Chapter Nineteen: Futile

Goo hugged herself, lay back, and observed the moon. The cold concrete chilled her back, but like everything, she'd conditioned herself to its effects. Only her body's slight shivers indicated her discomfort. However, since she was habitually freezing, even in the summer, she cared little. In the winter, she shivered outwardly, but during the warmer seasons, the cold settled into her bones and soul. Despite her words, her rallying cries, her army was behind her and not with her. They would listen to her, but she hardly considered them friends. All she was in their eyes was a figurehead; someone to agree wholeheartedly with, but not care about. Thus, she remained terribly alone all year long.

A shadow stood over her and, judging by its all black outfit, it had to be a DIE member. Why would they want her? She had nothing. No imaginary friends, no ties to Foster's, nothing but pathetic speeches. Oh, well, if they were here, let them take her in fighting. She was going to give them hell.

"Hi…" the person said and she bolted up, recognizing the voice. Smirking, she watched as he threw back his hood and weary brown eyes met hers. The smirk broadened, because she also recognized the look. Desolate, disillusioned, he came to her as his last hopes in Foster's dwindled. She was tempted to laugh, but the pain etched in his face squelched it.

"You returned," she replied simply and gestured towards the bridge and mud beneath. Mac extracted the flashlight from his right pocket and illuminated the murky depths. Crushed soda cans lined the river's bottom along with broken transformers and what he strongly suspected were equally broken imaginary friends and humans immersed in the bottom. His stomach flip-flopped.

"You like this, Mac? This is my home. This is what DIE reduced me to," she continued, unable to keep her voice steady. It wavered furiously, evident in her body's renewed shudders. Mac's hands flew to his jacket's buttons; he might freeze, but at least she'd be warm. She saw this and frowned, placing a hand on his to stop him.

"Don't bother. Now, I don't suppose you're here for polite banter, are you?" she joked weakly, well aware that, unless he'd recently lost all sense, he couldn't be here for that. His lips twisted like they'd like to smile, but lost the ability. Whenever they decided she was their last resort, humor dissipated.

Mac shook his head rigidly and opened his mouth to unload, but she held up a hand and pointed into the river. An imaginary friend's body, bloated and bullet riddled, floated to the surface. In life, verdant green leaves topped her bird-like head, but the leaves had all wilted and dropped off. Her beak was now grey and resembling mush in constitution. Horrified, he retreated and stared at her. Why on earth would she show him something like that?

"Does Foster's like that, Mac? Do they know that DIE dumps dead imaginaries and humans in the river because they think it'll absolve them? Do they care that this imaginary probably meant something to someone? Remember what I told you before- all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to sit and do nothing. Evil is triumphing and it's because Foster's and everyone around is too scared to take a stand," she said, steering him back towards the waterfront so he had no choice but to stare at Coco's corpse. Bile rose in his throat.

"Is that what they want? Are they not acting because they like death and secretly help DIE?" she hissed. "Answer me. Isn't their inaction making them as bad as DIE?"

Stomach lurching, he shoved her away so he didn't have to look any longer. He hadn't expected her to immediately agree to help him, though it might have been useful. Still, her words and the corpse had their desired impact. Foster's let imaginary friends like Coco, who befriended Eduardo, Wilt, and others, fall by the waste side. His fury surged, fists balled, and he glared heatedly. She smirked back, anticipating his fury. It happened every time someone came in contact with the truth, though she rarely had such a good example of Foster's fallacy.

"I don't give a damn," he retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Can you help me or not? I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

Flicking a pebble into the stream, she watched it drift aimlessly, buoyed by the current, shoved and shifted against its will. The current was its master, dictating where and when it rested. If it had any will of its own, it was powerless to exercise it against the sheer recklessness of the area it inhabited. A thin smile crossed her face- DIE was that stream in real life and everyone else a pebble in the rapids. Forever subjugated to weathering, people and imaginary friends disintegrated, either literally or mentally by the pressure. They might migrate towards other weathered particles, but they were never quite the same substance anymore.

"It depends. What are you asking of me?" she replied, folding her arms under her small chest.

"What miracle would you like me to perform?"

Mac scowled, grasping the innate sarcasm. She glared back at him and, if he weren't already aggravated, her shrug would have pointed him that way. Glowering at the water, he struggled for a diplomatic way to express himself. There had to be a solution that kept Bloo alive for rescue. Someone out there had to be willing to put his life on the line to help him…after all, he was. He was willing to throw everything away to protect his beloved. The problem was, others felt the way about their loved ones, but weren't about to sacrifice themselves for someone they didn't personally know.

"Help me save Bloo from DIE's clutches," he replied. "You have all those people behind you- maybe you can gather them into an army and defeat DIE."

She laughed uproariously, humorlessly, and fell to the bridge's hard steel to pound her fists against it. Mac stared blankly, watching her clutch her stomach in howls. It took him a little while to figure out that she was both laughing…and crying. In a few moments, however, she recollected her composure, wiped her eyes, and eyed him. The pain in his eyes was reflected in hers.

