CHAPTER 40: A PRESENT FROM A WOLF
ME: Someone asked me if this is a prequel or a sequel to "Hung Up on You", and the answer to that would be no, it's really not. Still, I like throwing in references from HUOY into this story. *winks* And "Call of the Wolves" could possibly get a prequel/sequel/side-stories if I ever felt like it.
BRICK: Ugh, no thanks.
ME: Anyway, you guys will probably like this chapter.
BUTCH: *raises eyebrow* And why would that be?
ME: *shrugs* There's information, fluff, drama, and surprise.
BUTCH: Okaaaay then.
ME: The war has been announced, but it'll officially start between characters next chapter! At least, that's my estimate.
BRICK: So what the hell are we doing this chapter? Wasting time?
ME: No! Look, I already said what this chapter contains: information, fluff—
BRICK: Yeah, yeah—whatever.
ME: Humph! Boomer, disclaimer please!
BOOMER: Uhh...Kuku only owns the story and her own OC's, which I'm 100% sure you all know by now.
ME: It doesn't hurt to remind them. Oh and can you believe we're at chapter 40? And unlike HUOY, we've still got some ways to go. I have no idea when this story will end now. *laughs nervously*
Chapter 40: A Present from a Wolf
Christie pressed her hand against the glass, staring into the large tubes. The glass was fairly opaque, but she could make out the faint outline of her parents' face. Her stomach did a flip as her heart began hurting. It had been so long since she'd gazed upon their faces.
"Are you okay?" Danes asked, standing nearby. He seemed to be going through a couple of files.
Christie shivered, tears pricking at her eyes. "I-I'm fine," she lied.
Danes glanced at her and frowned, but he could only see her rigid back. He sighed and looked back down at the files in his hands. "We'll save them; I promise," he murmured quietly.
"...Are we going to tell anyone?"
"Are you comfortable with telling anyone right now?"
"No, not yet," sighed Christie.
Danes shuffled his papers. "Whenever you're ready, I'll let the others know. We need to make the first move in this war. However, I think Michael deserves to know."
"Does he really?" She wiped the glass, staring at her father's face inside the tube. "This'll really hurt him. It hurts me pretty badly—that I'm sure of. I can only imagine how Michael will react."
"I'm sorry, Christie."
"It's not fair." She felt herself shaking, and she hated that she was doing it. She slammed her fist down upon the hard glass. "It's not fair!"
Her uncle looked up in surprise. "Christie...I know this is hard for you—"
"It's not just hard!" She spun around and glared at him, her eyes flashing as tears spilled down her cheeks. "My parents could die, and I can't do anything. I feel weak, small, useless." She stopped and rubbed her arm. "I hate this feeling."
Danes walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know what it feels like. How do you think I felt after Tyrone died?"
Realizing that he had a point, Christie relaxed under his hold. "I'm sorry, Uncle."
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "It's okay, dear. I know this is a hard thing for you to be going through, but you need to remember that they're my family too. I know how it feels, but both of us have to stay strong for our people."
Christie bit her lip to try and keep the tears from coming again. "Uncle Danes...?"
"Yes?"
"...I'm scared," she whispered, wrapping her arms around her uncle.
Danes felt surprise grip him again, but he recovered quickly, gently putting his own arms around his niece. "I know, dear," he murmured. "But it'll be okay. I promise. I'll lead us to victory, and then this'll all be over."
Christie squeezed the fabric of his clothing, narrowing eyes that were still wet with tears. "Yes...and then they'll pay for what they've done."
"B-Blossom...?" he stammered, eyes wide in shock. His mind filtered between clearness and fogginess; with him struggling just to remember her name.
"Ughhh... Brick, is that you? Where are we?" Blossom sat up, wearing nothing but a pale white-pink dress that seemed to glow in the darkness. It was like light was radiating off of her, warming his cold body.
"We're..." He stopped and glanced around him, hesitating. "I think we're in my head."
Blossom rubbed her eyes. "Oh, okay—wait, what!?" Her gaze snapped upward as she scrambled to get up. "Are you saying—I'm in your brain, Brick!?"
Brick took a step back. "Yeah, basically—"
"How is this possible?" Blossom rubbed her temples, staring at the ground. Water pooled around their feet, and her reflection stared back at her. "This shouldn't be possible. I can't—how can—it's not possible for someone to be in another's head!"
"I don't know, Blossom... Lots of things prove to be possible. You have superpowers, after all."
She shook her head. "But this...this doesn't make any sense! Science..." She stopped herself and looked at him.
