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.

18. In which Batman is mentioned twice

Night 57

"I can't believe it's almost over." said Vanessa, who was just sitting in the Atrium with Opera Penguin.

"Not at all." said Opera Penguin.

"Don't say it. Don't say that cliche line." said Vanessa.

"It's only about to begin." said Opera Penguin.

Vanessa sighed. "I hate you."

"Do you, now?" asked Opera Penguin.

Vanessa was quiet for a moment. "Honestly, I don't even know. I know I probably should. I already feel like I'm going to hell for helping you. I mean, in the more final way than I already have been. But I guess you're just. . . my life, now. And not in an emotionally dedicated way, or like I'm actually intentionally focused on you, but you've just wrapped yourself around my life, and—and it's like I have this half-baked, half-strength Stockholm syndrome. I don't like you, but at the same time I sort of do, and I don't like that I'm comfortable with you when I'm not actively feeling threatened by you, but I am. I guess 'comfortable' is just really what I am towards you. I'm acclimated, and I can appreciate some things about you, and part of me even cares just enough to feel like shit that you're planning on. . ." her voice trailed off.

"Well, it doesn't have to be soon after I achieve my goals. Maybe it doesn't even have to be ever. But don't let it surprise you if and when that day comes. Maybe I've got some use in me. But I don't see it." said Opera Penguin.

"Well, if you're going to be gone, maybe at least you can share some memories." said Vanessa."

"I. . . would like that." said Opera Penguin.

. . .

Long ago

"GRRREEETINGS! EVERYONE!" said Opera Penguin. "EVERYONE TURN YOUR ATTENTION AHEAD! TO! THE GREAT! OPERRRA! PENGUIN!"

He proclaimed this, with one foot up on a table, facing out of a massive opening where a large portion of the roof and wall of the reception hall he stood in had been torn away, looking out on an umber sky and a shattered city, torn asunder by demons.

Several of these demons looked around.

"For fuck's sake, kid." Death Commander, his compatriot, muttered behind Penguin, his orange glasses reflecting the color of the sky by sheer coincidence. "Drop the bullshit and actually do something useful."

"DOES ANYONE WANT TO. . . STEP RIGHT IN? THE BOX?" asked Opera Penguin, materializing a large cube.

By charming one of the demons, Penguin led them into the cube, which shut, and several sawblades also appeared, dicing the box—and the demon inside. The magic was not that it did not cut the demon, for it did—the magic was in the mere apparition of the box and its medieval execution of the hapless and weak-willed monstrosity.

"Great, you killed one Van Gacy-class demon." said Death Commander. Then he materialized a pistol out of his signature tangerine light, and blasted three demons through the head. "See this? This is a gun. This is how you kill things. Dumbass."

Opera Penguin, unfazed, told a large, stony, humanoid looking demon with rabbit-like hind legs, a cracked, unrecognizable human head, and a muscled humanoid body with four arms, two of which were on its chest, and with which it scampered as if they were forepaws, "Think of a card! Any card!"

Just as it reached him, he proffered one at random. "Was this your card?" he said, flashing the card in its face.

It looked, confused, at the card, which let forth an explosive eruption that pulped the thing's entire head.

Death Commander just sighed, before Penguin threw a dart over his shoulder, causing him to aggressively cock his pistol, before Penguin gestured with a swirly 'turn around' motion, to see another demon that Penguin had nailed straight through the eye, and which would have likely maimed or even killed Death Commander.

"Ugh, whatever. Queer." said Death Commander.

Opera Penguin laughed, a high, staccato giggle that did nothing to contradict Death Commander's immediate previous statement, and then pranced on, further digging a hole for himself. He didn't really care.

Fist King, just catching up with him, charged about a hundred and fifty feet in a few seconds, pulverizing seven elephant-sized demons in a single flurry of blows, radiant with his bloodred ki.

Breaking Heart, his brother, followed behind, taking things slow, lest any excitement cause his own ki to fragment his HAR 9450, which had been augmented to be fueled by just that energy source. The weapon normally would be used sparingly, but backed by the tumultuous energy of Breaking Heart's powers, the weapon was fired off like a sidearm. It was, however, known for its 'incontinence'—after the initial sphere of destructive energy was fired off, energy would still stream from it, which, though not nearly as destructive as the initial charge, was still easily capable of killing even the average member of the Legion of Heroes. Naturally, Opera Penguin stood back, while Death Commander opened up a portal to far ahead.

Before long, the being which they had all come to kill tore itself out of the ground, and stood tall in the sky. A massive, muscled, goat-headed thing that should have crumpled under the square-cube law, and seemingly equal parts flesh and machine, let out a scream that should have deafened the Bad Company, but they were too tough.

"REESREVO EHT LLIK UOY NEHW EB LLIW YROTCIV EURT RUOY" was what came out of its mouth.

"Typical demonic brainwashing bullshit." laughed Opera Penguin, confidently.

"Shut up." said Death Commander.

Fist King leapt to half the thing's height, and punched it in the chest, knocking it back, but the creature swatted him down in return, which caused probably millions of dollars in road work when the he touched down, completely unharmed to the naked eye, and got back up, intensively dusting himself off.

Witch Hunter blinked into the sky, and torched the massive demon with a puce flame, like a burning bruise, which coated the creature in a haze of the same color, before the haze light up in neon green light. The massive demon screamed again, before raising hand and putting up a ward against Witch Hunted and another against Fist King and Breaking Heart.

Soul Gazer telepathically communicated to the others, "Kenneth, if you break that ward with raw force, the energy that will be released will level a good portion of this city and probably kill any survivors in range."

"Can't do that." Kenneth said, to himself.

Opera Penguin teleported into the sky, called out in a mock tone at the demon, took off his hat, and reached into the pocket dimension inside, pulling out a living rabbit from its state of suspended animation. It wasn't magical, sapient, or anything special—it was just a perfectly mundane, white rabbit.

He threw it at the now-attentive titanic, roided Baphomet, and it screamed louder and with more justification than any rabbit had before in that universe.

In sheer outrage at the insolence of such a lowly being to exist before it, the demon focused its power at the tiny, screaming woodland creature before its nose-cavity, vaporizing it and vanishing the wards, allowing Fist King to jump the whole creature's height and uppercut its jaw so hard that it shattered, falling off, before with his other hand delivering the move known as the Heaven King's Hand, a palm strike with a slight wave that let forth a ray of bloody light that intensified into a piercing white light. In this case, it fired at a wide enough angle to encompass—and thus utterly vaporise—the head of the demon.

Fist King fell to the ground on one hand and one knee, as the headless demon body crumpled up while, at the same time, rapidly decaying into a black sludge.

"Well done." said Kowelbey Tabris, a strange, white-furred, four-eared humanoid, as he levitated far above the city, about at the height of where the demon's head had been. He had eyes with red sclera, and black, vertical-slit pupils. Tow ears on the top of his head were catlike, matching his feline snout, while the other two were long and floppy, with floating golden rings around them. They trifurcated at the end into three rounded 'points', turning slightly red near the end, and had three red markings aligned with their three ends. He also wore a white polo shirt and black slacks, out of the latter of which poked a massive, pushy white tail. "I'll clean it up from here."

"Gonna eat that black shit?" asked Death Commander.

"I wouldn't say it in so many words, but, yes." said Kowelbey.

"Should I help?" rasped Witch Hunter.

"That would be appreciated, but you are by no mean obligated." said Kowelbey.

"Serve it up on a silver platter." said Death Commander.

"Randall, shut up." said Starlight. "Kowelbey, I don't think reabsorbing pure demonic essence is a good idea. I could get rid of it."

"That will not be necessary." said Kowelbey, and his tone suggested a more active 'not necessary' than before.

Mikhaila sighed. "You can't build heaven out of hell."

"It isn't hell by the time I'm building with it." said Kowelbey. "And it's not in Heavenrealm I'm building."

"It's a figure of speech." said Mikhaila. "You're still using something purely evil for good."

"Your input has been received and will be considered." said Kowelbey.

Mikhaila sighed, turning away and shaking her head.

. . .

Later that night, as they were relaxing around a campfire, Death Commander, having had a few beers, slapped Penguin to the ground after he boasted of his kills, and yelled "It was a waste of time and nerves watching you bolt out a whole lot of gay theater kid shit to barely accomplish a damn thing!"

Penguin covered his face, hiding a few tears, not wanting to admit his crying.

Fist King—Kenneth—a massive man, with features that would be called Asian in Earthrealm but were bereft of name in his home plane of Deadrealm, yet who was inhumanly muscular and stood at ten feet—still saw. His red eyes beneath his rocky crag of a brow winced in begrudging sympathy, and as Death Commander asked when Penguin was going to start being useful and stop being an embarrassment, he said, "Blow it out your ass, Randall."

Death Commander—Randall—a wirey man, barely in his twenties, yet with a face so sunken and even wrinkled he looked much older—looked with loathing at Kenneth, and flopped down on his bony posterior. He had dark brown hair, and stubble soiled his pasty-white countenance. He sighed.

Breaking Heart—Theodore—A man who looked much like Kenneth, but perpetually malnourished, but whose similarity in appearance was coincidental, as they were brothers by bond alone, and not blood, Kenneth, whose triangular glasses eclipsed his unnatural eyes—said "Hey, Martin. I think we're just a beer or two short for the next round. How's about we fetch some more? I'd do it myself but a lot of these doors are a bit on the small side. . ."

"Ye." said Martin, speaking quietly so as to mask his tears.

They walked off.

"You should really be ashamed of yourself." said Theodore.

Martin trembled.

"Taking a drunk idiot seriously." continued Theodore. "But I have to commend you sticking to your principles. And your style."

"Y-you think Randall is an idiot?" asked Martin.

"No, not except when he's drunk." said Theodore. "Nonetheless, he's drunk and when he is, he also is an idiot."

"Then he should be called an idiot drunkard, no?" asked Opera Penguin.

Theodore chuckled. His voice was deep, a kind of low voice, mostly smooth with only just a hint of gravel, that was usually soothing, yet sometimes threatening, based solely from context. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen—I'm fairly certain, anyway." said Opera Penguin.

