My Own Thing

by Christopher R. Martin

Note: This two-shot is my entry for a fan fiction contest that took place at a pop culture convention in Tasmania, Australia.

The city of Townsville. You know how it goes around here. A band of lowlifes show up from out of nowhere to steal stuff, hurt innocent bystanders or just make trouble. Or even better, a fifty-foot monster enters the city and smashes everything in its sight. And coming in to protect the city are three superpowered, crime-fighting kindergarteners.

You've heard it all so much before that I don't really have to explain it anymore. It's always been that way, and chances are that's how it's going to be for a very long time. For all the craziness that this city goes through, you can always expect things to turn out fine.

So there you go. These people always get their happy ending, and they owe it all to none other than The Powerpuff Girls.

I wish the same could be said for most of us superheroes, though. We are the ones busting our chops here, after all. But that's not how life goes. Not by a longshot.

It's gotten dark now, and most of the citizens here do what they always do on a winter night. Going home after their nine-to-five daily grind, putting together dinner for the entire family, catching the latest episode of the newest hit TV series. The whole block I'm in is brightly illuminated by rows upon rows of streetlights.

As for me, I'm walking along the sidewalk, keeping to myself, a cigarette clamped in my mouth. I fire it up with my lighter and take a quick puff. No one pays mind to me whatsoever. Even when they see my fingerless hands and toeless feet or my huge green bug-like eyes, they don't bring it up. If I were flying instead, I'd be sticking out like a sore thumb. It's kinda nice to walk once in a while, if you ask me. Maybe I should do it more often.

I arrive at a building on the other side of an intersection. Inside, I head into the elevator and press the number five. The doors part to both sides revealing a corridor with even more doors on them. The one I'm looking for is at the farthest end of this hallway. I enter the crappy apartment unit, locking the door behind me and casually tossing the key to the side.

At the living room, I drop my coat on the sofa and pick up the remote. The TV flicks on to the nightly news where the anchor, good old Stanley Whitfield, segues the audience into the first story of the night. Guy sure loves his job if he's hanging onto it for this long. Some twenty-odd years, I think.

The report is nothing new, but I keep the TV on it anyway. It's about the monster attack that took place this afternoon over at the Townsville Docks. The monster in question is hideous as hell. More hideous than anything to ever come out of that island a few miles from here. It's a lizard-like thing with scales tough as iron, claws sharp as a sword and teeth that are pointed to the point where you can't see the tip.

Stanley goes into detail about the incident as footage of the monster's rampage plays on a small window. The second he mentions the word 'Powerpuff', streaks of pink and blue fly into the scene. Emerging from them are—who else?—Blossom and Bubbles, now much taller and more 'filled out'. He glamorizes the fight as much as possible, saying how even the fight was. How the monster almost had us beat, and how the tables were turned in a couple of minutes, even though that wasn't the way it really turned out. Y'know, the usual bullshit everyone else hears from the news.

But hey, it's his job. Who the hell am I to tell him how to do it?

He babbles on and on, ending with a recap of me and my sisters dragging the poor, hulking bastard back to his island and the aftermath of the attack.

What I don't expect is the report going off on a tangent, the footage appropriately changing focus. Now focusing on Blossom hovering in front of the beast's face and speaking to it directly.

"Our newest sources indicate that the encounter began as a civil dialogue between the reptilian renegade and the leader of the Powerpuff Girls, Blossom. But the situation took a most sour turn after an unprovoked attack to the beast by the rowdiest of the Powerpuffs, Buttercup. And everything afterwards writes itself."

As he says this, the camera zooms in on me hovering by the monster's stomach and giving it one of my trusty wind-up punches. It then pans—and by pan, I mean speedily dart—to lizard breath's straining, contorting face as he feels the full force of my fist. With an arch of his back and a loud roar, he goes on the attack, and so do the three of us.