Brick swallowed. "Um...Blossom...?" She had the look of someone starving.
"Brick...do you have your memories back?" she asked lowly. When he didn't reply immediately, she raised her voice. "Do you have your memories back!?"
"I-I don't know." He stumbled backwards, feet splashing through the water. "It's...It's all so confusing right now—I'm getting flashes of things, but I don't know..."
Blossom's face fell, and she collapsed onto her knees, a splash following. "Then I've failed. I found the wrong frequency, and somehow I got myself in your head."
"I don't know, Bloss—maybe you haven't failed yet. I-I can see some things. Some things from before I got amnesia, and some things from after it happened." Brick was struggling to draw up memories. "Maybe you were close."
"But that doesn't explain why I'm here," she answered.
"I don't know the answer to that," he admitted. "But...But I remember something important. It's just vague..."
"What? What was it?" Blossom looked up eagerly, hungry for any information that could help her decipher the meaning behind their current situation.
"It was that mirror." Brick pointed at the foggy glass a little ways off. "That was the exit."
Blossom scrambled back upwards, staggering on her weak legs. "Then let's go and look at it," she suggested.
Brick hesitated and grabbed her arm. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I think it's not working right now."
"Well, we need to take a chance, don't we?" She pulled her arm free and picked her way toward the mirror. "I don't know how anything works here."
"It's my head. I-I should know how some things work."
"Your brain's pretty gloomy," Blossom remarked, looking around. "Everything's dark, and this water stretches as far as the eye can see."
"I think it's just like this whenever I'm unconscious. Somehow I got in touch with it before my amnesia—and I got in touch with it right now—just this time you're with me."
Blossom shook her head. "I still don't know how this is all possible."
"Some things will surprise you," Brick replied. He pulled ahead and touched the mirror. A jolt of static passed through him. And this time it wasn't the same as when the mirror had taken him home. This time it sent him flying backwards. "Ow!" he yelped, rubbing his sore butt. "Yeah, I don't think it's working."
His companion stared at the mirror, studying it. "This is fascinating," she remarked. She waved her hand over the glass and the fog inside shifted, but didn't leave. "Was it this unclear when you were here last?"
Brick got up and stared at it. "No, it was as clear as—well, glass. I could see my reflection in it and everything."
Blossom's hand hovered over the mirror as she froze. "So you mean...something happened?"
"Maybe it was the helmet. Or maybe something happened during my amnesia. Maybe I got out of my unconsciousness wrong when I went through the mirror and something got messed up," Brick stated.
Blossom stared at him.
"What...?" he asked, shrugging.
"It's amazing. You're like...a cross between amnesiac-Brick and not-amnesiac-Brick," she said.
He had to pause for a moment. "Wait, you're right!"
"Does that mean anything?" asked Blossom.
"I don't know. Maybe," he replied. "That's all I can say right now. Anything is a possibility. Anything is a 'maybe'."
"Ugh, I don't like this. This isn't how Science works."
"But we're inside my head. My head works however my brain wants to work," Brick responded.
"I know, but this shouldn't be possible in the first place! Science dictates that it shouldn't be possible for me to get inside your head," Blossom insisted.
"Let's just forget about Science and logic for today," Brick suggested, bending down to study the mirror. He waved his hand over it and could feel static tingle beneath his fingers. His eyes brightened when he spotted something. "I think it's cracked."
"How are we supposed to fix a broken magical mirror!?" demanded Blossom, stomping her foot. The water sloshed around her bare toes.
Brick frowned. She wasn't taking it well, and he didn't blame her. Blossom's always about logic, he thought. She's always been like this. Sometimes it's really annoying. When he felt that annoyance tingle inside of him, he gasped and clamped a hand over his mouth.
"What...? What is it?" questioned Blossom, turning her pink eyes on him.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" he mumbled from behind his fingers.
"What's going on?" she demanded.
Brick removed his hand from his mouth. "I just thought something that I'd never think of with amnesia!"
"What was it?"
"I-I thought..." Brick hesitated. "I thought your panicking was a little...well, annoying."
Blossom frowned. "...That's certainly something the old Brick would think."
"You mean...you're not mad?"
"Of course I'm mad!" Blossom waved it off. "But I'm more concerned about other things right now. Besides..." She looked up and smiled slightly. "At least this means that the old Brick's pretty dominant in you after all, so we're close to bringing you back."
