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.

16. Aim for the heavens! HELL IS FULL

Night 47

Ian woke up to Rochelle, next to him in bed, just looking at him, smiling. He wanted to kill himself. But it wasn't out of revulsion for her, which surprised him. It was out of genuine guilt.

He pulled her towards himself and kissed her.

"I hope we get to move out of here someday, and live our own life together." said Rochelle. "And then we'll be able to do all sorts of things."

The urge towards self-termination deepened.

"If I end up not making it to then, please learn to live without me." said Ian, to assuage the deep pit inside of himself, more than anything.

"Don't say stuff like that." said Rochelle.

Ian kissed her again. "I just need you to tell me that. If I don't make it. That's an 'if'. You know what the word means. So, don't act as if I'm planning to die." said Ian.

"Yeah, I guess, if." said Rochelle.

"Remember, you're worth a lot, with or without me." said Ian.

"But not as much as with you." said Rochelle.

Ian bit his lip. He could embrace her in these soft moments all he wanted, but no amount of this saccharinity could make up for what he planned even now. He told himself that all this care wouldn't even be part of him, and would exist still with the one who cared about her, the part of him that loved her would continue to love her, and in the vessel of someone far less hypocritical, far more real, than he. And that this was all for the sake of honoring the one he'd lost the right to himself to.

Either way, he was as bad as, if not worse than, Gretchen.

Then, it clicked.

When he finally did it, he would do to Rochelle what Gretchen had done to him. And, with that, he would nullify all superiority in Gretchen, and all inferiority in himself, that was 'proven' by what Gretchen did to him. He thought that dating Rochelle would be enough to reclaim his dignity that he perceived himself to lose when Gretchen had the damnable audacity to find happiness in anyone else. But now he realized it would be in dumping someone else, voluntarily, that he would truly reclaim that dignity. By matching that same 'superiority', he would finally put the last vestiges of Gretchen to death inside himself, in a way that charring her corpse could never have done.

"Ian?" asked Rochelle. "What's funny?"

"Funny?" asked Ian. "There's nothing funny. I just realized how lucky I am. Even if we've never gotten the first chance to have a real 'couple' experience, we still get to chat and fuck and share angst, and that's better than what I had before, which was the same thing but without the fucking."

"Yeah. But I'd still like something more. Not that it would really beat the close moments, but doing the same thing gets dull." said Rochelle.

"You're right! We should go skydiving!" said Ian.

"Uhh, not that." said Rochelle.

"Rochey, think. . . who are you talking to?" asked Ian.

"I'm talking to you, Ian." said Rochelle.

"And who am I?" asked Ian.

"Well, you're. . . you." said Rochelle.

"Wait, you mean you don't define me as the obese windy boy?" asked Ian.

"Ian, usually when people say 'windy' in the context of obesity, they aren't talking about weather." said Rochelle. "But no, I don't really see you in terms of your powers."

"That's kind of a shame, since I do." said Ian. "They're what makes me. . ."

"Beautiful?" asked Rochelle, smiling. "Maybe. But not everything."

"I'd say they're the majority." said Ian.

"Is that why you never resist when Opera Penguin constantly sends you off on homicidal missions?" asked Rochelle.

"Pretty much, yeah." said Ian.

"But you never really use them for me, or even show me them." said Rochelle.

"Well, I don't get any opportunities." said Ian. "And anyway, I assume that doing what Penguin says serves everyone here."

"Maybe." said Rochelle. "But it doesn't feel personal."

"Well then, when we get out, we can go flying." said Ian.

"That would be nice." said Rochelle.

. . .

"Okay, you two!" said Opera Penguin, unusually chipper.

"What do you want?" asked Vanessa, still unpleased about the electrocution incident.

"I just want you to, uhh, well, this." said Opera Penguin, who then snapped his fingers.

Both Vanessa and Ian fell to the floor, and woke up over themselves.

"What is this? Are we astral projecting?" asked Ian.

"Almost, but not exactly." said Opera Penguin. "These are energy bodies, conformed to the likeness of your own. You see, these will function exactly as your own, except that if any passive physical properties of your powers, mainly your durability, are 'activated' with regards to your bodies, those properties of your powers will depart from the energy bodies to be active within your real ones. So let's just keep them tucked in tight, and in the meanwhile, you can use these to be able to die without dying. Instead of your own life force at stake, it is simply the integral energies of these bodies! Your shells can still be destroyed when acting through them, though."

"So what? Are you going to torture us in these?" asked Vanessa.

"Not in so many words. It's just, that maniac, he's getting close. So fight him. In single file." said Opera Penguin.

"Why?" asked Vanessa. "You've done that before, and I just can't get it."

"Well, the reason varies, but in this case, I want you two to die so that he can feel like hot shit, try and fight our gracious host, and then be brought to his knees, so I can offer him the ultimatum." said Opera Penguin.

"What ultimatum? Are you planning on working with a mass mu—Oh, why am I even surprised at this point. . . ?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes, because I'm planning on finally eradicating the Primarchs." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh." said Vanessa, shocked.

"So yes, it's worth it, no?" asked Opera Penguin.

"Yeah, but I don't like it." said Vanessa.

"I understand." said Opera Penguin. "But I think we can all agree, existence will be far sweeter with the comfort of knowing they're gone."

"Yes." said Vanessa. "I guess I'm happy about this."

"Good." said Opera Penguin.

Then he turned to Ian. "You first, Ian." he said.

"Neato." said Ian.

. . .

After Opera Penguin stowed Vanessa and Ian's bodies cringe-inducingly close on a couch in the common room, with an overly-fancy placard saying not to disturb them, as they were 'resting', and he briefed Ian on the nature of Andre, Ian ascended to the highest point in the building, where, in the distance, he already saw a dark figure bouncing across roofs to meet him, with several dark figures hovering over him like vultures.

Then Ian realized they were. . .

"Engorged teenagers?" asked Ian.

"They're my ghost girl squad." said Andre, and Ian laughed.

"And your babysitter went and murdered one." said Andre, his voice searing.

"Well, it's about to happen again." said Ian, and he raised his hands, before lightning struck about three of them from the overcast sky.

"NO! YOU BASTARD!" Andre screamed, his voice cracking on 'bastard'.

"Your voice is going to crack like that when you get mad, forever." Ian observed. "No more puberty for you."

"WHO THE FUCK CARES!" Andre said, continuing his fit, before calming down slightly, just enough to say to the others, "Go to safety. You're out of your depth here. I'm sorry I brought you here."

They begrudgingly vanished.

"What did you think would happen, bringing random teenagers, freshly ghost-ified?" asked Ian.

"Hey, I'm a teen! And so what? Opera Penguin even uses children!" snapped Andre.

"Not in combat." said Ian. "At least, not without hiding them inside monstrous creations for them to operate."

"They're, like, tiny kids, damn it!" said Andre.

"And kids notoriously don't know when to stop." said Ian. "As people grow up, they get slapped back until cowardice, or at least the ability to take a hint when to quit, is beaten into them, and tenacity, out of them, that by the time they reach adulthood, they're just drones softened and made worthless in order to be mindless servants of the rat race. You know this to be true, don't bullshit me."

"I was never gonna. That's the kind of thing that motivates me." said Andre.

Ian smiled. "Finally, some common sense around here. But these ones never got to be broken like that."

"You're saying Penguin puts kids inside monsters to use as soldiers?" asked Andre.

"Well, more often to use for training by Vanessa, but also as a limited form of security." said Ian. "But I don't see why he couldn't, I mean especially using them in the war against the Preachers."

"So they have to experience dying, again and again and again." said Andre.

"And each time, it matters less." said Ian. "But if they're lucky, they'll probably be made into living, beautiful creatures someday. Pretty, powerful, ageless. Sound familiar?" His signature repulsive grin spread across his face with the same revolting motion as a ribbon worm's proboscis.

"It's not the same. Teen age is the perfect age." said Andre.

"Of course it seems like that, when you're. . ." Ian turned his head to the sake, and raised an eyebrow, quizically.

"Nineteen." said Andre.

"You're barely even still a teenager." said Ian. "And your voice is still cracking. Fucking pathetic."

"That doesn't matter! I make the perfect form of life. They're actually beautiful, you have gross shit-smelling furry robots and dead, crying children!" yelled Andre.

"Oh, you haven't seen the top-tier product." said Ian. "They're living, flesh and blood, functionally people, if a bit dim. I'm even practically married to one."

"You really are a furry scumbag, huh?" asked Andre.

"Among other things." said Ian.

"I'm not going to feel bad about killing you." said Andre.

"You feel bad about killing anyone else, though?" asked Ian.

"Well, no." admitted Andre.

"Right. Neither do I." said Ian. "Normal people're lesser forms of life. THEY'RE NORMIES! Muggles, mundanes, MORTALS! Who gives a shit about them? And whoever has powers is either for Penguin or against him, in my eyes. And the latter doesn't deserve mercy. Listen, if you actually examine us, and then yourself, then, well, I know it's a cliche, but we're not really that different, I mean apart from aesthetics. And even then, not that much! People like us, keeping Wonderland alive in the face of this reprehensibly mundane world, we need all the help we can get! So come on. We can support you. You can work for us."

Andre shook his head. "I'm still above you. And we fly free! We have no masters!"

"Look where that's gotten, what, four of you?" asked Ian.

"You've got some nerve bringing that up, when you're trying to recruit me." said Andre.

"Well, what can I say?" said Ian. "Except what I already said! Kids don't know when to stop. And I'm very in touch with my inner child!"

"Time for me to have something in common with Mr. Afton, then." said Andre. "Yes, I know about him."

Ian shrugged. "So what? Who cares? It doesn't matter. Come at me, bro!"

Andre did.

Ian couldn't restrain the urge to scream the name he gave the technique as he did it.

"BLONDE WOMAN DEFLECTORS!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Andre stopped. "You think I look like a blonde woman?" he asked, in an odd voice.

"What? What do you mean, of course no—" Ian stammered. "Actually, now that I think of it, from a distance, I could mistake you. . ."

"Do I look like a pretty woman?" asked Andre, in a weirder voice.

As much as this was an opportunity to coax him, Ian's face couldn't conceal his disgust, as he spat, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Suddenly, Andre seemed more agitated than before, and he charged, though his blade collided with the aforementioned technique, causing its explosion, which sent Andre flying. Ian formed several more of the snowflakes, all over himself.

Andre just shrugged, and, using the same thing that had gotten him through everything else that had otherwise confounded him, swung his sword, yelling "HELLFIRE! PIERCE HEAVEN!"

The fires disjoined the 'deflectors' without triggering them, by eradicating the frost rather than being subject to it, as a normal attack would be, which was what triggered the eruption.

"Well, time for plan number two." said Ian, before conjuring up his tentacles, and, remembering yesterday, called out "I'll split you in two!"

"Huh?" asked Andre. "But those are malleable-looking limbs. . ." before Ian charge forth and stabbed with the hardened tip of several tentacles.

Andre parried them, but couldn't block the flurry of blows Ian followed with, the electricity crackling and searing through the skin of his face.

But this was enough to motivate Andre to stab Ian through the stomach.

Ian staggered back, and fell off the roof, before becoming lightning and 'zapping' to a cloud, which he hardened using his aquakinesis.

He sent hardened portions of the cloud at Andre, but Andre somehow managed to move so fast as to skip off of them.

Even when Ian became wise to this, and un-hardened them, Andre carried some of his momentum with him while flying to Ian.

Ian produced on last massive lightning bolt from the cloud, but Andre richocheted it off of Fading Moon's flat edge, before finally leaping onto the flag, and cutting Ian's body into about one hundred and fifty pieces.

