Orchestra, the more musically inclined of all of Central Self’s personalities, opened his tiny, beady eyes and placed his hands behind the small puff of gray hair that protruded from the back of his skull. The curled hair was arranged in a semicircle around the back of the head, now mashed against the pillow that the conductor now lay upon.

Silently humming along with the instrumental piece, the grizzled old persona relaxed and let himself enjoy the simple act of listening to the music that he dearly loved. Closing his eyes, the old man snuggled more deeply in his bed. Maybe he would arrive at the theater a little later then usual today. After all, every day might be unique, but Orchestra knew that if he missed something really exciting, he could simply ask one of his other comrades for the full disclosure.

A solid thump on the door to his room made the musician startle just as the first ebbs of sleep were creeping into his plump, stout body. Assuming that someone was knocking on his entryway, Orchestra mumbled some intelligible comment about not even waking up if Beethoven himself was at the door.

Another assault on the heavy wooden door was the only reply. Muttering comments that would be best left out of family stories, the man grudgingly tossed aside the comfortable covers and pulled himself out of bed. As he walked towards the door, the "Who says flutes are for pussies?" tee shirt that he was wearing was plainly visible.

Opening the door revealed a rather disturbing surprise as Orchestra was forced to shut it quickly in the face of a paintball heading straight for his head, followed by another splat as the projectile hit the door to Orchestra’s room. After regaining his breath, the half-asleep musician inched open the door a few inches, just enough to discover what was going on outside in the hallway.

The paintball war between the forces of Regulator and Basket would go on for hours, the musician realized, if any of their other quarrels was any indication. Shrugging, Orchestra returned to his bed. If those two were going at it all day, he would be able to sit in his bed and listen to wonderful music all day. There was only one way anything could go wrong, and that was if the stereo were to somehow break and Orchestra was sure that he wasn’t that unlucky.

Now, given that Murphy’s Law was functioning to its fullest extent that morning, Orchestra’s deepest fear was realized as the simple, elegant beauty of Mozart fizzled and cackled, signaling the demise of the stereo system died. A loud curse was heard throughout the Persona Hotel, the living quarters of all of Central Self’s personalities, excluding the fearsome Mist.

Deciding that he would have to go brave the paintball squall as well as the ever-present brainstorm outside if he wanted to get Blue Collar to fix his stereo, the composer donned his tuxedo. He was opting to wear a light blue cummerbund today instead of the usual black, just for a change of pace. Tightening the black velvet jacket around his shoulders, Orchestra opened his door ever so slowly and nervously glanced back and forth to make sure that there was no one else around whom could target his finest suit.

Ignoring the huge splatters of paint aligning the walls, the musician gingerly walked down the paint-strewn halls. Just as he was about to reach the elevator to the lobby, however, he heard a shout. Quickly spinning around, the bald man felt something very heavy impact on his chest, toppling him back. There was a loud, feminine squeal that accompanied Orchestra’s grunt of pain, emanating from the masked figure down the hallway.

The shooter waved their paintball gun in the air and ran off, screaming "I got the Prune! I got the Prune!" This was much to Orchestra’s distress as he recognized Prism’s voice. Why she had to prance around and call him that, the musician didn’t know. What he did know was why the poet gave him that nickname: Orchestra was incredibly wrinkled due to his old ‘age’, and he was fat, just like a prune. Hence the nickname.

Rubbing his sore chest, Orchestra stood up. Realizing that his shooter would have run off by now, he turned back towards the elevator and walked inside the car once it arrived. Arriving at the lobby a few seconds later, the composer wasn’t surprised when he saw a large message posted in paintballs, which read "Basket wuz here".

‘Idiot. Why he must always vandalize the premises is beyond me,’ Orchestra thought to himself.

The entire persona community was divided into two camps, fragmented along ideological lines. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were some non-combatants like Archive and Mist. The former refused to take up a side because the historian was simply an observer and the latter because he was barricaded in the janitor’s closet. Also, there were turncoats like Prism, who switched between the two dueling forces as often as her emotions did.

