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.

12. Chapter 12

Night 36

"Rochelle, this is an intervention." said Cheyenne. She, Rochelle, Monsanto, Gregory and Mangle were all in the Atrium.

"Yeah." said Monsanto. "We're definitely, like, intervening."

"In what, might I ask?" asked Rochelle.

"What do you think?" asked Gregory.

"Y'know, I'm really disappointed." said Rochelle. "I thought we had just managed to stabilize my opinion of you into juuuust above 'little shit'. But I guess it's your choice to knock that down again."

"Rochelle!" said Cheyenne.

"What." said Rochelle.

"You know what!" said Cheyenne.

"No, I don't. I really don't." said Rochelle.

"Rochelle, I didn't like it when you were always like this, I really didn't, back when you thought Gregory was going to replace you," said Cheyenne.

"Heh. Stupid that I ever thought that." said Rochelle, smirking.

"but it was better than how things are now! Recently you haven't been standing up for yourself at all, except now, when we're trying to say we're genuinely worried about you!" Cheyenne concluded.

"I mean, I'm worried, and it's about what's going on around you, but-" said Gregory.

"Gregory—look—can you just pretend, for once, that you care about her?" asked Cheyenne.

Gregory huffed. "Fine." he said.

"Thank you! Anyway, we think something horrible is happening to you. You just let Ian say and do whatever around you! To you!" said Cheyenne.

"What, am I supposed to be his wrangler?" asked Rochelle, irritated.

"No, but you're also not supposed to let him abuse you like this!" said Cheyenne.

Rochelle laughed. "Oh, you think he's abusing me? You think I'd let him?" she asked.

"He is. We see him do it." said Cheyenne.

"So having a sense of humor other than puns a clown would say," Rochelle said, shooting a glance at Mangle, who had been known for her bad jokes for a while, "is abuse?"

"Why're you so hell bent on defending him?" asked Monsanto. "When he's around, being a piece o' shit, you're a wet noodle, but the moment someone opens their mouth against him-"

"Because we have a good thing going." said Rochelle, shortly.

"Is it a good thing? If it's so good, then why are you being so defensive about it?" asked Cheyenne. "Why are you getting cut off from the rest of us? Why have I seen you saying horrible things out of nowhere?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Rochelle, "quit acting like a dumb soccer mom! Not every thing that comes out of my mouth that you don't like has to be blamed on some scapegoat you claim is 'influencing' me!"

"This is literally the first time she has ever used that kind of reasoning." Gregory said.

"Shut it, kid." said Rochelle.

"Rochelle!" exclaimed Cheyenne.

"You know, your voice is really damn annoying. You do know that, right?" asked Rochelle.

"What's your problem? It really is like Ian is seeping into you. Is he hurting you? You can tell us! But, please! Just break this horrible relationship off!" said Cheyenne.

"What's your problem?" asked Rochelle. "I know what Monsanto's is, it's biiiiiigg hottie Vanessa, who hates Ian, and Gregory is probably just scared that Ian's gonna scalp him-"

"I'm more worried about that weird purple guy I keep seeing around Opera Penguin." said Gregory.

"-and Mangle, like Monsanto, can't think independently of her baby, but what's your problem?" asked Rochelle.

"My problem is Ian! He's horrible, and I know he can't be any better behind closed doors." said Cheyenne.

"Shows how much you know." said Rochelle. "He's the only one who really understands me."

"I can't believe that." said Cheyenne.

"You know what? I think I've got what it is." said Rochelle. "You're jealous."

"What?" asked Cheyenne.

"Ferdinand's happy just sticking around, acting like Gregory's dad—don't know where he is right now," said Rochelle, "Monsanto just loooooooves Vanessa, even if she'll never love him back,"

"Hey! Screw you!" said Monsanto.

"and even the little boy has his little Hollywood romance with spaghetti fox over here," said Rochelle, eliciting an outraged scoff from Mangle.

"but you," said Rochelle, striding aggressively towards Cheyenne, thrusting a shaking, accusatory pointing hand at her, "you only had, up until recently, a mild consolation in the fact that I had lost the love of my life."

Cheyenne's head frenetically shook, 'no', but Rochelle's face contorted horribly into a savage rictus as she continued, "So when I got a good thing going, but you saw that people were already turned against him, and he was a little mean,"

"Rochelle, he verbally abuses everyone here, constantly, even if he doesn't stink anymore. He said I looked like a 'crackhead emu whore that you see when you smoke datura' yesterday and then pelvic-thrusted in midair while laughing like a maniac." said Cheyenne.

"you saw your chance to drag me back down with you." said Rochelle. "In other words, your problem is that you're jealous of me."

"What? What the hell, Rochelle, no, I am not jealous of anyone who has to share a room with Ian." said Cheyenne.

"Or maybe, you're jealous of him." said Rochelle, grabbing Cheyenne's beak from below and turning her head up.

"Wha-?" Cheyenne asked, squirming slightly away.

"I mean, I wouldn't even blame you. I mean, I tried to give you a free pass for how you had basically no personality before, since that was how you were programmed—business execs not daring enough to give two women distinct personalities—but you've barely evolved at all from that point. I started out with a shitty personality, and I strived and made something of myself." continued Rochelle, now aggressively grabbing Cheyenne's jaw, and placing one of her feet just past one of Cheyenne's own heels, trapping her in place.

Cheyenne was too nonplussed even to make a jab about how Rochelle had basically landed right back where she started.

"But, in the absence of any really nuanced character, you're nice. You're affectionate and caring, so the little few scraps of personality you have just had to point you towards me, didn't they? Seeing someone like me, it's no wonder that you'd look up to me, adore me, see me and want to be with me to have worth by association. To be with someone like me, to have someone to fill that empty head with." said Rochelle, whose grip had now crept to the point where she was outright throttling Cheyenne, and who had raised Cheyenne's face to her own to survey her unbridled fear.

"Rochelle, get off of her." said Monsanto, his voice going dead serious, as he stepped towards Rochelle and began scrabbling at her forearm with his nails.

"Admit it!" Rochelle screamed in Cheyenne's face.

Monsanto punched her square in the side of the face, causing her to lose her grip on Cheyenne, who dropped to the ground, as she reeled away, stepping to the side, and then turned to Monsanto and, for lack of a better word, roared at him, before storming off.

Monsanto knelt down to help Cheyenne up.

"Monsanto. . ." said Cheyenne.

"Now, don't you go giving me grief for doing that, she was about to kill you." said Monsanto.

"No, it's not that, it's just. . ." said Cheyenne.

"Yeah?" asked Monsanto.

Cheyenne pulled Monsanto in and kissed him.

"Oh, huh-huh." guffawed Monsanto.

"Is that seriously your reaction?" asked Cheyenne.

"Nah." said Monsanto. "This is." he said, and then literally swept her off her feet and carried her off.

"Well, all that just happened." said Gregory, stupidly.

Mangle dismounted the ceiling and then gently laced herself all around Gregory's body, like the cyberpunk equivalent of a gilly suit, apart from her hands and face. "Let's go to the ball pit." she said.

. . .

"Have you told Vanessa of my plans for the fifth 'hero'?" asked Opera Penguin.

"No." said Ian. "Wait, fifth?"

"There were two others, but one of them, you've heard of him, is a Convert now, and the other is subsumed into Vanessa's being, from which, indeed, she was cloned." said Opera Penguin.

"Neato." said Ian.

"Anyway, it's good that you haven't. Because, well, don't. I plan to make numerous lesser 'heroes' out of potentially dangerous people, and convince Vanessa that the Converts are behind it all. And, when you meet Mr. Andre Hellfire, I want you to continue playing along." said Opera Penguin.

"Andre Hellfire?" asked Ian. "I had no idea that names that cool were even legal."

"Well, it's not his actual name. It's his internet pseudonym. His actual name is Kendall Leer." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh. . ." said Ian. "Gross. . ."

"I do believe that's why he calls himself Andre Hellfire." said Opera Penguin, smiling.

"So why are you going to make Vanessa think the Converts have a bona fide superhero factory?" asked Ian.

"Well, they do." said Opera Penguin. "But not like how I make them. But if we have Vanessa think that they make them like I do, then she'll feel pressured to perform better than herself, so she'll perform better than them."

"Perform?" asked Ian.

"Fight." said Opera Penguin. "I'm not personally interested in how she performs at the karaoke bar, in bed, or as a fuel-efficient sports car."

"Wait, can she be that last one?" asked Ian.

"No." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh." said Ian.

"To my knowledge." said Opera Penguin.

"Okay." said Ian.

"Now, we're going to walk out into Rockstar Row, and we're going to chat as we do so, and we're going to make it sound like we were having a completely different conversation." said Opera Penguin.

"Okay." said Ian.

. . .

"So, when you defecate there, make sure to plant it square in the center of her bed. It's absolutely vital, make no error." said Opera Penguin, as he and Ian strode out into Rockstar row.

"All-righty, then." said Ian, nonchalantly as ever.

Vanessa, who happened just to be standing there, had a stare on her face that seemed to try and bore through Penguin's mask.

"Penguin, I want to have a word with you." she said.

Opera Penguin smirked, as he strode over to her, as she led him into one of the party rooms, and dramatically slammed newspapers onto one of the tables like she thought she was Kate Beckett in an interrogation room.

Opera Penguin folded his arms behind his back, and telekinetically pulled up the newspapers.