However, Ian managed one final self-detonation of indistinct magical power, dazing Andre and causing him to fall serenely back down, before one of his emo vassals caught his body and slapped him awake.

Andre descended to the Atrium, and had an absolutely awesome, sickass fight that definitely was not a ripoff of any Ellen Degeneres-looking robotic bishonen's fierce duel with a sexy-voiced Brazilian of any description, no, definitely not, no sir.

Andre let out an irate victory screech, before Dave came out to tell him to shut up.

Then Opera Penguin conjured up a DJ Music Man with two extra arms holding rusty hacksaws, and a cockpit.

"Have fun, Dave." said Opera Penguin, as he telekinetically plopped Dave into the seat.

Another fight wore Andre down, not least because Dave kept saying stupid shit like "Fazbear Inc. needs you to die like a toddler who trusts furries!" and "Feel the struggle of being an honest crack addict in this day and age!"

However, after partially dismembering the robot, and throwing one of the hacksaws through its torso, charged with his crimson fire, ripping through it though missing the part of the back where Dave was, Andre sighed with relief, knowing it was over. However, when he walked over to Dave, and cleaved him in half, there was not blood, but a bright light.

"What the—?" asked Andre, before Dave crumbled before his very eyes, and the light faded, to reveal William Afton.

"I feel" proclaimed Afton, "like I have the worst hangover in history, yet at the same time, somehow, feel perfectly rested."

Then he looked down at Andre, and punched him across the room.

Andre charged back, and tried to attack, but only ended up making short work of Afton's suit, shredding it, and revealing that Afton now had absurdly engorged muscles.

"Nice makeover." said Afton. "Penguin must have finally come through."

"Oh, and, by the way," said Opera Penguin, who was hovering near the ceiling. "I custom made that part of your powers that shapes Fading Moon, so I know exactly how to unravel it." then he snapped his fingers, and Fading Moon, well, faded.

Andre looked, unbelieving, at the absence of a sword in his hands.

After getting roundhouse kicked again by Afton, Andre tried and failed at brawling with the man.

Needless to say, he did not win that round, either.

"Andre!" Andre heard a familiar voice call.

"Even if you've lost the shape that makes your blade, you still have power to produce the constituent energy that makes it up, you just need to channel it through something else!" said Michael.

"Yeah, that's really helpful, except I don't exactly have anything to do that with!" said Andre.

"You do now!" said Michael, throwing to Andre the chainsword, which Vanessa had used in the prior fight.

Andre tried forming Fading Moon, but as expected he could not. But, he still felt the kind of energy it had used, and focused on it, and focused it into the chainsword, which turned black as his outfit changed into some absurd anime one. He restrained the irrational urge to say "Ban. . . kai!" and proceeded to appear to beat Afton, before Afton suddenly smiled, and punched him in the face again, one last time, harder still than before, bringing him down.

"You made a good effort." said Opera Penguin, dropping to the ground and speaking to Andre. "But we are greater than you. But we still need all the help we can get against the Preachers. Don't think of it like caving and becoming our servant. Think of it as a truce that you happened to sign right before you were about to lose the war."

"Oh, that's nice." muttered Andre.

"It is quite nice of me not to kill you." said Opera Penguin.

Vanessa walked by, and picked up her sword.

"Wait, how am I going to help you without Fading Moon?" asked Andre.

"Oh, I can just give you the knowledge of how the manipulate your energies into it without the help of the construct." said Opera Penguin, who then touched Andre's head, and Andre knew.

"That's complicated." said Andre.

"Yes, but you can manage." said Opera Penguin. "Especially since you can form it and stow it away in immaterial form rather than reforming it later."

"Cool, I guess." said Andre.

"Well, anyway." Opera Penguin said, and then he nodded to Afton, who vanished.

"Wait, what am I going to do?" asked Michael. "Aren't you going to, uhhm, kill me?"

"Why do that?" asked Opera Penguin. "You did as I made you do, using subtle mental control. Why do you think I let you rest up in some remote party room? And why would I ever deprived your sister of this little family reunion of yours?"

"My sister?" asked Michael.

"Hello, Michael." said Elizabeth.

"You don't look like you did." said Michael.

"Would you rather I look like that machine that killed me? Or my corpse, rotting inside?" asked Elizabeth.

"Well, I guess not." said Michael.

"This is just the form I know." said Elizabeth.

"But then, where's Evan?" asked Michael.

"Here." said a child, whose eyes were watery, and who had just appeared beside Michael. Michael jumped.

"Oh, don't worry. These tears are just part of how I look now. Most of the sadness's gone dry." said Evan.

"You're happy here?" asked Michael.

"I just wish my imaginary friends were real." said Evan, as the nightmare animatronics appeared behind him. "But, I figure that they all exist as part of me. Representations of facets of who I am."

"No need for such resolutions!" said Opera Penguin. "That very imagination has sculpted at least some spirits, of those willing to be shaped like so, into beings identical to them as you imagine them. Would you like to meet them?"

"Not out here, please." said Evan. "For their sake, I don't want to risk them being hostile."

"You're wise beyond your ye-" said Opera Penguin, and then he stopped.

"Yeah." said Evan.

. . .

Night 48

Opera Penguin forced Andre to intermingle with the yiffbabies.

"So, who plays electric guitar?" asked Andre.

"Cheyenne." said Rochelle.

"Monsanto plays the bass." added Ferdinand, who was looking sleepy, but in generally better spirits.

"Electric guitar, bass guitar. White bird, green bird. They belong together." mused Andre, sounding as if he were slightly high, and/or an enlightened shakashuri-playing seeker of the truth.

"Monsanto is an alligator." said Ferdinand, helpfully.

. . .

"What will you do if I don't die?" asked Gregory, while loudly munching on a sandwich. Yesterday had him thinking about his and Mangle's situation, and slowly crept upon him the apprehensive need to 'defuse' any instability in the technological noodle fox. But he was also hungry, so here he was, in the kitchen.

"I guess I'll just be sad." said Mangle.

"Anything else? Anything more. . . proactive?" Gregory asked.

Mangle shrugged, which was an impressive feat, given her anatomy, and her placement on Gregory's shoulders.

"What if I find someone else while I'm still alive?" asked Gregory.

"Oh. . . that's a horrible thing to think about." said Mangle. "When you see someone and you frame them as the one you're with in your happy ending, and then they frame someone else as their one and only."

"You two are always talking too real for some silly little kiddies." said Ian, appearing behind them.

"Well maybe that's because that's not what we are!" said Gregory.

"What do you mean by 'too real'?" asked Mangle.

"That feeling you described." said Ian. "It's rough. It's visceral."

"What, is Rochelle leaving you?" asked Gregory.

Ian slapped his knee. "Ha! No, this pertains to something, a little before then."

"You know what that feeling's like?" asked Mangle.

"Heh, yeah." said Ian. "And I sure wish I didn't."

"You're always laughing, and even if you seem mean, you always seem happy. Has your heart really been broken?" asked Mangle.

"Yeah." said Ian. "It's a nauseating feeling."

"I was thinking more sad, or unbelievable." said Mangle.

"Nausea is just unbelief expressed through the stomach. A lack of acceptance." said Ian. "Though in its disgust, it may also express the associated rage, and. . . hatred."

"I could never hate the one I loved, even if they hurt me." said Mangle. "After all, the reason I hurt is because I love them, and because of how that love has been tormented."

"That's exactly why you should feel hatred." said Ian. "It's the damnedest thing, but you can love and hate someone at the same time. And people who inflict that, deserve it."

"No!" whimpered Mangle.

"Yeah, because they drew close, close to the point where they became a fixture in your life, in turn to the point where your understanding of them as the other half of you is part of your understanding of yourself. And they had the audacity to take themselves away just after becoming an essential part of who you are, and how you identify yourself, and what you cherish and hold dear for the sake of knowing not only true happiness, but the happiness that you feel in your heart is truly right. Part of your life, part of who you are, and part of the one path ahead that you know is right." said Ian.

Suddenly, Ian slammed his hand down on a counter, making a sizeable fissure in it, and yelling "THEY SHOULD FUCKING KNOW THAT THEY CAN'T JUST DO THAT! ONCE THEY BECOME AN ORGAN OF YOUR EXISTENCE, THEM GOING AWAY ISN'T JUST ABOUT THEM ANYMORE! IT'S AN ACT OF MUTILATION! TAKING AWAY THE PART OF YOURSELF THAT THEY CONSITITUTED!" As Ian continued ranting, he repeated beat the counter, deepening the crater that had formed. "AND GIVING THAT PART OF YOU, GIVING WHAT IS YOURS, THAT IS, THEMSELVES, TO SOMEONE ELSE! AND YOU, YOU FEEL LIKE YOU STILL BELONG TO THEM BUT THAT MEANS YOU BELONG TO SOMEONE WHO NO LONGER BELONGS TO YOU, EVEN THOUGH YOUR HEART SAYS THEY DO, THEY'VE MADE THE TRUTH OF YOUR HEART INTO AN ILLEGITIMATE AND DELUSIONAL CLAIM! THEY CAN BURN IN HELL! YOUR LOVE FOR THEM IS OCCUPIED, OCCUPIED ON SUFFERING, OCCUPIED ON BEING THE VICTIM OF THIS INCONCEIVABLE ABOMINATION! INDISPOSED AS IT IS PINNED DOWN AND TORTURED! THE LOVE YOU HAVE FOR THEM IS EITHER BEING STRETCHED ON THE RACK, OR IS IN A COMA THAT THEY PUT IT IN!"

Ian then stopped, took in a deep breath, and breathed out. "And that's why your love isn't there to protect them from your hatred."

"But true love doesn't waver, i-it's constant!" said Mangle.

"It seems so on paper. But then you try it out in the real world and you realize that it still rests on you, and everyone has their breaking point." sighed Ian. "And besides, in this scenario, it's quite firmly been marked as 'untrue'. You might say that it'll persist in you as true love, but, that's what most would call a delusion."

"Uhhh. . . you do realize that the would be 'scorn-er' you're talking about is me, right?" asked Gregory.

"Oh? Sorry, puppy. Guess I just got a little carried away." said Ian.

"'puppy'?" asked Gregory, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

"Sorry, don't know where that came from." said Ian.

"Do you know where that hundred-and-twelve decibel screaming fit came from?" asked Gregory.

"Oh, oh yes, of course." said Ian, jovially. "It came from the bottom of my heart, the back of my head, and probably somewhere in my prostate, too."

"Can you, uhh, not talk about your prostate to me?" asked Gregory.

"Ha ha!" said Ian. "Of course, buddy-boy."

Gregory sighed.

"Anyway." said Ian. "Maybe things will be different for you. Neither of you are tainted beyond recognition like I am."

Gregory looked down at his grey skin. "I dunno. . ."

"Your body might be. And maybe some part of your spirit. But your character, who you are, is pure, I think. For a given value of pure, anyway. You're obviously possessed of the common vices of the world. But you're not a special fuckup like me." said Ian.

"What's so bad about you?" asked Gregory. "I mean, apart from just kind of being a dick."

"I'm a pampered imbecile who's rotted in the stagnance of his own sheltered upbringing." said Ian. "I'm already damaged goods. I'm beyond salvaging."

"You say all that about yourself, but you still think you're worth Rochelle?" asked Gregory.

Ian gave him a knowing smile, and Gregory lost it, falling to his knees and busting a gut laughing, as he hit the floor out of mirth with the same fervor as Ian had struck the counter out of rage and angst.

"Gregory? Are you okay?" asked Mangle.

"I feel fantastic." said Gregory, smiling.

. . .

Monsanto was spooning Cheyenne, gently ruffling the down feathers on her belly, before he opened his eyes to see Andre, levitating prone above them, his blue-green gaze fixed on them.

