"I do not own the Powerpuff Girls or any related elements. They are properties of Cartoon Network. I also do not own the Rolling Stones song, 'You Can't Always Get What You Want.' It is the property of the Rolling Stones and/or any related authors. I also do not own the title of this story. The title is taken from the Red Hot Chili Peppers' song, 'Wet Sand.' 'Wet Sand' is the property of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and any related authors."
BOOK 1, CHAPTER ONE: A REFLECTION UPON THE ORIGIN OF THE PRESENT AND WHAT WAS NOW THE PAST
His whole body was numb. Numb wasn't even the right word to describe it. His legs and arms ached numbly from the stress, the pleasure, the frustration, the desire, the cravings. Everything was numb. His body, his mind, his heard, his heart, his world- numb. Staring at the dingy, dirty cell wall, those blood red eyes once full of arrogant defiance and rebellion had been purged of their vicarious twinkle of insubordination. The free-roaming stallion's legs had been broken and re-set; and, here lay the remains. Those once mischievously twinkling eyes could now only be described as one word: numb. He let his toned body fall to the ground. Those once tense muscles now relaxed permanently, sighing their last breath. His naturally tan skin tone had paled considerably, reflecting his current state of stress and mental anguish. His mind had thought for the last time. His fight had been beaten out of him. His spirit crushed, his tenacity obliterated, his queen had been captured. He had lost.
Blossom sat silently on a wet park bench. The sky heaved its disapproval, but nonetheless her fury held strong. Subconsciously issuing a cease-fire of her mental bantering, she snorted stubbornly and without a thought more, walked over to a nearby tree, snatched it from its grisly home, and with all her might threw it into the air. The tree soared and soared, its strong, willowy branches invisible. Its long trunk and vibrant green leaves never to be seen again. Ironically, in order to rid herself of everything that was bad, she had to do bad. She had to harm the Earth that she was so outspoken to save, disband her ideological reasonings, and cast out all of which she had previously accepted. The world is not round- it is flat. Science cannot explain everything. Bad can never become good.
But what was "bad?" Was "bad" defined by one's own ideological definition or was "bad" a universal constant that remained consistently defined for all? Could good become "bad?" But then again- if "bad" was defined by one's own ideological reasonings, then one could never know if one had become "bad." Her mind's Chinese-food mind games became taxing and her machine of a brain thought until it could no longer rationally think and reason logically…according to it that is. Why should she take the time to ideologically banter with herself? She was Blossom. She was always right. Others were always wrong. Black is black, and white is white. There is no grey. As if to tease and further torment her, her mind subconsciously starting playing the famous Rolling Stones song "You Can't Always Get What You Want." She let out a low growl, but it waned until it was a soft hum that silently sung out the defeated words and verses, as a songbird does for its master. Defeated, she hummed the verses with lyrical precision as she stood up and walked away. Black is black, and white is white. Good is good, and bad is bad. Light is light, and dark is dark. You can't always get what you want.
Brick couldn't remember how it all had started. He had always thought he was too smart, too witty, too cunning, too manipulative to get caught …but then something had changed; something had happened. He poured through the periodicals of his mind, desperately searching for the answer, as if he was a flustered student who had procrastinated for much too long, googling late night answers to unknown homework problems. Memory after memory poured through his mental filter. It all had started- and ended- with the figurative computer chip in his brain that controlled his every thought, whim, and emotion: his pride.
Brick couldn't remember a time when pride had not controlled him. Even as a child he had been a prideful little urchin, always bragging about this and that. His pride had often earned him respect, because it advertised what he had- talents of notable quality. It was those same talents that had gotten him in this dingy little ghost-cemetery in the first place. Brick and his brothers were, as most people knew, superhumans. Their talents were above and beyond extraordinary. Brick was the smartest of his brothers. His superpowers had only compounded his natural aptitude, and by the age of five he had become more intelligent, more witty, more cunning than most men become in a lifetime.
His early life on the streets had only furthered his intellect even more. Realizing this, his computer chip had sent messages to his brain to brag about that- not only was he book-smart, but he was also street-smart. The streets taught him things books never could- how to manipulate, how to control, how to dominate and intimidate. He was a sneaky little bastard, and it took Townsville P.D. (TVPD) years and years to catch him (exactly 16 years to be sure- he never forgot anything). His life had been grand before they caught him. He did whatever he pleased, whenever, and however he pleased to do so. He was the king of the world and everyone in it. His brothers, while sometimes confused by his intellectual ramblings and annoyed by his domineering nature, took silent comfort in the dominating control he had over their lives. In his hands, they trusted, they KNEW that they would be safe. Life had been such a joy- until his computer chip had overworked itself, finding it had finally encroached upon an area it was not the best in, not the smartest, not the wittiest, and certainty not the most cunning in. Soon afterwards he found the dominion he had built with his computer chip-run wit and intellect tumbling down, like a sandcastle in the tide.