What first caught his eye was a police chief imploring the public not to fearmonger using boogeymen, when the truth was bad enough, that the three cases were unrelated. This was in response to the rumors of the supposed 'Blitzkrieg batterer', a serial killer said to be at large due to the commonalities in three incidents: An explosion at an apartment that was mistaken for lightning, the deaths of Bob, Barbara and Ben Anderson, and the destruction of an orphanage in a very similar explosion. The only thing linking the middle case was the fact that Ben Anderson seemed to have had his face 'seared off with high voltage electricity' that had inexplicably spared the rest of his body, and Bob and Barbara's bodies had DNA traces, on their caved-in faces, of their son, Ian Brandon Anderson, who was thought to be lost in the first incident, yet whose remains had not been found. A common belief was that the 'Blitzkrieg Batterer' had bashed Ian's face in with a sledgehammer and then used some sort of exotic, electricity-based explosive, hence the name, and the way the blast was mistaken for a lightning. The 'Batterer' had then gone after Ian's family for some reason, using the same hammer for his parents, and finishing off Ian's younger brother using a more conservative discharge of the same device. More 'deranged' conspiracy theorists claimed that Ian had achieved some power, or was possessed by some sort of evil of great power, and that he had become a living harbinger of calamity who claimed his own family's lives due to his sheer malevolence, or that of the being possessing him. The only things they had to go off of were the apparently 'fist-like' craters in the victims' faces, the DNA, and the fact that Ian had allegedly been sighted around the property before it happened. People were also considering the death of Gretchen Strada and Gerald Gantsen, which was only eschewed from mention in relation to the other cases due to the relative distance.

"What is this?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, what can I say?" said Opera Penguin. "The Converts are getting better and better at faking incriminating events."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" asked Vanessa.

"Do you think I would expose my esteemed residents to such a dangerous individual as this makes out Ian to be?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I know you can resurrect them." said Vanessa.

"But who knows what damage he could cause!?" asked Opera Penguin. "See the two explosion sites? We can't afford that here."

"Ugh, there's no point, is there?" asked Vanessa.

"No." said Opera Penguin. "Because you have the Converts to deal with, as it is. Don't go making another enemy, needlessly."

"Ugh, fine." said Vanessa. "At this point, it doesn't matter if you're telling me the truth. It's not like I could even get justice."

"Focus on the justice you can get." said Opera Penguin."

"What's that?" asked Vanessa.

"Dwelling within the earth are beings that embody pain itself, and treat it as ideal and holy." said Opera Penguin. "They gently lull the world towards pain, believing it to be the sole truth of life. And these are the present rulers of the spiritual aspect of this world. Is that just?"

"No. I guess not." said Vanessa.

"And can you do anything about it?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Well, I don't know how. . ." said Vanessa.

"Fight the Converts, and we'll get to the Preachers. Once we purge the Preachers, we'll kill the Primarchs. Once they're gone, pain will be free, no longer a kingdom but a wasteland to take from what you need and nothing else." said Opera Penguin.

"Sorry, the Primarchs?" asked Vanessa.

"The high priests of the gospel of pain. The Emperor of Trials. The Mother of Loss. The Host of Torment." said Opera Penguin. "These three are the rulers over pain."

"Strange names." said Vanessa.

"A governmental title, a familial title, and a social title. The pain that comes with living, the pain that comes of absence, and the pain that is tied to pleasure, whether in the feeling or the affliction." said Opera Penguin.

"'re they like gods?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin. "After a fashion. But not beyond our reach. You must understand, the reason I consort with Afton is that he will become the repository for all the power I accumulate through my workings in this place. This place will be the engine of my conquest against one darkness, and then another."

"Which one won't you be killing?" asked Vanessa.

"They are all one darkness, in their unity." said Opera Penguin.

"Then what's the other darkness?" asked Vanessa.

"I'm sure I've mentioned him." said Opera Penguin, suddenly deathly serious. "But. . . he was my boss. And he is the reason I'm here. In this world. Not in the happy life I once had. Even though, in that life, I was his servant. He was its start, and he was the reason it ended."

"Is he really bad? Or is it just a grudge?" asked Vanessa.

"Oh, he has caused countless times more suffering than I have. He would have cause more, even if he had only my elapsed lifetime to work with." said Opera Penguin.

"So, will I be there to fight him, as well?" asked Vanessa.

"No." said Opera Penguin. "Not unless you really want to. I intend to make William Afton into a strong enough god to fight the Overseer and kill him. And, after that, I'll have him on a leash, which I'll use just enough to keep him from ruining absolutely everything in this universe, or in others."

"So that's your master plan, huh?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin.

"Any plans after that?" asked Vanessa.

"I think, once I've seen Afton to be stable, if all has gone well. . ." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah?" asked Vanessa.

"I intend to die." said Opera Penguin.

"Like. . . off. . . yourself?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin.

Vanessa's face fell into an expression of what almost looked like remorse.

"You're sure there isn't something you could be useful for? In all your abilities?" asked Vanessa.

"Of course there is, but I don't owe the world anything, past cleansing the evil I was once complicit in serving." said Opera Penguin.

"But why?" asked Vanessa. "Why not live?"

"Because I lived for my friends, and now they're gone." said Opera Penguin.

"But you could find other things to live for. You could find other friends. Look at everyone around you. Aren't you fond of anyone?" asked Vanessa.

"Everyone I see, I think of mainly in terms of how I deal with them. Any rappor, even that which I enjoy, is ultimately shallow. I see people here as tasks. Part of my ultimate labor." said Opera Penguin.

"Even me?" asked Vanessa.

"I'm afraid so." said Opera Penguin. "Well, I guess sometimes. . . such as times like this. I suppose I can't feel detached. Sometimes I let my barriers down. And expose myself for just a little. But it's like alcohol. I let myself get a little buzzed, but I never let myself get drunk on care for any of you."

". . . and what does telling Ian to shit on someone's bed have to do with any of that?" asked Vanessa.

Opera Penguin froze, and then his face melted into a smile. "That was a joke, Vanessa. Even if it did significantly advance me, don't forget that I see just about everything here, and witnessing that isn't worth any amount of remnant."

"Oh." said Vanessa, smiling a little despite herself.

Then, with swift, yet gentle motion, she reached over to Penguin, and pulled off his mask.

Martin Cold stared back at her.

"Huh." said Vanessa. "There's really nothing to miss under there. Apart from your eyebrows, man, seeing you with eyebrows is weird. . ."

Martin swept his mask back from Vanessa's hand, and placed it back on his face with a singular motion. "I want to be angry, but I have to say, I'm impressed. In any case, don't pull that shit again. It makes me feel. . . weird."

"'weird' is all you can say? Really? That's all that comes out of Mr. Thesaurus' mouth?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes, yes." said Opera Penguin.

"Aren't you going to make some kind of threat with the whole telling me not to do that again thing?" asked Vanessa.

"No." said Opera Penguin. "There's no point. . ."

"Are you okay recently?" asked Vanessa. "You honestly seem like you've been, I don't know, running out of charge recently."

"It's true, I should sleep more." said Opera Penguin, and didn't continue, but just seemed to stare off into the distance.

"Is Ian really here to stay?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes, but you can hurt him if you want, I don't care." said Opera Penguin, tiredly.

"You're just going to resurrect him if he dies?" asked Vanessa.

"Depends." said Opera Penguin.

"On what?" asked Vanessa.

"How tired I am of him." said Opera Penguin.

"Why not just kill him yourself?" asked Vanessa.

"One, he's my handiwork, two, he's useful." said Opera Penguin. "I just don't see the purpose in saving him, either. If you can manage kill him, then that means my handiwork was insufficient."

"Huh?" asked Vanessa. "Are you saying I'm inferior?"

"Not exactly." said Opera Penguin. "I made your powers before my technique for making powers became as refined as it was when I made Ian's powers, but I discretely gave you the blessing of absorbing Annie's powers when you finally put her down for good."

Vanessa glowered at the mention of Annie. "So my powers are multiple of a lesser creation than Ian's, put together?" she asked.

"More or less." said Opera Penguin.

"So where am I in relation to him?" asked Vanessa.

"I'm not sure." said Opera Penguin. "I think his powers come more naturally to him, and he has greater control of them, but he might just be slightly weaker than you."

"Really?" asked Vanessa.

"He might also be slightly stronger." said Opera Penguin. "In either case, I made both of your powers with heavy focus on resilience, and with 'safety blankets' involved. If you just manage to kill him in anger, that means he must specifically be inferior."

"Do I get anything if I do kill him?" asked Vanessa.

"A heavier workload due to your professional partner being gone." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh." said Vanessa.

"But also, perhaps less of this." said Opera Penguin, before conjuring up a screen out of magic in midair, and displaying what had happened with Rochelle earlier.

"Oh, no, no, no, Rochelle, don't be like this. . ." groaned Vanessa.

"By the way, what was occupying you at the time?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Ferdinand and I were keeping Dave from stripping and running around wearing nothing but a Springtrap head." said Vanessa.

". . .why?" asked Opera Penguin.

"You want him to display his naked purple body for all to see?" asked Vanessa.

"No, I mean why was he doing that?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I don't know, you brought him in here!" said Vanessa.

"He didn't give any reason?" asked Opera Penguin.

"What reason would there be!?" asked Vanessa.

"Fair enough." said Vanessa.

. . .

"Anyway, as I was saying, I don't get how I found my way down here, or why I walked into this dark place, but I got myself quite thoroughly lost before I even stopped to think about that. I'm beginning to think I was hypnotized or something, you know, my friend Orville, he's a magician, says that you can't really be hypnotized unless you let yourself be. But, I was so absentminded at the time, I don't think I was in any position to say, either way! Ho, ho!" said Mr. Hippo, to the being that once was Tobias, but now felt the urge to call himself Hermes.

"I wish that light stayed around longer, even if everything felt damp while it was there." said Hermes. "I wish that map I conjured could glow in the dark."

"Well, if we can't find our way up, we can take solace in all the things we aren't there for!" said Mr. Hippo.

"Like, what?" asked Hermes.

"Ohh, the last I checked, there was this snarly lady, ooh, she was a real doozy. Wanted to kill a child just because others liked him! I think she needed a hug, but I'm too short and I think she probably would have kicked me anyway. You know, I had a dream once, about raising a donkey that kept getting bigger and bigger, and it kept getting meaner and meaner to, and by the end of it, I had a big pit in my chest, like one of the craters in the moon. It also sent me flying against a water tower, wouldja believe it?" said Mr. Hippo.