"Ahh. Still halfway sure of your age." said Theodore, laughing some more. "That's the real reason I asked. You don't get to celebrate birthdays in this job. We carouse plenty to make up for it. I don't call us family. We aren't, and that's awkward to say, anyway. My only family in this world that hasn't disowned me is my brother. But we are all friends. Just not too tender. And not too close. Never get too close."

. . .

Back in the present

"And sometimes I wish I'd listened." said Opera Penguin.

"You couldn't have and you shouldn't have." said Vanessa. "It's not a human thing to do."

"Who are you to decide? Humans do things like that all the time." said Opera Penguin. "Humanity is not defined my adherence to morality, least of all your specific, subjective morality."

"No, I'm not talking about morality, I mean even evil people get attached—I mean, look at you." said Vanessa, and Opera Penguin lightened up, laughing. "And," Vanessa continued. "just because humans manage to do something doesn't mean it's natural. We connect naturally. And that's the better way to be, both for your sanity, and for survival."

"Heh, funnily enough, what he said just after kind of related to that." said Opera Penguin.

. . .

Back in the past

"Never get too close, because the power of love and friendship is fallible at best, and a farce at worst." said Theodore. "I've challenged it, time and time again, hoping someone would prove me false. . . and time and time again, I was proven right. What friendship really does is not move mountains, or save worlds, but get you comfortable, and get you attached, and up to a certain point it keeps you comfortable and protected, but past a certain point, when its strength breaks, or people are lost, it takes that all back, with interest."

"But how do I not get attached?" asked Opera Penguin.

"I'm afraid the only surefire way to achieve that is to suffer the consequences of not having achieved it. I mean, Randall is the way he is because his wife got killed by a random something-or-other. He was a scientist before that. Then Kowelbey found him—just like he found you—and gave him a gun, and the seeds of some powers, when he asked Randall if he wanted a chance at revenge, and Randall said 'yes'. Now he pushes everyone away, so they can't die. And thereby hurt him." said Theodore.

"So I have to hurt, in order not to hurt?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes." said Theodore. "It's the same way in the heart as it is in the body."

"I wish I could just shed my sensitivity right now." said Penguin.

"Well—and I don't want you to get me wrong, Kenneth probably thinks you're a 'pussy' or something for crying and bottling up emotions will definitely benefit your dignity," said Theodore, dropping heavy air quotes, "but don't mistake all 'sensitivity' for weakness. Empathy is good, but the degree to which you can't turn it off at will is the degree to which it owns you more than you own it. There's other ways to be sensitive that aren't weakness. Speaking of which, I have some concerns I wanted to air. I know you know about magic, maybe not as much as Mikhaila, but I don't want to hear her rants about how she 'told us so'—the utterance of the demon we fought today disturbed me."

"It was just some demonic reverse hypno-babble about killing the Overseer." said Opera Penguin.

"Well, here's the thing." said Theodore, raising his hands in that 'holding a box' pantomime people use when trying to establish something. "The demons we fought today were infernals. Barely intelligent. Intelligence dissolves around them—whenever they make pure-evil propaganda or something, it's always through a human medium, and even their minds break down when they're overtaken by infernal demons. True, they do bring about a certain kind of demonic communication in people, and that does include terrible vice, seemingly for the sake thereof, but that's a product of them and the humans they overtake. The evil voice is that of the person ailing under their influence, but they themselves are not the voice that speaks but the oblivion of darkness that the speaker is being dragged down towards, an endpoint of absolute destruction that such a saturation of evil leads to."

"Then why was the demon saying that?" asked Opera Penguin.

"That's the thing." said Theodore. "Either that demon was something more than a usual infernal, or worse, we've been lied to about what infernals even are. Because what I just told you was what the Overseer tells us about infernals. And if he's lying, that means there's something he doesn't want us to know, as if knowing would test or even crush our loyalty. . ."

"Maybe the demon was something else, but pretended to be an infernal to give you this dilemma so you would go against the Overseer." said Opera Penguin. "Maybe we should just deal with the problems we've already gotta deal with, and not make more by asking dangerous questions."

"That's a good idea, to be honest." said Theodore.

. . .

Back in the present

"So, you really went and just dismissed a serious issue to be safe and not make more work for yourself by questioning authority?" asked Vanessa.

"Yeah." said Opera Penguin. "And I'm wondering now, if I'm not paying for that in dividends."

"You know, the way you make it sound, you yourself weren't that different from Rochelle." said Vanessa.

"Ahh, I guess. In a sense." said Opera Penguin.

Vanessa chortled. "You don't want to admit it."

"Would you?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Hey," said Vanessa, "comparison to her isn't really warranted with me, but I do like her. She just needs a better partner."

"Gregory?" Opera Penguin suggested, smiling.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" asked Vanessa.

Opera Penguin laughed.

. . .

At a different point in the past

"Either he's out, or I am." said Starlight—Mikhaila—A beautiful, dark-skinned woman with wavy, almost curly black hair beneath the hood of the glittering, starry midnight blue robe, which had a crescent moon on the front, that she wore. Her delicate features were contorted with fury. "Opera Penguin suggested we take a mission in my world—and promised he wouldn't damage or defile anything in my world—just so I would accept us taking it—and so he could steal the matriarchs' secrets. He's already bastardizing them by weaving them into his magic, into violent parodies of parlor tricks, counterfeiting the sacred energies of the moon priestesses for his triviality!"

"Honestly, the way you presume singular authority over whether we take a mission because you don't like it tempts me to want you gone regardless." said Kenneth. "The way you're passive half the time and a sanctimonious holier-than-thou preacher the next doesn't help either, and the fact you're ordering us around about Penguin doesn't bode well with me either. I'd say we take a vote to throw you out regardless, but. . ."

". . .you're already about to leave anyway." finished Theodore.

"Oh, there you go, doing that thing," said Mikhaila. "You think I don't notice? You two always agree on everything, so you insist on everything being a democracy in this team, which just boils down to a dictatorship,"

"The fact that either could both singlehandedly take the other five doesn't hurt. . ." mumbled Randall.

"where you two always have your way, and Kauthann help anyone who disagrees!" finished Mikhaila.

"So you're saying it would be better and less tyrannical if, instead of two people who tend to agree each having their own vote, you single-handedly decide everything you feel conviction about?" asked Kenneth. "You've let us eradicate cultures before with only passively-voiced disapproval. And here, you have a well-established comedian, parodying yours. It's not going to destroy your world."

"They threw me out for it, so apparently they disagree." hissed Mikhaila. "I've been disowned."

Theodore's mouth curled up almost imperceptibly at the corners.

"And what are you smiling about?!" Mikhaila said.

"Well." said Theodore. "It just seems that, regardless of Penguin's actions, you're already very unhappy here. You've already posited the solution. The way out is clear. Just go to Heavenrealm, break your membership, and find a new cohort."

"I can't believe you people." said Mikhaila. "After all I've done—"

"A whole lot of ragging." said Kenneth.

"—and all I've helped you all through, my traditions are violated, I am exiled for them, this is all the response I get, and you three can't even be bothered to speak?" asked Mikhaila.

Witch hunter—Sadie—A comatose girl whose body was sealed in a pocket dimension, physically frozen while her mind was able to remain active via its connection to the ragdoll body which held as its heart the crystal in which the fabric of that pocket dimension was infused—shrugged. "I can't say I'm proud of him for this. But it's not unforgivable to me. Underhanded, conniving, apathetic to your peoples' attitudes, yes, but in the name of the art and beauty of individuality. And Kenneth is not wrong. We have done worse. Perhaps you should consider what motivates your leaders to be so unforgiving when the guilt lies not on you?" Sadie's face was infuriating to Mikhaila, for in truth it was an uncanny mask with a frozen, serene smile, and only the lower half of it at that. The top half of Sadie's head—at least the part that was not covered by the acid green wig stitched onto the head—was a black blindfold, for underneath that was a skull with a button-eyed sock puppet mask on, with a zipper mouth underneath the mask and the wig stitched to where its scalp should be. Sadie's doll body was, by and large, a replica of her skeleton made out of ironwood, a magical wood with properties explained well by its name, covered in various textiles and reinforced with more wooden parts.

"You just love him." said Mikhaila, and then she stopped herself. "Dear Moon-Mothers. . . I just said that like it was an insult. . ." Then Mikhaila's face turn from shock to rabid anger. "You truly are all corrupting me! I will never speak well of any of you again!"

Soul Gazer—Kiel Laurens—a short, fat man with swept back hair and beak-like nose, wearing a trilby hat and a trench coat, suggested, "Maybe you should think it over. . . you're having a bad day, and—" before everyone except Penguin, including Mikhaila, said "NO!" loudly.

"Alright, alright, I was just suggesting." said Kiel, serenely closing his eyes and raising his hands as if taking in invisible sublime signals through them.

. . .

Present

"You're making her sound crazed, but I'm willing to bet you drove her to that state." said Vanessa.

"I'm not trying to make her sound like anything, she truly was like that on that day in particular. But only on that day because. . . yes, I did do that." said Opera Penguin. "But Kenneth was right, I did 'parody' what I stole, or, rather, I changed it enough to make it my own." As he said this, he raised a hand, and a bluish-silver mist of moonlight magic swirled around his hand. "I made it different enough to make it original, to make it uniquely me, and to the extent to that I didn't do that, I changed me to be uniquely it."

"What's so special about it, anyway?" asked Vanessa. "Is it just the mental or magical or whatever blueprint to making your magic a pretty silver color?"

"Different kinds of energy have different properties, tendencies, and different relative capacities for different effects. Just about any kind of energy can do just about anything if you shape it right, but the thing is some are more efficient with some things, and some energy more or less do certain things on their own. This energy is the embodiment of a culture's ages-old set of lore-based mythological ideas regarding, specifically, the full moon, although it can bring forth effects related to the other phases, since they are, after all, all the moon." said Opera Penguin.

"So, what? What special properties does it have? Do you know all of them?" asked Vanessa.

"I don't know if I'll ever know all of them." said Opera Penguin. "But it certainly is a pretty color."

"Holy shit." said Vanessa, bringing her palm to her forehead.

. . .

Another point in the past, not long after the last

"She's not coming back." said Theodore.

"You're welcome." said Martin.

"Don't be a smartass." said Theodore. "I don't want you pulling a stunt like that again. I'm not gonna level any threats at you, but on this team we should at least try not to ruin each other. Now, I know you didn't do that intentionally, which is why I'm being clement about this whole thing. But you mind yourself in the future, at least enough not to drive people away."

