Author's Note/Disclaimer: Happy New Year! Hope y'all aren't too hung over/exhausted to read this chappie. (And if you are and read it anyway, don't tell me. Please).

Foster's Home doesn't belong to me, in case y'all forgot. (That's two y'alls from the Yankee, lol).

Chapter Fifteen: Failure

Twilight descended and, inhaling deeply, he rubbed his ungloved hands together both to induce warmth and to match the malicious smile on his face. At this stage in the game, his task was quite simple, to lure or drag Mr. Herriman out of Foster's by any means necessary. Once he accomplished that, the rest should go without a hitch. At least, that was Berry's theory. However, to Bloo, whose brainwashing was not entirely complete and found himself second guessing his motives, it might not go off at all.

Nerves frayed, stomach squirming unpleasantly, Bloo slipped into his old home. He didn't know why, but he was having second thoughts about this. Berry told him that they were the enemy and never to trust them, but if they hated him so much, why had they protected him for so long? Shaking his head, he crept along the walls like a criminal until he spotted his prey. His stomach lurked sickeningly. What if this wasn't the right thing?

Inhaling deep, musty air, he whipped off his facemask and forced himself to smile. Like Berry the day before, the action actually hurt, but not because he hadn't done it in years. Every bruise, now covered by makeup, revealed the extent of his torture previously. His eyes darted here and there, hoping to catch one glimpse of his creator. He wasn't sure what he'd say to him, but if he just spotted a mere silhouette, he might pursue it and not this foolhardy concept. Yet was Berry right? Was he fated to betray him?

A familiar shadow flitted by a distinct tunnel (since he fancied them tunnels, not halls); his heart leapt in his chest. Eager, he plodded onward, but a shrill shriek stilled his step. Wincing, he glanced at his new pink transformer (a gift from Berry that tracked his movements and detected whether nearby creatures were imaginary or human). It flashed irritatingly and, grimacing, he whipped out a small compact mirror (standard issue) and her irate eyes met his. He swallowed hard, unable to look away. She was, after all, his master (since she refused to use the term 'mistress', deeming it below her true rank).

"Where do you think you're going?" she growled; out of the corner of his eye, Mac slowly vanished down an adjacent tunnel. Bloo yearned to fling all caution to the winds and chase after him. Perhaps she saw the longing in his eyes, because her next comment addressed it directly.

"He's worthless. You don't need him. Have you forgotten what we discussed at length? Get what we came here for and no side trips," she snarled, waggling a warning finger. Hopes dashed, he shut the mirror, shoved it into his right hip pocket, and started off towards the kitchen.

There, nursing a warm mug of cocoa, sat Mr. Herriman. Frankie nuzzled his cheek, ran her fingers through his fur, then wrapped her arms around his neck. Bloo swallowed hard, conscience screaming, but its impact subdued thanks to Berry's preaching. Instead, he mentally scoffed at her possessiveness. The two leaned in for a quick kiss and, when they moved away, Herriman beamed.

Scowling, he realized the only way, short of knocking Frankie out, to extract Herriman was to create a diversion. Jeez, how come he'd never noticed how lovey-dovey they were before? He was brushing her hair away with his paw and stroking her face. Bloo wasn't sure he wanted to gag or grab Mac, but Berry's teachings prodded him in the back again. Of course he didn't want the latter, because he'd just turn around and betray him.

Withdrawing a few tiny, non-lethal explosives, he, sick to his stomach again, pitched them down the corridor Mac had just vacated. Frankie immediately stood, panicking, but before Herriman could follow, Bloo ambushed him. Whipping off his facemask, he asserted someone in the snow needed their help. Wishing his Mac voice would, even in its weaker form, shut the hell up, he directed him straight into a trap.

Nasty smirks abounded underneath black facemasks greeted him upon his return. Honestly, he hadn't thought it'd be this easy. The bewildered imaginary rabbit twitched, dread, fret, and, finally, his survival instinct kicking in. Mr. Herriman was being faced down by six humans (or imaginaries in disguise) clad in black, cracking their knuckles threatening, and at the beck and call of someone he thought trustworthy. His legs quaked, but ere he started fleeing, one separated from the pack and shoved him into the asphalt. On the ice, he skidded and fell.