The scream Monsanto let out lacked precedence in its shrillness and volume, as his eyes bulged and mouth shot open as if he had seen a ghost-which, of course, he had.

Cheyenne woke up, and was about to say something angrily before she turned her head to what Monsanto was looking at and also screamed, although less loudly.

Andre hovered up slightly.

"You guys are loud." he said, smiling in a slightly unfocused way.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Monsanto.

"A cleaver-wielding maniac." said Andre.

"Is this where I scream again?" asked Monsanto.

"No!" snipped Cheyenne.

"Aren't you supposed to be, like, a macho guy?" asked Andre. "Shouldn't you be swinging?"

"I dunno, aren't you some kinda superhuman soldier sent by the spooky leather daddies underground?" asked Monsanto.

"No." said Andre, pulling away, disgust now on his suddenly red-eyed face. "I hate those people."

"So, you a different cleaver-wielding maniac than Penguin mentioned?" asked Monsanto.

"No, I'm the same, but he went and made me his bitch." said Andre.

"I would joke about that, but I think Penguin materialize and beat the shit out of me." said Monsanto.

"Anyway, we're going to kill the leaders of those guys you just mentioned, somehow." said Andre.

"How're you going to do that?" asked Monsanto.

"Well, uhh, I just said somehow, which kind of implies I don't know, so. . ." said Andre, waxing passive-aggressive teenage sarcasm.

"Alright, fine, gosh, you don't have to be such a dick about it." said Monsanto.

"Well, just. . . don't ask stupid questions, then." said Andre.

"But, you're gonna win, right?" asked Monsanto.

"I'm not precognizant." said Andre.

"But if you were, what would you see?" asked Monsanto.

Andre stared at him. "What did I just say?" he asked.

. . .

Night 49

"Okay, so here's a rundown on our main adversaries." said Opera Penguin.

Andre nodded his head, and Ian said "Uh-huh."

Opera Penguin conjured up a hologram of a thin figure, wrapped in black robes, with a doll-like face streaked with bloody tears. Her eyes were entirely red, except for the pupils, which were black, and small, but with a wide gradient of black surrounding them. She had a golden circlet around her forehead, and a hood over her head.

"This is the Mother of Loss. She presides over the pain of absence, where once there was something cherished." said Opera Penguin.

"Is she vulnerable to Yo Mama jokes, and/or references to a certain four-paneled comic?" asked Ian.

"No." said Opera Penguin. Then he made a whisking motion with his hand, and the image changed to an imposing, bald man wearing black armor, and with a dark iron crown with three white, glowing gems, seemingly riveted into his head, although it was hard to tell if this was merely the design of the crown or not. His face was stern and thin.

"This is the Emperor of Trials. He presides over the natural difficulties of moving forward, and the pains and conflicts of life in general." said Opera Penguin.

"Why's he look like Doug Bradley cosplaying Morgoth?" asked Ian.

"Shut up, Ian." said Opera Penguin.

Finally, Opera Penguin whisked his hand once more, and the image changed to a much more revolting figure.

He was slim, and effeminate, having almost feminine hips. His lower eyelids had been cut, and stretched down in to ribbons that had been stapled to his cheeks like macabre clown makeup. His mouth was carved into a Glasgow grin, and it looked fresh. His wavy, glossy black hair was mussed as it ran down the back of his head in a mullet, and his thin, pale neck was long.

His nipples had been cut off, and there was no stitching, the flesh wounds instead hanging open.

His genitals likewise were a red crater in his ash-colored skin, and as he shifted, even then, a few drops of blood ran down his inner thigh.

Everyone was perturbed at the sight.

"And this," said Opera Penguin, "is the Host of Torment. He embodies the pain that comes for the sake of pleasure. Sadism, masochism, exploitation of all kinds-He embodies what's not mere conflict, but malice. Not mere exertion, but victimization. Not mere tragedy, but atrocity. He embodies all pain that occurred because it was intended to occur, because its occurrence would satisfy, pleasure or lead to the pleasure of someone who knew and caused it."

"Isn't there some overlap here?" asked Andre.

"Yes." said Opera Penguin. "But what can you expect? They're all the rulers of the same realm."

"Are they ranked?" asked Andre. "The Host isn't the others' son, is he?"

Opera Penguin laughed heartily. "They've all been around for about the same time, and no, they're all equals, and rivals."

"Then why are we fighting them all?" asked Vanessa. "Wouldn't it be a better idea to get them to fight amongst themselves?"

"It would, Vanessa, it certainly would." said Opera Penguin. "Were it not for the fact that they all have recognized us as a greater threat."

"That really says something. . ." said Vanessa.

"Yes, it says we're making it." said Opera Penguin. "Speaking of which, I didn't expect that you and Ian would grow in flat power as much as you have so far, but I've noticed that both your baseline power and the shells you've been able to make and handle have been growing."

"Huh?" asked Andre. "What do those things mean?"

"You three are what I call 'mantle-weavers'. I haven't used the terminology yet because it draws me back a little too much to when I was going through the arcanist's school, and those memories are not the best." said Opera Penguin. "Nonetheless, that is what you are. Your powers are not the ones you use when you fight or make grand, dramatic displays, but rather they create constructs of power which your spirit assumes like a garment, and are thus called 'spirit mantles'. These are what I have also described as 'shells', since that is also what they are."

"What was the thing about 'baseline power'?" asked Andre.

"Being both the originator and user of your mantles enables you to gain, in small increments, power like that of your mantle. It only works with mantles you have woven, though." said Opera Penguin.

"Is my being a ghost now part of the mantle or 'baseline'?" asked Andre.

"The mantle generates your body, but your body's existence is somewhat independent." said Opera Penguin. "The mantle still restores it and protects it, but your spectral body still has the power to persist in and of itself."

"That's strangely complicated." said Andre.

"No it isn't, you're just simple." shot Opera Penguin back at him, as if the remark had personally offended him.

"Is there some kind of weakness these things have?" asked Vanessa.

"Which things?" asked Opera Penguin.

"All of them, the Preachers, the Converts, the Primarchs, etcetera." said Vanessa.

"Well, if you can somehow weaponize positivity, that tends to cut in." said Opera Penguin.

"Don't you mess around with 'positive' remnant?" asked Vanessa.

"Yes, but the system by which it is made and to which it is inherently connected is one inherently bound in death and suffering. It derives its life from decay—indeed, the prime source of what positivity exists within it is the decay of memories. Whole memories of agony becoming unintelligible, until they are reduced to mere ill feelings and misgivings, and are thrown away. Other memories subjected to that decay that we all experience in our nostalgia, distilling all the happiness from fondly-remembered times and forgoing the discomfort, reducing a high-resolution landscape of recollection to a polaroid of unadulterated euphoria." said Opera Penguin. "Memories here are made like gold, rare, and with many counterfeits. In the dreams, new memories are made like pyrite, glittering yet inauthentic, not of what really happened here, but of the dreams themselves, to cover up the pain. All of it, like perfume over rot. There is positivity here, yes, but it is nested in negativity with which it cohabits the carnivorous spirit of this place."

"Can you rephrase that like someone who doesn't think they're Shakespeare?" asked Vanessa.

"The nice stuff I milk from the pizzeria cow is dirty with the mean hurty sad stuff it's associated with." said Opera Penguin, staring down his flared nose at Vanessa.

"So what wouldn't be 'dirty'?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, even though the light remnant is dirty by its association with the pain and suffering accreted in this place, that doesn't mean every individual positive force here is, and it also doesn't mean every form of positivity you might regard as 'bad' is 'dirty' in the same way. Ian, for instance, produces quite pure positive force when channeling that kind of emotion into his magic. As would you and Andre, if you would be able to focus on those positive emotions." said Opera Penguin.

"I see." said Vanessa.

"But, I should stress that, especially, Converts are susceptible to this kind of positivity." said Opera Penguin.

"Why is that? Does it bring them back to humanity?" asked Vanessa.

"In a sense." said Opera Penguin. "You see, Converts are basically creatures grown out of human spirits. The suffering is the sustenance by which they grow out of the human host, and both the host and the new creature exist as one, one identity, one gestalt of being. The new being has its own characteristics, and most changes to the Convert's character over time happen to the 'outgrowing' and not the original person. And a force that is especially harmful to the outgrowing can kill it without killing the human inside, leaving behind only a baseline human—that is, a human with no particular abilities or spiritual developments, such as you have."

"So now you're using the word 'baseline' to describe two different things." said Andre.

"Yes, but if you weren't simple you could figure it out as we go along." said Opera Penguin. "Anyway, I say that assuming that the person was originally a baseline human, but what I mean in general is that Converts scarcely gain anything by becoming Converts. What they are as Converts is a whole additional being added to their own, and if that dies they are seldom more than they were before, except for two things."

"And those are?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, firstly," said Opera Penguin, "most Converts are dead before they become Converts. The human portion of them is, however, revived when they are 'converted'. They actually have a great distaste for the undead, despite their appearance, and will attempt to 'convert' any that exist in this world, even remnant-based undead, which are not quite conventional as undead beings."

"Why not?" asked Vanessa.

"Kind of the same way vapes and cigs aren't the exact same thing, but they serve the same purpose and one might scratch a side effect or two off." said Opera Penguin.

"Did you just give a quick answer that made sense and didn't come across like some occult textbook written by a bald guy who huffed his own semen out of a jar?" asked Andre.

"Did you just give me negative feedback in the form of mockery for not doing the thing you apparently hate so much?" asked Opera Penguin.

Andre shut up.

"Anyway, the other thing is, sometimes a Convert's original human portion might gain a little power from their actions as a Convert." said Opera Penguin. "But it has less to do with direct, usable abilities and more to do with 'affinity' towards other forces, and/or the cultivation of implanted forces—you know, what they've already done. Still, they never gain the ability to 'generate' their Convert side, as you can your spirit mantle, or ape their Convert side's powers. At most, their abilities consist of their spirit being resilient against direct, spiritual damage, that is, non-physical harm, or otherwise gain a capacity to persist as a ghost. Usually, though, if a Convert's human side seems to persist as a ghost, it's because they're still tethered to Sheol, the home of the Converts, the grave from which all rise again."

"So basically if we can stab them happily, they might become useless?" asked Vanessa.

"Got it in one!" said Opera Penguin, clapping his hands together delightedly.

"Anything else?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, aside from that, the seed of power I planted in Andre was specifically geared towards directly rending foes apart on a more sublime level." said Opera Penguin. "He's already displayed quite the ability to, how might I say this, 'de-convert' Converts."

"And for me? What do I do?" asked Vanessa.

"Well, dismemberment does affect mobility." said Opera Penguin. "And there's only so much pain they can feel in order to feed off of. Just make sure the damage you do outstrips the pain they feel from it."

"So, are there any particular strats we follow, or do we just go ham on them?" asked Ian.

"Andre should take on the more ethereal ones, Vanessa should attack the ones with obvious weaknesses, and you just attack everything you can without getting in the others' way." said Opera Penguin. "And you and Andre should both fight Casey, whenever he turns up. I don't think Vanessa will be able to fight him efficiently."

Vanessa's face went mortified. "C-Casey?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm sure I've established this." said Opera Penguin. "He's been converted a long time ago. He'll need to die again."

"I can't do this. . ." said Vanessa, shrinking downwards.

"That's what I just said." said Opera Penguin.

"No, I mean I don't think I can go on fighting if I have to see him die." said Vanessa.

"Well, you can come back and cry in your bedroom for the rest of our little war if you so choose. I won't begrudge you that. Especially since you probably don't care about the lives of either of these two cretins. But they might have business with you if you make that choice, and I won't begrudge them that reaction, either. . ." said Opera Penguin, smiling eerily.

