Disclaimer: ...

You should know by now what I'm about to say and since most authors don't put this in each and every chapter, I'm forgoing it. So there.

Chapter Eleven: Despondency and Resilience

Mac's crisp breath hung out, clearly visible, but, thankfully, it was his only companion. Shoulders hunched, he drew his hoodie over his face to help hide his features. Oddly, it was black like DIE's uniforms. At the moment, he cared not. At least it drew attention away from him. If he looked like a DIE official, people would leave him alone, which was precisely what he desired. Nothing more than solitude and the wintry wind.

Alas, striding through the streets uninhibited proved fanciful. Yells rent the air, accompanied by the sound of fist pounding on flesh and, as customary, the innocent's wails. Careful to stick to the shadows, Mac gazed the streetlamps dubiously before crossing the street. Rumor had it certain corners were bugged and he really didn't want to be photographed (though he had the sensation he already had been and it had gotten someone into a heap load of trouble).

A group of both men and women huddled in front of a crouching, whimpering imaginary friend who shielded his many eyes. He struggled plaintively, clearly reaching out for the black boy restrained by three heavy set women. Whips cracked and tore into one of his eyeballs. The creature screamed, writhing in pain in the dirty snow. Blood streamed out of his wound. The mangled remnants couldn't remain either closed or open and so, fluttered madly.

A whip lashed across the creature's white midsection and as he curled up to shield his tender stomach, two more whips rained pain upon his eyes and back. Blood streamed down in possibly lethal levels, poured into his mouth, down his sides, and soiled the already stained snow. Though the boy was blind, he still heard his imaginary friend's screams and felt his pain through their bond and shrieked himself, kicking out stubbornly. The color had drained from his face.

"Worthless! You're both worthless!" the woman pressing the boy to her chest screeched to the clouded sky. It was impossible to discern any identifying features beneath her hoodie and black attire. Then again, the same held true for the others gathered around, including the two men trampling on the imaginary friend, ready to pass out. He sputtered indignantly and raised his stalk-like arms in protest, but they trod on them as well.

"You should never have lived! You're a stupid, blind kid with a pathetic imaginary friend who can't defend himself! You both deserve death!" a teenage girl snarled, kneeing the boy in the stomach. He cried out, but continued to fight. Behind his sunglasses, his unseeing eyes widened. So what if they were now beating up on him? It was his imaginary friend was important, not him.

Somewhere, a communicator rang shrilly and, disgruntled, the woman holding the teenager answered. One hand pressed him tightly to her while the other raised it up to her ear. She began to argue vehemently, but whoever was on the other side silenced her quickly. Trembling, she ordered the others to retreat and flung the boy into the snow beside his imaginary.

Mac waited until they vanished from sight before rushing over. He swallowed hard, aware the imaginary friend might die ere they reached Foster's. Hastily wiping his blood on his jeans, he glanced at the boy, who crawled away. Mac silently scolded himself- in other 'rescue' missions, he'd rushed over and introduced himself later. Clearly, this boy perceived him to be the enemy and in the silence, tensed, readying himself for a fight. Mac held up a hand, and then, remembering he couldn't see that, spoke quietly.

"Hi," he said cautiously, retreating lest he think he intended any future harm. "I'm Mac."

"Are you with them?" he snarled, voice laced with venom. "Stay away from Ivan."

"I'm sorry? Ivan? Oh, right. Your imaginary friend. No, I'm not going to hurt him," he said, smiling weakly and, once again, forgetting he couldn't see the gesture.

"I'm one of the good guys."

The boy spat bitterly, scrambling to cradle Ivan to his chest. A loathsome expression contorted his features and he swallowed hard. They tended to be antagonistic at the beginning, especially in situations like this. However, this creator's particular handicap made gaining his trust difficult. Not to mention he relied on his imaginary for more than just companionship…and if he died, then they were in a quagmire.

"Are you? Are there any good guys left?" he snapped, slowly rising to his feet. "Foster's is underground, hiding like cowards, and everyone is either imprisoned or dead. There's no one left."

Mac bit back rising impatience. Regardless of its location, Foster's had a very good reason why it remained belowground. After all, they possessed two of DIE's most wanted. Why should they reside where they faced certain death? To Mac, who had lived there almost his entire life, the motives were never questioned, merely accepted. To hear anyone else snap anything contrary shook him.

