Five Nights At Freddy's: Protection Breach

by IndigoWizard

Okay, so this started off as a silly idea I had about making some of my adolescent power fantasies into a FNaF fanfiction but slowly became more and more of deranged clusterfuck in its conception, but I'm still gonna get all the concepts written out eventually. Don't be surprised when the story apparently forgets that it's a FNaF fanfiction.

11. Chapter 11

Night 31

"Now, William." said Opera Penguin. "Be sure you mind your manners."

"Oh, great, now we're roleplaying as an elderly mother and the child to whom she croons? Why do need to talk to him, anyway?" asked William.

"He knows more about remnant than I do. And, as I explained to you, one of the main reasons I need you is because the existence of the exact nature of remnant depends on you, while Henry was the one who learned most about how to manipulate it, even with his limited means." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh. Right." said William.

Opera Penguin called Henry up from the blob.

"Hello." said Henry, in a tired, and somewhat begrudging way. "I've been vaguely aware of you. As we all have. Except those you have called out."

"Interesting. So you can tell what's going on outside." said Opera Penguin.

"Vaguely." said Henry. "But I can't say I like any of it."

"Awww, come now." said Opera Penguin. "We all have our good things here. No one's going to be left out in the end!"

"I don't believe you." said Henry. "You make kids into monsters just so they can get broken down, just so you can re-forge the pieces into new monsters. Where are the 'good things' for them?"

"Henry, we will all face our tribulations before the final restitution and reward. We still need to work through them for that happy end." said Opera Penguin.

"Will they still even exist, in the end? Will they still be themselves to receive whatever reward for their suffering?" asked Henry.

"Whatever is left, will receive a reward according to what would delight it, as it is in the moment of reward, most." said Penguin.

"So you will degrade them, and then feed them the scraps from your table, shaped into their degraded longings. What will they even be, at the end? What will they want, except maybe to be restored?" asked Henry.

"Henry, you must remember, these kids never got to grow up." said Opera Penguin. "Due to" and here, Penguin turned to William Afton, whose eyes rolled up in a fed-up anticipation of another oncoming guilt trip "our associate here. They're still children after more than half a century. They never got to grow up. Do you never want them to grow up?"

"Of course I want them to grow up. But that'll never happen." said Henry, in a cold, calm voice, looking straight at William, whose demeanor had changed from exasperated to, oddly, remorseful. Obviously, he wasn't remorseful of what he had done to children, but rather to what he had done to his friendship with Henry.

"But, Henry, this is how they grow up!" laughed Penguin. "After all, doesn't the process of growing up consist of learning and getting callused?"

Henry replied, "I suppose, in a pessimistic over-simplification. But there are things missing here. Like teaching them morals, letting them know friendship, giving them direction, hardening their diligence, unfolding freedom as time bears on, giving them love-"

"Who needs parental love when you go through a million shitty high school dramas? That's all the love you need!" laughed Penguin.

"I shudder to imagine your childhood." said Henry.

"Oh, no, I never experienced any kind of love, don't worry." said Penguin.

". . .that's what I feared." said Henry.

"Anyway, I'd like to discuss with you your discoveries in the realm of remnant manipulation." said William.

"No." said Henry. "William already knows enough. After all, he started before me. I only started to get a chance at catching him. But I stopped when I realized I was dealing in the black market of souls."

Pausing only to tut slightly at Henry's improper terminology, Opera Penguin said, "But I can just take it from you if you don't tell it normally. Don't worry, it's a copy-and-paste, rather than cut-and-paste, kind of thing. Nonetheless, I can make it very uncomfortable for you."

"Do it, then." said Henry, who then instantly regretted it as he felt something akin to his mind being struck with a suction cup and then pulled on.

It was about 2.36 seconds, but felt like an eternity.

". . .very interesting. I didn't know there was such a thing as 'neutral remnant'." said Opera Penguin.

"You didn't . . . even find . . . that out?" said Henry, panting heavily even though he was only a ghostly shade.

"No, I may have observed such materials but I assumed it was simply light remnant whose positivity was very faint. It seems that the more remnant is concentrated in one place, the more it biases towards 'light' or 'dark'." said Opera Penguin.

"You've been dealing with so much power that you don't even know the basics." said Henry, astounded.

"Henry, this level of power is basic to me. I am simply on a higher level of being than any or all of you." said Opera Penguin.

"You're a god?" asked Henry.

Opera Penguin laughed. "Not quite. There's a bit more of a standard for those who would call themselves gods."

"A demigod?" asked Henry.

"No, Henry, you see. . ." said Opera Penguin, "'demigod' is actually more of a relational title. It has less to do with one's level of power, and more to do with one's connections. A child of a god and someone other than a god is a demigod, as is someone who occupies a certain kind of position under a god, a viceregent, if you will. Basically anyone who serves closely under a god but does not worship them or work contractually for them-one who stands in a god's shadow. I do not associate with those who look down on me. At least, not anymore."

"Then what are you?" asked Henry.

"I am a man." said Opera Penguin. "But I am a man far greater than you or Afton. I am what would, by simpletons, be called a god, but I am no god. I cannot shake whole worlds. I cannot produce new life from solely my own power. I cannot even defeat such entities as can do either of the above, at least, not without prepared aids. But, I can defeat beings of vast power, with a little help. The kind of help I can procure for myself."

"That's what this whole thing is about, isn't it?" asked Henry.

Opera Penguin laughed, even more brightly now. "Of course! But I am gracious. I will not use you without giving something back. I will make you all rich and beautiful by the end of this. And, in a way, whole."

"Whole, maybe, but not the same whole we were before." said Henry.

"Of course not, Henry." said Opera Penguin. "As I said. I am not a god."

"Don't you realize that your kind of wholeness is worse than brokenness?" asked Henry.

"That's subjective. And I'll be sure to shape you all into the kind of beings in whose subjective view, any idea of being other than what you have become is terribly grievous." said Opera Penguin.

"Why?" asked Henry.

"Because. . ." said Opera Penguin, "I want you to be happy!"

"You are the devil, aren't you?" asked Henry.

Opera Penguin laughed even harder. "Oh no, Henry. I am not. I'm not from this world."

"No, you came from hell, because you were tired of waiting for William." said Henry.

"Oh, no." said Penguin. "I did come from a hell, but I do not hail from there. I was merely. . . passing through. And. . . training."

"Training?" asked Henry, his curiosity momentarily overtaking him. "At what?"

"Athletics, after a kind." said Opera Penguin. "Or, perhaps, gymnastics. Suffice it to say that, before then, I did not feel I had the strength to weather the storm."

"And how could hell help you with that?" asked Henry.

"I set a shaky base camp, of sorts. A safe zone." said Opera Penguin. "And I fought with demons, using not my magic, for that needed little improvement, but my fists and feet. I, of course, did use my magic to restore both of those, when they were bitten, or, or otherwise taken off me. But by the end, it was solely by my physical strength that I became able to wrestle demons the size of elephants, and the shape of headless ostriches, to death, by my physical strength alone. On a regular basis."

"So where do you come from?" asked Henry.

"Another world, much like this one, except that the power of human spirits to grow in essence is not fully restrained as it is in this world." said Opera Penguin.

"And a sorry world it must be, if it produced you." said Henry.

"Henry, do remember, it was this world from which William Afton sprung." said Opera Penguin. William was now slumped in a corner, like a child that had been put in a time out.

"And you are telling me that you are his equivalent?" asked Henry.

"No-o-o!" said Opera Penguin, laughing more, still. "That would be my father."

"Oh?" asked Henry. "And yet you live?"

"Yes, but only by the grace of his oversight." said Opera Penguin.

"Go on." said Henry.

"He was not blessed with my grandfather's powers. The genetics, especially the epigenetics, of spirits are fickle, you see-or, perhaps, merely hard to understand. But regardless, my father used dealings with demonic entities to fill in his absence of inherited power." said Opera Penguin.

"And is that the origin of your power?" asked Henry.

"No." said Opera Penguin, in a harsh tone of disgust. "My power is my own. It comes from me, and me alone. My mind, my soul. I owe it to no one."

"But what have your father's dealings got to do with his failure to kill you?" asked Henry.

"They are the reason he tried to kill me-and the way in which they are is the reason his gun was free to be grabbed." said Opera Penguin. "I don't know much about them, except that his desire to fulfill his deal absolutely led to him trying to sacrifice me using an athame of sorts. But he didn't think it through very well. He had the idiocy to order me to come over to him so he could sacrifice me. He was so arrogant and full of himself that he thought his fatherly authority was enough to compel me to do so. As soon as I knew what he was trying to do, though, I ran over to his coat, pulled out his pistol, and fired it at him. He was so shocked in the realization of his folly that he didn't even move out of the way."

"That explains. . . a lot." said Henry, eying Penguin's pistol.

"This isn't the same pistol, though." said Opera Penguin, waving his white pistol around, with blatant disregard for trigger discipline. "In fact, I have only recently re-acquired the use of firearms into my repertoire of violent measures."

"Why is that?" asked Henry.

"They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Do you agree?" asked Penguin.

"It depends, if you ask me. But why would you want to flatter your father?" asked Henry.

"Not my father that I want to flatter. Someone else. Someone far worthier." said Penguin.

"Who?" asked Henry.

"Someone who died outside the grasp of any ghostly realm that could have preserved his spirit beyond death. Part of me wishes that weren't so, but another, equal one knows he wouldn't have been able to take the disgrace of such a place as this." said Opera Penguin.

"But you're fine with that disgrace being inflicted on us?" asked Henry.

"Of course!" said Opera Penguin. "I don't know you. And compassion is such a limited thing. I can't care for every scraped knee on this earth, much less in the whole range of worlds."

"Good people learn to have a base compassion for all people, and, to a lesser extent, all life." said Henry.

"I've heard that before." said Penguin. "And I notice that many such people as those who say that like to use hand sanitizer to end countless lives that make their home on their digits and palms. A veritable genocide."

"You can't be serious, making that comparison." said Henry.

"'All life' is such a broad term, though." said Opera Penguin.

Henry let out a small sigh of relief, turning Opera Penguin's head slightly. "Oh-I thought you were saying that we're like bacteria to you, ha ha. . ."

"Not quite. Although, with regards to many of the people that live in this modern world of yours, I'd hazard that the prime distinction is size." said Opera Penguin, smugly.

"Very funny." said Henry, flatly.

"Thank you. I do my best. . ." said Opera Penguin, purposely ignoring Henry's tone, though his smug grin showed that he was not entirely oblivious to it.

"Why didn't the fire work." said Henry, suddenly, after a short pause.

"Mmm?" asked Penguin.

"The fire. I took my own life doing what I thought would fix all this. It didn't, and what's worse is now you're here. And you're tormenting me, on top of that. So, the least you can do is just tell me. Why didn't the fire work."

"Ohh, ha ha!" said Penguin. "I'm not all that sure, to be honest, but I suspect that high concentrations of remnant don't go away just by burning. Physically manifested remnant works a little like water, or maybe ice. Some heat will melt it, make it become fluid, and if you have just a tiny bit, it will vaporize, and in the atmosphere will diffuse into irrelevance. But, when push comes to shove, a bigger amount will be harder to get rid of. You gathered a lake in here, and either it only melted, and flowed together into one lagoon, or that which vaporized simply gathered up into a cloud, and rained back down onto the surface of the water."

"Very poetic." said Henry. "But absurd. When I burnt solid remnant, even in large quantities, it vanished completely."

"Ahh, you seem not to be understanding the boundaries of my analogy. You see, the 'melting' I described is not merely remnant's ability to go from solid to liquid, but from tangible to immaterial. It just functions the same as destroying it when the amount that's burnt truly has no form to hold it in place. Because remnant is joined to the spirits of the dead to grant them persistence in this world, as their 'body', in a sense, it is held together in at least some semblance of a shape even when it is burnt away. It is a spiritual substance. And it can only be dealt with by spiritual means." said Penguin.

"So you could do something about it." said Henry.

"Yes, but why waste my effort using my power, which this world weighs down on as it is, destroying a necessary enhancement to my own power? A miniature, yet growing world, amassing lives, both truly living and undead, and new territory every day. I haven't spoken of this, but I've been using my very own power to sink this place's tendrils deeper into the earth, expanding the range of the sheer spiritual territory that started with this place and will soon be incarnated into the new god." said Opera.

"You. . . what? This is absurd!" cried out Henry. "You're growing the very mistake I gave my life to destroy! You're turning one little imp into the lord of hell that you puppeteer?"

"Ohh, come now," said Opera Penguin, "don't talk your dear friend William down like that. And, as for what you died for, well. . . you honestly made this place possible."

"HUH?!" cried out Henry.

"Yes, you see, the outermost layer of each of these phantoms. . . the remnant. . . all melted together. Of course, by this point, the spectres have been so steeped in remnant that each has probably more power than they know, but I digress. That portion of them went from being the substance of their bodies to being a common collective of spiritual essence, an aquarium, if you will, in which their spirits, like little minnows, swam and thrived. That collective held William in place, though he managed to project various forms of manipulation outside. His sheer will manifested as a bizarre computer virus, his dominance affected others to the point of making copycat killers, and so on. But he was kept here. By the amalgamation you set up."

"Then I am no better. . ." said Henry, his face falling.

"If saying that you're no better makes you feel better about being here, then sure!" said Penguin.

"It doesn't make me feel better about the children." said Henry.

"Oh, quit clutching your pearls." said Opera Penguin. "No matter how much you do. . . it'll never help them."

"And neither will you." said Henry. "Is everyone where you're from just like you?"

"Handsome? Charming? An excellent host?" asked Opera Penguin. "No."

"Wicked beyond description." snarled Henry, his face now sunken like he had never slept since birth.

"Oh no, not that either. Some of them are quite pettily moralistic, as you are." said Penguin.

"Oh." said Henry, seeming to age in reverse about two decades. "So perhaps my belief about power was mistaken."

"Mmm?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I thought perhaps that power truly does have a corrupting effect on people." said Henry.

"Oh, no, haha." said Opera Penguin. "It only shows the evil that was always there."

"Or the good." said Henry.

"And, in either case, makes it better, or worse." said Opera Penguin.

"So something in you was always rotten, and the same way for Jason. . ." Henry mused.

"Who?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Uhh-" said Henry, now clearly panicked. "N-nobody."

"A Jason?" asked Opera Penguin. "Hmmm."

Henry moved back, but before he had the chance to make a futile attempt to escape, Opera Penguin had grabbed his head, one thumb planted on his forehead, and read his memories.

"I. . . see." said Opera Penguin. "You used remnant to bring a man to inner power. . . then you shot him dead to bring him back down, when you got scared of him. You know, I can't say I'm surprised, but I'm still disappointed."

"He was just a precocious student that happened to spend a lot of time around the library when I was a librarian at one high school. I don't know how much you know of this, but I kind of went into a voluntary exile from my company, after I handed it off to some relative of Afton's. I wanted nothing to do with it, as you can understand. I spent some time, roaming around the country under a different name. For a while, I tried presenting my remnant as an 'alternative medicine' for the dying, and for a time, I actually tried it. But it never worked, and so instead, I took to simply trying to soothe the dying, while I collected the remnant upon their death. I never promised to save them, you see, and never took more than the families insisted on unless I was truly hard pressed, but in all actuality I had dipped into dishonesty in the hopes of finding an undetectable, supernatural means of justice to fight an undetectable, supernatural form of crime." said Henry.

"Well, how did you become a librarian?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I did it because, well. . . Really, I did it for the same reason you're hosting this. . . this circus. Childish emotions, I thought, could possible be used to my advantage." said Henry.

"Ohh, Henry." said Opera Penguin. "I never relegate my subjects' emotions to the realm of childishness. . . I just consign them to the domain of entertainment."