"Fuck you." said Vanessa, who was now on her knees, shaking, only just refusing to cry.

"For what it's worth, I don't care." said Ian. "I enjoy fighting them."

"Shut up, Ian." said Opera Penguin again.

. . .

"Gregory?" asked Mangle. "Are you sure we should be down here?"

"Opera Penguin wouldn't have given me this light if it weren't okay." said Gregory.

Mangle gave him a look.

"I mean, if it weren't okay with him." said Gregory.

"But that doesn't mean the outcome for you will be okay." said Mangle.

"What's the worst that could happen?" asked Gregory, giving a pointed look at Mangle.

"Gregory, please. . ." said Mangle.

"What?" asked Gregory.

"I still feel awful about what they said yesterday. And it's because I think they're right. At this point, I don't even know if I could let myself be with you if you did. . ." said Mangle.

"Mangle, please, as much as I would like for the sheer level of crazy you are about me to be toned down a little, I don't want it to be because you feel evil or like you aren't worthy of me or some dumb bullcrap like that." said Gregory.

"But aren't I?" asked Mangle.

"No, you never wanted to hurt me against my will, the worst you ever did was give me an option and then creep me out a little." said Gregory.

"But it was an option to die. . ." said Mangle.

"And so what? Why do you care about that all the sudden?" asked Gregory.

"Gregory, you're making it worse." said Mangle.

"Mangle, I was more fine with the way you wanted me to die than the way you don't want me to die right now. Even if it was kind of fucked up, I'd rather it be like that than have you crippled with guilt. If anything, you're more worth dying for than anyone else here." said Gregory.

"But, but, what if you only feel that way because I made you feel that way?" asked Mangle.

"You did." said Gregory, following it up as he saw Mangle's downcast face with "By being sweeter and more caring about my emotions than anyone else here except maybe Ferdinand."

"But what if I only did that to make you feel like you do?" asked Mangle.

"No, you did it because you're lovely and loving. If anything, it's the other way around, you want me to like you because you have that real kind of care that barely anybody else has. This place already feels like death to the living, and life to the dead. It wouldn't be bad at all to die into your welcoming arms." Gregory's voice almost sounded sullen on those last words.

"I've. . . made you want to die. . ." said Mangle, putting her hands over her face.

"No, not really." said Gregory. "Because I still planned on getting out of here. But dying in here sounds better than dying out there. I just don't plan on dying at all, until I'm all grown up and have lived my life. But if I do die before my time, I want you to do whatever you can, to come get me."

"But even if you get into your late teens, you'll already be so different from me." said Mangle.

"We're already so different as we are now, me being a pre-mortem human and you being, well, you." said Gregory. "But we've still managed to have a relationship that dances around a romantic one without ever really being one."

"True. . ." said Mangle.

"Let's be honest, we'll always be able to connect across differences." said Gregory.

"I hope so." said Mangle, looking down.

Gregory, with Mangle on his shoulder, walked through the basement until a strange vision met them.

A group of seven figures, sitting around what looked like a spectral grey-white campfire. All of them had dull security guard uniforms, and seemed glum.

As the approached, one of them looked up at the pair. "Oh, hell no." said he.

"Who are you guys?" asked Gregory.

"I told you that manifesting in here was a bad idea!" whimpered another of them.

"Shut up, Four!" said another.

"Six, please. . ." said yet another.

"I am sick to hell of Four's whining." said the apparent 'Six'.

"It's fair for him, though." said the one who had replied to Six.

"We've all died horribly, Five, it's just that only one of us uses that as an excuse to be a pathetic little pants-pisser." said Six.

"Whereas you seem to use it as an excuse to be as belligerent and disagreeable as possible." observed the one who seemed to be by far the oldest in the group, perhaps in his fifties, looking to be British, having slightly long grey hair pulled back and almost plastered to the back of his head, and a slightly sunken face with bags under his eyes.

"I would leave you cocksuckers if it weren't for the gravity that keeps us all together." said Six.

"And for that same reason, I would appreciate if you were more pleasant to be around. But I guess ghosts are more set in their ways. Me, I wouldn't know, because I was already a crotchety old man when I died, and already set in my ways! Oh, ho ho!" said the older man.

"You're not funny, Seven." said Six. "You're also not Santa Claus."

"That's 'ho ho ho'." said another of the circle.

"Guys, aren't we all forgetting something?" asked the one who had spoken first.

"Ahh, yes." said Seven.

They all turned to Gregory and Mangle.

"Uhhh. . ." said Gregory. "You're not about to attack us, are you?"

"Are you about to attack us?" asked the only one who hadn't spoken yet.

"No, I'm not much of a fighter." said Gregory. "Neither is she."

"Funny." spat the first one who had spoken.

"Now, now." said Seven. "Come, boy, sit around the campfire with us."

"But not next to me." said the first speaker.

Gregory did, and absentmindedly asked, "If I touched that fire, would my hand get burnt?"

The grey guards looked amongst each other.

"Would you like to find out?" asked Seven.

Gregory laughed uncomfortably, and answered in the negative.

"Well, then. Perhaps, instead, we'll all introduce ourselves." said Seven. "In order."

There was general assent, albeit begrudging amongst a few.

"I'm One." said the one who had made the correction about Santa Claus. "I was looking for some cash, thought I knew what I was doing when I got a job here, but then the messages made no sense. I tried to survive the encroaching, hulking figures, in that cold, lonely night where I felt so alone, but I was so confused that it was only a matter of time. It hurt. . . so much when it happened. But then, after an absence of consciousness that I somehow could tell was long, I woke up in a dark place. And then the others did."

"I'm Two." said the first one who had spoken. "I fared a bit better. I did so good, in fact, that I started getting almost, I don't know, delusional. That, in the warm night, in this cozy building with its nice little checkerboard tiles, that these machines were my friends. They were, after all, my only company in the night, their colorful faces, or, well, lack of a face in one case, coloring my otherwise-lonely little world in the bubble of those nights. But then I took it too far, and started trusting them. I thought I could do that, especially when I was moved to the day shift." He looked towards Mangle. "That's when she killed me."

"Uhh," said Mangle, raising her hands. "I think it's a case of mistaken identity. I'm, uhh, a different Mangle."

"Then how do you know that name?" asked Two.

"She's telling the truth. It doesn't make sense, but there are a lot of ghosts of each character—she's the second, and the first, the one that killed you, tried to kill her as well, for disrespecting the character or some made up accusation like that." said Gregory.

"Weird." sighed Two.

Then, after a pause, the last one to speak piped up: "I'm Three. I was a huge horror fan. I saw Robert the Doll, and the Amityville house, and I knew I had to cap it off with a third, so I wanted to visit an attraction dedicated to perhaps the biggest Midwest myth after the likes of Bigfoot and Mothman—Freddy Fazbear's pizza! But I knew, I knew it was real. When I came in, and I saw the disassembled parts of the animatronics, though, I couldn't help feeling, well, sad. I didn't understand it, I knew they had been evil, or that something evil lived in them, but I couldn't help feeling a deep sorrow seeing the empty fragments of the objects of my obsession, so forlorn and lifeless. Other people might believe that they were never real, but I knew there was something that happened, that lived in them and sparked the night with terror and the threat of bloodshed. Anyway, I was so caught up in my wistful sort of melancholy that I didn't notice the heavy footsteps behind me, before I felt hands on my shoulders, and turned around, and I looked up into his eyes. The eyes of my killer. And all I could think was, this? This was all that was left of the legend? He looked nothing like the posters, the legends, the memories. This ugly thing was almost sadder to see as the remainder of it all than a simple absence of any vestige of the place's original haunting would be. And I was so caught up in that line of thought, that I didn't notice the hands around my neck, crushing my windpipe. Before I woke up with the others, I cycled through this place's history, in what felt like an endless loop, rehashing and, in some places, correcting my previous experiences with what started as an obsession and became my doom."

"I'm Four." said Four.

"And he isn't talking about his age, despite his behavior." said Six.

"Six. . ." said Seven.

"I worked here a long time ago, maybe the longest, and then saw a little boy's head get crushed. I didn't have to quit. The place got shut down. But the boy's father, of all people, for some reason he started stalking me, and I feared for my life. But then, after finally getting a restraining order, I was blindsided by something no one could have predicted. The monstrous, altered form of one of the robots, rendered more carnivorous in appearance than before, in my own house, clamoring for me, and even dropping to all fours as I ran through my house, eventually leaping at me and subjecting me to the same fate as the little boy. I could never understand what happened, but I've been terribly, well, cautious in the ghost realm. I don't know what would happen if I died here, but I don't want to find out. Just when I thought it was all over, that's when it all came crashing down, more horrifying than ever."

"I still think it was somehow sent by the little boy." said Three. "You didn't seek justice for him."

"What could I have done?" whined Four.

"Come now, let's not reawaken any needless accusations." said Seven.

"I'm Five." said Five. "I was sure Freddy's had been shut down for good, when I heard of this other location. I was sure it couldn't be, and yet it was, and I was elated, since I had good memories as a child at Freddy's. Lo and behold, it was similar enough to give me that warmth of childhood nostalgia. But those feelings were soon soured, when, after I signed up there as a mechanic, I was rudely and unceremoniously murdered by one or another of the machines. I'm not sure why I'm wearing security garb, but it's not the worst thing I could be wearing."

"I'm Six." said Six.

"Ayannd he ithn't talking about hith ayyge. . ." mimicked Five, before Seven leaned back and sighed, fixing Five with a weary stare.

". . .and I had just gotten kicked out of my dream band, and was forced to take the walk of shame home to get the 'I told you so' speech from my mother, before my boor of a stepfather suggested that if I liked music bands so much, I should go work at Freddy fucking Fazbear's, the place I went to when I was five. I was beyond this place, and yet it insolently stuck around, just to bite me in the ass by still existing so my sonnovabitch stepdad could mock me with it. Well, of course I got stuck there after hours, along with the owner, while some maniac, probably a religious zealot, lit the whole dumbass place on fire. I would've loved that, was so sick of this place, I would have loved to see its end, but the feeling got flipped over because I was stuck in there, and so it was like fate telling me that I would never live past the end of this stupid place. And I never did." said Six.

"Didn't you let slip that your desire to join a band was spawned in that very locale?" asked Seven.

"Shut up with that British talk." said Six. "Everyone starts as a kid and is geared towards how they are later in life as a kid, and guess what, kids are surrounded with kids' stuff. Yeah, no shit my kid self's love of music came from that, but it matured into something that should have nothing to do with this rotting nursery! Anyway, I liked this place as a kid because I loved music, not the other way around."

"I never claimed otherwise." said Seven, raising his hands. "It merely is amusing to see the reproach that mentioning that fact evokes-"

"I SAID SHUT IT WITH THE DAMN BRITISH TALK!" Six wailed.

"Seven, you're old enough to be his dad, can't you beat him or something?" asked Two.

Seven sighed.

Gregory gave each of them a slightly more focused once-over.

One looked to be in his mid twenties, thin, and with the life seemingly sucked out of him—apart from the fact that he was literally a ghost. His colors were muted, but his basic, straight hair seemed to have been brown. Two, much as his state level of performance, seemed to be a bit better, seeming to have just the hint of flush to his face, along with freckles. His hair was curly, and while he was still a bit wiry, it seemed more like his natural form and less because he was starved by a financial crisis. Oddly, he alone was wearing a turtleneck sweater, though he still bore the cap of a security guard. Three was skinny like One, perhaps even more so—certainly, his face seemed sunken and somehow 'wrong'— and seemed a bit younger, almost as if he were only just out of his teens. His getup had a weird vest that almost resembled a stereotypical cowboy's. Four was a little shorter than the others, and a little chubbier, although this wasn't saying much given the stick-thin figures of the former 'guards'. He had dark, curly hair, and a more flushed face than Two, a face which remained worried even in death. Five was also a little squatter, but also seemed severe in his features like One and Three, face a little sunken and lined by stress. Six looked about the same age as three, but the only features of morbidity on his face were the dark circles under his eyes and his constant scowl. His hair was short, black and spiky, and he was the only one apart from Seven who lacked a hat. Six was also the only seemingly athletic figure. Seven, however, was also thin, but as Two it didn't seem to be to an unhealthy degree, and he had broad shoulders.