"I could easily believe such things in the context of a dream, yes." said Hermes. "But regardless, even if there are some unsavory characters, I don't appreciate this constant darkness."

"I understand that." said Mr. Hippo. "You know, some variation or other of Chica once locked me in a box, hog-tied-"

"Please." said Hermes. "I appreciate you sociability, but I need to focus."

"Well, alright then. . ." said Mr. Hippo, reproachfully.

They ran on, through the seemingly labyrinthine halls.

. . .

Night 37

Rochelle was walking around Bonnie Bowl when she heard Vanessa call out to her from one of the tables.

"Hey, Rochelle. Heard about yesterday." she said.

Rochelle instantly shook. She knew how Vanessa felt about Ian, and how she always reacted to her, Rochelle's own erratic displays.

Rochelle took a single, small step back, but Vanessa held up a hand.

"Ah—no." she said, in a firm, yet soft voice.

Rochelle walked up to her, trembling.

"Just sit down at the table. I really just wanna talk things out with you." said Vanessa.

"I'm-" said Rochelle.

"Ha—shhhh." said Vanessa, waving her hand some more. "No need to go through the motions, just answer me some questions."

Rochelle sat still.

"How does Ian really treat you?" asked Vanessa.

Rochelle broke open, and spilled everything. "He's not like he presents himself to you all. He's trying to disguise himself to Penguin so that Penguin won't ruin everything for us. He really does love me, and I think he understands how I feel about a lot of things, since he seems to feel the same way about a lot of things. It's been so hard, pretending that this really is the real him, not trying to defend him by revealing the truth, but trying to act as if everyone should know it anyway. He really does make me happy, but because of this front, it's always so hard to justify."

"So he doesn't really abuse you or hurt you in any way behind closed doors?" asked Vanessa.

"No. But honestly, I almost wish he would. The juxtaposition hurts. I know him to be one thing but have to be held responsible for him seeming to be another." said Rochelle.

"Well, it isn't entirely seeming when it is how he acts around us." said Vanessa. "Even if it is for a purpose. And I do think he enjoys being an asshole, somehow."

"I'm sorry it had to be like this." said Rochelle.

"It didn't, and it doesn't." said Vanessa. "You can't fool Penguin that easily, and I'm surprised that even Ian is that stupid. But I guess it means his heart is in the right place."

Vanessa began to pet the back of Rochelle's head, soothingly. "I'm not about to go off on you, but that stuff yesterday was. . . painful to see, when Penguin showed it to me. Please don't do that to your best friend."

"I'm sorry." said Rochelle, genuinely showing regret on her face. "I guess I shrunk back into my old self as a way of hitting back, when I knew I had nothing else to stand on. I mean, based on all they knew, they were right."

"But in truth, how is Ian when you're alone?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, he often touches me," said Rochelle, and Vanessa's face scrunched, before Rochelle continued, "in the same way that you're doing now."

Vanessa's face went odd as her hand froze. "I feel strange now." she said.

"Is it hard to picture? Is it strange seeing him being tender with me?" asked Rochelle.

"Yeah, but more so the thought that he and I could have anything in common with how we approach you." said Vanessa.

"Well, it's nice, and you both care about me, I guess." said Rochelle.

"You know, when you said he often touches you, I was thinking like. . . well. . ." said Vanessa.

"Oh, no." said Rochelle. "Even when he was talking about his 'micropenis', we hadn't even had sex yet."

"Wait." said Vanessa. "'yet'?"

"And practically every time we have, he's more or less waited for me to initiate-" said Rochelle, before Vanessa said "Hold it."

"Yes?" asked Rochelle.

"Are you serious?" asked Vanessa. "You? With him?"

"Yes. . . ? It's kind of weird getting probed about this?" said Rochelle.

"The concept of sex with him is, just, ugh—and—you? You're way above his league, Rochelle." said Vanessa.

"No." said Rochelle. "I'm not, because we love each other, and just because he's a little gross and ugly doesn't mean"

"'a little" said Vanessa, making almost childish air quotes with her fingers.

". . .that we can't be comfortable with each other." said Rochelle.

"Look, this is gonna sound weird, but. . ." said Vanessa.

"Yeah?" asked Rochelle.

"I feel snubbed and offended on behalf of Casey." said Vanessa. "You screwed him once, when he was drunk, and then he fucking died. Now this pig gets to sully you with himself, what, how often?"

"You make it sound like he pushed himself on me, and I'm feeling a little offended on his behalf." said Rochelle.

"Ahh, fair enough, I guess. But, come on." said Vanessa.

"It's not my fault that Casey died." said Rochelle. And then, a moment later, in a much smaller, less certain voice, she said, "Right?"

Vanessa hugged her. "Of course it's not your fault, and I'm sorry, I just. . ."

"Just tell me and get it over with." said Rochelle.

"I just hate how this guy gets it all because of how Casey went out." said Vanessa.

"I promise, he's not all what you've seen." said Rochelle.

"Just tell me if he ever proves you wrong on that, okay?" asked Vanessa.

"I will. But he won't." said Rochelle.

"He hasn't ever even said anything that really hurt you?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, he did once insult the 'other me'. I mean, he insulted Roxanne. I don't know whether I should think of her as me or not." said Rochelle.

"You're more than her." said Vanessa.

"Funny, that's what he said." said Rochelle.

"But frankly," said Ian, catwalking towards them as if he thought he were a fashion runway model, in way that, though it drew attention to his oddly muscular legs, drew far more to his fat-gut, as it flopped and jiggled side to side with each arrogant step, "I regret what I said about her before. Because, frankly, seeing you go back to her for just a moment, well, man, you were a bad bitch there." And then, seeing Rochelle's expression, he added, "But, I mean that in a good way. As in, assertive. Strong—girlbossish, even. Although, I have to agree with Vanessa, I'd rather you not. . . threaten bestie with scissors, if you know what I mean? It's a little. . . eww. Just no."

"Were you listening this whole time?" asked Vanessa, enraged.

"Listening, ahh. . . no. Watching, yes." said Ian. "I don't know you, after all, and so I was just making sure you weren't about to hurt my girl."

"I'd never hurt her." said Vanessa. "But what makes you think you could stop me if I intended to? If I—perish the thought, wanted to slit her throat," and here, Rochelle winced, "I could do it in very short order."

"No." said Ian, simply.

"No?" asked Vanessa. "We were evenly matched, last time. What makes you think it would be different?"

"Because I've been building up my energy all this time, waiting for the very moment you'd show any sign of doing that." said Ian. "And with that, I could easily bend the air around you to snap both your arms like twigs." He seemed to take a perverse sense of excitement from very factually stating this to Vanessa, his smile curling up unnaturally, as if unbidden, yet uncontrollable.

"Ian, please, don't start this again." said Rochelle. "I don't like to see you hurting each other."

"I'd have done it for you, dear." said Ian, in an evident half-truth.

But Vanessa just kind of leaned back and smiled, and said, "You know what, Ian? I don't like you. But I'm willing to admit that maybe I misjudged you in regards to her. You're still an asshole, though."

Ian slumped, now smiling in a far more innocent, dopey way. A way Vanessa couldn't help but see as a mask. "But honestly, now that the truth's out, I feel relieved that I don't have to keep up this act anymore. Don't be mistaken, a good part of it was an intentional act, and once my very limited acting skills were beginning to get exhausted, I resorted to calling the others playground insults, as if to leave a not-so-friendly reminder that I suck."

"Like how you called Mangle, and I quote," said Vanessa, before taking in a deep breath, "the 'trashpile'. The 'spaghetti fox'. The 'fleshlight holder'. The 'Dangle'. The 'Tangle'. The 'Stankgle'. The 'extra-obtuse angle'. The 'talking Halloween decoration'. The 'woman hormones on a string'. The 'bimbo-lips fox whip'. A 'girl with an extra-wirey figure'. An 'accurate representation of wired earbuds left in any pocket'. A 'mechanical tentacle hentai monster'. An 'oversized weeaboo furry waifu keychain accessory'. And, my personal favorite, 'Gregory's Whimsical Garrote Wife'. Stuff like that, Ian?"

"Yeah, exactly!" said Ian, beaming.

"I'm still pissed about the whole Gregory situation." Vanessa added.

"You mean when Rochelle told him to shut up about his opinion of me because he was just a little kid, when he said that I was a fat, mentally deficient degenerate, and he responded to her by punching her in the face, and I told him, 'You made some solid points about me, but unfortunately, you've damaged my property, so I have to beat the shit out of you and threaten you with more mindless violence', and then I kneed him in the guts hard enough to send him into the ballpit, then dove in, grabbed him by the neck, levitated out and told him I'd skin him with my fingernails if he ever did shit to Rochelle again?" asked Ian.

"Yes. That. Exactly that. Don't do that ever again, you cretin." said Vanessa.

"Hey, you gotta admit, the kid doesn't seem like he gets his ass beaten half as much as he needs." said Ian.

Vanessa grunted what sounded like begrudging affirmation.

"Why's he such a creepy little fucker, though?" asked Ian. "With the grey skin and all."

"Opera Penguin's business." said Vanessa.

"Ahh, figures." said Ian. "Anyway, I won't be apologizing to anyone, but I don't think I'm gonna bother keeping up appearances. I'm tired of it—and speaking of 'tired', I'm literally tired, so I'm gonna go take a nap."

"How are you tired? The night's just begun, and you're nocturnal." said Vanessa.

"I just produced a cyclone's worth of energy, only not to use it. The moment I relax after making energy like that, is the moment I wanna crash." said Ian.

"Oh." said Vanessa.

. . .

Ian went back to Rochelle's room, laid his head down to sleep, and in no time, he was off.

. . .

Ian skipped into the lobby of Hogwarts.

As soon as he was through the door, Minerva McGonagall stormed up to him.