Martin gave a shallow, almost wistful sigh, and said, "Alright."

"So, we've got a stand-in for now." said Theodore.

"Who?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Me!" said Kowelby, right behind him.

Opera Penguin whirled, and came face to face with Kowelby.

"After receiving the news, Heavenrealm administration sent me down here to fill in for the absence! I can stay until a replacement comes, or I can become a permanent part o your party!"

Opera Penguin stared.

Kowelby sniffed at his nose, like a cat. "You seem to have frozen up. I'm having trouble reading your reaction."

"You better not touch him in weird places in the middle of the night." said Randall.

This gave Penguin something else to focus on. Drawing back, he said, "What, Randall, are you concerned about me?" he jeered.

"No, I'm just worried you'd enjoy it, you fruitcake." said Randall.

Opera Penguin laughed.

. . .

In the present

"Do you think he actually was looking out for you at all?" asked Vanessa.

"At that point, I think he did respect me as a peer, sort of begrudgingly, you know, like a cat, but that particular comment was just to get at Kowelbey. I don't think Randall trusted that. . . thing. Nobody did." said Opera Penguin.

"I mean, he sounded kind of cute, the way you described him." said Vanessa.

"It came from the Overseer." said Opera Penguin. "Even then, even though we didn't want to admit it, we were already way of him."

"I thought you trusted him?" asked Vanessa.

"Think of it this way, if the American government were to nuke one of the states, would that erase the nation's blind, idealistic view of it?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Well, I wouldn't say it in those exact words, because people are already paranoid—oh." said Vanessa.

"Exactly." said Opera Penguin. "I didn't question the Overseer before, solely because I knew doing so would be like declaring war on my own government, and I wasn't yet motivated enough to accept that burden, so I just denied the issue was there." said Opera Penguin.

"And now, like you said, you're paying back for it in dividends. . ." Vanessa mused.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin. "Exactly."

. . .

At a different point in the past

"Why do you wear a mask?" asked Sadie.

"Because a mask makes a persona." said Opera Penguin. "And even though a persona is much shallower than the person it conceals, its shallowness squeezes out the flaws and ignominy as long as the real person is hidden underneath, not to be shown, not to stain the persona. The weakness and shame that exist in every person by the time they have come into their identity does not have to exist in the fragment of identity that is a persona."

"Not if you live in it." said Sadie. "If you live in your persona, if you become it, then it gains its flaws, and its depth, from you, a person, existing as it. But it only has the flaws of the you of the present, of the you that has inhabited it, and so a persona can simply become a new stage in the person that makes it. And I suspect that that is the real reason you wear a mask. To become a new stage of the person you are. To live in the flaws of the now, not the stains of the past."

"Maybe you're right." said Opera Penguin.

"And also to have a 'you' that you designed, including how you make its flaws with your present ones." said Sadie. "Because eventually, even when you take the mask off, that new you will be a part of who you are. The mask of only the face of that new you. How you choose to be is its spirit. And once you can be that new you with the mask off, is when that new you ascends from a farce, to reality."

"You're right." said Opera Penguin. "But even then, after that, I think I'll still put the mask back on. Because it looks nice."

. . .

The present

"So, why don't you take the mask off?" asked Vanessa.

"Because I've taken a new persona with it. I've become a new 'Opera Penguin'." said Opera Penguin. "But it's not new to you. It's the the only one you've ever known. And I direly want to deny that this 'Opera Penguin' is well and truly what I have become."

"But you don't do anything to get better." said Vanessa.

"Because I know I'll never get better." said Opera Penguin.

"Then why even bother denying it?" asked Vanessa.

Opera Penguin took off his mask.

His cold, blue eyes pierced into her. They were narrowed, and had dark circles underneath them.

"Happy now?" asked Martin, in a dull voice.

"I was just asking." said Vanessa, in a small voice.

"Yes, well." said Opera Penguin, putting his mask back on. He didn't finish the sentence.

"So, anyway, have these stories all been in order?" asked Vanessa.

"No." said Opera Penguin.

"Was there a specific point where you decided or realized that these people were that close to you? A single point that made them. . . what they were?" asked Vanessa.

"I didn't realize it fully and consciously until they were gone." said Opera Penguin, quietly. "But the attachment didn't happen at any one moment. It was gradual. That was what made it so strong. It was built up over time, from experience upon experience. We went through hell, time and time again, to varying degrees of literalness, doing various kinds of things, with various kinds of success. Sometimes, we were the prevailing heroes. Sometimes, we were the tortuous demons. Mostly we couldn't be assed to introspect about which we were."

"Oh, would you just shut up?" asked Death Commander, who stood over him. His nineteen-or-ninety face, to Vanessa, had either gotten worse since Penguin had known him, or was vastly understated.

"WHAT?!" Penguin said, jumping up in terror.

"I said, shut up." said Death Commander. "Your moping eulogies are pathetic, even to me. Incidentally, I am going to have a few words with Theodore over his exposition of my past."

"Who the hell are you?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Oh? I would think you'd bother to remember my face, given how hard you wanted to verbally choke on my-" said Death Commander, before Vanessa cut in "I'm guessing you're this 'Randall' guy?"

Death Commander turned to her with a slowness that concealed a white-hot indignation. "Don't use my real name. You're not worthy to do so."

"Whatever, asshole." said Vanessa.

"Who. Are you." said Opera Penguin.

"Twice, now. And with your blonde attack dog here to clear things up." said Death Commander. "Really, you have gotten den-"

"No. Let me rephrase that." said Opera Penguin. "Who the hell do YOU THINK YOU ARE," he proclaimed, as he straightened up to an action-figure-esque stance, his cape suddenly billowing in a wind that wasn't there with a thunderclap from and absent storm, an almost-imperceptible blue light tinting the atmosphere around, " MIMICKING MY DEAD FRIEND?!"

"Oh, please." said Death Commander. "We were hardly friends, Martin. Now that you've failed the test, I'm ready to part with you for good. But the brothers have this strange and repugnant attachment to you. Truly, they ignore their own advice as much as you did."

"The test? What test?" asked Opera Penguin.

"The Overseer had already decided us worthy of autonomy—all except you. That last test was solely for you. We faked our death. It was to see what you did when it seemed like we were all gone. All that you had to do was not do exactly what you did." said Death Commander.

"But I thought the Overseer never told direct lies. . ." said Opera Penguin.

"And who told you that? The Overseer." said Death Commander.

"Well, none of this matter, because I know you're not the real Randall, yeah, the real Randall would never have the balls to take up anything with Theodore." said Opera Penguin.

Death Commander paused, as if internally reeling from the sheer disrespect Penguin had just hit him with.

"I've been told not to speak with you at all, as you're still being tested for your actions. But I know you're just going to flip out when your time comes. I figured I'd just tell you ahead of time, to break your will, so it'll all be easier." Death Commander finally said, after a few moments.

"You're lying." said Opera Penguin. "You're just some kind of demon the Overseer sent, and—"

Death Commander took off one of the white gloves on his hand.

"Here it is." said Death Commander. "If anything should prove my authenticity as myself."

"The mark." said Opera Penguin.

"Yes." said Death Commander. "Kowelbey branded my hand with the sign of a fetus when he gave me the first seed of my power. To represent a hero in gestation. But lo and behold, I'm still the same wretched man I was when he gave them."

"Vanessa, get out of here." said Opera Penguin.

"Excuse me?" asked Vanessa.

"I can't resurrect you if your spirit is completely destroyed. And if this creature is anything as powerful as the man it apes—" said Opera Penguin, before Death commander cut in: "Quit deluding yourself, Penguin. I am he. "

Opera Penguin snapped, quick-drawing his pistol and firing.

However, the bullet ricocheted, as a ripple pattern of concentric hexagons of orange light spread from a single point between the two men.

"You have the audacity to talk of aping." said Death Commander, as he pulled a pistol that was identical to Penguin's, except that it was black, with an oily gloss to it.

Penguin blinked four feet to the left, just in time to avoid the gunshot that lodge itself in the far wall behind him.

"So much for 'breaking my will'." said Opera Penguin.

"I figured I'm already transgressing the Overseer's instructions. I might as well take whatever comes to me after I've cleaned up this mess that you constitute in my life." said Death Commander.

"You really are exaggerating how much of an asshole he-" said Penguin, before being interrupted once more.

"Oh, ENOUGH!" yelled Death Commander. "Do you know how much of a burden you've been on all of us? We've been forced to watch you like a shit soapbox opera ever since you failed the test. We're forced to do this eight hours a day. Do you know how much you've hampered our lives? Our career? Our forced voyeurism has been described as a 'pet project' by the Overseer, but I consider it more like forced dogsitting. You've been an encumbrance on me, on all of us, and I just want to be free."

"Well, it seems like I have to fight you either way." said Opera Penguin, charging up more energy into a next bullet and then firing it through Death Commander's torso.

"YOU BASTARD!" snapped Death Commander, as he clutched at his chest. "YOU ARE A CHILD! A BURDEN! A CANCER! YOU WERE ALWAYS IMMATURE AND INSTEAD OF GROWING OUT OF IT IT GREW OUT OF YOU! YOU'RE A STAIN ON US AND I'LL WIPE YOU AWAY!"

Then the air around the gunshot wound glowed orange before the orange glow was drawn into the wound. The wound vanished.

While this was happening, however, Opera Penguin wasted no time in blowing the gun out of Death Commander's hand.

"Endearing." said Death Commander, as his nervous system quickly adjusted to his transmutation of the very air into a flesh and blood transfusion. "Even while you remain in denial, you dare not put a bullet between my eyes. A display of the same sentimentality that drove you to become my life's prime nuisance. The irony being that it is what I will exploit to put you down. Don't worry. I won't break any of your toys."

As if on cue, Ian cannonballed towards Death Commander, wreathed in lightning, but crashed flat into the same mostly-invisible ward which had blocked Opera Penguin's first bullet.

". . .I can't help it if they decide to break themselves against me, though." added Death Commander.

Opera Penguin snapped his fingers, literally snapping Ian out of it with a resuscitative spell. "Ian, get away. The only way I want you to take part in this fight is by keeping everyone else out of it!"