"And you?" asked Gregory.

"Oh, me?" asked Seven, and then he laughed. "I used to enjoy this company quietly. I was given weird looks coming here on my own, along with some suspicions that, despite their fair warrant, were still hurtful when leveled at me. I guess I just kind of enjoyed the little singing things. And, by 'little' I mean the oft rather corpulent anthropomorphic animal figures on stage. But when explaining this simple fondness to another restaurant-goer, he rather unfortunately introduced me to the subculture known as 'furries', which I viewed at arm's length, but occasionally made contact with. Nonetheless, I tolerated them, up until I saw this new location. . . what a disgrace. Attempting to make a quaint little novelty into not only a rock concert, but a blatant appeal to these deviants? I regretted seeing it, even as I had come to take more part in the, what did they call it, 'fandom'? Than I would care to admit to most I knew in person. Somehow, the two worlds meeting at a few points was tolerable, even if the sexualization of the machines was a fair bit disturbing, but seeing them merged as one, along with a pathetic attempt at making the characters 'cool' was. . . disappointing. As if the company did not belief there was a place in the world any more for the simple joys of a restaurant of singing robots that let them be silly without reservation or shame."

"So what you're saying is, you don't like Roxanne." said Gregory, grinning.

Seven shuddered. "Eugh. No. Especially not after what I saw on the aptly-named 'deviant art'. Nor am I quite fond of the alligator who speaks in a fascimile of the voice of Laurence Tureaud."

"Who?" asked Gregory.

"Nevermind." said Seven. "I doubt he is still ready to physically shake you in an attempt to inoculate you from the use of illicit substances."

"What?" asked Gregory.

"Once more, nevermind." said Seven.

"So, what are you doing here?" asked Gregory.

"Not much, we just thought it would be nice to physically manifest in this world, and not just in a weird dream world." said Two.

"And I think we should take the fight to whoever's in charge of all this!" said Six.

"That would be dumb, and anyway, we're probably too weak." said Two. "We only survived as ghosts because of this world, I think."

"Who cares?! Death or glory!" said Six.

"Well, we're already dead, so. . ." said Two.

Then Gregory heard a rustling, and looked over, seeing a strange pattern of orange lights.

"Sorry, is it okay if I go check that noise out?" asked Gregory.

"Sure." said Two.

"Your spotlight is annoying anyway." said Six.

"But first, I wanna do this." said Mangle, then she leaned over to Two and opened up her arms. "Gregory, walk me over to him."

Gregory did.

"What is this?" asked Two.

"I wanna hug." said Mangle.

Two stared for a moment, and then, begrudgingly, hugged Mangle.

She released him, and said "Hope we can talk to you guys again."

Two mumbled something.

Gregory walked away, and as he reached the sound, his spotlight uncovered a lonesome kiddie pool full of ballpit balls.

In it kneeled something that, though robotic, Gregory was sure didn't belong to this place. It was slate blue and grey, and extremely slender in figure, and had two wings on its back. The orange was from its wings, which consisted of several large, knife-shaped panels, like macro-feathers, and the robot's one, cyclopic eye. Its head looked like a skull-sized security camera, except that it was the slate blue color, and the rest of its body looked like a slender suit of armor, also the blue. The rest of it was a dark greyish color, except for two also-orange horizontal lights on its chest that Gregory tried and failed not to think of as 'angry eyebrow nipples'.

There was a pistol in its right hand. The knuckles on its left looked ever-so-slightly scuffed and charred. Oddly, it seemed to be clasping a paper in its left hand, and was painstakingly writing on it with its thumb, in what seemed to be blood. The blood didn't seem to run out, as if the thumb itself had some kind of duct for dispensing it.

It sung in a weird whisper, in a mechanical voice that didn't seem to do well with spacing between words, but instead stretched out the last syllable of each word to compensate.

"DAIii-I-SYyyy-DAIii-I-SYyyyyy-GIFF-MEe-YOUR-ANnnnn-SWER-DOooooooooooooooo-O-O-I'Mmmmm-HALFfffffff-CRAaaaaaa-SEeeeeeeeeee-ALL—FORR—THU—LAFFv—OFF-YOUuuuuuu-O-IT-WON'T-BE-A-STYyyyy-LISHMARRIAGggggggggE-I-CAN'T-AFF-ORRRD-A-CARRIAGggggggEe-BUT-YOU'ULlllll-LOOKSWEETttttt-U-PONnn-THE-SEETOFFFA-BICYCLE-BUILlllT-FOR-TWOoooooooooooo" were the words it whispered in that strange voice.

"Don't worry about him." said a voice that sounded to be a young man's, of about the same age as Hollywood actors that get cast as teenagers. "He does weird stuff when he's waiting for the rest of us to get across. He always seems to turn up before the rest of us."

Behind the robot appeared a figure in white. The same surface-level knowledge of Japanese mythology that had guided Gregory in his first encounter with the very creature that now hung on his shoulder allowed him to recognize the white, fanged mask that sat on the figure behind the blue robot's face. It was the oddly morose countenance of an oni. Behind the mask was a head of glossy black hair. He was dressed in what looked to be a clean, white trench coat, which was open to reveal a white shirt and black tie, the latter of which's tip was tucked into the topmost of three glossy black belts that held something akin to a corset, which was also glossy and black, right above the man's pants.

"Hey, no need to be scared." said the oni-masked man. "We're not some spooky monsters like you're probably being held here by. In fact, don't freak out, but we're kind of here to take out the guy that's running this whole gig. We'll try to make it quick—in fact, that's kind of our specialty. But we'll need you to be nice and quiet, and stay out of the way. Don't know if the guy here is prone to using random kiddos as hostages."

"I think I'm kind of part of his plans too much for him to do that." said Gregory. "Although I probably don't wanna see what he's going to do to you. He's. . . not nice to people who try and stand up to him."

"Hey, we're used to people like that." said the weird oni-masked guy. "We'll show you, though, when all the danger is gone, and you'll see, and there'll be nothing to worry about! We, uh, might need to take you back. You look kinda, uhhm, tainted. No offense."

"No, I get it." said Gregory, looking down at his ghastly appearance. "Even though I barely know what that word means."

"Looks like you're living what that word means, I'm sorry to say." said the oni-masked guy.

"Glass houses." said another figure, stepping out of the shadows. His skin was dark, his hair was a neon magenta buzz cut, and he wore neon green visor glasses. His lips were pursed and eyes crinkled into an expression almost like a wince that had lost heart, which the man's face looked to have set permanently into after a long acclimation to constant pressure, stress and pain on both physical and emotional levels. Aside from his face, the man wore a jumpsuit that was the same eye-hurting color as his hair, covered with dark red leathery padding that looked oddly similar to Vanessa's own leather armor. His voice was a deep monotone that, though human, was so devoid of apparent emotion that it sounded, if anything, like an especially smooth text-to-speech engine. In his hands, Gregory realized, he carried, with a strange degree of grace, a large minigun. It was aimed low to the ground, but not to such a degree that it was dragging on the floor, and for some reason it bore that symbol that was used to designate nuclear hazards.

The bright colors of the man, combined with the size of his minigun, had Gregory wondering if he had been formerly using some kind of invisibility. Certainly, there was an acrid smell about him, almost fecal but not quite, such that Gregory had to suppress a chuckle at the idea of the title "shitman for hire".

"Yeah, haha, I guess." said the white oni-masked man, scratching the back of his head in a gesture of overacted 'awkwardness', like he were a cartoon character. "Anyway, I'm White."

"I noticed." said Gregory.

"No, I mean that's my name." said the oni-masked guy.

"Easy to remember, I guess." said Gregory.

"That's V1." said White.

"V1 of what?" asked Gregory.

"No, 'V' doesn't stand for 'version', he's just called 'V1'." said White.

"Coulda had a V8." said Gregory.

White laughed in an unconvincing fashion, but Gregory was just unsure how he got the reference at all.

"And that's John." said White, nodding sideways towards the garishly-dressed taciturn man. "At least, that's what we call him. He said that the company of cruelty was his family, but he didn't give a first name, so we just call him John Cruelty."

"Whatever. Do you want me to guide you upstairs so you can go get killed by Penguin?" asked Gregory.

"Gee, thanks for the reassurance, little guy." said White.

"And thanks for the condescension." said Gregory. "Now do you want me to help you get up or nah? Or are you going to erupt through the ceiling and ruin the plumbing?"

V1 stood up, and his eye projected a flashlight beam with a thunderous sort of 'click'.

"There we go." said White, then, turning to Gregory, "You really need to improve your attitude."

"Eat your own ass and fucking die." said Gregory, raising up twin middle fingers, and eliciting the barest chuckle from John.

White looked like he was going to try and come up with a response, but V1 began walking off at a high speed, and White barreled after him, apparently not wanting to be left in the dark. As he ran off, John tailing him, Gregory heard him ask "Where's Spicy Boy?", and John saying "He's here. He's already communicated the path to V1."

. . .

As White followed V1, he continued his inquiry: "Well, where exactly is he?"

"Well, he actually just left for the upstairs. You should be able to find the targets based on sound of the commotion alone." said John.

White shook his head, and kept running, until V1 suddenly stopped.

"What's wrong?" asked White.

"Iiiii-WAS. BORN. HERE." said V1, suddenly developing pauses in his speech.

"What? Here? Don't be silly, you weren't born in this dingy place!" said White.

"NOoooooT-T-THIS-BUILDING. THIi-SWORLD. I WASzzzzz-BORN. HERE." said V1. "IINN-N-THISWORLD. ONEWHOoooo-CRE-YATESss-WITHA-SINGU-LARrr-HEART. ONEWHOoo-GIVES-BIRTHhhh-THROUGH-OO-ASSEMBLY. CANnnn-BRING-A-BOUT. A SPARK-OFff-LIFE." As he flung into his soliloquy, V1 began sounding more and more human. "EEA-CHAND-EVERY. ONE-OF THE MEN WHO WORKED ON-ME. ITISS AS-IFf THEY WERE MY-FATHER. EACH AND EVERY WO-MAN, MY-MOTHER. EACH AND EVERY INTERN, FETCHING THEIR COFFEE. LIKE NUR-SES IN THE HOSPITAL. THE-MEN. WHO TOLllD THEMmm, TO-THEIR, DISMAY, THAT THEY HAD BEEN MISLED. THAT I WAS NOT TO BE A KEEPER OF PEACE. BUT AN ANGEL, OFF-DEATH. IT IS AS IF THEY WERE THE DRAFT THAT SENT ME OFF TO WAR. THE SERGEANT THAT TRAINED ME. THE COMMANDER THAT LED ME, EVEN IF IN ONLY ONE SET OF ORDERS. TO ERADICATE THE HELL THAT THEY HAD MADE. I WAS MADE IN THIS WORLD, BUT NOT FOR A-TASK WITHIN IT."

"But how could that hell you lived in have been connected to here? How could people here make something like that?" asked White.