Everyone in Townsville's already seen the upcoming part, so they move over to a new scene. This one has me, Blossom and Bubbles getting into an argument after the fight on top of one of the crates. It's mostly between me and Little Miss Redhead herself; Bubbles made it a point to stay out of our quarrels from now on. I guess she got sick and tired of having to put up with our shit and just accepted it as inevitable.

"This is precisely what I'm talking about, Buttercup," Blossom explodes on the television, flinging her arms to the sky. "No matter how hard we try to get into that thick skull of yours, it's not going to change anything. It's always punch or be punched with you, huh?"

"Oh, give me a goddamn break," I return, meeting her anger with my own. "It's what we do, Blossom. You of all people should have that figured out by now. I mean, are you even fucking hearing yourself?"

The report shows the rest of the conversation, but I don't hear any more of it.

"The city of Townsville may be in one piece, but the rift between The Powerpuff Girls continues to grow. What the future holds for the guardians of this fair city is anyone's guess."

I then turn the TV off and inhale the last of my cigarette, mushing the butt onto an ashtray on the coffee table in front of me. I recline along my sofa and sigh, my back arched over the backrest. My head is heavy with thought, bogged down in a marsh of emotions.

Five months. For five months I've lived in this shithole, a woman free to do as she pleases. As a legal adult—exactly eighteen years of age, in case you're wondering—I've every right to vamoose from my old house and lead my own life. That's what I've been doing. But despite the amount of time that's passed, it always feels like it's only been a few days.

Can you really blame me, though? I have my own brand of justice, and Blossom and Bubbles have theirs. The way I see it, it's all black and white to me. It's good or bad. No middle ground at all. My sisters aren't as straightforward; even if she likes getting in on the action, Blossom has always had this—I guess you can call it an inkling?—to try a different way. Now that we're older, she's leaning towards this 'different way' more than ever.

I don't get it. The way we usually handle things is tried and true. Bad guys or monsters cause a ruckus, the three of us break into the scene and kick some bad guy or monster ass, the day is saved, end of story. No talk, no negotiation, none of that bullshit. So why stop now?

I remember—or at least I think I remember—what Blossom said to me on my last day at the house. We were at the hallway on the second floor, where most of our bickering took place. She and I were butting heads and gritting our teeth.

"Y'know, just because we have super strength doesn't mean we always have to resort to it. I hope you understand this, but I doubt you do."

The last thing I did that day was fire off my laser eye at her and send her ploughing through the wall behind her. Not even the Professor's and Bubbles' begging could get me to stay. It's not that I didn't want to stay or that they didn't get to me, but it's just the way life goes. Fighting it is just going to be useless…

And the five million or so people of Townsville now know why. I wish we had done a better job keeping this Powerpuff business between us…well, Powerpuffs.

Son of a bitch… This really sucks.

I lie down on my sofa, and soon enough, it's lights out. Not a single dream visits me in my sleep, and I wake up at around seven fifteen at night. Getting up from the sofa, I bundle up, grab my keys and cigarette pack, and open my window. In my typical green streak, I jet out of my apartment unit and soar above the city for a bit. The cool nighttime breeze against my skin is relaxing. I'm as free as a bird. Nothing can ever replace this sensation. It's exactly what I need right now.

I fly around for a little bit before touching down at Townsville's entertainment district, by far the busiest part of the city. People are walking from every which way, making it kinda hard to see where I'm going. I blend in with the dense crowd and make my way down the street, tucking my face into the hood of my jacket and my hands in my pockets to keep from drawing attention.

The shops around me all have peculiar names like 'Fantasia' or 'Wonderland' or 'Heaven on Earth', but the signs that are up say otherwise. And before I know it, I come across a trio of bimbos in their draggy getups trying to hit on every other guy they see. Talk about a lack of dignity.

Coming up at an intersection, I wait for the light to change and cross to the other side, which leads into the obligatory Chinatown area. I continue down the sidewalk and towards the first building in this place. The sign dangling above me reads 'Cheng's Tried and True', and I couldn't agree more. A pretty long line stands before me, but it moves down fast enough, and in I'd say four minutes, I'm the next to be served.