Henry shook his head, sighed, and continued: "And it worked. The remnant was a bit runnier, and I had to use the existing remnant along with my mechanisms to draw it in, but it worked. And this one student, named Jason Krueger, was always hanging around. He was a fairly handsome young man, so honestly I couldn't figure out why he wasn't hanging out with the young ladies, but he decided, I supposed at the time, that learning was more important. And I guess that was his original reasoning. But he got very interested in me, in what I was doing. He poked into my things, and found my studies into remnant. I tried to brush him off, but he blackmailed me, saying he would tell school officials that I was cooking up drugs. To think! I should've seen him for what he was right then, and just picked up and ran off. Although, then I don't think I would have been able to get a job at another school, with that potential accusation outstanding. But, after what he did, I stopped my research into remnant, anyway. After I let him in, he became more and more involved, coming in to the library, every day, just to pore through my writings. At some points, I wondered if he somehow knew more than I did. He suggested something to me, one day. He suggested that, since remnant was so responsive to human emotions, as well as thoughts, it could, perhaps, expand a mind if injected into the brain. He showed me a diagram of what he expected me to do to him, and it was scarcely different from a lobotomy, except that a hypodermic needle full of remnant was involved, and the needle as a tenth of an inch back! I refused outright, but then he brought out the threat from before, and, for some reason, I let it work its charm again. I did the 'operation', and, lo and behold, it did nothing, at first. Initially I was relieved, but he was dissatisfied. He wasn't surprised that the experiment hadn't severed his intellect, because, as he said, the heat of the brain, in conjunction with the fact that it is the seat of the emotions to which the substance is attuned, caused it to 'sublimate', which at the time I thought was an incorrect usage of the word, though based on what you say, I think it may have merely been an additional definition related to. . . what you were talking about. He had me do it again, and, though I was hesitant, I was also nearly as fascinated as he, and the second time, well. . ."

Henry shook his head. "I hate myself for saying this, much more for truly feeling it, but I honestly wish, sometimes, that it had lobotomized him. He became a demon. Not obviously, at first, though I should've noticed the unnatural feelings that were creeping down my spine. No, he seemed perfectly ordinary at first. Then, I started noticing. The shocked looks on other students' faces, when Jason looked at them, even though he'd said nothing, and his expression, whenever I could see it, was neutral. I knew something was going on. I pressed him about it, and when I did, he looked at me. He just. . . looked at me. And I was, emotionally and physically, thrown against the wall. He had struck me with a spiritual blow that had gone so far as to collaterally manifest-"-and here, Opera Penguin cut in with "Don'tsplitinfinitives" before Henry continued-"a telekinetic phenomenon that nearly broke my bones. I could do nothing but just sit there, and wait until some girl on her way to another class asked if I was okay. At that point, being found by a student, passed out and looking positively drunk, gave me the embarrassment I needed to fill the empty husk I thought I had become in that moment. I went home early, calling the school to say I believed I had fallen ill-not quite a lie, I think you would agree-"-Opera Penguin interrupted again, "Actually, given the context, both of you would understand that that statement would refer to physical, possibly communicable illnesses, so yes, it was in fact a lie"-"before staying home for a couple of days, before I finally decided that I would invite Jason over to an old, abandoned Candy's Burgers & Fries, specifically, the basement. He strode in, arrogantly, and I turned on the lights. I told him he had gotten out of line, and he just smirked at me. He asked if that was all I had called him to say, and I told him that was I was getting to was that he had gained a gift, and he could really use it for something good. He told me he was above that, that things like compassion were an evolutionary trait meant for humans in their frailty to survive, until we finally developed, physically and spiritually, into beings that needed no brotherhood. I told him that was insane, as I backed towards the boiler room, that love and charity and companionship were things in and of themselves that the human spirit needs to flourish, and as ends, not means. Let me tell you. . . the contemptuous, arrogant smirk on his face, as he strode towards me. . ."

Henry shuddered.

"I lured him back into there, much like William lured his victims in to the back room of our establishment." said Henry. "And yes, I shot him. But not until he was back there. Because, you see, I drew lines across the floors, wall and ceiling of that room, in a mixture of remnant, and my own blood. I spent those few days, bleeding myself and using my own pain to generate more remnant with my devices, which I had taken home. And I drew him a cell in lines. Because I knew that either his dead body would walk again, or he would somehow manifest a new one. And, as I was closing the door, I saw that it was the latter. I made sure to shut it tight, and block it, although I did cover the knob in my mixture. You see, remnant enhances all aspects of a living being, and so to mix it with my blood enhanced my life force and essence that was found in the blood, allowing me to use it as a vehicle of my will. So I used it to seal him in there, where, by all accounts, he should still be."

Opera Penguin laughed. "You just put your toy away in the closet when you were done playing with it."

Henry glowered at him. "I thought the same thing, for a while. But then, as I was skipping town, I saw a newspaper headline. It was talking about the death of a girl at the high school. I recognized her. A girl that Jason had liked. And I knew she didn't like him. It didn't take much to add two and two. It was then that I knew what I had done in obliging Jason. And it was then that I realized, I was dealing in the black market of souls. Playing in the realm of life and death. Toying with forces that could provide power to corrupt the hearts of men, and having done just that. So I burned all my remnant, and went on to my final sacrifice."

"How lofty a description of a mere arson. But. . . wait. . . you burned all of your remnant?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes, it was the material of what might as well be the devil's work." said Henry.

"You burnt all of that, at a point of emotional turmoil?" asked Penguin.

"Yes. . . I just said. . ." said Henry.

"YOU SHIFTED ALL OF IT INTO AN IMMATERIAL AND FLUID STATE AROUND YOU WHILE YOU WERE EXPERIENCING STRONG EMOTIONS THAT MAGNIFIED YOURSELF IN RELATION TO IT TO MAKE YOURSELF A MASSIVE TARGET FOR IT TO FLOW INTO?" asked Opera Penguin. At first, Henry thought he was angry, but then Henry quickly realized he was excited beyond belief.

"I. . . I suppose so. . ." Henry said.

"EXCELLENT!" said Penguin, his voice cracking with glee, as he attached a strange, blue cord from his wrist to Henry's trachea, which then went invisible, palming Henry's head again to receive the last bit of his memories, and forming an actual, albeit phantasmal body for Henry to inhabit, while infusing him with the power to persist independent of the blob's collective essence, and then scruffed him, opened up a portal, and threw him through it.

"Where is he?" asked William, after a shocked silence.

"Lowrealm." said Opera Penguin.

"What?!" asked William, now suddenly angry. "You threw my friend into hell?"

"It's only hell for a given value of hell." said Opera Penguin. "And I did it so the coming storm could not be mistaken for hell. I did it so he could be strong, have power in and of himself. Not many here can make such a claim. And, in any case, I tied a thread to him that allows me to monitor and guide him, and, if need be, pull him back."

"So you're. . . actually helping him." said William.

"Yes, but it will hurt." said Opera Penguin, and, in response to William's now-resuming anger, "But not as much as you hurt him when you turned out to be a kiddie strangler."

"You keep acting like you give a damn about that, but then you come out with phrases like 'kiddie strangler', and that just shows how much you don't give a shit. You're not better than me!" William yelled, now on full moral defensive.

"Yes, I am." said Penguin, his voice now flat, and harshly stern. "Because while I make light of it, you are the one who, himself did it. The very worst things I've done can easily be excused by the fact that I was contracted to do them, while you, on the other hand, murdered children under your own willpower. Don't pretend you're a good man just because you can squint sharply at the badness in other people. You're a child murderer, and any glory I give you is given on the grace of my being someone who merely understands that, even if someone is a child murderer, they deserve recompense if one is planning on using them. I personally have no issue with dealing with you in this way, but I draw the line at you trying to narrow the moral gap between me and yourself. I have done no harm that I have not either intended for others' improvement, or otherwise, immediately reversed. You, on the other hand, destroyed budding human life back in the time when you had no assurance of any of the supernatural, simply out of grief for your disillusionment. Because the world wasn't fucking Winnie the Pooh, you took it out on that program's target audience. You are evil. I am less so. This is not negotiable."

"You're saying. . . every action you've done here. . ." said William, now panting, as he was unaccustomed even to bringing himself to shouting, "has been benevolent?"

"Goodness, no!" said Penguin, laughing raucously. "I said it's either been reversible or benevolent. Big difference. I have to have my fun, you know. But, the end goal is glory. Glory beyond this dusty crypt you've spent the span of a lifetime in. I hold my hand of tainted grace down towards you. I am no god. But no god good enough to give this grace would accept your continuing arrogance, your hubris, as I do. To be frank, I need that self-worshiping conceit to remain in you. In it do my gifts to you thrive. But thrive in what you have. Thrive in in being a lord of darkness. Thrive in being the king and creator of the confetti and party-hat underworld. Thrive in being the devil that Henry sees you as."

"Why do you keep stabbing me with his name?" asked William.

"That's a pretty stupid question to be asking by now." said Opera Penguin. "You of all people should know I love to hurt others."

"But why me? Why now?" asked William.

"Consider it a token of respect. As my anxiety grows, I have to inflict greater pain, on realer people." said Opera Penguin.

"Realer? How so?" asked William, who was barely feeling better about himself for Opera Penguin's words.

"You're older. More mature. More accustomed to a wider palette of emotions. The suffering you feel is more genuine, and not the explosive emotional reaction of a volatile child's mind." said Opera Penguin.

"I thought you liked that kind of stuff." said William.

"Silly things are very fun the more pleased you already are. The worse everything gets, the more stupid it all seems. So I have to hurt you instead. A much more. . . refined agony." said Penguin, giggling in a more unsettling way than usual.

"What is it that's doing this?" asked William.

"What, are you stupid?" asked Penguin. "The demons! They're real this time! And now they're coming for us!"

"So? They didn't seem all that effective the first few times they attacked." said William.

"I don't know how many there are. I don't know if these are soldiers, or toys. I don't know what the next one will be." said Opera Penguin.

"Wouldn't they have sent the soldiers by now?" asked William.

"If they're trying to do to me as I have done unto the residents here. . ." said Penguin. "They'll let me feel like I've got the fight, and then crush me."

"Well, we all come to face what we do to others at some point." said William.

Opera Penguin laughed harshly. "But not before I make him face what he did to us." said Opera Penguin, and, as William heard him talking, he knew that 'us' did not include him.

"So you don't care if you're damned, you'll go to any length for revenge." said William.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin. "I will return to the false heaven I was cast from. I am determined to do so. So I can get my revenge. I'm sure you can understand, Afton. After all. . ."

Opera Penguin looked straight at William, his expression almost deranged. "Don't you always come back?"

. . .

"Cheyenne." said Bernard.

Cheyenne screamed.

"Bernie!" she said immediately after, angrily. "Don't creep up on me like that!"

"I didn't. My footsteps echoed as I walked with a sharply-tapping gait towards you." said Bernard, tersely.

"You don't need to be hostile, either." said Cheyenne, sniffing.

"Then don't yell at me for your own incapability of remembering me." said Bernard.

"You need to quit blaming that on your incapability to socialize." said Cheyenne.

". . .really? You're blaming me for that? When I loiter around Ferdinand's door every day. The rare few times he does notice me, he's all over me. His adoration clearly is not lacking. Yet in spite of that, and in spite of the fact that I am almost always there, he seldom notices me." said Bernard.

"Are you two. . ." said Cheyenne, tapping her finger/clawtips together awkwardly and giggling.

"Oh, piss off." said Bernard.

"Hey!" said Cheyenne. "Not nice!"

"Well, I'm trying to tell you something." said Bernard. "Hell, maybe if I did get thirsty for that bear cock it would give me motivation to do something that would make myself memorable. But I'm not."

Cheyenne giggled again.

"But regardless." said Bernard, pointedly ignoring Cheyenne's giggling. "I don't think I have much longer to live if I don't get some, well, recognition."

Like clockwork, Cheyenne was suddenly dismayed and concerned. "Oh, no!" she said.

"Yes, well, that's how it is." said Bernard. "I suspect Penguin has us rigged to fail more and more if we fail at all. I have been feeling. . . complacent, about my solitude, recently. It was only at the realization of my oncoming death that I considered perhaps that I should take steps to prevent it."

"So you're only talking to me to prevent yourself from dying." said Cheyenne, and then realized what she said. "I mean, I'm not-I don't blame you and I don't have a proble-I mean,"

"It's fine." said Bernard. "It really is. And for reference, I do also like talking to you and. . . I like you, in general. But it seems like I never get much out of you. Even though Ferdinand is usually focused on that boy, I think he's given me more attention overall. Monsanto will give me shallow attention but never anything satisfactory. Rochelle. . . well, up until recently, all she cared about was herself and Casey, and now we've apparently got a new pig character that she likes."

"Hey! There's no need to be that mean!" said Cheyenne.

"Would you talk to him for any length of time?" asked Bernard.

"I mean. . . I'd rather not, but I don't look down on him just because he's fat!" said Cheyenne.

"Kindred spirits, I supposed." said Bernard.

Cheyenne gasped.

"Okay, I'm sorry for that one, that was a cheap sho-" said Bernard, before Cheyenne slapped him.

"Ow." he said, flatly.

"Ohhh, wait. . . you're bleeding. . ." said Cheyenne. "I forgot I had claws. . ."

"It's no issue." said Bernard. "I mean I'm technically only alive because of you, also."

"Yes, but now I feel bad over what was intended to be a mere rightful slap across the face. You made me make myself guilty!" said Cheyenne.

Bernard chuckled, mirthlessly. "I guess I did."

Then he walked off.

"Wait, when he said he liked me, did he mean like normal, or like how a middle schooler says 'like' because they're scared of saying they have a crush on someone?" asked Cheyenne, to herself.

"Why the hell are you talking to yourself." said Apollo.

"What's up with people recently?" asked Cheyenne. "Why is everyone so hostile?"

"Nothing's been fun, and nothing's been right." said Apollo, half of his face darkening to Nyx as he said the second part of his sentence, and his voice likewise going throaty.

"Well, I mean, Monsanto has been having fun. . . I think. . ." said Cheyenne.

"He's a bull-headed idiot randomly destroying shit like a rowdy dog left at home with nothing to do, and with its balls still on." said Apollo, still half-Nyxed. "And for precisely the same reasons."

"Yeah, honestly, I haven't wanted to admit this to anyone, but I've been scared of him. . ." said Cheyenne.

"Fear is awe, of a sort. That's why he's been so spry lately." said Bernard, who had crept back near them.

Cheyenne jumped up. "Okay!" she said. "This time, it was intentional! There's no other way!"

Bernard chuckled a little. "Sort of. I came back just to see how easy it would be." he admitted. "But I also wanted to ask: Has anyone seen the Mangle do anything concerning?"

"The Mangle? She's just had us call her 'Mangle'. . ." said Cheyenne.

"She was called the Mangle from the first. I'm surprised you can't remember. . ." said Bernard.

"Look, I don't know what weird memories you're dredging up, or that Penguin put in your head, but you better not get on her back when she's already afraid of Vanessa." said Cheyenne.

"I care more about certainty than kindness. I'm not sure about what she's up to. She's. . . shady." said Bernard.

Cheyenne blustered "Are you serious? She's clearly terrified of being hated, or seen as a monster! She's doing whatever she can just to feel warmth, connection and love and you're about to use that as an excuse to make her fears come true?"

"Oh, so you're saying she's a second Rochelle? Can we at least get rid of the first one?" said Bernard, sourly.

"Bernard! I've honestly just about had it with you!" said Cheyenne. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"The fact that you're getting comfortable with Penguin just for a little slice of heaven that's clearly about to rot. You're not questioning anything, because things happen to be going just tolerably for you as of now." said Bernard.

"And what have you been doing? Because I haven't seen anything." said Cheyenne. "What's with that, huh?"