Those who followed Regulator were known as the Enforcers, as they believed more in the keeping of law and order, as well as the complete supremacy of Central Self to order his personas around to do as he pleases. Orchestra was a member of the Enforcers, due to his nature of order in a symphony, band, choir, or even his own namesake. In fact, he and he and Eccentric were the two top lieutenants to Regulator.

On the other side of the political spectrum lay the Liberators. Led by Basket, this radical half of the personality commonwealth were attuned more towards keeping individual freedoms as the right "not to be bludgeoned by that fat Scot at the drop of a pin" as well as the ever-controversial issue of debauchery. The Liberators, despite having confidence that Central would make reasonable decisions, demanded to have the entire community turned into a legislature that would counsel Central Self as a body instead of relying on Regulator and Basket as the sole carriers of their message.

As Orchestra entered the theater and put his raingear on the rack to dry, he spotted his counterpart from the Liberator camp. He too was dressed in his normal attire of faded blue overalls and a flannel workshirt. The two exchanged cordial glances at each other before Blue Collar nodded and matched his walk to parallel Orchestra’s as they strode towards the musician’s designated "position"; that is, the arcade. No one, not even Regulator or Basket, was sure how or even why each of the personas had a designated spot at which to reside, due to the fact that only half or so of them made any sense whatsoever. For example, there was no logic behind placing Basket in a bathroom stall, or Mist in the Janitor’s closet. It was just one of those questions without a logical answer.

"Those are Central’s least favorite ones, ya know? That there fella can’t stand questions that don’t hava answer."

The tuxedo-garbed man sighed and spoke between his teeth in bitter resentment towards his ill-washed comrade. "I know that. Everyone here knows that. It’s all Central talks about; Reason this, understand that. That damn curiosity of his is going to get all of us dispatched one of these days if he doesn’t put a halt on that unregulated wonder of the unknown."

Orchestra’s anger rose when the laborer dumped his grease-covered arm over Orchestra’s shoulders, ruining the velvet tuxedo jacket as the oil seeped into the material, making it impossible to wash and wear. "Now don’t go all huff and puff on me, fella. I’m just statin’ the obvious, that’s all. Don’t get all jumpy like a swamp-riling frog."

A now fuming Orchestra rounded on his Liberator counterpart. His puffy face was even more bloated than usual, and his round belly was heaving with great gusto. His snob-like nature and the destruction of his favorite jacket caused him to explode at his compatriot. "Get your slimy, working-class hands off of me!"

Taking this in the spirit that it was offered, Blue Collar growled at the implied insult. Pulling a wrench out of one of the pockets of his overalls, he waved it menacingly. "You dumb aristocrat! You imply that I’m lower than pond scum again and I’ll belt’cha with this here wrench so hard you’ll think that I just whacked you upside the head with a two by four!"

Refusing to heed the warning, Orchestra reached into his slacks and pulled out a piccolo. Given that his pants had no pockets, there was only one place where he could have hidden the tube-like instrument. Swinging the piccolo in an arc and aiming at Blue Collar’s head, the composer let out a roar.

The initial ferocity and surprise of the attack caught the mechanic off guard, and the resulting collision caused Blue Collar to fall onto his back, head gushing blood from the wound. Scrambling to his feet, the laborer stabbed forward with his wrench and smashed a rib or two of Orchestra’s to crack under the impact of the metal bludgeon.

After the two had exchanged blows for a few minutes with neither gaining the upper hand and both contracting heavy wounds, the two combatants heard another run towards them through the crowd that had gathered. The last thing the two of them saw before darkness claimed them was Regulator rushing toward them, shouting wildly.

"Ah will have order!"

Orchestra awoke a few hours later, tied to a chair. In front of him was a small television. Next to the screen were a smiling Basket. "Hey there, kiddo. Since you really pissed off Reggie, he put me in charge of your punishment. I figure you can sit and watch this for the rest of the day, and justice will be served. Have fun."