Brick managed to smile back. "Thanks. And I'm sorry about thinking—"
"Ehh, it's fine. I'll admit that my little fit wasn't helping anything." Blossom shook her head and glanced back at the mirror. "Come on, let's figure out how to fix this darn thing. The mist inside seems to move whenever you hover your hand over the glass."
"Here, let me." Brick reached over her and waved his fingers. The gray clouds within the mirror swirled slightly.
Blossom blushed at the contact, him standing over her with his arm right beside her face and over her shoulder. But she snapped out of it and stared at the glass. "Use both hands," she instructed. "I'll do the same."
Brick, who'd been standing on tiptoes, splashed back down on his heels and reached the other arm over Blossom's shoulders too. Without standing on his tiptoes, his arms rested right on top of her shoulders. Blossom tried to ignore this fact as she reached out with her own hands. They held their hands above different areas of the mirror, causing the clouds to be pushed back constantly. When the clouds moved down a little, a hand was waiting. When they moved to the left a little, a hand was waiting.
Soon the heavier fog had all been moved to the sides of the mirror, and a thinner mist lingered in its place. Two red orbs flashed from within, glowing menacingly.
"What's that?" gasped Blossom.
"I-I don't know," Brick admitted, staring at the two red dots inside the mist. He narrowed his eyes. "It...looks like eyes?"
Blossom frowned. "Is it your reflection?"
"No, it can't be... Wouldn't we see your eyes too then?" Brick shook his head.
"True... So what do you think it is, then?" Blossom pressed.
"I think it's...me!" gasped Brick.
"Brick, I thought we just established that this isn't your reflection. Which one is—?"
"No, you don't get it! I mean, me, as in another part of me! Not like me me, but like a different me from my me who's acting to his—or my—own accord, trapped in the mirror!" He paused. "Does that make sense?"
"No, it doesn't make sense!" Blossom threw her hands into the air. "What does this all mean? What logic does this run on!?"
"Blossom, your hands!" Brick cried. The fog began to overtake the mirror again.
"Oops, sorry!" Blossom quickly held her hands out again, and the fog immediately recoiled with a hissing, shrieking noise.
Brick stared at the leftover mist that still cloaked the mirror. "How are we supposed to get rid of this?" he wondered aloud.
"I don't know if we can dispel it, but maybe..." Blossom paused thoughtfully. "Maybe we can get the other you to help us!"
"It's worth a shot," sighed Brick. He kept his hands hovering over the glass, but he called out for his other self. "It's no use," he finally said after a few tries.
"Keep trying!" Blossom waved her hands, keeping it over the mirror. "We need his help!"
The other Brick finally seemed to take notice of them when Brick used his laser eye-beams to light up his eyes. After getting a compliment from Blossom (who mentioned that amnesiac Brick hadn't been able to access his powers properly), the other Brick floated toward them. They could make out the faint outline of his silhouetted body, but otherwise his glowing red eyes were the only thing they could see.
"Brick, we need your help!" Brick said loudly, feeling weird about calling for himself.
The other Brick seemed to understand, holding up two blurry hands. He planted it above the mirror, and more mist was forced away. Soon they could see some of his features, although it was hardly clear. The other Brick was fuzzy-looking beneath the thin clouds that was swirling away inside the mirror. It was like someone had rubbed away his edges until only a soft blend of colour with the gray mist remained.
Brick and Blossom stared at this person, who looked so tired and weak, standing before them. His shoulders sagged and his eyes had bags underneath. The new Brick opened his mouth to speak and said something weakly, his voice drowned out by the glass. Only vague rasps reached Blossom and Brick's ears.
"What?" asked Brick.
"Speak louder!" Blossom added, cupping her hands around her mouth. She quickly placed her hands back over the glass as soon as she finished.
The other Brick seemed to sag further, looking weaker and weaker by the second. He tried again, and this time they not only listened to his louder attempt, they also tried to read his lips. By the time Brick and Blossom thought they had figured out the second Brick's message, they were ready to panic. The Brick behind the glass was calling this out:
"Help...me..."
Buttercup laughed as Butch slammed his fist on the counter. "Again!" he demanded, holding out a nickel.
The man running the booth smiled lazily, taking the coin. "Give it up, man."
"Third time's the charm," Butch insisted, grabbing hold of the ball. He aimed at the stack of cups lining the wall, his tongue poking out in his concentration. Then he threw it. The ball bounced into the centre with a clink before rolling off.
"Ha!" the man said.
"No!" Butch said. "One last time, I swear."
"Butch, please. It's not even worth it. Don't spend all your money on this one game—" Princess piped up, but was quickly shushed.
