Author's Note/Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

And I managed to finish this even with two annoying people sitting behind me. Yay.

Chapter Ten: Past

Terror gripped the youngster; he scrambled madly to his feet and bit back a howl. Eyes widened disbelievingly and his heart raced in his little chest. Beside him, his kid brother stared blankly, incomprehensibly. His imaginary friend snuggled up against his chest frightfully and whimpered, pressing his face into his warm pullover. If Terrence were a good older brother, he might have wrapped his arms around Mac and told him not to worry. That, regardless of the fact their mother was dying before their eyes, he would protect him. But he didn't. Because he was a terrified eleven year old and he wanted nothing to do with a creature that could get him killed.

His feet kicked aside gravel, ice, and, in his rush to leave Mac and Bloo, he skidded. Blood covered the patch since this was the sickening place where his mother's head had hit. He swallowed bile, regained his wind, and sped away. This was the last time he saw either creator or creation.

Seductive and alluring, she represented everything impossible to attain. Money, power, and the cunning to drive creatures under her heel appealed greatly. Then again, Terrence spent his days scouring dumpsters for supper and huddling in alleyways or broken buildings since he lacked housing. It was a bum rap, but here, standing in DIE's lobby, he peered unabashedly at the opalescence. Could all this be his? Dare he dream it?

Golden orbs shone on the walls and water trickled in a fountain, close to the revolving glass doors, portraying an idea rising forth from a human's head. Or, rather, the imaginary shoved his way out of their mind and the water flowing freely was in fact the representation of their blood. In fact, it had a faint red taint and smelled distinctively leaden. When he inhaled, he nearly tasted it on his tongue. Well, that wasn't terribly twisted.

Marble, cold and impersonal covered the floor in tiles and as people strode purposefully by, their heels or dress shoes clacked. To his right lay a white marble counter, papers stacked neatly. A pale, clammy receptionist pounded on the keys as though someone held a gun to his head. A single bead of sweat trickled down his bare neck and met his stiffly starched black suit. Nonetheless, he never slowed or hesitated; pure mechanical functions, like an imaginary created for the sole purpose of typing memos.

The whole lobby, open and full of milling people, was almost obscenely large. A skylight opened up to the heavens and, overhead, snow clouds released their torrent on the city. Terrence, intrigued, studied it until a stiff hand wrapped about his lower arm jerked him away and towards the golden gilded elevators. Whoever this blonde haired woman with curly hair was, she certainly liked pushing her weight. Still, why everyone bowed respectfully and courteously, despite her disgusting odor, was beyond him.

Then again, he'd rescued her a mere fifteen minutes ago when she decided, upon scanning his features furiously, he was exactly who she was looking for. Clueless, he followed because, quite frankly, she petrified him. He'd never met anyone before he deemed criminally insane.

She leaned against the elevator's polished gold side and scrutinized every inch of him. Uncomfortable, he retreated into a corner and folded his arms across his chest. A scraggly red, plaid shirt hung over his scrawny frame. Her blue eyes trailed across its threadbare cuffs to the unraveling bottom. Smirking, she folded her arms across her own chest, attired in a pink suit, and carefully chose her next few words. After all, his information depended on how she treated him now.

"You are his brother, correct?" she inquired, clipped. Despite her forced diplomacy, she truly despised dealing with what she considered the dregs of humanity. At least when she lived on the streets, she maintained her dignity. This young man clearly cared nothing for etiquette and appearances.

"Huh?" he replied dumbly and she mentally slapped a hand to her forehead. Nothing she abhorred more than a moron replying in his colloquialisms instead of establishing English. What on earth happened to properly enunciating words and phrasing sentences without butchering verbs and pronunciation? What happened to sounding intelligent? No, cross that out- whatever happened to being intelligent? Youth today resembled slack jawed yokels whose first language was "duh".

"You mean, 'I beg your pardon'?" she snapped, temper rising. "Good heavens, child, you are in the presence of a superior. Do you suppose you could string your two brain cells together and form an adequate response? I have heard wiser remarks out of the mouths of babes."

