CHAPTER 37: A WOLF'S NIGHTMARES

ME: OH MY GOD WHAT ASJAKFL THANK YOU GUYS FOR 200 REVIEWS! *cries*

BRAKER: Let's celebrate!

ME: Sure thing! But first things first: So uhh...WARNING: there are some pretty dark scenes in this chapter—like two. They're the scenes where Vix is having a nightmare and it gets kinda violent.

BLOSSOM: Kuku...

ME: I know, I know! But I think most of you can handle it. I even looked through the profiles of some of my regular reviewers—I'm sorry for the stalking but y'know; just to be sure—and as it turns out, most of you are old enough to handle it, or you've favourited M-rated stories before.

So this shouldn't be too much of a problem. I promise the nightmares won't be so violent next time; they'll still be violent, but just not as much. If you really can't handle blood and gore, then skip over the parts that include words like "fire" and "blood". Just a little warning before we begin.

BLOSSOM: *sighs*

ME: It won't be enough to change this story to M-rated; don't worry.

BLOSSOM: What else?

ME: Oh yeah! Happy late Valentines Day, guys. *sheepish smile* You guys get a not-so-romantic chapter from me in return. But don't worry, the next chapter shall be pretty darn fluffy.

Also, I'm still working on that Valentines green fic from 2013. *sweat-drop* Do at of you remember "Why Feelings Suck?"

*crickets chirp*

...I figured as much. *sighs* There's a preview of it somewhere in my profile, so look for that. I'll try to get it done.

BRAKER: Time to part-ay!

DISCLAIMER: I only own my own OC's and the story! PPG belongs to Cartoon Network and Craig McCracken, which I'm sure you all know by now.

Chapter 37: A Wolf's Nightmares

"Ugh...Damon...?"

Blinking open heavy eyelids, the boy tried to sit up. The attempt was futile, however, as he felt a sharp jolt of pain and crumpled in the bed. He let out a low moan of pain.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" The familiar soothing voice entered his ears, and the speaker sat down beside him with a bowl of steaming soup.

"Not good," he responded weakly, "my head's spinning and I feel like I'm about to throw up my everything." He let out a pathetic raspberry to emphasize his point.

The man beside him tutted, holding out his hand and feeling the boy's forehead. It felt quite hot. "Seems like your fever still hasn't let up."

"Damon... Do you think I'll be okay in time for the picnic? I wanna go..."

Damon frowned, setting down the bowl of warm soup. "Well, I'm not sure, but I hope so. Even if you're not, I'm sure we can reschedule and the Ruffs will understand."

"Great," he groaned, leaning back against his fluffed up pillows. "I'm going to ruin everything."

"Oh come now; don't exaggerate so." Damon managed to smile, taking a spoon from the soup and blowing on it. "Here, drink some chicken soup."

"I've had enough chicken soup to last me a lifetime, thanks." The boy turned his head away.

"Just a little," Damon coaxed.

"...Fine." He sighed and faced Damon, taking a sip. He forced it down his throat.

"There. That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"I guess not." He swallowed hard. "Can you get me a comic book? I'm really bored."

"Sure thing, Champ." Damon got up and exited the room.

Meanwhile, the boy sitting in the bed felt as though a giant elephant was juggling and bouncing around in his head. It hurt—a lot. Muttering to himself, he stared up at the ceiling. Sweat trickled down his face and he was having trouble breathing. And now my vision's blurring; great...

All of a sudden, he started coughing. He couldn't stop himself; after the fit came the gagging, and he could feel the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't swallow it back. Finally, the contents of who knows what left his stomach and spilled out onto the floor.

Damon returned just in time to hear the splatter of a thick, heavy liquid, and see the reddish-orange-brown puddle on the floor. His lips became a thin, tight line in both concern and disgust as he picked his way toward the boy, comic book in hand. "...It seems that you've thrown up."

"Yeah." He covered his mouth with his hand, cheeks bulging from the force in his throat that kept pushing food upwards. His throat felt disgustingly dirty. "I feel like I just barfed up all of my insides," he managed to say between tight lips from behind the hand.

Damon took his hand and removed it. "Just let it out," he sighed, "we'll clean it up later. Swallowing throw up doesn't sound like a good idea."

He didn't need to be told twice. In an instant, more of the bile had escaped his mouth and fallen to the floor. He stared at it, feeling woozy. "What do you think it is...?" he rasped. His throat hurt, feeling like it was closing up within itself.

Damon examined it. "It looks like the meal we had yesterday; under the full moon. I still see bits of meat."

"Ew, gross." He clapped his palm over his lips again, but this time the possible throw up was from the image of the throw up in his head. He managed to keep it down though, and he let his tongue roll out of his mouth in discomfort. His stomach felt like it was on fire, as did his throat. "How can something so tasty end up so awful?"

Damon chuckled somewhat, despite the situation. "Come on, Vix. Get some rest and I'm sure you'll be better soon. Just sleep it off."

"Easier said than done," Vix coughed, watching as his adopted father got a mop.

Damon went and filled the bucket with water in the bathroom next door. He then dipped the mop in the water and came back, wiping at the sticky floor. "You'll be fine," he said soothingly, "sleep will come eventually."

Vix sighed and leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "My comic book?" he prompted, after a few moments of fidgety silence.

"Oh, right." Damon felt his back pocket, where he'd placed the rolled up comic. He pulled it out and handed it to Vix, before continuing to mop. He asked, "What's it about?"

Vix looked down at it. "Werewolves and vampires and mummies and other supernatural creatures"—he was interrupted by coughing—"they're like, all in a war."

Damon stiffened—at which word, Vix wasn't sure—but he saw his adopted father's fingers curl into tight fists when the word "war" whispered into the air. His knuckles were nearly white by the time he could speak, forcing himself to relax. "Ah. It sounds interesting."

Interesting enough to get you unnerved, it seems, Vix mused in concern. When Damon didn't push for further conversation, the boy began reading. Soon he really did fall asleep, but his dream was plagued by nightmares...

"Where am I?" he asked, looking around. He was sitting in a car seat, and he was surrounded by heat—heat that made him sweat, both in nervousness and from the warmth. Panting, he found in a panic that he was having a hard time breathing. What's going on?

"Mom? Dad?" he called, trying to find his parents. He blindly waved forward, gripping hold of something that seemed to materialize from thin air in front of him. "Guys?" he tried again. He felt the thing that he was holding—it was the leather material of a car seat. He tried to lean forward, but a seatbelt was digging into him and it seemed to tighten threateningly when he attempted to move.

"Guys, please," he pleaded, looking for the belt buckle. He swept his gaze around him, spotting the hissing of a flame. "I'm scared."

The fire was growing, twisting into laughing faces that mocked him for being afraid. The flames were incredibly hot, hissing and spitting sparks into the air. Despite the noise, and the crackling of the heat, the boy could hear high-pitched giggling coming from within the flames. They would transform into grinning faces, with red eyes and mouths—eyes that turned into curved arches and mouths that stretched into grins. The smoke was making him choke.

He blindly thrashed at the seat in front of him as the seatbelt continued to tighten. Smoke was parting to reveal silhouettes in the car seats ahead, but they seemed so far away. "MOM! DAD!" he screamed, gulping in smokey air.

He hadn't realized that he was crying.

All of a sudden, the seat was so close to him, as if it had been stretching away slowly, but was now snapped back into place like a rubber band. Silhouetted faces turned to meet his own grubby, teary face, but they seemed stiff and unnatural. One gleaming eye could be seen on both of the blackened faces.

He was still scared. "Mom...? Dad...? Is that you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. As soon as he asked that, the fire surrounding him erupted in a burst, all screaming, screeching, and cackling. The light from the now billowing flames cast a harsh glow on his parents, and he squinted at the figures before him. When his eyes had adjusted, he gasped in shock.

Their faces were bloodied and burnt, and his mother was missing her lower right cheek. Bones protruded from her jaw, blood seeping down her face. Her usually tidy hair looked singed and messy, as if someone had used a blowtorch on it. Her eyes were wide, the eyeballs normal but the pupils constricted. A shadow fell across her left side, covering half of her face. A red eye glowed beneath the darkness. What was most unsettling was the fact that she was smiling; so wide it seemed that the smile might fall from her face any second.

His father looked the same, but instead of the left, his right side was covered by shadow. His grin also stretched for miles, with wild eyes and wild hair. Blood dripped from his face, skin missing in scraps from his cheek and nose. He looked like someone had run him through a paper shredder, but gotten it jammed. Maggots and other bugs climbed out of his glowing red eye, which seemed to actually be empty. It seemed as though the red light in his empty socket was in fact a fire erupting from a hole.

Wheezing, the boy watched as his parents continued to smile widely, lifting an accusing finger at him. "You," they said simultaneously, in a harsh tone that was devoid of emotion—making it more unsettling by still grinning, "You did this."

"No, no..." he whispered.