"We're not cowards," Mac growled, hunching his shoulders and forcing himself to take one deep, calming breath after another. He was here to help, not condemn. They were perplexed and ignorant. It wasn't the kid's fault he regarded them so obviously wrongly. If he'd lived this long on the streets, maybe he'd think like that. Then again, if he had, Bloo would have probably gotten them both killed by now.

"Look, I know you're not sold on them right now, but it's either go to Foster's or let them kill your imaginary friend while you stand helplessly," he pointed out, glancing worriedly at Ivan. His breathing labored, every twitch sent a spasm through his creator's fearful, tightened face. The boy clutched him tighter, heedless of any further injury he might incur.

He knelt in the snow and gazed at him earnestly. Softly, he added, "It's not like you really have a choice."

The boy held his chin stubbornly, but wheels churned in his head. If he remained on the streets, both would be killed. Though he disliked Foster's, he really had no choice. He hated both options, but at least in the other, Ivan could be healed and they'd be free (relatively) from DIE's attacks. Grimacing, he nodded weakly.

"I'm Stevie and, like I said, this is Ivan. Lead the way, I guess."

Pensive himself, Mac scarcely noticed which way he led the two. He'd never considered the possibility of Foster's having such a bad rap before. In his mind, it was solely sanctuary and, from the impression he garnered through others, they shared his opinion. Why wouldn't anyone fleeing DIE immediately, no thinking required, opt to enter Foster's? Sure, dwelling underground might not exactly rival clean and fresh air, but to him, it was home.

Simply biding their time until they struck wasn't cowardly, was it? All good tacticians studied their enemy at length and then made a move. DIE outnumbered Foster's imaginary friends and humans too, didn't it? What was the point of making themselves a target when they stood no chance? Then again, nagging at the back of his mind was the fact Foster's had been living like this for decades. Maybe they were cowards…

Despite Ivan's obvious bulk, Stevie clasped him desperately. Mac observed the two, sighed, and his train of thought switched tracks. Why did DIE have to target creators who obviously needed their imaginary friends? Did they have any compassion at all? Couldn't they see that he wouldn't survive without Ivan? Or was murder a game to them? Ring around the rosy, pockets full of poesy, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

Winter's ferocity imbued him with rosy cheeks and chapped lips. Wind howled, stabbing his hair rather than lifting it gently. He shivered despite himself and shoved his hands, already quite white, in his pockets. Maybe he ought to return home and face Bloo- he had no plans to become a Mac-sicle. Besides, street lamps flickered on and off, scarcely illuminating the sidewalk and stragglers. Ice patches were virtually indistinguishable from the asphalt and if his luck turned sour, down he'd go.

Yet as he neared another corner, a large group of protestors gathered around a young, reasonably attractive African American girl blew his temporary concerns away. Dreadlocks framed her round face and as she raised her voice and body objectively, they sprung forth too. Brilliant brown eyes sparkled vivaciously and, like her words, behooved power. An iridescent gossamer scarf was wrapped snugly around her slim neck and dangled onto her rainbow colored jacket. Standing on her catbird seat, she commanded the attention of anyone ensnared in her web.

"Citizens! Why should we stand here and let our lives be ruled by insane, tyrannical dictators that kill our loved ones, friends, and imaginary friends daily? Why should we stand idly by and let them drive us into exile or, worse, like Foster's, hiding? When will we be free from DIE?" she screamed, flicking a lighter out of her pocket and holding its tiny flame above her head.

"Foster's are cowards. If we wait for them to strike, our great grandchildren will be dead by the time they feebly move forward! They've been hiding for thirty years, thirty years. We cannot place our hopes on someone who disappoint us unequivocally! The time has come for action and if not us, then who? The imaginary friends DIE has captured, tortured, and killed? Our human friends who suffered horrendously at their hands? NO!"

Whispers erupted, yet all fell silent when she withdrew another item from her pocket- a DIE poster. She edged her lit lighter towards the edges and set it ablaze. Waving it to and fro, she brandished it at the audience and then the streetlamps defiantly. Spellbound, eyes glued to her performance, none dared speak. When the flames licked her fingers, she released the poster and it crumbled to ashes on the ground.

"This is what I think of DIE," she murmured, yet the crowd, captivated, caught every word. "I think they're just like that piece of paper- flammable and flimsy under scrutiny."