Dumbfounded, he peered at her as though properly seeing her for the first time. Unwilling to meet her eyes, he instead gazed at her waist and then the floor. He'd seen that belt around, but, not privy to the inner workings of DIE and Foster's, failed to figure its significance. Still, though Terrence might not be as smart as his younger brother, he wasn't entirely stupid. Those with belts skulked instead of walking freely like other humans. The belt represented subordination, not power. Yet why would someone as high up as she claimed to be don one?

"I'm, er, sorry," he mumbled, staring at his scuffed, second hand sneakers. The top used to be white, in a forgotten time, and now gray pervaded. The red sides were a mottled brown and bore many crime encrusted holes. Like its owner, these shoes had plainly seen better days. He shuffled them awkwardly.

"You had better be," she muttered threateningly, twirling her switchblade between her fingers idly. Though that tussle with Frankie had elected more bruises than anticipated, she'd been chary to carefully conceal her blade back into her pocket. It'd been her misfortune not to retrieve it during the fight, though now, she wasn't entirely certain she should have killed her in the first place. After all, she evidently cared deeply for Mr. Herriman- a prospect she might be able to use to her advantage. If she battered him, she might lure the girl out of hiding and thus, force Madame Foster's location out.

Forcing a smile, behaving as though he hadn't precariously dangled on her thin nerves, she crossed the small expanse and squeezed his shoulder. Terrence cringed, the smell and her very aura intimidating. He recoiled again, but bumped into the elevator's sides. She inhaled deeply, ignoring her own wretched state to sniff out his fear like a feral dog. Innately, he shuddered, finding her creepier and creepier as time progressed. What position could this psychotic woman possibly hold? Surely they'd bar her entrance into management or an important field.

The elevator doors slid smoothly open and he spurted onto the blue, synthetic rug. Only one office loomed ahead and, swallowing hard, he glanced about, desperate for another individual to claim it. When none did, he hung his head dejectedly and watched, out of the corner of his eye, as a scanner 'read' her palm. When she withdrew it, he bit back an audible gasp- her palm had no identification lines. Instead, deeply embedded was a scar- V and B 4 ever.

Perplexed, he stared until she, incensed, tugged him into her office. He gawked, too unsettled to take a seat, while she pulled up a file on her computer. Satisfied, she projected it onto a large screen by the entrance and he frowned, coming face to face with his brother's face for the first time in years. The picture might have been in black and white, but he still recognized it and the small bundle clutched tightly to his chest. His relief at seeing them alive was quickly dispelled, lamentably.

"All known living creators and their creators are on record in DIE's computers. When I searched his picture through the footage corner lights record, I came up with you as well. Since I'm aware you two are orphans, I thought you might as well be the source who might delve more information into the boy's habits and his possible location. Given the way he protected his imaginary friend during this conversation, I believe that finding him will lead to his friend," she said, pacing back and forth. She turned her head, disgusted with the innocent, loving look in the boy's eyes. His hands rested tightly on his jacket to protect his imaginary.

Realization dawned on him that she, or, at least her organization, bore the blame for his mother's death. Fists balled, stomach gnawing at him, he spat at her feet. Despite his fear and relative apathy towards Mac and Bloo, he refused obstinately to help anyone who had a part on his mother's demise. Yet she gazed at him coolly, anticipating his defiance. After all, if she had a rabbit's foot for every time everyone denied her information at first, then she would have enough to make a nice shag rug to complement her rabbit's head trophy to hang on the wall once she finally killed him.

"I don't know where they are and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. You fucking killed my mother!" he roared, charging. She yawned, revealing her switchblade and thrusting it at a non vital location- his stomach. He stopped dead, crumpling to his knees. First pain, torture, and then, if he was exceedingly unlucky, death. But she would save that for last. Dead creatures were horrible company.

"I've killed a lot of people, child. I see no reason why your mother should be more significant than the next human. Now, I will ask you again- do you know where your brother and his imaginary friend are?" she snarled, switchblade gleaming ominously. His blood dripped off the edge.