"You should be dead too," they began, before pausing. Then they repeated it. Again and again. Chanting, calling for him, demanding that he return to the grave with them. "You shouldn't be alive. You should be dead. You should be dead too. With us. Join us. Be one with us. Come back. You don't deserve to live. You did this. You did this. You did this."

Their voices filled his head, clamouring and mixing together in a screaming mess. He tried to block it out, but he could still hear the words swimming in his brain. And when he looked, he could still read their chanting lips open and close, again and again. He screamed and cried, scared to death.

He could see the flames tearing at his skin, ripping it away until only brittle bones were left. He could see the bugs crawling out of his torn, bloody flesh, eating at what little of it remained. He could see the black burns forming; they sent explosions of pain off within his body. Finally, he felt something rip into his eye.

His other eye widened as he saw blood explode into the air. Something was stabbing at one of his eyes over and over, spraying blood and causing a shrieking, whistling pain constantly. Then the eye popped out of his socket entirely and blood dribbled down his cheek. The pain was delayed at first, as shock took over before the hurt did. He began trembling, unable to believe what had just happened.

Then the pain came.

It erupted within his socket like a firework, piercing and burning. It felt as though someone had dragged him to Hell. His hands were forced away from his ears as he scrabbled at the missing eye, shrieking from the pain. It wouldn't go away. It wouldn't leave. The pain only intensified, and he could see his parents still chanting. But their grins had spread, and he could see their skin still being burnt away too. Meat beneath the skin showed as their teeth stretched further and further, and soon their smiles were really from ear-to-ear.

They were smiling at his pain. The chanting was everywhere now; not just coming from them. It came from the giggling flames and the burning car walls. It came from the blazing air itself. His parents were cackling as they repeated those cold, harsh words over and over again. Their laughing was shrill like alarms and sent panic through his system.

He was little more than a shell now, bloodied and burnt and bruised and battered. Nearly all of him was gone; his hair, his skin, his meat, his eye. The flames continued to encircle him, even when there was only a skeleton left. The fire engulfed him until only his one eye remained, as he was forced to watch his parents become skeletons too—still laughing at the sky.

A voice whirled around him, piercing the stifling air. It was calling for him... "Vix...? Vix, are you okay?"

His eyes snapped open and he felt his face, relieved to find that he still had an eyeball in his socket and that there was no blood. He breathed deeply, leaning back against a board and rubbing his eyes. "Where am I?" he muttered.

"You're home," the voice replied, and he turned to see a girl with long blond hair scoot toward him in a chair.

"Christie," he breathed, his throat dry.

"You were having a nightmare. You also have a fever," Christie answered, looking awkward. "After you collapsed in the cabin, I rushed you back to Michael's place."

Not home, he thought to himself, not my home, at least. "Thanks," he managed to say out loud. "How did you get me here? We weren't discovered, were we?"

Christie shook her head. "I dragged you out the door and around the cabin. Then I brought you home through a pathway at the back of the house, where there were less guards." She paused, before adding, "You were really heavy, y'know."

Vix managed to smile slightly. "Thanks for letting me know," he rasped. "I'll keep that in mind next time I might faint—hell, I'll go on a diet. Just for you."

"Okay, okay." She rolled her eyes in response, turning away and busying herself with a first-aid kit. "At any rate, we should redo your bandages. They're all scuffed up." She held out the white material. "You do it."

"Gee, thanks for the help," he muttered sarcastically, taking it. Vix unwrapped the bandages and started tying them around his arm. He was calmly untying old bandages and retying the new ones, when all of a sudden a vision flashed within his eyes. It was an image of his bloodied parents, grinning at him. When they raised their fingers at him for a split second, a shock jolted through him and he dropped the white material. "Ow!"

"What's the matter with you now?" Christie spun around in her seat, raising an eyebrow.

Vix didn't reply immediately; he was hurting too much. He held his arm out, where the jolt had taken place. It was throbbing and he was panting, one eye closed from the pain. "I-I don't know. I just...saw something and my arm started to hurt," he half-lied.

Christie frowned but didn't push further, leaning forward and taking the bandages. "You're an idiot," she announced, "you can't even put bandages on properly. I'll tie it for you."

"Thanks." Vix didn't even care that she'd insulted him. He just didn't want to deal with wrapping bandages up his arm. He breathed out deeply, relaxing his shoulders with relief.

Christie glanced at him in surprise, her cheeks reddening. "Yeah, well, whatever. Don't get any ideas."

Vix blinked, before he realized that she was feeling embarrassed. "Oh, don't worry. I won't." He paused, smirking. "In fact, I don't have an idea—I have come to the legitimate conclusion with solid proof that you have, in fact, fallen—"

Christie tied a knot extra tight to shut him up.

"Ouch!" he yelped.

She smirked this time, satisfied. "That'll teach you to say stupid things." Christie met his glare. "And honestly; you're one of Danes' best soldiers and you can't even handle a little pain."

"You caught me by surprise," he scowled, glowering down at her.

She just smirked again, before lowering her head and continuing to work on his arm.

Vix let out a little whistle, staring out the window. He felt bored. Two minutes passed and she was still tying the bandages—he knew he had a lot of cuts, but still. He fiddled with his hands, shuffled his legs around, and just moved his body a lot in general. His companion seemed to sense his new discomfort—Vix wasn't good at sitting in one place for very long.

"Maybe if you stopped moving so much, this wouldn't take so long," Christie muttered, tying bandages around his arm.

He was feeling squeamish; he couldn't help but fidget uncomfortably as she tied the knot. He couldn't forget the gory, horrific nightmare—the nightmare of the car crash.

"Stop moving," Christie commanded, rolling her eyes. "Your wounds are still fresh from that mission you went on."

Vix leaned back against the bed-frame. Coming "home" from the mission and finding Christie back had felt like eons ago. They'd gone to Vix's old home and ran into an old foe, before Vix had fallen unconscious. His old home still brought back unwanted memories. Now he was still wounded, but he was also running a high fever.

"There." Christie's proud tone drew him back to the future, her tongue poking out as she secured the last knot. She leaned back to admire her handiwork. "How does it feel?"

Vix flexed his arm and felt a little less pain. "Better," he responded, satisfied with the fresh bandages. His voice was raspy.

There was a knock on the door, and Christie jumped up. It opened to reveal a large, tall man—all muscle—with long, graying hair. His cold, stony gray eyes ran over the two. "I take it you've both been resting?" he asked gruffly.

Christie and Vix shared knowing looks. Their trip to the cabin, Vix's old home, had been in secret. "Yes, Uncle," Christie lied, smiling.

Vix didn't say anything. Danes didn't trust him as much as Christie.

The man nodded, satisfied. "Both of you need to rest as much as possible before continuing to train."

"Yes, Uncle Danes," Christie agreed. Vix nodded stiffly back—he wasn't one of Danes' family or friends—he was more of a lackey.

Danes nodded one last time before disappearing out the door.

Christie glanced at Vix. "You still feel okay?" she asked.

He nodded in reply, but then a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, causing him to double over. His vision blurred and he groaned.

"Vix!" gasped Christie, reaching for him...

Buttercup tugged a comb through her hair, frowning at the tangled strands. "This is ridiculous," she complained, folding her arms over her chest.

Bubbles, who was sitting on the sink counter, tilted her head to one side. "Your hair doesn't seem very agreeable today."

"You think?" Buttercup shot her an irritated look, but stopped when she saw Bubbles' facial expression. She sighed. "Sorry. It's just that I'm supposed to meet up with Butch and—"

"I know. You want to look pretty." Bubbles grinned broadly, holding her hand out. "Here, give me the comb."

Buttercup's face flushed red, and she practically threw the comb at Bubbles—who caught it easily. "It's not like that!" she yelled.

"Okay, okay. There's no need to freak out," giggled her golden-haired sister, who pulled Buttercup over. She ran a hand through Buttercup's thick, black locks. "There's a couple of knots here and there, but I can work magic."

"Just get rid of the stupid tangles," Buttercup muttered back, "and don't try anything."

"Why would you think such a thing?" Bubbles gasped with mock hurt. "I'd never do something like that."

"Except you would. You'd tie my hair up in pigtails with giant bows if you could," Buttercup shot back, not even remotely sorry after Bubbles' supposedly offended remark.

Bubbles chuckled, "Yeah, you're right." Buttercup couldn't see it, but her sister smiled. "I can never trick you."

"You're little 'angel girl' act won't work on me," Buttercup agreed proudly.

Bubbles' lips curled upwards. "Oh, we'll just see about that."

Buttercup tried to shoot her sister a look, but she couldn't move her head with Bubbles combing her hair. The green Puff sighed, relaxing as she leaned against the counter.

"Where are you guys meeting?" Bubbles asked, trying to make conversation after a few moments of silent combing.

Buttercup shrugged. "At the park, I guess. That's where we went last time."

"And what will you wear?"

"I was just going to wear a hoodie and jeans." Buttercup sighed inwardly as she waited for the inevitable.

Sure enough, Bubbles gasped loudly and jerked the comb down extra hard by accident. "Sorry," she managed to say, fluffing Buttercup's hair.