"I'm trying to concentrate!" Butch protested.
"Come on, let's go," Mitch said impatiently, wrapping his arm around Princess' shoulders. He didn't look too happy about Butch dismissing her like that.
"No!" protested Butch. "I am winning something and that's it."
"Hey, there's no reason to get so worked up over this," Buttercup stated, walking over and placing a hand on Butch's shoulder.
He shrugged it off. "My pride's at stake!"
"Oh please. This isn't even worth your man-pride," Buttercup said, rolling her eyes.
"My pride is worth it!" he insisted, aiming again. The man flipped the coin in his hand mockingly, smirking.
"You win this and you get your money back," he announced, obviously thinking that Butch would fail again.
The green Ruff perked up and smirked. He aimed. His tongue poked out. But when he threw the ball, he used extra force and watched as it smashed into one of the cups near the bottom of the middle. It wobbled, before everything came crashing down with a loud thump.
Everyone stared in stunned silence, and a grin blossomed on Butch's face. "I WIN!" he screeched victoriously, throwing his hands into the air. He was five-years-old again, hyper and excitable. The man behind the booth had his mouth dropped open, and the nickel he'd thrown into the air fell to the floor. It rolled under the booth and out, knocking into Butch's shoe. He picked it up and held his hand out. "My money, please," he said slyly.
The man sucked in a breath through his lips, grumbling as he handed back the nickels he'd collected from Butch. "Congratulations," he hissed from between clenched teeth.
Butch's smirk was still wide. He turned excitedly to Buttercup, looking like a little kid on Christmas. "We get to pick a prize! Pick something! Anything!"
Surprised that Butch was letting her choose, Buttercup ran her gaze through the collection of stuffies hanging from the booth's ceiling. Finally, she pointed at a lime-green monkey. "How's about that one?"
"Great!" Butch breathed, pointing at the same monkey. "Dude, get that one and hurry!"
The man snatched it off its rack, holding it out to Buttercup begrudgingly. "Here you go. Your boyfriend's sure excited about winning," he added bitterly. "He's really rubbing it in."
"It's just the way he is." Buttercup smiled and took the stuffy, before she paused and stared at the man. "Hey, wait! He isn't my boyfriend."
"Yeah, yeah—whatever, lady." He waved it off. "You guys won. Instead of rubbing it in, you can move on now. Please."
Buttercup narrowed her eyes at the man, and when he turned his back, she immaturely stuck her tongue out at him. Then she marched off. Butch bounced after her, still whooping. Princess and Mitch followed, both of them holding hands and laughing.
Buttercup glanced back at Butch, watching as he spread his happiness through his words. It was enough to make her smile, and her grip around the stuffy tightened just a little.
Butch caught up to her and clapped his hand down on her shoulder, catching her by surprise. He didn't seem to notice though, because he smirked and said, "Am I good or what?"
She recovered quickly. "Hate to burst your bubble, but it took you a couple of tries," she responded.
"Hey, don't rain on my parade, man!" Butch chuckled in response. "But I got all my money back and I won you the stuffy, didn't I?"
"Yeah... Yeah, you did." She gave him a small smile. "Thanks."
Blinking in surprise, his cheeks warmed up and he slowed down. "Uh, no problem. Or I mean, it was a bit of a problem, but I got out of the pickle."
Buttercup laughed.
Princess let out a squeal. "Guys, guys! We have to go there!" She waved her hand at a machine. It had a claw and was filled with stuffies.
"Ugh, those things are always rigged for you to lose," Butch protested.
"What, you think you can't win a prize from that?" Buttercup raised an eyebrow.
"Hell yeah I can." Butch flew over to it, with Mitch right behind. He cracked his knuckles. "Let's do this."
"You go, girl," Buttercup teased.
Mitch and Butch started the machine, trying to get a prize. Mitch picked up a pink tiger. "I've got this," he said. But then it fell from the claw. "Shit!" After a couple of attempts, Mitch won Princess a tiara. Butch tried only once and won.
"What was your motivation, man?" Mitch asked as they waited for the machine to give up the prize. "How'd you do it in one go?"
"I was trying to win something for someone I care about."
"So was I," huffed Mitch, glancing back at Princess, who was now wearing the tiara.
She giggled, at Butch and Mitch's words. "I know you care about me, Mitch."
"Ah-ha, it's a bracelet!" Butch exclaimed, picking up the box from the machine's slot. He handed the box to Buttercup. "See? I'm good." He paused when he saw her surprised expression. "What's wrong, BC? Don't tell me you don't like it. That was not easy to win."