"It's because, as I said," said Bernard, in a deadpan tone as he stared, emotionlessly, into Cheyenne's face, "we're set up to fail more, the more we fail. So, as I continued to fail to be remembered, I became reclusive. A hermit. I stuck to the shadows, until I realized I was slowly dying, my body becoming translucent. Then I came back. But not before I wasted a lot of time. And nearly lost my life. It's no mistake that Penguin gave me almost all the information. It's because I'm the one that no-one will listen to. At least if I'm pissing you off, I'll be on someone's mind. But the real importance is in what Penguin's doing. Do you really think he has your best interests in mind?"

"Yes! He's obviously satisfied with doing whatever big important things that he has to make him feel big and important, and we're part of that, or else he wouldn't have raised us up like this!" said Cheyenne.

"So would say the fatted calf." said Bernard.

"I'm not fat!" yelled Cheyenne.

"It's a metaphor." said Bernard, his eyebrows scrunching up in irritation.

"Anyway, what has the Mangle got to do with anything?" asked Cheyenne.

"Well, he let her out." said Bernard.

"Out of where?" asked Cheyenne.

"I. . . don't know." said Bernard.

"Oh, yeah, that's really helpful. At least have something to base your accusations on." said Cheyenne.

"Fine, out of the past, then. Out of. . . what was. They all vanished into the past long ago and now they've come back. Vanessa knows something. But she's not saying. And she's the one who doesn't trust the Mangle. I'm just worried she's set to go off." said Bernard.

"What, like a bomb?" asked Cheyenne, incredulously.

"Exactly." said Bernard.

"Are you really concerned?" asked Cheyenne, suddenly serious. "Or are you just trying to catch my attention?"

"Of course I'm serious." said Bernard. "If I just wanted to get remembered by making you angry, I could just call you fat again."

"I'm not actually, am I?" asked Cheyenne.

"No, no, you just have a fat kind of mindset." said Bernard.

"What, because I eat a lot?" asked Cheyenne.

"Yes." said Bernard.

"Yeesh, love you too." said Cheyenne.

Bernard's face shifted oddly as he heard this.

"Wait. . ." said Cheyenne.

Bernard's face scrunched up again, as he seemed to break out of a mild trance. "Yes?"

"You really, actually. . . like me, don't you?" said Cheyenne.

Bernard shook his head, but it was too sharp to seem like an actual denial so much as an attempt to shake off the stress of being put on the spot. "It doesn't matter."

"That's not an answer." said Cheyenne. "I don't care if it matters, I want to know."

"I did. And I mean, I do." said Bernard. "But I've wanted to be with you so long, I mean, I think you're the same person as the girl I wanted to be with, and I feel like if at this point I did finally get it, I'd live in fear of losing you and I'd never be able to get over it if I did."

"Berny, you think too much." said Cheyenne. "But I'm not—I mean, not at the moment—I might like someone else, but I'm not sure—I might want to try things out someday."

Bernard smiled, faintly. "Thanks."

. . .

Ian Brandon Anderson opened up his eyes. He felt the weight on his chest. He looked down, mostly just rolling his eyes down but moving his head just enough that Rochelle stirred, her eyes sliding open like some kind of lizard being disturbed.

Rochelle saw Ian's face upon remembering where he was, and who he was with, and for just a moment she knew, at least a part of her did, that he was less than purely happy with her.

"Hey, Ian." said Rochelle.

"Hi." said Ian.

"Good. . . morning?" said Rochelle, in an uncertain tone.

Ian chuckled. "I guess that's what it is for us."

"Yeah." said Rochelle.

"Hey, Roche, I just want you to know." said Ian.

"Yeah?" asked Rochelle.

"I know Penguin isn't gonna be happy if we're happy together. I can tell he's a dick like that. Not jealous, just an asshole that's as upset to see people happy in a way he thinks is stupid as he's happy to see them suffer in a way he thinks is funny. So he's going to try and fuck things up for us, I think." said Ian.

". . .yeah." said Rochelle.

"So, just know. . ." said Ian.

"Yeah?" asked Rochelle.

"If I'm ever a total dick to you, I don't mean it." said Ian.

"Huh?" asked Rochelle.

"Well, it makes sense if you think about it." said Ian.

"How?" asked Rochelle.

"I said, Opera Penguin is mad to see us happy, and happy seeing us not happy. So if I make us look not happy, then we can feel safer." said Ian.

"Ohh." said Rochelle.

"And we can afford to look happy, sometimes." said Ian. "Because Opera Penguin will just see it as me trying to look just enough like I love you so I can keep torturing you for my sick kicks. Like I'm like Penguin or something."

"Yeah, I guess he's probably desperate to find someone he can relate to. Given how he's come to this place, shadowed over by the legend of William Afton." said Rochelle.

"Hehe, yeah." said Ian. "One of the few things interesting about this dumb place."

"Hey!" said Rochelle.

"Wait, you don't actually identify with Roxanne, do you?" asked Ian.

"Well, I sort of am her, like I said." said Rochelle.

"But you aren't, really, anymore, right?" asked Ian.

"Well, I am, in the daytime." said Rochelle.

"But you can tell by now, at night, that it's all kinda dumb, right?" asked Ian. "I mean, come on. . . pretending like you're 'rockstars', even though it's all kiddie shit that only kids like?"

"Kids have to have something to like. It's cool to them. And to a whole lot of other people, too! It has its place, and its place is in those people's hearts, and it really is. . . who I am. My root. It's how I anchor myself." said Rochelle. "So you better learn to like 'Roxanne' just as much as you like 'Rochelle'." said Rochelle.

Ian chuckled. "I don't have to like the rest, do I?"

Rochelle smiled. "No way."

"Nice." said Ian. "Although, lemme just say one thing at ol' Roxy's expense. . ."

Rochelle raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" she said, her voice betraying just a hint of trepidation that the rest of her demeanor much more aptly hid.

"You're way more attractive." said Ian.

Rochelle ducked her nose under Ian's 1.625 chins, and said "Stop!", giggling.

"No, but really. You're quite a catch. I'm glad I found you." said Ian, pouring as much sincerity into it as he could. "I just wish I could be as good as that. . . Casey guy."

Rochelle's warmth dimmed, suddenly. "Yeah. . . but I'm pretty sure he's gone for good now. So I might as well move on."

There was a silence.

"Oh, I'm making you feel like a second resort, aren't I?" asked Rochelle. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm glad." said Ian. "I'd rather be the second resort of someone I find promising and beautiful than be seen as replaceable by someone I've come to see as my other half." The sudden bitterness in his voice bore a sincerity that required no effort. It was the first flash of unadulterated emotion that he had bared to Rochelle.

"I'm. . . sorry if that actually happened to you, Ian." said Rochelle.

"Don't worry about it, babs." said Ian.

Rochelle suddenly burst out giggling again. "'babs'? That sounds like something someone's grandma would say!"

"What'd you rather I call you? Sugartits?" jeered Ian.

"Hell no!" said Rochelle, giggling even harder.

Ian laughed with her.

. . .

"These two are sickening me." said William. "Why are we watching them so much recently?"

"Mainly because I find them entertaining." said Opera Penguin.

"So much for wanting to witness maturity." said William.

"Ahh, I'm in a better mood at the moment." Opera Penguin continued.

"Oh, I see. So I can feel safe." said William.

"Not for a moment!" said Opera Penguin, cackling.

"There's no point in trying to get a grip on things around you, is there?" asked William.

"Nahh." said Opera Penguin. "But, actually, you can feel safe for a little while, now that I think of it."

"Oh? Why is that?" asked William.

"Because," said Opera Penguin, "I think I've earned a nap."

"Oh. Do you need to sleep? I'm just wondering." said William.

"I can survive without it, but it's hell. It has a lot of the same effects for me as it does for you." said Opera Penguin. "The effects are a bit slower for me, though. But regardless, if I don't sleep, my mind is nonetheless compromised and I get. . . iffy."

"I see." said William, but Penguin was already walking off, and dematerializing out of the dream room.

Meanwhile, Penguin laid his head down on the mattress, and his breath calmed.

. . .

"Hello, Martin." said a hulking figure, sitting just far away from Opera Penguin not to be considered 'over him'.

Opera Penguin shot up in his bedstead.

He seemed to be on a crude balcony that lacked a railing. There were two adjacent walls, and the balcony itself was just like a large section of roof. The whole building seemed grey and blocky, and it was hard to discern any other features than the brick texture of the building, and a bit of creeping ivy on one of the walls. The bed Penguin was in was in the corner of the two adjacent walls, and the view outside was just of some mist, faintly illuminated by some faintly blue-tinted light from an unknown source.

On the couch was a shadowy silhouette, more shaded than a normal man would look in the given lighting. Piercing though his darkness was a face, two white eyes and bright white teeth. The eyes and teeth looked like porcelain. The eyes did not have distinct pupils, but rather the perimeter of the irises were darkened to a graphite grey, which faded back to white towards the center of the eye. Only the teeth of the mouth were visible—no gums, no lips, no tongue, although the teeth were closed in any case. Most of the set of teeth were visible, some only partially, but all that was shone like luminant ivory. The edges of the eyes were sharp, harsh, even, lacking the fuzzy indistinction of eyelashes. The overall shape of the creature's outline was of a massive man, between six and seven feet tall, wearing a long coat and a cowboy hat, sitting hunched on an old-timey couch that was also on the balcony—green, with a ridge of finished wood.

"I'm dreaming." said Opera Penguin.

"Ohh, quite astute." said the hat man.

"Not on an intellectual level. I've just made it so my dreams are always lucid when they're intruded upon." said Opera Penguin.

"Still, quite a display of wisdom in doing so." said the hat man.

"I thought I dealt with you." said Opera Penguin.

"Ahh, but I see your memory fails you." said the hat man.

"What do you mean?" asked Penguin.

"You have met one like me, but he is not me." said the hat man.

"What do you mean?" asked Opera Penguin.

"There are, in fact, three 'hat men'. said the hat man. "To put it in the simple, childish terms by which we have been long known, there is the short one, the tall one and the big one. The one you have dealt with in a prior encounter was the middle. I am the latter."

"So you're not the soul-sucker." said Opera Penguin.

The hat man chuckled. "Some would not be quite so quick to say so."

"So you are here for my ass?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I assume you are being figurative, but regardless, sodomy, whether literal or figurative, is not my intent here." said the hat man.

"Then what are you here for?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Curiosity." said the hat man. "I am intrigued with your progress, which I have been following for some time."

"Oh. A spectator." said Opera Penguin.

"Yes." said the hat man. "But should you want it any other way? Your campaign against the Overseer is an intriguing thing to behold. This diversion you are going through now, a stimulating preliminary to the true standoff."

"But why are you talking to me? If you're spectating like this is all some big sporting event, then you're obviously not going to give me an advantage, right?" asked Opera Penguin.

"And why not?" asked the hat man. "The less contrived a game is, the fewer rules it has that are not fundamentally necessary to form the game itself. All is fair in love and war. And between those two things, I find only one to be a needless drain of life, energy and potential."

"And I suppose you're going to quirkily reveal that you think that love is that drain, yes?" asked Opera Penguin, witheringly.

"There is no frivolity in the conclusion." said the hat man. "In war, a goal has been made, the stakes are understood, and the securing of one's prosperity—at least for this round—can be found in swiftly achieving a definitive victory—that is, annihilating one's foe. The energies applied, and sacrifices made, are understood to be going towards a definitive endpoint. In love, there is no such endpoint. There is only an indefinite expenditure of energy, a dedication of life and a wasting and atrophy of potential that could have been used, all to satisfy one's bondage with another, equally compromised individual. And if this is not the case, then the connection will be tinted with frustration regarding its own unfruitfulness. Love either lays waste to your life, or your life lays waste to it. It is thus the antithesis of life, and the antithesis of war."

"But isn't war inimical to life?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Every bird that soars, flies closer to the day when it will no longer be able even to glide. Inherent to life is progression towards death. Life is by its own nature temporary, its use is its undoing. It is therefore not its absence that is against its nature, but those passions which would both inhibit the act of living, and thus dying, to the fullest, and which would incite one to pursue the futile preservation of life from death, and not even one's own, but that of another." said the hat man.

"I'm sure I've heard this before somewhere, but I don't care." said Opera Penguin. "I don't think that life is in bed with death just because it happens to crumble on its own. Just because a pot's fragile doesn't mean that what constitution it has stands against itself. Life goes on, and it's only if you assume life is all about one living thing or another that you assume that life surrenders itself to death by default. If you have love, you know that's not true."

The hat man laughed. "But you don't love anyone who is alive—at least, to your knowledge. Isn't that the damnedest thing?" he said.

Opera Penguin gritted his teeth. "But I am alive. And my life is dedicated to those I love. I will live for my love of them." he said.

"And yet in this bond of love, it is you, who see yourself as the sole survivor, who expresses that love through what? War. War is not death itself, war is the struggle to live. War is the fight for what one feels sufficient in importance to justify killing—if one fundamentally feels they need such a justification. And for those who do not, war and life are one. But what few will admit is that war is life, or rather the extent to which life is lived. Life is only truly lived when the fashion in which one lives requires effort, nay, struggle. It has been since that time when your life fell into chaos that you have truly confirmed that you, at least, are alive." said the hat man.

"Fuck you." said Opera Penguin.

"But still." said the hat man, ignoring him. "You are not done yet. You have your goal, as foolishly rooted in sentimentality as it is, waiting to be completed. And because I really have not involved myself in very much at all for quite some time, I feel it might be refreshing to elucidate a certain route of action you might take to force your way through the preliminary round of the great trial that is ahead of you."

"Make it quick. I'm not actually getting any rest from this nap as long as you're here, and I would quite like to, to be honest." said Opera Penguin.

"Very well." said the hat man. "The power the universe gives to each of the catalysts of power—life, death and art—is divided in its reserve towards the three, and towards the three subdivisions, and finally towards a seventh which combines all. The power stored in wait for each of the seven reserves is already shaped before being assigned, in accordance with the nature of the catalysts. The amount of power a certain amount of a catalyst, or a combination of multiple, is limited. Its maximum is a portion of the power in reserve, in proportion to the total amount, equivalent to the proportion of that catalyst's magnitude to the overall presence throughout the world of that catalyst."

"I see. And what are you getting towards?" asked Opera Penguin.

"If one could monopolize any such catalyst, one might own all the cosmic power made out to it." said the hat man. "And thus, any agency with a known fixation on attempting to impose their artificial rules on how it is distributed might discover their significance and influence to be far lesser than they thought it to be."

"Are you saying I should turn the whole world into hell to make the Preachers feel small?" asked Opera Penguin, giggling a little in horror. "Sorry, but that's insane. I'm calling your suggestion insane. Me." he continued, with a sort of bobbing emphasis.

"Mmm. Just a thought." said the hat man.

"Where are you from, anyway? How do you know me?" asked Opera Penguin.

"You spoke of me when you were in my domain. Kenneth silenced you, but it was too late. He believed that by merely chastising you, he could placate my eye from following you. Not so. I have been following you with great interest for some time. I have to say, it has awakened something in me. A pang of nostalgia, a surge of memory from my. . . youth, I suppose you could call it. A time when I was much more active, dancing the jig that you now skip to with tears in your eyes. But I was laughing. You long for sleep. I think, though, that perhaps it is time for me to reawaken." said the hat man.

"Wait. . . you. . . you're some kind of devil, aren't you?" asked Penguin.

"Really, now, Martin." said the hat man. "I would have thought you above resorting to a simple word with a vague bundle of associations to unburden yourself from the task of truly understanding me."

"I don't really intend to ponder on you much at all." said Opera Penguin.

The hat man laughed again. "Well, I suppose it's better than being one who calls on me to aid in his wicked ways, and then blames me when I truly help, only for him to be led, inevitably, deeper into sin."

"If I still cared about 'sin', I'd probably drown myself by now." said Opera Penguin. "All I care about is revenge."

"Then you're not completely barred from enlightenment." said the hat man. "For the truth of it is that it's found in the dark. Because truth is seldom received well by the masses, it is just as scarcely bandied about in the open. The truth of life is what you are finding each day in this decayed place."