She lifted one hefty black boot and trampled on the ashes. Grounding them into the dirt, she spat on the pile, kicked the dirt over, and faced them once more. Her thin frame quaked furiously, but not thanks to the chill. Holding their breath collectively, all waited with bated breath. Mac, too, found himself too preoccupied to notice his face had gone entirely red and rough. Who was this girl?

"And this is what I think of Foster's," she snarled, spitting twice on a transformer belt's shards. "I think they're broken and pathetic."

Mac's fists balled and his lower lip curled disdainfully. The spell shattered and, striding purposefully forward, he easily separated the crowd. Others, eyes widened, stared at him outrageously, mentally saying "how dare he challenge her!" Yet he paid them no mind and his contemptuous gaze swept all of them to settle upon her. Unperturbed, she gazed back. He wished to confront her? Bring it on.

"What would you like them to do? Jump in front DIE when they start shooting? Get us all killed for your sake? Would that make you happy?" Mac snapped, temper flaring. It wasn't so much her words alone but the combination of hers and Stevie's. Did their opinions reflect the common man's? Was hope in Foster's dwindling like her tiny flame, buoyed by the draft?

"I take it you're from Foster's," she remarked coolly, like an empirical queen addressing a subject. She held her head haughtily and his anger redoubled. What right had she to complain when she hadn't lived in Foster's? She had no idea their kindness and sympathy. All she believed were lies.

"Yes, I am and-" he began, but she cut him off.

"I take it you like living in fear?" she inquired, tone still frigid. His eyes narrowed, fists balled painfully, and his teeth clenched. He knew her game- she wished to force him into agreeing with her and thus, condemning his beloved Foster's. Well, he had no intention of playing.

"You'll live in fear no matter where you are. In case you haven't noticed, DIE likes to play target practice," he snarled, daring her to interrupt or contradict him. Naturally, she switched tacks instead to keep him on his toes. However, since it'd been quite a while since he'd sparred intellectually with anyone, particularly a girl, he relished the debate. He was determined to, if not win her over, at least get her to concede Foster's was not composed of cowards.

"At least then they'd be outside instead of hiding belowground. They shouldn't be afraid to die- I know I'm not. They would die gallantly instead of whimpering in a corner," she remarked coldly, examining her brightly painted nails absently as if this conversation bored her. Mac's blood boiled.

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," he retorted. "Getting yourself killed proves nothing other than mortality."

Her lower lip curled disdainfully and for a few moments, Mac thought he'd triumphed. She mulled over his words carefully, but ultimately composed a response. Smirking, she pivoted on her heel and faced him directly, eye to eye. Her stance indicated that she would grapple until the death if he dictated it.

"All evil needs to triumph is for good men to sit and do nothing," she replied. "Evil has already triumphed and ruined our happiness. It prevented me from creating an imaginary friend and keeps you and your loved ones belowground. It kills good creatures and tortures countless others. Don't you dare stand there and tell me that while Foster's deliberates, good creatures aren't dying. Don't you dare tell me that slinking off into the shadows is the best strategy because the only thing worse than planning in a basement is sitting in a coffin."

"And don't you dare tell me that resembling Swiss cheese is not only acceptable, but a good idea. At least we're alive," he snarled.

"You're alive without truly living. You might as well be full of bullet holes," she retorted.

"Is that so? So I'd be better off dead than with my imaginary friend? I'm sorry to say I disagree. And I'm sure he would too," he snapped, blood thundering in his ears. Never before had he been so tempted to hit a girl. It was better to be dead than live in this world? What the hell was this girl smoking? He'd take being alive any day, thank you very much!

"Maybe he would…if he weren't being hunted down like an animal. I know I'd rather be dead than look out my window to see them hurt someone else. I'm sick of living in a world where from the time you wake up until the time you go to sleep, you wish you could dream forever. Dreams are nice, but we need action. Foster's can keep dreaming- I will do something," she proclaimed, spreading her arms wide. Others, who Mac had quite forgotten were there, cheered loudly. In that instant, he despised each and every one of them for agreeing with her fanatical, insane ideas.

"And I suggest you join me."

"Why?" he hissed. "So Bloo can suffer certain death instead of the possibility? Thanks, but no thanks."

"The decision is yours of course, but if you ever wish to change your mind, I will be under the bridge waiting for you. My name is Charisse, though my parents, once upon a fairy tale time, called me Goo."

"Thank you," he said through gritted teeth, "but I doubt I will."

"Then enjoy your terror."

"Enjoy your kamikaze missions."

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