Ian, bewildered, did as told.

Then Opera Penguin and Death Commander had a totally badass fight that words alone could not do justice, but it ended in Death Commander forming a small hexagonal ward in front of his hand, and then thrusting his hand forward, propelling the ward as he did so and expanding it, into Opera Penguin's face, throwing him back.

As Opera Penguin lay in a reclined position on the floor, and pulled himself up into a sitting position, he said, "You really are him, aren't you?"

"Correct." said Death Commander.

"And you really did hate me all the time, you just didn't see it worth running afoul of Kenneth. . ." said Opera Penguin.

"Correct." said Death Commander.

"And now you're going to kill me." said Opera Penguin.

"Full marks." said Death Commander, raising his gun.

Then Opera Penguin moved like lightning, thrusting a hand forward. In that split second, out came a long 'endless handkerchief' from his sleeve that wrapped around Death Commander's torso, jerking him forward.

In shock, Death Commander fired, but between his being suddenly jerked forward at speeds which would have broken the spine of a lesser man and Penguin shooting to the left, he missed.

As Death Commander met Penguin, the latter struck him with the other hand, knocking his head back, and sending his feet slipping forward.

Almost instantly, Death Commander was back to his feet, as a sudden eruption of amber light unseated the makeshift grappling hook, but Opera Penguin moved with him.

Opera Penguin struck him again, three times—and each time his fists pierced through the shield.

"What the hell? Are you really this strong? Or has having been tied down for so much of my time made me weak? You. . . insufferable cunt. You haven't saved yourself. This isn't over. You just turned down an offer to die peacefully. None of us are on your side. All of us are against you. All of us have abandoned you. We're not dead, Martin. But you're dead to us." said Death Commander. He leapt up into the air, shifting into a form of orange light and vanishing.

Opera Penguin dropped to his knees. In the periphery of his eyes, he saw the others walking in. But he didn't care. He sobbed. He cried like a little bitch. He took a long while to do so, and everybody—Cheyenne, Monsanto, Ferdinand, Rochelle, Ian, Vanessa, Andre, even Afton, and Bernard—looked on this, but all were too uncertain—and, in most cases, afraid—to approach him, let alone to dare and try to comfort him, or even to utter a sound.

Then, after a while, Opera Penguin straightened up, got up, looke around, and erased the scene from most of their memories. The yiffbabies he managed, because they were weak, and Afton he managed, because he had Afton's very being on a metaphysical tether that allowed him almost absolute control over the man, but Ian, Vanessa and Andre bore the memories. Yet, even Ian was not willing to crack a smile. Even that obscene ogre, less than a man even if more than a child, was too unsettled to partake in his characteristic bullying.

I needed that. thought Opera Penguin to himself. Even though I'm still not sure if that was all true. I can't stand if it is. Yet the hope that isn't only pulls me apart at the seams. I just don't know. And that is nearly as bad as confirmation.

. . .

Elisa Watson was pleasantly surprised to see Squint in her office.

"Thank. . . whatever's in charge of your world." said she.

"Oh?" asked Squint. "You weren't so happy to see me last time."

"I wasn't so damn bored last time." said Elisa.

"And why are you now?" asked Squint.

"The powers you've given me, or perhaps the power that still streams from the masked stranger—it's given me control over the world, more or less." said Elisa.

"I would have thought the recent catastrophe—" said Squint.

"Insignificant." said Elisa. "I simply dominate the wills over others for miles around, only a little, you understand—but it works. Just a suggestion, just a hint, a form of subliminal advertising that hasn't been outlawed yet because they don't know it exists. I could never, either. But for that man, and for you. Even the ones whose relatives have died are all. Under. My control."

"I do not feel as if that kind of effortless power has been given to you as of yet. . ." said Squint. "I am concerned. . . but if you still use this advantage to help us, then so be it."

"Good." said Elisa. "Now, what is it you've come to inform me of?"

"There have been. . . beneficial developments in our realm." said Squint. "A recent shift in power has left it all to the one who favored you. He would like to talk with you. . ."

"Alright." said Elisa. "When?"

"Now." said Squint.

"What are you waiting for, then? Show him in." said Elisa.

The Host of Torment, albeit in an appropriately shrunken form, materialized.

"Oh, you are a beauty." he crooned at Elisa.

Elisa's nose wrinkled. She hadn't been called anything like that in years. She was in her late thirties, and forty was rearing its ugly head. From the right person, and with the right blood-alcohol content, she could appreciate that dearly. But regrettably, it came from a mutilated abomination of a man, and, even more regrettably, she was completely sober.

As if reading her mind (which, she realized, he probably was), the demon materialized a bottle of white wine, and two martini glasses. Elisa Watson did not trust a man who drank wine out of martini glasses.

"Some of us walk outside the beaten paths of the world. Even as we're running it." said the Host.

"I suppose so." said Elisa.

He poured her a glass, and raised it, slowly, to her lips.

She was nonplussed, but, as if her will were taken away from her, she sipped on it, long. The Host smiled deeply.

Then the Host put the wine glass back down. "You're bored. I understand that." said the Host. "We gave you a little too much, and asked far too little, and that in turn took away something else. I'm sorry." said the Host.

"It's. . . fine." said Elisa.

"Want to. . . occupy yourself? A little favor, you might say. . ." said the Host.

"From you to me, or vice versa?" asked Elisa.

"I like to think it goes both ways." said the Host.

"Ohh, would you please cut it with the fake seduction, I can clearly see you haven't even got genitals." sighed Elisa.

"Oh, you seem to be misinformed, my love." said the Host.

He stepped back, next to Squint, and plunged his hand in a claw-like motion into Squint's abdomen, before ripping out a chunk of flesh, in two seamless motions. Squint's only reaction was to take in a sharp and deep gasp as he went slightly walleyed.

The grey internal organs quickly morphed, in the Host's hand, into an amorphous bloodred jelly, and he put it to the flesh crater between his legs. "It can be whatever you want it to be." the Host said, winking.

Elisa passed out.

A secretary came in, hearing the noise, and the Host looked at her. The secretary died instantly upon eye contact.

The Host shrugged, sighing, and moved to put the lump of flesh back where it came from before Squint said "Ahh—ahm—perhaps it would be better—more convenient to keep it, uhh, on hand." Because even Squint had a vestigial sense of revulsion at certain things. The Host smiled.

Then he walked to the corpse, carved in 'Call me!' and an occult sigil to invoke him, and both he and his vassal vanished.

. . .

Night 58

Ian was ruffling Rochelle's cheeks as she let her face go a little dopey in the privacy of her room, with him, when Andre opened the door uninvited.

"You better be glad I had my hands on this pair o' cheeks when you decided to barge in." said Ian.

"Oh, fuck off, Ian. And by 'fuck off' I mean fuck off right out here." said Andre.

Ian looked to Rochelle, who gave him literal puppy dog eyes but said 'Fine. . .'

Ian stepped out.

"None of them remember." said Vanessa, almost immediately.

"What?" asked Ian. "None of who remember what?"

"None of the others remember Penguin's breakdown last night. Even when I pressed them." said Vanessa.

"Why were you talking about it?" asked Ian.

"Because it was weird." said Vanessa.

"Well, that's probably why they won't admit it, it was weird, and it was weird in a scary way. Seeing this guy who's shaped our entire world, this guy who came out of nowhere, break down after meeting a presumably equally powerful guy from that big, scary, unknown 'nowhere' that's probably a million times bigger than the world we know." said Ian. "It's borderline Lovecraftian."

"No, you don't understand. I got. . . unreasonable with Monsanto. Because I thought he was screwing around with me. But he legitimately doesn't remember. I mean, I terrified him." said Vanessa.

"He just doesn't get a break. . ." said Ian.

"Yeah, well. I can't undo it now." said Vanessa. "Anyway, they legitimately don't remember. Do you think Penguin fucked with their memory?"

"Well, duh." said Ian.

"But why not ours?" asked Vanessa.

"Maybe we're getting too powerful for him to be able to do that." said Andre. "Maybe that last battle was staged to make him make us feel weaker—at least the part where Afton said he helped us all along the way."

"I don't believe the second part of that." said Ian.

"For once, I agree with you." said Vanessa.

"But the first part. . . maybe." said Ian.

"Aaand you've lost me." said Vanessa.

"Well, of course. He's had more time to break you down and make you think how he wants you to, hasn't he?" said Ian. "And he was more singularly focused on you, too."

"I remember." said Nyx, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

"G'ahh!" said Ian.

"I was lurking in the shadows. I've been getting better at hiding." continued the mirthless-faced jester. "He did not bother to look, except with his eyes. . . he did not target me. His justice is closing in on him. His time is short."

"You're one for talking about 'justice' when you literally admit to skulking like a creep." said Ian.

"Fool. . . do you not know that character is who you are in the dark? Those who are bleached clean only in the light are often polluted in the heart worse than normal criminals." said Nyx. "And to enact justice necessitates that one sees through both light and dark."

"Okay, Batman." said Ian. "So what's you're take on this? What's that 'justice' you mention?"

"Simply put. . ." said Nyx. "He walks in his own cruelty against another's cruelty, and both shall swallow him up."

"Cool. Realllly cool." said Ian. "I really understood that."

Nyx vanished.

Rochelle had crept out.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, just that black clown being a creepy fuck." said Ian. "Although this time, at least someone else was making broad, sweeping statements about Penguin, and not the other way around."

"Oh, he does that with you, too?" asked Andre.

"Yeah, but he did it much longer and much worse, one-on-one with me, in a dark room." said Ian.

"Wow." said Andre. "I mean I don't believe that it was more demeaning, but go on."

"He was on some armchair-psychologist shit about how Rochelle and I are the same." said Ian. "Something about love or worth or insecurity or self-hatred or whatever."

"He's right." said Andre.

"Oh?" asked Ian.

"Yeah. You're both insecure because you hate yourself." said Andre.

"Go on." said Ian, though Rochelle was getting visibly angered.

"I know your kind of assholery." said Andre. "It's the kind that comes from trying to fill in that void with either meaningless drama, or wacky bullshit. Because you hate yourself, and you think that by burying everything in fake, glitter-glue passion, or douchebag comedy, that no one shares with you, and making everything you do have to admit about yourself into either a point to angst about as if it's not your fault, or a joke, that fills in the hole. But it doesn't."

