Crazy - Chapter 6: I Hate Facing My Issues Head-on

Yes, indeed, I have inputted titles for each of my chapters now, to give them a bit of flavor and a sense of uniqueness. I have also separated my chapters into arcs: chapters 1 and 2 comprise the Living with the Homunculi arc, chapters 3-4 comprise the Benefits of a Poorly Planned Kidnapping arc, and chapters 5-6 thus far comprise the Hell's Therapy Session arc.

Please grant pardon to the wide gap between the updates. I intend to do better.

Warning: As you may have noticed by now, frequent references to pop culture (often times than not, Harry Potter), a flagrant level of absurdity just like always, and in this chapter especially, a dabble of character-to-character emotional conflict.

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA.

Wrath/Führer Bradley's POV:

Why was I stuck like this? Here, before me, was that vexing runt that I hate. Selim Bradley—or Pride, or whatever (getting sick of clarifying; double names—or identifies, or whatever—seriously ruin the dramatic effect I was intending to make).

Now, since we are father and son (I literally cringed at admitting this) . . . I suppose, it should be—how do normal people put it? oh, right—natural for a father and son to face one another. I mean, I totally understand that sort of logic, if I attempt to view it from an ordinary folk's perspective. Ooh, father and son, sitting together, staring at each other in a very steadfast manner.

It was the farthest thing from weird, I guess.

But, what the mother-fudging hell.

What the hell. What the hell, what the hell Dell laptop.

If anyone knows me well enough, they would know that I'm not the type of guy who would sit calmly and sleazily with the son I absolutely despise.

But, did I have a choice?

No, I did not.

I mean, knowing me—and I do know me, so I know just what I would do—I would get 500,000 kilometers away from this brat and drown myself in beer; I consider it as a perfectly healthy, enlivening exercise. And, I would do such a thing—

If I wasn't put in shackles and jailed in a cell with him, for crying out loud!

How did I get in this mess? Well, maybe I should start from the beginning. So after the ridiculous therapy session, that I had guaranteed would be of no help to us since the cat-obsessed Kimblee was managing it, Kimblee instructed us specifically to wait—"You must wait!" he had stressed—in the waiting room. Well, what else are you supposed to do in a waiting room?

Thus, we waited. Patiently. Ish. Greed was as nosy and curious as the rest of us, and he furtively peeked through Kimblee's door. He reported that he saw Kimblee giggling evilly to himself while eagerly scribbling something in his diary. It was not suspicious or remotely creepy at all.

Afterward, Kimblee distributed a glass of water to each of us—or rather, he offered a clear, questionable substance. "You must drink!" he had emphasized slowly, as if talking to the mentally incompetent. Well, what else are you supposed to do with a glass of water? What, dump it on Pride's head?

Indeed.

I dumped it, aaaand got scolded by my wife and Kimblee, who had stomped his foot and cried—and I quote: "Oh-em-gee, I told you to drink it. Ugh." I wondered how "ohemgee" crawled into his daily use of vocabulary. (Weren't we in, like, the year 1917 or something? Something like that.)

Kimblee fetched another cup of water and made sure I drank it this time, by glaring over my shoulder with unblinking, predatory eyes. After we all finished swallowing the liquid, instantaneously, we felt woozy. The room spun and tilted uncontrollably, and our vision flashed between confusing series of blurs.

"Just great," Envy had muttered, drowsily. "We just fell for his trick without . . . without . . . him mother-fudging trying . . ."

He collapsed first. But, he had spoken wise, prudent words before he became a goner. Kimblee wasn't even investing that much effort into this shady scheme, and he succeeded in drugging us all.

We didn't go down without a fight, though. Not like Envy, we swore to never be like Envy. No, we were courageous and honorable. We weakly grappled at his collar, floundered about gracelessly on the floor like a fish, and gave him a piece of our twirling minds.

"Oh, you fudger."

"How dare you, fudger."

"Fudger, fudger."

Apparently, one-fourth of our minds was solely comprised of the word "fudger."

Gluttony was creative, though: "Mother . . . fudger."

He made us swell with pride, as we spiraled into darkness. Kimblee simply cackled in a cruel, malicious fashion in the background, his fingers twitching erratically. He then approached the enfeebled us, with drool or something dribbling down his chin, and our half-lidded eyes captured the frightening sight of him suspending over us.

"Oh, fudge!" was the one thought that raced through our minds, before we underwent a complete shut-down.

By the time I woke up, I was strapped in chains upon a chair and thrown in a prison cell. I guess, the idea of being incarcerated would have been more tolerable, more easier to digest, if I was alone. I believed I was put in solitary confinement, and naturally, it came to me, the great wave of relief: "Hey, this shouldn't be so bad? After all, I can get away from them."

Oh, the horror. You can imagine the cardiac arrest I experienced when my gaze zeroed in on the hideous face of Selim Bradley, who was restrained and situated upon the other chair directly across from me.

Nice going, Kimblee, you one hell of a jerkwad. I kept a note in my head to utterly obliterate the man with an ax upon seeing him, dismember him to indiscriminate pieces, feed him to my dragon—for the last time, yes, I do own a dragon; I call him Steve—kick him around like a soccer ball, and force him to watch a 120-minute long documentary film on Dorés the Ishvalan Explorer, where it studies her extreme aversion to discovering things that are right next to her and her constant urges to ask obvious questions.

". . . Crap," Pride grumbled, when he noticed me.

"I should be the one saying that!" I snapped, an abrupt fury exploding in my chest. About those anger management classes . . .

"What do you think Kimblee want?" Pride asked and vigorously wriggled in his seat in order to loosen the chains, but to no avail.

I shrugged. "I'm guessin' a cat. But beyond that, he's just pulling some bull—"

"Yes and no, Wrath," a strongly audible voice—Kimblee—blatantly shouted over a microphone, "or . . . should I say 'Führer Bradley,' since your wife's here and we cannot risk letting her know about the, gasp, Homunculi. So, anyway, I hope you all are doing well."

A clamorous ignition of groans, complaints, and curses rumbled throughout the hallway outside our cell, which made it discernible that the rest of us were immured not far off from one another.

"Yeah, yeah," Kimblee said, carelessly, "happy sunshine to you all, too. So, I bet when ya'll woke up, you all were given quite a scare—"

"Fudge you!" Envy's voice traveled from somewhere in the distance.

"I only welcome chocolate fudge. Anyway—"

"I want to leeeeeave, it is much too humid for my hair!" Father's voice whined.