"I don't think you know what you're talking about." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh?" asked the hat man.

"Every day, I become more convinced that life has no base meaning. That everything is just a 'thing'. That meaning is just in life, never of life." said Opera Penguin.

"Then I rest my case." said the hat man. "For my assertions have been vindicated."

"Whatever, fuck off." said Opera Penguin.

"By all means." said the hat man, and it seemed, for a moment, as if his smile were somehow 'smilier'.

Opera Penguin sunk into his sleep.

. . .

Ferdinand saw the 'new security guard' striding in. "Greetings, um, Ian, was it?"

Ian just stared momentarily, before bursting out laughing. "Sorry," he said, a moment later, to Ferdinand's confused face, "Sorry, I just. . . literally just a big ol' bear man saying hi. . ." he trailed off as he ruffled Ferdinand's shoulders, before moving his hands up to scrunch Ferdinand's cheeks in an aggressively condescending manner.

"But. . . you have had no similar response to Rochelle, did you?" asked Ferdinand.

"Well," said Ian, and if he were honest, what he would have continued to say would be "Well, you see, I have a crippling addiction to furry porn, and so I've seen and fapped to nearly a million wolf girls in my time, some of them nearly as photorealistic as Rochey here, so it didn't really come as a shock to see her." But, instead, he simply said: "I got introduced to her more gradually, ya know, like we were in the dark and I kinda felt her up—I mean, not in a creepy way but, ya, ya know."

Vanessa, in the distance, was glowering at them.

"Ahh, I-I see." said Ferdinand.

"Don't worry." jeered Ian, chuckling. "I ain't gonna touch you anywhere else, I don't swing that way."

"Hey, the new hoss is awake!" asked Monsanto, as he strode in with his arms spread in a way that he clearly thought was both conciliatory and manly.

"Oh hey, it's Mr. T's biggest fanboy. Great to see you!" said Ian.

"Wha—?" asked Monsanto. "Hey! I was like this way before I knew who that was!"

"Ohhh, so you didn't even make the conscious choice, I see." said Ian. "You just got made that way, because you're a product made by a bunch of old boomers who want to appeal to general 80's nostalgia!"

Monsanto stared at Ian in utter shock at the sheer level of chill he didn't have.

"Hey! That's not very-" said Cheyenne, before Ian turned to her and screamed. "WHAT IS THAT!"

Cheyenne stepped back, horrified for a moment.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!" Ian continued.

Nobody spoke, so Ian whirled his head towards the nearest target, saw Monsanto, and continued, this time with significantly more vitriol in his voice, "WHAT IS THAT, MADESI T?"

Even Monsanto looked scared at this point, before Ian slouched suddenly, and burst out laughing, in such a fashion as would put neon-haired clowns of all description and scarring to shame, to the point where he actively had to gasp for air as if he were diving deep into an ocean of irrational amusement.

"Huh." said Monsanto.

"Sorry, it's just, I'm very funny, yes?" said Ian.

"No, you're not." said Vanessa.

"Shut the fuck up, you're blonde and therefore your opinion does not matter." said Ian, pointing at Vanessa confrontationally and then switching the pointing hand into a middle finger with surprising eloquence.

"Ian, she's-" began Rochelle, but Ian glowered at her with such piggish ferocity that the words died in her throat.

"Aaanyway." said Ian, before completely failing to follow up with anything else, leading to an uncomfortable silence.

"So, you and Rochelle are an item?" asked Ferdinand, breaking the silence.

"Yep!" said Ian, moving next to Rochelle and slapping her on the back. "She's one fiiiiiiiine bitch."

After another moment of silent communal revulsion, Cheyenne asked, "And. . . how's that working for you?"

"Ian really does get me." said Rochelle, trying to offer a placating smile at Vanessa, who looked like she wanted to vomit.

"Yeah, she's totally okay with my micropenis, and I can roll with the fact that her personality is made up of a bunch of angst-based cliches. It's even cute." Ian said, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"I haven't even taken your pants-" said Rochelle, before Ian said, much louder, his voice contorting, for no discernible reason, into a shitty fake Texan accent, "AAAAYAND SHE FUCKS GRAYTE!"

"Oh, good." said Vanessa. "We wouldn't want your. . . what was it, micropenis? Yes, we wouldn't want that to be dissatisfied, now would we?"

"DAYYYMN RAIGHT!" yelled Ian, at the top of his lungs, continuing his affected voice, which at this point could be considered to Texans as the character of Fu Manchu is to the Chinese, "M'HOG'S GOTTA SQUEAL!"

"Please stop." said Monsanto, his voice broken down into honest and sincere distress and concern, with not even a fascimile of cheer or pravado.

"Okay. . ." said Ian, before adding, "but only because you're cute." before lunging over to Monsanto and noogying him.

At this point, Vanessa's expression began to dissolve from distaste to disbelief.

"You. . . like Rochelle?" asked Cheyenne, uncertain in her wording. "I mean, like her? With regard to. . . her? As a person?"

"Yeah, being with her's like cuddling up to a bad fanfic and kissing it's forehead." said Ian. "There's a sort of love you can only feel when you have immense pity for the the object thereof's pathetic pathos."

"So you just admitted she's an object to you." said Vanessa.

"No, dumbass! Object as in, that which something, in this case love, is directed towards! She's the object of my affection! Go back to school, dimwit!" said Ian.

"I thought I was blonde and therefore intellectually irredeemable." said Vanessa, dryly.

"Oh! Right!" said Ian, before throwing his head back and belly-laughing.

A pair of white gloved hands were laid from behind onto Ian's neck, and squeezed, gently.

Ian froze. One hand gently lifted, wrapped its forefingers over his forehead, and pulled his head back, bringing his eyes into contact with those of Opera Penguin.

"Time for some examinations." said Opera Penguin.

"Huh?" asked Ian, who was just managing to hold in his piss.

"Some tests, to see where you are in regards to your powers." said Opera Penguin.

. . .

Ian was led through a door into a strange place. There was a platform of a shape that looked like a bunch of filled-in rectangles stuck together, aligned in angle so that it was basically one deformed rectangle with a smaller rectangle growing out of it, and both of them with square- and rectangle-shaped pieces taken out of them.

Before that was a vast expanse of digital-looking neon lights like a pixel-aesthetic screensaver that was warbling like jello.

"What's this?" asked Ian.

"This is a testing area." said Opera Penguin, who was levitating high above Ian, in a strange sort of lounging position with his hands behind his back, his torso bent back and his legs halfway in between standing and kneeling, as if he were trying to look simultaneously lazy and seductive. "I am going to conjure some targets in the form of various monsters, some of which will doubtlessly look stupid to you, I am aware, so don't waste your breath-"

"But how will you know which ones look stupid to me?" asked Ian.

Opera Penguin gave him a salty, exasperated and judgemental look, and said, "I'll probably be able to make it out from your expression. Now, I am going to conjure them up from this realm I have created, and you will kill them in the way I instruct you to do so. But first,"

He lowered slightly.

"I want you to try using a little bit of magic, and controlling it smoothly." said Opera Penguin.

"Alright." said Ian, letting a bit of his energy out as a bit of crackling cyan plasma. He made it bob and weave between his outstretched fingers.

"Now, bring out your energy in its rawest form, without turning it into any of the elements towards which it is inclined." said Opera Penguin.

Ian strained for a moment, and a pure blue haze rose off of his arms, which were spread out before him.

"Heh." said Opera Penguin. "Your energy looks just like Casey's."

Ian wasn't pleased to hear Casey's name, a mixture of remembering Opera Penguin's speech over the corpse of his parents and Rochelle—however much he didn't truly believe her to be the one for him—making it apparent that he, Ian, was her choice of desperation in Casey's absence.

"Just move it about, feel it." said Opera Penguin.

"How do I do that?" asked Ian.

"Give a token effort, and you'll find out within yourself." said Opera Penguin.

After a moment of confusion, Ian managed to make it wave, like a candle flame that had been blown on.

"A good start, I suppose." said Opera Penguin.

"It feels like part of my body, but like a part of my body that isn't there." said Ian.

"It isn't there on your body, but it is a part of you, yes." said Opera Penguin. "Most spiritual powers either are used through a form of thought, or through something akin to the nerves of one's body. The difference is, these nerves do not link to your material brain, but straight into your spiritual psyche."

"Cooooool!" said Ian, grinning like a child. "This shit's awesome!"

Opera Penguin smirked. "Good. Now, try to form that into something other than the energies of lightning, wind, water or frost."

"Okay." said Ian, before straining, and making. . .

the sound of a haunting piano refrain.

"What?" asked Opera Penguin, confused but somewhat impressed.

"I dunno." said Ian. "I just kinda spaced out, and. . . it happened."

"Good." said Opera Penguin. "I think your powers may have formed with both mental and instinctive controls."

"Whu-?" asked Ian.

"Like what I said before. Active power is generally either used through something like a certain form of thinking, or like an organ you feel in your spirit. This is a bit of both." said Opera Penguin.

"Okay." said Ian.

"Now, try retracting your powers." said Opera Penguin.

Ian managed it.

"Man, I feel lame like this." said Ian.

"Don't." said Opera Penguin. "I mean, you are a pathetic shithead, but know that the power is still inside you, and, furthermore, a power to make it."

"Huh?" asked Ian.

"Well, you see, the power you actively use is a sort of 'shell' over your spirit, which your spirit assumes in order to use as power." said Opera Penguin.

"So it's not really mine?" asked Ian.

"No, it is." said Opera Penguin. "Because also within you is the power that generated that 'shell'. A power which generates energy, concentrates it and hardens it into a higher, more permanent essence-that is, it makes the energy into the substance of spirit, rather than merely an energy that ceases to exist when expended."

"I don't think that's how energy works in science." said Ian.

"This isn't science. Science pertains to the material world. This is the realm of the metaphysical, and the spiritual. Magical energy is not the same." said Opera Penguin. "Anyway, what I'm saying is that your deeper power produces energy, and turns that energy from ephemeral fuel to a thing in and of itself that exists persistently, and uses energy, rather than is energy to be used. It can be destroyed, however, which is why you have the power to create and re-create it."

"So I have powers that aren't part of me, but I have powers that are part of me to create those powers." said Ian. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, but furthermore since the powers you use are a product of those deeper powers of yours, you might as well consider them to be a part of you." said Opera Penguin.

"So in my dream, you said you could only take my power back by destroying me." said Ian. "Which ones were you talking about?"

"The deeper ones." said Opera Penguin. "The 'shell', I can take at will. In fact, look!"

Opera Penguin gestured with a hand, and a strange structure made out of what looked like a glowing haze was sucked out of Ian.

"Hey!" said Ian.

"Now, meditate and try and focus on producing a new 'shell'." said Opera Penguin.

"How?" asked Ian.

"Ohh, you know what?" asked Opera Penguin, and then he just put the knowledge in Ian's head.

"So I just sit there and I focus on it really hard?" asked Ian.

"Basically." said Opera Penguin.

Ian did, and after a while, he managed it.

"Ohh, and one last thing." said Opera Penguin.

"Yes?" asked Ian.

"Although it shouldn't become all too relevant, using your 'shell' will begin to develop within you powers identical to part or all of the 'shell' in question." said Penguin. "Vanessa has slowly been gaining enhanced physical strength, but I believe she only has the mildest touch of pyrokinetic ability, and even then I believe she can only make the air heat up slightly. You, on the other hand, I have predispositioned to gain slightly more mentally-based powers."

"Sweet!" yelled Ian, far too excited. "Wait, did you design my powers? Like, in-depth?"

"I put some basic conditions into the seed of power I put in you, but certain things, like the affinity for storms, are part of how your nature shaped your deeper power, which, in turn, shapes the specific form of the shell it makes for you." said Opera Penguin. "But, in addition, with meditation, you can directly 'edit' your shell."

"Ohh, neat." said Ian.

"You can also do many things just by gaining more mastery of the energy you control." said Opera Penguin. "Because your power is both thinking- and feeling-related, your elemental abilities may be able to be bent into all sorts of different purposes using poetic and spiritual thoughts."

"Why's that?" asked Ian.

"Because, the natural form of elements, though they are only kinds of energy, have ingrained spiritual associations which make them both more easily used through focus on or display of certain characteristics or emotions, or being used for certain purposes which may not be easily apparent based on the physical traits of those elements' manifestations." said Opera Penguin.

"Natural form of elements?" asked Ian.

"Elements are essentially different kinds of energies. There are infinite different potential elements, and infinite potential variations of each, both in terms of manifestation and spiritual nature, but most elements have a tendency to occur, naturally, with a specific set of spiritual associations. Fire to passion, water to elegance, earth to patience, wind to freedom. . . and loneliness." said Opera Penguin. "These are just a few examples."

"Okay." said Ian.

"Anyway," said Opera Penguin, "developing more of the power in your base self will prove reliable should you find yourself losing a shell, which brings me to my next point—although you can die even while having assumed your powers, as I have threatened extensively, the shell, in addition to conveying onto you attributes of strength and durability, will often absorb harm that would otherwise come to you, taking the hit to its own integrity in your place. The more it takes damage with you rather than in place of you, the longer it will take to break. But break it will, and when it does, you get one last rush of energy, energy that is the fluid remains of the shell, with the characteristics of the shell, and even more response to your direction. This last rush of energy is meant to protect you, so you can get away and recover, but you could also use it for something else, if you're feeling like a big damn hero and want to sacrifice yourself for some reason, or alternately if you think you can finish off your opponent in one go."

"Alright." said Ian.

"Oh, and one last thing." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah?" asked Ian.

"I sense you have a capacity for regeneration in your powers, which you might want to try now." said Opera Penguin.

"But I don't have anything to regenerate fro-" said Ian, before Opera Penguin's hand swiped by him, as a glassy, double-edged blad, mostly transparent but iridescently glinting periwinkle fading to blue where the light hit it, materialized in his hand, only to fade out of existence upon the end of his swing.

"Great, now how do I do it?" asked Ian.

"Well, since I've already had you make a token effort once today," said Opera Penguin, "which apparently is all the times you're good for, I'll just do this." And then he cast a spell which analyzed Ian's powers, determined the right internal input, and then imprinted it on Ian's mind.

"Thank you." said Ian, testily, before regenerating in what looked an awful lot like the aurora borealis, in this place devoid of orbit around the sun and any cycle measured thereby, bereft of any territory or country, localized entirely on the gash that Penguin's ephemeral dagger had sliced into his chest.

"Hey, that looks pretty sick." said Ian.

"Now, let's get on with the trials." said Opera Penguin.

Ian spent some time fighting tangible holographic manifestations of such monsters as he had conjured up for Vanessa to fight, as well as solid mirages of Annie herself.

The first round, Opera Penguin said, "Kill them anyhow." and Ian did, using a blast of lightning.

The second, Opera Penguin instructed him to use only his fists, and the third, only to use magic, although he had already done so.

The fourth, he was told to use a variety of different kinds of magic. He managed to realize he could use his unformed energy to perform telekinesis, and broke off pieces of the platform to drive them into his enemies like bullets, although this was very tedious and he found himself fatigued by it much more quickly than just using lightning, or using hurricane-level winds in a circling motion to snap his enemies' necks, or even just freezing them in place and shattering them with concentrated air currents. He noticed he could generate pressure like that of air pressure, even in this place where he wasn't sure if there was air, and if so, how much. He figured there must be some, since he was breathing, but, for all he knew, Opera Penguin might have just made the place to funnel in air from the outside every time he wanted to breathe in, and simulate atmospheric pressure using magic somehow.

The fifth, he was instructed to use magic solely in an indirect capacity, by augmenting his physical performance. At first, he didn't quite get it, but after a while he managed to add to his strikes the impetus of lightning, enhancing not only their strength and speed but, oddly, their accuracy, while adding very little actual lightning to them, add to his motion the swiftness of wind, thus moving in a way that made him fear for his soul, lest it be claimed in a lawsuit by Tite Kubo, cover himself with a thin layer of water-elemental energy manifested into a replication of actual water, which he had such control over as to harden by 'holding it in place real hard', as he put it. Lastly, by concentrating cold-elemental energy in his hands, he could turn that energy into 'stopping power' without actually making anything cold.