"Ian Anderson!" she said, sternly. "The headmaster received not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of racist, sexist and otherwise offensive howlers from you, this morning!"

"Truly, McGonagall, you must be embarrassed." said Severus, who was standing idly nearby, smirking like a teen. "Even I would deal severely with this, were he of my own house."

"'s a shame, I wanted to be in your house but the Sorting Hat told me I had to be in Gryffindor because I'm the protagonist of my own life." said Ian.

Suddenly, a roided-up Dumbledore shot through the hall and pinned Ian down by his neck, before calmly screaming with a volume that was a single straw short of breaking Ian's eardrums, "DIDYOUPUTYOUNAMEINTHEGOBLETOFFIREEE?!"

"What's that? All I did was send the letters!" Ian screamed, defensively.

"Oh." said Dumbledore, perturbed, before calmly bellowing "WHAT THE FUCK? NOW GET AWAY TO THE FORBIDDEN FOREST AND DESTROY THE WHOLE SCHOOL GROUNDS!"

After Dumbledore released Ian, he skipped down the halls, as someone randomly said "FUCK YOU, IAN!" and another, "ASSHOLE!"

Ian made his way to Hagrid's shack, another student calling out "WHAT'S GUCCI, IAN?" as he opened the door.

"Ahh. . . it's you. Give me a moment, would ye?." said Hagrid, when he opened the door. Ian then knocked again about five seconds later, prompting Hagrid to open the door and yell, "A'SAID, FUCK OFF! I HAVE TO WRITE DOWN A REPORT ON BUCKBEAK'S GOOD BEHAVIOR SO THEY DON'T SNAP 'IS BACULUM IN HALF!"

"Well, can I go into the Forbidden Forest for my detention?" asked Ian.

"Where's yer shi'ee wand, then? I can't let ye go off on yer suicide mission without yer wand!" said Hagrid.

Ian bunny-hopped back to his dormitory, and retrieved his wand.

He randomly decided to walk to the third floor, but Percy Weasley was there, blocking his path, saying, "HEY, IAN! DID YOU EVER THINK ABOUT, LIKE, NOT FUCKING TRYING TO GET IN HERE? I TOLD YOU SO MANY TIMES I WON'T LET YOU IN HERE, NOW GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU MUDBLOOD!"

Ian bunny-hopped back to Hagrid, after going into the kitchen and tricking a house elf into self-detonating.

"ALRIGHT!" said Hagrid, when he saw the Ian had gotten his wand. "YE HAVE YER SPELLDO, NOW GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

Ian bunny-hopped into the forest, passing by a unicorn that turned to him just to say, "Sorry, I don't speak to bronies!" before Ian shot it for thinking he was a brony.

Ian walked up to a centaur, asking him what he was supposed to be doing.

"We sent a dark lord down to an ominous clearing, and we boosted Mars to a big-ass number." said the centaur. "We need extra unicorn bloodletting."

Another centaur walked up, and said "Dumbledore was pissed off at us for some reason. I think it's because he knows you're going to fuck this up."

Ian shook his head ponderously.

"Well, nobody knows you, Ian." said the second centaur.

"Alright, you Gringotts employee, get down to the clearing, I hope kills you and breaks the horcrux he shoved up your a—I mean I hope this works." said a third centaur, who then prodded Ian on.

Ian met two last centaurs. "I'm afraid we won't be getting sucked by dark lords today, and for terrible reason." said one.

"Yes, this is the darkest lord sample we've seen yet, and the hardest, too." said the other.

"No! Not if we follow Gilderoy Lockhart's instructions!" said the first.

"We don't need to be saying this, Ian is a very qualified plebfessional. Mudbloods are able to do anything perfectly." said the second centaur.

"Well, you do suck unicorn blood the best out of all of us. Go on, now, and squeeze as much silver jizz out of that dark lord as you can." said the first centaur.

Ian wordlessly went on bunny-hopping to a grim clearing, where an immense figure, a bit shorter than Hagrid, and only slightly slimmer, stood. It was a black silhouette of a man wearing the hat and coat of a cowboy. As soon as Ian stepped towards him, everything else around the clearing—the Forbidden Forest, the clearing around Hogwarts, Hogwarts itself—all caught on fire.

"Hello, Ian." said the black figure, amidst a sea of anguished screaming. Somehow, the gentle darkness and moonlight of the clearing was preserved, and the black figure's darkness was unmarred.

"Who are you?" asked Ian.

"Call me the Hat Man. Although, do not take solace in the assumption that anyone whom you may encounter with such a title is me." said the shadow figure.

"So, this is a dream, isn't it?" asked Ian.

"But, of course. If Hogwarts were real, even the likes of you would not provoke such responses. Their words come out of your nature, directly." said the Hat Man.

"Yeah, yeah." said Ian. "I think it's funnier, though."

The shadowy figure was silent, yet it seemed apparent that it was passively judging Ian.

"Tell me. . ." said the Hat Man. "Tell me of Rochelle. What do you see in her?"

"Honestly?" said Ian. "I'm just with her to insult someone else."

"The girl you killed. Because she left you." said the Hat Man.

Ian shook his head. "No?" asked the Hat Man.

"Because she got with someone else." said Ian. "That's the kicker. When two people are shaped to be each others', even if the whole person is there, it's still shaped to be with the other whole. For either to be another, insults their true partner. By lying that they're the counterpart of another, and making that lie a truth. But it stays a lie at the same time. It's a great insult, and the only way to get back, really, is to match it."

"Does that not widen the insult?" asked the Hat Man. "Not only by supposedly 'insulting' her, but does it not increase the 'insult' made towards you initially? By denying your role as that girl you killed's counterpart?"

"Yeah, but I don't respect myself, anyway." said Ian, slumping as he grinned in a way that was pained, spiteful and malicious, all in one. "And believe me, I'm sure she would have been hella insulted by getting replaced with a lavender fucking wolf girl with a diva complex."

"None of this would be an issue, if you did not limit yourself by defining yourself according to love." said the Hat Man. "There is a higher calling than that of love. A calling to a worth that is purchased through blood and justified through glory."

"I'm not sure what you're saying, but I don't think what you're talking about is love versus not-love. I think it's love of one thing versus love of another." said Ian.

"Yet only one calling requires love to exist. Blood, glory. . . these things exist, whether or not you feel an affection for them in your heart." said the Hat Man.

"Glory might exist independently of love, but not as glory." said Ian. "Love is what makes it glory, and not just power and success. Not the same kind of love as you share with a girl, maybe, but its own kind. Every bit of value there is, that you perceive with your heart, is a recipient of 'love', in a way."

"Perhaps. But you and I know that such nuance escapes common speech. To preach the good word to the masses, one must know their tongue. Think, Ian, think to what comes to the mind of the common man when a person speaks of 'love'. Apprehend its nature in your mind, and then pierce through it to see what it really is. What it contains. A weakening. And a weakening to accommodate weakness. A bond wherein two fall in on each other, both the subject of each other's fall, while also being the other's sole support. A veneration of codependence. A haven for pathos. Is this truly something to live for?" asked the Hat Man.

"I think there's something else at the heart of it, though." said Ian. "Something in the friction, where you come into contact, not just with the other, but with what you've made them into, in your heart. And they, to you. And you each become what the other has made you into, in their heart."

The Hat Man waved his hand. "This only explains why the exchange happens. It does no justify it, it only lays out the groundwork for its end of the war between it and true glory."

Ian's mouth shifted slightly. "Are they mutually exclusive?"

"In their unadulterated states, yes." said the Hat Man. "When it comes to true and absolute devotion, there is a choice one must make, between oneself, and another. There is a path to ascension that can only be found in oneself. Something that no one else can give to you."

"Listen, I've got only so much stamina for all this high-minded stuff. Can't you just cut to the chase?" asked Ian.

"All I wish to tell you is that love—that mutually parasitic, mutually pathetic kind of love—will stand forever in your way until you rid yourself of it. You know this, Ian Brandon Anderson." said the Hat Man. "You know that nestling among hatchlings will never make an eagle through and through. A hair of the wolf that stalked you will not cure your plight. Perhaps someday you will find a love you can hold at arm's reach. But until you can exalt your soul above all, I advise that you let no exaltation be in you, at all."

"Pretty words, black guy." said Ian. "But I think you're full of shit."

"But you are not full of that belief." said the Hat Man. "Because in you, there is a disputed territory, a private stronghold of agreement with me. Deny it not, you know that the stairway to heaven lies in chains that extent from a heart as hard as steel, an iron will of bloody determination."

"Maybe I heard something like that somewhere." said Ian. "Maybe part of me does believe it. But the question is, why should I care, exactly?"

"I'm not here to answer that." said the Hat Man. "If you cannot find that answer yourself, then there is no point in trying to help. But I know you will."

"If your philosophy really is, 'cool guys don't give a shit about other people', then why are you trying to help me?" asked Ian.

"I lose nothing from this, and it is good that more glory exists." said the Hat Man. "It is good that reality contains more people that attain to glory, to ascendancy. And it is to my glory that I inspire more such people to come into being."

"Yeah, well, go jerk off into a different ocean and hope a different pod of dolphins get pregnant." said Ian.

The Hat Man paused, as if Ian managed to take even him aback.

"In spite of your. . . reluctance, I will continue to watch your progress in life with. . . fascination." said the Hat Man.

. . .

Ian woke up, Rochelle staring down at him with an agonized face. He could see tears welling up in her eyes.

"Whu-?" asked Ian, sitting up blearily. "What's wrong?"

"Why would you say that about me?" asked Rochelle.

"What?" asked Ian.

"You were talking about how you were only with me to. . . 'insult' someone. . ." said Rochelle, her ears behind her head, as her eyelids quivered.

"I. . . was having a nightmare." said Ian.

"You have nightmare about yourself being like that?" asked Rochelle, in a disbelieving tone.

