Frank. He sits as still a statue in bed, like usual, wrapped in his faux straight jacket prison. He's entranced by and watching Femur Exploder 17, a sequel of a reboot of a failed TV show which is based on an old short film. If the notion of such a thing were to be confusing, it would be lost on Frank. Frank the duck grew up like anyone else in Numena; misguided and zapped of their life force. He grew up, unlike most, however, in a two parent household, but it wasn't exactly a white picket fence kind of deal. Marriage in Numena was the equivalent of going to a fast food place looking to feed a cheap midnight hunger. 

Most rushed to marry, love being absent, and lust being the catalyst for such a ceremony. Said matrimony was as holy as you’d imagine it to be. This idea of marriage was carried out in one of two ways: people either wanted out just as quickly as they got in, or the people who stayed together should not stay together. As all things however, gray is what colors the world, black and white is only colors seen by those half blind.

Frank’s parents married out of love, which is to be an example of gray being ever so present in life. When they met, it was as if the stars had aligned to create such a fiery happenstance. Is that not how all love starts? You’re thrown in, deeply overtaken by its overwhelming joy. Love becomes what you believe to be eternal. You meet someone and it's as if they give you purpose to live in the face of a non eternal existence. For years his parents loved each other, but as the years waned on, it was clear that this love was not meant to last. In time, the flame which burned like a raging Sun was only a few flaking embers which dimly lit their lives. They dared not talk about this lowly connection, and instead, they looked for a solution to keep the flame lit, someway somehow. When talking would seem to be the answer to fix such a problem, they ultimately decided that, to reignite their old spark, flint was required. Frank was soon born.

Frank often heard arguing more than the sound of his own voice. Television and video games became a way to drown it all out. The worlds he traveled to had become a way to be a hero, to be free. His only wish then, and even now on some level, is to fly. To spread his wings and be unrestrained by this life. He wasn't flying, playing video games or watching television, but, at least he was gliding. He had remembered only one or two nice memories of his father, both of which were glances which proved that, behind the eyes of a crazed, resentful man, still lived a man. This man only showed up when it was able to get a gasping but short, raspy breath, and was otherwise suffocated by the monster inside. The couple stayed together for longer than they should have, and in a world where divorce was so easy to perform, why did they stay together? Could they not see the damage they were doing on such a young mind? Was it not obvious that they would be better off gently letting the flame die? Gray colors all. We are given two hands to interact with our world, and soon a new flame was born: resentment, which burned the innocent hands of Frank.

A flame which was born out of twisted embers, was one that still left scarring on Frank’s mind. You cannot simply get rid of a burn that reaches deep beneath the flesh, into the crevices of one’s organs, one’s cells. Frank was only 7 when his dad manifested such a flame through his two hands. He was like a drunken swordsman who never learned the art of the sword. He swung wildly, slicing anyone in his presence. This went on until his father passed. His mother became his sole guardian, and cracked under the pressure. She was an innocent soul in her youth; hopeful, inspired. However, when the world takes your power, it is obvious that you become powerless. She became powerless to her own splitting mind. 

Frank was subjected to the toxic venoms of dialect, from both his mother and father. His dad would pull Frank aside in his later years, telling Frank his thoughts on women, marriage, and life. “Frank-” he said, “-never get married. It kills your soul.” Nevermind how his dad treated the supposed love of his life. Frank could only watch, and learn the plagued actions of a sick man. And an illness is exactly what his father had, an illness that could have been cureable, but the cure is harder to obtain than it is obvious. This illness ended up being the reason his life was inevitably lost. After his father’s passing, his mother quickly shifted the blame to her son. In this time, Frank would suffer from panic attacks and things such as dissociation. There was once a time that he thought he had not existed at all. The Frank that comprises him, went away for a second. It was as if he was nothingness, and he had sadly found comfort in that. 

During these times, he would instinctively try to confide in his mother but she often called him insane. He doesn’t remember this, but once he had pulled her aside, telling her of his feelings. She ended up wailing, screaming, shaking. He was a monster to her. And in the time he needed her to simply be present, she had told him that if she could cut out the piece of his brain making him act that way she would. She saw his struggle, no, his personality as a tumor, as a cancer that needed to be sliced off.

Frank, most obviously, ran away as a teenager, lost in a world that offered no help to a young man. He tried to turn to those around him, but they were living just like him. Numena was and is a class made to either work or consume and then die. There were hardly any preachers, yogis, or philosophers. It was and is simply a matter of Numena being an ecosystem, just as The Jungle. Any city is, and what's being fostered in it, will yield a certain population; like seeds meant to become trees. The leaves and branches are only a product of the trees’ surroundings. However, Numena’s ecosystem had pesticides in its roots, which were not optimal for fostering any such person as a philosophical savant.

In time, he grew up, broken from his past. Struggling with his demons, he began to think he was insane, and made his own straight jacket. This jacket does not bind him, and he will only be bound until he realizes he is not. He eventually found his way deeper into Numena, and snuck into an empty apartment. He shacked there for a while, letting television yet again form his mind. The media became his friend, and at least subconsciously, he depended on such a friend. After a few years of doing this, Ingus eventually moved in. The office knew about Frank’s situation, but humanity is easily found from strangers when you least expect it. 

To an outside viewer, it might seem that Frank is actually insane, not just acting the part, as Ingus would put it. But even with Ingus’ limited view of life, for Ingus, it is easy to see that Frank is not insane. Is it insane to be burned and scarred by fire? If one is thrown into the pits of a flesh searing blaze, wouldn’t their reaction be to scream? Would their skin not bear the mark of such pain? Isn’t Ingus’ own skin charred by the fires he remains in? Ingus hardly saw Frank as a friend, but he definitely didn’t see him as an enemy. Ingus was and is just ill equipped to help, but the best thing he figured he could decide on was to let Frank stay with him. He decided that, hopefully as they went on, Frank would just get better, like a dirty pile of clothes in the corner of a room. Sure, he was frustrated and disgusted by him, but he knew deep down, there had to be an answer to help Frank realize who he was.

The truth also is, Frank is close to being what Ingus could become. He was no different, theoretically. They both grew up in Numena, having troublesome lives and mental anguish. Maybe they're not on the same level, but all it takes is the floor to collapse to reach the level below oneself. So, what stops Ingus from taking that leap of letting the world dictate you, to falling into their own traps instead of conquering them?