Kimblee breathed heavily into the microphone, the static buzzing. When he spoke up again, his tone was considerably darker, "OK, look here, you little craps. Let me finish my exposition, then you can all go on sassing. I present to you: Kimblee's Friendship Box!"

"Uh, nah," I said plainly, trying to scratch my ear by shoving my left shoulder upward and hoping it would come into contact with the itchy skin.

"Uh, you don't have a choice," Kimblee returned, sarcastically. "So, let me get on with my presentation! This is the Kimblee's Friendship Box!"

"I swear you have just said that. This is why we never get anywhere," Greed's voice stated, and we simultaneously mumbled our agreement.

"Wrong! You got here, in my Box!" Kimblee retorted, much too cheerily for our liking, and we groaned in semblance to the pain bellowed when one had accidentally stepped on a Lego. "Trust me, I love ya'll. You're all like my little . . . kitties."

We were scared.

"But, you're all insane. So, I'm going to help you. Look real hard at the one person in the same Box as you. That's your partner for my game."

"Noooooooooo!"

My "no" was the loudest lament, but there were many others who shared my misery and grief. It made me inquisitive as to who each of them got. Pride, by far, was the most fortunate; he had the best partner there was.

"We don't want to participate in your stupid game!" Envy screamed, demonstrating his recalcitrant self. "If it's Musical Chairs to see who can sit down fastest, then, uh, hello, being strapped down to the chair really defeats the purpose of it!" His voice was a bit sing-song, as if he was gradually transitioning into lunatic frustration.

"Ewww! I don't want to be a part of this, either!" Lust's voice filled the empty air. "What the hell? Why am I also here? I thought I no longer had to take your therapy lessons!"

"Yeah, sure, but I need you for this game or there won't be an even number of players. I'm very OCD about that," Kimblee breezily answered, and I can picture him casually trimming his toenails, while Lust spluttered unintelligibly in astonishment.

"Ew, you're spitting!" Envy cried. Well, that solved the mystery of who Envy was paired up with.

"I hope you can feel our incredible hatred for you, burning and seeping and steaming and bubbling through the walls!" Greed yelled angrily.

"Sadly, I cannot," Kimblee claimed, "I have the air conditioner on so. . . . On to what I was saying, you're put into the Box with your partner for a reason. The objective of the game is to get out of the Box."

"Nooo," Envy articulated, his voice wired with spite and satire. "We were planning to, over time, nourish our facial hairs and reproduce in this extremely cool rectangle building."

"Ew!" Lust's reply to his "reproduce" comment was especially ingenious, and not in the least prosaic.

"'Box' is a really euphoric way to put it," Pride remarked dully, snuggling in his seat as if to get comfortable albeit the chains, "when, truly, it is nothing more than a prison cell. I'm starting to harbor doubts about the authenticity of your certification as a therapist—"

"Selim! Is that you!?" my wife's voice unexpectedly burst from nowhere, terrifying the dickens out of me. "Oh my goodness, Selim! I am so relieved! I couldn't find you, and I'm stuck with this strange, strange man with long blond hair!"

"Le gasp, don't insult Father . . ." a detached Envy muttered, largely missing out on enthusiasm; it was patently evident that the Homunculi had lost much reverence and respect for the demented man that was allegedly our leader.

"Yeah, don't . . ." Pride's resolve was even more pathetic.

"Oi!" I barked. "Woman! You sure as hell didn't sound much relieved when you heard my voice! The hell, I'm your damned husband, for shrieking out loud! I deserve priority in that heart of yours!"

Pride piped up, "You have my sentiments, Mother. I'm stuck with Dad, and it's not very pleasant."

"Whatever!" Lust chided, ruefully. "I'm stuck with Envy! Envy!"

"I'm stuck with Lust! Lust!"

"Shut up!" Greed ferociously roared, submerging everyone else's voices into oblivion. "You all don't get the right to complain! Be appreciative with who you got, goddammit!" We were about to mock him for being so maudlin and preposterously emotional, but then he half-sobbed, "I, on the other hand, am assigned to Gluttony! Y—you fools!"

We felt remorseful that we didn't understand him earlier. Now, it was too late to strive to comprehend his pain and suffering. No one added anything to his speech, as he was unreservedly right. He had the worst luck out of all of us.

"Man . . ." Envy remarked quietly, with impressive sorrow and dolefulness, "sucks to be you."

"It does!" A mistreated Greed was reduced to incoherent blubbering.

Static hummed again, grating on our nerves with its cacophonous screeches. "OK, OK!" Kimblee's energetic voice said. "Glad we've caught up with each other here. Now, I'm hoping you guys are done. You guys saved me a lot of time to announce one another's partners, since you all cried about it on your own. Very good. Back to what I was saying beforehand . . . the initiative to this game is to get out of the box. Now, you're probably wondering, 'How can I, since I'm chained down like this?'"

"Nah," Envy argued, "I think our thoughts are more closely related to, 'How can I kill him gratifyingly, without leaving any evidence?'"

Kimblee decided to skip over Envy's interruption altogether, "It's simple, really. Let me tell you, you cannot use force to escape from the Box. Try it. Try using your Homunculus power or something."

"Um, what?" my puzzled wife questioned.

"Not you."

Obviously since Kimblee stated it like that, there was really no point in trying. So, I was just sitting there, bored, observing as Pride attempted to summon his shadows. And, nothing happened as anticipated, and Pride's eyes widened as he endeavored over and over again, futilely, to manifest those creepy-crawlers. Same as him, grunts stirred up in the atmosphere, as the rest of them sought strenuously to rouse their power, but there was no spark.

Gluttony was the first to panic, "What d-did you do?"

"I mixed in a special ingredient into your drinks," Kimblee informed, almost proudly, and I swear I would hook my fingers up his nose and twist. "I call it Med-A. It's quite efficient. It temporarily suppresses your ability to draw out power from your philosopher stone. This is perfect for us. For this Box, you can only escape with your partner's assistance. As each one of you has an issue that requires attention, I'll just make your partner help you get rid of it. To do that, you must be kind, gentle, and encouraging to one another. Help each other open up and get to know each other. Learn to love each other, and destroy your innate hatred of each other. Once I find that each of you has recovered significantly in the head, I will release you from the Box, and you are free to go."

A deep, troubling silence transpired. Then, Greed murmured, "We're . . . we're filming a soap opera, aren't we?"