The raven-haired teen rolled her eyes, rubbing her sore head. "Ow."

"I'm sorry!" repeated Bubbles. "But still, you can't imagine my shock! Butch just asked you on a date"—BC gave her a look—"I mean, invited you to hang out—and you're going to wear a regular old hoodie and jeans?"

"Why do I always need to dress up when hanging out with Butch?" Buttercup retorted, crossing her arms. "He never dresses up."

Bubbles frowned, jumping off the counter as she finished combing. She flew to face Buttercup, grabbing her sister by the shoulders. "But what if he dresses up this time? Or what if he wants you to dress up?"

"Highly doubt it," Buttercup responded defiantly, huffing.

Bubbles frowned again. "Buttercuuup," she whined.

"No."

"But Buttercuuup!"

"No!"

"But—"

"I said no!"

Bubbles sighed loudly and exaggeratedly, holding both hands over her heart. "Oh, poor Butch. He asks a girl out on a"—she stopped herself—"He asks a girl to hang out and this—this—is how she repays him. Without dressing up; without caring! How tragic. Simply tragic." She shook her head for emphasis.

Buttercup didn't hold back her annoyed scowl. "Bubbles, stop exaggerating. In case you forgot, I'm not one of of his stupid fangirls, who'd drool all over him and do whatever he wants them to do."

"Someone's jealous~"

Buttercup felt her skin prickle. "I'm not jealous! I'm just saying he won't care and I don't either, so I shouldn't dress up!"

Bubbles didn't respond immediately, digging around for her phone. She fished it out of her skirt pocket, and held it up. "Look, I'll text him right now."

For a second, Bubbles' words didn't reach Buttercup properly. But when she finally realized what they really meant, her eyes widened. "Wait!" she gasped, but it was too late. Bubbles was already texting.

A moment later, a DING! sounded and Buttercup watched in shock as Bubbles pulled her phone out again. The blue Puff read aloud: "'I don't really care if she dresses up or not, but Boomer's making me wear fancier clothing so...maybe it'd be nice if she did it too.'" The blue Puff smiled triumphantly at Buttercup.

"I can't believe this." Buttercup threw her hands into the air. "No. Tell him he can wear whatever the fuck he wants, and I'll wear whatever the fuck I want. There. Problem solved."

Bubbles' smile vanished into a pout and she whined again, "But Buttercuuup!"

"No is still no!" Buttercup said loudly, folding her arms stubbornly as she planted her feet shoulder-width apart. It made her feel taller; stronger.

Bubbles looked away, and for a second Buttercup wondered what her sister was up to. But then she turned back around, blue eyes wide and sparkling. "Pleeeeaaaase," she begged, her bottom lip poking out and quivering.

Buttercup was taken aback, staring as she practically saw the glow and the sparkles radiating off of Bubbles. Her sister was using the ol' puppy-dog eyes trick. Buttercup held up a hand to try and ward it off, but it was futile. Soon her heart melted just a little bit and she sighed loudly. This time it was her exaggerating. "Fine," she groaned.

Immediately, Bubbles' eyes returned to normal and the sparkles seemed to vanish. "Great!" she squealed. "Your date—I mean, as in the calendar date"—here she laughed sheepishly—"is tomorrow, right? So I'll go plan the outfit right now!"

Buttercup watched her excited sister skip out the door, humming happily. She let out another ragged sigh and leaned back against the counter, tugging her fingers through her black hair. "This better be worth it," she muttered.

Back outside, Bubbles had stopped skipping. Her smile fell as she stood there, holding her phone. She clutched the device extra tightly, squeezing it hard. She stopped before she broke the phone or anything, and prepared to type. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard.

"'Is Boomer mad at me?'"

She waited for a reply. Soon one came back. "'Why on earth would he be mad at YOU? He practically treats you better than me, his own bro!'" She read it over and over, unsure.

"'Then why is he avoiding me?'" She texted back.

The response was immediate: "'I dunno. That's something you gotta ask him yourself. He's probably just distracted. We have a lot of crap on our minds right now, y'know. Just talk to him.'"

"'Yeah...okay. Thanks, Butch.'"

"'No problem. If he gives you any trouble, just let me know and I'll beat some sense into him, 'kay? So stop worrying.'"

If only it were that simple. Bubbles sighed lightly, slipping her phone back into her skirt pocket as she went back to looking for an outfit for Buttercup. But now her enthusiasm for the job had vanished, replaced only with a sinking, upset feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Buttercup tied her now glossy, neat hair up. It was a short ponytail though, held together by a green scrunchie. Buttercup's hair had never grown to the extent of Blossom's, or Bliss and Banana's hair. Her hair remained short.

She readjusted her lime-green t-shirt with a picture of a lime slice and glanced down at her black sweatpants. It was time for a run; she needed to think. There were a lot of things to think about.

"I'm heading out!" she called, grabbing her house keys from her nightstand.

"Okay; be back before dinner!" answered the Professor, looking up from his tea.

"I will." Buttercup smiled, not saying anything else, but the Professor didn't need to hear the words.

His lips curled upwards. "I love you too."

Then the door closed behind her and she floated up into the air, spiralling upwards until she shot through some clouds. Sighing contentedly, she glanced down at the city below her. It seemed so small from up there, like a model contained with a snow-globe. She spotted the Mayor's office, and thought of Ms. Bellum and the loveable—if not competent—mayor.

Buttercup shot down, leaving a green streak trailing after her. She felt the force of the wind blowing against her body, and she felt carefree. Relaxed. Relieved. She didn't have to worry when she was flying. She was free.

She landed on the road, breaking into a light jog. She'd landed in a forest close to the edge of Townsville, a place she didn't visit often. Buttercup glanced back, noting silently at how little people were milling about. There was the occasional person and a pet or another person, but that was about it. It wasn't as busy as Townsville City was closer to the centre of the city. Buttercup didn't mind though.

She was about to turn a corner when she heard crackling noises. She stopped running and turned to stare at the bushes, where the noise was coming from. It was clear that someone was walking through the bushes, stepping constantly on twigs that were strewn across the dirt. Her heart pounded even though she knew she had superpowers; she could handle anything: monsters, aliens, criminals—she wouldn't lose.

And yet for some reason, she was still worried.

A loud, satisfied cry drew her back to reality, startling her. She whipped her head toward the noise, eyes wide in panic. She didn't know why she felt so scared, but her heart was pounding and her adrenaline was spiking.

Just then, someone emerged from the bushes, carrying something furry. He was grinning broadly, turning back to shout, "Ha! I got it. Too slow, Jamel!"

"...Ross...?" Buttercup lowered her raised fists in shock; shock to have found him in such a remote area.

Ross' head snapped up in his own display of shock, as he immediately recognized the voice. "Buttercup?" he stated.

A moment of silence passed before both of them said at the same time: "What are you doing here?"

Ross hid whatever he was holding behind his back, coughing nervously. "I'm training with Jamel. We were...racing." His tone was hesitant.

"I was jogging," Buttercup answered. "I..." She trailed off.

Ross looked up, green eyes suddenly shy. "You look great even in running gear."

"Th-Thanks." Buttercup's face flushed red as she rubbed her elbow self-consciously.

A tall man wearing a purple cloak and top hat appeared, with long and spiky, flaming red hair. His green eyes darted toward Buttercup, who swallowed and took a step back. Somehow, this man scared her a little—the man she saw with Ross so many days ago, when she was at the mall with Butch.* His eyes ran her over. "And who's this?"

"Her name's Buttercup. She's a friend," Ross answered.

Jamel's eyes widened and Buttercup suddenly felt uncomfortable with his ogling. But then he pursed his lips, returning to a poised expression. He smiled charmingly and said, "Ah. I'm surprised I didn't recognize you sooner. You're a Powerpuff Girl, after all. And I know you because I"—he stopped himself—"I... Never mind. So you're the girl Danes told me Coal and Maxim saw that night."**

Buttercup shivered. She remembered the two men who spotted her when she had gone out late at night. She wondered who Danes was, and how he knew her. The name's familiar...

Ross gave him a weird look, clearly not knowing what his companion was talking about. Inching toward Jamel, Ross shoved the furry thing into his hand. "Take this home," he muttered. "I want to talk to Buttercup."

"Sure." Jamel's eyes displayed a calmness that Buttercup didn't feel. Jamel's presence itself was unsettling. "Boss me around, will ya; just like always." He shoved the thing into a bag.

"Oh shut up." Ross rolled his eyes.

Jamel did a mock salute toward his teenage companion before turning and bowing at Buttercup. He had one arm bent in front of him, and one arm flourished out with his golden sceptre in his hand. "Delighted to meet you, Miss Utonium. Now, I must bid thee adieu." He turned, about to walk away, before pausing. "Oh, and Miss Utonium? One other thing—finish your Math homework next time." Then he disappeared.

Buttercup stared after him, confused by his words. She glanced questioningly at Ross, but he shrugged.

"He's a Math enthusiast," he said slowly, looking hesitant.