At the sixth trial, Opera Penguin had Ian employ magic in tandem with his magically-altered physical performance, and this was where he had Ian fight no less than six Annies, after having had him fight only one as the culmination of the round before. Ian 'cheated' somewhat, as he generated a thin cloud between them to help facilitate a 'chain lightning' ability he had devised, breaking their composure and outright killing the one he had focused on in a mostly futile fashion. Opera Penguin allowed it, as Ian used the magic right as he drove his fist into the one he killed, starting it at her and melting most of her body. Ian then shot towards another with his wind-dash, while striking her with a punch that infused with lightning both inside and out, then following up with a flurry of blows that were likewise both motivated by, and accompanied with wind energy, finishing her off. The adjacent one he struck with a palm strike, emitting a freezing wave with his palm as it went, so that it froze her head right before he struck her, causing her to shatter. Then he merely directed a sharpened wind current by swiping his hand at another, slicing her throat, performing about one third of a decapitation. The next, he side-kicked, manifesting a wave alongside his leg that hit together with his foot, and finally he grabbed the last by the throat, and used his wind powers to empty her lungs, which he noticed was significantly harder than just manipulating air. Later, when he asked Opera Penguin why this was, Penguin merely said, "Ahh, just something spirit-y." and left it at that.

On the seventh and final round, Opera Penguin conjured up a phantom of Rochelle.

Just as Ian was about to plunge his fist straight through her face, he paused, and smirked. "This is a different kind of test, isn't it? You want to have a reason to put her away, by 'proving' I don't love her, yes?" he asked.

"No." said Opera Penguin. "I wanted to see how much of an issue you were going to make of this. Clearly, I was foolish for worrying."

"Ahh." said Ian, before resuming, driving his fist into her face, knocking her onto her back and diving kneefirst onto her chest, before focusing points of wind energy at his fingertips to simulate claws, as he started raking away, before digging a little deeper into her flesh. Although the straps of her shirt were now cut, Ian remembered himself, and the presence of Opera Penguin above him, before thinking of any potential overt depravity. Instead, he stuck his fingers behind her skull, expanding the rending force, which in turn allowed him to gently but firmly pluck her head from her neck, before making out with it, and then, as he did so, slowly slumping down, onto the body. Once the jaw limply swung into an open gape, however, the novelty wore off, as did Ian's initial arousal, and so, figuring that he couldn't get food poisoning from a hologram, he dipped his finger into the neck stump, and tasted some of the blood. For some reason, it tasted like cotton candy. Then he got up.

As he did so, Opera Penguin drifted down, and after a moment of waiting for Ian to say something, he said. "What the actual hell, Ian?"

"Well, you seemed to want me to be eager." said Ian.

"Couldn't you have been eager in. . ." Opera Penguin grasped for words, "any other way?"

"I thought of drawing her in for a kiss, making out a bit, and then putting my arms around her neck and crushing the bone, then going back to holding her before squeezing her ribs and breaking them, too. And then getting down on the ground and falling asleep with her in my arms" Ian admitted. "But then I figured you'd think I wasn't planning on killing her at first."

"Well, your apparent snuff fetish aside," said Opera Penguin, dusting himself off even though nothing had gotten on him, "I tried this to address what you said to Rochelle in the bedroom."

"Yeah?" asked Ian.

"My telepathy is less encompassing than I feign it to be." said Opera Penguin. "Without intrusive contact, I can only sense the basic shape of the thoughts in the spotlight of one's conscience, and sometimes I cannot tell acting from genuine feeling."

"Yeah, well. My love for her isn't quite so pure as I make it out to be, to her. I just made up that whole story to have an excuse to be a dick to her as I please, so long as we're outside the bedroom." said Ian.

"Is the only reason you haven't killed her the fear of me?" asked Opera Penguin, almost impressed with how disgusting and low Ian was.

"Nahh. The issue with killing her would be that, once she's dead, she's not there anymore. I can't torture her, I can't kiss her, I can't make love to her." said Ian, grinning. "Now, if I could trap her spirit within her body, make her a ghost that 'possesses herself', as it were. . . or, if I could directly control her spirit, and either restore her body to put it back inside, or manifest it as a ghost. . . and keep that ghost from dissipating under abuse. . . I'd just love to hurt her over and over again, hear her crying, then be tender with her, love her, make her think it's all okay now, somehow, yeah, and I'd sure as hell fuck her, too, only to go back to hurting her, just go back and forth, keeping her inside me when I'm not using her. . ." Ian was at this point rambling, drool coming down from his mouth, "first I'd crush her and keep kissing her and just lay there, like before. . . then I'd bring her back, tell her I'm sorry, that I didn't know what I was doing, that something else came over me, took control over me, maybe you, even. . . then I'd give her nothing but the sweetness, the tenderness, for a time, and then I'd just squeeze, and crush her again, and say it was an accident. . . and then I'd keep going with the warmth, and everything, I'd keep going and then suddenly, BAM! Right hook across the face. . . and then I'd tell her how stupid and pathetic she is to me. . . and I'd torture her and rip her apart, over and over again, until maybe, she'd think it was her fault. . . and she'd beg me for forgiveness, the stupid bitch. Or, perhaps she'd just feel the hatred, and beg to be loved, beg for real love like she thought I had for her. And then, just like that. . . I'd give it to her, and I would tell her, I'd always loved her. . . and then by the next time I started torturing her, she'd realize, they were both always true. . . I always hated her and loved her at the same time, and wanted nothing but the best and worst for her. . . I'd keep her, and be hers, and she be mine, forever and ever and ever, an eternity of torment, for her the torture, for me knowing I'd separated myself from the other girl, the one I really loved, and now Rochelle was the best replacement. . . and also an eternity of bliss. . . for me because I can't help loving her in some way I can't describe, and for her because however fucked up it is, it's the best she'll ever get after her real lover boy died. Maybe ask a medium who somehow became a minister to marry us, so I can have it marked down in stone that she belongs to me so I can torture her and love her forever."

Ian ignored Opera Penguin's pointed silence, and irritated squinting at his ramblings. To Opera Penguin, the bullet he felt like he had dodged by never talking to Mr. Hippo seemed to have swerved around in a U-turn to strike the base of his skull.

"Or, better, maybe she comes back to life every time I kill her for real, and forgets everything that happened from the moment I started hurting her. . . yeah, and sometimes, I'd drag out the death, maybe even stop for a while and find some bullshit way to make up with her, and then just turn around and kill her again. . . but let her keep the subconscious memories, somehow, yeeeeaaahh. . ." continued Ian, the bulge in his pants worrying Opera Penguin. "And I'd sometimes keep the death long and hot, just, like, snapping off individual ribs, and, and," he grasped for a moment, "crippling her, and then laying her on my lap, and staring down at her, and petting her. Or maybe just punching her a lot while we're in bed, feeling her softness on my fists, ohh! I get to see her suffer, and feel her life waning, and witness it go out, over and over, again and again! But it never has to end! That would be heaven."

"So you do. . . sort of. . . love her." said Opera Penguin. "But you also want to see her cry? And bleed? And die?"

"Yes." said Ian. "I guess I don't hate her, in the sense that I don't want her not to exist. I just feel such utter contempt for her. . I think she's so fucking pathetic and stupid, but somehow also so passionate, so full of feeling and so beautiful that I love her so much. . ."

"So you're a lunatic." said Opera Penguin. "Got it."

"Hell yeah, I am!" said Ivan, his voice going slightly hillbillyish again. "And I'm fucking invincible!"

"Time will tell about that." said Opera Penguin. "In any case, if all things go to my planning, I'll consider fulfilling your ridiculous fantasies."

"You aaaalllready have." said Ian.

. . .

Later, in Rochelle's room, Ian stared at Rochelle fondly as she washed her face.

"Did you really have to act that much?" asked Rochelle.

"I figured I had to make a strong impression." said Ian. "Unfortunately, Penguin saw us in here so I had to pretend that I'm only being nice in here so I can keep abusing you in general."

"And he believed you?" asked Rochelle. "And what if he sees us talking now?"

"Because, if he hears both ends, he's going to assume he's the one I'm being sincere with, because he thinks he knows everything because he can see more stuff." said Ian.

Rochelle smiled at Ian, little teeth poking out from her mouth as the corners picked up. "That sounds about right." she said, sounding relieved.

"You know you can hit back." said Ian, as he lifted a hand to the back of her head and began stroking an ear.

"What do you mean?" asked Rochelle.

"I mean, when I'm being an asshole to you." said Ian. "That defense act really isn't your fit at all."

Rochelle laughed. "I guess we both forgot what you said before. We haven't gone and been 'absolutely us'."

"It was a stupid generic 'motivational' bullshit monologue anyway." said Ian. "I just say stuff sometimes, and it sounds good so I go on."

"I get that." said Rochelle. "But anyway, I don't think I could 'hit back' even if I wanted to."

Ian chuckled. "What have I done to earn this kind of loyalty already?" he asked.

"I guess I just feel like you're safe somehow. I think you've got some kind of problems you're not telling me about, and if that's true it kind of hurts my feelings, but I think that there's just something in you that you're scared to open up and show to people." said Rochelle.

"You're sure you're not projecting yourself a little?" asked Ian.

Rochelle was startled for a little, but then said, "Why do you ask that?"

"I don't know, you just seem, well. . ." Ian said, "different from how I saw your character, the one you identify with so much, and so I figured either you're the real thing and she represented a front of yours, or awakening to yourself somehow made you scared of being her—being you."

"Maybe," said Rochelle, "maybe a bit of both. Maybe I'm still looking for whom I really am."

"I'm with you all the way." said Ian.

Then he slid a finger under one of the straps of her tank top, and looked at her, waiting for a response.

"Well?" she asked, giving that response.

In very little time, they made short work of each other's covering, although Ian shed his jacket to lighten Rochelle's already-disproportionate task.

Rochelle was a bit weirded out when Ian pulled the blankets around them both in a tight bundle, since, as on the night before, he was not cold at all. But when he loosened his caressing arms from her, the rest went more or less how she expected, somewhat like with Casey except that Ian was not under the influence of alcohol, and any other influences he might have been under eluded her. Also, feeling Ian's filthy mouth on an additional orifice initially made her skin crawl, but she said nothing and managed to relax enough to feel more enjoyment than discomfort.

After it was all finished, Rochelle clung to Ian's shoulder, and stuck her nose under his chin.

"Do you think I can be like I was?" asked Rochelle.

"Definitely." said Ian, curling his arms around her again, and stroking her back with one hand. "Just give it time."

. . .

Night 32

Gregory, Mangle and Ferdinand were in the computer room, attempting to learn how to play with a pack of cards, but Mangle kept fumbling them and scattering them everywhere.

"I must say, I find it difficult to make any headway when you keep losing your cards all over." said Ferdinand.

"I think that's a game, though." said Gregory. "It's called 52 pickup, I think."

"Which game are we trying to learn, again?" asked Mangle, as she grasped at numerous cards at once with metallic tendrils that seemed mechanically impossible, and we far more numerous than would make sense for the parts of the humanoid body that her current form was allegedly the disassembled form of.

"I don't know." said Gregory.

"Vanessa handed these to us and said we could try playing 'cards'." said Ferdinand. "Her verbage implying that 'cards' is, in and of itself, the name of the game, and not merely the item we are using."

"I think that's just a shorthand way of referring to any game involving them." said Gregory.

"So that is why there are many games suggested for cards, but no game with just that name?" asked Ferdinand. "I thought these were alternate rulesets, distinct from the classical 'cards' game that everyone simply assumed everyone else would know."

Monsanto, who was also in the room, having been sitting there, reading Sluggy Freelance for the last 21 minutes, 15 of which were occupied by the sounds of a child and two others who might as well have been children, attempted to slam his face down on his desk, as in the memes he had seen, but ended up just hitting his nose, causing himself to sneeze.

. . .

Cheyenne and Rochelle queried Vanessa about what a 'girls' night out' was, and, upon hearing her explanation, further hounded her for a run-through of what one with them would look like if they could all leave the building.

. . .

Ian spent the whole night typing on his laptop. He was writing a fantasy story, one he had long neglected but which he had regained interest in writing ever since gaining his powers, since they greatly resembled those of the main villain, Zyryk Zephyr.

. . .

William sighed. "What is this, Penguin? A doll house?"

"No." said Opera Penguin. "It is not."

"Then what is it?" asked William.

"A. . . consolidation." said Opera Penguin. "I'm somewhat tired of only seeing what was formerly the blob mentally, as a metaphysical object. Now, it's physical. And in a suitable form."

"A doll house." said William.

"No, it doesn't break open." said Opera Penguin. "Except in that it contains many miniature planes within it, to each of which I can open up a rift. But the object itself is merely a model replica of the location that was closed down in 1987."

"Great." said William. "The place in which I was most abused in those dreams."

"Ohh?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes." said William. "They loved to put me as the villain in their little plays, I'm sure I've mentioned."

"As is understandable, you must admit." said Opera Penguin.

"But all I ever did was kill them, you understand!" said William. "None of this, trying to woo my own victims after we're both dead!"

"But if you only killed them, that just wouldn't be as romantic, now would it." said Opera Penguin. "I mean, obviously."

"But don't they see how it's perverse?" asked William.

"No, not at all, by the time they were dreaming most of them forgot who they were in the first place." said Opera Penguin.

"And who I was?" asked William.

"Well, they still knew you were a killer." said Opera Penguin. "Or at least, that you were bad."

"Even when they imagined me before I donned the suit, I was only a purple silhouette to them." said William.

"Well, I mean, you did kill most of them while in the suit, didn't you?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes. . . true." said William. "But why purple?"

"Mystery, majesty, magnificence, mastery." said Opera Penguin.

"That doesn't answer my question." said William.

"Yes, it does." said Opera Penguin. "Deep down, they knew you were the ruler of this place. The tyrant. Yet they knew not who you were. . ."

"How many ghosts are in there?" asked William.

"Hundreds." said Opera Penguin.

"How." said William.

"This place sucks in anyone whose death had the slightest thing to do with it. Even if they had a SWAT team knock down their door based on a false report while they were jerking off to disgusting shit related to the characters on the Internet like absolute subhumans." said Opera Penguin.

"Aahhy take grea' a-ffense ta that." said an iteration of Foxy that had somehow gotten its way out of the model pizzeria. It had this really terrible British accent that was low, throaty and overall 'droopy'. If any accent could be compared to a giant jello pudding sitting in a hammock, it would have to be the one.

"How did you get out?" asked Opera Penguin.

"My puzzle-solving en' level-traverseng skells carr'id oveh from playin horrer games thaddend enna pretentious plot twist wheret turns out everythin' wos just'a dream in the protagonist's head rela'ing to 'is trouma." said the British Foxy.

"Fascinating. Get the fuck back in there." said Opera Penguin.

With a wave of Opera Penguin's hand, the British Foxy was whisked back into the house. This probably had more than a little to do with the fact that the 'wave' happened to collide with sharp force, with the British Foxy's face.

"Anyway, we have a surplus of ghosts, yes." said Opera Penguin. "But we could collect more."

"How?" asked William.

"I mean, you used to use Vanny to murder random children, yes?" asked Opera Penguin.

"It sounds like you're making a moral disclaimer, which is strange, as you've made it clear that you see me as lacking the right to make any moral observations." said William.

"Well, I wasn't sure that had sunken in." said Opera Penguin. "But also, it's more to illustrate just how I'm using Ian. Don't worry, I'm only having him kill people who won't be missed. Many of whom probably want to die anyway. Honestly, I'm doing the world a favor, cleaning up the miscellaneous elements it has rejected, and making them part of something bigger."