"Come on, come on!" Kimblee raved, his exasperating voice penetrating the speakers. "Review, review? What do you guys think of my therapy stage? Pretty elaborate, ain't it? So, anyway, I'm going to press a button and remove your chains, so you can explore around the Box. See? I'm not merciless, I'm a good, cat-loving man with a big heart. But, let me get onto the rules of the game. First, no killing each other. That's a no-no. Second, don't purposely provoke me. Third, have fun. Also, Med-A fades in forty-eight hours."

"Yeah," I said, "if you can stop calling two days 'forty-eight hours,' that'd be great."

"All right, we'll just wait it out for two days, then I'll transform to, one: break out of here, and two: break your ass," Envy threatened.

"Problem is," Kimblee declared, "that's not part of the game. The game lasts for only twenty-four hours—"

I corrected him, "One day."

"—and after that period of time, and you still fail to meet my expectations, you will receive the Box's Ultimate Punishment. Yes, I will kill you."

My wife gasped in dread.

Kimblee laughed into the microphone, "Just kidding! I'm not licensed for that! However, I will make the Ultimate Punishment gruesome, you will see. Also, to make things funner, under your seats, will be what I call the Temptation. On your seats will be a note which lists your personal Requirement along with instructions to complete this game. Feel free to share the Temptation you own! Any rule-breakers will go through the Detention Center for three hours—any attempt to murder each other will bring you to the Detention Center! How will I know? Well, that's simple. All around you, I have placed hidden cameras, so I'll be spying on you for this entire twenty-four hours. It's going to be fun!

"Once I unchain you, you are free to explore, like I've said before. Not that there's much space. I think . . . I think I've"—there was an indistinct ruffling noise, and I inferred he was flipping through his papers—"I've told you everything that I should about the game. I'll tell you the time intermittently, so you know when to get your ass moving. Well, without further ado, the Kimblee's Friendship Box Game will commence! Oh, and, you cannot call for help, and I most likely won't be responding to your pleas because I will be listening to hot metal music. And . . . I think you can at least go through twenty-four hours without food or water, right? Figure out the toilet arrangements on your own."

The microphone shut off with an overt click.

Then, it turned on again.

"Oh, and there's no toilet. Good luck. 'Kay, bye."

Unanimously, everyone howled in disapproval and raised a huge din, stomping our feet out of indignation. When the chains brusquely fell from our shoulders, we jumped up from our seats and stretched liberally.

"Let's murder him!" Lust proposed, and we all gave our consent by shouting and screaming.

The mic turned on.

"Don't try. 'Kay, bye."

I, then, noticed a Post-it note on my seat, which I had been smothering with my firm, well-defined bottom up until this point. I plucked it from the seat and brought it close to my eyes. The bleary doodles began to concentrate into recognizable words—whoo, my eyesight ain't so hot, after all.

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

I made a face of disgust, while Pride began to read his note too. Copycat.

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner thinks he's psychic, when he's really just loco! D: So, all you have to do is convince him that he's not psychic!

"Uh . . ."

Pride/Selim Bradley's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner thinks his life sucks, so he drinks a lot! D: When, really, his life does suck but he shouldn't drink! So, all you have to do is convince him to quit drinking!

"Hm . . ."

Envy's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner thinks she's ugly! D: Even if she is ugly, she shouldn't think that way! So, all you have to do is convince her that she's not ugly! Again, even if she is ugly!

Lust's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner has short-term memory (and a startling lack of hair)! D: Usually, that'd be a good thing, since you'd have a lot of pranks to choose from! But, no, we shouldn't do that! So, all you have to do is make him have long-term memory!

Greed's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner is insecure! He thinks he doesn't fit in with you lot! D: I don't know why he thinks that since you're all basically loco, but he thinks that! So, all you have to do is make him un-insecure!

Gluttony's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner has a thing for sweets! An addictive thing! D: I hope his teeth rots, but that'll be unpleasant for the rest of us, so let's keep his teeth from rotting! So, all you have to do is get rid of that addiction!

Father's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner thinks she is a bad mother and wife! D: She obviously is a bad mother and wife, but let's lie like hell! So, all you have to do is convince her that she is a good mother and wife!

Mrs. Bradley's POV:

Hi, [insert name here]! I'm so happy you're reading me! ^_^

Here's your super-duper secret Requirement!

Your partner is very sensitive about his image, and he's bipolar! D: Let's get him to be one-polar! So, all you have to do is get him to be one-polar!

Wrath/Führer Bradley's POV:

"Oi!" I hurled the stupid note at the ground, but the sticky part of the paper adhered to my thumb, and I dedicated myself to shaking off the accursed thing. "Isn't this Requirement chiz, like, extremely vague? How in the world are we supposed to accomplish this task?"

"Yes!" my wife agreed with me (finally). "Mine is exceptionally vague!"

The mic turned on, and we heard robust music drumming in the background.

"Oh, yes, check the back of the note!"

The mic turned off, and we read the back of our respective notes.

You're still reading me, yay! This is what you should do:

1. Open the Temptation underneath your seat.

2. Show it to your partner.

3. Prepare for outburst.

4. Wait for the twelve-hour mark (I will announce it) after opening the Temptation, then attempt to destroy it in front of your partner.

5. Prepare for outburst. Defend yourself accordingly. There are no first aid kits available.

Your goal is to destroy the Temptation and get your partner to accept its extinction. If your partner manages to get his or her dirty hands on the Temptation before you can destroy it, the Detention Center shall be dealt for the remaining hours of the twenty-four hours interval. Once the time is up, you will proceed to the Ultimate Punishment. I will forcibly annihilate your issue, and you will not like it at all. P.S. You will also be known as a loser for the rest of your life.

"Well," Envy said, "this got dark pretty quickly."

I looked under my seat, and sure enough, there was an intricately floral-designed mahogany box. I took it, watching Pride warily from the corner of my eye as he picked up his box, and I carefully lifted its lid.

Inside was, a crystal ball.

"Uh, what?"

"Wow," Pride muttered, peering into his box, with a real annoying, arrogant layer doused to his tone. "I'm not surprised."

"Oi, let's show it to each other on the count of three! Three!"

"Hai."

"Don't go Japanese on my ass. One!"

We both revealed our boxes to one another, shielding our eyes a bit in fear of the unknown. Then, slowly, I peeped out from my fluttering eyelids and perceived—oh, Lord—the deluxe, awfully rare, 1867's exquisite version of the Pinot Noir wine; it is promised to have a sensual, smooth feel that melts in one's mouth with a crisp, enriching finish, leaving one's desire for more insatiable. Drinking that red beauty would knock me out for the night.

