Author's Note/Disclaimer: The last chapter officially received more reviews than I've gotten in a long time for this story (since chapter six, actually). Yay!

I don't own Foster's...and people, keep reviewing. Mmm-kay?

Chapter Sixteen: Incredulous

Bloo waited until everyone had vacated, either permanently or temporarily, before he reluctantly met Berry's eyes. They swept his face and a tender look entered momentarily. However, her mental wall guarded her expression closely after and she shoved him into the seat in front of her desk. Drumming her fingers together, she contemplated the picture within her desk for five minutes while Bloo squirmed uncomfortably. She always liked to put her subordinates on pins and needles- it reminded them of their place.

"Is it true?" she murmured so he had to strain to hear. Shutting the drawer quietly, she stiffened, wondering how on earth her mate could be marred so terribly so quickly. Regardless of the form he took, he'd retain the scar. No amount of make up or stitching could erase it. Still, now that she considered it further, she preferred this look. They both bore scars, physical and emotional, and it further proved her point- Mac would not want a disfigured imaginary friend. Once Bloo discovered this for himself, everything would run a lot smoother.

"I don't care what you said. Even if Mr. Herriman relies on humans, he doesn't deserve to die. No one does…" he said, but the words died on his lips. He wanted to be rebellious and might have been if it weren't for the fact he'd seen three DIE members perish by her hands. That alone induced unwavering terror and the knuckles gripping the chair were chalk white.

"Is that so, Bloo? So no matter what someone does, they don't deserve death? What about the people who left you in the snow while they ran like cowards? You could have died of blood loss. Can you sit here and tell me that they shouldn't be punished? One of them saw you jump in the way and yet, still cut you," she hissed, running a nail along his stitches. She dug it underneath one and smirked, relishing the way he twisted uncomfortably, but refused to remit a peep. At least some training had sunk in.

"It wasn't on purpose," he protested, though why he defended a dead man was beyond him. Maybe because the instant Berry came in contact with something, she blurred its lines beyond recognition. Nothing was innocent or accidental- the whole world was out to get her and any insult was seen not only as a nasty remark, but a threat to her personal well being. With a person like that running his known world, it made maintaining the lines of right and wrong very difficult indeed.

Pivoting, she flicked her glance onto the TVs in the corner of the room which displayed many of the corners and alleys in town. Despite her constant surveillance, none of them even glimpsed the side entrances and hidden passageways to Foster's. When Bloo had vanished into Foster's earlier that day, her sensors had been unable to pinpoint exactly where he was. She'd only been capable of tracking a human and imaginary friend in his immediate vicinity. His relation to the surrounding buildings aboveground was completely indiscernible.

Suddenly, she zoomed in on one and projected its black and white image onto a screen attached to the wall. Bloo's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. There, glancing around the convenience store like a lost puppy searching for his master, was his creator. Unclenching the chair's bottom, his fingers itched to stroke his face and hold him close. Berry frowned, instantaneously distinguishing the expression on his face. She'd worn it many times before upon observing her own creator ascending the grand staircase of their mansion. She used to pretend they owned it and every day, when Virginia came back from school, she'd flit up the stairs, press Berry against her heaving bosom (which was always fuller and healthier than in real life), and they'd share a kiss.

Bloo stared blankly, uncertain if her waltzing around the room in a daze was normal behavior. She wrapped her arms around thin air and crooned the name "Virginia". Though he knew this to be her creator's name, he puzzled why she'd pretend to be in an embrace with the girl. Not to mention she had completely forgotten he was there. He sat utterly frozen, trying to decide if he could slip away unnoticed before Mac left or if it'd return her to reality.

Finally, she turned to Bloo and smiled sadly. All the mental walls disappeared and he realized this was the first time he'd seen her vulnerable and almost sympathetic. He shivered, rubbing his hands along his goosepimpled arms and checked out the window to ensure the sky wasn't falling.

"My scar may not be plastered across my cheek like you, but my choices have left their imprint. If it were not for my creator, I would not be cursed to think of her constantly and resent the hold she still wields. Her memory haunts me.

"Your choices have left a physical mark of your stupidity. Protecting others harms you as well, Bloo. Perhaps in your mind, Mr. Herriman does not deserve his just punishment, but you forget that it was his mentality and others like him that enabled my creator to hurt me this deeply. And if it can happen to me, it can happen to you.

"You let them in, now show them the door before your scar is the lightest of your wounds."

Bloo fumed, mentally discarding her words. She knelt by his side, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He shuddered, bile rising in his throat. Against his wishes, he swallowed it, but he honestly thought he was going to be violently ill. He had to say, being kissed by an insane dictator hell bent on desiccating lifestyles and destroying dreams versus his beloved, affectionate, sweet creator was really no contest. That and try as she might, she'd have no sexual sway with him because, unfortunately for her, Bloo was gay.

"And, deep down, you know you attacked Herriman because you wanted to. Everyone has a mean streak. You might not want to admit it, but seeing his blood on your knuckles, hearing his screams punctuate the air, feeling his anguish at your hands satisfied you. You're not like them, Bloo. You're not human, you're imaginary. You're better than human. You don't have to obey their laws or listen to their reason. Don't you understand? If you want to maim, destroy, and wreck, no one will stop you.

"You've all ready taken your first steps. You're not the lily white Foster's boy any more. You're not Mac's lover boy, you're DIE's servant. You live to gratify us…and you enjoy every second of it.