"Master Bloo…" he moaned and he glanced away, refusing to meet his eyes. The others snickered, two darting to pin him down. Nonetheless, the powerful imaginary friend kicked valiantly, his long legs muscular and intimidating. No one was quite certain how to contend with them.

Finally, frustrated, someone slammed a fist into his face. Dazed, Mr. Herriman stopped struggling long enough for two more to join the foray. Soon, the air was rent with the sound of fist hitting furry flesh, the leaden smell of blood, and his cries. Bloo stood, irresolute. The part of him still under Berry's intoxication told him to accompany in the revelry, but then there was the look on his face and his moment with Frankie in the kitchen.

"Master Blooregard, listen to me! You cannot be with DIE! You are with us, Foster's. You and Master Mac!" he cried, kicking obstinately and missing tremendously. Blood poured out of wounds on his chest; his tuxedo had been torn to tatters, his bowler long trashed, and, after his plea, one of the gang extracted a machete to cut off a chunk of his ear. Herriman howled, writhing as liquid pain poured out. Eyes wet, he gazed at Bloo desperately, but Berry's arguments triumphed momentarily at the mention of Mac's name. How dare he bring him into this! This was why he wasn't worthy of salvation, like Berry said. Because he relied too heavily on humans and their stupid ways. Just like before, when he was kissing Frankie.

"Not anymore!" Bloo snarled, slamming his fist dangerously close to his heart. Another shot nearly broke his neck. Yet as he assaulted him, his anger ebbed away, replaced by confusion. Why was he doing this again? Yes, he relied heavily on humans, but did that entitle him to the beating of his life? Did that give them permission to slash, gash, and tear up his fur like a racecar on a runway?

Half mad, agonized by his injuries, he fought tooth and nail, actually attempting to bite people. He screamed Frankie's name, then his creator's, and finally, plead once more with Bloo. Bloo shook his head to dispel his wails, but they penetrated deeper, shattering Berry's influence completely. That, and the sight of the machete about to slash his jugular vein.

Knocking aside the arm, Bloo deflected the blow, but not before the knife cut deeply into his own cheek and gouged out flesh from below his right eye to his chin. If he hadn't screamed, clutched his profusely bleeding wound, he would have lost an eye. Anguish, like being branded by a hot iron, caused him to fall to his knees and bellow. Blood streamed like tears down his cheek and soaked his jacket.

Why hadn't anyone told him that splitting his cheek open would hurt like hell? The branding stepped up to unbearable heat mixed with barbed wire twisting and burning like the sun. Bloo buried his face in the snow, but it wouldn't go away. Instead, red polluted the pure white and the blistering cold only further irritated his gash. Tears choked his vision, but his steady loss weakened him. Not to mention he was dizzy…and when he brought his hands up to massage the wound, he felt his insides and blood rushed over. He pushed himself up to vomit.

Meanwhile, behind him, no one quite knew what to do. If Bloo weren't a member of DIE, they would have severed his spine minutes ago, but one of their own, especially Berry's pet, and they were in for it. How on earth were they going to explain that they'd inadvertently nearly killed him and marred his face for life? Not to mention he kept thrashing, shrieking, and gushing like a freakin' waterfall. At least Mr. Herriman had fallen unconscious.

"Oh, God…Mac…" he whimpered. "It hurts so bad…Mac…"

Queasy themselves, they did the only thing that came to mind- they bailed. Bloo rolled over onto his front to watch them flee like mice before a cat. He moaned, doing the only thing that came to his mind, and staggered the hundred feet back to Foster's. Never had the palm register had so much difficulty with his hand, splotched with both his blood and Herriman's. It went haywire, about to issue an alert when Frankie stepped out, having heard the commotion. (Though the sounds had been too muffled to distinguish particular voices).

Frankie craned her neck and Bloo shuffled uncomfortably, guilt wracked. Her jade eyes widened upon sight of his face and he swore, wishing he'd an opportunity to hide the extent. Color drained swiftly and she grabbed his arm to yank him inside. He shook his head, shrugging her off. Yes, he needed medical attention, but that wasn't the point. Yes, he wanted Mac too, but there was no point in mentioning that either.