I've . . . I've got to get my hands on it.

Pride's POV:

Perhaps this was fate. Yes, this was my destiny. Right there, in front of me, a resplendent, irrefutably glorious crystal ball. The flawless, transparent quartz sphere exhilarated me. It was so marvelously polished that I could see my own reflection on it—how mystical, how exciting! This spiritual item, it complemented greatly with my aptitude for divination. With this, I could grant others my instinctive foresight to the fullest of my ability.

This was meant to be for me. And, only me. No one else. My excellent intuition told me that much. I must unite with this statuesque thing so that I may bring into ripeness my clairvoyance.

But then, that man. That man I must refer to as my father. He did not possess the merit to hold my crystal ball in such an indiscreet manner; he should not even be allowed to stand within spitting distance of it. He was the farthest thing from sagacity. He had no capacity for extrasensory perception, unlike me. And yet, how come he had it?

This was wrong.

So wrong.

I must rescue my crystal ball from his slovenly grasp.

Wait for me, Lola.

Father's POV:

Who was this unsightly, fragile woman before me? How dare she gaze at me so impertinently? I would smack the wrinkles out of her, for showing me such barefaced effrontery. How dare she weep before me, when I displayed to her the Temptation I received—it was merely a picture of Wrath and Pride standing side by side and smiling happily (actually, Wrath's smile was unmistakably strained).

Wasn't it sort of creepy that Kimblee somehow got this personal photo? Well, whatever.

But, what seized my attention, while I was goading her by dangling the photo from the compression of my index finger and thumb, was when she disclosed her own Temptation—

It was an officially signed and stamped letter of confirmation that the Elric brothers will be my friend.

"Ohhh, my!" I wallowed in immense joy and elation, clasping my hands together, and kicking my leg up. "I-is this for reals?"

Envy's POV:

(2 minutes and 56 seconds into the game . . .)

"Screw it!" I cried to the irritating Lust, throwing up my hands as if surrendering. "I don't give a crap anymore. Who cares about the damned rules?" I thrust my note into her face. "OK, it says here, my Requirement is to convince you're not ugly, which is not going to happen. And, here . . ." I flung my Temptation box at her. "Inside's a mirror and make-up. Knock yourself out."

"Ooh!" Lust's heinous eyes lit up with glee, and she initiated the process of applying lipstick while gazing into the mirror. "Oh, and my Requirement is to help you with your memory chiz, which I am not interested in at all. Inside my box are some hair products for you nonexistent hair. You can have it."

I snickered contentedly, and began to nurture the scalp of my hair with the expensive substance self-indulgently. Take that, Kimblee!

All of a sudden, red alarms gleamed all over the hallway and blared vociferously, piercing our eardrums with their strident, repetitive sounds.

"Attention, all! Envy and Lust have broken almost all of the rules!"

"Already!?" the rest of them shouted in disbelief.

"Yes, already! They suck. So, now, they will be given to the Detention Center! Dun, dun, dun!"

I scoffed in derision. "Oh, puh-leaz, Kimblee. What can you really do—"

A hole appeared right beneath my feet. Lust had one, too.

Oh, fudge.

All that I could do was scream, before I fell down, and was consumed by the darkness.

Father's POV:

(15 minutes and 24 seconds into the game . . .)

"So, like," I pushed my beautiful hair back, "I don't understand how, how come no one likes me, you know? I mean, I am a very good person. Like, very, berry good. I've—I've done a lot. I've helped out in, like, the community and stuff, you know? I don't just stand there, I become a part of things. I become united with others, and I really participate. I always put, like, my best foot forward." I paused to take a breather and narrowed my eyes. "But, I still don't understand, you know? How the hell is it possible that I give so much, but have so little friends? I mean, I would totes understand if this was coming from, like, let's say . . . you, you know? You're a housewife and don't really do much, which I totes understand, but you get what I mean, right? If it was coming from you, it would be totally understandable if, like, you don't get that much friends. But, me? I'm a completely different story. I don't just stop giving, you know?"

"I'm—I'm useless, aren't I?" Mrs. Bradley sobbed.

"Oh my Promised Day, yeah, you totally understand too, huh?" I continued. "So, anywaysss, I've been through so much, and yet, people still look down on me. A-and, I seriously wonder what the hell it is that I'm doing wrong! What in the world am I doing wrong? I mean, sure, it brings me joy to see people in pain. Why not? And, sure, I collect philosopher stones for evil purposes, but come on, it's just a hobby. Like, seriously, get over it, people!"

(37 minutes and 9 seconds into the game . . .)

"You cannot believe the mean things these people say! Like, jeez, give me a break. People like me have feelings, you know! But, seriously, I'm, like, really stressed right now. Like, so stressed, but you understand me, right? It's so hard to keep up with everything. I mean, on one side, I have my Homunculi children to take care of. Ugh. And, on the other side, Truth is being a real jerkwad to me, and I don't know what I did to deserve it. Ugh, I can't manage everything on my own, you know!"

(5 hours, 42 minutes, and 17 seconds into the game . . .)

"I've decided . . . I'm going to mother-fudging kill everybody in this world."

Greed's POV

(8 hours, 23 minutes, and 2 seconds into the game . . .)

OK, this was it. I had abstained from Gluttony's Temptation for me for way too long. I've done the best I could. I've given it all I've got to forbear, to withstand. But, that alluring, delectable scent, it was unavoidable. How dare Kimblee use my weakness against me.

How dare the Twinkie Company shut down, then recently return to the shelves, but no longer taste as magnificent and comparable. It did not glow with nostalgia anymore, when I had dove into the treat. How dare it. Dammit, fudge this cell, fudge the ceiling, fudge this horrendous game, fudge my life—

"Just gimme the damned Twinkie!" I screamed, frantically, lunging from my curled-up position against the wall. Gluttony yelped in terror, as I chased him around the cramped cell. "Gimme!" I grappled at the air with avarice, clenching the fatso by the shoulder.

Gluttony seemed petrified. "B-but, aren't you supposed to help me?"

"Goddammit, Gluttony! You'll never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever—wait for it—ever fit in with us, and I have a fudging Chinese dude sharing my subconsciousness!" I hollered, digging my fists into my hair in aggravation.

Gluttony cried.

"Don't cry on my Twinkie, goddammit!"

I cried, too.

