Author's Note: So tired...I put this up a few hours early, but I won't do that again next week.

At any rate, enjoy. Foster's Home does not belong to me.

Chapter Eighteen: Passion

Retrieving a flashlight, Mac trailed Bloo until he found the real thing. He'd never heard his imaginary friend at the breaking point, and upon touching his cheeks, he discovered he was crying as well. Certainly, he was not about to let him walk away that easily. Dogmatic, he searched until he found him.

Sniffling, he rubbed his nose obstinately and shook his head. God, why was he so stupid? Berry might not be able to tell which human he'd met, but she was smart enough to figure it out. And if he was going to be killed for seeing Mac, why the hell hadn't he done anything worthwhile to get himself killed for? All he'd done was shove him away and explain nothing.

Or maybe Berry wouldn't kill him. Maybe she'd hunt Mac and kill him instead. After all, she'd told him it was her creator's death that drove her mad. If she eliminated Mac, Bloo would have nothing left. She could murder him, fling Bloo into solitary confinement again, and in a week, he'd be stark raving like her. Then he'd finish what he'd started with Mr. Herriman…

How could he want him now? He'd aided and abetted in an attempted murder, only stopped by flinging himself in the blade's way. Not to mention he'd questioned his loyalty and let himself be swayed by Berry's teachings. He'd believed her over his beloved creator…what a fool. Tears obliterated his vision and he choked, weakly perceiving someone laying a hand on his shoulder and whispering his name.

Innately, he whirled around, elbowing them in the stomach. A strangled cry and, horrified, he realized he'd struck Mac. Fortunately, the still bemused boy, stomach tender, landed in a snow bank. Ashen, Berry's words drifted back- maybe he really wouldn't want him now. After all, he'd offered him comfort and he'd assaulted him. Every time he approached him, he shoved him away. Who would want a partner like him? He was worthless, DIE's pawn.

Mac, rising ungainly to his feet sans aid, stared at his creation's face. Never had he seen him so defeated. Whoever responsible beat him down mercilessly. Dusting himself off, he cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder. He was well aware every time he reached out, it was met by hostility, but this was Bloo, his world, and if the sky was falling, he was going to try to push it back up.

"I'm not going to let you walk out on me, not after vanishing for two weeks," he said sternly, blinking when Bloo lifted his hand off only to kiss it. What was this, the Twilight Zone? Since when did he act the gentlemen? Then again, considering everything else, maybe he ought to count his blessings he hadn't flung it aside and pushed him into another trash pile.

Swallowing hard, glancing away, Bloo murmured, "Don't you get it, Mac? I'm not yours anymore. I'm not Foster's. I'm with DIE. I'm…their puppet.

"I'm the one who hurt Mr. Herriman. I lured him out of Foster's to be jumped. I helped them. If I hadn't gotten a conscience attack, he would have died and it would have been all my fault. That scar you keep fingering isn't a memento of bravery, but how far I've fallen.

"How could you want me now? I'm…I almost…" he trailed off, glancing away. Mac's knuckles whitened and his eyes widened, but he couldn't reply. Bloo, who'd clutched his hand tightly before, released it, and then, examining his creators' face, fled.

Mac blinked blankly, but no sooner had Bloo sped out of sight than Mac's feet pounded on the pavement to catch up. He wanted answers and his confession produced more questions. His mind spun dazedly; meanwhile, Bloo evaded him and the various scattered DIE members. He didn't want to face him, but returning to Berry hardly pleased him either. Unfortunately, about five minutes into the chase, Bloo ran headlong into a teenage girl clad in black, the sweatshirt baring DIE's initials.

Overhead loomed DIE headquarters and the blue skinned imaginary friend winced. Brilliant. Not only had he unintentionally screwed up, but he sensed Mac lingering close by. If Berry discovered he'd seen his creator to forgo patrol, she'd assassinate Mac while her guards restrained her new pet. How could he have been so stupid, to jump from the pan straight into the fire? Helplessly, he glanced at the shadows where Mac hid. These were dangerous games to play, too dangerous.

"You were supposed to report an hour ago, newbie filth," the girl snarled, prodding him in the back with her pistol. She nodded at two cohorts, waving their guns like toys. One squeezed the trigger maliciously; a bullet flew out, precariously close to Bloo's head. The next shot, aimed in the shadows, brought a sharp intake of breath and, then, nothing. The color drained from Bloo's face, but, before he pondered anything else, the girl directed him back to hell, also known as DIE.