"No, it was. . ." said Ian shaking his head and raising his hands, as if trying to grab hold of what trying to say. "In my nightmare, I knew I was going to die. But I couldn't tell anyone, or else they would die too. So I tried to push everyone else away so they wouldn't take it hard."

"So you. . . said all that in your dream?" asked Rochelle, still uncertain.

"How clear was it?" asked Ian.

"It was like you were awake. . ." said Rochelle. "Hell, it was like you were saying it out loud on purpose while only pretending to be asleep!"

"No, I swear, even if everything else I say is a lie," said Ian, shaking his head, "I was asleep."

"That's not a reassuring way to promise you're telling the truth." said Rochelle. Ian noticed she was shaking.

Ian got up off the bed, and approached Rochelle.

She backed up. Framed dramatically against the warm glow of the mirror's light, she looked especially pretty to Ian.

Ian walked up slowly, and put his hands gently around the back of Rochelle's head. He gazed on her, fondly.

"Rochelle. I love you." he used his brief moment of adoration to say with feeling.

"You're not lying." said Rochelle, breathing out in a shaky attempt at calming herself.

"Of course not." said Ian, pulling her in for a hug. "Obviously this is Penguin's fault."

"How?" asked Rochelle.

"Well, I outright stated that I'm not even going to try pretending to be more of an asshole than I am." said Ian. "So Penguin gave me a dream to provoke what I said, and then made it so I would sleep-talk with absolute lucidity."

"Heh." said Rochelle. "You talk like him sometimes."

Ian shrugged, almost lifting Rochelle for a moment. "Sometimes the most generic way of saying something sounds the fanciest. I just say stuff how it comes out."

"Wait. Ian." said Rochelle, pulling herself away from Ian from a moment. "You're real, right? You're not just some puppet made by Opera Penguin, right? You're not just some weird avatar made by him to fuck me, right?"

Her face went even more panicked than before.

"Rochelle, come on." said Ian. "I'm a fuck-ugly pig. Why the hell would he make himself an avatar like that?"

"But that's just his sense of humor. He would want to laugh at me being with an ugly bastard, and he pulled you out of his ass right as I lost Casey. . ." said Rochelle.

"Wait." said Ian. "You actually do think I'm ugly."

"I mean," said Rochelle.

"I figured you somehow improbably found me attractive like Gretchen did." said Ian. "And that it wouldn't affect you if I riffed on how ugly I find myself-"

"Ian, I like you for who you are, please, don't hate yourself like this." said Rochelle.

"I thought you were having a crisis thinking I was fake." said Ian.

"That was just my brain shifting the crisis I was having before into a different state." said Rochelle.

"Damn." said Ian. "I hate when that happens."

"No, the revulsion on Penguin's face when you're around is way too real." said Rochelle.

Ian laughed.

He pulled Rochelle back into their hug, as he stroked her face.

"I love you." he said again.

. . .

Kendall Leer blew a kiss at his dream girl, Ember, whom he knew to exist on the next plane of existence, as he was just about to go to his job at the local supermarket.

Then suddenly, it hit him.

'EMBER ISN'T FUCKING REAL'. The voice tore through his psyche, and his hopes were torn through. Despair consumed him. The purpose for his life was gone.

He fell to his knees.

"Oh, get the hell over it." said a voice next to him. He turned his head to his right, only to see none other than Tuxedo Mask, who seemed to have undergone a redesign of sorts.

"Oh, no no no, I am not Tuxedo Mask, do not call me that, even in your head, you fuckface. I! AM! OPERA! PENGUIN!" said the man.

After a pause, Kendall said "That name is stupid as hell."

"Is the grease fire consuming your home 'stupid as hell?'" asked Opera Penguin.

"WHAT!?" asked Kendall, springing to his feet.

"Oh, don't bother, it's far too late." said Opera Penguin.

"But, the door's right there!" said Kendall.

"Oh." said Opera Penguin. "That it is." But, just as Kendall sprung towards it, Opera Penguin raised his hand, and an inferno burst forth from the back door of the house in which Kendall lived.

"So what, you're gonna kill me, you're gonna kill my parents, because I called your stupid name, stupid?" asked Kendall.

"Oh, no, I was going to do this either way." said Opera Penguin. "In any case, don't pretend you give a shit about your family, I know you care more about your stupid posters than anyone around you."

"OH NO! MY POSTERS!" screamed Kendall.

"Holy shit, you're pathetic." sighed Opera Penguin, as if he were somehow contracting clinical depression from contact with Kendall.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Kendall.

"To force your powers to come out. They'll preserve your life by allowing you to transfer to a new, spectral body. You'll be a living ghost. Just like you always said you'd be online!" said Opera Penguin.

"But, won't the fire, I dunno, hurt?" asked Kendall.

"Of course!" said Opera Penguin. "But how else are you going to earn that name? Andre Hellfire? You can't be burned painlessly and gently. And you can't suffer in any way that doesn't involve the flames."

"IS THIS WHAT THAT'S ABOUT? PUNISHING ME FOR MY NAME!?" screamed Kendall.

"No, no!" said Opera Penguin. "Quite the opposite! I'm helping you become all that which you claimed to be!"

"But how are you going to save yourself?" asked Kendall.

"Oh, I'll just leave." said Opera Penguin.

"How the hell are you gonna do that?" asked Kendall.

"Like this!" Opera Penguin leapt backwards and upwards, his figure darkening before it turned into what looked like a hole to a tinted cosmos, and then vanishing, all in the space of a split second.

Then, soon enough, the flames took him. Yet, even before the fire touched him, he felt like he was distancing himself from his body. And, by the time his flesh was sizzling, he jerked back, not in any three-dimensional direction, but back, out of his forsaken flesh. He soared upwards, out of the house, just like some ghost from a cartoon.

"Excellent!" said Opera Penguin, who appeared beside him in the air.

"You bastard!" yelled Kendall's spectral form. "I'm—am I—?"

"Dead?" asked Opera Penguin. "No. The life force in your spirit remains intact."

"Oh." said Kendall. "But then-"

"It's only your body that's dead. Burning, even now, to a crisp. A worthy sacrifice, to gain awareness of your powers." said Opera Penguin.

Kendall was too shocked even for words.

"Anyway, even though you're still living, you're also a ghost, of sorts—as you learn to take control over your powers, you'll be able to control how 'living-like' your spectral form is. That is, to make it not so spectral, to make it a little more sensitive to earthly touch, to make it more tangible in the material world, and less to the ethereal one—and also to switch it back and forth between the two states." said Opera Penguin. "But first, call forth your sword."

"How do I do that?" asked Kendall.

"Just do it. As soon as you're even ready to try, the knowledge will come to you by instinct. I have learned to make these powers very intuitive. And I have also learned how to control more precisely their exact nature." said Opera Penguin.

Kendall reached out his hand, his body flaring with an aura of ghostly blue fire, and in that hand formed a massive blade, seemingly impractical. It looked almost like a giant chef's knife, yet its handle, which was thinner than if it were merely such a massive household appliance, broke the illusion. The handle, which, for some reason, was wrapped in cloth akin to bandages, seemed to be at least five hand-widths long, although one hand-width from the massive triangle of the blade, there was a protrusion, like a the corner of a square, almost like a mockery of the concept of a guard on such an over-the-top weapon. The blade was partially blackened, but on the edges—especially near the cutting edge—the blackness was polished away to show a bright silver. Yet, on one side of the blade, the side where, if the blade were pointing up, the edge would face right, the blackness seemed to have been chipped away, in calligraphic letters, saying 'WANING MOON'. The letters were written flush to the cutting edge, before it really started curving, and thus were straight. Although the blade looked like it should be an unbearable burden, it felt not only light, but as if it were floating in the air by his own will, and ready to move with it, he felt through the blade itself, as if he had nerves inside of it, and felt it ready to move as readily as, perhaps more so than, his arms and legs.

"What's with the words?" was all he could ask, after a while.

"Well, maybe a little bit of myself bled into the powers I gave you when I made them." said Opera Penguin. "Long ago, I appropriated knowledge of a secret energy, and learned to produce it myself. I'd already learned magic, but this particular kind of energy was quite special. So much so, that the person I had teamed up with never spoke with me again after I took advantage of her letting me enter her lands, in order to steal the knowledge. Knowledge of how to make that force was one with perfect understanding of the mystical nature of the moon itself. And so, since I took it, and made it my own, I have been a bright ray of moonshine. But my time is coming near. My curtain call to close out my time among the living. And so, as I burn not only houses, but the regret and dread inside me, I am a waning crescent of moonlight."

". . .cool." said Kendall. "So why am I wearing this?" he gestured down to his body, which was dressed in a long, black trenchcoat.

"I do know about your other interests, Andre." said Opera Penguin. Being addressed as 'Andre' privately made Kendall want to squeal, but he composed himself, since there was something more pressing on his mind.

"And that doesn't, I dunno, concern you?" Kendall choked on his words as Opera Penguin raised a hand delicately. He literally lost his voice against his wall.

"Ohh, Andre. Andre, Andre, Andre, Andre. . ." Opera Penguin said. "I am a former interdimensional bounty hunter, who has come to this world to make a deceased serial child murderer into a god, just to get revenge on my former employer. I do not care which repugnant delinquents you have your little crushes on. I really do not care."

"I don't have a crush on them! I'm not gay!" yelled Kendall.

"I never said that. . . I thought you claimed that you were a ghost girl inside of your man-flesh." said Opera Penguin.

Kendall looked down at himself. "I'm guessing you're gonna tell me that was bullshit, just like Ember being real?"

"It seems you've figured that out yourself." said Opera Penguin.

"Wait, are you serious about all that stuff about you being a bounty hunter?" asked Kendall.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin.

"No way am I helping you, then!" said Kendall.

"Well, look." said Opera Penguin. "First of all, I'm not here. This is just a projection of mine that I've stored up some mana in in order to do just enough magic to get on your feet."

"What!?" asked Kendall.