"Next in line?" an old fart says from behind the window with an accent that just screams Chinese.

"Just the usual, Cheng," I answer him, pulling out a nickel, a quarter and a five. If the sound of my voice doesn't ring any bells in him, then my fingerless hands will.

Sure enough, he picks up on one of these signs, nods intently and gets down to business, all with a smile, too.

While he's busy whipping me up my dinner, I lean on the wall and whistle a familiar tune that I always hear in my head back when my sisters and I used to be in the crime-fighting business together. I guess you could call it our anthem.

As I'm whistling to myself, I notice the next customer in line giving me a funny look. And by funny, I mean the 'can't seem to mind his own fucking business' kind of look. Those nerd glasses he's wearing ain't doing him any favors, either. Just look how thick and big those goddamn things are! You could practically fit a photograph in those and not have it scrunched up.

Ignoring it only works for so long, and eventually, I've gotten sick of his gawking.

"What? Got a problem, asshole?" I snarl at him, eyes narrowed and nose crinkled.

"Oh, no no no. Absolutely not," he says, probably pissing his pants right about now. I glance downwards, and he doesn't. He cowers where he stands, his teeth chattering like a maraca. "Please don't hurt me."

"And here you go. Just the way you like it," Cheng announces, putting a box on the sill for me to grab.

I roll my eyes at the geek and mutter, "Whatever." After grabbing my food and a pair of chopsticks, I take off, but not without showing gratitude. "Thanks as always, old man."

Moving away from the food joint, I can hear Cheng saying something in Mandarin. At first I think that he's irritated, but his tone and the light chuckle he makes say the opposite.

Anyway, I stroll down the way I came from, opening the box and breaking the chopsticks apart. The smell of freshly-steamed chicken flies into my nose, the taste smacking onto my tongue as I plop one piece in my mouth. A bombardment of flavor overwhelming my senses. Cheng sure doesn't disappoint when it comes to his trademark Kung Pao chicken. For most of the walk, I focus purely on my takeaway dinner. Nothing can pry my attention from it.

Well, maybe a few can. Just as I put in another mouthful, I hear a high-pitched wail coming from a little far from this district. That's what I assume because I'm the only one in this crowd who notices.

Groaning slightly, I zip up to the sky with my hands tightly gripping the box. A couple of scraps fly out of it, and it can't be helped. On my way to the source of the scream, I finish the last of my dinner as best as I can, but it's not easy while I'm flying at this speed. Some of the small pieces splatter my face, which throws me off even more. I've put in the last bite, but all those scraps that hit me soon lead to me smacking into a flock of birds. Shit… That never happens to me.

After the flock flies off, I stop for a while to regain my bearings. Ugh. That's one dinner that didn't go well at all. I hope I'll feel much better after pounding this poor perp's mug in.

If I can find him that is… One thing after another. First the monster fiasco at the pier, then my tiff with Blossom afterwards, and now my fucked-up dinner. Is it too much to ask that one thing today goes right?

Annoyed as I am, I hear a second scream and hurry to Fifth and Sixth. There's a woman over at an alley behind Mister Giuseppe's toy store. She's leaning against the wall as a thug points his knife at her. She's too frightened to even spot me hovering above, and he's too busy making his demands, whatever they are.

So I descend slowly behind them, making sure that neither of them see me as I get closer. The dude repeats himself, and I'm on the brink of throwing up at his words.

"Don't make me repeat myself, bitch. Get on your knees, unbuckle my belt and go to town. Got it?" he snarls, twirling his knife in his fingers. "What're you waiting for? Do it."

As he spins his weapon, I see him fumble it, which causes the blade to leave a gash on one of his fingers. He hisses and clutches his hand; this shouldn't be a problem.

"See what you made me do?" he growls, his breathing stiff from the open wound. I hear a zipping sound from where he stands, and he adds, "That does it. You're getting it now. Open wide, you whore!"

