A/N: Hello-hello, I know I haven't written much, but no lie: I've been lazy. Don't shoot, winter break and college does that. BUT, I was hit by the idea of an Ib and TWEWY crossover and wanted to give it a go. I'll try to update as often as I can, but I can't make any promises. Enjoy? -slinks away into her corner- And yes it's short, I'm still suffering writer's block and lack of better vocabulary ;x;

A typical art gallery on a typical Sunday for a typical assignment. It was fairly mundane having to do so much research on art that no one truly knows about. Frames and sculptures lined the ivory walls, captivating the attention of the patrons both young and old. They attracted them with their mysterious messages and portrayals. Not much was known about their creator except for a few trivial facts. Yet, that fact alone made the paintings and sculptures all the more interesting.

Why, art that no one can fully comprehend? It is a challenge waiting to be taken! It begs to train the mind and put one to the test! It begs to have questions answered and answers questioned. Why, it was particularly for that reason this exhibit had attracted so many patrons over the years. Every patron had walked in with questions and answers, but walked out with more questions and intrigue. Most forget their questions and become enamored by the mystique of the featured artist's works. Others find the answer they sought, but then find themselves no longer questioning the art, but the artist himself.

Except for one patron. He just questioned everything.

He gazed at the familiar portrait for what felt like hours, trying to figure out a way to interpret the message behind it. However, just what was there to interpret? It was a man, hanging by his foot. Hell, he's seen this on those- What do you call 'em? Tarot cards! To others and those who have seen tarot cards, it meant a bad omen or something like that, but to the youth with stormy blue eyes, all he saw was just that: A man hanging by his foot in horror, painful horror.

"Wow…" A girl uttered in a hushed voice, her blue eyes wide with amazement. She had snapped him out of his musing, if one could call it that. She quickly noticed the young man and his striking orange hair. "O-Oh, I'm sorry." She whispered. "I-I was just amazed at this… this…" She grew silent and quietly waited for his response though never letting her sight leave the portrait.

But he walks away, hands in his pockets.

It had been what? Two? Three hours since he had walked in here? Nothing had caught his interests. Nothing had piqued his interest to learn more about them. All he had seen were the typical things you would find in an art gallery and the typical messages behind them. For example, the portrait depicting a young woman with lush brown hair and a stunning yet modest red dress was just that. He had thought of it to be a memorial to the woman the artist loved, nothing more. Though, he does admit to finding the gesture an admirable one.

Despite that, he didn't even want to be here, but that assignment left him no choice. What made it worse that he was actually assigned to do his research paper on the one artist that no one knows much of nor understands. This man alone was shrouded in a black mist that no one could see through nor navigate. That alone made it hard to decipher his works as well. Everything about and around this twisted man was simply black.

The college freshman wandered about the gallery giving only quick glances at the works he passed. As he did so, he made mental snarky commentaries on them.

There was a portrait of a cat.

Just a cat.

Then The Coughing Man.

Gee, must be quite a cough.

The Forgotten Portrait.

Who forget something like that? I mean purple hair, c'mon.

As supposedly interesting as they were, he couldn't find it in himself to actually get into the works. It was strange. As an art student, he should have no problem at least being somewhat interested, but here he was completely dissatisfied, frustrated even. Normally interpreting art was a cinch for him. He did so much thinking before that he almost brought himself to believe that everything and anything could be a form of symbolism, but here. Here was different. Every potential symbolism he could think of did not line up. Why?

The sounds of patrons walking and people commenting in awe were quickly irritating him. It felt as if they simply walked in blind. As if they merely came to stare what pretty pictures and objects. Soon, they were drowned out by his headphones. He took a seat. Music was on full-blast, relieving the frustrating tension on his mind little by little. He started to let his mind drift, eyes slowly gazing about at the white walls and gold frames. Tiredness began to lull his eyes to sleep and his songs began to fade in and out almost like water as his consciousness began to slip away. He was definitely tired. Perhaps waking up early just for this was a bad idea.

He began to yawn and stared blankly at the long portrait before him. It seemed almost like a dark landscape, yet he knew it was not. It was messily painted, almost smeared into dark greens and black, and mixed with bright colors scattered throughout the canvas. Now this was interesting. He almost understood the meaning behind this one almost immediately. But something still didn't line up just like all the others. Strangely enough, it didn't bother him that he couldn't understand it right way. In fact, it was intriguing. It was practically calling him learn more about it.

It's dark… But there's bright colors… Almost balanced, but in a… I don't know how to describe it…

He decided to sleep on it. Waking up early seemed to have affected his mood and his thought process. Maybe that's why he couldn't find it in himself to further delve into this twisted world of his. His mind began to drift to bed, his head leaned against the white wall, his orange spiky hair standing out more than it had before. He took one last look at the plaque that named the painting.

Fabricated World