Swallowing hard, Mac thanked his lucky stars that bullet nicked the cardboard box next to him. If it'd landed a centimeter to the right, it would have embedded itself in his skull. He shuddered, hugging himself. Whatever scientific law dictated bad guys always had bad aim saved his life. Either that, or whoever it was shot blindly to see if they got anyone. Neither prospect terribly appealed to him.

He watched until the two figures holding Bloo at gunpoint strode inside. There was no reason to remain in the hopes he'd come out. Reticent, he dashed back to Foster's to inform them of the breaking news.

Frankie growled, pacing back and forth. Occasionally, she'd halt, mutter darkly, and then renew her agitated strides. Since Bloo's capture, the modified rules mandated no 'visits' to the surface after dark. Today being her day to check imaginary and humans' emissions, she'd discovered his leaving nearly an hour ago. Considering Bloo's unknown condition and her affection for the two, she'd grown increasingly concerned. When the door creaked open, she yanked him down the stairs and read him the riot act.

"Where did you think you were going?" she snapped. "Are you insane? What did I tell you about heading out after dark? You could have been captured, or, worse, shot on sight. What did you think you were doing?"

Mac, disoriented from her treatment, not to mention the night's events whirling, stared blankly. What on earth did rules have to do with anything? Yes, they were there for a reason and dimly, he realized he'd broken one, but it wasn't that big a deal. She certainly could have skipped ranting and raving like he'd committed a cardinal sin. Jeez, talk about incorporating part of who you hung out with.

"DIE's patrolling the city at night or have you forgotten? You could have met one of them and-" she snapped, but he interjected.

"I did-"

"You see? I warned you. You're lucky you escaped with your life, you know that? That's it, no venturing above the surface for you for a week, mister. And if I see you disobeyed me again, I'll-" she hissed, prodding him in the chest. Mac glared, wishing she'd at least give him the opportunity to speak. However, Madame Foster's cane striking the counter tiles impeded her. She pivoted, facing her grandmother and the accompanying hops, no longer as energetic. The lame leading the limping.

Madame Foster rapped her granddaughter on the shin lightly and turned to Mac to smile weakly. His lips twisted in a semblance of a smile, but nothing more. Still uneasy, he reluctantly settled into a chair. She hefted herself into the one across, Herriman adjacent, and Frankie, reluctantly, sat so stiffly she resembled a statue. She muttered uncouthly, too low for anyone but Herriman to catch.

"I think the boy has something important to say," Madame Foster said, "and you're not letting him get it out."

"Thanks, Madame Foster," he replied, feebly smiling gratefully. She inclined her head and shot Frankie a look as if daring her to interrupt. It seemed she'd overheard their conversation.

"I met Bloo outside-"

"Is he okay?" Frankie interrupted, earning disapproving looks. Meekly, she eyed the table and Mac anticipated Mr. Herriman laying a placating paw atop her hand. Yet he offered her no comfort or affection, which he found odd. He'd grown so accustomed to these displays of bizarre affection, he'd learned to pinpoint when they'd happen. Yet since Mr. Herriman's attack, he'd been rather aloof, particularly to Frankie.

"No," he said, frowning. "He's not. He was acting really strange…he kept pushing me away and then begging my forgiveness for something."

Straining his memory, he recalled and glanced guiltily at Mr. Herriman, then the two Fosters. He sensed the instant he uttered these words, Frankie would erupt, Madame Foster would be torn between doing the same and calming her, and the imaginary rabbit would simply nod dejectedly. Bearing the bearer of bad news was a horrid task, regardless of the messenger. At least Bloo wasn't here to confess…that was the worst scenario he could imagine.

"He…he said that…" he winced, readying himself. "He said he helped hurt Mr. Herriman."

From the explosion out of Frankie's mouth, one might have thought a volcano blew. Indeed, the twenty-nine year old resembled one, her crimson hair flashing like her jade eyes. Words, a few Mac had never heard before, issued forth and the teenager marveled at her explicit vocabulary. He wondered whether he ought to clap his hands over his ears or listen, awestruck. Wilt and Eduardo, in their habitual place, fled like banshees chased them. Mac didn't blame them- it was bad enough to listen to it, worse to witness.

Honestly, he fully expected Madame Foster or, in the very least, Mr. Herriman to quiet her rage. Then again, the imaginary rabbit had been rather brusque to Frankie lately and only speaking when absolutely necessary. The customary affectionate gestures ceased entirely and if she initiated one, he jerked away as if burned. For instance, she grabbed his arm to display the cuts and bruises she now blamed on Bloo and he wrenched it away. An incredibly hurt look removed the fury and, abashed, she sat back down.

