Chapter Thirteen: Waking
Pain welcomed him back to consciousness and Bloo rolled over. He fully expected to hug Mac to his chest, nuzzle his hair, lick his cheek, and give him a love bite. However, realization dawned slowly when he tried to stretch, but discovered his arms pinned to his sides. He forced his eyes open, and then winced when the light not only hit him, but practically obliterated his sight. Ugh, and the birds chirping outside were way too loud. Who told them to turn the volume up on the sun and animals? He had a headache from it all.
However when his eyes fell upon the white, plush carpet beside him and Mac's absence, what little he remembered flooded back. He craned his neck to glance down and spot his straitjacket, swallowed hard, and clenched his eyes shut. Maybe if he opened them again, he'd wake to find Mac staring at him. Unfortunately, after trying about five times, the only change was a pair of pink boots kicking him across the room. Bloo tasted carpet many times over as he tumbled head over heels smack into her desk. He cringed as it struck the back of his head and then, once again, when her heel dug its way into his throat.
"Good morning, Blooregard," she hissed and, despite the mind numbing pain in his head and jaw and tearing eyes, he looked up. Curly strawberry blonde hair framed a heart shaped force with the coldest blue eyes he'd ever seen glaring into his own. Now that he scrutinized her, he wondered how he missed the obvious age gap between them. She had to be at least in her late thirties, maybe early forties and part of him silently cheered he'd interested an older woman, but the other half was repulsed. He also had the sinking sensation a love interest was the least of his worries at the moment.
His eyes, determinedly straying from hers, descended upon an old picture of a blonde haired girl and what could only be an imaginary friend with pink pigtails who kissed her cheek. The pink haired girl bore a t-shirt reading "Berry" and the other wore one entitled "Virginia is for lovers." The towheaded, sickly girl had an arm wrapped possessively around her waist, but her eyes were downcast. Meanwhile, the pink haired girl was grinning evilly as she placed a hand on her petite chest.
"That's me," she said suddenly, releasing his neck. Bloo gasped, greedily sucking air in. She paid him no mind and, hoisting the photo off the table, thumbed the towheaded girl's face affectionately.
"And once upon a time, she was my lover."
Blinking, rolling over onto his side to spit out blood, he tried to shrug. As heartening as her story might be, he cared little. Why should he? He just desired to be back with Mac and ravish in his affections. Who cared about this chick's love life? Honestly.
"She betrayed me, so I stole her form after she died. I specifically hired the same treacherous humans who failed to keep her alive to create the first transformer and then I killed them. I tossed out a defunct version that only permitted imaginaries to switch back between one human form and their regular guise and Foster's picked it up. Feh, it's only thanks to me you're not all dead in the first place," she detailed and Bloo yawned. Frustrated, she growled and kneed him in the groin. The equivalent of a sledge hammer crashing into tender, volatile flesh brought bile back up and he thought he was going to throw up.
"If I weren't interested in making you my mate, you would be too," she snarled, stringing him up by his hair, extracting a hot glue gun, and gluing him to the wall. Bloo screamed as the hot glue penetrated the straitjacket and burned skin. He crunched his eyes shut, tried to weakly contact Mac, and then gave up when she wrapped a hand around his throat.
Somebody, anybody, help me. I need you, Mac…he thought, a tear sliding down his cheek. She slapped him and spat in his face.
"Every time you cry, I will slap you. Every time you show any sign of weakness, I will hit you until you either shut up or fall unconscious. Every time I order you to do something, you will obey without question. I am Berry, head of DIE, and you are my bitch. Do you understand?" she snapped, squeezing his throat. Bloo, unable to protest or flail, nodded feebly, but she didn't release him just yet. She waited until his face acquired a new hue of blue, and then gradually reduced pressure. Once finished, Bloo panted, driven to the point of tears again. She smirked, caressing his cheek. He shuddered deeply, turning his head.
The hand gripped his throat again, constricted painfully, and Bloo almost passed out. When she relinquished her hold, he pleaded pitifully, like a dying cat. She listened to his whispers momentarily, and then dug her nails into the grooves she'd created last night. Bloo yelped, unable to stop himself, and she snarled in his face. Recoiling, he slammed his head against the wall by accident. She smirked, gently extracting her nails.