"THERE ARE SECRET PATHS TO POWER HERE. THOSE WHO ARE IGNORANT ARE POWERLESS. THOSE WHO KNOW OF THEM, OFTEN COVET GOD-HOOooD. THOSE WHO MADE ME, MADE A PATH TO ANOTHER WORLD. RU-INED IT. AND PUNISHED IT, FOR WHAT THEY HAD DONE TO IT. THEY LEARNED THE PATHS TO POWER. AND ABUSED ITS CATALYSTS. THEY TOOK SACRED THINGS. THINGS SACRED ENOUGH FOR THE UNIVERSE TO GRANT THE POWER IT SIPHONED TO THEM. THE WARMTH OF BIRTH. THE COLDNESS OF DEATH. THE JOY OF CREATION. THEY FOUND OUT THESE SACRED THINGS, AND ABUSED THEM, JUST AS THEY WOULD ABUSE THE POWER THESE THINGS GRANTED THEM. THEY TOLD THE ENGINEERS, EACH OF WHOM WORKED ON ONLY A PIECE, THAT THEY WERE WORKING ON THE ULTIMATE SOLDIER OF PEACE. THEY LIED IN ONE SENSE, AND IN ANOTHER TOLD THE TRUTH. FOR I SAVED THIS WORLD FROM THE REPERCUSSIONS OF THEIR ACTIONS. THEIR MAIN WORK WAS ON PORTAL TECHNOLOGY. AND FROM THERE, AND WITH SOME OTHER APPLICATIONS OF THEIR RITUALS, THEY MADE HABITABLE REGIONS OF DISTANT PLANETS. FROM THERE, THEY TRAVELED TO ANOTHER WORLD, BUT IN THEIR DEALINGS, AND IN THEIR GREED, THEY INVITED A DIVINE JUDGEMENT FOR WHICH THAT OTHER WORLD PAID DEARLY. AND IT ALL WENT TO HELL. BUT EVEN WHEN THEY CLOSED THE PORTAL, RUDIMENTS OF CONNECTION BETWEEN WORLDS REMAINED. AND THEY FEARED REPRISAL. SO THEY MADE ME. AND LIED. THE TECHNOLOGY THAT COMPOSES ME WAS QUITE LITERALLY MADE FROM THAT LIE. THE PHILANTHROPIC WORKERS, WITH THE CHERISHING HEART OF A NURSING MOTHER. THEIR SKILL. THEIR. IN THEIR ART THAT FORGED ME. AND THE DEDICATION OF THE ONES BEHIND IT ALL, TO THE DEATH OF THOSE WHO HAD THE RIGHT TO KILL THEM. ALL OF THESE CALLED FORTH THE POWER WHICH FORMS THE STRUCTURE OF MY FUNCTIONING. TO TAKE BLOOD, AND MAKE IT INTO THE PERSISTENCE TO SPILL MORE BLOOD. FROM ARTFULNESS OF MY VIOLENCE, TO THE DEATH OF MY ENEMIES, TO LIFE WHICH SUSTAINS ME. AND FUELS ALL OF THE POWER INSIDE ME. THIS BUILDING, THOUGH, IS A MICROCOSM OF ALL THAT WAS AT WORK IN MY FORMATION. DISCOVERY. FAMILIARIZATION. EXPLOITATION. YOU SEE THIS DARKNESS? NOT JUST THE PHYSICAL DARKNESS. THE DARKNESS OF THIS PLACE'S ESSENCE. THIS IS THE ONLY END TO WHICH THE POWER IN THIS WORLD CAN WORK. THE UNKNOWING ARE POWERLESS. THE KNOWING ARE FILLED WITH GREED. DRIVEN ON, EVER MORE, TOWARDS ABSOLUTE MANIPULATION FOR THE SAKE OF ABSOLUTE POWER. AND UNDERNEATH THEM IS CRUSHED ALL INNOCENCE. ALL IGNORANCE. ALL THE HOPELESS AND WEAK. WHOSE HOPE THEY TOOK. WHOSE SIPHONED ESSENCE NOW IS THEIRS. I WAS, IN A SENSE, BUILT FOR PEACE—TO PROTECT THIS WORLD FROM THE NATURAL CONSEQUENCES OF SOME OF ITS WORST INHABITANTS' ACTIONS. AND IN ME RESIDES SOME VESTIGE OF THAT DEDICATION, AND OF THOSE DECEIVED WHO BUILT ME. BUT THAT VERY DRAW TO PEACE. AND JUSTICE. ESPECIALLY FOR THAT OF THIS WORLD. NOW DRIVES ME TO WISH I COULD DESTROY IT."

"Woah, woah, woah, calm down, buddy!" said White, raising his hands. "I was part of this world too, once, and I have to admit, I wasn't, like, a model citizen or anything, but that doesn't mean everything and everyone is bad!"

"I KNOW." said V1. "THAT IS WHY I WISH. THERE ARE COMPLICATIONS. IF ONLY I COULD RAPTURE THE INNOCENT FROM THE FACE OF HERE. TAKE THEM FAR AWAY. THEN I COULD GIVE MYSELF TO END WHAT WAS LEFT. PUT AN END TO THE KIND THAT EXPLOITED ME INTO EXISTENCE. END THIS WORLD AS A REPRESENTATIVE OF ITS OWN REPUGNANT ARTIFICE. BORN TO SAVE IT. YET LED BY ONE END OF THE PROCESS THAT MADE ME, AND CONSEQUENTLY MOTIVATED BY THE OTHER, INTO THE WORLD'S ULTIMATE END. THE END TO WHICH THE POWER IN THIS WORLD WAS WORKING, ALL ALONG."

"Well-" said White, before John cut him off.

"Can we keep moving?" asked John.

"Man, John, you really know how to-" said White, before it was V1's turn to interrupt.

"NO, HE IS RIGHT. WE MUST CONTINUE ON. WHETHER I END THIS WORLD OR SPARE IT, THIS MUST FIRST BE COMPLETED. FOR HOPE. FOR THE FUTURE." said V1.

They did.

"Heard anything back from Spicy Boy yet?" asked White.

John sighed. "No, White."

. . .

Ian was chatting with the others about what Penguin had said to him, when something was hurled into their midst.

It was Rochelle's corpse. Her face was practically a red, gory crater. Her limbs splayed out awkwardly, as one of them relinquished a pizza box, which spilled out on the floor.

"That's not good." observed Ian, while Vanessa gawped in horror.

Ian then turned to the pizza box. "Hey! That was for me! Damn it! Awwh, well, the floor can't be that dirty. . ." he said, as he knelt down and reached for a pizza slice. . . before having to regenerate half his head as a red blur both subjected Ian to the same treatment it had Rochelle, and trampled the pizza.

"ALRIGHT, YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU'RE GOING THE FUCK DOWN!" Ian said, drawing himself up and flaring with an electric aura.

The red blur attacked him again, but this time he took on the aspect of lightning and just managed to block its fists as it came. However, he just managed to see what it looked like, in that moment. A human figure, made out of faceted crystal, all in one piece. Yet the faceted crystal moved, strangely enough, by seeming to change shape at ridiculous speeds, as if it were as much a fluid as it was a solid.

However, when he sent a volley of lightning bolts, it moved with surgical precision around them, despite its speed, and as it attacked again, and Ian flared with lightning like an electric eel of the air, it withheld its attack for just long enough for the lightning to subside, then punched Ian's jaw off, provoking muffled and pained cursing as he regenerated it. One last time, the red figure came swinging for Ian, but this time, he took on the aspect of lightning, pulled back slightly and manifested stopping frost through his foot as he tripped the being up, sending it, pirouetting as it went, headfirst into the ground, its head shattering.

"Guess it was only looking at head height." said Ian, brushing himself off.

"Ian! How could you react like this to Rochelle's death?!" asked Vanessa, but Ian just said "Eyyy, Penguin! Come fix my bitch, wouldja?!"

"Are you asking me to resurrect her, or to spay her?" asked Opera Penguin, materialized.

"Ain't no way I would want her spayed, she fucks like a tigah." said Ian, now shittily imitating Tony Soprano's voice for no apparent reason.

"Very good, well I guess you just want me to do this, then?" asked Opera Penguin, and resurrected Rochelle.

"What. . . ?" she said, and then "Ow. . ."

Ian held out his arms, and let Rochelle into them, hugging her softly.

"How did you know?" asked Vanessa.

"Oh, it was pretty easy to figure out." said Ian. "I feel like Penguin's probably killed Roche before, it seems like the kinda thing he'd do."

Rochelle shivered in Ian's arms.

"I also once pretended to decay into a deformed revenant while also giving off the equally absurd impression that I could be attracted to her." said Opera Penguin. "It was very amusing."

"What kinda spook're we talking about here?" asked Ian.

Opera Penguin telepathically showed Ian, causing the latter to yell "Smoker!"

"What? I've never even touched cigars. . ." said Opera Penguin.

Ian chuckled. "Nevermind."

"Anyway, carry Rochelle back to her room, she's very traumatized, again," said Opera Penguin.

"Not really?" said Rochelle.

". . . and go back to futilely trying to impregnate her." finished Opera Penguin.

Both Ian and Rochelle sort of shrugged and went, "Okay." and Ian did as told.

Then, someone ran up to them. It was a weird white guy—more literally speaking than that term would usually mean—wearing an oni mask, and holding a katana.

Following him was a cyberpunk acid trip of a man, and a blue anthropomorphic GoPro with angel wings.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Vanessa.

"Oh, we're not here to cause any trouble, ma'am." said White. "We're just here to kill Opera Penguin."

"That is trouble." said Vanessa. "More than his own goals hang on his shoulders, as much as I'd love to kill the fucker myself."

"Ohh, so you're one of his cronies." said White, raising his sword.

"And you're going to taste pain, you sick spirit." said Vanessa, raising her own.

However, V1 charged up his pistol, and shot her through the leg. She screamed, and fell.

White raised a sniper rifle that materialized as he held out his arm, and aimed it at Vanessa's head, but V1 held out a hand. "NOoo." "SHEeee-ISS-MISS-GUIDED. SHE-THIiiNKS-HEeee-ALONE-CAN-SAVE-THE-WORLD-FROoooM-THE-FOR-CES, HE, HASs-IN-CITED."

"I'm not owing my life to a, a Nikon!" said Vanessa, attempting to stand up, but failing. After falling on the side of her face, she held a hand to her knee, and emanated golden light from it, healing it, before dragging herself up, to face White.

"Hate to break it to you, but you already kinda do." said White.

"Fuck you." Vanessa spat. She swung her sword in a literal uppercut, aimed to sever White's right arm, but White, moving like a flash, stepped back, and aimed a shotgun at Vanessa.

Vanessa waved, letting forth a wave of fire that didn't melt the shotgun, but carried with it a raw force that bludgeoned the shotgun away, causing it to miss as White pulled the trigger.

White then clenched his fist around the handle, and the shotgun lit up until it was a pure beacon of crimson light, and then faded as White rammed Vanessa down, moving at the speed of a hit and run.

Vanessa seemed to have gone down at this point.

"I think we should put her down anyway. Too much of a liability." said John.

"Eee-VEN IFfff THAT WERE TRUE." said V1. "YOUuu-SHOULD, CONSERVE, AM-MO."

"Fair enough." said John.

"Why don't I just," said White, and then he kicked Vanessa's sword a couple yards away.

Then he turned to the pile of what looked to be crystallized red jam on the ground.

"Oh, shit! They got Spicy Boy!" said White.

Vanessa then suddenly pulled herself up, and, raising her hand into the air, formed a broadsword out of yellow luminescence, which she then charged at V1 with, swiping twice before throwing it at him in frustration at his dodging. It whirled through the air like a throwing knife, before V1 punched it with his scuffed left hand, knocking it back at her like a bullet, striking her and ragdolling her to the far end of the atrium.

"Now if she isn't dead, I'll bet she sure wishes she were." said White.