The forceful way he grabs the back of his head is my cue, and I walk in between the walls. Into the darkness. Putting on a poker face.

"You don't wanna do that, buddy," I start, the chill in my voice blending perfectly with the cool of the night. It stops him in his tracks and forces him to look over his shoulder. All he sees is someone who's poked her nose into someone else's business.

"Says who?" he retorts, pissed off and showing no fear. He doesn't realize that that's going to change shortly.

"Get away from her and come find out." The light from the moon moves a bit and unveils my mouth to him, and I lower my head at an angle so that it's the only part of me that he sees. I have my hands tucked in my pockets and don't pull them out. Not yet.

The thug does as I tell him and lets the chick's hair go, picking up his knife and making his way towards me. He hunches forward as well, his intent murderous. The light hits his face, and it's decidedly ugly. It's pale like the moon above us, there are bags under his eyes, and that rat's nest he calls a beard does him no favors. Not to mention that he probably hasn't bathed in months; the closer he gets to me, there's this noxious odor that nearly hijacks my head. That must explain why he's hiding in the dark and behind the hood of his jacket. Talk about pathetic.

"You've got a lot of balls poking your nose in someone else's business. Or is it pussy?" he says, not even paying attention to how disgusting he sounds. How disgusting he is, period. "Why don't we find out by seeing what's under those pants of yours?"

And there it is. He just had to push all of my buttons. He just had to do it. I really didn't want to do this…

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Of course I do.

Now that he's pissed me off, I stomp the ground so hard that it sends a tremor catching his right foot. Again, the knife slips from his hand. There's nowhere for him to go; that foot is as good as stuck.

To think that he could not look any more pitiful, seeing him struggling to yank his foot out of the chasm is icing on the cake. He's trying his best, but his best isn't going to save him. I crack my knuckles, and the noise gets under his skin. Now he's really pulling that leg. And every attempt only wears him out.

I'm closing in on him, gathering ounce after ounce of strength in my hand. As soon as he sees me raise it, his eyes are wide as the moon and his mouth is dangling. I go to town on the guy, not even giving him any room to breathe. Left hook, right hook, left jab, right cross, left knee to the gut. That's the sequence of attacks I go with. It ends with an uppercut that sends him flying and crashing down like a rag doll. His knife slips from his hand, and I take my chance and pick the son of a bitch up.

And all the while, the girl who was screaming is still on the ground, staring on. It's hard to tell if she's rooting for or afraid of me. It could be either, or it could be both. Since she's not budging whatsoever and just saw me delivering one of my patented beatdowns, I assume it's the latter.

With the jackass in my clutches, I slam him against the wall and keep one hand free. I lift him up by the collar, and a flicker of fear flashes in his face. I glance down and avert my eyes from the piss stain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he pleads, squirming along the wall.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't punch your teeth down your esophagus," I mutter to him, staying calm in spite of the repulsion I've felt throughout this encounter.

"Please, I'm begging you! You don't have to do this! I swear, you'll never hear from me ever again after tonight."

"I dunno. Sounds too good to be true to me. Maybe we should ask her." I turn my attention to the woman, who's just as scared as the douchebag who almost forced his junk down her throat. I don't know why, she should be glad that a Powerpuff Girl's dishing out some justice on her behalf. "What do you think?"

The woman doesn't say a word. Not even a peep. She gets to her feet, and she's contemplating.

At the same time, the guy continues to shiver in my grasp. And…is he actually crying? Now that's just sad. He probably knows that there's no way in hell he's talking his way out of this.

Just because we have super strength doesn't mean we always have to resort to it.

Ngh… Really? Damn it, of all the times that I hear that self-righteous voice in my head. Shake it off, Buttercup. Shake it off. Who the hell is she to decide for you?

As if listening to her was bad enough, a picture of her face forms in the back of my mind. That picture starts flapping its mouth, and it spews the rest of her nonsense.