Pride's POV:

"Oi, Wrath," I said, sneakily, stroking the wine, "you're interested in getting your fortune told, right? I can give you a clue into your future. Anything you want. Seriously, I am capable of that."

Wrath's gaze never betrayed the wine; he was sitting on the opposite wall to me. "Does my future include that red beauty?"

"I don't know, Wrath. But, I can give you a definite answer . . . once you hand over that crystal ball."

"Hell no!" Wrath said sternly, clutching the crystal ball to his chest protectively. "I don't want to be given to the damned Detention Center, then the damned Ultimate Punishment right after."

I scowled. "Well, I'm not handing over this wine."

"Well, I guess that settles that, then."

Wrath's POV:

Who knows how long it was? It felt like an eternity, with each aggravating minute slugging on by, elapsing at an elongated, inert pace. I was banging my forehead against the cold brick wall, and across from me, Pride was fiddling with his fingers while glaring at the crystal ball. Although I was desperate as well, I was sly and stealthy when I trained my eyes on the tantalizing wine Pride had laid out in unobstructed view.

I was ready to envisage shooting myself through the temple, but then the microphone turned on:

"I—"

"No one gives two fudges, Kimberly!" I hollered, restlessly.

"Sheesh! Tough crowd!"

"I bet your bones will be tough to chew," Greed said, very sinister-like, very famished-like, and we all suspected that he had already consumed Gluttony whole. "But, I'm willing to try."

"Eep."

The Pokemon squeak belonged to Gluttony.

"I just wanted to announce," Kimblee proclaimed, "that you've hit the twelfth-hour mark. Congrats! You may now destroy—"

"Aaaaaaaaaaah!" I got up and screamed like a chimera on fire, and slammed the worthless crystal ball against the wall. "Die, bugger!"

Pride violently burst, "LOLA!"

"Huh?"

As he raced to me, his foot incidentally knocked over my wine, and it went rolling toward the barred gate.

"CHRISTINA!" I shouted for my wine, and recklessly swung my fist at the tiny brat scurrying toward my direction.

The slippery, shockingly agile bastard managed to duck in time before my fist could collide with his face—how regrettable—but his mouth flew apart to form a precise circle. "D-did you just try to hit your own son?"

"I do this nearly everyday! Just this time, it's not out of impulse; I actually have a reason to— Goddamn!"

That spidery creep tugged on the hem of my shirt to boost him up, as he climbed on my back, clawing on the fabric of my suit to support him. He arduously clambered to my shoulders, and then wrestled for the crystal ball in my left palm.

I struggled to push him off, by shaking my upper torso like I was dancing to the samba, but he was persistent, adhering to me by wringing his arm around my head and grabbing my nose with his nasty-ass hand. "Shit! Get off me, you brat! What the hell!?"

"Give me Lola now! You're abusing it! You're abusing my precious!"

In response, I hurled the crystal ball to the other side of the wall and heard it struck, but it revolved along the ground, unscratched. Pride breathed a sigh of relief, and the moment he let his defenses crumble, I reached behind me and snatched the scruff of his neck. Drilling my fingers into his skin securely, I then pulled him from me, like removing a feather from a chicken, dragged him over my head, and after mustering enough momentum, I threw him to the wall as well.

He scrambled from the wall and extended his fingers to the crystal ball still moving along all leisurely. I planted my foot on the crystal ball to end its meaningless advance, and grinned malevolently at Pride.

"N-no, not Lola, spare Lola— Noooooooooo!"

I trampled the ball beneath me, mercilessly, cackling while I was at it. I continued the downward thrusts of my foot, then picked it up and knocked it against the wall repeatedly, so that I can crush it. The invincible crystal ball remained intact.

"Damn, what is this fudger made out of!?"

But, just as I was intently scrutinizing this perplexing little bugger, Pride hastily slid to the other side of the cell, clasping Christina.

"Look here, Wrath," Pride taunted, his eyes blazing with ire.

My heartbeat skidded to a halt. "D-don't touch Christina—"

"Chrisy. Must. Die!"

"IT'S CHRISTINA! SHE HAS A CLASSY NAME!"

"Class this!" He raised the wine indicatively.

"That threat makes no sense, but ok."

It came to my understanding what he was about to do a bit too late—he was about to beat the wine against his chair.

"Noooooooooo!"

I rashly cast myself forward to save my Christina from that abhorrent demon, wholeheartedly prepared to sacrifice my body and cripple a leg or two—and, no, I was not ready to commit such a noble deed because I knew I had good ol' faithful regeneration to back me up—but, oh crap, didn't Kimberly arrest my Homunculus power or something?—did that mean I cannot regenerate and I will actually hurt myself?—shit, I take it back! if only I wasn't already slicing through the air—

When I ran to him, however, he suddenly shifted gears; he leaped on his chair, that short bugger, and then brought Christina down upon my head as if wielding a hammer.

No.

Just no.

NO.

NO!

My hair!

But, more importantly, Christina!

Christina, my lovely. Christina, though I've only known you for a brief period, I believed you have shown me a complete new world and all of the different sides of me (I didn't know I could extend my body this far before). Christina, you were the one for me. You had put your trust in me to save you, even though you were aware that that was a bad idea from the start.

The glass screening of Christina the wine bottle shattered to multitudinous fragments, dispersing by my feet in an overwhelming flow. Next came the invaluable contents. The red, red stream poured down my hair, neck, and clothes, drenching me with the fermented grape juice.

I suppose, in a poetic sense, Christina never truly left me. I guess that was sweet-ish, if I choose to ignore the stickiness and the fact that it was overall disgusting.

But, nah, I wasn't going to ignore it.

"YOU LIL' BUGGER!" I reeled his head in by the crook of my arm, smothering the brat. "I'MMA KILL YOU, I'MMA KILL YOU! YOU TRIEDTA KILL ME, SO I'MMA KILL YOU!"

"NOT IF I KILL YOU FIRST!"

We both fought, jostling each other. With my other hand, I drove the crystal ball incessantly against his chair, buffeting that bugger without relenting in the slightest to fatigue. Can someone make a suit out of this!? It was the most unbeatable thing ever created.

Pride yelled, "STOP TRYING TO HURT LOLA! I WILL SERIOUSLY KILL YOU—"

The microphone turned on.

"Whoa, whoa! Let's stop right there, the both of you!" Kimblee scolded. "You both attempted murder. Tsk tsk! You know what this earns you? The Detention Center!"