"But won't their ghosts water down the spirit of this place? I mean, they have nothing to do with the place, or its characters. And how will their ghosts even get here?" asked William.

"Like I said, anyone who dies to anything even tangentially related to this place, comes here upon death. And, since this place likes to profit off of the 'urban legends' surrounding its history, they do, in fact, have some old 'springtrap' costumes, just lying around." said Opera Penguin. "As for the former concern, anyone who comes here is shaped, bent, molded into the likeness of the ghosts that have come before. They experience it all, and that which they experience, that their heart is most inclined towards, becomes their new form."

"All of my victims?" asked William. "And all of Vanny's?"

"Yes." said Opera Penguin.

"I never thought I'd say this, but. . ." said William. "I miss her."

Opera Penguin laughed. "Don't worry." he said. "I had it so that, as soon as Vanessa or Vanny killed the other, the dying would be absorbed into the victor. The powers combined, and lesser consciousness merged into, albeit conformed to, the greater. Annie's inner spark still dwells within Vanessa, they are now one and the same, it is simply that that one is identical to Vanessa, with her personality, convictions and all. But that base consciousness, that feeling, that was of Annie's, has merged with Vanessa's, so she now experiences existence as Vanessa. And, her memories, with all their associated feelings, still linger."

"That's horrifying, but I guess worse fates could be expected for her." said William.

"I don't think so." said Opera Penguin. "A broken, screwed-up thing like her should be happy to cease to be who she is, to get to be someone else, not merely in pretense but by truly being assimilated into her."

"I guess." said William. "But some would say it's better to die or even cease to be, than to exist as something other than who you truly are."

"But that's the thing!" said Penguin, smiling. "She is truly Vanessa now, because her individual existence has been subsumed by Vanessa's. And now, Vanessa is stronger to fight for us."

"You're a sick man." said William. "And I don't care if I'm sicker. You honestly horrify me and I can't pretend otherwise."

"A dime-a-dozen statement, but understandable." said Opera Penguin. "I won't begrudge you such a declaration, so long as you remember yourself."

"What, are you now meting out my allowances as to what I'm allowed to say? Am I really a child do you?" asked William.

"I could." said Opera Penguin, smirking.

"When will I walk again?" asked William.

"You know what, you've been very patient about this, so sure." said Opera Penguin. "But I'm not yet ready to introduce you to your new subjects properly, so how about I slip you into a different kind of slumber?"

"What do you me-" asked William, before Opera Penguin flashbanged him with something horrible.

. . .

Ian punched the third juggalo he had seen wandering the streets when he saw an orphanage and decided to recreate his escape from his own apartment.

Then suddenly, a troop of grey-skinned humanoids in black leather cassocks materialized around him.

"We see you are the new interloper." said one of them, in a flat tone.

"Yeah? I guess?" asked Ian.

"We would have you turn from your dark master. Come back, and serve the world from which you were born." said one of the beings.

"You're some agents of this world?" asked Ian.

"Yes, we are aligned with an underlying force of this world's nature." said one of them.

"This world? This dull, fucking world? This rotting, crumbling, dusty piece of shit planet?" asked Ian, his voice a weird mix of joy and rage, as the corners of his mouth curled up, perversely. "And you want me to betray the one who pulled me up, out of that mundanity?"

"We promise, we will show you great wonders, and will allow you to wondrous alongside them. The mundanity you experienced in this world is but an illusion-" said one of them, before Ian cut in, "AND YOU ONLY SAW FIT TO PULL AWAY THAT—'ILLUSION'—WHEN IT BECAME CONVENIENT TO YOU? YOU'D HAVE LEFT ME IN THE DUST MY WHOLE LIFE OTHERWISE?"

"We. . . cannot cater to every life on this earth." said one of the creatures.

"Then that gives me my answer." said Ian, calming down only slightly. "Fuck no. Go fuck yourself. In the ass. In hell." then he uttered a racial epithet, specifically one which made no sense, given the light clay color of the monstrosities before him.

"Very well." said the speaker. "We had wished it would not have to come to this point."

Each pulled out a hooked knife, giving Ian the perfect prompt to make short work of them, using mainly his fists and the celerity of lightning. Yet each of them did not die, only crumbled up, not even clutching at their broken faces, as they retreated through black pits that materialized in the ground below them.

"Whew!" said Ian.

. . .

In the daytime, the new Mazercise's light-dimming 'night mode' had only just been implemented, since Elisa hadn't actually been so sure about its marketability. Nonetheless, it would turn out to be a success with only a few small children running into the now-vast walls.

. . .

Night 33

"I notice you weren't actually able to kill the Converts you fought last night." said Opera Penguin, in the weird black room that was above the communal hallway that he had used to exposition-dump on Vanessa.

"Are you always watching me?" asked Ian.

"Let's just say my magic can do a lot more things than either your or Vanessa's powers can do." said Opera Penguin. "Not only in terms of mere magnitude, but also in variety. So something akin to a very discreet body cam is no issue."

"Oh. Okay." said Ian. "Anyway, those creepy white things were called 'converts'? What, is this Utah?"

"Is it? I don't know." said Opera Penguin. "Anyway, I just thought you should know, I'm planning on making another little 'hero', in this case specifically to combat that issue."

"Why can't you deal with it?" asked Ian.

"I probably could, but I do think a specialized tool is often better than an all-purpose one." said Opera Penguin.

"So we're like, tools to you?" asked Ian.

Opera Penguin laughed, saying, "Well, what else would you be?"

Ian shrugged, saying "Mm, okay!" amicably.

"But I figured I'd just tell you beforehand, just so you don't get bitchy from seeing whoever it is when they show up. Don't worry, I'll let you know when it is, so don't walk up to the next Preacher or Convert you see and ask them if they're 'the new guy'." said Opera Penguin.

"Or girl." said Ian.

"They will probably be male, but even if not, I might as well mention now that is you have any hopes of freeing yourself from Rochelle, drown them now. I've decided you're too useful and. . . entertaining, not to assign you to her permanently." said Opera Penguin.

"Don't worry." said Ian. "I didn't have any plans on changing that."

"Good." said Opera Penguin. "Well, in that case—be sure to be the best boyfriend you can, to her!" he said, before laughing like a creepy fucker. As per usual.

. . .

After Ian was dumped into the hallway, and walked out into Rockstar Row, Rochelle crept up to him and asked him, "What did he want to talk about?"

"He just said we're gonna get a new fancy fucker with powers and a god complex, specifically to screw with those weird goth cunts." said Ian.

"I don't think Vanessa or you have a god complex." said Rochelle.

"Ya know what I mean." said Ian. "There's a definite sense of superiority around us. I don't try to make it happen, it just happens."

"I. . . haven't felt that. You honestly come off like you see us as equals." said Rochelle.

"Well, maybe only I feel it, but it definitely seems like we're shoehorned into these 'superhero' roles that aren't at all fitting for us." said Ian.

"But you don't think you're superior, right?" asked Rochelle.

"I don't even know what I am." said Ian, honestly. "I just think I should keep on moving until I have occasion to decide what I am."

"I think you're doing fine, at least." said Rochelle.

"Oh? Why's that?" asked Ian.

"I don't know, I just. . ." said Rochelle.

"Feel like you can't afford to judge me." said Ian. "Especially in your position."

Rochelle's mouth shut, sharply.

"Sorry, that was an asshole thing to say, I'm. . . sorry." said Ian. "I'm just feeling a little sick of how weirdly existential all our conversations always seem to be."

"I think it's because we don't really have anything much to do." said Rochelle, and then seeing Ian's face curled up into a countenance of dopey lasciviousness, she added, "apart from that."

"Well, of course!" said Penguin, popping up behind them. "None of you have been getting to play music! It was your original purpose, was it not? Of course you feel idle!"

"So what?" asked Rochelle.

"I'll get the stage ready! And all of your instruments, as well!" said Opera Penguin.

. . .

After Penguin had forcibly gotten everyone together in one room, Ian, Vanessa, Gregory and Apollo watched uncomfortably as Opera Penguin 'conducted' a performance by projecting a refresher of one of their prior performances into the yiffbabies' minds.

After it was finished, Gregory and Vanessa, and, after Vanessa shot him a death glare, Ian, all started sort of golf clapping, as Rochelle smiled uncertainly at Ian and Monsanto kept on stiffly jerking his eyebrows around at Vanessa, as if expecting some sort of specific feedback towards himself.

"Well, I think this should become a regular occurrence." said Penguin, standing tall with his fists on his hips.

"Why?" asked Gregory.

"Because you all need something regular to do rather than lying around, moping and occasionally trafficking in varying salty fluids in the process of various emotionally-charged activities." Opera Penguin said, smirking at Ian and Rochelle.

"Yeah, it's all good for them, but why do I need to be here? I'm not even friends with three out of four of them." said Gregory.

"I thought we were friends?" said Cheyenne.

"You're alr-" Gregory began, before Penguin spoke over him, saying "The action requires an audience. And you are going to serve as part of that audience. Or I'm gonna send Mr. Ticklefingers to rip your nuts off." He stooped down to say that second part.

"Please don't carry out my fetish on the child." said Ian.

Gregory, Vanessa and Opera Penguin turned to him, and stared.

"You know what, just forget everything I just said, you can fuck right off wherever you want and get kidnapped by whomever Ian and Vanessa aren't there to stop, I don't mind." said Opera Penguin.

Gregory took that opportunity, and as he did so, Ian muttered, "You owe me one, kid."

"Anyway, you seven have fun, I'm going to go onto the roof and brood like an anime anti-hero." said Opera Penguin. And he leapt upwards, appearing to become a shadow as he phased through the roof.

"What's up with him, recently?" asked Vanessa.

"Huh?" asked Ian. "I mean I've only been here recently, so I wouldn't know how he normally is."

"Then why did you decide to contribute anything to the conversation?" asked Vanessa. "But, for your information, he's usually just slightly more put together than this. It takes at least some kind of tangible irritation or annoyance before he breaks 'character', usually. Or maybe I'm just noticing now how fragile his act is, I don't know."

"I think he's honestly just like this, literally any annoyance and he goes off like a high-schooler playing Call of Duty." said Gregory, who had crept back.

"I thought you came in off the streets." said Apollo. "How do you know about Call of Duty?"

"I've stalked people before. Like, stared through windows and watched people go about their day." said Gregory. "Randomly."

The others stared at him.

"What? There's not a lot to do for entertainment when you're a street mongrel." said Gregory.

"You frighten me." said Apollo.

"Out of all the people here?" asked Gregory.

"I mean, everyone here frightens me. But that doesn't change the fact that you still frighten me." said Apollo.

Ian walked up to Rochelle, who had gone quiet. "Hey, what's the matter, Roche?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about how Casey never got to see this. The thing I'm good for, and he never saw it." said Rochelle.

"Hey!" said Ian, and Rochelle jumped slightly, shrinking back at his sudden aggression. "You're not Roxanne. I mean, you're not just Roxanne. You're more than that, now. You always were. More than just a robot, you had a spirit in you and now that spirit has been brought to life as you. You are a person, with all the value of a person and that is the value of something more than just a—a singing robot." he leaned in as he said this, speaking in a hushed, yet intense voice, but then he reared back his head as he said, in a much louder voice, "so I don't want to hear any more about that soy bitchboy, any more!" taking care to say 'any more' twice to sound extra stupid.

Even Rochelle looked shocked at Ian's choice of 'cover', but Vanessa looked outright pissed. Everyone expected a tirade, but instead what they got was Vanessa 'unsheathing' her flashlight, turning it on and transforming it into her sword, as she rushed towards Ian and swung with an uppercut.

"I'm done with you." she said, as Ian blocked the blade with a vambrace of frost energy formed around his forearm. "I don't know why Penguin dragged you in here, but the joke has gone on for too long."

Ian's face suddenly split into outright joy. "Finally!" said Ian. "Some real activity!"

He suddenly jabbed with sudden ferocity at Vanessa, despite her being out of arms' reach, but the jab directed a bolt of lightning at Vanessa's chest. Her leather vest absorbed most of the bolt, and it merely pushed her back, like a bulletproof vest absorbing several rounds.

Ian hunched, his legs bending, as he began to levitate raising one open hand with fingers slightly curling in, as more lightning began to coalesce in his palm.

"Stop it!" cried out Rochelle, "What are you two doing?!"

Ian faltered, his hand lowered and he casually blew a massive scar into the flooring.

Vanessa, on the other hand, threw a fireball into Ian's neck, which exploded on contact.

Ian's face looked unscathed, except that some boiling tears, seemingly in reaction to the pain of having his face detonated, rolled partially down Ian's face before evaporating.

Ian's face was contorted in pain and rage, and he instantly shot like a missile towards Vanessa, pummeling her face about thirteen times in the span of about two seconds before Rochelle piped up again, saying "Ian!"

Ian relented.

Vanessa didn't actually look that much worse for wear, aside from a nosebleed—it seemed that their power protected them from being visibly harmed first and foremost, even if they in their essence were somehow taking damage.

"What was that about?" asked Rochelle.

"I said. I'm done with him. I don't want his fucking mug around here anymore." said Vanessa. "If nothing else, I wanna cut his face to remove that insufferable smile."

"Vanessa! I understand his demeanor is deplorable, but is this truly the right approach to take, given your position? Your responsibilities?" asked Ferdinand, stepping between them.

"You can shove all that, as long as this scumbag is under this roof. I've tolerated him for—" Vanessa said, before she paused. "How long has it been?" she asked.

"Three days." said Ian.

"It's felt like three weeks!" said Vanessa. "You've been a constant stain on the atmosphere, even when your mouth is shut. Even when you're not there, I can still smell your stench."

"I wash plenty!" Ian cut in.

"What?" asked Vanessa.

"What matters is that you definitely have been less than sociable in these three days, it cannot be denied." said Ferdinand. "Please, Vanessa, remember how important it is for one of your role to stand firm, to be reliable. You are the backbone of this place. But, Ian, please, try to be more kind, and more respectable, not least because you are of a similar status to her. We are like a family here-"

"No, nuh-uh, I'm not playing house with you fuckers." said Ian.

"But aren't you already, with me?" asked Rochelle.

Ian shut up.

"Okay, I'm just a little distracted—how do you wash in here? There are no showers?" asked Vanessa.

"I can control water. I can flip on one of the sinks and manipulate it to encase my body and whirl around, with a little soap." said Ian.

"Use a little more." said Vanessa.

"I also use toilet water to douche out my ass. The whoooole thing. To immaculacy. It feels great." Ian added, agonizingly.

"What the hell?" asked Vanessa.

"Don't worry, I only do it with clean toilets. Or, I clean the toilets first. I can take really hard hold over water to make it functionally hard, and scrape out all the nasty shit, flush it, and then use the now-clean toilet—" said Ian, before Vanessa silenced him with great and volcanic profanity.

After a quiet resulting from the blue streak Vanessa just let out, Ian said, "I was just detailing the hygeine you claimed I don't ha-"

"I. DON'T. FUCKING. CARE!" said Vanessa.

"Vanessa, I feel as though you are forgetting-" began Ferdinand.

"AGAIN! I DO! NOT! CARE!" said Vanessa.

"Vanessa?" asked Ian.

"WHAT!" was the reply he got.

"Shut the fuck up." said Ian, in a blunt, yet soft way.

"This is horrible!" said Cheyenne. "Why hasn't Opera Penguin intervened?"

"I guess he really was serious about that 'anime brooding'." said Monsanto.

. . .

Meanwhile, Opera Penguin was not brooding.

"I knew you'd be out here." he said to the newcomer.

"So you lied to the others about what y'were doing, huh?" asked the newcomer, a man with long, red hair and a broken heart symbol branded onto his incredibly muscular chest, under an open yet hooded spiked jacket. The upper-right corner of his face sagged where, once, his older brother almost made his entire skull rupture. He had a large shotgun holstered at his hip.