I hope you understand this, but I doubt you do.

I let out an annoyed growl that startles the woman slightly, and I barely notice the thug pulling out a second knife in his pocket. Before he gets a chance to use it, I fire off my laser eye just a few inches away from him. The blast grazes the fabric of his hoodie and a bit of his arm, and he puts the knife back in his pocket in an instant.

At this point, not only has he pissed himself, but he might have shat some bricks, too. On the corner of his eye, I see a small, gleaming bead dying to come out. Through his eyes, I catch a swift glimpse of my reflection. Of my angled void of a stare. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I actually take a moment to think about what Blossom said to me earlier today.

It may be because she's the self-proclaimed leader of our trio—well, it's a duo now, but you get where I'm getting at—but no matter what, there's always truth to be found in her words. No matter what, the stuff she says always has weight behind them, even if they can be a drag to listen to. That bit about not always having to resort to brute strength is no different.

One more look at this thug, and I realize that I've more than made my point. I've forced it down his throat, even. My mind changed, I head off into the night sky once again. But not without one quick thing to say to the chick.

"Be right back."

I then drag the guy over to the police station, where I give my cops my testimony. They do their part, cuff the guy, confiscate his knife and drag him over to an office to be processed.

After that's been taken care of, I jet back to the alley and find the woman standing on the sidewalk, noticing me flying above her. I land in front of her and check on her promptly.

"You alright?" I say to her. The only response I get is a slow, terse nod of her head. "You better take off now. This isn't exactly the kind of place you want to be in at this hour."

With that out of the way, I make my way back to my apartment. Only to be stopped by a voice.

"Hey," the chick calls out, catching up to me. "Thanks. Glad to see you can still be counted on."

Looking over my shoulder, I see the change in her expression. She's smiling now. It's not a big fat grin, but it's something. And something's always better than nothing. Letting out a single laugh, I finally take off and watch her wave her hand at me.

In a few minutes I've returned to my apartment. I sit on the balcony and help myself to another cigarette, which I ignite with my laser eye.

For quite some time, I bask in my solitude and watch the pale moonlight. Every breath that passes in and out of my mouth is a piece of me that's put at ease.

My thoughts swirl in an endless cycle, and I let them go on with their business before picking one out like some kind of raffle.

I wonder what the three of them are up to right now. The same old same old, I'm sure. Blossom brushing up on her algebra, Bubbles working on her drawings, and Professor Utonium whipping up another one of his crazy experiments. I wonder if they've brought down the number of windows in our room from three to two, or if the sheets on the bed are just pink and blue now.

Not that I didn't see this coming or blame them at all. This is where I am now, and this is probably how it's going to stay for God-knows-how-long. But I can't seem to let go of the three of them, nor do I want to. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I'm going to be led right back to them one way or another.

Maybe, just maybe, they could—nah!

The last of my cigarette burned out, I head back inside to get rid of the butt. Over by the door is an envelope lying idly on the floor.

On top of the flap and the adhesive is a smiley face sticker, complete with a pair of flushed cheeks. Bubbles…

A fragrant scent wafts from the object and makes me cough from how strong it is. Blossom…

And written on the back is 'To Buttercup' in crisp, neat-looking cursive writing. Professor…

When I open it, I find a formally-written invitation that's also in cursive. An invitation to the annual Christmas party at the Utonium household. How could I forget about this? How did a Powerpuff tradition ever slip my mind?

Gratuitous Plug Alert

For those of you who don't know, I have a brand new YouTube channel. It's small as of now, but I hope to amass a following. If it's no trouble for you guys, I'd really appreciate it if you check the channel out at:

https (: / /) (www) . you-tube (dotcom) (/) channel (/) UCrEyNe7lUaT4ARz8tomuyPg

And don't forget to like, comment, subscribe, as well as letting me know in your review of this story what you think of the channel.

Thanks a lot.

- Christopher R. Martin