It swayed, drifted, and vanished from the immediate focus.

Frankie still waited to wake. Daily, she opened her eyes only to find the low ceiling over her head and the omnipresent chill. She inhaled dirt's stale aroma and thanks to the sun's continued absence, she switched on a lamp. No sunlight ever permeated her room. Minus the alarm clock beside her, she could have stumbled, unaware if it was day or night.

As much as she hated it, she knew nothing else and refused to abandon her friends, grandmother, and lover. However selfishly she wanted a room aboveground, a window open to the world, she truly wanted it for everyone, not merely herself. If she desired, she could have everything the imaginary friends and humans dedicating themselves to the cause could not. She could have freedom and a normal life. But what was the point if she couldn't share it with the ones she loved?

She hated DIE passionately because irregardless of their atrocities against imaginary friends and humans, they roamed free. They killed her mother and left her on the streets (like Mac, in fact). Yet none punished them. Protestors were silenced. Foster's dwelled underground because aboveground, they too would be silenced. The situation's sheer hopelessness mixed and injustice frustrated her endlessly.

So what if she'd flipped out over a rabbit's foot? So what if they'd probably received the same threats time and time again? Every personal attack on him was one on her as well. She loved him too much to endure anything, despite its (often) impossibility. She loved him so much, it was dangerous. If anyone discovered he was her weakness, they'd be twice as keen to capture and torture him. And vice versa, considering he was the link to Madame Foster.

Sunlight faded in and out through the slants in an adjacent wall. This was the closest room to the surface and usually where her dark, disturbing thoughts led. She rocked back and forth in a rocking chair, shutting her eyes and imagining a world where imaginary friends and kids played carelessly in parks. If she simply let her imagination guide her…

The bright sunshine warmed her body and mind; she leaned against her beloved Herriman, velvety furry as always, and no one objected. In fact, in her vision, they might as well have been invisible for their impact. Green grass sparkled, morning dew fresh and slightly tangy in her nostrils. Trees swayed back and forth in a gentle breeze; they were full of verdant leaves and their barks were dark brown. A red, plastic Frisbee whizzed over her head and a small blob chased it energetically, charging up a small hill and hopping up to snatch it out of midair. He caught it, but the impact caused him to fall backwards. Slightly red in the face, he flung it back to Mac, grinning widely. Despite herself, she grinned as well.

"Miss Frances…"

No, she wished to remain in her world of make-believe. Yet even as she struggled vainly, the vividness faded into obscurity. Was the Frisbee red or green? What color were the leaves? The details trickled away like water in cupped hands. The stronger she strived, the faster they disappeared. Like everything good, it was gone before she grabbed it.

"Frankie, dearie, it's us."

A second voice clamored for her attention, but she wouldn't succumb. This time, soft fur ran across her cheeks and, unable to stop herself, she opened her eyes. Herriman smiled weakly and beside him, Madame Foster leaned on her cane and fixed her granddaughter a shrewd look as if to say, "What, you'll stop daydreaming for him but not for me?"

A tacit agreement passed between creator and creation; Herriman hopped swiftly, shutting the door. Once finished, he distanced himself on the room's far side. Madame Foster frowned, saying nothing. Both Frankie and she knew he disliked public displays of affection, regardless of who the public was. Besides, from his vantage point, he could observe them carefully and comment later. He preferred to scrutinize now and decide later.

Silence cloaked the room and she stood, irresolute. Wordlessly, she indicated Herriman join her, but he shook his head. She knew she'd flown off the handle, but couldn't he at least back her up?

Perhaps he caught the longing in her eyes, because he shifted slowly closer, yet stopped when his creator's eyes caught him. Helpless, he gazed at her longingly and shrugged. She wondered what she'd communicated to halt him mid-step. Whatever it was, he now guiltily dropped his eyes and stared blankly at the dull, bare concrete that stretched until the throw rug. Sometimes, she wished she understood firsthand what it was like to have an imaginary friend and thus, comprehended their own bizarre bond. But in the years before her mother's death and then her subsequent arrival here, she'd been too frightened to imagine one. Then, after Herriman, she hadn't wanted one badly enough to create it.