"Kiss me," she demanded. "You're my mate. You need training because you're a rude little imaginary friend. Now kiss me."
To her astonishment and shock, he shook his head vehemently. His lips formed the name "Mac" and then "my heart belongs to him".
If she possessed any magic, she might have destroyed half her office in that instant. Instead, fury boiled her blood, split ends, and she kneed him again in the groin, choked him, and then bit his lip hard enough so it bled profusely. She let up on his throat to cuff him, and then bite his upper lip as well. Bloo headbutted her furiously, struggling madly against his confines. Ultimately, the only thing it accomplished was a larger headache.
Oddly, she smirked, wrapping her legs on either side of his body and pressing her chest against his. She licked the blood off and ran it across his teeth. Bloo shuddered, wishing he could shove her away. He tried to bite her tongue, but she closed her mouth. She anticipated all his moves.
"Resistance is futile."
Mac, too, awoke with a raging headache, only, unlike Bloo, his had no rhyme or reason. He glanced at the spot next to him where Bloo often snuck in so he could awake his creator in his style, but it was empty. Alarm bells chimed, but he swallowed hard, deciding he shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, maybe he'd just gone to the bathroom. Yet when he looked in the empty bathroom and his own empty room, his panic levels rose again.
Maybe Madame Foster would know where he was. He gingerly rubbed his peculiarly aching jaw, head, and temples. It felt like he had a hangover, but that made no sense. Nor did the dream he had, either, but hopefully in the light of morning, it might fade away into nothingness. He was paranoid, that was it. That explained his dreams involving Bloo at a bar and imbuing dangerous amounts of alcohol; he fretted in his sleep. He'd never brought it up with Bloo since it seemed ludicrous to think Bloo would be slipping out to get drunk. Insane, really.
Nonetheless, he paced the living room since Madame Foster routinely, fastidiously checked the news every morning at seven o'clock. He slumped onto the couch, but sprung up immediately afterwards to pace again. Though his link with Bloo was indeed tenuous, he had always been able to sense him when necessity dictated. Yet when he reached out towards his imaginary friend, all he clutched were straws that slipped through his fingers. Bloo was completely beyond him and his heart sunk into his stomach. He couldn't kick the notion something was seriously wrong and his Bloo needed him.
Frustrated, he flung his mental link as far as it would go and on the most distant reaches, finally snagged throbbing, agony, and everything Mac himself experienced to a lesser degree. He attempted to rein him in, but the connection disassembled itself. Grand, so his suspicions were correct and something had happened to him. His trepidation doubled and he wished he'd see him walking in the door right now, because he was this close to panicking.
Madame Foster bid him a good morning and he asked through clenched teeth. Glancing at the television, he whole heartedly expected and desired them to announce the hunt was still on for Bloo. Yet the reporters smugly informed its viewers the hunt was over, so stop looking, and then proceeded onto other news. Mac's heart, already in his stomach, dissolved in the acid. He slumped off the couch and onto the floor in dismay. The rest of the news faded into noise as he contemplated the facts. Bloo was missing and what he felt of him was horrible and they'd stopped their search for him. Horror struck, he glanced at Madame Foster and hoped she had some good news.
"Madame Foster, you don't think…?" he left the sentence dangling, the end unbearable. His face resembled the color of sour milk and his hands trembled badly. Lie to me…tell me the good guys always win and no one ever dies…
"Mac, do you know where Bloo is right now?" she said seriously, gently hoisting him to his feet. Abashed, he contemplated the rug instead of her and she sighed.
"Neither do I, but I have an idea it's nowhere he ought to be."
"Bloo's-" Madame Foster began, but Frankie cut her off. The typical congregation location, the kitchen, now housed Frankie, Mr. Herriman, and his creator. Mr. Herriman leaned against Frankie's chair and his knuckles beneath his gloves were white. He stroked the side of her face when he thought his creator wasn't looking, but immediately stood to attention when she turned her head.