"...Oh." She raised an eyebrow. "Should I be offended that he thinks I don't finish my homework? Even if it's true?"

Ross smiled. "You're a Powerpuff Girl. You're famous. I think a couple of people would know this kind of thing."

Buttercup chuckled. "I'll never get used to the 'fame', as you call it. Although—I do like it." She kicked at a twig. "So...what were you hiding behind your back?"

Ross stiffened before relaxing. "We were racing, and we'd placed my fur cap down in the bushes as the 'prize'. The bushes was the finish line. As you just saw, I kinda won." He grinned.

Buttercup couldn't help it—she smiled back. His cheerfulness was contagious. "Congratulations then, #1."

"Thanks." He beamed before turning and studying the forest. "You come here often?"

She shook her head. "Nah. This was sort of a split-second decision."

"Ah." He glanced down at his scuffed sneakers. "Well, I'm glad to see you."

"Yeah, me too." Buttercup suddenly felt a little embarrassed. She wasn't the type of girl who said those kind of words, but Ross was too nice for her to just leave him hanging.

Before either of them could stay in uncomfortable silence, there was a loud shouting. Ross perked up immediately, grabbing Buttercup by the arm and dragging her into the bushes. The people who were yelling appeared, their feet pounding on the dirt road that spiralled through the forest. Two of them Buttercup recognized as Coal and Maxim. Three of them she didn't recognize. They were large and hairy, with sharp teeth and dark eyes. Her own eyes widened at the sight of them, and she took a step back almost instinctively.

Coal grabbed one of them by the arm and threw him over his shoulder, causing the stranger to crash to the ground. "You'll pay for what you've done!" he roared.

"Damon's mistake wasn't our fault!" sneered the man, scrambling to his feet.

Buttercup glanced at Ross, a type of fear filling her insides—fear she didn't want to acknowledge. To her surprise, Ross wasn't looking scared; rather, he looked cold, indifferent... He looked angry.

"Yet you refuse to listen to us!" Coal exclaimed, kicking the man so hard he was sent crashing into another. "Give it up, Sampson; you're not going to win."

The man who'd been called Sampson snarled. "I won't listen to people who only wish to punish my own people as a whole, rather than realize that one man's mistake is only that—one man's mistake."

"Damon's mistake was not just that! It was a violation of the peace and you know it," Coal cried, trying to kick Sampson again.

This time Sampson was ready. He grabbed Coal's leg and spun him away. "Leave us!"

Maxim, who'd been silently fighting the whole time, turned to Coal. "Come now, these men aren't worth it. They aren't part of the bigger picture. We've just been called back by Danes."

Curling his lip back, Coal acknowledged this with an angry, unsatisfied nod. He and Maxim stalked angrily away, shouting over their shoulder, "This isn't over!"

The three men opposing them relaxed, and Ross grabbed Buttercup by the wrist. "Ross—?" she whispered, but he shook his head, gesturing at the men. She clamped her lips shut.

Sampson stood in the clearing, rubbing at bruised and battered arms. He glanced at his companions. "They will regret this."

"But how? A battle is brewing and we all know it," the second one said.

Sampson sighed. "I don't know, but they'll pay."

A crackle in the twigs caused them to spin around toward the bushes, where Buttercup and Ross hid. The Puff felt her heart plummet in panic. Ross was prepared though—he stayed calm, stiffening as he got in a battle-ready position.

One of the three men tossed branches aside until he saw the two teenagers hiding within. His eyes wide in surprise, the man's lips fell in a sneer. "Ross; Tyrone's kid, is it?"

"Yes," the boy answered coldly.

"Well, it's so great to see you." Sampson stepped forward, sarcasm dripping from his voice. The tension around them was stifling. He listed his head. "Who's the girlfriend of yours?"

"You don't need to know." Ross' lips were in a thin line.

"Oh, I think I do." Sampson nodded at the man who'd found Ross and Buttercup. "Come on, Harry—I think I just found our way of payback on those creeps who keep attacking us. Grab him."

Harry walked forward, reaching for Ross... But the teen slapped his hand away. "You're not getting me that easily," he snapped.

Buttercup watched, in both fear and awe, at the new Ross standing before her. He was angry, cold, and stiff. It wasn't the kind, sweet, and friendly Ross she was used to. But she understood. These men were attacking him. It wasn't right; Ross deserved to be angry. "Leave him alone," she said aloud, and almost regretted it when their glittering black eyes turned on her.

Sampson frowned. "Little lady, stay out of this." He nodded at Harry. "Do it."

Harry grabbed Ross by the arms and yanked harshly, causing the boy to stumble forward. The man bared his teeth, ready to do some damage as he pulled out a taser of sorts...

"Stop!" Panicking, Buttercup flew up and straight into Harry, knocking the guy over. "Leave him alone!"

Harry stumbled backwards and into the third man, who caught him easily. Sampson turned to glare at Buttercup. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that, little lady. You shouldn't have stuck your nose in other people's businesses."

"You don't realize, do you?" Buttercup stood up, panting. A green light began to glow in her hands. "I'm not a normal human being. I have powers—superpowers."

Ross scrambled upwards. "Buttercup, this isn't your fight—"

"No! It is my fight, because no one messes with my friends!" Buttercup threw the green energy balls at them, which caused mini explosions.

Sampson was clearly caught by surprise. One hit him the chest, exploding in energy. The air was knocked from his lungs, and he glanced up. Panting, he shouted, "Get them!"

"Time to see if my training has paid off," Ross muttered, raising his fists.

"Wait, no—I can take them—" Buttercup tried to say. Because you're only human. You're my friend, and I like you—I'd rather you not die. I want you safe. The words dried on her tongue.

Ross didn't seem to hear her anyway, swerving to the side and doing a perfect roundhouse kick into Harry's head. The man fumbled for a hold, finally gripping onto a tree. When the man tried to throw some punches, Ross easily blocked or dodged them. Catching Harry's wrist, he easily threw the larger man into the ground before doing a lock that caused Harry to cry out in pain.

Buttercup watched in shock. Ross can fight, and he's damn good. For some reason, that surprised her, even though he'd mentioned his "training" multiple times before.

Sampson charged for Buttercup, trying to grab her and use her as a bargain. The green Puff quickly dodged, smashing her fist into the man's chin. She kicked him into the third man.

The man named Harry was still holding the taser. He held it out like a weapon, snarling. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Then I guess I shouldn't just stand still and let myself be captured." Ross pounced, knocking the thing from Harry's hand. He watched the taser clatter to the ground and disappear. "You're not getting that back."

Harry clearly panicked, but before he could do anything, Sampson stood up. "We're not going to be defeated," he hissed, "not when a battle is looming over our heads."

"Leave then, and save your 'dignity'," Ross commanded. It was evident he was angry, but Buttercup knew he wasn't heartless. He wouldn't bring himself to hurt these people so ruthlessly.

Sampson held up a gun. "No."

Buttercup's eyes widened and she pushed Ross behind her. "Shit," she cursed.

Sampson's hands shook as his fingers closed in on the trigger. "Danes is a tyrant. He needs to be stopped. He needs to understand—"

"Understand what?" Ross had stepped out from behind Buttercup, unflinching. "Pain? He does understand it. He understood it a long time ago, when he lost Tyrone."

"You don't get it." Sampson's eyes were dark, but it was clear he was breaking down. "He got to my daughter. My daughter—she's not safe now. Danes is a tyrant. I'd get his nephew or his niece, but right now it looks like I don't have much of a choice."

Ross' jaw clenched. "I'm sorry about your daughter. But do you really think shooting me will solve anything?"

"...No. No, it won't." Sampson dropped the gun, wringing his hands, cursing. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. How did this happen. Fuck, I can't believe I lost my cool like that... Fuck."

"Go," Ross whispered.

"I'm sorry." Sampson shook his head as he began stepping backwards. He paused for a second. "But things will only get worse when the actual battle begins—when Danes decides the beginning."

"I know," Ross murmured back. Then the three men were gone, none of them looking back. Ross turned to Buttercup, forcing a weak smile. "Let's go."

"Ross, you're bleeding!" gasped Buttercup.

He glanced down at the scratch marks on his arm and immediately shrugged it off. "Just a scratch. Nothing I'm not used to—nothing to worry about."

"It looks pretty damn deep to me," Buttercup retorted, grabbing his arm. Now that the three strangely powerful men were gone, her fear of them had vanished. She still didn't know why she'd been afraid, when as a superhero she could take practically anything and anyone. "You need to clean this right away."

"I will," promised Ross, "but first—we should get outta here. It's not safe..."

Buttercup allowed him to lead them away from the forest, and closer to a more occupied part of the city. Panting, Ross bent forward, gripping his injured arm. "That doesn't look okay..." Buttercup tried to say, but he shook his head.

"I'll be fine."

Buttercup groaned, but didn't keep bothering him about his would. She was about to say that they should rest, when someone called out to the two of them in surprise: "Ross...? Buttercup...? Is that you?"