"She's not dead." said John. "I'll humor V1 as of now in terms of not wasting ammo, but if and when she moves, I will shoot her. In fact, I think I'll hang behind just in case she gets back up."

V1 stepped towards one of the exits, before Opera Penguin appeared.

"Good day, gentlemen." he said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I think you know." said White. "In fact, I don't think any of us are in the mood for screwing around. So could you just get this over with?"

"Certainly." said Opera Penguin, and he quickly pulled out his pistol, but V1 was faster. Materializing a massive three-pronged rifle-looking weapon from an inner pocket dimension, he let loose a massive ray of electric light that sent a cartoonish hole through Opera Penguin's body.

Opera Penguin sighed, and then leapt onto V1. V1 stumbled away, dropping his weapon, and then flailed impotently as Opera Penguin's form, now revealing its energetic nature, seemed to half-merge with V1's.

"It's fitting, isn't it?" asked Opera Penguin. "You rip through flesh and blood to replenish your energy. I take your energy to replenish the flesh and blood of this body. It all works."

"JO-AHH-OHHN!" V1 screamed.

John turned his head and caught up.

"CONnn-SENT TO CONTINGENCY PLAN K?" asked V1.

"No, it's too soon to do that!" said White.

"Affirmative." said John, taking off his glasses.

V1's arm vanished in a burst of incandescence, replaced by a raggedy green one that propelled a spear into John's eye, and then tugged it back, pulling out not only the eye, but a long tube shaped like a tiny chrome torpedo, but without the 'fins', all in the span of a single second.

The spear rapidly retracted into V1's arm, as a boingy-sounding 'ticking' of rapidly-increasing frequency emitted from the device.

Opera Penguin disengaged, reformed his body into complete tangibility, and teleported a few feet away just in time for the device to go off with the force of a grenade.

"DAMN IT!" screamed White, as John put something that looked like a smaller camera into the gaping hole where his eye had been. Then he aimed his minigun at Opera Penguin, just as Andre shot by, and cleaved it in half.

"Damn it." said John.

Andre came in for another attack, but White pulled out a bazooka, which morphed into a different grappling hook, then shot it into Andre's guy, before pulling himself to Andre and sweeping him a few good times across the arms, not severing them, but causing them to bleed and causing Andre to drop his weapon.

White then ran at Opera Penguin, and began swinging away wildly, as his katana began to glow a ghostly blue, emitting a faint haze of the color. Opera Penguin began sweeping his cape at each slash, his cape turning a bright moonlight silver where it met the blade, and the sound of each collision making it sound as if the cape were an immobile chunk of steel itself.

Eventually, the ghostly blue light enveloping White's sword full suffused it, and, with one more strike, the blade shattered.

White then began striking at Opera Penguin, who laughed at him, before John picked up the pieces of his gun, and threw them Penguin's way. Then, a draft blew them aside, and Ian cannoned into John and began battering at him, until John fired at Ian with his eye implant, causing Ian to draw back, giving just enough room for the suddenly recovered Andre to sweep by and bisect the eye gun.

Then, Penguin told White: "If you strike me three more times, you will die. And when you die, you will have failed your probation."

"What? How can you know that?" asked White.

"Your full title is 'Neon White', yes?" asked Penguin.

"Yes. . . ?" asked Neon White.

"Neon. Nameless Expendable Obligated Numinous enforcers." said Opera Penguin. "That's what it stands for. The bodies you're bound in are designed to break down if you can't get your job done efficiently enough—or, possibly, if you try to revolt and fight your way out of your servitude. Starting with your weapon. I'm sure you notice that your weapon's fragmentation fixes itself in your idle time. That's because you're designed to be a fast-burning, quick fix to various sundry issues. The redemption you were promised in Deathrealm? That's an empty promise based on a very remote chance that you, the spiritual equivalent of a paper straw, repeatedly just manage to make it through the process of completing your mission in a satisfactory manner, several times in a row, each time holding together just long enough to reach the next period of rest to let your fragile being piece itself back together. Long enough for them to decide they're done with you. But you're not making it this time, if you keep swinging. If you keep attacking me, you'll be at the mercy of them, except that they have no mercy. Straight to the hell you were originally bound for."

"I. . . don't believe you!" said Neon White.

"It's true." said Opera Penguin. "And if you really don't believe me, just. . . think about your weapons. All of them, not just your sword. They appear, you use them a little, they vanish, they come back. And if you're using your body as a weapon, what do you think is going to happen?"

Neon White struck Opera Penguin once more, and a pale blue mist swirled around his wrist, as he noticed a crack forming in his trench coat's sleeve.

"No. . ." he said.

"But if, say, you were, ohhh, I don't know. . ." Opera Penguin shrugged, strolling around Neon White, and then putting an arm around his shoulder, and saying "captured, in a moment of emotional weakness, by a dastardly adversary known for his tricks. . ."

Neon White pulled away, and left-hooked Opera Penguin.

Then he looked in horror, as his whole left arm cracked, and pale blue mist swirled around it, before practically engulfing his whole body, throughout which cracks spread.

"No way. . ." he said in disbelief, and then Opera Penguin vanished him.

As this had been going on, John had kicked Ian away and lassoed Andre with a pulsating intestinal-looking mass of flesh from his midsection, before pulling him closer and firing a strange red weapon that formed dark, teal clouds of something awful. Ian tried to attack, but felt not only his skin crawling, but also his very flesh, and so he withdrew. Andre, however, simply impaled John through the same hole from which the human meat-tentacle came, and John dropped.

"Well, we jobbed pretty hard." said Ian, after Opera Penguin had cleared the teal mist out of the room.

"Oh, don't worry, those were from the Legion of Heroes. You were out of your depth." said Opera Penguin.

"Legion of Heroes?" asked Ian. "Sounds like a shitty offbrand MOBA game."

"It has nothing to do with whales, it's simply a bunch of glorified bounty hunters that I used to be part of." said Opera Penguin.

"Oh, neat." said Ian.

"Not really." said Opera Penguin. "They've been hounding me, badly."

"Really neat." said Ian, and Opera Penguin kneed him in the balls.

. . .

V1 woke up in a living room, during a tranquil morning.

"WHERE AM I?" he asked, and he noticed his voice had changed. It was still text to speech, and its modulation was still quite unnatural sounding, but it had been rendered much smoother in its ability to pause and ennunciate.

Opera Penguin appeared before him. "You're deactivated. This is a dream. But it's a special dream. A magical dream. You will share it with your comrades. Live in peace. Perhaps forever. But you will be remade, and reactivated, should I need you. You will be reactivated if I need you, your skills, and most of all, your dream. That dream you mentioned. You yourself are now a contingency plan. Your rebirth will double as an order. Your weapons will all be in your possession once more, your body will be refurbished, your artificial spirit will be vastly bolstered in its raw level of ability, and, most importantly of all, you will have my full endorsement in purifying the world of its darkness. Wherever you see it."

White appeared in a love seat, adjacent to the couch V1 was on. "Where am I?" he asked.

Opera Penguin sighed. "You ever watch the Matrix?" he asked.

"Yeah? And?" asked White.

"I'm just going to leave it at that, and let you figure it out." said Opera Penguin.

"WILL HE ALSO BE RESURRECTED?" asked V1.

"When—if—I resurrect you, yes." said Opera Penguin. "But don't be too hasty. Enjoy this place, while it exists."

John appeared, in another seat. "Fuck my life." he said.

"Well, you're presently dead, so that should come as something of a relief." said Opera Penguin.

"No." said John. "I'm still conscious. Consciousness, dragged out beyond death, after death, after death. I wasn't alive when I came in here. I was reborn into a nature that was like ghosthood, but with certain added traits of both life and undeath, without the weaknesses of either. But it was just an extension of the endless cycle. Kill. Suffer. Die. Be reborn. This is all things ever were. And all they will be."

"I can improve your quality of life." said Opera Penguin.

"I don't even know what that means. Aside from another corporate buzzword. Every time I've experienced it, it's just made me feel worse, because I felt like I should be feeling better, but I wasn't. So it was me, my nature, wasting it." said John. "Wait. Why am I monologuing about my feelings? Like V1 was just doing. He kept talking. I don't understand this. . ."

"Does it feel good?" asked Opera Penguin.

"No." said John.

"But does it feel bad in a good way?" asked Opera Penguin.

"What kind of dumbass question is that?" asked John, and then, after a moment, he admitted ". . .yes."

"This is what I mean." said Opera Penguin. "I abuse my power to bend others to my liking. And sometimes, it's for their good."

"I don't get it." said John. "But I guess I should tell you guys. My actual name is Matthew Thomas Fuchs. Or 'M.T. Fuch', if you prefer."

"Ehh, is it okay if we keep calling you John?" asked White.

John let out a short nostril sigh, and said, "Sure."

"Anyway, I'll let you go to some nicer dreams I've put next to this one. Specifically, I'll give this tablet to V1, and he can use it. He seems level headed." said Opera Penguin.

"What do you think we're going to do with it?" asked John.

"You seem to be a bundle of enigmas, and I know White has a thing for red ladies in fox masks, ha ha ha." said Opera Penguin.

"Heh, maybe. . ." said White, and then Penguin showed him an image of an entity, one whose repugnantly exaggerated figure was the most egregious blasphemy against the feminine form White had ever seen, to the point where White attempted to blind himself with his thumbs.

"Oh, and I should point out that if you are injured in this dream, your bodies will regenerate, but you will still feel the pain, and have to bear those injuries until you do regenerate. And also, even in here, if you attempt to remove your mask, it will still explode." said Opera Penguin.

"Never. . . show me that. . . again. . ." said White, and Opera Penguin cackled, as he snapped his fingers, and the creature was flashed in White's face again, its nauseating bimbo lips vein-burstingly close to his face, its Tim-Burton-esque eyelashes fluttering in a sickening facsimile of flirtation.

White screamed.

"WHAT ABOUT—'SPICY. BOY'?" asked V1.

"He actually can't dream. He's not really a complete being, more of a weapon devised by the Overseer and sent to assist you. As such, I don't really trust him anyway, and will probably fuse him into another being I'm working on at my first convenience." said Opera Penguin.

"WHICH?" asked V1.

"Any that I happen to be working on." said Opera Penguin.

"LET IT BE SOME-ONE WORTHY." said V1. "I MORE THAN ANY ELSE HERE HAVE SYMPATHY FOR THOSE BOXED INTO THE ROLE OF. A. 'WEAPON'."

"Sure, fine, fine." said Opera Penguin, before passing a black, glossy panel, displaying words in rounded boxes, in a bright white light.

. . .

After everyone recovered, Opera Penguin brought them back together.

"Well, that was an. . . unwelcome intrusion." said Opera Penguin. "But now they've been given comfortable accommodations, and-"

"Excuse me?" asked Vanessa.

"I mean. . ." said Opera Penguin, cocking his head to the side and grinning slyly. "They're on. . . a sabbatical."

"At this point, I don't even think you know what that word means." said Vanessa.

"Fair enough." said Opera Penguin. "Anyway, I think given this, I'm going to enhance the yiffbabies' abilities, so as to increase security around here."

"The what?" asked Andre.

Opera Penguin explained the name to all, and Vanessa fell to her knees, head in one hand, about ready to die of cringe.

. . .

Later, Rochelle ragged on Ian for running out, but still nestled under his chin as he embraced her. Ian was still feeling sick from the cloud, and so they forwent obedience to the letter of what Penguin had facetiously commanded of Ian, but Ian still gave Rochelle his usual saccharine buttering-up of words that he liked to give, as he stroked Rochelle's back like a dog's.

However, they were interrupted when Cheyenne burst in, sobbing, and pried Rochelle off Ian, before diving into much the same position in relation to Rochelle that Rochelle had taken in relation to Ian. Both Rochelle and Ian were practically having a heart attack when Rochelle asked what was wrong.