"DIE has tainted you. You can't return to Foster's now. You're ours, whether you like it or not."

Bloo scoffed, yet his confidence ebbed away. What if she was right? What if Mac could just look at him and tell he wasn't on Foster's side any more? What if he wasn't 'good' any more? He'd never been entirely to begin with, but he'd always avoided the line between morality and ruthlessness. What if he'd only avoided it because he didn't want to unleash the monster that possessed him? What if he was that monster who beat Herriman and he liked it? What if the next time he saw Mac, he assaulted him too?

"You're mine, Bloo. Together, we will rule their doomed race."

"Lay him down on his bed," Madame Foster advised her granddaughter, who, despite her trembling knees at hefting such a weight, managed to maneuver into the room and lower him onto his mattress. Frankie gulped back another wave of sobs and glanced at her, eyes glazed and age never so apparent in the lines on her face, which had deepened. How could she have forgotten about the mental bound the two shared? The only reason she hadn't run into the foray after him was because Foster's didn't need two of its most wanted by DIE dead. Still, she was willing to bet she felt every punch, stab, and slash of his attackers.

And what role did Bloo play? Why had he run so quickly? Then there was his gash…she couldn't fathom what would have happened if both Bloo and Herriman had died. She and Mac would have gone out of their minds.

Madame Foster tried to hop onto his bed, but the mental effect of Herriman's physical attack had drained her. Seeing the indomitable head of Foster's unable to scramble onto a four poster bed was heartrending. How could such a good day go so very wrong? How could so much happen in an hour? How could she have let her grandmother and her lover get hurt like this?

Because any way she sliced it, this was her fault. As she kissed his cheek, bit back a flood of tears, and scurried to the medicine cabinet for bandages, antiseptic solution, and anything else she might require, she began to blame herself. After all, who had heard those explosives go off and dart to the scene only to abandon him? Who had wondered about the noises and not investigated? Who had let this happen in the first place? Her.

Glaring at herself hatefully in the mirror, she resolved not to cry. Instead, a ball of self loathing threatened to choke her. She retrieved the equipment, packaged it neatly into a basket, and started off towards his room. This morning, already another lifetime it seemed, they'd lain together, his arms wrapped around her waist and her face buried in his chest. When he fell asleep, the transformer always turned him back into a rabbit…

Madame Foster was stroking his blood stained chest fur when Frankie re-entered. Afraid to interrupt a moment (since she'd inadvertently walked in on her granddaughter and imaginary friend previously), she hung back. Ancient fingers combed through the bruises, gore, and blade indents and she sighed. A single tear coursed down her wrinkled cheek and splashed onto the remnants of his collar. In all her years, Frankie had never seen her grandmother cry.

"Oh, my Funny Bunny…my beloved Herriman…what have they done to you?" she whispered, easing her finger up his tattered left ear. The tip was missing, presumed property of DIE for whatever reason. Though she disliked having to interject, it was either that or lose it completely. Seeing her cry and lament his fate was more than she could bear. Especially since this was all her fault.

Frankie unpacked her supplies and winced at his raspy breathing. She wasn't going to break down, not now. Now, she had a job to do. There was no point in crying anyway.

After finishing, she stood back, both to inspect her handiwork and because touching him brought the tears further to the surface. Perhaps she ought to leave them alone. It was one of the last things she desired, but if she looked, touched, or heard him, she'd bawl uncontrollably, like an infant. This was all her fault. She might as well have attacked him herself for her carelessness.

"Frankie, wait," she said just as her hand turned the knob. "We have to talk."

Leaning heavily against the door and swallowing painfully, she shook her head, eyes shut. What was there to discuss? How she'd failed Foster's, her lover, and her grandmother? How her stupidity had almost led to his death? If Bloo hadn't run in on time...

"This is not your fault. No matter what happened to lead him outside, you were not the one who attacked him. Don't beat yourself up, sweetie," she said, smiling sadly, and hopped unsteadily off to leave them alone. Since she shared the bond with Herriman, she knew who had ultimately triggered the attack, but didn't want to start a ruckus right now. She needed time to think and ponder their options, not to mention figure out if Mac had a right to the information and how it would impact him. As much as she wanted to remain here, the only thought when she looked at him was an immense, unquenchable loathing.

Once she left, Frankie at long last liberated her wails. She curled up next to her beloved Mr. Herriman, draped one of his mangled arms around her waist, and then shifted to press her face into his fur. Unbeknownst to either of them, the sun set as she cried herself to sleep in his arms.

Mac's finger trailed an oddly throbbing invisible line from under his right eye to his chin. It'd been bothering him since before Frankie and Madame Foster brought in Herriman and his "Bloo is near" sense had been pulsating as well. In fact, the afternoon had been a myriad of strange experiences, all revolving around his imaginary friend. Desire, blood lust, confusion, phantom pain; followed by dizziness, freezing, the heart stopping moment when he nearly died, a flood of warmth, and now, nothing.

Madame Foster hobbled into the living room, where he sat in the easy chair while Wilt and Eduardo half cuddled, half hugged on the couch. Ed wasn't exactly private about their relationship, much to Wilt's embarrassment. Fortunately, Mac was too deep in thought to notice either. In fact, he didn't even hear her sigh; see her contemplate whether or not to tell him, and then pass on.

"Bloo…" he whispered. "Bloo, where are you?"