They both looked up immediately, meeting eyes with a surprised Butch. His arms were loaded with grocery bags.

"What are you guys doing here?" Butch frowned, arching a suspicious eyebrow.

"We... I..." Buttercup felt words dry in her throat. "That is to say..."

Ross straightened, coughing lightly. "I was training when I ran into her, who happened to be jogging."

Butch looked like he was going to question them further, but then he spotted the blood sliding down Ross' arm. A few droplets splattered to the ground. "Are you...okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Ross repeated once again, sighing gently. He reached up with his non-bleeding hand to ruffle his hair, clearly deep in thought—and trying not to appear on edge.

"Gee, sorry for asking." Butch shifted the weight of the bags in his arms, glancing between the two. "...Come with me," he finally said.

Buttercup glanced at Ross, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he started walking toward Butch. Perplexed, Buttercup followed.

Butch led them slowly through the streets of Townsville, he and his counterpart not flying because Ross was with them. "I wasn't sure if it was really you two. Together; in such a secluded section of Townsville, so I called out to you guys. I was almost worried that it wouldn't be you two and I'd be embarrassed." He turned and flashed them a half-smile, his tone light and attempting to joke.

Ross nodded back, managing to curl his lips upward too. "Well, good thing it was us."

"Where are we going?" Buttercup interrupted, feeling uncomfortable. She wasn't in the mood to joke. She just wanted to go home and take a nice, warm shower.

"My house."

Ross stopped walking and tilted his head to one side, curious. "Why?"

"Why not? It's closest to this small marketplace, and we need to treat your wounds."

"But I said I'm okay," Ross insisted. "We have really good doctors at Michael's place—"

"Don't you want to see Brick again?"

Ross immediately stopped protesting. It was clear he did want to see amnesiac Brick again and check that he was okay. "I guess so," he murmured quietly.

Butch smiled, knowing that he'd gotten Ross with that last remark. "I thought so."

"Let me help you with your bags, at least." Ross held his arms out.

Butch glanced down at the scratch marks on Ross' arms that were still bleeding steadily, raising an eyebrow. "Uhh...are you sure?"

"I can handle it," promised Ross.

With that, Butch caved in, but refused to hand Ross more than two of the paper bags. Buttercup took one too so she wouldn't appear rude. Then they kept walking to Butch's house, a comfy and yet awkward silence following them. Talk was small and easygoing.

When they finally got to Butch's house, he raised his knee against the door as he shifted his arms. He reached into his pocket, balancing the bags on his arms and leg as he tried to fish out his key. He finally got it and unlocked the door, the door creaking open. "Hello?" he called. "I'm back with the groceries!"

For a few moments, no one answered. The trio stepped into the darkened hall, still quiet. Then the light flicked on and someone with orange eyes appeared, shaggy brown hair falling in his face. "Finally!" he crowed, standing at the top of the staircase. "I was wondering when you'd get home. I'm starving! Do you know how much torture it is being hungry and knowing that nothing is in the fridge? Jesus, Butch—you can be so slow; so inconsiderate sometimes!"

Butch's eye twitched as he grinned irritably. The twitch was a habit he'd never really shaken off since he was an evil little, hyperactive five-year-old. "Excuse me, Braker, but will you shut up for a few seconds? How the fuck have you not noticed the guests?"

Braker did indeed stop talking, glancing back at Butch. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of Buttercup, and even more so Ross. "I thought your date wasn't till tomorrow? And when did you invite Ross? Don't tell me...it's a three-way?"

"Braker..." Butch's face was burning red, his fingers and eye twitching involuntarily. A pulsing vein protruded from his forehead. "Shut up. Please. First off, it's not a date. Second, it is tomorrow. Thirdly, Ross and BC are here for other reasons. I ran into them while shopping."

"Well, last time I checked girl plus boy equalled date... Unless you're having a playdate instead?" He smirked. "And you know; Ross completes the three-way."

"Bliss is right; you can be such an ass sometimes," Buttercup called out, crossing her arms.

"Ooh my, Bliss says that about me? I'm so upset inside. I'm sorry for being such an 'ass'." Braker's tone was dripping with mock sadness as he placed the back of his hand on his forehead with a dramatic swoon.

Buttercup developed a twitch in her eye now.

Only Ross stayed calm, smiling the entire time. "You're all so much fun," he stated suddenly.

Everyone turned to stare at him in surprise. "Fun?" spluttered Butch. "This butt-face is making fun of us!"

Ross chuckled, "Yes, but nobody means any of it. You're all just joking around, and it's great."

Buttercup frowned, looking Ross up and down. "Don't you joke with your friends?"

His smile fell and she immediately regretted asking the question. His eyes were a little darker, which only made her more sorry. She opened her mouth to take it back, but then he whispered, "Not as much as we used to."

Braker and Butch exchanged knowing looks, and the green Ruff coughed awkwardly. "Come on; let's get your wound checked, 'kay? Come with me to our little 'infirmary'—Brick's there now, probably with Bandit and Mojo," Butch offered.

Ross nodded, letting Butch lead the way down into Mojo's lab, where a lot of medical equipment was.

"What happened to him?" asked Braker, eyes trailing after the two in curiosity.

"We were attacked," Buttercup explained. She shivered. Being attacked was suddenly a common thing again; but it was different from her usual fights with lawbreakers. These new fights were somehow scarier, as though they had higher stakes. And maybe they did. Braker turned to stare at her in surprise, but before he could push further, she brushed the topic away with a wave of her hand. "I'm going with them." He was left to stare as she carefully made her ways down the stairs.

Sorry Bubbles. Looks like I messed up my 'do, Buttercup thought when she spotted her reflection in the clear, metallic surface of Mojo's lab doors.

Below her, Mojo was tinkering with what appeared to be a ray gun—even while feeling restless, Mojo still worked. Buttercup could see the bags beneath the ape-mutant's eyes. He looked up when he heard the footsteps on the steely staircase, and his eyes crinkled at the edges as he managed to smile weakly. It was hard to imagine that Mojo had actually been one of her worst enemies, once. "Ah, more company joins us in this sad and worrying turmoil," he stated, waving.

Buttercup managed to wave back, only murmuring a "hello" as she passed by. She caught up to Ross and Butch, who stood at the far corner of the workspace, where a few shelves were set up around a bed, instead of in rows. The person lying in the bed was Brick, who appeared to be sound asleep. Bandit was beside him, also sleeping.

"Guys," whispered Butch, his hands now free from groceries. He shook his friends gently. "Come on; wake up."

Bandit awoke first, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he sat up straight. "Yes?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"I brought some friends over," Butch explained, stepping to the side so that Bandit could see Ross and Buttercup.

Ross waved, but it was with his hurt hand. He immediately grimaced and lowered the arm, holding it out before him.

Bandit's eyes travelled to the scratch, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. "How did this happen?"

Sighing lightly, Ross once again explained the attack on him and Buttercup. "I'll be fine though."

"Let me see it," Bandit insisted, taking Ross' arm. The teenager protested at first, but didn't pull away. Soon, he fell quiet. Bandit examined it and frowned. "These don't look like regular scratch marks."

"That's because they aren't," Ross whispered back, just loud enough for Buttercup to hear.

"Then we should treat them," Bandit said, setting his jaw. He got up, and almost immediately his change of position woke Brick up.

The red Ruff blinked groggy eyes, staring at the small group who'd gathered around him. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Brick!" Ross bent down so that he was eye-level with Brick, examining the red Ruff. "You feel okay?"

"A little tired, but otherwise I'm fine." Brick managed to smile weakly, eyes still hazy with the cobwebs of sleep.

"Blossom told us that she may have found a good setting on the helmet. That maybe she can make Brick"—Bandit paused—"remember the past. We've been training him already, and he knows some things."

Buttercup glanced down at him. "Are you up for it, big guy?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "I'm still a little nervous, but I'm ready." He squeezed the blankets tightly in his fingers.

"Anyway, let's get those scratches treated now." Bandit stood up, running a hand through his hair before leading Ross away.

Buttercup started talking to Brick, asking him lots of questions and double-checking that he was okay. "Are you sure you're warm enough? You're not too warm, are you? Let me know I'd you're hungry or cold. I can go get you another blanket if you want. Do you feel okay?"

"I'm fine, Buttercup." Brick smiled warmly, clearly amused by the flustered Powerpuff Girl in front of him.

"He doesn't need to be coddled like a baby," Butch scoffed, his arms folded against his chest. His dark-green eyes were gazing somewhere else, but they snapped back when he spotted a flash of green fly toward him. Buttercup was standing right in front of him, a little shorter than he was, so she had to tilt her head back—but still intimidating.

"Brick has amnesia! He's also been in danger of headaches and things; he deserves the best care we can offer," she snapped.

"I know that! But you're treating him like a puppy or something! Stop suffocating him and let him get some rest," he retorted, his fingers tightening into fists.

Buttercup's voice rose. "What's wrong with being worried about your friends?"

"Nothing!" he said just as loudly. "Just stop acting like he can't take care of himself!"