"But I am going to send certain people after you to try and bring you to me so I can break your will and force you to serve me." said Opera Penguin.

"WHAT!?" Kendall repeated.

"Secondly, the thing I'm going to use you for is," said Opera Penguin as he pointed down at a certain point on the ground, "Fighting things like that."

On the ground was a horrific apparition. It was black, yet slightly transparent. It looked like the silhouette of a man, except its legs were digitigrade, ending in three claws each, and its arms ended in peg-like extensions. Worst of all were its eyes—or rather, the utter absence thereof. It didn't merely lack the feature of eyes, it had two eye-shaped hole in its head, like lenses through which, whichever way one might look at it, the head and all features of the creature were utterly invisible.

"What is that?" asked Kendall.

". . .do you really want to know?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes?" said Kendall.

Opera Penguin touched Kendall's temple, fingertips glowing with a blinding spark of light.

Suddenly, into Kendall's mind rushed hundreds of horrific images. Visions of a subterranean underworld, a hellscape made up of dark caves of deeply-buried soil and stone, with chains and machinery of iron and steel, both spotless and coated in rust, both dried and bloodied. He saw suffering, and violence, and pain and repulsion, and he saw as the tormented victims picked themselves up and put themselves back together, willing the destruction of the pus in their festering wounds, stitching back up scars with threads of blackness seemingly made up from their own bitter will. As they finished doing this, they covered up their grey skin with glossy black leather, and ascended to the light of the surface. But preceding this hopeful ascension were countless visions of the sufferings that had led up to this. Kendall could feel the pain vicariously, and gritted his teeth as he looked on as rust and filth penetrated already-diseased wounds. They were not sanitized, they were expected to suffer continuously until they somehow gained the power within their pain to kill the pestilence within themselves forcefully. And the same went not only for infection, but fractures, and lacerations, and mutilations, every gift that existed, of purification, of recovery, of regeneration, was preceded by a seemingly-endless stream of trials and suffering that necessitated it. Through all this, Kendall saw who was orchestrating all of this suffering, and it was a council of shadowy beings, not unlike the creature that stood on the ground right there. In fact, Kendall knew it to be one of them. And, somehow, he knew that what he witnessed was only one 'batch' of 'Converts', at one point in time, in one small part of a vast realm of shadows, a grave that was yet at the same time a cradle of life, a wretched cradle of power in misery, traversing the grid of death.

Kendall gripped his sword hard, and barely noticed as the ghost-blue flames that licked around his form turned crimson and billowed out even wider. "Is this all real?" he asked Opera Penguin.

"I wouldn't break your illusions just to add more in." said Opera Penguin.

"I don't need to serve you in order to fight evil." said Kendall.

"No, but you will be forced to serve me in the end, regardless. And when that happens, you will fight evil regardless of whether or not you did before. So whether you do or don't now, the choice is meaningless." said Opera Penguin.

"No." said Kendall. "Because even if I will be forced to serve you, that isn't now. And there will be time between then and now, and every moment I don't fight is a moment that that thing goes unobstructed."

"Quite funny how you can just give a person power and they decide to become a big damn hero." said Opera Penguin.

"Not really." said Kendall. "Anyone with a moral compass-"

"Not you, then." said Opera Penguin.

"-sees that things like this are bad. And they know someone's gotta fix it. And when they have the means and they know others don't, that's an obligation right there, because they're the only potential 'someone'." finished Kendall.

"Whatever, just go kill him if you're going to jerk your hero boner off." sighed Opera Penguin. "In the meanwhile, I'm going to convert this projection into the root of a stable mental channel of contact with you."

"Huh?" asked Kendall.

"In other words, I'm going to become a voice in your head." said Opera Penguin, before his form seemingly jumped into Kendall's eyes.

Kendall screamed, but quickly recovered, and turned his attention back down towards the Preacher.

"So, it looks like I'm the number one candidate for dealing with you." said Kendall.

"Don't be deceived, Kendall." said the Preacher. "What you have seen was a sight in the raw, without context, without understanding. What you saw, in truth, was what heaven is in reality. Bleached clouds and sanitized skies are not suited to the world as it is. We cater to reality, and we give the real what they need. According the the nature of this earth. Yes, indeed, heaven is a place on earth, and we are the wardens of that heaven."

"Then let heaven. . ." said Kendall, raising his blade dramatically as he took on the persona of Andre in his heart, "be pierced by Hellfire!"

. . .

As Ian warmly cuddled with Rochelle, he was rudely interrupted by a heavy thumping on his door.

"Sorry, I gotta see who that is. . ." said Ian.

He gently shifted Rochelle off of him, and then got up, and opened the door, only to dart to the side with the lightness of the wind as a young man with a knight's visor covering his face stabbed a glaive at him.

Ian quickly followed up with a punch, knocking the boy back, and pushed him further away from Rochelle's door with a sweeping gust of wind as he darted out of the door, following up with some more punches, not giving the boy a chance to recover.

Ian slammed Rochelle's door behind him, and then proceeded to keep striking, until he accidentally knocked open the door to Rockstar Row, and was met with a somewhat horrible sight.

Three other apparitions stood around it.

There was another young man, albino, with slightly long hair, wearing a disco outfit, and with a very gory, fresh-looking Glasgow smile like he was a wannabe Jeff the Killer. Then there was a deathly-pale girl with short hair, wearing a straitjacket, with a mouth stitched shut, seemingly for so long that her lips had merge together, and eyes replaced with buttons like she was taking cues from a certain otherwordly maternal figure. Her greyish skin seemed to radiate a chill, and her legs, horrifyingly, looked like rescaled chinese finger traps made out of sinew. Finally, there was a girl with long black hair which covered her face, whose wrists and ankles were bound with barbed wired, and who levitated off the ground, on angelic wings made of fire.

"Damn! And I thought this place's residents were a freakshow!" said Ian.

"And you were right. But clearly you're gonna be a smartass and imply we're worse, right?" asked the disco man.

"Welp, we gotta genius here." said Ian.

"Get the fuck over yourself, you fat cunt." said the disco man.

"No, I don't think I will." said Ian.

"This conversation is not conducive to our purpose here." said the first newcomer.

Ian got a really good look at the weirdo. Like all Converts, he had grey skin, but he also had a grey bowl cut that perfectly fitted his knight's visor. He otherwise wore normal, yet sophisticated clothing—a casual jacket, some slacks, and some shoes that could pass for dress shoes. His massive glaive, on the other hand, could not pass at any modern social function. It had a massive chunky blade that almost looked like a combat knife, guard and all, mounted on its long handle, except that it was about three times the size of any normal combat knife, even those which would be stereotypically accused of being phallic compensation by dim-witted journalists that think they're funny.

The visor kid raised his off hand, and some white electricity sparked around it. "We were sent here to retrieve you, so that you can be repurposed into a flagship soldier for our-"

Ian punched him again. "Go fuck yourself." he said. "I hate your entire realm of existence. I hope you all die."

"We were told you would not be reasonable, hence why we were instructed to use force." said the visor kid.

"Weren't we also supposed to, like, grab the woman? And the kid?" asked the disco man.

"That was an additional, optional assignment of our commission by the Preachers. To be taken should the opportunity arrive." said the visor kid. "This part, however, is the vital one."

"Well, I'm flattered that you think I'm more essential than Vanessa," said Ian, "but you've heard my answer. Go fuck yourself." He punched the visor kid again, infusing the blow with whistling gale force that nearly made the visor kid fall back over.

The visor kid levitated off the ground a bit, and swung back at Ian, who barely blocked the blade with stopping cold.

"I'm just gonna go and get them." said the disco man.

"I'll go with you so that you don't end up just end up screwing us on both ends." said the button-eyes girl.

"This was not how the plan was laid out." said the fire-wings girl.

"Screw the plan!" said the disco man. "I'm grabbing that broad and shooting her into Sheol like a basketball."

"This does not bode well." said the fire-wings girl.

"Whatever." said the disco man, as he strode off cockily, the button-eyes girl in tow.

Meanwhile, Ian was contending with the visor kid on fairly even terms.

But when the fire-wings girl unleashed a wave of infernal fire at him, he felt somewhat overwhelmed, so he materialized a kiddie pool's worth of water energy into a pseudo-material state, and enveloped the fire-wings girl in it.

As he did so, a lightning bolt from the visor kid struck him, but he managed not only to mitigate the damage from it, but also to absorb most of its energy into his own as it did, simply by sheer will. Also with sheer will, he managed to focus enough pressure around the neck of the girl who formerly had the now-doused fire wings to separate her head from her body.

The decapitation just slightly distracted the visor kid, such that Ian focused and concentrated a wind into a very thin, flat, whirling disc, and sheared the weapon hand of the visor kid off.

As Ian did so, the visor cracked, before th visor kid just faintly, almost imperceptibly smirked, before his visor burst as he himself melted into a darkness that grew before shaping itself into a larger figure, in a long coat, with not only the same visor but a whole, horned knight's helmet, and white eyes glowing from behind the visor. The new form of the visor kid picked up the glaive, which became significantly larger, its blade becoming even larger proportionally to the handle.

The new apparition swung at him, but he shot up into the air, just out of the range of its swing.

Ian shot a lightning bolt at it, but it seemed to absorb the lightning just as he had.

After that came a string of very vast and violent events that would quickly begin to sound repetitive, but suffice it to say that Ian's regeneration ability, and his ability to ignore a blatant elemental resistance on the part of his enemy, were both taxed to the extreme, before Ian plunged his fist, imbuing it with thunder—the essence of air granted the fury of lightning—through his adversary's chest.

"Whew!" Ian shouted, as the figure fell and then crumpled to the ground.

. . .

Vanessa was trying to teach Gregory poker, but was getting irritated because Mangle, who was riding 'around' him as per usual, kept tickling him, froze when she saw the horrible apparition that stood before her.