"Frankie, if we jumped every time we heard a death threat, we'd have hit the ceiling by now," her grandmother murmured, shaking her head sadly. "We've been pelted with rabbits' feet, rotten meat, and everything else you could think of before we went underground. That was, unfortunately, the best of DIE's treatment. Since Berry took charge, the dead meat became dead bodies….and not all rabbits, either."

Swallowing hard, the redhead stared fixedly at Herriman, determined not to meet her gaze. She shuddered, imagining what it must have been like to walk on the street only to be assaulted by that. No wonder he hadn't reacted more strongly. Still, the thought of DIE flinging rabbit carcasses boiled her blood and she finally tore her gaze away to struggle against an outburst. A well of emotion wormed within and she longed to scream like a child, "this isn't fair!" She glanced down at the threadbare rug.

"I know this is hard for you to hear, but get over it!" the old lady snapped, cracking her cane threateningly an inch away from Frankie's foot. Surprised, she yelped and folded her legs underneath herself. The thinnest trace of a smile flitted across Herriman's face and she glared back.

"He's not dead, he's not injured, nothing happened! So some stupid kid threw a rabbit's foot at Mac and threatened him. So what? I know you love him, but worry about him when he actually needs your concern!" she continued, every sentence punctuated by a cane slamming to the floor. The metal tip clattered, resounding in the small room. Frankie sighed, glancing once more at him. He looked like he wanted to smile, but his composure never changed.

Frankie knew she had a point, but she couldn't help but worry. Madame Foster was the iron fist who planned to pry open DIE's secrets while Frankie mothered imaginary friends and creators. Fretting had become second nature and when it came to Herriman, that was where she worried the most. Still, as long as he was all right, technically she had nothing to worry about. She didn't know who the girl was; much less assume her threat to be anything more than idle.

"Now that that's cleared up, I have to see if Mac remembers anything else. I'll leave you two alone," she said, casting a baleful eye before stepping outside and shutting the door.

They listened to her retreating footsteps and it wasn't until they completely died that he hopped closer. Frankie sighed, striding to the slits and holding her hand up to the erratic beams. Dust motes danced, parading within the confines. Squirrels chattered noncommittally to each other and she shut her eyes again, wondering what it would be like to live as a squirrel. Squirrels never had to hide their mates or protect them constantly. They collected nuts, played, slept, and their happiness was unmarred by paranoia or terror.

Living in terror certainly changed a person and definitely not for the better. What had this life brought her but misery followed by brief periods of happiness? No. It had also brought her him and that alone made it worth living. She just wished she could prioritize like her grandmother and not let her emotions sway her to the point where she nearly revealed them because the thought of him suffering drove her mad. Slamming her hands on the sill beneath the slants, she exhaled sharply. A fool, that's what she was. A fool in love with public enemy number two.

Warm arms encircled her waist and she smiled, recognizing them instantly. She leaned back into Herriman's chest and his whiskers tickled the top of her head. Madame Foster was right- he still lived and breathed perfectly fine. No stupid DIE supporters had attacked him and whoever that girl was, she was inconsequential. It was hard to think of someone harming him, anyway, with his arms around her and his heartbeat next to her ear. She permitted herself to relax and let the placidity take her away.

Dissenters protested her decisions, but silenced themselves under fear of persecution. Since she stole the pathetic beginnings of DIE away from a stupid human who hadn't recognized the correct end of a pistol, she murdered anyone who objected. She was the founder of DIE (considering its true founder lay six feet beneath the ground in the woods), the one who broadcasted it and transformed it into the empire it was today. Sure, it was small now, but it would blossom into statewide, then national. She waited with baited breath.