"They don't need to know. And they won't with the people that follow you once you're dead, either." said Opera Penguin.

"My! My! You're an arrogant little shit, you know that?" asked the newcomer.

"Why? Because I know I'm going to win? Need I remind you that one of my peers was your brother? The one that you always cowered away from when he was alive?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Aw, get the fuck over yourself, Marty-boy." said the newcomer. "You're not dangerous by association with him. Anyway, Kenneth is still alive."

Opera Penguin's face dropped to absolute zero. "You don't know what you're talking about. I suggest you don't talk about it, anymore."

"Yeah I do!" said the newcomer.

"You. Do not. Know. About that mission." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah, I do! The Overseer had him fake his death!" said the newcomer.

"Don't you dare joke about this, Jager!" screamed Opera Penguin.

"I'm not joking!" laughed Jager.

"I'm going to skin you, you bastard!" Opera Penguin said, shooting towards Jager, and throwing a punch.

Jager caught him by the wrist, then jerked his arm, snapping the bone of Penguin's forearm in two. "Boy, just 'cause you've had a macho phase since you failed the test, don't mean you're tougher shit than a Deadrealm-grown badass!" Jager said, before planting a kick in the center of Penguin's solar plexus that both left a crater in his torso and sent him flying.

Mid-flight, however, Penguin healed himself, and created a momentary mid-air vertical (but slightly angled upward) platform to launch off of, back towards Jager.

Penguin pulled out his pistol and unloaded all six barrels at Jager. Five out of six bullets hit, but did little, only making small punctures in Jager's skin before glancing over, ineffectually.

"Well, gee, Pengy-boy. . ." Jager tutted, striding towards Opera Penguin as the latter landed back on the roof. "I'd a-thought that the companion of my esteemed, perfect mo'fucking fratricidal hero of a brother woulda put up more'va fight. . . You know what, fuck this. Gedd'im, boys."

Theatrically, several thugs wearing circular masks, each a plain white circle with a heart on it and subtle eyeholes, popped out from various hiding places.

Enraged at the affront of having mere henchmen set upon him, Penguin dashed up to the nearest one, reached into a pocket dimension, and pulled out a shotgun of his own, although this one, as his pistol, was as alabaster as a cue call.

In a single fluid motion, Opera Penguin pointed the gun at the grunt and pulled the trigger, pulverizing his entire head.

"Ahh. . . shoulda known y'd have had some pocket dimensions. Frankly, I'm surprised a twink like you doesn't put 'em up his ass, so you can take the old phrase lit'ral and-" said Jager, before Penguin planted a flying kick to his face, and vaulted off, landing in front of another minion to blow his brains out.

"Ar'right, boys. . . looks like the pussy cat 'as his claws out now. You go take the gateway back." said Jager.

"Gateway?" asked Opera Penguin. "You aren't intelligent enough to know how to make one of those, so how-"

"Don'tchu know that the Overseer's had you nailed down on the billboard as a job for a while?" asked Jager, laughing.

"Yes. I've been aware of it for some time, that's why-" said Opera Penguin, before he was interrupted again.

"Dead or alive, he said, ha ha! As if anyone is gonna tolerate you alive for long enough to take you to him! WELL! He's been so very kind an' generous, as to give out free transportation! And we even get to keep it afterwards!" said Jager.

"Does he have more than one saved up?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Oh, yeah!" said Jager. "He thinks for some reason that people 're gonna fail at getting you, for some reason, and, well, let's just say there's a lot more where that came from!"

"I'm ready for them." said Opera Penguin.

"I'm thinking you're not, because I'm thinking you're gonna be dead by the time they even think about takin' that job offer." said Jager.

"Well, we'll see about that." said Opera Penguin, then a full moon materialized behind Jager.

He turned around, and laughed at it, before it exploded, yet with force that was entirely towards Jager, thus leaving the building unscathed.

He was sent careening into the air, and Opera Penguin leapt up, and began letting forth a whirling storm of blows at Jager.

Jager laughed as the blows landed. "Nice massage! If I liked boys, I'd make it worth your while, but I'm more interested in the reward for killing you than your cum face! So maybe try actually fucking hurting me rather than caressing me, bitch!"

Opera Penguin completely lost it, and stowed his shotgun as he pulled out a tommy gun, likewise white, and pointed it in Jager's face, sending a spray of bullets into his face and eyes.

"YOU LITTLE CUNT!" Jager screamed as he clenched his eyelids shut and roundhouse kicked Opera Penguin in the ribs.

Opera Penguin was sent flying away, but recovered using an ephemeral platform as before, and met Jager once more with a flying side kick to the face.

"Alright, you little bastard, you've proven to me that you need to get it for real." said Jager. "I'll have Quincy give you a facefull of lead."

Despite himself, Opera Penguin laughed.

"What's funny!?" asked Jager, indignantly.

"Oh, it's just. . ." said Opera Penguin.

"What!" said Jager.

"Men who name their possessions like women are so fucking unstable, hahahahhahahahahaha!" shrieked Opera Penguin with sudden and unhinged mirth.

"Don't you laugh at 'er like that, you piece of shit!" said Jager, pointing his shotgun at Penguin and firing.

However, the moment his finger pulled, Penguin blinked away.

"Ha!" said Jager. "That wasn't even a real round! It was a blank, you balless fuck!"

Penguin responded, not with words, but with another side-kick to the face, followed up by suddenly-harder punches.

"Ye-owch! Kitty's really got claws, huh-huh?" said Jager, giggling in a low voice. "Still can't hit like a man though, wonder if you were just born an inch from being a dame but fuckin' failed a' even that? Well, I always wanted an excuse to crush a lil' lady's bones in my bare hands but I can't do it back home since the whores I wrangle are too valuable a source of profit!"

Opera Penguin stretched out his arms, and invested the moonlight itself with a form of power. This was one of his specialties, ever since he had appropriated the perfected element of the full moon from the realm of the moon prophetesses, defiling their ancient traditions by using the knowledge of their perfected energies as merely an aspect of his tricks, he could imbue a divine sort of power into moonlight itself to establish a domain of his own within it and this he did, now, rendering the area within its boundaries empowering to himself and draining to the one that stood before him, against him.

"Eugh! What the hell are you doing!" said Jager.

"Showing you what this supposed sub-masculine twink can really do." said Opera Penguin.

The power now flowing through Penguin manifested as silver lace winding itself through the seams of his tuxedo, as he dropped his cape.

"Oh, now that is some girly shi-" said Jager, before a blow from Penguin's fist fractured his jaw.

He gargled in utter shock, before Penguin punched him again, slamming his entire body against the roof, leaving a small crater.

He tried getting up several times, but this only prompted Penguin to punch him again and again, dribbling him like a basketball, before finally he felt his heart get crushed.

Despite the anatomically impossibility of breathing, Jager mustered up all his power to say, "Well, if I can't win, I'm at least gonna take you down with me."

"Oh really?" Opera Penguin said, laughing with the sheer masturbatory rush of power he felt upon demolishing the cretin that lay before him. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"Back in Deadrealm, erry man knows how to change the last of his life into a rush of extra ki." said Jager, before pointing the gun at Opera Penguin, a purple corona surrounding his body before funneling into the gun. "And I can load ki into rounds."

Opera Penguin shot back, but the gun was already pointed at him.

All seemed lost, until a flash of light shone in Jager's eyes, and his hand involuntarily jerk up as he pulled the trigger, unleashing a nebula of purple shell fragments uselessly above Penguin's head.

Penguin turned, and saw Apollo.

"You just saved my life." he said, incredulously. It sounded like an accusation, the way his tone smoldered with disbelief.

"Uhh. . . sorry?" said Apollo, confused.

"No, I mean, thank you." said Opera Penguin. "Truly, I just. . . wow." he looked at Jager's corpse. "What a stupid fucking way to die."

After a moment, Opera Penguin looked back at Apollo.

"How'd you know?" he asked.

"You just said you'd come up here to brood, and honestly the way it seemed genuine, I was worried you were really upset over something." said Apollo.

Opera Penguin walked over to Apollo, and Apollo shrunk back, but to his surprise, Opera Penguin hugged him. "You always were my favorite, Sun." he said, smiling as tears rolled down his mask, and then his face.

Apollo was shocked, mainly at the fact that he wasn't, well, shocked, due to Penguin saying his 'old' name. But he was also shocked at Opera Penguin saying his 'old' name at all.

"You really don't have to say that-" said Apollo.

"No, no, you really were." said Opera Penguin. "Although, mainly because I hated all the others." he added, smiling.

"Who's Kenneth?" asked Apollo.

"An old friend of mine. . . that I lost." said Opera Penguin.

"He stopped being your friend?" asked Apollo.

"He died." said Opera Penguin.

"But I heard that guy say he's still alive." said Apollo.

"I wish, I just don't think I can believe that guy." said Opera Penguin. "But, I can wish. Then again, admitting to him that I killed his younger brother might be a bit. . . iffy."

"But he was trying to kill you!" said Apollo.

"It was in the line of duty. A sacred duty. That's what we were always told. It doesn't matter what you do. Because it's a sacred duty." said Opera Penguin.

"What is?" asked Apollo.

"Well, what it really was, was bounty hunting. Hired thug work. People could 'call on us in their time of need', or at least that was how it was originally supposed to be. But eventually it boiled down to people making 'petitions' that were openly contracts, not even phrased as cries for help. We got paid by the Overseer himself when they didn't offer money, but most did. We bathed in riches and whenever the question of morals came up, we reminded each other that it was a 'sacred duty'. That we were treated as a divine force, no matter what we did, as long as it was directly in the process of fulfilling the contract. That we were instruments of the divine order, wielded in response to mortal dependence. Yeah, we said that fat load of bullshit that we knew wasn't true, that we knew was just an official creed, to hide from what we did know. What that creed was meant to cover up. We lived and thrived in the system made by Kauthann and then corrupted by our present Overseer, complacent with our complicity in it, and then, in return, he devoured us." said Opera Penguin.

"Who is Kauthann?" asked Apollo.

"A divine being who brought together many dimensions out of the sea of infinity, into a stable continuum. One of the few beings I believe to be truly benevolent. But he doesn't like interacting with his finished work. Partially because it is finished, and partially, well. . . can you blame him?" said Opera Penguin.

"So, he isn't a creator of any sort?" asked Apollo.

"Well, he created the unity that allows the different dimensions to be traveled between in a coherent manner." said Opera Penguin. "He created the bond that makes all the dimensions flow through time as one, and not separately, so you can go to Lowrealm, for instance, on a Tuesday, stay there for the equivalent of 24 hours, and come back to find that it is in fact Wednesday, without you having to calibrate your travel so you don't accidentally come back to the Stone Age, because without the Cosmic Federation, as it's called, all times in any given universe would be equally distant to all times in any other. Of course, depending on your exact definition of 'universe', you could argue that Kauthann made them technically be 'one universe', since they're all in consistence connection, and thus all 'turned to one'."

"But did he make this whole 'bounty hunter' system?" asked Apollo.

"He made a system of laws, and then he made several divine positions for beings to enforce those laws. This, unfortunately, means that beings of those positions, namely the chief position of 'Grand Overseer', the technical title for the Overseer, all have an ample opportunity to 'interpret' those laws. 'Creatively'. And so, his ordinance that 'all the truest heroes of the worlds should be rallied in Heavenrealm to be called upon by those in need' was 'creatively interpreted' as 'give money to people with powers for displaying the outward signs of base empathy towards those in distress, but otherwise facilitate them acting as hired thugs. Not least of all by giving them the ultimate Nuremberg defense. That it's a sacred duty.'" said Opera Penguin.

"So did you do b-bad things?" asked Apollo.

"Terrible, sometimes. Other times we were big damn heroes. But the thing is, it was never special one way or another to us. Because no matter how it outwardly seemed, it was always just the same old grind to us. Just, with varying degrees of missing sleep at night." said Opera Penguin.

"What were some of the 'terrible' things?" asked Apollo.

"More than once, we helped members of dominant races, usually humans, wipe out small settlements of other races for various, unsatisfactory reasons. Their excuse generally boiled down to, 'they attacked us viciously, after we provoked them'. Naturally, we generally focused on the first part of that. One time, we got called by some edgy teenagers to break the legs of some other teens they designated as 'preps'. Was preeeeetty hard to rationalize that one, but hey, it's a sacred duty, right?" Opera Penguin said, as he laughed.

"What if someone who you've been called upon against calls upon you to stop, or even go after the first person that called on you?" asked Apollo.

"We don't get called individually, people call on the 'Legion of Heroes'—that's what we were called—and then someone takes the plea or offer. So if someone did try fighting fire with fire in that way, it would usually just result in us fighting some other 'heroes'. But, in the unlikely case where we did get hired for two opposite causes, we would just pick the people that gave us more money."

"But then you surely couldn't use the 'sacred duty' excuse, since you're acting against it, right?" asked Apollo.

"Perhaps, were it not for the fact that this was the Overseer's instruction." said Opera Penguin.

"But why?" asked Apollo.

"Well, according to him, more money means they must be harder workers, and more generous people, to give such abundant offerings with their pleas." said Opera Penguin, his voice getting steadily more sarcastic as his sentence bore on. "Honestly, I can't understand how he even can face himself."

"But how did he betray you?" asked Apollo.

"Well, you see, in addition to answering 'pleas', we also were at his beck and call. He offered us some missions, and force us to undertake others. But there was this one, this 'test' that he said would 'prove' we were 'ready' to be free of his yoke. An assault on a dimension that had crumbled into a demonic realm." Opera Penguin said. "In fact, I think it's been assimilated into being a branch of Lowrealm."

"What's Lowrealm?" asked Apollo.

"It's basically hell. But not all of it is quite how you'd expect hell to be. It's not a place anyone with wisdom would linger within, however. There are some civilized areas, but even those always seem to gravitate towards moral degeneracy. And I don't mean like some harmless fun like the way I torture you all, I mean like brothels hiring only those who are terminally addicted to krokodil, or dead baby farms, or Planet Fitness."

Apollo reeled, having several questions, but he settled on "How do you grow dead babies?"

Opera Penguin looked at him like he was stupid momentarily, and said, "From dead baby plants, of course! They're like sunflowers, but droopy, and with grey petals, and have dark grey human skulls in the center that have black, decaying flesh on them, and they use psychic powers to transmute ambient matter into perfect replicas of baby corpses."

"Why?" asked Apollo.

"To serve as props for unfunny comedians." said Opera Penguin.

"So Lowrealm is all hell, but not all the same hell?" asked Apollo.

"Precisely!" said Opera Penguin. "And not all hells are in Lowrealm. But anyway, the Overseer sent us on a mission to fight an entire encampment of demons, but we got caught up in this thick, foul, orange fog, and I lost my friends, and I didn't see what happened, but based on what I heard, they didn't make it. So, in that moment, I lost all my delicacy. I went berserk. There was but one demon left when the fog cleared, a great, leopard-like beast, the size of a schoolbus and with the face of a crimson oni."

"What's an oni?" asked Apollo.

"They're like ogres, but classier." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh." said Apollo.

"Anyway, I used a spell originally meant to make mirror images of oneself to deceive, but modified so that the mirror images did, in fact, have solidity, and tangible strength, and, using a private militia consisting of myself, I used brute force to destroy the beast. That was the first skirmish in which I truly relied on my physical strength, for I had not yet adopted a gun, and my destructive spellcraft was mostly that which was common to all magicians, except quite subpar, as my specialty was in dazzling manipulations, and confounding anomalies to confuse and disorient. Stage magic, except that it was truly magic." said Opera Penguin. "Nonetheless, I had picked up some strength along my journeys, and with that, multiplied many times over, I tore the demon apart."

"I don't see how even many men could physically tear a huge monster apart." said Apollo.