"Vanessa? What's wrong?" asked Gregory, concerned.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Vanessa.

"Come on, is that any way to greet the person who'll introduce you to a new world?" asked the strange, button-eyed figure.

"Yeah, I'm good on being introduced to any more worlds." said Vanessa. "One's enough for a long time."

"Come on! This one will be way better! You won't have to worry about making everyone feel good! Because everyone will be hurting, no matter what!" said the horrific figure.

"Get out." said Vanessa. "Now."

"Aww. . ." said the newcomer. "I guess it had to come to his." Then she sprung up and hit Vanessa in the head with a midair roundhouse kick.

Vanessa reeled, but lashed out, swinging her open hand to unleash a tongue of fire, only for it to be swept away by a sudden wind.

"Don't mess with my backup dancer." said a total douchebag wearing a disco outfit.

"I'm not in the mood for this shit." said Vanessa.

"For what it's worth, me neither." grumbled Gregory.

"Who cares, little man," said the disco douche, "who cares?"

"I-I care. . ." said Mangle.

"What the hell is that?" asked the disco man, gesticulating and twitching a finger at Mangle.

"Hey!" said Gregory. "I'll have you know that I've known you for five seconds and I already know I'm going to think of you as far less of a person than she is!"

"I said I don't care how you feel!" said the disco man.

"That's enough." said Vanessa, manifesting her sword and swinging it at the disco douche. However, he roundhouse kicked at her, sending a stream of wind that slammed her against a wall.

"Justin, come on," said the button-eyes girl. "we're trying to make them part of our world. Don't alienate them."

"Chichi, they're prisoners, not pals," said the dance-dressed dickhead, apparently named Justin, "as long as they have faces like those."

Mangle assumed her costume, and sent a lightning bolt at Justin's offending ankle.

"Owww! You bitch!" said Justing.

"Ohh, so now you're referring to her like a person?" said Gregory.

"Only by mistake!" yelled Justin, sending wind at Gregory and Mangle, before Gregory manifested the strange flashing red-blue-purple lights that he had before, making a barrier.

"Ow! That hurts my eyes!" said Justin.

Then Mangle took off her costume, but then gestured at Justin, throwing that white light Gregory had seen her conjure when they first met at him in a small puffy ball, before it touched him and burst into a luminescent cloud.

Justin looked visibly disgusted, before vomiting something dark gray onto the ground and backflipping away.

The button-eyes girl vaulted into the air and then lunged with a leg towards Gregory, but Vanessa dashed to her and slashed off her leg.

She screamed, and then Vanessa engulfed her with fire, which ironically made her scream less.

"You!" yelled Justin. "Nobody touches the Four Tempests!"

"Quit acting like you're famous, you know none of us have heard of you." said Vanessa.

"Well, it's gonna be the last thing you hear about-" Justin said, before Ian's lightning bolt ripped through his heart.

"Well." said Ian. "That was really annoying."

"And quite useful!" said Opera Penguin. "We have organic material to sample, both physically and spiritually," he said, gesturing towards the vomit, and shooting a STAFF bot in the head that had been moving towards it with a mop, "we have proof that Gregory somehow unfroze and then realized the powers I gave him, possibly by necessity, and we have proof that even if we can't completely destroy them, we can screw them up pretty badly!"

'We also have proof to Vanessa that they're making heroes of their own.' Opera Penguin telepathically added to Ian, who began grinning.

"Why didn't you help?" asked Vanessa.

"I was occupied." said Opera Penguin.

"With what? What was so important, could you tell me that for once?" asked Vanessa.

"Surveillance." said Opera Penguin. "Long story short, there more where that came from."

"Oh, great." said Vanessa. "You didn't help us with one set of dimwits just so you could tell us that there are more."

"Yes!" said Opera Penguin. "And they're coming."

. . .

Andre swung again and again, shifting back and forth, dodging the lunges of the demon. They'd been bouncing around like crickets, more or less trading blows, and while Andre had the upper hand, it felt like it was only because he had the superior weapon, since the demon only had its shifting forelimbs, hard as they were.

"Want some help?" asked Opera Penguin's voice.

"How could you help me right now? You're effectively just a voice, right?" asked Andre.

"A voice of someone who can observe what's going on." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah? And?" asked Andre.

"Try stabbing it in the kneecap." said Opera Penguin.

"What?" asked Andre.

"Just try it." said Opera Penguin.

Andre did, and the thing screamed.

"Extended limb stab incoming!" said Opera Penguin, and just as Andre was about to asked what that meant, the thing leveled its forelimb at him and stabbed simply by stretching it out at an incredible speed.

Thankfully, the heads-up gave Andre the presence of mind to block it with his massive blade, although he felt a faint pain from the impact, and blood began to well up underneath the bandages of his blade.

Andre twisted the blade, flipping the extended forelimb away.

"It's stretched thin, amputate it!" cried out Opera Penguin's voice.

Andre didn't need telling twice, as he ran past it, cutting through it numerous times.

The Preacher screamed, but Andre took advantage of the moment it wasted screaming to slice straight down through its center, bisecting it cleanly. The two pieces did not bleed, but instantly ceased their motion. Then they caught fire—the blood-red fire of Andre's enraged aura.

"Looks like I was right. You are good for something." said Opera Penguin.

"Can I opt out of your commentary?" hissed Andre, as his flames returned to their pale blue state.

"No." said Opera Penguin.

"Fuck." said Andre.

"Take it as motivation to come meet me. If you can kill me, then you won't have to worry about it." said Opera Penguin.

"If you can give me ghost powers, how do I know you won't just become a ghost yourself?" asked Andre.

"Your powers let you kill ghosts." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh." said Andre.

. . .

"You've suffered quite nicely, Michael." said a different Preacher. "We really had to a long way to get to a level of suffering you weren't used to."

"I hope you burn." said Michael.

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to put any thoughts of revenge on the back of your mind for now." said the Preacher. "We have control over your essence. And while we'll eventually let you part ways with us, if you still hate us at the point at which we allow it, but there will have to be quite a bit of work to be done before we can afford to do that. We need you to do some things for us to stabilize this world."

Michael growled.

"Don't worry, Michael." said the Preacher. "I'm sure once you know what we're doing. . . who we're standing against. . . you'll be enthusiastic to help."

"You mean. . ." said Michael, panting, and raising his head.

"Yes, Michael." said the Preacher.

". . .Dad?" asked Michael.

"Yes, Michael." said the Preacher. "Your dear pa."

Michael spat on the cave floor at this.

"He's been quite a thorn in our side recently." said the Preacher.

"What is he going to suffer?" asked Michael.

"Not something of this place, you might be disappointed to hear." said the Preacher.

"Why not?!" growled Michael.

"Because we don't want him any more than you do." said the Preacher. "He's trash, as I'm sure you'd agree. We're going to throw him back in the hell he made. Which, incidentally, you might be pleased to hear is very similar to your sufferings throughout the years.

Michael grinned, as he laughed shakily. "So what do I have to do to get him back there?"

"Just follow our lead." said the Preacher.

. . .

Night 38

"Ay-yo, Penguin-boy!" said Dave.

"Don't call me that ever again." said Opera Penguin, though he didn't even sound like he had the heart to care.

"We got any booze in this place?" asked Dave.

"No, but I suppose I'll give you some if you promise not to choke Gregory." said Opera Penguin.

Dave sighed. "Fine, fine. But when are you getting in the recent nipple graduates that I can strangle?"

"I don't know, I'll have to think about that. But in the meantime, be on your best behavior or I'll make the wait even worse." said Opera Penguin.

"Jeez, way to make me feel like I'm your little boy agai-" said Dave, before his brow furrowed and he said, "Say, why can't I remember shit, Pengo-chum?"

"It's a side effect of the treatment. And for reference, 'Pengo-chum' is about as bad as 'Penguin-boy'. Possibly worse." said Opera Penguin.

"Alrighty, I gotcha, Pengueteer!" said Dave.

Opera Penguin sighed.

. . .

Monsanto and Cheyenne sat at a table and stared in random directions.

"Penguin lied to us." said Monsanto.

"Huh?" asked Cheyenne.

"He said he gave us knowledge of 'culture' or whatever, but we don't even know how to date or try to officiate being a couple." said Monsanto.

"Maybe there isn't one way." said Cheyenne.

"That's stupid!" said Monsanto. "Why can't there be a cut and dry way to make it official?"

"I don't think 'official' comes into relationships aside from marriage, but I could be wrong." said Cheyenne.

"And how much time have you gotta spend together for that?" asked Monsanto.

"I don't think there is a required time, it's more of a feeling thing." said Cheyenne.

"What are you supposed to feel, then?" asked Monsanto.

"Ready to say you're never going to go for anyone else with absolute certainty, I guess." said Cheyenne.

"So he didn't give us this awareness all equally." said Monsanto.

"Maybe he thought you wouldn't, maybe, uhh" said Cheyenne.

"Need to know? Like I'm too much of a stupid jerk to get a girl? Is that what he thinks of me?" asked Monsanto.

"O-or maybe he thinks you're too much of a stud to want a dedicated relationship?" Cheyenne asked, uncertainly. It sounded right to her, but it still felt like BS.

"Why're you always defending him?" asked Monsanto. He didn't sound angry, just inquisitive.

"Opera Penguin? I don't know, it's just that all these wonderful things have come into our lives with him, and he's set all this up for us. I don't want to rush to the conclusion that he's evil, because then it's like all of the happiness we've had was, I guess, wrong?" said Cheyenne.

"It's not wrong to see good things as good. And if you get them from a bad person not knowing he's bad, then it's not bad on your part, and the thing itself is still good. But if you knowingly side with him when you know he's bad, then that's bad on your part, and the good thing is a bad one because it's the result of the bad bond you have. And what motivated it. That's what I think, anyway." said Monsanto.