"Holy shit, Bloo…" she breathed. "What the hell happened?"

Shaking his head and wishing immediately he hadn't, because dizziness overtook him, he pointed at Herriman's prone figure. Any remaining color disappeared and she darted to his side. Once she was no longer paying any attention to him, Bloo fled too, unable to deal with the grief. He passed out soon after.

Horrified, Frankie cradled her beloved Herriman to her chest. His chest fell, but in the tense few seconds that it failed to raise, her own heart stopped. Already, it felt like someone had ripped her open and trampled on her innards. Just twenty minutes ago, he'd been whole, intact, and sharing an affectionate moment. Now, he was just lying here like he was practically dead. She was too shocked to cry.

Tufts of fur were missing from his chest and she spotted nasty bruises lurking beneath the fur that hadn't been brutally ripped away. The pink skin showing was purple, in places pierced. She couldn't even begin to figure out where the slashes started and ended. One of his feet had been nearly wrenched from his body and she spat, fury replacing her astonishment.

"A fucking souvenir," she snapped, weeping unabashed. "Isn't that what you wanted, Berry? A fucking rabbit's foot. Then you could hang him…hang him on your mantelpiece like the little cunt you are…"

Swiftly, she took his heartbeat, ascertained one remained, and then lay her head on his chest to sob into his fur (what little remained). Clutching him like a life preserver, she bawled. Snow landed on her nape and, jarred back to her senses, she glanced down to contemplate how she was going to move him into their hideout and then tend to him. Kneeling, she draped one of his badly mangled arms around her neck, wrapped her other arm around his waist, and dragged him back. The scanner gave them trouble, but the door opened quietly to reveal Madame Foster, scrutinizing the two critically but permitting them entrance. Questions later, treatment now.

Bloo awoke to Berry lording over him. He reached up to feel his face, but gauze and stitches now covered his gash. Smiling thankfully only induced agony, so he stopped quickly. She crouched to his side, stroked his wounded side, and then hissed. Hopping on one foot then the other, the rest of her motley assassination crew waited agitatedly. Bloo had the impression she was angrier with them than she was with him. At least, he hoped so (and what had she administered? That whole half of his face was numb).

"I want to know how this happened," she snapped. "And if you lie to me, so help you, because I will kill you. You return to me minus a rabbit carcass and one of my inferiors tells me he had to hoist Bloo out of a snow bank because otherwise, he would have died. What the fuck happened out there?"

Jabbing her finger in the air close to his wound, she snarled, "And how did this happen? Whose bright idea was it to try to murder my acolyte? I want answers. And if I don't get them in about thirty seconds, heads will roll. And that's not just a figure of speech."

No one was brave enough to speak up. Shuffling madly, they averted their gaze and considered the rug instead. However, a bullet from a gun she kept on her transformer belt caused them to jump and lent them courage born from the desire to live. She twiddled the trigger on her index finger, cocked the gun, and aimed at each person's head in turn. Bloo swallowed hard, but she never turned it on him. She ran her fingers through his hair affectionately.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace. Who the hell decided to leave my Bloo out in the middle of a storm when he could have died from blood loss? Why isn't Herriman's body on my rug? Whose fault is this?" she snarled and shot one member in the head. Brains plastered everywhere, from ceiling to walls to the floor. Limp, his body tumbled to the rug. Had he anything left in his system, he might have vomited again.

"P-please, C-Commander B-Berry, we didn't…he got in the way…" a woman protested. "He stopped us at the last split second…spare me…"

"Do you expect me to believe Bloo stopped you from killing him? First of all, why the hell did you let him? Second, even if he had, there's no excuse for splitting his face open. Surely you can tell the difference between a rabbit, your intended target, and my future mate. Unless you think I fuck rabbits!" she screamed, shooting her in the arm. The woman screamed, clutching it tightly.

"You're all dismissed. Consider yourself target practice. And if the person who slashed his face doesn't come forward immediately, I'll kill all your families tonight. Think of it as a Christmas bonus."