Wondering exactly what the head of the Liberator sect meant, Orchestra turned his head back towards the entertainment device. Were those happy children surrounding a large, purple dinosaur?

Letting out a shrill shriek as realization dawned upon him, Orchestra wished he had just stayed in bed today instead of trying to get his stereo fixed.

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A sudden crash awoke Blue Collar, causing the half-paranoid mechanic to leap out of his bed and ungracefully fall onto the ground in a tangle of sheets. Fighting his way out of the confining covers, the man stood up and rubbed his sore head. Walking into the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror and was horrified by the red eyes and bruises that colored his body.

‘It must have been from that brawl that that city slicker Orchestra forced me inta yesterday. I musta screamed for hours when Basket put on The Sound of Music.’ He shivered as the involuntary disgust and horror flowed through his body. Seeking a reprieve from the terrible events of the day before, as well as some treatment for all of the self-inflicted bruises that covered his body, Blue Collar turned on the shower and stepped in after shedding his nightwear. Letting the hot water rush over his body immediately numbed the colored blemishes, making him feel infinitely better.

After finishing his shower and shaving, the mechanic dressed quickly in his flannel shirt and denim overalls, eager to get to work today, despite his injuries. That was his strength, and what he represented in the Central order of things: his work ethic. Neither injury, degenerative disease, brainstorm, nor Regulator baton would keep him from his work.

‘Man, that sounds really corny. I had better think up somethin’ else.’

As he dressed, the mechanic noticed a small cylinder drop out of a tube attached to the wall. The cylinder had a note inside, and the passageway it came down from was similar to twenty-four others that were also attached to the wall. This way, each persona could ask Blue Collar if they needed something to be built or repaired, instead of trying to seek him out. However, only twenty-three of the "production request tubes" had been used. The one on the far end had never been used, and cobwebs were growing throughout the passage. Only one persona could afford to survive on his own for so long without needing Blue Collar’s services.

Mist.

The mechanic shivered once more, but this time it was from something even worse than his ‘punishment’ the day prior, if that was possible. This time, the unbridled terror that shook the mechanic to his core was not the fact that the ‘wayward one’ as he was so often called might call upon Blue Collar’s skills. That meant that the man in denim would have to travel to the most feared location in the entire theater: The Janitor’s Closet.

For a split second after conjuring up that chilling thought, Blue Collar thought that he heard an ominous thunderbolt strike. Shrugging it off to Central Self researching and since that beget increased activity and more brainstorming, the ‘weather’ inside his mind would change to compensate. The resulting downpour had even kept the personas bottled up in their current locations, trapping some in the theater and others in the hotel.

Needless to say, it didn’t take very long for the personas to petition Blue Collar to build an underground tunnel so that the personas wouldn’t have to travel through the torrent to arrive safely at their designated locations.

Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Blue Collar derisively snorted. How did those blithering idiots with no mechanical knowledge expect him to tend to all of their pitiful desires and build an underground tunnel to the hotel? Not to mention the fact that it took a great deal of work, time, and effort just to keep the two buildings intact and without leaks as it was. Theaters and hotels can’t exactly be put together with spit and shoe polish, and the perfectionism running rampant in Blue Collar’s work ethic required him to finish any job to the best of his ability.

Oh, and just to top it all off, it was impossible to build an "underground" tunnel connecting the hotel to the theater, for the simple reason that there was no ground to construct a tunnel through! They were in a mental projection, by the Designers! How long would it take for those monosynaptic, degenerative…

Shaking his head, the laborer vowed to spend less time with Pest. The pompous little prick was rubbing off on him. Only moments after he had made this pledge, however, a small cylinder with a message in it fell down one of the chutes. Glancing at the language used, Blue Collar quickly took a glance at a chart near the wall and, given accent and sentence structure, identified the caller to be Regulator. The Scotsman was rather surprised when Blue Collar identified him immediately when he demanded to know what the de facto co-leader of their community wanted.

