The atmosphere in Ted and Marshall's apartment was that of a headquarters on the eve of a high-risk mission. But instead of geographical maps and blueprints of hostile terrain, they had napkins with lists scribbled by Barney. Instead of weapons, there was stale coffee and the nervous determination of five people who knew they were about to cross a massive line.
"This is not a suggestion; it's a Code Red Intervention Protocol!" Barney announced, banging his personally brought whiteboard with a ruler as a pointer. On it, in crooked letters, it read:
Operation 2.0: Save the Rock (BEFORE IT TURNS TO GRAVEL).
Robin, sitting on the sofa, rubbed her temples with an expression somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation. "Barney, we can't call it 'Code Red.' It sounds like we're defusing a bomb."
"Because that's exactly what it is!" Barney exclaimed, pointing to a graph drawn with markers where a stick figure with pigtails (clearly labeled "ALYX" in giant letters) was connected by lines to symbols drawn with more realistic-looking coffee cups, cigarettes, and a punching bag with a skull.
"Here we have a bomb composed of self-destructive lifestyle choices. It is identified by the clear timer, which is her eyelids—the large, numerous bags comparable to those of a flea market vendor. And therefore, we are the heroic bomb disposal unit. The question is: who cuts the red wire? Or the blue one? Actually, does anyone have a diagram of Alyx's internal wiring?" Barney finished his lengthy analogy about how Alyx was the bomb with a genuinely asked question to his audience of friends.
"I'd cut any wire that gets me closer to her after this," murmured Marshall, sunk into the sofa Alyx used to sleep on. Since his visit to her, he had been quiet, processing the collapse he had witnessed—the feeling of her trembling body against his chest. "I went there; you all know that. But when I saw her… she just fell apart. Truly. And now we're setting up this… spectacle?" Marshall finished, confused and pained.
"It's not a spectacle, Marshall," Ted said in his "voice of reason" tone, which often preceded terrible ideas. "It's a group love demonstration, like when we did the intervention for Stuart's alcoholism."
"The cowboy hat was a legitimate accessory of a vibrant personality!" Marshall protested weakly.
"You were a Manhattan lawyer, not Woody from Toy Story," retorted Lily, who had been reluctantly invited to the war council. Her presence was a web of unresolved tensions, but as Robin had said, "She's part of this, as much as the cause." Lily looked at Barney's notes with a mix of worry and guilt.
"The point is, it worked. That intervention made Stuart, and especially us, see what alcohol was doing to his family," Ted concluded his idea.
"Yeah, and then at his birthday party, he turned into 'Stewie the Party Monster' and trashed the shooting range," Robin pointed out dryly.
"Details!" Barney dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "The important thing is the ritual! We need the banner, the cards, and the classic loving but firm confrontation. It's like a trial, but with more hugs and fewer robes."
"Now, we need role assignments. Lily, you write the banner."
"And what do I write? 'Intervention for Alyx'?" Lily asked with a sigh.
"No! Too generic. Something more powerful, like… 'Alyx, Your Coffee Sucks and It's Killing You'? Maybe too direct. 'Dear Alyx, Stop Hitting Yourself (And the Punching Bags)'? I'm liking that…"
"I'll write 'We Love You, Alyx'," Lily cut in with a look that made it clear the discussion was over.
"Ted," Barney continued, "you start with the emotional speech, something soft like 'we've noticed you're not sleeping.' Marshall, you're the direct, unfiltered reality check—you know, talk about the crying, the bruises, how you miss her but don't recognize the woman she's becoming. The harsher but more emotional, the better. And Robin, you talk about the tremors, the smoking, the insane productivity—you know, hard but specific data."
"And me?" Barney asked, puffing out his chest.
"You… stay QUIET," said Robin.
"Impossible! The moderator is the one who steers everything—the most important and valuable because he keeps the energy high and avoids emotional dead ends. Plus, I have a card." He pulled an envelope from his jacket. "It's about her suspiciously successful trading. Here, we must also put this data into action, as I've done some calculations and her returns don't follow normal market patterns. She's too good, and it would support my theory of corporate espionage. Which would lead to even greater danger for her if discovered."
Everyone stared at him.
"Really, Barney?" Ted sighed.
"The statistical deviation is undeniable!" Barney insisted.
"Put that card away," Marshall ordered, standing up. "This isn't about that. This is about her… suffering. And while we were busy laughing about red dresses and calves, we let her drown in silence." His voice cracked slightly. "So, let's do this. But we must do it right—not to make ourselves feel better, but for her."
It was that Marshall—the old Marshall, full of heart—who sealed the agreement. Even Barney nodded, putting his envelope away with a rarely solemn expression.
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