"I never acted like that!"

"Yeah, you did! Brick knows how to tell us if he needs anything, so stop bothering him!"

"I'm not bothering him!"

"Maybe you're not trying to, but you're being pretty damn bothersome!"

"Christ, Butch Jojo—is this how you fucking repay everyone who tries to help!"

"Some people never asked for your help!" he snapped back.

Buttercup stared at him in shock, and he immediately regretted the words. But before either could say anything, Mojo spoke up. "Guys, please—I'm asking and begging and hoping here—that you shall both stop and cease such babbling and worthless arguing at once. For Buttercup, just ignore my son Butch's rambunctious attitude, he is feeling left out watching you care and look after Brick rather than paying him much heed or attention. In other words, as in another version of how to say it and paraphrase it...

"He is simply jealous."

This shut them up, causing both of them to flush bright red.

Meanwhile, Bandit and Ross were standing a little further away, and the purple Ruff was rummaging through some cupboards. "So, who attacked you?"

Ross seemed surprised. "Uh...Sampson, Harry, and that other guy. I forget his name."

"Ah. You mean Fillip Van Hissmant?"

"Yeah; that guy. The guy with the name I'd never remember." He paused. "How do you know him?"

"Mojo has done business with Sampson and Harry," explained Bandit, the hesitation he was displaying before saying anything suddenly vanishing, "as well as Fillip."

"Oh." Ross tilted his head to one side, clearly not buying it. There was no real reason to keep hiding facts from him, since he already knew about the Ruffs and Damon. And yet somehow, he still didn't hate the Rowdyruff Boys, and Bandit didn't want to risk it. So Ross didn't push further. "I can't believe you remember his name though."

Bandit's lips twitched upwards, and he shook his head. "Sure, his name's pretty long; but it's not hard for me to remember names...or faces." He paused and for a little bit quietness stretched on between them.

Then Ross asked, "How are you taking the whole leadership thing?"

"It's gotten better," Bandit breathed, rubbing his arm. He glanced at Brick, who was smiling and chatting with Butch and Buttercup. "But then again, that's only because nothing bad's happened yet."

Ross followed Bandit's gaze, wondering what might be darkening his friend's mood. "Like what?" he inquired.

Danes and the start of this war, Bandit thought, but he didn't say it out loud—he didn't have to. Ross already knew. Just like he didn't admit to knowing Sampson because they were "technically" on the same side—although Bandit disagreed with his and his other allies' violent opposition towards Danes. "Maybe Brick never getting his memories back," he finally forced himself to say, which was part of the truth.

"Oh. ...Oh. Oh!" Ross' eyes widened. "That would be terrible!"

"Yeah." Bandit slumped, shrugging by lifting his shoulders up as he kicked at a bolt on the floor. "I'll be stuck as leader and Brick will be stuck with...well, amnesia."

"That won't happen; I just know it," Ross answered, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Brick will be okay."

Sighing, Bandit nodded and leaned against a shelf. "I sure hope you're right or I'll really be in trouble."

"You're the most capable person to lead."

"Besides Brick."

"Well, yes, but..."

"...No, I know what you mean." Bandit closed his eyes. "Sorry. Thanks for helping me talk it out. I needed that."

"You're welcome." Ross watched as the purple Ruff got up and started moving for the first-aid kit. "...I only wish I could do more to help though," he finally stated.

Bandit shook his head. "You've already been a lot of help. Thank you." He walked over and gently took Ross by the arm, pulling the wounded arm underneath a sink tap. "Here, let's quickly clean it."

He winced as the cold water ran over his scratches, which had now stopped bleeding as much. Dry blood ran almost the entire length of his arm. It still hurt; an empty, aching hurt like the one he was feeling in his chest. It was numb and dull, but it still brought pain with it. "I'm sorry," he finally mumbled.

"What for?" Bandit looked at him in surprise, taking the arm and turning off the tap so that he could wipe it gently.

"About Vix—and what he did to Brick—it's unforgivable..."

The purple Ruff lowered his eyes and shook his head, sighing as he put the wet towel away. He pulled the bandages out and replied, "And yet, there's nothing we can do about it. The only thing I can do is live with it, if not forgive and forget." His grip tightened on the bandages.

"Ouch!" squeaked Ross in pain as Bandit tied a knot too hard.

This snapped him out of his angry mood. Bandit loosened his grip and apologized. "I guess I'm angrier about it than I realized."

"I understand," Ross whispered back, his voice still tight from the pain.

"Sorry about that." Bandit closed his eyes. "I'm just still really stressed out."

"Maybe you should talk to someone," Ross replied.

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Bandit didn't look up from his handiwork.

Ross shook his head. "No, I meant someone else. Someone more...female." He smiled slightly. "Like Bunny."

Bandit froze, dropping the roll of bandages.

Christie peeled off her gloves, sighing to herself. After the ordeal with looking after Vix—someone she didn't even really consider a friend—and waiting until he'd fallen asleep, she had been feeling extremely tired. But there hadn't been time to rest, as Danes led her to greet a party of people who wanted to congratulate and welcome her back from her mission. They were all on Danes' side, but they weren't any of his men; they were of higher class than that. Christie had smiled and nodded along with the words that spilled from women's rouge lips that may have had too much make-up on, or contributed information to men with moustaches. It had all been very formal, and now she was even more exhausted than before. It was finally over though, and she just wanted to rest.

Now she kicked off the creamy white high heels she had strapped on, flopping down on her bed. Her silken yellow dress felt heavy against her skin, and she felt warm. Christie rolled over. I wonder how Vix is, she mused. The suffering male had fallen asleep before she had left for the party. Hopefully none of those weird nightmares came back to him. I wonder what they're all about, anyway.

She got up and glanced at the door. The day was slowly ticking away, but she might have time for a little sneaking out. Christie was a good child, sure—but she was also an independent young teenager who did what she believed was right. And at the moment, she wanted to visit the area around Damon's cabin again. She planned on investigating the place in order to find clues as to whether or not the Ruffs visited Damon's cabin a lot. I'm going to do the guards' job, but I'm going to do it thoroughly instead of half-assing it.

She changed quickly, switching for a yellow hoodie and black jeans. She laced up neon-pink skateboard shoes before clambering out the window. Christie walked lightly to the forest where Damon's cabin lay, pushing away her tiredness with reminders of how her mission was for the greater good. She half-hoped to see Blaster again; she wanted to ask him questions.

Soon the forest loomed above her. Christie entered, noticing how eerily quiet it was. The sky was already turning blood-red, the sun sinking behind the clouds for the day. It was beautiful. Christie didn't find it as enjoyable as she could've though, given how a sudden cold wind made her shiver. Still, having the sun gone was to her advantage—she moved more freely without the sun, because she was less likely to burn. Her skin was sensitive to the sunlight.

Christie found her pace slowing as she neared the cabin. The guards had lessened for the night, but there were still people hanging around. The setting sun cast long shadows across the ground, which seemed to shift with every step she took. Taking a deep breath, Christie approached the cabin and its small, wooden door.

She pried it open and peeked inside. It was just as dusty and dingy as she remembered. The smell of salt still lingered in the air, from Blaster's distraction. Christie took a step inside and closed the door quietly, looking around. There wasn't really anything to suggest that there had been a presence of somebody inside, but then again, the Ruffs were good at hiding their tracks.

After awhile of looking around, nothing really stood out to her. She was about to give up until something glinting caught her eye. Christie walked toward it slowly, reaching out with trembling fingers for the item. She almost felt like it would disappear from her grasp if she picked it up.

It was yellow.

Blaster's phone.

Christie put it away in her bag, figuring that she could crack the password later and rummage through his phone a little. But first, she wanted to keep digging around. Nothing else of much interest appeared, besides some caught fabric on the broken glass of the kitchen window and some footprints outside that didn't belong to Danes.

Nothing suggested that the Ruffs visited the old home daily, which made frustration soar through Christie. She had come here for answers. The phone was obviously from when she and Vix were there as well as Blaster, which didn't really prove anything.

She was ready to give up after an hour of hanging around, but then the door opened. It was followed by quiet cursing. The person who had come in had a soft voice. It was velvety but sweet and not too deep for a guy. Although...it was still swearing.

Christie glanced at the door from her hiding place, behind a counter. The newcomer was quite clearly Blaster, his long, blond hair falling into his yellow eyes. He was dressed in a yellow sweater, a little lazier-dressed than he had been earlier. She watched as he searched the area for his phone, muttering things like "I can't believe I fucking forgot my fucking phone. Goddammit, I can be so stupid sometimes."

The extent of how vile Blaster's temper could become continued to surprise her, even though she should've been used to it already. It's just the way his kind are, she reminded herself fiercely. Still, with his soft features; big, bright eyes; and small build; Blaster hardly seemed like a threat. Until he was one.