Madame Foster scrutinized Mac; her emerald eyes searched every inch, but whatever she sought, she found naught. Clasping her hands over her cane, she glanced querulously at Herriman, haughtily folding his arms across his chest. Unfortunately still tender, he winced. Frankie inherently laid a hand on his shoulder, but withdrew it before he slapped it away.

"You do realize, of course," she said, speaking not only to Mac, but to Frankie and Herriman as well, "that there are two sides to every story? Sometimes, the 'what' isn't as important as the 'why'. Yes, what he did might have been heinous, but you act like he had a choice. Did he? Can you honestly tell me that he's always been a ruthless, blood thirsty imaginary friend who relishes attacking others? Did you imagine him that way, Mac?"

Yet she wasn't finished with Frankie and Herriman. "And you two, do you think blaming yourself endlessly will miraculously heal the future? Or that because a group of imaginaries with weapons and malicious intent beat you while you were down, you're a weak, pathetic creature who isn't capable of your protecting loved ones? If you two don't stop feeling sorry for yourselves, let's just say this cane won't stay on the ground too long."

Gently, as though she hadn't moments ago threatened to whack her granddaughter and imaginary friend senseless, she spoke to Mac again. Mr. Herriman tentatively held Frankie's hand; she smiled softly and squeezed his lightly. Madame Foster who, for all the world, ignored them when they behaved like this normally, smiled and prodded Herriman gently in the ribs in case he had any quandaries about holding Frankie's hand.

"Do you know where Bloo is right now?" she murmured and he hung his head. He knew he was with DIE, but not exactly where. Thankfully, their mental bond meant he knew he wasn't dead and the bullet had missed, but it didn't slow his heart's pitter-patter. In his lap, he clenched his fists. There had to be something. He couldn't continue here and let them walk all over him.

"Can't we do anything? I can't stay here and do nothing while my…my…" His everything.

"…while Bloo is their slave," he finished. "Don't we have people to take him out? Can't someone give her a new playtoy? It's been two weeks and he's nearly insane!"

His blood boiled at the thought. If Bloo lingered in DIE's service, he would definitely lose it. Surely Foster's could help. They'd never mentioned rescuing anyone, but it had to be possible. They wouldn't let him down like this. They wouldn't stand by and let Bloo get beaten down by Berry until he became a monster like her. They couldn't.

Unconsciously, he'd placed his hopes in Foster's like Goo had. Foster's had saved him once, they could do it again. All those other imaginary deaths and creators were nothing. They didn't apply. Frankie and Madame Foster cared about him and Bloo, they wouldn't dare disappoint.

Madame Foster shook her head sadly and indicated her, the passing Wilt, and Mr. Herriman. "Don't you think if we could do something, we would have already? We're not ready yet."

Blood pounding, he leapt to his feet. His heart thundered and his fists, already clenched, tightened painfully. Goo was right. They weren't ever going to help. All they knew was cowardice, sitting idlywhile imaginaries and creators died. Well, enough was enough. Maybe they weren't, but he was going to do something. He couldn't lay back and hope that the next time they aimed at Bloo, they missed.

"What's the point of fighting them if you never do anything?" Mac snarled, pointing his finger accusingly. "Playing dead doesn't do anything, in case you noticed!

"Since you started living underground, has anything improved? Did you save lives by hiding out with the rocks? Does it make you happy to see creators and creations torn apart while you twiddle your thumbs? How can you tell me you're not ready yet when you've had thirty damn years to prepare!"

Tugging his coat off the rack, he shoved it on hastily, mis-buttoning in his rush. Fingers fumbled to shove the hood over his eyes and immediately reformed into fists. Chestnut eyes flashed treacherously. They'd taken everything else away; his mother, brother (he'd never known his father), and now, Foster's was going to lay low while they took the last creature who mattered the most to him? They were going to do jack when he was in pain? Who the hell did they think they were?

"You guys want to chew the fat and listen to the gunshots, be my guest. I'm going out and doing something," he snapped, tying the strings on his hood.

"Like getting yourself killed?" Frankie replied sardonically. "Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"It beats hanging around here all day and waiting for nothing!" he retorted, stomping up the steps. "I'm sick of waiting. I'm sick of feeling Bloo in my head and knowing there's nothing I can do to stop the pain. I'm sick of letting DIE take everything and everyone I care about.

"At least if I go down, I go down fighting," he snapped, slamming the door.

Frankie sighed, rubbing her temples. "And a load of good you'll be to Bloo, dead."