"What—"

The brusque loss of ground impelled me to yelp; the crystal ball was propelled from my hand and onto Pride's seat. On there, it broke—FINALLY. But, before, I could celebrate my victory, I was forcibly yanked down, eaten by the ensuing darkness.

Father's POV:

I couldn't help it. Remember how I whimsically decided, on the spur of the moment, to kill everybody? Yeah, I was feeling quite rueful. I desired for everyone to suffer just like I was. So, when the twelfth hour came up, I swiftly ripped the photo.

Afterward, I must admit, I felt unconquerable. Like, this was one of the most brutal, ruthless things I have ever done, and thus, I've accomplished something weighty and memorable today.

But then, the eccentric woman obviously wanted to take a spin on the ride of unpredictability, too. She whipped out double guns from her shirt and pointed them at me. Two things. First, why didn't Kimblee confiscate these dangerous weapons beforehand? Second, and arguably the most significant question of them all:

AM I GOING TO DIE?

I screamed, and while panicking, I tore the photo even more.

OK, that probably wasn't the smartest move.

The uncontrollable woman exploded with fury, shrieking and crying, causing me to do the same. Tears pooled from my eyes in torrents, as she randomly shot. Opportunely, her aim was erroneous since she was too busy wailing at the top of her lungs, so the bullets bounced away from me. However, they ricocheted against the walls and accelerated toward me.

I yelped and pounded the entire mass of my body backward, to flip out of my chair and land on the ground. My gorgeous blond hair splattered against the solid surface of the floor. Pain coiled around my spine, and I groaned, seeing as the bullets journeyed past me with awe-inspiring speed.

I'm getting too old for this crap.

My mind went sailing. I only had one option available.

It was to holler my head off senselessly.

"AAAAAAHHHH! DON'T KILL ME, DON'T KILL ME! AAAAHHHHH!"

"HOW DARE YOU MISTREAT MY FAMILY LIKE THAT!"

"IT WAS A PHO-FREAKING-TO!"

"Decay, you bastard!" She pulled the trigger a few more times, and I was compelled to flop about to evade the bullets.

"NOW I WOULD TOTES UNDERSTAND IF, LIKE, YOU CAN NEVER, EVER TAKE A PIC WITH THEM AGAIN! BUT, THAT IS SOOOO NOT THE CASE! STOP OVERREACTING—"

Without hesitation, she tossed my crumpled letter of confirmation up, and shot a bullet through it, leaving a gaping hole.

"YOU BITCH! HOW DARE YOU UNNECESSARILY SHOOT MY PRECIOUS PIECE OF PAPER—"

The woman who had lost her marbles directed the tip of her guns at my forehead. "I'm going to kiiiill—"

The microphone turned on.

"Nuh, uh, uh, Mrs. Bradley!" Kimblee said. "Sorry I'm late, Father, I noticed the threat a while ago, but at the same time, I was feeding a couple of my cats . . . and, well"—he laughed amicably, as if everything was all fine—"we all know which is more important. Well, anyway, Mrs. Bradley! You have broken a rule of mine! That is, you cannot attempt to murder your partner! You shall now be transported to the Detention Center!"

Before Mrs. Bradley could protest, a hole appeared beneath her feet, and she soon vanished.

Oh, thank the Lords!

"Sorry that I had to get rid of your partner."

"There's seriously nothing to be sorry for."

"You'll probably be bored for the next three hours alone."

"No, really, can't you extend the period?"

"So, I'm going to give you a prize to play with, out of gratitude that you haven't tried to kill your partner as of yet!"

"I didn't have the chance."

A small aperture substantiated above me in the ceiling, and dropped out of heaven was . . .

Chalk.

It hit my head. I watched as it turned over, touching my leg.

"Um . . . what am I—"

"You're welcome! Ta-doodle-doo!"

Greed's POV:

(14 hours, 34 minutes, and 15 seconds into the game . . .)

When I had heard the people around me scream as they were delivered to the Detention Center, I quickly abandoned my tireless pursuit of the corpulent Gluttony. As an alternative, I sulked in the corner of the cell, gathering my knees to my chest and hugging them mournfully. I had never felt so defeated, so deprived for sweets. I could just visualize the tasty sugar dissolving in my tongue and trickling down my throat.

Oh man, I needed it to supplement myself so that I no longer had to be so destitute. I yearned for those irresistible sweets in my palms in order to gobble them sinfully, to digest greedily—

Ah, ironic, ironic.

"Um."

"SHUT UP, GLUTTONY!" I roared.

Whoa, did not see that coming out of me. I hoped I still looked appealing even after over-stretching my mouth in an imitation of a lion's yawn.

Alarmed, Gluttony timidly twiddled with his fingers, and I almost felt bad. All right, respiring in this cramped-up cell for half a day was giving me delusive and fallacious emotions. I pined to be released so that I could visit a nearby market and load myself with sweets.

Fatass, Ling chided.

"You're one to talk," I growled lowly.

"Um," Gluttony tentatively spoke up again, putting together his index fingers, "you haven't opened your Temptation yet."

"Oh . . . that's right." The Twinkie—in Gluttony's pocket, oh dear, how I craved for it—had ensnared my undivided attention.

Languidly, in prone position, I hauled myself along the ground, collecting dust, and clasped the box underneath my seat. I did not hold much interest for what was inside the container, as it was probably only something Gluttony wanted. And, who cares about what he wants?

But, when I opened the box, the sight of it really shut up my mind.

A Twinkie.

You've got to be shitting me—

Oh, right. We were both fatasses when it came to sweets, so naturally . . . we'd have the same exact Temptations. It was also a lazy presumption on Kimblee's part.

But then, my mind illuminated with an idea. An extremely brilliant idea.

A broad grin formed on my lips. "Oi, Gluttony! I know how we could achieve a win-win situation! We can beat this game!"

Wrath's POV:

It was ghastly. It was horrible. It was distressing. I was not enlightened of my time spent in here, but this was an ineluctable hell. Along with me were Pride, my wife—I hereby proclaim this as the worst family reunion in history—Envy, and Lust. We were all tied to chairs and placed in front of a large television screen. Envy and Lust were particularly exhausted, with grisly bags lingering beneath their shriveled eyeballs, as they were swept in here for an incalculably long time.

Playing on the screen was an extended documentary film, appended with a fudging movie, of Dorés the Ishvalan Explorer.

"NOOOO—"

Envy curtly rotated his head a full three-hundred sixty degrees—or at least it was so creepy it seemed that way—and glared daggers at me, his brow jerking convulsively. It was incredibly disturbing.

