Alright, everyone. Moving on, next we have Butch. After this we'll get Brick's POV and then the story will resume its pace.

Hope these characterizations are on point. As always, leave a review! Feedback makes the updates faster and more frequent ;)

Act 1 Part 3. POV- Butch

Baron of Berserk

Butch loved that title. In fact, he loved pretty much everything there was to being a Rowdyruff Boy. Who the heck didn't want superpowers? Heat vision, super strength, shield generation, speed, prowess, invincibility, dashing good looks? Okay, so he wasn't technically 'invincible' and good looks weren't a super power but then again it might as well have been.

Not for nothing but he considered himself the handsomest in the group by far and Brick always said he never lacked confidence.

You just think with your fists and not your head...idiot

Brick's familiar barb flicked in and out of his head like a candle. Yeah, he liked to fight. So what? Everyone did. And whoever didn't, they were stupid. He was the muscle of their little trio and relished in the role. Where would Brick and Boomer be without him? The blond wasn't tough enough to make it on his own for five minutes. And his older brother? All his schemes would fall flat on their face if he wasn't there with a fist in hand. It sometimes made him wonder…

What if I was the leader?

There were times, in private moments, dark moments where Butch highly resented Brick constantly ordering him around like some kind of...slave wasn't the right word, was it? What was the right word? Well in any case, he wasn't happy about it. If it were up to him, he'd simply fly around and destroy things whenever he felt the urge. The only thing preventing him from doing so was Brick's temper. One learned very quickly never to get on the wrong side of it. That's when 'The Bludgeoner' came out. When that happened...you'd best run.

Pfft, whatever. As long as he had enough buildings to destroy and walls to graffiti, he'd live. He wasn't some naive idiot like Boomer. Butch liked to keep it simple. And simply put, fighting was his language, the way magic happened, a constant surge of adrenaline akin to a high that never stopped until you hit the ground or your opponent.

That's what neither one of his brothers understood. But one person did.

Buttercup

He hated the bratty, obnoxious Powerpuff for sure but Brick wasn't entirely wrong. Teasing and pushing the raven haired hero brought out something no one else could give him: a challenge, a real round in the ring. He wasn't fooled. Despite the saintly image those girls liked to portray, Buttercup Utonium was in a class of her own. She hated rules, limitations, and unlike most normies (people without superpowers, he wondered just how they got around without flying) she understood the same concept: fighting wasn't reaction, it was action. An art form with its own set of codes and boundaries. And when the green Puff aimed her fist at you, you'd best be ready. That's what he respected deep down, though he'd never say it aloud.

Another thing Butch would never admit out loud: when it was all said and done, when the gloves were dropped and the bell rung, there was nothing else to hang onto, nothing besides a vague kind of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He hated it. Because truth be told, there was little else to do besides that. It defined him in a way that steadily grew inescapable.

That's why, outside of blowing things up, he never liked to take anything all that seriously. He could let Boomer stick his head in the clouds and Brick decide whatever dastardly deed they did next. He loved practical jokes, teasing, and poking whoever happened to be around, usually that meant his little brother. But even around town, he liked to drop water balloons full of mayonnaise, throw cherry bombs in toilets, slap people with wet towels, and rearrange letters on signs to spell out rude words. And why not? Seeing all those idiots react in horror and disgust just made him laugh harder.

A couple of times, whenever the rare opportunity presented itself, he loved nothing more than to sneak off and watch basketball, football, baseball, hockey, any sport with a modicum of competition, violence, or a combination thereof.

Townsville lacked a professional sports team, though it had plenty of high school ones. Even so, Butch would wander and sneak into the closest restaurant, sports venue, bar, or wherever, sit down, enjoy a few sodas and lose himself into the screen of whatever happened to be on. Except for gymnastics, that stupid crap was for sissies. At times, he'd hang back and avoid drawing any attention, other times bribing barkeeps (ironically with money they'd stolen) or even forcing them point blank to accept his admittance through intimidation alone.

Physically eight but having been only alive for three years, he took in a little something about every sport; any moron could pick up on it. Defense always bested great offense in the Super Bowl, the pick and roll was the single most effective weapon in basketball, great pitchers were rarer than great hitters, one could never rely solely on their first line when trying to win a hockey game, etc.

Above all, Butch admired those that did anything it took to win and stomped on their enemies while doing it. Those included in that group included Michael Jordan, Derek Jeter, Ray Lewis, Eric Lindros, etc. but by far the granddaddy of them all? Mike Tyson. Boxing was in a class of its own and so was Iron Mike. Ferocious and unrelenting, he could see the power behind every punch, every bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, all the energy expended with every blow...he understood. He knew the drive, the passion it took to do battle with people who sought to knock your head sideways each and every second. So what if he nearly bit a guy's ear off? That just meant he was willing to go farther than anyone else to win. It was the ultimate fight!

Goody! Goody! Ultimate Fight!

Tyson, Jordan, Jeter, Lewis...they were all crouching tigers, lying in wait until the perfect moment to deliver the killing blow. Butch wanted to know what that felt like. To be in front of thousands of people with some type of ball in his hands where the final moment of the game depended on his ability to perform. It felt...thrilling, indescribable. Even if he could only see it in his dreams, they were as close as he could get to that sensation.

Because no matter how many fights, pranks, or sports games the Baron of Berserk got himself into, it couldn't mask one cruel fact of life.

Their lives sucked. And the only way to deal with it?

Keep on punching and pretend otherwise.

Next up...Brick. The Bludgeoner himself

~The Wasp