"Are you insane? Well, probably, but we're all a little mad here. Mac, my followers might follow me to the death, from hell and back, but we're not strong enough on our own. And we're especially not going to risk our necks for one imaginary friend, considering he's DIE's new pet," she replied seriously, laying a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, eyes blazing.

"Then I'll just do it myself," he retorted, shuffling away. She darted in front, holding both arms out.

"That's suicidal. And believe me; I know suicidal plans when I see them. I make them.

"If we were ever going to challenge DIE, we'd need more than ourselves, we'd need a tactician like, and I really hate to say this, Eleanor Foster. I want action, I want to do something, but I want it to have an impact. I've realized that in the past few weeks. What's the point of catapulting yourself against the building if people only complain about the smell afterwards?

"If we're going to get anywhere, we need Foster's," she said, sighing heavily.

Mac, whose hopes were now dashed below the river bottom, glared. No one was powerful enough on their own. No one could or would help. No one gave a damn about Bloo but him. They were all out to save their own skins and the few people and imaginaries they had left. They weren't willing to give anything up to seek retribution. They sickened him, all of them.

"I don't need your help. I'll rescue him myself," he snarled, stomping off. This time, she let him walk off. Let him realize the truth of the matter, that no one man could stop this rampage. Let him understand that nothing here had a simple solution and, in real life, the good guys didn't always win. Sometimes, they lost horribly and the bad guys showed up to kick dirt in their open wounds.

"Suicidal," she called back, but he ignored her.

Frankie sighed, furious with Mac but worried all the same. Madame Foster, after assuring her he wouldn't do anything stupid and lethal, went to bed. The microwave clock's red numbers read one thirty a.m., then ticked to one thirty one. This wasn't the first night she'd spent staring at the infernal thing and she sincerely doubted it'd be the last. Sometimes, Mr. Herriman would join her and eventually coax her to bed. Nowadays, though, it was her, the clock, and dead silence. Mac was like a son to her; right now, a disrespectful, angry son, but one nonetheless. She couldn't help worrying.

Hop, limp, hop. She pretended not to hear him and rested her head on the table. Her eyelids drooped, but she knew better than to rest her eyes. The last time she had, she'd passed out and didn't awake until Madame Foster shook her shoulders at seven in the morning. Worse came to worst, she'd make herself a pot of coffee, down it all in one sitting, and stay there until he came back. Because there was no chance in hell she was leaving this table until he returned. None at all.

"Miss Frances?" he inquired lightly and she stiffened immediately. He almost never called her that anymore. Then again, they hadn't held an actual conversation in about two weeks. She dragged her chair away, both to give him more room to slide in and to distance herself.

"Mr. Herriman," she said curtly, standing up to prepare caffeine. He moved to her side to help, but she shoved his arm away. She was well versed in the art of pouring beans into the maker, thanks. Besides, regardless of what Madame Foster had said, she was still peeved. So he thought he couldn't protect her and that's why he was acting like such a baby? She hadn't heard an apology, either.

"I…I suppose you're waiting for Master Mac?" he inquired meekly and she glared reproachfully. Setting the machine on, she settled back into her chair and he in the one adjacent. He rested his paws on the table and she stared, temporarily distracted from her anger with him to notice he wasn't wearing gloves.

"No, the Easter Bunny," she shot back, but she couldn't hide a smirk. "And it looks like he's early this year."

The smirk blossomed into a smile and she gently took his paw into her hand. Try as she might, she couldn't stay too angry with him. Besides, given the rate imaginaries and creators were vanishing lately, not to mention his attack, she might lose him before she had the chance to make up. He placed his other paw around her hand and returned her smile.

"Frankie, I'm sorry for the way I've acted," he murmured, lifting his paw to caress her face with the furry back. "I thought you would find me weak and unworthy of your affections. After all…"

"A group of assholes, including Bloo (who I'm going to strangle next time I see him), beat the crap out of you," she replied, pecking him on the cheek. "I know, I know. And I got distracted by a mini explosive he threw."

"Can you forgive me?" he murmured and she beamed at him.

"Already done."

They shared a kiss and she rested her head against his chest. He winced, directing her away from the missing patches of fur. He cradled her waist and the two waited until three a.m., when a dispirited Mac trudged back in to pass out in his room.

Three DIE members toting pistols shoved Bloo back into solitary confinement. After a three hours grilling followed by verbal and physical abuse, she told him she'd deal with him later and ordered her helpers to bind him in a straitjacket. He fought valiantly, but fruitlessly. Now, unable to move his arms or legs, he stared sullenly at the white, padded walls. God, he hated this room. Correction, he hated this whole damn building, everyone in it, and anyone lingering outside. He wished they'd all die.

Mac…where are you now? Mac…I love you… he sent, but his creator was either asleep or not responding. I miss you…

Still nothing. He banged his head against the pads, clenched his eyes shut, and tears flowed, unencumbered, down his cheeks. This wouldn't be the first time he cried himself to sleep and it wouldn't be the last.