He was now poking around underneath the cabinet he'd hidden behind when Vix and Christie had first entered the room. Christie knew that she had to leave, or at least move hiding places, or he'd find her soon. So she managed to get up and slip behind a shelf. She was mostly silent, except for a creaky floorboard beneath her foot. Blaster looked up immediately, yellow eyes flashing as long hair whipped around his face. When he didn't see anyone after darting his eyes around, he shrugged it off and went back to looking. Christie, meanwhile, breathed out in relief. When he had his back turned to her, his hand reaching for a book on the bookshelf on the other side from the door, Christie jumped up and got ready to dash for the door.

But this time Blaster heard her. He spun around, eyes turning into red lights from charging his laser eye-beams, and hands flaming a glowing yellow. He spotted her and recognized her immediately. "Christie," he breathed through his teeth, his jaw locked.

"Hi," she answered, her hand already on the doorknob. She quickly turned her attention back to the door, trying to open it. But it stayed put.

Blaster shot a yellow light at the doorknob, causing her to jerk her hand back. "You could ruin the door that way," he warned. There was a strangely deeper tone behind his lighter voice, as of two voices had intertwined within him. It wasn't as obvious as with Him, one of Blaster's guardians, but it was there.

"Leave me alone," Christie rasped, reaching behind her. She fumbled for a potential weapon. Anything sharp, she pleaded.

"I think you have something I want." Blaster's voice had returned mostly to normal, but a deep growl escaped his throat. "Give me my phone."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she crowed. Maybe it would've been smarter to back down, but Christie wasn't one to back away from a challenge. She wanted that phone, and now she wanted it even more because someone else wanted it.

"Give. Me. My. Phone," he repeated.

She shook her head.

"I. Want. My. Phone!" Snarling, he lunged and grabbed her by the arm.

Christie's grip tightened on the blue bag she was carrying with her, with the phone inside. "Let me go!" she cried, whacking down on Blaster's hand.

He let out something like a whimper, drawing his fingers back and glaring at her. "You shouldn't have done that."

He's right. Christie panted, not wanting to give in, "Shut up."

"You're just as bad as your uncle."

This time Christie snapped. She forced Blaster down. "And what's wrong with my uncle? He cares for me and raises me."

"He hunts and hurts my kind—my people, family, and friends," Blaster shot back.

"He works hard for the safety of his own people."

"But not for mine."

"Your people harbour dark secrets and betrayal. Damon was one with your kind and look at the destruction he's done."

Blaster frowned, narrowing his eyes. "You should look between the lines."

"What for? He's the reason Tyrone died and this entire war started again. He's also the reason my parents disappeared." She fell quiet. "I will never forgive him," she finally added in a soft whisper.

Blaster's eyes flashed dangerously. "You don't know anything!" he yelled.

"I know what Damon's done, and none of it's forgivable! Look at how broken he's left my family!" she shouted back.

Blaster lunged first, grabbing her and shoving her into a wall. "Do you really think Danes is any better? He broke my family!"

Struggling against him, Christie managed to swing her leg upwards and knee him in the stomach. Blaster stumbled backwards, gripping the now throbbing area as he glared up at her. Panting, Christie ducked to the side when he swung his fists at her. "It's not nice to hit a lady!"

"This lady just kneed me in the stomach. I've fought you before, and you're dangerous. You left my nose bleeding," he snarled back. "So I'm not gonna give a shit about that."

She danced away from another hit. "Not just that. I also seem to have damaged your pride."

Glaring at her, Blaster swung again. This time he didn't miss. His fist connected with her face and sent her reeling backwards.

First the shock came, then the pain. And then the shame. Face burning, she grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him around till she managed to throw him back. Then Christie proceeded to kick him multiple times.

He grabbed her leg and swung down, causing her to cry out in pain as his fist met her knee. Jumping backwards, Christie picked up a blunt object from the counter.

Blaster was seething now, breathing ragged as he grabbed a chair, ready to use it as a shield.

But Christie managed to catch her escaping control on her flaring temper. Stop, she told herself. Struggling to calm down, she managed to say between gritted teeth as she set the item down, "This isn't what I wanted. We shouldn't make a scene here. I just wanted to talk."

"...You took my phone." Blaster had calmed down too when he realized she wasn't going to attack again, shoving the chair back down. He glanced away as he crossed his arms. His gaze was still stormy and dangerous, but at the very least his anger had calmed. "Why would I want to talk to a thief?"

Christie instinctively curled her fingers tighter around her bag handles. Ignoring the accusation, she said, "Please, just answer a few of my questions, at least."

"Besides being a thief, you're also the one who punched me in the face and nearly broke my nose," Blaster continued, ignoring her request.

Christie set her jaw. Both of them were ignoring one another's words. She was trying not to answer his accusations, and he was avoiding answering her questions. "Please."

He sighed and glanced at her, taking her in. His gaze softened. "...Stylish as ever, I see." She self-consciously touched the material on her hoodie as he kept talking. "How was your time away from Townsville?"

"Fine," she finally replied after some hesitation. He's still avoiding my questions, but at least he's not accusing me anymore, she thought.

"You know, I really miss the past sometimes." He jumped up and sat down on a counter, picking up a fallen over photo frame. Dusting it off, he stared at the cracked glass. "Things weren't so complicated back then."

"Yeah. I had my parents with me." Christie thought back to their smiles.

"And so did Vix. Or rather... He had Damon."

Christie turned to him in surprise, unsure where the conversation was going.

Blaster's face was still down, but his eyes had roamed upwards to study her reaction. "Vix lost his parents in a car crash and Damon saved him."

"I know that." She took a step back.

"He saved Vix."

"He was going to use Vix as a weapon."

Blaster actually chuckled, shaking his head. "You know so little about Damon." He set the photo face-down again. "He loved Vix like he was his own son."

"He gave him the Eye. Damon lied to him about Tyrone."

Now the patience was disappearing from Blaster's eyes as she brought up things that he and the other Ruffs didn't want to believe in. He jumped down and approached her. Christie half-expected him to pummel her, but instead he sighed quietly, "How would you tell someone that you killed a man?"

Taken aback, Christie blinked. "What?"

"I'm not saying he did it." Blaster's tone grew tighter. "But if he did, then how was he supposed to tell that to a boy he saved—a boy he loved like a son—that he murdered someone?"

"I..." Christie trailed off. "I don't know."

Blaster stared at her, studying her. Christie shuddered. He was sizing her up, wondering if it would be better to attack or talk. "Tell me about your parents."

"Huh?" Christie's eyes widened.

"You heard me. Your parents. The ones who disappeared." Blaster kept his gaze even as he met her shocked eyes.

She gaped at him, mouth hanging open. "B-But...why?"

"You miss them, don't you?" Blaster tilted his head to one side. "Maybe talking about them would help."

"I..." She trailed off. Do I trust him? "I have a few memories," she finally whispered, before she could stop herself.

"Tell me about them."

"My father's name is Chris. My mother's name is Maggie," she began, hesitant.

He nodded, prompting her on.

So she continued:

"Chris was the calmest man I ever knew. He hardly ever got mad. He was always calm and cool, and he mostly raised me. He trained me and made sure I knew how to fend for myself. Dad taught me everything I know.

"He was also a huge fan of hair gel. He applied it every morning, slicking his pale blond hair back and putting on a white suit—even at home." She smiled to herself. "When he doesn't have hair gel applied, his hair's more of a mess than Michael's.

"Speaking of Michael, my mom Maggie mostly raised him. She had lots of nursemaids to help her. Mom was a fiery woman, who never backed down from a challenge. She also had the messiest mass of tangled red hair you'd ever see. People were always amazed that she and Dad got along, let alone got together at all. But Dad liked the way Mom would challenge and tease him; she didn't take him as seriously as everybody else did. Dad was one of Uncle Danes' best agents, but he was actually also one of the biggest goofs. Danes knows this 'cause he grew up with them. For awhile Mom and Dad went away, and that's when Danes was still friends with Damon. Mom and Dad were training a lot, but they were also taking a break from the whole mission stuff. Danes let them go, of course.

"That's when they got married and Mom later gave birth to me. A few years later, Michael was born in the same year as Ross. We stayed close as a family, and my parents agreed we should start training at an early age. My parents weren't forceful—although sometimes I did disagree with them—usually with my mom; but they did everything because they just knew that we'd need to defend ourselves in the future. See, Dad was good with visions. He'd get vague visions of the future, and one night he woke up saying he had had a vision of him and Maggie disappearing. It was clear someone was after them.

"So Dad left Michael and I with Danes, and they went into hiding. One night, they really did disappear. This was after the whole Damon ordeal, and Danes was really stressed. He tried to find my parents, but he had to give up eventually. And then..." She trailed off, finding the words that had been coming so easily were now choking her.

Blaster eyed her carefully. He walked over to her and as tears began to appear in her eyes, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he whispered.

Christie broke down in tears. "Shit," she cursed.

"You shouldn't swear. It's not good for someone with your pretty complexion," Blaster teased gently, using the words Vix had used on him.***

"Says you. You were just swearing earlier." Christie wiped her eyes. She paused. "I can't believe I'm crying in front of you."