"Yes, we know," Frankie said with a sigh. "I check the sign in and sign out records every morning. All friends and humans who pass through our halls are scanned both upon entrance and exit- Bloo was registered as leaving, but not returning. For the last couple of weeks, he's been sneaking out at night and coming back early in the morning. I didn't tell Mac because I assumed he knew…"
Mr. Herriman sighed as well, placing a comforting paw on her shoulder. She rubbed against his fur, then swiftly pretended she hadn't. Madame Foster rolled her eyes, but refrained from commenting. Their relationship was their business, not hers. As long as they abstained from public displays of affection that disgusted her, she didn't care how they acted.
"How are we going to tell Mac his best friend and lover has been captured by DIE?" Frankie murmured. "Or that once Berry's done playing with him, he'll be dead?"
"If he isn't already," Mr. Herriman muttered darkly. Neither commented, though both privately agreed. Still, the thought of Mac losing Bloo like that wasn't exactly easy to swallow. None of them relished the idea of telling him his imaginary friend was dead or worse. Frankie leaned across the table to glance into the darkened living room at Mac, who sat incomprehensibly watching TV. Her heart went out to him.
Madame Foster stirred a freshly brewed pot of coffee, poured out three mugs for them, and then sat back down. She swirled her spoon around, mixing sweetener, milk, and cream. Moments passed interminably while they sipped and reflected. In the living room, flickers of light flashed randomly and Frankie rose, deciding she ought to try to comfort him. Of the three, she was best at breaking bad news thanks to experience. How she loathed it.
"I suppose their link must be considerably weaker than ours," Mr. Herriman said, watching Frankie weave her way into the living room and drape an arm around Mac's shoulders. He reluctantly tore his gaze away and eyed his creator.
"If he didn't notice him leaving every night…" he trailed off, closing the curtain between the rooms. Not that it really did anything, but he wanted privacy and he was sure Frankie felt the same way. At least with it hanging in the doorway, he had its semblance. Madame Foster nodded approvingly at his gesture, but frowned thoughtfully at his words.
"They are supposed to be, well, lovers," he murmured and she bit back a smile. He'd always had a hard time accepting that particular fact. Homosexuality had been a touchy subject, one he usually bristled at, but in the case of Mac and Bloo, he'd been forced to make an exception.
"That means nothing," she said finally. "They might have shared their bodies (and don't make that face at me, Funny Bunny!), but they haven't opened up their minds to each other yet. Our bond is more mental than physical and theirs is reverse. Their emotional and spiritual link has never been tested like ours. The only parts they possess are wrought through their years together and not experience.
"They aren't weak, but neither has revealed himself to the other. And until Bloo can, Mac might never see him again."
"You all right, pal?" Frankie murmured, cradling him like a mother would. In a sad way, Frankie was the closest thing he could remember. She stroked his hair affectionately, but he wasn't comforted. The only thing in the world that could make him feel better was Bloo's return.
Gently, she wrestled the remote out of his hands and shut off the TV. Now, the only light came through the bottom of the curtain and the kitchen beyond. He shifted, accepting what little she offered though it hardly helped, and rested against her. At least the darkness appeased his eyes- maybe he'd sleep…until he came back. Yes, that made absolutely no sense, but he had nothing else right now.
"They act like he's some sort of prize and now that he's off the market, people have to find a new way to make a buck," Mac muttered. "Like he's not my imaginary friend and lover, but an item you can just pick up at the store. And they do this all the time, it doesn't matter who the person or imaginary friend was. They're all the same in their eyes.
"And someone benefited off Bloo's disappearance…it's not fair…"
Smiling weakly, she hugged him tightly and tousled his hair affectionately. Try as he might, the teenager couldn't even move his lips upwards. Simply thinking about smiling was out of his reach at the moment…just like Bloo. He wanted to slam his head against something in desperation and scream his name. Perhaps Frankie sensed this, because she squeezed his hand comfortingly.
"Kiddo, I don't know if you noticed, but life's unfair. You have to roll with it. But at least there's one bit of semi good news I can give you…if Bloo were dead, you'd know instantly. There's still hope."
"I wish I could believe you…"