Rochelle began to snarl "HOW DARE YOU!" but Ian raised an arm, and said "Nahh, bro. You're right." with a typically sleazy grin on his face.

"And there you go, doing it again, smiling about it, even when faced with it, acting as if you can make it not matter by treating even it like a joke, as if that will change anything, but it stays true: you have a reason to hate yourself, and that reason is almost definitely valid." said Andre. "Look at her, she gets defensive because even though it's true, it hits hard. Even though she's getting pissed at me for being right, at least she understands it, takes it seriously. You? You're still trying to joke. You still think it's funny."

"I don't need to change anything about it, if it's just silliness." said Ian.

"Yes, you do! Laughing it off doesn't change anything!" said Andre. "Your issues are real!"

"But if they are just punchlines or setups thereof, it doesn't matter if they're real or not." said Ian.

"If the problems of your life are a joke, then so are you." said Andre.

"Bingo." said Ian, raising double finger guns.

"So you're choosing openly not to change. Not to improve. Not to look up and see how you could actually become better, become worthwhile?" asked Andre.

"Bongo." said Ian,

. . .

Penguin was visited by Squint again.

"Dealing well with the new management?" asked Penguin.

"Very well! Thank you for asking." said Squint.

"Now, why are you here?" asked Penguin.

"My new boss is actually scared of you, so he sent me in his stead." said Squint. "Can you believe that?"

"Well, yes, seeing as I killed his counterparts." said Opera Penguin.

"Well, you know. Gone, not forgotten. Or really gone, for that matter." said Squint.

"But what did he send you here to do?" asked Penguin.

"He wanted to know how much power you're routing to Elisa Watson." said Squint.

"Oh! I haven't checked up on that much. Too much power, that's what I'm guessing." said Penguin. "And I can tell you fellows have already put your seeds in her—in only one sense, that is, because apparently she wasn't too sanguine about the other."

"Just culture shock, I'm sure." said Squint, tentatively touching the deep pit in his side.

"Anyway, is that all?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yes, for now." said Squint.

Opera Penguin shot him in the head.

"I'm afraid that won't work." Squint said.

"I suspected so, I just wanted to test out the effects of light remnant on you." said Penguin.

"No more effective than any other kind of power." said Squint. "For reasons you have already surmised."

"Ah, well, go on then." said Penguin.

. . .

Elisa Watson was in her home frustrated from the police actually not immediately leaving when she told them to, and actually insisting that the active crime scene was, in fact, an active crime scene. At least she had managed to prevent them from questioning her.

Nonetheless, she remembered the sigil, and, after calling a pizza delivery, slashing the pizza boy's arm with a knife and ordering him to hold still while she collected the blood in a bowl, and telling him with authority that he accidentally tripped, slid, and caught his arm on a shard of glass that was on the sidewalk, she sent him off.

She then drew the sigil on her wall.

"My, my, you didn't have to use blood. Although, I admit, that was quite entertaining." said the Host.

"We left off kind of abruptly, didn't we?" asked Elisa.

The Host smiled. Elisa didn't.

The Host brought back the drinks, putting them on Elisa's coffee table, and nearly repeated his previous "drink-feeding" stunt before Elisa swiped the martini glass out of his hand.

About three drinks in, the Host said "You seem to have changed your tune."

"I have nothing better to do while I have police officers squatting in my office." said Elisa.

"So," said the Host, holding the lump of flesh. "Take your pick."

"Just make it a normal shape and take my mind off of things, I don't care otherwise." said Elisa.

"Sofa or bed?" asked the Host.

"I said I don't care." said Elisa.

"Sofa it is—weak or rough?" continued the Host.

"Like I said, just get my mind off things." said Elisa

"Rough it is." said the Host.

This was a bad choice, as by this he meant indulging in his predilection for excessive choking, while whispering in a monotone all the plans he had, plans that she couldn't remember but subconsciously were ingrained into her mind. The choking was too much—at one point, she remembered a vice grip that lasted a solid two seconds too long, and she could've sworn she passed out momentarily during it.

Oddly, though, Elisa felt numb to it all, and asked the Host his name. He responded by telling her his title, but then she insisted on a name, wherupon he admitted he had prior been referred to as 'Graz'zt'.

Feeling uncharacteristically silly, Elisa asked "So that other man was an. . . under-Graz'zt?"

The Host laughed.

Then suddenly Elisa's body erupted, dispersing into dark ash, while Elisa was embodied in a mirror of her body which rapidly morphed into something horrible.

Then, as the Host got up, picking Elisa up slightly, her body reformed, and the Host dropped her back into it.

Elisa sat up, gasping, and asked: "What. Just. Happened?"

"I Converted you." said the Host, simply. "You are one of us, now. Even those at the outskirts of our realm touch a world of pure suffering. That is why the change may have been uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable?" snapped Elisa. "It was the worst feeling I've ever felt."

"That. . . may change." said the Host. "But only incidentally. You are still principally mean to benefit from other's pain, not your own."

"Why did you do this now?" asked Elisa.

"Because this way you don't need the masked stranger anymore. Which is good, because he doesn't need you." said the Host.

"Oh." said Elisa.

"But, let us come back to my world, where I will show you what is happening, and what is to be." said the Host.

. . .

Night 59

Cheyenne clung to Andre in the Atrium, lamenting about how people felt so distant.

"But, I'm still happy about having you." she said.

"Funny." said Andre.

"No?" asked Cheyenne.

"I've already said my piece on that. But if you're still glad about my existence, I guess I'm glad for you." said Andre.

"Then that proves that you're a good person." said Cheyenne.

"No, it doesn't." said Andre.

"No, it doesn't." said a white figure, levitating in the air some distance behind them.

Andre instantly shot up, nearly throwing Cheyenne off.

"Who are you?" asked Andre.

The stranger smiled. He looked a bit like Andre, but with a more masculine face, and broader shoulders. He also had dead white skin and hair, yellow eyes with black sclera, and tar-black teeth. He wore something like a black kimono, with a white belt.

"I'm Ikarus Blackmore." said the apparition. "And you're my disgraceful ripoff." Ikarus stretched out his hand, and manifested a black katana.

"What?" asked Andre. "Penguin told me he only designed my sword." As he said this, the black katana shifted into an 'unlabeled' lookalike of Fading Moon.

"The original form of my blade." said Ikarus. "But there's more. He predisposed everything he gave you to parody me—even as it was personalized to you. He even predisposed you to mimic me. It's all because of what he meant you for. You see, I'm one of the Grim Reapers. We come from Deathrealm—not to be confused with the shithole that is 'Deadrealm'—to sort out ghosts, spooks, and even straight-up demons that had their origin as dead people that refused to die. So. When he decided to take a worthless person. Worth less than nothing." Cheyenne protested slightly but Ikarus kept talking. "And give him worth in the form of the ability to deal with the more ethereal world. To exterminate post-human abominations. Obviously, who'd he decide to make a pastiche of? Me. And that pisses me off."

"Are you kidding?" asked Andre, manifesting Fading Moon.

Before he was cut in half. His upper half hung in the air, and sighed. "I don't even care at this point. My life, or existence or whatever has been a joke recently anyway. I mean it always was, honestly, just a different sort now." Ian, who was just coming into the room, locked eyes with Andre as the very eyes of the latter faded, and the former felt strange.

Cheyenne's reaction was the standard one for such a situation, but Ikarus shot to her like a bullet, and grabbed her by the throat, pulling back his arm to point the full length of his sword at her.

Then he lowered it.

"Weird." Ikarus said. "Somehow, you're alive. I don't know how Opera Penguin bastardized mortality, but he did. I'll find out what to do with you later."

"Did someone call my name?" asked Opera Penguin.

"You!" yelled Ikarus, dropping Cheyenne as if she were nothing. "I've got some business with you!"

"Business, yes—business as usual." said Opera Penguin. "People trying to kill me is nothing special. You'll be forgotten with the rest."

"You're wrong, Penguin! It's your turn to be left in the dust. There's nothing more despicable than abusing human spirits and treating them like the same junk machines that this hellhole uses as its main gimmick!"

"I don't particularly care about your moral evaluations, Ikarus." said Opera Penguin. "Unless you want to be forced to become part of this all, I suggest you leave."

"Oh, get real, Penguin! I'm on a higher tier of power than you ever will be!" said Ikarus.

"Ian, get over here." said Opera Penguin.

Ian shot over to Penguin in his lightning form, and resumed his normal one right next to Penguin.

Ian shot at Ikarus, but it did nothing.

Vanessa finally showed up, and swung at Ikarus, with all her energy.

Ikarus merely blocked with the sharp edge of his sword, and Vanessa's shell preemptively unraveled to protect her from the automatic countering force this produce.

"Really? You come against Reaping Moon with a distorted flashlight?" asked Ikarus.

Ikarus then stepped over Vanessa, who had fallen to her knees, and swung at Penguin, who shot backwards just in time. Penguin then led him around in circles, only dodging, not even fighting back, before calling out to Ian: "GLITTER!"

Ian looked, and saw a sparkling in from of Ikarus' solar plexus.

Ian did as told, unraveling his shell just to pour all of the energy into a homing bolt of lightning that struck Ikarus in the solar plexus, staggering him, before Opera Penguin drew his gun, poured vast amounts of energy into his next bullet, and firing it just where Ian's bolt had struck.

There was a shattering noise. "Ikarus Blackmore," said Opera Penguin, "you flew too close to the sun."

Ikarus' skin turned somewhat more human, although it was still white, just not literally, his eyes became normal brown ones and his hair became ginger.

"What?! No! No!" said Ikarus, clasping at himself, as his sword, which he had dropped, shattered against the ground.

"What happened?" asked Ian.

"The Reapers of Deathrealm are implanted spiritually with a 'lock of fate', a construct of power that grows faster than normal spiritual power would, but is a semi-separate entity from their spirit, and absorbs most or all of their spirit's growth. Thing is, it's physically connected to the solar plexus, and quite fragile. I slightly 'adjusted' your lightning bolt as you sent it to strike him more metaphysically than physically, and then did something similar to my bullet." said Opera Penguin.

"So what, he's lost his powers?" asked Ian.