Regulator must have been telepathic that day. The policeman had just wanted to remind Blue Collar that a majority of the personas were getting impatient with the mechanic’s failure to build them a passage that would make obsolete the current mode of transportation to the theater and back to the hotel.

Blue Collar exploded. "How many times do I have to tell you, you deaf fool? Do you have a selective hearing problem or is there just too much wax in your head that it pushed your brain out through your ears? I can’t build a tunnel under ground that doesn’t exist! If you want a passageway so that you won’t get your fat ass wet, then you build it!"

Angrily stuffing the message in the proper receptacle, the laborer placed the small parcel in the chute and it quickly fell towards its destination. Removing a small cigarette from a pocket in his overalls, the worker walked over towards where he had left his lighter. Unfortunately, he had mislaid it the night previous when he and Basket got themselves so incredibly drunk that they each had to be carried back to their respective rooms.

Tossing aside debris and other assorted garbage that continually littered his floor and quarters, Blue Collar valiantly searched for his misplaced lighter, the cigarette shifting back and forth between his slightly yellowed teeth. After a few hours of turning his apartment upside-down and a fruitless search, the workman set out to investigate his quarters once more. After all, he didn’t plan on quitting; that was for lazy assholes like Orchestra and Eccentric.

Dumb aristocrats. Strutting around like penguins, thinking that they own the theatre. Who made sure that there were no leaks in the roof? Who constantly repaired the damage done by Regulator unto Basket when the Scotsman had a temper tantrum? Who fixed the movie strips when one had been damaged by a careless persona?

He was. Blue Collar. The work ethic personification of Central. And no one was going to push him around like Orchestra tried to yesterday. Failing to notice the light knock on the door as he tossed aside various paraphernalia, the mechanic also erred in thinking that no one was standing in the flight path of the large bean bag chair that he had thrown towards the now open door.

"Oof!" The light, melodious voice let out an uncharacteristic exhale of surprise as the seat impacted upon the visitor. The beanbag, its forward velocity now halted upon impact, fell on top of the unknown person, dazing them and causing the figure to drop like a light. The chair covered up the face and most of the torso of the poor visitor who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Of course, Blue Collar, ever devoted to his duty, noticed none of this, and continued on with his work. However, as he was dashing back and forth about the room, the legs that were sprawled out from the beanbag caused him to trip and fall flat on his face, mashing his teeth together and effectively breaking the cigarette in half. Shaking his head to recover his senses, Blue Collar stood, spit the now useless cigarette out, and emerged with another after a quick hand dove into his overalls. Gazing onto the floor to see what he had stumbled upon, his round face adopted a quizzical look when he noticed a pair of legs emerging from his beanbag chair.

Scratching his head, the slightly bearded man took one of the legs in his hands, completely oblivious to the fact that a chair covered the rest of the body. He wondered how he had made a mannequin as exquisite as this; after all, Prism or Roma was much more better at sculpture than he. Carefully massaging both legs as he checked for their realism, the laborer was surprised at how life-like they truly were. As his hands moved upwards, however, he noticed that whoever had sculpted the mannequin had most certainly done their homework. Feeling around the crotch area revealed that the legs actually had a complete, not to mention incredibly life-like, vaginal area.

Rubbing around as well as visual inspection confirmed that the red silk panties and general groin area was remarkably like Femme’s. Not that he would know of such things, of course, but after removing the chair, Blue Collar was amazed to discover that the entire mannequin bore an incredible resemblance to the persona of breathtaking beauty.

After a shrill shriek, a cry of "Pervert", and a bop to the head, Blue Collar quickly realized that this was no mannequin. He really should stop thinking of things in mechanical terms before it gets him killed.

It took another hour to calm down the flustered Femme, who was sobbing about how she had been violated, albeit unintentionally, by Blue Collar. The sobbing eventually subsided, and the apologetic man asked Femme what she had visited him for in the first place. She explained that Felicity had broken her bedside lamp the night before, and Femme being who she was, immediately panicked. Falling out of her bed and hitting her head on the nightstand, the distressed woman blacked out. Felicity, hastily dressing herself and her unconscious companion and rushing over to see Ethics, full of concern for the senseless blonde woman. After the doctor identified Femme’s injury as nothing more than a bump on the head, Felicity took her friend back to her quarters to spend the rest of the night.