"Fuck…you…" he rasped, clutching his stomach. "I don't know…and you're not getting anything else…

"You might as well kill me…"

He spat his blood onto her nice, clean brown carpet and she dug her nails into her palm. Honestly, she'd just had that cleaned. Did the boy possess any manners at all? If he had no information and nothing better to do than to muddy her perfectly good carpet, he ought to serve another purpose- target practice.

She pressed a red button her desk, summoned an aid, and in a minute, the only indication he'd been there at all were the rug's stains.

Blooregard Q. Kazoo perched himself once more on the couch's armchair and argued ardently with his creator, whose beady gaze might have deterred less unruly imaginary friends and humans. Truthfully, he had no idea what Mac was so worked up about. So Berry had a hit out on him? So what? So what if it was his fault? He'd find a better disguise and go out again to get his chips. It really wasn't that big a deal. The way Mac described it, the apocalypse had come.

Mac pivoted, too frustrated to speak. His chestnut eyes flashed warningly beneath his bangs; he furiously brushed any offending hair out of his eyes and behind his ear. Bloo smirked- even when he was pissed at him, he was still adorable. He contemplated pulling him into his arms when he stopped dead, finger pointed accusingly.

"You realize this is all your fault, don't you? If you hadn't wandered off without your belt, Berry wouldn't have been able to target you. Why do you have to be so foolhardy? Now she's going to have every single soldier and worker trained to recognize and abduct you. And I know you're not going to stay underground, either. You'll wander out and get yourself killed," Mac snapped, though he sounded more like he was talking to himself than actually chastising Bloo.

"Not if you rig my transformer to give me another form. C'mon, Mac, I'm sure it won't be that hard. And then-" he protested, but he never finished. Eyes blazing, he growled and prodded him in the chest.

"It's too dangerous, period. I don't want you wandering out there. You're not allowed aboveground until they stop searching for you," Mac said sternly, folding his arms across his chest and flopping onto the couch. Outraged, his imaginary friend gawked.

"What? You can't be serious! I'll die without air!" he cried, dramatically choking himself and toppling to the floor. Mac watched, nonplussed and not impressed. Bloo continued his act until he noticed his frown and the fact he hadn't moved an inch to aid him. Fury replaced his pleas and he shot to his feet in record speed.

"That isn't fair! You're a creator and they have you on file too! If they caught you, you'd be in as much trouble as me!" Bloo snapped, azure eyes shooting daggers.

"Have they ever announced on the news that they want me, and me specifically? Damn it, Bloo, she changed their entire routine just so they could capture you. Obviously, your capture means a lot more than mine. And obviously, you're in much more danger than I am," he retorted, teeth gritted. Why couldn't his imaginary see it? He was doing this for his own good. He didn't want him hurt, especially not at their hands. He knew what they were capable of and he didn't want his precious Bloo to be subjected to it. Images of Bloo's head blowing apart thanks to gunfire temporarily choked his throat.

"Only if they figure out who I am, which they're not going to. C'mon, Mac, it's not like I'm your mother. They're not going to shoot me down while you watch helplessly," Bloo replied and understood about five seconds too late the impact. Mac leapt off the couch, darted to the wall, and pressed his forehead against it. He pounded his fist against the plaster repeatedly and, for several tense minutes, Bloo squirmed while his creator cursed under his breath.

Finally, he turned around swiftly and fixed him with such a heat filled, furious gaze, Bloo quailed. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Mac spoke first. His voice filled the little room like the anger filled his body. His fists trembled badly.

"You wanna go get yourself blown up? Go ahead. I don't care. I'm trying to protect you and all you can think about is yourself. I put my life on the line every time I go out because I still have you around and all you think about is your loss of freedom? What about mine? My whole life is different because you're my lover. I sacrificed everything to keep you by my side."

Every syllable hung in the air like a death sentence and Bloo glanced at the carpet. Mac's fists, already balled, tightened until the knuckles stood out prominently white. The veins pulsed in his hands and his heart thundered in his head.

"This is a shitty way to repay me, Bloo. Me and my mother, who died to ensure I could keep you.

"I'm going out for a walk. Don't follow."

Tugging on his coat, he zipped it up and exited before Bloo could say a word.