"He's lost his grim reaper powers, but he's still got physical strength that people on Earthrealm would consider supernatural because he still trained before the lock was implanted. But you have enough baseline power to kick his ass." said Opera Penguin.

"So, you were serious about him joining the circus?" asked Ian.

"No, I don't think I could stand him, just beat the shit out of him." said Opera Penguin.

"Don't mind if I do!" said Ian, who then obliged Penguin.

After he was done, Penguin opened up a portal. "Throw him through." said Opera Penguin.

"Alrighty." said Ian, who did as told, throwing Ikarus into an idyllic forest, lit with warm golden stars yet still dark like the pre-dawn morning.

The portal closed.

Cheyenne got up, tentatively.

"Oh, hey, you're still alive." said Ian.

"Ian." said Cheyenne.

"Uh-huh?" said Ian.

"Do you. . . just like hurting other people?" she asked.

Ian laughed.

"What's funny?" Cheyenne asked, indignantly.

"Awwh, nothing, just you asking that reminded me of a video game." said Ian.

"That's probably how you see everything, isn't it?" asked Cheyenne. "Just a video game, just for fun. I mean it's bad enough that all those games cater to your violent personality but they were never enough anyway? So you just see this as more, better, an upgrade, right?"

"Pretty much." said Ian. "Though, if you're trying to make me feel bad, it isn't working."

"I figured that much." said Cheyenne. "I just, I'm starting to hate you for real."

"What? Only now? I'm a little disappointed. . ." said Ian.

"No, actually I think I've hated you for a good while now." said Cheyenne. "It's just getting to a point where I have to admit it to myself—and Ian, that's a pretty bad point."

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" said Ian, his face splitting into a smile. "But, what's gotten you to this point, now?"

"Because, I feel like, after just glossing over Andre's death, just treating this as an opportunity to beat up one more 'bad guy', and then not even killing him? I think you really hate me too." said Cheyenne.

"Ehhh. . . I wouldn't say 'hate'. Not 'hate'. I don't really care enough about you to hate you. But I don't think I'm very fond of you, to be honest." said Ian.

"I just kind of wish you'd never showed up." said Cheyenne.

Ian smiled even wider and laughed, rolling her whiny voice around in his head. "I feel like I've made a record. I've made the most insipid cunt in this place actually have conviction on something. Who woulda guessed?"

"Dry up and blow away, Ian." said Cheyenne.

Ian smiled.

. . .

Later, Ian had gone to Rochelle's room, and filled her in on what happened. She had been showering at the time, so she couldn't leave lest she leave a massive trail of soapy water, given her hair.

"Look, I know it's probably a terrible time to ask this, but. . ." said Rochelle.

"Yeah?" asked Ian.

"He was a fucking asshole, especially yesterday." said Rochelle.

"Haha! He sure was!" said Ian.

Outside the door, Cheyenne, who had been listening in on them, ran back to her room. Rochelle heard, but was too preoccupied to address it.

"But I'm kind of upset about what you said then, too." said Rochelle.

"Huh?" asked Ian.

'Ian.' Ian heard in his head. It was like a memory of a sound, and it was Opera Penguin's voice. 'Now is the time. This is a prime chance. Don't waste it.'

"Ian, I'm glad you managed to stay all 'cool' back there, but you sort of implicated me into what you called yourself, you know." said Rochelle. "All that stuff about self hating, and covering it up?"

"But I do think that's true about you." said Ian.

"What?" asked Rochelle.

"I mean, c'mon, nobody's perfect." said Ian. "And ours happen to line up, so it makes us perfect partners in our imperfection."

"Really?" asked Rochelle.

"Nope!" said Ian, who then slapped her across the room. "Boop-bedoop-bedoop-bedoop, I don't love you at aa-allll!" he said.

Rochell looked up, hurt and confused. "But. . . all those things—what? What are you doing?"

"Coming clean." said Ian. "Something I've been waiting to do for a hot minute."

"What? Are you saying that you never loved me? At. . . at all?" asked Rochelle, trembling.

"Well. . ." said Ian. "That's not actually exactly true. I love you. Or, at least, part of me wants to love you. It really does. It pines after your cute face. It sympathizes with your agony. It wants to bleed with you. It wants to bleed for you. It sees your spirit. . . it likes it. But a deeper part of me, part of me that's deeper inside, can only look down on you. It sees your shallowness. It sees your emptiness. It sees how a lot of your angst was manufactured, literally, even, programmed as the part of you that was once a machine, back when that machine was being built. That other part of me, in fact, sees you as what you were, in part, made to be. A product. So when I say I love you, I mean that I love you in the same way I love a piece of candy. Pretty, sweet, with just the amount of sourness I need to stimulate me. . . and ultimately meant to be devoured by me, consumed for my pleasure, and for no one's real benefit, and ultimately destined to be reduced to nothing, except maybe an extra few calories to be stowed away in my rolls."

"No." said Rochelle.

Ian guffawed. "No?" he asked, incredulous at her incredulity. "I mean, did you really expect someone like me to be a good person? To be someone who's 'really a good guy, it's just that only you can see it'? Give me a fucking. Break. I am a god next to you. I mean, I might not be as pretty, I might not be as marketable or have that attractive kind of angst that doesn't have to do with having lived with your parents up until they kicked you out but not before dealing irrevocable damaged to your love life that eventually resulted in you committing quintuple homicide—yes, that wasn't a joke—and I might not be lusted after by a bunch of low-taste furries on the Internet. But I am a god next to you. I am power incarnate, and glory embodied. It doesn't matter that I'm a fat fuck with a worthless outlook on life. I have power. And power is ultimately what calls the shots—that's what makes it power! And you have so little you can't even fend for yourself amongst higher beings like me."

"Shut up! I know this is something Penguin is making you say, so there's no point!" said Rochelle.

"Oh-ho, no." said Ian. "Pengy-boy's not to blame for everything bad that happens around here."

"And I know you saw this coming!" said Rochelle. "Because you told me, ahead of time, you told me that even if you said—"

Ian interrupted her with a laugh that sounded like the agonized screams of a torture victim. "ROCHELLE! DID YOU NOT HEAR ME! I SAID! I BEEN WAITING TO COME CLEAN F'RA HOT! MINUTE! O' COURSE I'M GONNA LEAVE SOME HOOKS IN YOU SO MORE SKIN GETS RIPPED OUT WHEN I PULL AWAY! BITCH, YOU ARE NOTHING! YOU ARE LESS THAN NOTHING! YOU'RE A FUCKING OBJECT TO ME! YOU'RE THE LIVING EQUIVALENT OF A BAD FANFICTION! GET THE HELL! OVER YOURSELF!"

Rochelle herself was having a fit, covering her ears and shrieking between sobs, saying "No! No!" with the same irate mannerisms as a man repeatedly screaming that an entire motel threatened to kill him.

Ian laughed as he strode out of her room, only to walk straight into Vanessa.

Even her igneous gaze couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"I have never been less happy to be able to tell someone 'I told you so'." stated Vanessa, flatly.

They then both got a mental notification from Opera Penguin that the Converts were attacking.

"Well, whatever's gonna happen, it'll have to wait until we deal with this next invasion." said Ian.

"Everything in its due time, Ian." said Vanessa. "But for now, know that I'm willing to take whatever Penguin is going to dish out to me for killing his blue attack dog."

"Yeah, we'll see if literally anything has changed since the last time." said Ian. "'cause I'm seeing that you ate shit against white boy, and I didn't."

"Only because I overreacted, and that was because I was scared for Cheyenne—I moved too hastily because of concern for those whom I am set to guard. Something you don't have. It's not because you're better than me. It's because, between us, only one of us signed up to be a guard. And it shows."

"Yeah, it does, you wagie." said Ian.

"Ian, what was your job before coming here?" asked Vanessa, raising an eyebrow aggressively.

"Uhhhh—fuck you." said Ian.

"Ohhh, so you were a male prostitute, got it." said Vanessa.

. . .

Rochelle walked shamefully to Cheyenne's room, but Cheyenne gave her the cold shoulder, having heard only what she heard before running off, incapable of getting over the fact that Rochelle, upon hearing the death of her, Cheyenne's boyfriend, could only think of how much she, Rochelle, hated him.

Rochelle was left to slink back to her room, curl up, and cry.

. . .

The invasion was worse than ever before, Converts streaming into the actual building itself.

Even though Ian and Vanessa fought harder than ever before to compensate for the loss of Andre, it got to a point where Opera Penguin even took part in the fight, and called William to do the same, although not before summoning some spiritually-insulated armor in the likeness of Springtrap around him, much to his chagrin.

Despite herself, Rochelle exited her room to fight the Converts, managing to fend a few off alongside Monsanto and Ferdinand. Cheyenne was too bust mourning Andre to leave her room, and so the others had to work without her.

A Convert broke into the computer room, and Mangle shielded Gregory, despite their prior conversations. She was fatally wounded. Gregory, enraged, used the bat, and his powers, to destroy the Convert, and knelt down next to Mangle. She told him that, despite everything, she realized she would be a monster to take away Gregory's chance at his own life, and his own self-actualization, and she told him to live a rich life on her behalf, because she wasn't sure if she would go anywhere after living as a ghost for so long. Gregory wept at her side, but Hermes appeared, and reminded Gregory that giving in to despair would make her loving act worthless, and to listen to her, exhorting: "Please. Take her guidance. Take her guidance."

Ian pulled off his 'fake death' stunt perfectly, in part due to how he wanted to feel as he claimed to, to feel like he needed no one and was needed by all. In cold blood, Penguin shot him, and with the last shreds of his shell, along with the help of Burnt Roxanne, he made it through the hoard of Converts' grasp and crossed over to Lowrealm.

Opera Penguin was frustrated over the inefficacy of their attacks on Converts, as even the ones they did 'kill' were retrieved by Sheol. However, he noticed that this was not the case for the one Gregory had killed, and after hearing an account of what had happened, he came to the conclusion that Preachers' and Converts' weakness, in the most cliche fashion, was love.

However, Rochelle was, as promised, confined to the basement. This was not before Vanessa delivered the news of Ian's fate to her, but was unable to refrain from a smirk rippling across her face, whereupon Rochelle slapped her, and Vanessa left, saying "Fine, I'll just leave."