"Then why didn’t ya just call me in the morning, Femme? It’s nearly-" Blue Collar checked his watch. "1400? Man, I must’ve slept late. Reggie’ll have my ass if I don’t get to work soon and-"

"Blue Collar! Your language!"

The cigarette that had been sifting around on the rim of the worker’s mouth was finally lit as Blue Collar discovered his lighter underneath one of the couch cushions. He rolled his eyes at the woman’s puritanical statement. He wasn’t surprised at her outburst. After all, this was Femme he was talking to here. He was surprised, when, in a rare burst of assertiveness, Femme rose and slapped him, the cigarette flying out of his mouth and into a nearby trash can, already overflowing with assorted junk.

Surprised more by the accuracy of the projectile than the slap, Blue Collar raised one hairy eyebrow. "You’re getting pretty accurate. How’d you know to slap me at that angle to get the cigarette in the can?"

Blushing at the compliment, Femme lowered her head and smiled slightly, the long, golden tresses covering her face. "Well…you know that Central’s been working on…umm…that thing that predicts movement?"

"Physics?"

Finding great interest in how one of her feet rubbed up against her leg, Femme’s voice shrank at Blue Collar’s piercing gaze. "Yeah, that. Umm…I started kinda listening to him when he started talking about projectile motion…and it made sense."

Blue Collar was taken aback. Perhaps Femme had more intelligence then he gave her credit for. "Well, that’s quite a feat. I guess that I was wrong to think that you were a complete idiot."

The crushing blow to the head a few moments later confirmed who the idiot truly was.

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Food.

It was the first thought of the day, as well as the last one. Every single day. His dreams were constantly filled with banquets lining enormous tables and all of it for him! No Regulator to bop him with that cursed baton, no Pest to comment on his weight…ahh. A plethora of food, a virtual bounty available for the reservoir that was his digestive system. Food heaven.

Of course, not all of Glutton’s dreams were of these scrumptious feasts, however. There were always the nightmares. All of that lovely food wasted or stolen by another, leaving the stomach of the persona unfulfilled. Sometimes, these nightmares would come to life, when for some unforeseen reason, a terrible brainstorm kept the tub of cellulite known as Glutton from reaching the theater. Without access to the Concessions Stand and its wonderful food, Glutton was forced to have a scant three square meals in that one day.

Just the thought of having to go on the starvation rations stored in his refrigerator sent shivers up his fat-enveloped spine. He was close to starvation on that terrible, terrible day.

A large rumble shook the apartment, causing the trophy labeled "First Place, Persona Eating Contest" to fall off of its perch in the trophy case, alongside its companion eating trophies. After petting his growling stomach, Glutton decided that it was time for his first breakfast. Rolling out of his bed, the fat sumo shook his head to clear away the sleepiness and to join the waking world; the waking world filled with food, anyway. He wouldn’t accept his existence any other way.

Shaking his entire body to force himself more into wakefulness, the lard jiggling wildly for a few seconds after he finished his quaking. A knock at the door caught his attention, and the tub of cellulite hobbled over to the entryway, completely unaware of his nudity, most likely because his blubber was keeping him warm enough not to notice the difference. Also, the "uniform" of a sumo wrestler didn’t entirely cover the entire body, which made many of the other personas queasy.

Standing at the door was a rather miffed Regulator, impatient at having waited for so long for the tub of lard to get his gargantuan behind out of bed. The Scotsman had called for a meeting of the personas to "discuss" the paintball match the day before; that is, Regulator was going to chew them out because his team lost.

Now, given the fact that Regulator is normally rather uptight, not to mention upset, his blood pressure it usually only a few points below that of someone who has a few aneurisms. Being delayed by someone who wouldn’t get his fat butt out of bed only made it worse. In fact, his impatience grew so quickly that the self-appointed leader of the personality community quickly passed out at Glutton’s doorstep.