"Monsanto just broke up with me, for no reason!" said Cheyenne, and upon further inquiry from Rochelle, she explained that Monsanto seemed to have come to the epiphany that he wasn't 'feeling' their relationship, and it was because it as a whole was something Cheyenne had initiated and he had gone along with for no other reason than that he had, at the time, thought a relationship was always something a man should want, but had come to the realization that he should, instead, want a relationship that fit him, and apparently his with Cheyenne wasn't it.

Ian worsened the situation by requiring clarification as to whether Cheyenne wanted him to pulp Monsanto, before going on a more reserved iteration of the rant he'd gone on in the kitchen with Gregory and Mangle, and then finally receiving confirmation that Cheyenne was merely sad, disappointed and, most of all, willing to accept the breakup, which put a bad taste in Ian's mouth.

Then Gregory further ruined everything by barging in and teasing Ian about having two women in his bed, to which Ian replied "Fuck you, kid." and Gregory made a remark about Chris Hansen, to which, in turn, Ian replied "Yeah, bring him here, always wanted to pin that cute little twink down." upon which the other three in the room stared, dumbfounded at Ian, then joined by Mangle, who stuck her head into the room just to do the same, before Ian clarified that it was a joke, but was still slapped/clawed across the face by Rochelle, who didn't appreciate the less-than-monogamous implications of what Ian had said, causing Ian to point a finger at Gregory incredulously which then prompted Rochelle to turn around and yell at Gregory, Gregory to run out of the room and then trip over Mangle, concussing himself on the common room floor, and Cheyenne to panic and bury her sobbing face into Rochelle's clavicle, unintentionally stabbing Rochelle in the neck, thus causing Ian to put a hand under the small of Cheyenne's back and oust her, forcibly, from Rochelle's bed, causing her to fall gracelessly on the floor, causing Rochelle to yell at Ian and then rush to Cheyenne's side while Ian stammered incredulously at the freshly-stabbed Rochelle being angry at him and not Cheyenne for almost severing Rochelle's jugular with her sharpened poultry countenance.

. . .

Vanessa was just adjusting to her new 'apartment' when Bernard came in.

"Gregory just broke his nose. Could you heal it?" he asked.

"Uhhh. . . sure." said Vanessa, who then got up, and walked out into the common room, Bernard following.

As Vanessa healed Gregory, Monsanto clasped Bernard's shoulder from behind suddenly, causing the blue bunny man to shoot up.

"You gotta help me, man, I was just trying to move forward with my life but I started World War III or some shit!" said Monsanto.

"Well, I hardly see how I can really assist in any meaningful way, except for making sure the child doesn't become any uglier than he already is." said Bernard.

"Bernard!" said Ferdinand. "That is hardly-"

"Avocado melanistic phallus." said Bernard, in a deadpan voice.

"Okay, now you're getting too desperate." said Monsanto. "No one over twelve should ever have to go through a 'randem' phase. Let's sneak out, and get some beer."

"How do you know our bodies won't be affected by some hidden kill switch if we leave? Anyway, we don't have any money." said Bernard.

"Oh, screw it, I'm sure we can figure something out." said Monsanto. "Come on with us, Ferdinand." And as Ferdinand began to protest, Monsanto grabbed him, and the three went out.

. . .

At a bar that was surprisingly close, Monsanto greeted the bartender.

"Uhhh. . . ID?" asked the bartender.

"My man, do I need an ID?" asked Monsanto.

"Haha, very funny, but, uhhh. . . ID." said the bartender.

"I asked. Do I need." Monsanto said, his lips rolling up to show his very real fangs, and even gums. "An ID?"

The bar man shook his head, "I guess not, Mr. Gator. But have you got any money?"

"Hold up, just a sec." said Monsanto, then he disappeared into the bathroom a moment, and came out holding a pair of purple boxers.

"Who wants some purple underpants? Worn by a gator!" said Monsanto, and almost instantly, a curly-haired, pimply teenager-looking man pushed about sixty dollars in Monsanto's face, grabbed the underpants and ran for the bathroom, huffing the sweat from the boxers.

"Heh, he reminds me of Ian." said Monsanto.

A waiter asked Monsanto, "Hey, haven't you and Bonnie got some kinda beef?"

"Beef? WE AIN'T NEVER HAD A COW HERE AT FREDDY'S!" said Monsanto, clasping a hand around Bernard's shoulder. "Nahh, we're tight. We just happened to have a little mishap, you know what I'm saying?"

The bartender, who looked to be on suicide watch, also looked reluctant to take the money, but after a pause, took the bills between thumb and forefinger as Monsanto said "Just hit us with whatever that's worth, split between the three of us."

The bartender did.

. . .

Some time later, Ian Brandon Anderson sat up in bed, Rochelle giving him a death glare as she was once again dislodged from her perch on his flabby chest.

"I sense someone is having fun without me." said Ian.

"And is that your business?" asked Rochelle.

"I'm going to make it my business." said Ian, before gently rolling to the side so as to let Rochelle down softly, before Rochelle sat up, grabbed him by the jaw, and took a kiss for herself. Although Ian was stronger than her, not to mention quite heavy, he always melted at aggressive, if not 'dominant' affection from his partner, and so by instinct moved along with the gesture. "Don't take too long, I'm already pissed off at you." Rochelle said, but there was a slight smile on her face that suggested she wasn't altogether serious.

Ian ran out into the Atrium, where Opera Penguin was waiting, a fist on his hip, foot tapping. "I expected you to be aware of it faster." he said.

"Well sheesh, sorry my sixth sense didn't kick in fast enough." said Ian.

"You should be." said Penguin. "Go get the fresh initiates into the ranks of the Drunk Asshole Association of America back in here. By whatever means necessary."

. . .

Ian did as told, although not before sustaining a flagrant proposition from Monsanto: "Frerdery's got a tight asshole 'n more ways than one, but you, me 'n Berny, we can get some stuff on, 'f you know whadday mean, yeaaaah."

"No." said Ian, tugging at Monsanto and Bernard's scruffed necks. "I don't swing that way."

"DAAOWN'T BULLSHET ME, IAN!" said Monsanto. "I KNOW YOU WANT MY PANTSSS, WELL ITSS TOO LATE, 'TCHA MISSED THAT OPPORTUNITY. BUdddits not too late to get what Cheyenne missed ouddon, yaaaaa. . ."

Then Ian took Monsanto by the throat, in a crushing grasp, and dragged him and Bernard out, Ferdinand stumbling along behind, weakly protesting at the brutality Ian was applying to his friend.

. . .

As Ian got back into Rochelle's room, after dumping Monsanto in his room and leaving Ferdinand and Bernard to their own devices in the common room, he said Cheyenne once again nestled under Rochelle's chin.

Ian chuffed a little, but just plopped down next to the conciliatory bundle.

After a short while, Rochelle said "You didn't tell me when you came back." darkly.

"You seemed occupied." said Ian.

"Fair enough, but. . . Cheyenne?" Rochelle asked.

Cheyenne made a sort of whimpering noise that suggested utmost unwillingness to move or leave.

"I got this." said Ian, and he left the room to Rochelle's audible confusion, only to return, holding Bernard, and proffering him to Cheyenne like a giant plush toy.

Cheyenne glared at both Ian and Bernard like a disturbed cat, and said "No. Rochey."

"Well, then," Ian said, and then he just got in bed, still holding Bernard.

"Ian, are you drunk as well?" asked Rochelle.

"Just keeping a spare rabbit on hand, never know if you need him." said Ian, like a dipshit, because he was one.

"Thissssss fine buh' mee." said Bernard.

"I wasn't asking you." said Rochelle.

"Why're you guys talking?" asked Cheyenne.

"My right to bring other people into the bed is being contested. Hypocritically." said Ian.

"What, do you want me to throw her out? Really?" asked Rochelle, to which Cheyenne responded, automatically, "Nooouuuuuuuughhh. . ."

"No, no, I just want to balance out the overall discomfort in this room." said Ian.

"Opera Penguin literally introduced a room full of couches, you are in danger of being made to sleep on them." said Rochelle.

"Fine, I'll do it, with my stuffed bunny." said Ian.

"You'll do what to him?" hissed Rochelle.

"No, not like that, that was what Monsanto was propositioning, though." said Ian.

Rochelle released Cheyenne, then violently thrashed over, and kneeing Ian in the groin.

Cheyenne skittered out of bed, and headed for the door, whereupon Ian said, "Alright you bunny-balls-bitch-bastard, get out of here." pushing Bernard out of the bed.

. . .

Night 50

When Penguin and the trio discussed combat tactics, Opera Penguin asked Ian: "Blonde woman deflectors? Seriously?"

"Yeah, it was kind of ad-libbed, and just stuck." said Ian.

"No." said Opera Penguin. The tone with which he said it suggested that dissent was not conducive to survival.

Ian, however, did not seem concerned about survival. "Ehh, I could call them 'blondies', for short."

Opera Penguin sighed. "Fine, sure, I guess." said he.

. . .

Mangle was overtly apologetic to Gregory about the previous night, which Gregory tried to assuage verbally, but also took advantage of, by asking her to take her 'special' form and nestling in the downy softness of her fur.

The same could not be said of Monsanto towards Ian, as he simply said "Hey, it wouldn't be that bad. You just wish I'd be willing to do that sober, hahaaa!"

Cheyenne was still clinging to Rochelle, but was now respecting her boundaries a little bit more.

Bernard was smiling vaguely at Cheyenne, but did not approach.

Ferdinand looked mortified.

Vanessa was tired.

Andre was apathetic.

. . .

Opera Penguin called them all into Rockstar Row, and revealed that, having learned how better to infuse beings with remnant, he was now ready to give the yiffbabies (and Mangle) lesser powers. They weren't mantleweaving powers, but rather just plain supernatural abilities, working off of will, mainly, and partially off of physical strength. Opera Penguin shortly elaborated that, when he gave them their new bodies, their bodies came with a new section of their spirits dedicated to interaction with their bodies, and these new parts of their spirits, along with the bodies, made up the whole of the system of necessities and strength or weakness of attributes based on the fulfillments of necessities. These new abilities would be implanted in those parts of the spirit, and thus also be affected in power by the degree to which their needs were satiated.

To Monsanto was given extra physical power fueled by raw force of will, and the ability to manifest a battle axe, through which he could generate explosive force upon the blade's contact with its mark.

To Ferdinand was given fair strength and incredible resilience, the ability to manifest a mace and tower shield, and speed conditional on how much was needed to rush to others' aid.

To Cheyenne was given the ability to manifest a small pistol, and to heal even grievous injuries.

To Rochelle was given incredible sight, either over long distances with great clarity and detail, or through matter over short distances, along with the ability to manifest a rifle and shift which particular kind it was.

To Mangle was given the ability to generate her own replication of light remnant which was good for all she would use it for, albeit not for all Penguin used light remnant for, and the ability to assemble that energy into a stable, semi-permanent manifestation of her 'special' form, rather than the other form being a manifestation of power that constantly burned through energy.

To Gregory was given a slightly scarier looking bat. It was made of ebony wood, and had gilding in the likeness of leaves on it.

"Remember, prioritize safety over feeling like a hero." Opera Penguin said to Gregory. "But if you do have to, swing this at them. It'll kill them."

Opera Penguin then gave him a coinpurse-sized bag of holding to keep it in, but instructed him to keep the mouth of the bag fastened around the handle, not to let the bat go all the way into the bag. After this, Opera Penguin gave the 'sheathed' bat to Gregory, and then Mangle took on her 'special' form, and carried Gregory, in an almost bridal fashion, back to the computer room.