Penguin gave Rochelle the offer to temporarily 'freeze' her current condition where it was so it wouldn't get worse, but in exchange she alone would be conscious as an animatronic in the daytime. As before, she would only be in control of her actions when not closely observed by an adult. She took this offer.

. . .

Nights 60-64

The Pizzaplex had become much more active, putting on a show every day, the maintenance workers on the animatronics far too overworked keeping them running every day.

For the next three days, Rochelle-as-Roxy hung around in Mazercise, and, despite herself, mainly spent her time conversing with, and sometimes hugging children. Something about it consoled her, feeling a sorrowful longing for the innocence and pure emotion of childhood, and getting a vague sense that she had once had it, but it was taken for her, an anamnesis of her forshortened childhood as a human being before Vanny killed her and she 'became' Roxanne. She clung to the affections of the little ones, and felt warmed by it, until Elisa, under the influence of the Host, shut down Mazercise after the third day of Rochelle's life 'back as Roxy'.

Rochelle-as-Roxy then proceeded to hamper the actual machine's functioning out of pure despair on the fourth day, so on the fourth night, Opera Penguin revoked their temporary arrangement.

However, on the fifth day, Opera Penguin mentally manipulated the parents of one of the kids Rochelle-as-Roxy had hugged, a girl named Cassie. Said girl's parents were under the influence of Elisa, now using her newfound Convert powers as she had used Penguin's remnant, to manipulate them into going every day for a straight week. Penguin, however, manipulated them on this night to try and walk home, under the pretense of 'working off calories'. He then also manipulated a common crook, who just happened to own an illegal firearm, to. . . give Cassie the Batman experience. Finally, he manipulated Cassie herself to run back to the Pizzaplex.

While Opera Penguin had told Rochelle that she had gotten everyone to hate her, (except Ferdinand, because he 'couldn't be helped'), everyone was, in fact, wondering what had happened to her. For once, Penguin was tight lipped about the affair, no longer abusing the word 'sabbatical', but everyone had a good guess as to what was going on. Rochelle, meanwhile, had been spiralling downward constantly, both physically and mentally. Her body was now emaciated and, in many places, gangrenous. Her slathering jaws were exposed, and she oozed not only from her tear ducts, but from her salivary glands.

When Cassie ran in, she was sighted by Monsanto, and ran away from him, finding the basement, only for a sobbing Rochelle to begin chasing her, seeking out of some strange, irrational desire to devour her.

Gregory, who had been moping for a while, was telepathically informed by Penguin of what was going on, and though he wondered why no one else, like Vanessa or Ferdinand, had been called, he couldn't see them, and went down to the basement.

"Rochelle!" Gregory cried out, upon seeing her.

"I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear it!" she said, chasing Cassie.

Gregory leapt in her path, and stopped her by prodding the bat into her gut. "Rochelle!" he said again.

"I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear about how horrified you are at me, how disgusting I now am to you!" said Rochelle. "I know no one will ever love me this way! No one will give me their warmth, so I can only receive it directly from their tender flesh!"

"Rochelle, that's not true!" said Gregory.

"What?" asked Rochelle.

"Rochelle, I'm not horrified at you, I'm horrified at what's happened to you!" said Gregory.

"No, you're lying, you're just trying to protect her!" said Rochelle.

"I don't even know her!" said Gregory.

"But you care, because, because I don't know!" said Rochelle.

"And I care about you, too!" said Gregory.

Rochelle stared at Gregory with half-blind eyes, already beginning to look milky, and then ran off, whimpering.

"Wait, I know you!" said Cassie.

"Oh, wait, when I was in the foster system, I came here and you were all alone. . ." said Gregory.

"I can't believe I barely know you and yet you've saved me twice." said Cassie.

"You can't compare a gloomy birthday to getting mauled." said Gregory, matter of factly.

Opera Penguin appeared out of nowhere, and manifested a glowing light at the tip of his middle- and forefinger, which he placed to Cassie's forehead. She briefly screamed, but then relaxed oddly, as if drugged.

"You are now Radical Cassie, you can vibrate through walls and burrow underground. Among other things." said Opera Penguin, who then vanished.

Gregory had already run after Rochelle, and he found her crying gently, because even crying was too painful for her.

Gregory approached her, and his spotlight covered her.

"Go away, I don't want you to see me like this." said Rochelle.

"I'll close my eyes, then." Gregory said, and he hugged her, to her surprise.

Nonetheless, she hugged him back.

"I love you." said Gregory, and even though he meant it platonically at that moment, the very phrase was enough to make her collapse on him.

"Gregory." she said.

"Yeah?" asked Gregory.

"I never got to live as a kid." said Rochelle.

"I'm. . . sorry." said Gregory.

"Gregory?" Rochelle asked.

"Yeah?" asked Gregory.

"I want to grow up with you." said Rochelle.

"I'd be okay with that." said Gregory.

Rochelle's body rotted around Gregory, and crumbled to dust. But as it did, out came a smaller body. It was Rochelle, but younger, more like Gregory in height.

"You're. . . okay?" asked Gregory.

"I'm better than I ever was." said Rochelle.

Gregory smiled.

"Gregory, can I ask you something selfish?" asked Rochelle.

"Rochelle, please, don't call yourself that. Mangle just died, and she called herself selfish for being too attached to me." said Gregory.

"Then, can I ask?" asked Rochelle.

"Go ahead." said Gregory.

"Can you love me like Casey did? Like I thought Ian did, before he told me I was always a joke to him?" asked Rochelle. "I. . . even though Penguin took off the technical need for it, you saw what I did to myself without it. I need it, and after what you've said, I see in you everything I was missing in the others."

In that moment, the phantom of Ian's love for Rochelle permanently merged into Gregory.

"I need you too, Rochelle. I don't know if I can just commit to you on the spot like all you others seem to do, but I'll be with you, and maybe, I'll. . ." Gregory paused, before Rochelle pulled him in for a kiss. She was crying again, but this time happily.

"Penguin told me you would hate me because of the state Mangle's death left you in." said Rochelle.

"I think he knew that was bullshit, and was just trying to get you where he got you." said Gregory.

"But what was his goal? To kill me? Oh, who cares, I want to be happy right now." said Rochelle.

The two of them went to Cassie, who had returned to normal by now, apart from the fact that she now had powers, apparently.

Rochelle hugged Cassie, and informed her that she 'was' Roxanne.

The three of them shared a moment of happiness, before they tried to leave the basement.

As they left, however, Opera Penguin appeared to them, and gave Gregory the same ultimatum/deal he had Ian.

Gregory accepted, Rochelle melting next to him, burrowing her face into his collarbone as her warm tears wet his shirt.

"Am I the third wheel now?" asked Cassie.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin, smiling.

"Damn it." said Cassie.

Opera Penguin laughed.

. . .

When they came out, and returned to the common room, Cheyenne rushed Rochelle, and tackled her. "I'm so sorry, I thought the last time I ever spoke to you would be pushing you away just before you died! I thought I had isolated you when you needed me the most! I thought the reason Opera Penguin didn't say where you were was because he was expecting us to find your hanging body!"

"Cheyenne, it's okay! None of this is your fault, and I'm sorry for what I said about Andre! I'm sorry for what I became when I was with Ian!" said Rochelle.

"That doesn't matter now, I'm just so happy you're okay, and—wait, why are you short?" asked Cheyenne.

"You only just noticed that now?" asked Rochelle.

"I only half registered it." said Cheyenne.

Monsanto exited his room, because of the noise, and gawped. "Why's Rochelle a twerp?" he asked.

"Monsanto!" snapped Cheyenne.

Opera Penguin materialized next to them. "She has exited the stagnancy of agelessness, and entered into the cycle of life." he said.

"What's that mean?" asked Monsanto.

"It means she's a twerp." said Opera Penguin, to Cheyenne's chagrin. "But it also means she can get pregnant someday! Which is a really weird thing to point out about a child, but it's true."

"Is this gonna happen to all of us?" asked Monsanto, concerned.

"Ths potential to switch over is inside all of you, but only you can unlock it." said Opera Penguin.

"So, if I wanted to be a mother. . ." said Cheyenne.

"You would have to go through being a child." said Opera Penguin. "Unless you were willing to adopt."

"Why would I want to become a kid just so I can get old?" asked Monsanto.

"You clearly wouldn't." said Opera Penguin. "I should point out that, for your personalities to mature fully, you must undertake this. But clearly that's something that you, Monsanto, are not interested in."

"Damn straight!" said Monsanto. "I'm as mature as I'll ever need or want to be!"

"Good." said Opera Penguin.

. . .

Gregory and Rochelle were allowed to sleep in Rochelle's room, but, if for no other reason than that Penguin found it funny, Gregory's cat bed was required to be put in Rochelle's bed. Cassie also had to sleep with them, but on top of the covers, lying perpendicular over the two. While this was also probably because Penguin thought it was funny, it could also have been that this was how Penguin thought chaperoning worked.

. . .

"Hi. Ian." said Burnt Roxanne, standing above him.

"Oh, hi, babe." said Ian, smiling awkwardly at the charred face, confronting the life that lay ahead of him.

"You really went through with it all." said Burnt Roxanne. "I'm glad. This time, you picked me. By choice. And so you have atoned."

"I mean, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't at least partially because of that thing that happened, and what it entailed. You know. The thing that wasn't by choice?" said Ian.

"But still. It was your choice to accept that. To accept that I own you." said Burnt Roxanne.

"And now that I accept that, I own you too." said Ian, his face relaxing into its usual sleaze.

"Yes." said Burnt Roxanne. "And that's why I'm glad."

She helped him up, and, once again, gave him a facsimile of a kiss.

"I've truly come to love you, Ian." said Burnt Roxanne. "Not just like the desperate feeling I had before. Somehow it came from that. But it's matured. I alone truly see what's good in you. And not just in what you can provide me in some harlequin romance. You, truly, are all outside of my own, wretched self that I have, and I am all outside yourself that you have."

"And I'm happy." said Ian, hugging her tight to himself.

. . .

"I'm starting to think you have some strange predilection for, for playing matchmaker in the most disconcerting ways." said William. "First Ian and Rochelle, then Cheyenne and Andre, now the child and Rochelle, who, in order to suit her for this, you have made a child herself?"