"Oh." said Cheyenne. "I still don't want him to be bad, though. I feel like there's some kind of good intention at the center of all of this. Maybe it's just my hopes getting in the way, but when I see him, I feel like there's some kind of thread of. . . love, at the center of all these things he's doing. And it's not right when he's cruel, but none of us know his life, we don't know what's been done to him in his time."

"Man, I don't care. If you're an ass, you're an ass and you should get treated that way. If people who know about the whole backstory want to care about it, then they can care, but if I don't know, that doesn't mean I need to withhold my judgement for every possibly hypothetical tragedy he's faced that I don't know about, that may or may not have happened. I'll see him how he is in my sight. And I think he's kind of a jackass. But I don't think he's so bad that I shouldn't deal with him." said Monsanto.

Then he overheard Opera Penguin placating Dave by offering him children.

Monsanto sat with Cheyenne a while more, then he handed her a soda and excused himself to talk to Opera Penguin.

"Hey, buddy!" said Monsanto.

"If you say so." said Opera Penguin, smiling very mildly.

"You weren't actually, uhh, offering kids to that guy, were you?" asked Monsanto.

"No, but please accommodate him by pretending that I just said yes." said Opera Penguin, quickly and softly.

"THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, MAN?" yelled Monsanto, loudly, before storming back to the table with Cheyenne and whispering softly, "Don't worry about it, it's all fine, just act horrified."

Cheyenne, put on the spot, jerked her head back, froze for a second, and threw her hands up, unconvincingly.

Monsanto couldn't take that, and cracked up.

. . .

"I wish I could help with what you have to do." said Rochelle.

"Why's that?" asked Ian.

"Because I care about you?" said Rochelle. "And because it doesn't seem fair that you have to do all the work, while I just have to worry. And also because, well,"

"Yeah?" Ian asked, smirking.

"whenever people take part in some high-intensity action, I don't wanna be left out. I really wanna get in there, and prove my worth, and prove my beauty." said Rochelle. "It's hard-wired into me, by those corporate shitheads that made Roxanne."

"I totally get it, though." said Ian. "And it's not a bad thing to have. Just know that I at least see a worth in you that doesn't depend on how you perform. You're valuable to me, not just as a pretty face, or even as a pretty fighter. I've really gotten attached to you."

"You're being honest?" asked Rochelle.

"I wouldn't fuck ya if I didn't. I honestly think sex is dependent on the feelings. The affection. That's the measure of its worth, really. No matter how you look, the real pleasure is just in touching as close as possible with someone you really just feel privileged to share honest and intimate affection with." said Ian.

"Wow, that. . ." said Rochelle, "really didn't sound like you, Ian. Or at least not how you try to sound."

"I don't need to try to sound any way to you, do I?" asked Ian.

"No, no," Rochelle said, "I just get surprised when you just say things that sound so right in between being all. . ."

"Dudebroish?" asked Ian.

"What's that mean?" asked Rochelle.

"It's an insult used by gay hipsters to describe salt-of-the-earth, affable male imbeciles that have a good rapport with each other and a terrible sense of taste, tact and acting getting even a fraction of the pussy they claim to." said Ian.

"I don't know about that, I think you're just kind of a dumbass most of the time." said Rochelle.

Ian laughed, then wrapped his arms around Rochelle and kissed her.

"How come you never mind me saying stuff like that?" asked Rochelle.

"I don't care what you call me, as long as you also call me yours." said Ian.

"Ian, you're making my teeth hurt." said Rochelle.

"Sorry, hon." said Ian.

Rochelle nuzzled her face under Ian's chin and giggled.

. . .

Later in the night, Opera Penguin called Vanessa and Ian out to deal with a small horde of Converts that appeared in the street in front of the Pizzaplex.

They fought hard, Vanessa begrudgingly and Ian joyously, and managed to take down every single one of them, but they were weighed down by the knowledge that, as Opera Penguin explained to them, the essence of their foes was not destroyed, nor even broken to a point where they would not be quickly restored.

Things were starting to look bleak to Vanessa, but Ian was just anxious about the 'new guy'. He knew that if Opera Penguin had chosen him, then no kind of freak was really off the table.

. . .

"You did well, today." said Opera Penguin to Ian. "But I'm afraid that, as you know, your services out there were not as effective as any of us would like."

"Yeah, rub it in." said Ian.

"That is not what I plan to do." said Opera Penguin. "Because in fact, my real intention is to invite you to a kind of service in which you will be more effective."

"Oh yeah?" asked Ian. "And what's that?"

"I would like you to scout out the dream realm I have imprisoned in here." said Opera Penguin.

"The what?" asked Ian.

"Well first, let me tell you about Lowrealm." said Opera Penguin. And then he did. In fact, he told Ian just about everything he had told Apollo.

"Sounds like shit." said Ian.

"It is, very much so." said Opera Penguin. "But there are two main things it's good for."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Firstly, I'm sure you've drawn comparisons between how I've described the act of developing power and video game mechanics." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah. What, do you grind there by killing demons or something?" asked Ian.

"Right on the money." said Opera Penguin. "And secondly, because the boundaries of Lowrealm are loose, by necessity, as the purpose of it is to absorb worlds that have fully fallen into chaos, it is easy to rip portions of it off. And, if you're like me, with great arcane knowledge, you can fairly well reduce those portions to their raw materials, bereft of their hellish nature."

"And so you, what, dreamed it into a new shape?" asked Ian.

"No. You see, the collective of ghosts have created a vast constellation of shared dreams, inside of a miniature realm of their own making. This realm, which functions as something of an afterlife, forms a shell of identity around the newly-deceased spirits, as various Freddy's characters, something which formerly only happened to ghosts dwelling inside animatronics for a long time. Or, alternately, a short, yet storied time." said Opera Penguin.

"Neato." said Ian. "And so you used these dreams to act like a cookie-cutter for your stolen dimension dough, and hooked the newly-formed dimension up to them so that they became one and the same and are now basically real worlds?"

"You seem like you're on top of things." said Opera Penguin.

"Seems like most of the stuff you do runs along the same lines. Grab the bits of memory and fantasy dwelling inside ghosts that have leaked into the dark recesses of this coffin of a company, and exploit them for all they're worth, making them more alive, and more real." said Ian.

"Precisely!" said Opera Penguin, beaming as he clapped his hands together once with delight.

"I am so jealous." said Ian, with absolute seriousness.

"Anyway, I want you to dive in there and get some ghosts for me. Raw materials, you might say." said Opera Penguin.

"Just that? Sounds easy." said Ian.

"Well, we'll just see. I myself find many of the dreams. . . distasteful. That's why I'm not joining you directly on your quest." said Opera Penguin.

"And what if I die in there?" asked Ian.

"Do you think you're going to die in there?" asked Opera Penguin.

"No, but I'm curious." said Ian.

"You join them. You become part of whatever dream you're in. You sit down at the table whose meal you interrupted, so to speak. you become one of them." said Opera Penguin. "And since that, alone, is a worthy punishment enough, I don't see fit to threaten you further."

"So, what do you want me to get?" asked Ian.

"I have been tracking a few specific ghosts, begrudgingly." said Opera Penguin. "I will put a. . . radar, of sorts, in your mind. A sort of disposable clairvoyance, with only one purpose and one alone: To find those I'm looking for. You'll be able to distinguish which signal is which, and what entity any given signal is leading you to. This is important, because I'm giving you different instructions for different people. Be sure to follow them exactly."

"So what do you need them for?" asked Ian.

"I'm gonna slap together some abominations to send after the new guy. They'll help him get stronger." said Opera Penguin. "We'll give them fake purposes, like testing out an energy body, or trying to capture Andre, or maybe just killing him as if I decided he was a mistake. But really, they're there to serve as fodder for his ascension into higher levels of power."

"Cool." said Ian.

"I know." said Opera Penguin. "Anyway, if you'd like to start now?"

"Isn't it nearly morning?" asked Ian.

"I won't begrudge you staying out at daytime in another dimension." said Opera Penguin. "Although I suppose you'd like to tell your sweetheart where you're going."

Ian gagged.

"Come now, Ian. I know your emotions are slowly becoming more and more genuine. There's no shame in it. You should feel blessed to have a connection to still-living people you care about. Or, just one, I guess." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah." said Ian. "I guess."

"Ian, please. I won't bother you for loving her. You have my blessing, if you will. Truth be told," said Opera Penguin, and then he elaborated upon the original 'deal' he had with the animatronics, in full detail.

"Holy shit. That's. . ." said Ian, "awesome! Harnessing people's just existing as people, and turning their everyday character into energy, into real stuff to be used. . . that's sick!"

"It's funny, I think Vanessa would also say, 'that's sick!', but with a completely different meaning." said Opera Penguin.

"No doubt, she seems like the type." said Ian. "Total moral busybody."

"So you seem to have shifted your focus from the lack of melanin in her hair, then?" asked Opera Penguin.

"It was getting a bit worn out." Ian admitted. "I might go back to giving her grief over it when I feel like being a problem."

"So that urge actually ebbs from time to time. . . interesting. . ." said Opera Penguin.

"Yeah, yeah." said Ian, laughing.

"Anyway, I want you to locate a pretender of William Afton, a set of several Mangles, and, if possible, the original Charlotte Emily. But think of that last one as more of an 'if it ever becomes possible, take the opportunity' kind of thing. I don't expect you to find your way to meeting such an elusive and legendary figure." said Opera Penguin.

"Like a legendary Pokemon." said Ian.

"What? Sure, I suppose so. Anyway, get the first two and I will be well pleased." said Opera Penguin.

"And making you 'well pleased' is my goal in life, obviously." said Ian, chortling. "Okay, Daddy."

"Fuck off and get the ghosts before I castrate you." said Opera Penguin.

"Okay, but just so you know I wasn't joshing when I said that was my fetish. You're getting me off when you threaten shit like that." said Ian, still grinning.

"Fascinating! Quite fascinating! Next time, keep it to yourself." said Opera Penguin, smiling yet clearly unamused.