Blaster smiled. He went back to the counter, picked up the picture frame and returned. Then he handed it to her.

Christie stared down at the backside. "Why are you giving this to me?" she managed to say.

"Flip it over."

She slowly did as she was told, trying to think of what could possibly be on the other side. What she did see took her breath away. It was two photos in one. The bigger one in the back, had Damon with the Ruffs and Vix. The smaller one in front of the larger picture, tucked away in the corner, showed Damon with Sylvie, Tyrone, Shamus, and Danes. "Best Friends Forever" alongside a heart, was scrawled onto it with faded pink gel pen. The handwriting was beautiful; flowing and curly. "Sylvie's handwriting," she breathed. "Danes has this one too."

Sylvie was sitting in the front, beautiful features even in a black-and-white photograph. She sat with Tyrone on his left, one arm wrapped around his, the other arm doing bunny ears behind his head. Tyrone had his arms crossed, smirking—probably unaware of the bunny ears. Damon was in the middle in the back, grinning as he also did bunny ears, placing them close to Tyrone's head. Shamus looked worried, sitting on Tyrone's right side, but he was smiling as he held up meeker bunny ears. Danes was behind Tyrone, and he had an eyebrow raised, arms crossed across his chest. One precarious hand doing bunny ears hung lazily over Tyrone's head.

She then studied the picture with an older Damon. He was smiling, standing behind a row of seven boys. First, there was Brick with his arms folded and his red eyes lazy. Then there was Boomer, grinning like he was the happiest boy in the world, doing bunny ears on both Brick and Butch. Butch was smirking, his tongue poking out, eyebrow raised. Both Brick and Butch's attempts at coolness had been ruined by Boomer. Braker was beside Butch, fingers pulling his lips upwards in a silly grin as his tongue lolled out. Two fingers were hooked around each bottom eyelid, pulling it down. His eyeballs didn't match. Blaster was beside Braker, smiling and laughing, cheeks flushed and rosy with joy. Bandit was last, eyes in mid-roll as he sighed, also smiling.

"...Family," Christie finally said.

He wrapped his hand over hers, making her fingers curl around the frame. "Take it with you. Bring it back someday, but take it for now. Study it when you're not sure about Damon. Maybe you can help us crack the case."

Snapping out of it, Christie took a step back. "He killed Tyrone. He started a war. He caused my parents to vanish. He used Vix as a weapon. He was a horrible man. There's nothing more to it." But she didn't let go of the picture.

Blaster frowned. "I wouldn't say for sure. We Ruffs will still be trying to prove his innocence, but maybe you can prove his guilt. If you're right and we're wrong, then we'll cease our support of Damon."

Christie didn't reply, instead staring at the photo. She brushed her fingers against the cracked glass. The sight of a smiling Blaster, something she'd never seen before, reminded her that the Ruffs had a life outside of the war. They had their own beliefs and thoughts. "...Fine," she eventually answered.

"Great." Blaster smiled, then paused. He held his hand out. "And my phone, please."

Christie hesitated, and he seemed to notice.

"I'm not going to blame you; not this time. Not anymore today. Just please, give it back. I know you have it. Nothing of real value is on it, except what's valuable to me. And who can live without their phones these days?" he remarked.

She sighed, realizing he was right. She reached into her bag and pulled the phone out, handing it to him.

He smiled. "Glad to see you're still reasonable." He unlocked it, looking for something. When he found it, he held the phone up for her to see. "I took a picture of some of the photos in the photo albums Damon put together. Look, here's Vix."

It showed a younger Vix, shy and embarrassed, waving wildly at the camera so that his arm was a blur. He was wearing PJ's that resembled a fox, the hood pulled over his head. His free hand was grabbing at the hood, trying to pull it lower. The hood had eyes and nose and ears to resemble a fox.

Christie smiled. "He was actually—"

"—Cute back then," finished Blaster.

Then they stared at one another and laughed.

When they were done, Blaster walked to the window. "Next time we see each other, we'll be enemies again. Maybe we'll even be on the battlefield."

"We've always been enemies."

"But I think we reached a mutual understanding of some kind today," he answered, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "Ciao." Then he was gone.

Christie stared back down at the photo in her hand. She thought of Vix in his fox PJ's. Caressing the picture frame gently, Christie's lips twitched upwards just a little.

Blaster's right...for once.

Flames burst around him, causing him to breathe heavily. Air wasn't getting to his lungs. The fire was suffocating him. He looked down at his hands, shuddering to see burn marks. Bits of flesh had been ripped away to reveal bloody meat beneath, but for the most part he was still whole. Blood covered a lot of his body.

Twisting so that he could see the area better, he called out for someone. His cry echoed all around him, and he shrank back in fear. Something wasn't right. Besides the fire and the blood, he could sense presences all around him.

But there was no one there.

As if to answer his confusion, the flames erupted into grinning faces. They giggled in amusement at the lost and confused boy before them. "Who's there?" he cried.

The fire's giggles reached an all-time high, and a curtain of flames appeared in front of him. Silhouettes hid behind the wall of fire, and he watched in shock as it parted. Two people seemed to float out, battered and burnt much worse than he was.

"Mom, Dad," he whispered in his shock.

"You did this," they cooed, reaching blackened and reddened arms out toward him.

"No... No!" he cried. He turned to run, but he couldn't get very far. "Leave me alone!"

"You did this," they chanted again, as if they were incapable of saying anything else. The fire was screaming with laughter now. "You did this." Their voices were growing higher—more singsongy.

He struggled against their hold, but their iron grips held fast. "Please, leave me alone! Let me go!" he sobbed.

His mother held his face up, caressing it with bloody fingers. Her fingers were loose, looking like they were ready to fall from her hand any second. Her palm rubbed against his grimy cheek, a wicked smile on her burnt face. "You did this," she cooed gently, one of her hands reaching up to his eye.

He gasped as he felt fingers dig into his eye socket. They dug deep, before ripping out his eye. Blood spurted from the newfound hole as he began to scream. He screamed from the fiery pain, and the fact that it wouldn't go away. He clawed desperately at his face as he watched his mother hold his eyeball out toward him, taunting him. "You did this," she continued to purr.

"You did this," his father echoed, his tone more gruff but also eerily calm. He was still holding onto him with a tight grip. His fingers dug into his son's arms. His father turned him around so that he could see the flames, and the flames glowed until he could see their reflection. He couldn't feel the missing eye, but it still stung. He could only feel a humongous numbing pain where the eye should've been.

They were one mismatched family, looking as if they were posing for a family portrait. But they were all injured, and his parents looked like zombies without eyes. Maggots crawled on their skin and their smiles hung inhumanly on their faces. His mother had one hand up, showcasing the eye she'd stolen from her son.

He struggled against them, sobbing and crying. His missing eye cried blood.

Above him, he could hear whispers of his name. This voice was sweet, but it was drowned out by the screeching, laughing flames whenever he tried to call back to it. "Vix...? Vix, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay," he gulped, tears and blood running down his cheeks.

His father forced Vix's head back, humming as he said, "You did this" again and again. He held one hand against Vix's neck, a long finger with long, claw-like nails pressing against the young boy's skin. His father curled his fingers into a fist until only the index finger remained, long and pointy and black with grime. It dug deep into Vix's neck.

"Please, don't," cried the little boy.

"You did this."

And then the nail began to cut until blood welled up from the wound.

*(A/N: Reference to chapter 10!)

**(A/N: Reference to chapter 9!)

***(A/N: Reference to chapter 36!)

ME: I'm done. *throws hands into air* Done, I tell you. So Blossom's gonna try and get Brick's memories back, Christie is making a deal with Blaster, Vix is having nightmares, and the greens are preparing for a *cough* "date" *cough cough* Oh, and this is like, 15000 words.

BRAKER: *plays music, everyone's dancing*

BUTCH: *appraoches me* What was with the break?

ME: It hasn't been that long! I took a break 'cause I've just transitioned into a new semester at school with new classes. I was also competing over on DeviantART for a Valentines Day contest. They gave us a template and we had to make Valentines cards out of them with interesting pick-up lines. I won second. I also won Ultimate Shipper, which went to the person with the most entries. I tried to make all of my entries unique. I was competing against someone who uploaded 28 entries, so I uploaded 30 just in time to win.

BRICK: ...Jesus.

ME: I wasn't planning on going for the Ultimate Shipper prize at first! I just decided to go for it later because I ended up going too far to just back down.

BRICK: Still. Jesus.

ME: Anyway, hopefully Vix's nightmares weren't too bad for you guys! Although if they creeped you out, then that means I accomplished something. If they made you cry and now your parents hate me for life, I'm sorry. But that probably most likely won't happen. *sweat-drop* ...Right?

BLOSSOM: *shakes head* Read and review please.

BUBBLES: And then we get to look forward to fluff next chapter!

BRAKER: C'mon, guys! Onto the dance floor! Let's get this part rocking and rolling! *grins from DJ booth*

ME: Braker's right; let's enjoy ourselves. Bye, guys! Don't forge to review! *starts dancing*