Opening the door to see an unconscious body at his doorstep wasn’t at all surprising for Glutton; normally, when he answered the door before getting dressed, the poor visitor would normally be so shocked at the sight of Glutton’s less-than-stellar physique that they would normally pass out from the sheer horror.

Internally debating on whether or not Ethics was needed to drag the prone Scotsman back to his quarters, the wrestler’s stomach, rumbling once more, made the decision for him. Shrugging, Glutton reentered his quarters and proceeded to dress in his usual clothes that had been designed for him by…whoever had designed Central.

Stepping over the unconscious Regulator, Glutton wobbled down the hall, his fat torso jiggling with every step, much to the disgust of some personas who had been walking down the hall.

The trip to the theater was much easier than it had normally been in time past. The brainstorm had lightened to a small sprinkle, which led the near-naked wrestler that perhaps Central was asleep, and that meant that he was visiting his personas. The thought of seeing once more the only man who could match him in diet was a joy for the persona with a bottomless stomach. After all, Central did a great deal of work, and that worked up a big appetite for the hybrid.

Entering the theater, Glutton noticed most if not all of his fellow personas assembled in a rough semicircle with Basket and a vacant chair facing the rest. The Dane was tapping his feet on the ground with a great deal of impatience, and his hopeful look fell when he noticed Glutton enter the theater instead of Regulator. The sumo guessed the object of Basket’s impatience.

"Regulator not here. He pass out at door."

Basket rolled his eyes. "Figures that the pansy can’t even look at Glutton without bursting a vein. Or maybe," he said as he walked over to Felicity and patted her on the shoulder, "Someone just got him a little worked out last night."

Felicity smiled in that predatory fashion that made her one of the most sought-after personas. Basket grinned back. "Oh well, then. I suppose that the meeting’s adjourned until Rasta-Reggie gets his ass back in gear. I guess that means that we’re going to have to kick you out of bed bright and early tomorrow morning again."

There was a collective groan among the personas as they broke up, the majority of them heading back to the hotel to catch some sleep after their respective rude awakenings by Regulator. A few were heading back to the hotel, but with the news that the esteemed torturer of the personas was now unconscious on the floor, a few decided to hand out a little punishment on their own.

Glutton, however, remained. After the personas had split up, he rushed over to the concessions stand as fast as his pudgy legs would carry him. Grabbing dozens of candy bars and wolfing them down within a matter of seconds, Glutton’s mouth as well as his hands became covered in chocolate and sugar. Quickly grabbing a bag with his fat fingers, the sumo opened up the bag of kernels and dumped them into the popcorn maker with frightening efficiency. His enormous mouth quickly engulfed each item of food and sent it spiraling into the eerie darkness that was his digestive system.

It was rather terrifying; Glutton’s mouth actually remained full, even as the junk food that he was ingesting was flowing down into his digestive system at an alarming rate. The unusual reason behind this is that not only did the wrestler’s mouth chew and swallow more quickly than any whale, but his hands actually kept up with the frantic pace.

Devouring the last smidgeon of a tasty treat that was little more than flavored sugar, Glutton let out one large belch that shook the foundations of the theater itself, which drew stern reprimand from Blue Collar. The mechanic had no desire to rebuild the entire theater, as he was forced to do after that incident.

However, just as the bloated one was finishing off the contents of one cupboard and heading towards the next food store, he noticed a note attached to the cabinet. It read, "Took food store. –Mist"

Eyes immediately bulging at both the message and the writer of said message, Glutton quickly opened the door, nearly tearing it off its hinges. The contents of the cabinet were enough to draw a gasp from the sumo.

A few moments later, there was a loud wail heard throughout the entire community, and produced enough noise to draw Central’s attention. As she was walking by the Janitor’s closet, Felicity heard a low chuckle filter through the thick door, which caused her to involuntarily shiver.

Behind the door, a pleased Mist grinned cruelly. "I really should do that more often."