Yet why not double her power and summon forth a mate? Together, they would conquer the infidels, bring Eleanor Foster and her stupid rabbit into her grasp, and crush them. Their blood would flood the soil and she'd carelessly clean his fur so when she went out and displayed it prominently, no troublesome spots remained. It would be soft and sweet, like their death at her hands.

Then, afterwards, she would have no rivals to power, no one to threaten her. She would be free to love once more…and conquer another.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and thought once more of the creature who escaped her. Snapping her fingers, she called one of her many aides towards her and formulated a plan to bring him back into her clutches.

Bloo cringed, obstinately refusing bandages. He tried to assert his "perfect health", but immediately fell over onto a rather serious gash. Blood and dirt mingled and he screamed, no longer able to pretend. He glanced up at his creator and feebly offered him his blobby arm. Mac swiftly pulled him up and slapped on gauze strips and whatever else he could manage ere Bloo protested. Soon, the imaginary blob was awash in bandages and strips. He glared, but even he had to admit when he needed help. He just hated feeling like a mummy.

The living room surrounded them and Mac was grateful the other imaginary friends had found other places to play. He leaned an arm over the side of the sofa and faced him; one of his legs was curled under the other. Bloo moaned, eyes downcast. He hadn't lived years with his creator to be completely oblivious to 'lecture mode'. Really, the way he ached, it ought to be criminal to even bring it up. Lamentably, Mac would not be deterred. Bloo leaned his head against a cushion and clenched his eyes shut. Sleep denied him too.

"I told you not to go out and what do you do? You go out and get hurt. You could have been killed," he snapped, glaring daggers. Bloo opened one eye experimentally. Mac looked pretty agitated. Maybe it was best to sit this one out.

"Yeah, but I wasn't," he replied, missing the point. He stretched out for the remote, but Mac stood up swiftly and put it atop the highest shelf where Bloo couldn't reach without changing form. Frowning, he folded his arms across his chest and glowered.

"You forgot your transformer and got captured. What if you exposed Foster's and everyone here? What if you got us all killed?" I can't afford to lose you were the words behind his speech. And Foster's can't afford to have you or anyone reveal anything.

"Uh, but I'm fine. See, Mac?" he said, raising his arms. However, he only moved them a few inches before he stopped, in too much pain to continue. Mac stood, torn between rushing to his side or letting him see for himself how 'fine' he really was. He settled for glancing sternly.

"You could be killed next time," he said coldly, unable to stop the shudder coursing through him. "And…I love you too much to let you out again."

Pacing, fists at his thighs, he gathered his thoughts before speaking again. How could he communicate his urgency? He could forbid him to leave, but (a), he wouldn't listen and (b), what good would it do? Whatever he told him to do, he generally did the opposite. Pain flickered in his eyes and he shut them, slamming his fist against the brick wall. It stung, throbbed, and strengthened his determination. Bloo couldn't leave again, not on his own.

Bloo stared blankly and rose. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to comfort him or obey his hunger pangs regarding the chip bag he'd been denied after his abduction. He shuffled towards the open doorway between the living room and the kitchen when Mac, eyes still shut, stood in the doorway. He flung out his arms and his hand smacked into something plastic. The highest shelf…

The TV turned on, jolting both creator and creation from their thoughts. Bloo spun around to peer curiously at the reporter, a woman with bright blonde hair and an obnoxious smile. Spunky Erin Peterson, they called her. She grated their nerves, especially since she delivered DIE's news happily. It sickened them.

"And today, the DIE leader announced that she is on the lookout for a small, blue imaginary blob. All militants assigned to locate Mr. Herriman and Eleanor Foster will detain to locate this creature and the reward is ten thousand dollars alive. Civilians are advised to use any methods necessarily to knock it out and then bring it to their local squadron. Note- it is wanted alive. Dead, the person will not collect the reward. That is all."

Mac and Bloo stared blankly at each other as the reporter prattled on. Her words faded past and Mac fell to his knees. This was bad…worse than he could ever imagine. Bloo's mouth fell open and he stumbled backwards into Mac's arms.

Barely audible, Bloo murmured, "Oh, shit."