"Well, first of all, Rochelle made herself a child," said Opera Penguin, "and secondly, even though I do find their quick-burning romances entertaining, that's not the main point. Gregory produces dark remnant when his emotional state pleases others. And his happiness pleases Rochelle. And her joy in love produces light remnant. But, more importantly, the purity of their love alters the nature of that light remnant, so that it is completely pure and positive. It's this way because even though it's built on prior suffering, it actively turns that suffering into joy—for it is the love that saved Rochelle from her suffering, and Gregory from his loneliness. All the sadness that led up to it only serves to make it happier, like dark coal burning in a bright fire. For once, a happiness in this place is not predicated on ignorance of one's sorrow, but the resolution of it, and that is exactly the pure joy that we need against the Converts."

"So this was all about making a weapon?" asked William.

"More or less." said Opera Penguin.

"It's only just struck me how exploitative you are." said William. "And don't give me that tired old 'you literally killed people' argument, there's something worse about puppeteering the inner passions of others through your insidious magic than simply constituting in oneself the ultimate negative external circumstance."

"Perhaps." said Opera Penguin. "But I enjoy the way in which it is worse. I'm proud of my maleficence at this point."

. . .

"I can't keep calling you Burnt Roxanne, though." said Ian.

"What do you want to call me, then?" asked Burnt Roxanne.

"Uhhh. . . BBQ?" asked Ian.

Burnt Roxanne stared at him.

"Maybe just Beebee instead." suggested Ian.

"You called the other one 'Rochelle'." said Burnt Roxanne.

"Yeah, but I can't call you that." said Ian.

"Why not?" asked Burnt Roxanne.

"Because I killed her in my heart." said Ian.

"But she and I are similar." said Burnt Roxanne.

"But not the same." said Ian.

"Michelle." said Burnt Roxanne.

"Why?" asked Ian.

"It's similar to Rochelle." said Burnt Roxanne. "But not the same."

"Michelle it'll be." said Ian.

. . .

Night 65

The Converts invaded one last time. They busted through the solid walls of the building into the Daycare, and just as they were ready to flood in, a wave of light made many collapse.

Only four Converts stood tall: Squint, a woman with a torn open throat and a stitched-up mouth who communicated telepathically, another Convert made in the likeness of Michael when he was a Convert, and another with a wide open Glasgow smile and a jaw that opened up far wider than normal, whose stomach was slit open and eyes covered over with thin shades.

Then Opera Penguin noticed a fifth figure: Elisa.

Using a bit of the 'pure joy' energy, Opera Penguin 'colored' a large amount of his own energy, which he loaded into his bullets. With three, one to each, he stripped the three Converts that stood next to Squint of their powers and status as Converts, while with three more, he shattered Squint's Convert essence. "And thus," Opera Penguin said, "I take upon myself your own undertaking, to be force behind the suffering passion of the world. In other words, I'm taking over this operation. And you four will be my first patients."

Meanwhile, William rushed over to Elisa, and grabbed her by the throat. "Is this who has taken over my company?"

"Wait, let's not be too hasty about this!" said Elisa. "You're William Afton? Look, I know you killed kids but do you really want to sully your creation any more? I mean, come on, we both know that this is supposed to be a magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where-"

"SORRY, KID!" cackled William, as he extended the bones out of his fingers into horrific claws. "I DON'T BELIEVE IN FAIRY TALES!"

Then, he stabbed the claws into her, Penguin channeled the 'pure joy' through his claws, instantly stripping Elisa of her Conversion, and then William tore his claws out of her in almost a 'scooping' motion, eviscerating her. It hurt for a moment, but, due to Elisa passing out, it was only for a moment.

. . .

"Well, are you feeling happy?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Why, in particular?" asked William.

"Because you're reclaimed your company, in a sense, from the one who's usurped it?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Only a little." said William.

"Oh?" asked Opera Penguin. "Why's that?"

"Because all this," said William, waving his hands around, "is the real essence of what is mine. And I'm already its figurehead ruler."

"Oh, that's right!" said Opera Penguin. "I haven't properly introduced you to everyone else!"

He brought everyone together. "Everyone!" he called out. "This, here, is William Afton! My current patron, and the owner of this place!"

"I thought you were the owner." said Monsanto.

"Oh, no, no!" said Opera Penguin. "I am merely the manager!"

"So, why haven't you introduced us all to him like this before?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, you see, I only just realized that none of you were aware who the proprietor of this establishment was!" said Opera Penguin.

"Well, Mr. Afton, why are you wearing a toga?" asked Cheyenne.

"Oh, it's just a. . . style I adopted." said William, and in a flash, the toga and laurel vanishing changing to his usual suit in a flash. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Everybody clear out of the atrium!" called out a familiar voice. Everyone turned their head, and Opera Penguin sighed.

It was Henry, but his body was a radiant silver, the radiance of which made his bare crotch blessedly indistinct.

"Wha-?" William asked, backing up as he raised his hands.

"A being from a higher plane gave me this body, and the power to kill William without harming this place by taking his role as he dies." said Henry. "It's a hard choice, you'll understand, but I did already make the decision that you need to die a long time ago, and this is just a continuation of that. Having seen realms outside this one, I no longer trust in the afterlife to be a better place for the departed here. I intend, instead, to make this as perfect a paradise for the children as it can be." said Henry.

"And what did you do in exchange for this?" asked Opera Penguin.

"The being said you would be able to predict what my end of the deal was at this point, and would only be asking facetiously." said Henry.

"Right, right, well, if you're obligated to try and kill me anyway, we might as well fight one on one anyway." said Opera Penguin.

"But I-" said Willliam.

"Nope!" said Opera Penguin. "Can't risk you being compromised. Clear off."

William backed up to the far wall of the Atrium, and Opera Penguin sighed, but accepted it.

Then there was another unnecessary battle, which Penguin won, whereupon Henry said "I'm sorry, children. I've failed. I've missed my one chance to bring you at least some light. In this isolated shadow of a world." Then he let out a wail as his new body cracked, and exploded.

"Is he. . . gone?" asked William, voice trembling.

"His spirit has been re-absorbed by the Pizzaplex." said Opera Penguin. "But his body was destroyed."

"What about the 'power' he mentioned?" asked William.

"That's probably really more an orienting of his spirit to the action of absorption of your status, should he be able to defeat you." said Opera Penguin. "But the semi-divine body enhanced his spirit's power, so as to make that defeat a possibility. Without its support, he's probably too weak to stand against you. Even so, I'll restrain his spirit within a special place I'll make just for him."

"I see." said William.

"I'll still be apply to facilitate conversations with him, if you want." said Opera Penguin. "It will just be with a faint projection of him. From inside his prison."

"It's funny, because I'm the one that belongs in prison." mused William.

"Can't argue with that." said Opera Penguin. "But I need you for my purposes."

"Yeah, I've gathered that." said William.

. . .

Ben Anderson had been suffering a mediocre damnation for a while, living in a city where constant humidity and heat waves, yet no sunlight, permeated everything.

He was visited by a being of light.

It told him that he could earn a second chance at life, and the lightening of his and his parents' sentence for the crime of allowing Ian to go astray, if he hunted Ian down, and killed him.

Ben Anderson accepted, and so he was given infernal strength, the power of hellfire, and a sword of molten gold held in a solic form by a force which imbued it. And with it, a new name: Ben Hinnom.

. . .

"Everyone, I'm sorry for that interruption!" said Opera Penguin. "There was a fight over some, uhh, creative differences."

"Is there any actual reason to call us back?" asked Vanessa. "You've already introduced us to him."

"Well, there's something more!" said Opera Penguin. "I—we're separating this place from the world, and making it part of its own dimension! And we'll never be bothered again! The normal Pizzaplex will be left behind, but our Pizzaplex—our version of it—is going to be its own world, literally!"

"Why?" asked Vanessa.

"Well firstly," said Opera Penguin, "like I said, we'll never be bothered again! But secondly, we can set up a three-dimensional portal to this place that matches its borders, essentially implanting it anywhere we want!"

"How does the plumbing work?" asked Monsanto.

"The plumbing is managed internally. Alchemically. Don't worry about it." said Opera Penguin.

"So we can be like an actual traveling circus?" asked Apollo.

"Uhh, yes! Sure!" said Opera Penguin.

"But not actually one?" asked Rochelle.

Opera Penguin threw up his hands. "We'll figure it out! Anyway you all can go!"

"You sound like you're tired." said Vanessa.

"Oh, let's see," said Opera Penguin. "I get invaded by interdimensional bounty hunters twice, I clear up the issue of the Converts in two rounds—with your help, of course—and then I beat up William's friend, and I work on separate this place from the earth, why would I be tired?"

"Then just sleep, good grief." said Vanessa.

"You know what? I think I'll do that." said Opera Penguin.

"But wait." said Vanessa.

"Yes?" sighed Opera Penguin.

"Why are you doing this new thing?" asked Vanessa.

"Honestly, it is so nobody will bother use. We can progress forward, all while sealed in this dimension that's harder to access directly than Earthrealm as a whole is." said Opera Penguin.

"Well, can I leave?" asked Vanessa.

"I mean, sure, I'll let you have vacations." said Opera Penguin. "But I still need you here."

"At this point, I feel like you should at least bribe me with something." said Vanessa.

"Like what? Creepy remnant clones of Casey?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Don't even joke about that." said Vanessa, flatly.

"Well, what?" asked Opera Penguin. "What do you want?"

"I don't know, maybe kill Afton?" asked Vanessa. "Turn this place into its own 'god' somehow?"

"That'll be difficult," said Opera Penguin, "seeing as how I'm separating this place from Earthrealm by making it into a dimension contained in Afton's own spirit."

"What?" asked Vanessa. "How can Afton be inside himself?"

"Just because his spirit contains the essence of the dimension doesn't mean the dimension exists physically inside of him. Nor will his spirit be literally, physically 'around' the dimension. And the body in which his spirit resides is still a three-dimensional object, and this dimension is still a three-dimensional space. So really, it is quite easy for Afton to be inside himself—or rather, inside the space whose foundation exists within his essence." Opera Penguin.

"O… kay." said Vanessa. "I'll just trust that that makes sense and I'm just too dumb to understand it." She said 'dumb' with a theatrical 'swing' of emphasis that suggested insincerity.

"Honestly, it's just easier that way." said Opera Penguin.