Chapter Twelve: Hook, Line, Sinker

Bloo lingered by the doorway, but his impatience got the better of him. He took to pacing the kitchen as many creatures and humans alike had. Truthfully, since their disagreement, guilt gnawed at him. Mac was pissed and if there was anything he couldn't stand, it was his creator furious with him. Not to mention he'd been gone for over an hour and there was a saying around Foster's- "gone with the wind in sixty minutes". Throat constricting, he leaned his forehead against the wall and swallowed hard.

"Mac, come back…"

Charisse, known as Goo in a happier world, sat and swung her legs back and forth. Yes, the steel and asphalt chilled her rear, but when it came to meditative spaces, nothing beat the bridge she usually called home. Her vantage point permitted her to trail a small, brown and black speck she knew was that boy. It'd been a while since anyone challenged her. A giddy chill induced a shiver having nothing to do with the near zero temperatures. She looked forward to another spar.

Not to mention humans with imaginary friends always interested her. When she was younger, her parents encouraged her to read, but never imagine a friend. They sensed upon its creation, DIE would knock on the door and assassinate them. Petrified, she'd done her best to stifle any desires to design her only companion, but it proved too tempting. The instant she shut her eyes and focused, DIE appeared. The rest was a blur of blood, screaming, and terror. Tears streamed freely down her face and she stubbornly wiped her face with her sleeve.

Daily, she repeated that DIE's arrival was coincidental and she was blameless. Unfortunately, the lie grew less convincing every time. She despised living guiltily, all the while searching ardently for their killers and hopelessly coming up empty. Meanwhile, the 'saviors' they placed their trust in continued to accomplish nothing and, in a small way, she blamed them as well. She'd grown up believing that Foster's could protect and help people and yet, where were they when she'd fabricated an imaginary friend and they died? Hiding like cowards, that's what. The day she became an orphan was the day she lost all faith.

A sultry wind lifted her hair, and then deposited it roughly upon her shoulders. Like her, it was bitter and eager to strike out at anything that might help. Secretly, it longed for the warmth and comfort of the sun; to dance and frolic like a summer breeze, but knew it was destined for less. Winter was death and decay; spring, renewal and strength. Yet here, it seemed to be forever winter, blanketing nothing and chilling creatures to the bone. Already, her fingers ached and her body trembled, but she obstinately refused to seek shelter. Where could she go, anyway? Absolutely nowhere. Too many homeless people roamed the streets and too few opened their doors.

Sure, Foster's might be an option, but she'd rather slit her wrists than enter the domicile of such cowards. Her mind drifted back to that boy whose faith lay so heavily in false ideas and she wondered just why he believed in them wholly. He'd mentioned a "Bloo", probably his imaginary friend, but she still discovered herself unable to sympathize, perhaps because she'd never given her imaginary a name before he was killed brutally. She'd grown up alone and could not identify with anyone who hadn't.

What would her life have been like if she'd been able to keep her imaginary and parents? Her imagination bore a permanent scar thanks to the incident and any further attempts to create another led to her curled up in a ball while horrific images danced through her head. Though she wasn't decidedly anti imagination, it held no promise to her. Yet others whose lives were impacted daily by their imagination and its products, how did they view this? Was that why they hid? She'd lost everything precious long ago and, thus, couldn't imagine an alternate timeline.

Laying flat on her back, she shut her eyes and pictured a world without DIE. Try as she might, nothing came to mind.

Carrying a potato chip bag, Mac trudged back home. Deep in thought about Goo, Stevie, and Ivan, he'd wandered into the store, purchased it, and then headed back out. Subconsciously, their words had frightened him into simply being grateful Bloo was still alive. He only hoped he understood the implications of sneaking out and what it might entail. If he obeyed him, he'd try to reward him as well as possible. Fresh air wasn't as important as staying alive- he wished everyone else comprehended that.

He placed his palm against the scanner, waited for it to read it, and then proceeded inside, where he immediately fell onto the floor. A warm, humanoid creature had flung himself at him and now eclipsed his lips into a sweet kiss. However, to poor Mac, who hadn't the foggiest clue what was going on, he struggled to stand, only Bloo's weight pushed him back down. It took him about five minutes to realize the jibber, shock of blue hair, and familiar sense belonged to his imaginary friend. (Then again, he had hit his head, so some allowances must be made).

"You're alive! Don't scare me like that! I was waiting a half hour for you to return! And ooh, you got my chips!" he cried, ripping them out of his hand and parading around. Mac, befuddled, managed a weak 'huh?" as Bloo danced happily. The teenager sat up gingerly and rubbed the back of his head. Okay…ow.

"I love you, Mac!" he cried, hoisting him up and hauling him off to watch TV. "And I promise I won't sneak out or leave without your permission again."

That, unfortunately, was a lie.