It had all started when he had seen her. He was familiar with the subtly cocky smirk she wore on her face, with the obstinate sparkle in her eyes. He knew her, because he WAS her. She was him, and he was her. His computer-chip immediately manipulated his brain into desiring, CRAVING, to conquer, to dominate, to control, to manipulate this being. He wanted to be the only one of his kind in the city. Two of him was one him too many. But mostly, he craved to see that same sparkle they shared drained from her eyes when he dominated her. She became his hobby, his own subconscious obsession. And so it began.
Blossom, drenched and soaked from head to toe, squished her way home. Her muddy toes squeaked on the plastic of her sandals with every step she took. She mentally cursed herself for getting her favorite pair of sandals all muddied up. Why did she obey her body's compulsive whim to walk on one of the rainiest days since Townsville's renewal? Mentally cursing herself, her tired body trudged along like a tired football player after a long day's practice. She brushed behind her ear the rain drenched pieces of her fiery, red hair sticking to her face and clinging to her ears, like crying child to its mother's embrace. With a sigh she floated up to her room and opened her window with a furtive glance, her mind having tricked her into expecting him. Disbelieving what her eyes were desperately trying to tell her, she began furiously searching the room. He HAD to be there. He just had to. She looked and looked and searched and searched. Her disappointment soon turned into a brief fit of rage. Her long, toned arms upturned her wardrobe as several personal belongings soared across the room, falling upon the floor, as if raindrops in her own personal rainstorm. Upon realizing the futility of her task, she once more mentally cursed herself for being weak. What was this boy to her? Why did she care? He got what was coming to him. Townsville had been restored to his former glory, her life was returning to what it had been, and all the pieces were falling in place. Yet, why did she feel so empty, so disappointed that Townsville had been redeemed. Maybe she had been infected with his bad, or maybe she had always been bad. Going into the bathroom, she peeled off her rain encumbered clothes and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her once sparkling eyes, always dancing with life and subtle arrogance, had been dulled to a numb, almost mournful, blank stare. Under her eyes, she noticed dark bags, enunciating of her body's now daily battle against the sandman. Her once radiant, fiery red hair had lost its sheen and seemed as if it too were morning the loss of something. Her skin, usually slightly tan, had paled to a foggy peach, as if she had lived in a cave for a few months. Looking at herself in this degraded state, she slid down against the wall and began to cry. She began to cry. Immediately stopping herself, she realized that this was what he had wanted- to break her, to dominate her, to conquer her, to win. Her queen had been captured. Their game had finally ended. She had lost.
Blossom, recognizing his win, was determined not to let him win too much. With all her might, she forced back her tears and got into the shower. The warm water washed over her body, and she then decided to mentally make this shower symbolize her washing herself of him and his bad. She had fallen for him yes, but she didn't have to stay down. With the determination of a lion, scouring for its prey, she was resolved that as soon as she got out of the shower, she would symbolically be a different person. She would be the new and improved Blossom- the Blossom who would not fall for anyone like him again. She turned the water off and took her first step into her new world. An overwhelming sensation of catharsis overtook her. She felt like Columbus setting foot onto the New World. Beaming with happiness, she patted her auburn hair with a towel, soaking up the excess water. Wrapping a towel around herself, she walked into her room and lay across her bed, not quite ready to entertain her laborious hair-care process.
Lying there, her mind once again turned to thoughts of him. She paused. She shouldn't think of him. Then, she recognized the significance of thinking of him. She recognized that she had begun thinking of him, because she had been subconsciously thinking of how she should think of how it had all started with him in order to preserve her current state of renewal and prevent evil people like him from dirtying her again. Yes, this was why she had begun thinking of him again. She was right, of course. She had to remember how it all started in order to analyze every last detail, scrutinize over every minute word and action. She had to remember the beginning of the end. Lying there, she her mind traveled back to the beginning of it all.
Brick remained on the dirty floor of his cell. Rats scurried back into their hiding places in the broken crannies of the wall, and he closed his eyes, desperately trying to teleport himself out of there. He just wanted to ask why. Why? Why? Why? Had he been mistaken? Had she just been out to dupe him the whole time? Brick had never liked not knowing the answers to anything be it school problems, social problems, scientific mysteries, and this problem specifically was one which he must know the answer to. Diving deep into the recesses of his mind, he traveled back to the beginning of it all.