"Shut up!" he snarled. "Or she'd hear you!"

"Which path should we take?" Dorés asked us with an unsettling smile. "The grassy one or the rocky one that obviously has Swiper the Chimera lurking about, but I will deliberately choose to be oblivious to it, using my age as the excuse for my otherwise inexcusable ignorance, because I like to mislead children into thinking their opinions matter but, truthfully, I am already pre-programmed to pick the rocky one, because I also want to inspire 'suspense' or the like by having Swiper steal my pretty much useless tool that I'm only going to use for one adventure and, later on, it will completely disappear from the show for the rest of the season. Most of the friends I help out here on my adventures, I will most likely forget them once I turn five years old. That is, if I'm ever going to turn five."

We stared at her speechlessly.

"That . . ." Pride blinked, "must have been a mouthful."

Father's POV:

(15 hours, 12 minutes, and 3 seconds into the game . . .)

I was conversing merrily with the chalky stick figure I had drawn on the wall, "So, like, Sherry, I was thinking about killing everybody else in the world. But then, I thought, 'Hey, that's nothing new.' So, I need something else to do, you know? So, I won't be doing mundane, commonplace things like this. Sooo unimaginative—"

Aaaand, the mentally deranged woman plopped from the ceiling and back in the cell. The moment that she landed, she burst into nerve-wracking sobs. "But, Dorés, I don't know what my favorite part of the day is! Stop asking me, please!"

Nonchalantly, I flicked my flaxen threads behind my shoulders. I was calm now, after Kimblee reassured me that he expropriated her double guns. "I feel like I shouldn't ask. And, please, it's rude to interrupt me and Sherry while we're divulging in our feelings, OK? Jeez, Sherry, some people just don't have any manners."

The woman bore me no heed—she had such shameful audacity—and folded her body in a disheartened fashion.

I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

Well, that was what I told myself.

Until she started to silently weep instead of bawling like earlier. Therefore, it was tremendously less creepy and more intriguing.

"You know," I began, "raising a family's never easy."

At this, she perked her head up a little.

"Yeah," I asserted, examining my fingernails. "I mean, I have an entire family of seven kids. And they're all so full of sin." I chuckled at my own joke. "But, seriously, I feel you, girl. I get a lot of stress watching over them and stuff. They're such a rebellious bunch, most of them never do as I want. But, a family's a family. And, you can't be half-bad if you're the wife and mother. That's a lot of responsibility, so you're worthy of some praise, at least."

She sat up, and wiped her tears. "Y-you think so?"

I held up my hand. "Don't be mistaken. I still hate your guts, and I'll never forget how you insanely pointed your double guns at me, and I swear I will get even, and when the Promised Day comes into realization, you'll be the first soul I will swallow the fudge out of."

"I don't understand all of what you just said, but still, I'm a little comforted . . ." she whispered.

I was repulsed. "Ugh, believe me, that wasn't my intention to console you or anything. Please, munger, all you have to worry about is raising a family. I'm the one that needs consolation."

"If it means anything," she said, smiling, "you seem lonely yourself. If you're in need of a friend to talk to . . . I can be your friend."

My eyes widened in surprise at her sentimental words, and I felt an overpowering emotion grip me.

"EW! NO THANKS! I HAVE SHERRY!"

Gluttony's POV:

Big Brother was indubitably clever. I know I never would have had the brain capacity to contrive of such a splendid strategy. We were aware that we were both starving, ravenous creatures, and his appetite was almost on par with mine when it involved sweets. So, we—or, to be accurate, he—found a loophole to the game. Greed had me eat the Twinkie from my own Temptation box, and he ate the Twinkie from his Temptation box; thus, we both got to enjoy the Twinkies and destroy one another's Temptations, just like Mr. Kimblee had requested.

When the twenty-four hours were up, we were prepared to face Mr. Kimblee.

Pride's POV:

(23 hours, 51 minutes, and 17 seconds into the game . . .)

We were, once again, on opposite sides of the cell.

"Clock's ticking," I warned.

"I know that," Wrath grumbled.

"Even though we've managed to destroy each other's Temptations, we haven't even touched upon each other's inherent issues. We can't get out of the Box in time. We're going to lose."

"I know that."

"We have no hope."

"I know that."

"What are we going to do?"

"OK, that, I don't know."

Idly, I kneaded my feet into the cracks marring the ground. "Admittedly . . . I've imagined things to happen differently."

"Me too. I imagined getting to shove my foot up Kimberly's ass for making me take a piss in the corner. I also fantasized being with my Christina, but you just had to—"

"You were going to drink her," I pointed out.

"May my stomach be forever her home. Until she comes out at the bottom of the ride, of course." He laughed to himself. "Whoo-ey, I am funny."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm being serious, Wrath. I had imagined that we, at least, would have been able to accomplish this."

"This had better not be some kinda psychic—"

"No," I denied grimly. "It's merely an assumption. I had thought that since it is us, Wrath and Pride, this Box would be a simple task. But, I can't believe that we are unable to overcome even this petty thing. Are our 'issues'—some of them emerged out of nowhere, you must concede—that severe?"

There was a transient silence, before Wrath spoke up, "I dunno."

I was getting increasingly provoked by his sheer indifference. "Aren't you the 'father'? Don't you have to know something? Or at the very least—since you give the least effort at parenting anyway—act like you do."

"Look here, runt," Wrath tiredly faced him, "in case you haven't noticed, I hate being your dad. I hate having to pretend to be your dad. You're the chief reason why I need beer, let's just be frank."

"Oh, yeah? Well, you're the foremost reason I have psychic abilities"—I stopped for a bit to contemplate, pursing my lips—". . . actually, no, no, that's all me. But, I think, or at least, I can form a hypothesis on why I suddenly have this sharp foretelling skill. Maybe it was a side effect of when I was so startled by the sight of you and Mum getting all . . . intimate."

Displeased, Wrath arched his eyebrows. "Oi! Don't shove this all on me, now! And maybe you don't have psychic abilities in the first place? Maybe they're just wild dreams that miraculously have some truth in them, or you just have keen intuition so you can guess what's comin' next. But, don't give me no bull 'bout psychic chiz. Mm-mm, I don't have no patience for that."

"And you think I have the patience for your exceedingly drunkard self? It's so annoying having to talk to some irresponsible father who's only sober half the time."

"Irresponsible!?" Wrath sprung to his feet.

"How nimble."