Blooregard Q. Kazoo was a lot of things. Unfortunately, an imaginary friend of his word was not one of them. Two weeks later, though the security remained high and DIE members everywhere congregated to discuss his possible position and how to capture him, he began to sneak out at night. He reasoned that the spies did it and besides, who could find him under the cloak of darkness? He was perfectly safe.

The best thing about it was Mac had no idea he left at all. He snuck out after he went to sleep and came back before he awoke. No one knew he was gone and no one missed him. Meanwhile, the nightlife beckoned (what little existed). It was the perfect crime.

Tonight, fresh air assuaged his irritated nostrils and, wrapping his cardigan tightly around his frame, he trod the infamous path to a local bar. Not that he drank, mind you, but the bright colors, loud music, and high energy called to him. Yes, DIE members frequented, but he'd never been sighted. Then again, they were probably too drunk to notice him. Innately, the little Mac voice in his head whispered he was pushing his luck, but he ignored him. Nothing was going to happen. He was going to have his cake and eat it too. It was only fair.

A girl with long, curly blonde hair frequented too and, after dousing several oddly tasting sodas, she often lured him into a conversation. She seemed to know a bit about Foster's and imaginary friends and, uninhibited, Bloo acted like his normal self. The girl didn't appear to mind- in fact, she acted as laidback as he. Of course, whenever he mentioned Mr. Herriman or Madame Foster, she immediately froze and started muttering darkly, but he didn't like the rule obsessed rabbit either, so he assumed that was the reason. After all, someone who knew this much about Foster's had to be living there too, even if he'd never seen her before. The belt snug around her waist supported this. If she wasn't an imaginary friend, why would she have a transformer in the first place? Sure, its color was different than his (the same color he'd spotted on DIE members), but it was one nonetheless.

Tonight was no exception. Drinking a pina colada and smiling demurely, she patted the seat adjacent. Since he only befriended her and no one else, he gladly pulled up the stool and glanced curiously at the drink proffered. It smelled funky, but he was sure that it couldn't be spiked. Why would she want to get him drunk? What a ridiculous idea. Yet the Mac voice, a.k.a. his conscience, screamed he was entrapping himself. He gulped down the fiery liquid, winced as it burned down his throat, and then smirked. The voice silenced.

Sipping her own drink demurely, she slipped an arm around his waist and stroked the side of his face. Bloo swung his head, but it dizzied him. In fact, the world spun. He felt giddy, but not entirely sober. Unfortunately, the high his drink produced overrode the Mac voice now practically shrieking at the top of his lungs. Nothing was going to happen, jeez. What on earth was it prattling on about? There was no way he'd gotten tipsy. He was just exceedingly happy.

"Now, let's talk about Foster's, okay?" she murmured, pecking him on the cheek. Distantly, the Mac voice screamed, "this isn't me! Don't let her do this!" He wanted to listen, really he did, and he comprehended her coming onto him was wrong because he had his precious Mac, but it wouldn't sink in. Nothing would. He floated adrift, anchored only by her kisses, strokes, and body heat. Why was it so warm in here?

"Foster's?" he repeatedly dumbly, scarcely acknowledging her hauling him off the stool, slipping the bartender a twenty, and carting him off to a car parked outside. Her hand slipped under his shirt to massage his back and he melted, completely ignoring her barking orders at the driver, a group of black clad people ambling by the vehicle, and their saluting her. He hardly reacted when she shoved him none too gently in the back, either, or the ropes that bound his arms and legs.

"Yes, Foster's," she snapped impatiently, but on his ears it rolled off harmlessly. She was angry with him like Mac frequently was, but she'd get over it and forgive him. Mac always did. Hmm, he wondered where he was. Whenever he went out in public, he liked to have his creator by…wouldn't he be upset he missed this. They hadn't gone for a car ride since his mother died.

He leaned his head on her shoulder and pretended it was Mac. Hmm, he wasn't as soft as her, was he? And he didn't have a nice chest like her, either. So pleasant, like a pillow. Maybe she wouldn't mind if he slept on it.

A stinging slap accompanied by his head striking the armrest soon halted that half constructed thought process. He tried to rub the sore spot, but his arms jerked haltingly together then collapsed uselessly by his side. Bewildered, he glanced at her questioningly, but in his state, failed to figure out anything. Blankly, he swallowed hard, but the action brought vomit up; he leaned over, expelling the poison. Behind him, she shrieked, pissed to no end regarding the damage he'd done to her upholstery. She slapped him again across the face.

"I don't feel too good…" he mewled like a kitten. "I want Mac."

She snarled, striking a third time and digging her nails into his cheeks. He cried out, but she dug ferociously, leaving gashes. Whimpering, he continued to cry his creator's name until she kneed him in the jaw. Pain exploded, but, thanks to the alcohol, was dulled considerably. He quieted, however.

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?" she growled, punching him in the eye. "No matter what I do, you're going to keep wailing his name."

"Mac…" Bloo whispered. "Help me…"

"Fuck this!" she screamed and slammed her fists on the back of his neck. The world combusted into bright lights, agony, and then, darkness.