"That is because you are weak." said Opera Penguin, and then, to Apollo's shocked face, he added, "You see, to each person there is a spirit. An essence that is fundamentally them, and not merely matter that shifts and falls away to be replaced. And within the spirit begins every action. And in the natural state of things, the spirit grows minutely from every action, cumulatively growing power within itself. However, some worlds, such as this one, steal away that power as soon as it forms, and thus their denizens never truly get to taste the vast power that they could have, if only the labored endlessly in a world that was free of such a force as this, which, along with similar forces like it, are called 'shrouds of suppression'. Aspects of the cosmos which suppress potential by cutting its fruits away, or in other cases, preventing them from growing."

"Is that how you have magic, then?" asked Apollo.

"Yes and no." said Opera Penguin. "Spellcasting is one of the powers that shrouds of suppression make impossible to develop, but it is a kind of ability whose nature is something other than simply 'doing things and slowly getting stronger at them'. All spellcasting is tied to some kind of practice, or meditation or something abstract that is not an ability in and of itself but causes an ability to come about, to procure energy in some way, whether from within or from without, and find one's way around giving it a shape, that shape being the effect which is manifested."

"What?" asked Apollo.

"Don't worry about it. My point is that spellcasting is, indeed, a kind of power, but more complicated than just exercise. But, in this case, it was the other kind of power, the kind that is, indeed, just exercise. With that strength, and with it cloned about sixteen times, well, 'we' managed to inflict horrific injuries upon the thing that made death a mercy. After that, I spent about a year in Lowrealm, forcing myself to fight using raw strength, and training myself to use a pistol in honor of one of my friends, whom I will refer to only as 'Death Conductor', as that was his code name." said Opera Penguin.

"Kind of like how 'Opera Penguin' is yours?" asked Apollo.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin.

"It's so weird, thinking about how you're, sort of, one of many. We all see you as this weird sort of alien figure, but where you come from, everything about you is just. . . standard." said Apollo.

"Well, I suppose with literal aliens, it would also be like that, yes?" asked Opera Penguin.

Apollo laughed. "Yeah."

"In all honesty, it almost felt like I was back in the good old times, the moment I realized I would have died if it were not for an ally. For the first time in ages, I relied on someone else, like an equal, and not like a miniature Overseer myself." said Opera Penguin.

"Hasn't it only been a month?" asked Apollo.

"Yes, but I've been so busy, it's felt longer." said Opera Penguin.

"Wait, if I was like an equal for a moment," said Apollo, "what do you think my code name would be?"

"Uhhm, Rise and Shine-er?" said Opera Penguin, then shook his head vigorously. "No, that sounds too blunt, uhhmmmm. . . Mr Brightside?"

Apollo's mouth crinkled up at the corners. "Comin' out of my cage, and I've been doin' just fine. . ."

Opera Penguin winced. "Please. Don't."

"What, is my singing that bad?" Apollo asked, face falling.

"Ohh, no. I just can't stand that song." said Opera Penguin.

. . .

Ian sat down on Rochelle's bed, Rochelle on top of him. Their eyes were locked, but Rochelle said nothing, and Ian dare not say anything. Her eyes were teary.

After a while, he mustered up, "I'm sorry."

"I know that it's not your fault. I get it. You don't need to make up some big defense, I just don't know how to defuse this." said Rochelle.

"I know this is going to sound like a terrible idea," said Ian, reaching beneath and behind her ear, "but as bad as this is, I think the best course of action is just to fall asleep as quickly as possible, and see what your outlook is when you wake up."

"Oh, no." said Rochelle, as she mirrored his action. "You might have a perfectly fine excuse for all this, but you still have to make it up to me."

"What? How? What am I gonna do from here? I'm undressed! And you're on top of me!" said Ian. He shifted slightly, feeling the warmth and softness of the point of their contact. Her outer fur wasn't rough—it wasn't quite silky, but had almost a sort of nylon or polyester feel to it, despite being organic—but the shorter fur on her underbelly was outright cottony

Rochelle stared blankly straight at him for a moment, and then she asked, "Ian, are you stupid?"

"Ooohhhhhhhhhh." said Ian. "Okay, just one thing, first."

"What?" asked Rochelle, slightly irritated that there would be further diversion past Ian's blatant foreplay-deafness.

"Bite me." said Ian.

"What?!" asked Rochelle.

"On the neck, or the shoulder, however hard you like. Just, please, do it." said Ian.

She did, and she was surprised the readiness she felt the moment her teeth came out.

Ian cried out, but amidst the evident pain in his voice, there was a definite undercurrent of enjoyment that concerned Rochelle.

"Okay," said Ian, breathily, "now I'm in the mood for it." And he pulled her face down to meet his.

. . .

Cheyenne sat, hunched, at one of the chairs in the Atrium.

"Man, those two pissed off quick, huh?" asked Monsanto.

"Mmm?" asked Cheyenne.

"Rochelle and Ian." the gator elaborated.

"Yeah, it's. . . upsetting." said Cheyenne.

"What, are you thinking about trying to kill him, too?" asked Monsanto, elbowing Cheyenne gently.

"What? No, I'm not that stupid. He'd kill me, wouldn't he?" asked Cheyenne.

"I was having a gaff." said Monsanto. "I'm guessing you pointedly don't like the guy at all, do you?"

"No." said Cheyenne, and then, after a moment of thought she asked, "You don't think he could be mind-controlling her, do you?"

Monsanto laughed. "Is it really that bad to you?"

"No, I'm being serious. Before, she wouldn't accept anything that undermined her or her already-wavering self esteem, now she's letting him degrade her up and down and clinging to him like he's her lifeline or something, whenever someone's about to criticize him." said Cheyenne.

"I don't know, I feel like mind control is a power that smart bad guys have, and he doesn't seem too smart, even if he is kind of a bad guy. Maybe it's Opera Penguin? I overheard the guy when Ian first popped up, saying he was a 'replacement' or something." said Monsanto.

"That's horrible. . . you mean he saw Casey as replaceable? Forgettable? I miss Casey. . ." said Cheyenne.

"Wait, I thought you didn't like him." said Monsanto.

"I didn't say that." said Cheyenne. "I just said I could never find him attractive. He was a bit immature, and a bit silly. But I would rather have to marry that guy than have to see Ian as his equal, and his replacement."

"Well, good news!" said Opera Penguin, who, for some reason, was holding Apollo next to him like an archer holding his quiver, as he popped up behind Cheyenne. "You don't have to see him any given way! Just resign yourself to his existence. He's not going away unless he fucks up, badly."

"Where were you while they were fighting?" asked Cheyenne, turning towards Penguin angrily and standing up.

"Ohh, did something entertaining happen that I missed?" asked Opera Penguin.

"They nearly killed each other! Ian and Vanessa!" said Cheyenne.

"Well, I'll surely be able to use the camera system to watch, it'll be like catching a rerun." said Opera Penguin.

"What's a rerun?" asked Monsanto.

"Ohh, something from the dark ages of cable TV." said Opera Penguin.

"This isn't funny! You're letting in-fighting go on while you were, what, crying at the stars?" Cheyenne said.

There was something about the phrase 'in-fighting' that made Opera Penguin pause, his face glazing over, before he found himself and said, "Actually, I was admiring the moon."

Apollo opened his mouth, but Opera Penguin shushed him, let him go and sent him away.

"I'm not okay with this." said Cheyenne. "I've been consistently content with the way you run things around here, even when some of the things you've done have come across as suspicious, but this is too much. I thought Bernard was being pointlessly hostile to you, but maybe he was right, maybe you have just made this place our little 'heaven' in order to lull us into submission."

"Ohh, so Bernard's been talking to you, eh?" said Opera Penguin. "Well, let me just say this, and anyone else who hears might benefit." he said, pacing around the table Cheyenne and Monsanto were at. "Submission is not such a repugnant curse as it's made out to be. Sometimes, it is, well, relieving. No longer have you the obligation to assert anything. No longer is it your duty to worry about where things are going, or what you are doing with your life. You have, instead, only the need to accept what is being put upon you, and to learn to adore the experience."

"Uhh, this is getting kinda weird." said Monsanto. "I think I'm out of here."

"No." said Opera Penguin. "Take my words in. Submission can be your ecstasy. If only you let yourself go and dance to my beat. For to join the dance of life that I bring forth, is to fall into, and contribute to, the source of your worth." he said, with a lulling, poetic cadence.

"Dude, you're weird." said Monsanto.

"Strange how you're only just now coming to this conclusion." said Opera Penguin.

"Not really, I just remembered that I always knew." said Monsanto.

"Well, discussions of my weirdness won't be on the test, so, no need to make a note of it." said Opera Penguin.

"Whu-What test?" said Monsanto.

Opera Penguin laughed, and then waved him off.

"It was a joke." Penguin said.

"Opera Penguin, please." said Cheyenne. "Do something about Ian."

"I'm afraid Ian in his present state constitutes a replacement for multiple important roles, not just ones held by Casey but also social roles formerly held by Rochelle, before something of a shift in her demeanor." said Opera Penguin.

"What, you mean when Casey mellowed her up, she got fired from the office of Supreme Bitch?" chortled Monsanto.

"Monsanto!" said Cheyenne.

"Precisely!" said Opera Penguin, beaming at him. "See, I know you're not as stupid as your general reputation amongst your peers has you out to be!"

"Wait, what?" asked Monsanto.

Opera Penguin laughed.

. . .

Gregory hunched in his cat bed, with Mangle curled up around him.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Have you seen the new guy at all?" asked Gregory.

"I've seen him from far off." said Mangle.

"Keep it that way." said Gregory.

"What way?" asked Mangle.

"Far off." said Gregory. "He's no good, and I don't want him to have a chance to hurt you."

Mangle smiled, the plates making up her face that should be solid bending in an unnaturally organic fashion. "You care about me?"

"Of course I care about you! You're the only person here that sees me as an equal, and even if you have a weird obsession with me that involves the idea of me dying, you're still probably tied with Ferdinand for the nicest person here!" said Gregory.

"Well, obviously if I love you then I'm gonna act like it." said Mangle.

"Honestly, I wouldn't even mind dying at this point. It's not like the sane world has a place for me, and-" said Gregory.

"Don't say that! Listen, if you can find a way to carve out your future out in the daylight, and I'm sure you can, I think you should, and you should be as successful as possible while you're doing it. Don't disqualify yourself. I want you to succeed, as much as I want you. Just. . . come back here sometimes." said Mangle. "You're definitely worthy of a healthy life. Don't nail yourself down here in the dust with me."

"Hey. . ." said Gregory. "Don't talk yourself down either. You're not just some rotting toy."

"Aren't I?" asked Mangle. "I mean,"

"No." said a new, crueler voice. "You are worse. You are an impostor."

Gregory looked up. . . to see Mangle. It was a different Mangle, though—the limbs that made it up clearly added up to the normal human number, even if they were disarrayed, and it was more firmly, 'faithfully' identical to typical depictions of how the Mangle actually looked on some of the conspiracy sites Gregory had been on.

"Wha-?" asked Mangle, Gregory's Mangle.

"You are a fascimile of me. You died after I did. You are not true to the form I have taken, the character I have become. You are a glorification of her suffering." said the other Mangle. "You do not deserve her name, my name; you deserve to die."

The other Mangle lunged, but Gregory threw his Mangle a couple feet away, and grabbed the other Mangle's jaws.

His Mangle had spoiled him with regard to how she chose to become lighter, as this one was far heavier. Strangely enough, though, Gregory managed to muster up the strength, before all around him came a light, that strobed red, then blue, then purple, then repeated the cycle enough to potentially hospitalize numerous children in Japan. The light manifested in a thick cloud of particles around him, before cascading into the 'other Mangle', knocking her back.

Then, suddenly, Mangle yanked open her other head's jaw, and pulled out the cloak and staff. She threw the cloak over herself, and pointed the staff at the other Mangle.

A thin stream of fire shot out at the other Mangle, who screamed profusely.

However, the carpet caught fire, and, as if by instinct, Mangle conjured up with the stick what appeared to be light snow, which somehow was able to douse the fire, despite being thinner than mist.

Then, Mangle electrocuted the other Mangle, until she dropped from the ceiling, twitching.

"Presumptuous little scamp." said Opera Penguin, materializing into the room. "But, good work on your part, Mangle."

"Who is that?" asked Gregory.

"That is the first Mangle." said Opera Penguin. "She very much liked being the Mangle before she became the Mangle. She was very upset over the, how might you say it cosmetic changes. But you, on the other hand, were drawn to her in this altered form. She has become somewhat bitter, over the years, upon seeing your so-called 'imposture'."

"I thought we were friends. . ." said Mangle. "I thought she loved me."

"You can't seriously expect her to be the best 'big sis' all the time when she died when she was just a year younger than when she put your light out." said Opera Penguin. "She still retains that level of maturity. And I'm sure once you talk it out, whenever that is, and explain the nuances of your differing identities, you can at least try to reconcile with her. For now, though, as the closest thing to a guardian figure she has, I will say she is, in a sense, 'grounded'. No physical manifestation for two months, for attempting to murder her little sister." Opera Penguin cracked a smile at this last part, and Gregory couldn't help joining him.

Mangle, on the other hand, buried her face in her hands. "I don't want her to hate me." she said.

"You have all the time in the world to work things out." said Opera Penguin. "But, in the meanwhile, I think you—and Gregory—need some rest and relaxation."

"You can say that again." said Gregory, collapsing down into the cat bed. Mangle morosely wrapped herself around him like a boa constrictor but fonder.

Opera Penguin de-materialized.

Vanessa was looking for alcohol when suddenly, a stranger appeared.

He was wearing a jacket and jeans, and had an almost shaved head. His expression was frozen in a state of amusement, and he stood oddly, hands on his hips, specifically in a 'thumbs-up' position with their thumbs stuck in his hips. But what was most poignant was his lurid violet skin, violet almost exactly like the flower of the same name, and the dark circles around his eyes that made his unnaturally pure white sclera, faded-out irises and absent pupils seem to glow.

"Hey theyah!" he said, with a New York accent.

Vanessa instantly manifested her sword, ready to kill what she assumed was yet another Convert, before Opera Penguin popped up, saying "Hey! Hey! This guy's fine, his name is Dave. He's a. . . friend of mine. Undergoing. . . rehabilitation."

"And when did you meet this guy?" asked Vanessa.

"I met him not long after I first arrived here." said Opera Penguin.

"And what is he undergoing rehabilitation from?" asked Vanessa.

"Crack cocaine, honey." said Dave.

"Don't call me that." said Vanessa.

"It's not crack cocaine." said Opera Penguin. "He's had. . . you could say, depression, in a sense."

"In a sense? You either have depression or you don't, it's a psychiatric condition." said Vanessa.

"Well, I'm not a psychiatrist, but suffice it to say, every day seemed to be weighing down on him more. Never once did I see a smile break his morose face." said Opera Penguin.

"And you're using here as a rehab center." said Vanessa. "For this random crack addict."

"Hey! I own this fuckin' place!" said 'Dave'.

"He's confused." Opera Penguin clarified.

"Ain't no way! I owned this place since back in-AURGHGRHMM" said Dave, as Opera Penguin telekinetically crammed a plain, white handkerchief down his throat.

"Just try to keep him out of my sight, please." said Vanessa. "I'm having a bad enough time as it is."

"Hey, Marty-boy! Get some hookers in here, wouldja?" said Dave.

Opera Penguin sighed. "No, Dave."

"Some kiddies to decorate the place with, then?" asked Dave, and Vanessa opened her mouth, before Opera Penguin snapped, "This isn't even the same building as exists in the daytime!"

"Then what's even the point of-" Dave said, and then his eyes glazed over, like he was trying hard to remember something. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"Just go play in the ball pit, or, I don't know, traffic or something." said Opera Penguin.

"All righty. . ." Dave said, grumpily.

"That's the advice you give to your friend that you're trying to help out?" asked Vanessa.

"He'll be fine." said Opera Penguin, waving her off. "The people who hit him with their car, I'm not so sure."