"Shut the eff up! Irresponsible? Who puts that roof over yo' head, boy? Who other than Führer Bradley? Have some respect, you lil' brat!"

"Or what? You're going to kill me?" I mocked.

With imposing fierceness, he confessed, "You're seriously the worst 'son' there is, and I don't care all 'bout this bullcrap, I just want you out of my life. If only my wife—"

"If only Mother had some sense," I seethed, balling up my hands into fists, "she wouldn't have gotten married to you, you good-for-nothing toper."

"OK, for now, I'mma put aside the fact that I dunno what 'toper' is and I'm just gonna neatly take it as an insult. Well, guess what, bugger, you should really perform a reevaluation of yourself 'cuz you're nothing better to brag about. I never talk 'bout you at work or to any of my colleagues 'cuz you're, honestly, nothing but an embarrassment. Always pretending to be the good kid, it's sickening to watch. Only causin' trouble for my wife, and bringin' in the Homunculi without thought—"

"I'll tell you what I had thought. I had thought that if anything was to spiral out of control, you'd at least would be there to offer some sort of guidance—"

Wrath stood up and flung his chair at the barred gate with vehemence. "Uh, things are pretty much outta control now! We're effin' locked up in a cell—oh, wait, forgive me, Kimberly's Friendship Wenship Boxy Woxy—for crying out loud! We're being manipulated by this Kimberly therapist that thinks he knows what he's doing but, really, he's just dropping crap upon our heads like plop, plop! And, you're sayin' you were relying on me? Don't pull that bull on me, you're Pride. Stop tryna be Selim! You're not my son. I don't have a son! I cannot have a son, which means you cannot have a mother. But I sure do have a wife! She's my family, not yours!"

The mic turned on.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt your suddenly very deep, emotional conversation that contradicts with the very nature of what has been going on," Kimblee said. "But the twenty-four hours are up. I will now announce the winners of the Kimblee's Friendship Game!

"This title is rewarded to the one and only pair that deserves this grand recognition! This will be presented to . . ."

"Bah, forget it," Wrath mumbled, dejected, "it's not gonna be us."

"The one and only!"

I could sense the relatively dense tension compacted in the atmosphere, sizzling down our necks, as everyone held in their breaths.

"Envy and Lust!"

"WHAT!?" everyone exclaimed, utterly flabbergasted by this staggering declaration.

"Indeed," Kimblee affirmed smoothly into the speakers. "While they were, let's say, enjoying their times watching the three-hour long film of Dorés the Ishvalan Explorer over and over and over again for about eight times, Lust realized that she is prettier than Dorés after staring at her for twenty-four hours, and consequently got over her insecurity with her appearance; Envy has gotten the film's script drilled into his mind eight times, so much that he can now recite the lines by heart, thus getting over his short-term memory problem. They have achieved their goals, in the end, after all. Congrats to the winners!"

"Didn't they break the rules, though?" Father inquired.

"Yeah, but almost everyone else did, too. What matters is getting over your issue."

"What the (bleep)!" Greed yelled, resentfully. "I thought me and Gluttony were gonna win! We got rid of each other's Temptations!"

"Yeah, but . . . everyone else achieved that, too."

"Oh, what? . . . Really? Oh, OK, I wasn't aware of that . . . since we're all in separate cells."

"You have yet to help each other expunge your issues," Kimblee said with wisdom. "And thus, the rest of you shall undergo the Ultimate Punishment. Prepare yourself."

Wrath's POV:

We all wanted to cry when we were, at long last, able to return to my mansion. I curled up in my bed, wrapped myself fixedly in my blanket, and shed a few, few manly tears. I was so depressed that I avoided my zombie games.

In the end, Kimblee gave me wine, but when I drank it, what slugged down my throat was critically spicy Jalapeño sauce; with its pungent stings, it neutralized all the taste buds of my tongue in one go. Greed was also subjected to agony in a similar manner: Kimblee cunningly enclosed him in a room filled with sweets—however, the sweets all contained a portion of hair and fur (belonging to whom or what, we still are not certain), and Greed never regarded sweets in the same way again. Rumors claimed that Pride's brain was subdued and thoroughly fried, because he was given highly inappropriate, obscene, and lewd magazines to peruse, which ideally combated his foreshadowing tendencies as he never knew what to expect. Gluttony was put in a room with an abundance of food. The main problem was that there were other Gluttony dolls or something, and they all fought over the sustenance. It was only until Gluttony shouted that he did not want to fit in, did Kimblee permit him to leave. Father had his hair braided, and he was placed in a dark closet with only a mirror to keep him company. Very soon, he got creeped out my his own reflection, and was resolved to quit boasting about his superficial looks—that handled one issue, but I wasn't sure how that could get him to be one-polar or whatever (but then again, no one really cared to see to it a satisfying solution to this seemingly impossible matter).

As for my wife, she was "let off the hook." As stated by Kimblee, she eventually gained some self-assurance, and she even attempted to befriend Father—which was impracticable—hence she acquired a gold star sticker for participation. Kimblee concluded that it was not requisite to prompt her to renounce her anxiety, as he was positive that she will do as such once she spends more time with her family. She went back to knitting "united, happy, and harmonious," so I was not definite if she improved or garnered any sort of experience at all from this traumatizing event.

But, seriously, more about myself. I had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so unforgivably humiliated in my life. I swear, I would annihilate Kimblee the next time I catch sight of him.

However, as I was lying sleepily on my bed while planning my revenge, I failed to notice a forthcoming problem I should have foreseen: an odd emptiness beside me as well as a colossal shadow looming over me from behind.

And, yes, here comes the cliffhanger.

A/N: I apologize for the excessively lengthy chapter; I stuffed all of the extensive therapy parts into one chapter, so that for the next one, I can move on to what should be the final arc.

Next episode — What is that mysterious thing that hovers over Wrath? In addition, Kimblee has been quite careless! A distraught person can pinwheel into insanity at any given time. Beneath the frivolous times lies raw emotions! Tune in next time, as we stumble into the final arc!

Wrath: Watch, the author gave a cliffhanger, but the excitement will soon die out once they update in about a couple of years. You cannot just leave me hanging like this, while there's some creep staring at me sleep.

Pride: We got in a father-and-son bickering. This time, more serious than ever. Makes me kind of feel off.

Wrath: More importantly, some creep is staring at me sleep.

A/N: Just like Kimblee has said before, review, review! Be sure to play the Kimblee's Friendship Box Game with your friends and family, and prepare for an outburst or any cops within spitting distance. Thanks a bunch!