Buttercup shook her head, thinking back to what he'd said to Mitch: "I was trying to win something for someone I care about."
"No, it's fine." Buttercup took it out of the box it had come in and put it around her wrist. It was a silver chain with green-and-black dog tags, along with a silver key and a green flower charm. "It's perfect."
It wasn't until later that Butch had realized he'd called Buttercup "someone he cared about" and that she had probably heard. The thought made him a little embarrassed. I hope she doesn't read too deeply into the words.
They went to get some more snacks. As they munched on cotton candy, Butch caught sight of a game that was supposed to test his strength. He skidded to a stop. "We need to try this!"
Mitch stopped at the game. "How much to play, old man?"
Princess grinned excitedly. Buttercup didn't bat an eye.
"Five dollars for a try," the man replied in a gruff voice, "the pink bunny there is the second-place prize. You only have to make it to the red section to get it. The game had three sections: yellow, orange, then red. "Hit the bell and you get this as a grand prize." The man pointed to a life-sized poster of a bunny.
"Lame," Butch remarked, staring at the poster. He and Mitch handed the man five dollars for a try.
Mitch went first. He rubbed his hands together before picking up the hammer. Then he swung it down, smashing it into the button. The key jumped upwards, landing in the orange section. The man didn't hesitate and handed Mitch the stuffed bunny prize for second place. Mitch casually gave it to Princess, who was squealing and nearly jumping in joy.
Butch went next. "Watch the master at work," he announced. He put barely any of his super-strength into hammering the button. The key shot up in a flash and almost dented the bell, letting out a loud ring. Butch's lips twisted into an unsatisfied frown as the man handed him the "grand" prize.
Buttercup took it but didn't look impressed. "You can keep it," she said to Butch.
Butch felt indignation enter his system. "Again," he demanded, giving the man another five dollars bill.
The man looked confused, but granted him another try.
He put even less of his powers into it, but again he hit the bell. He tried another time, then another, each time hitting the bell, even without using his powers.
"Dude, give it up," Buttercup called from behind him. She was beginning to sound impatient.
But it was no longer about the stuffed bunny; for Butch it was now a matter of pride.
He was then down to his last five dollar bill.
If he didn't get it this time he would have to call it quits.
Taking a deep breath, he handed it to the man. "Alright, fourth time's the charm." He stepped up to the game like all the other times with the hammer in his hand, preparing himself for the outcome, hoping it wouldn't be the same as all the others. But this time, Butch had a plan.
He brought the hammer over his head and swung it down like he did every time before that, but this time he stopped a few inches above the button.
The sheer force of the hammer sent the metal key flying into the red zone.
Butch held my breath as he waited for the ding of the bell…but it never came.
"Second place prize!" the man called. He handed the bunny to Buttercup, whom he'd guessed the prize was for by then.
Butch walked over to Buttercup, proud with himself, but even prouder when she smirked at him.
"Alright, Butch. Thanks—I'm surprised at how strong you are," she remarked.
Butch smirked and flexed his muscles. "I know, right? I probably would've broken the bell if I used all of my powers."
Buttercup laughed. "Yeah, sure."
He grinned, before spotting another booth. "Hey, it's a shooter game for two! Come on, Mitch—let's haul ass!"
"Hey!" exclaimed Princess as Mitch was pried from her hold. She let out an annoyed "humph", but smiled as Mitch and Butch ran toward the game.
As they prepared to start shooting, Mitch handed the person behind the booth a dollar. He turned to Butch. "Hey, you seem to be having a really good time."
Butch shrugged. "It's been a lot of fun."
"So...are you and Buttercup...?" Mitch trailed off.
Butch froze and turned to stare blankly at his friend. "Dude, are you crazy? 'Course we're not!"
Mitch raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? 'Cause you two seem to be—"
"We're cool. And that's all! We're just friends. Hell, sometimes I feel like we're still enemies. Buttercup's temper is unpredictable as fuck, yo."
"Yeah, well that's women for you." Mitch chuckled. "I'm not trying to be sexist, but sometimes women are really hard to read."
"Yeah." Butch glanced down at the fake gun in his hands. "Still, she's cool when she's not acting like a she-demon."
"I know, bro. I used to have a crush on her, remember?"
Butch felt his face heat up. "Oh, right."
"Hey, don't worry about it. I'm with Princess now. And you and Buttercup are a match—"
"Oh shut up!" Butch smacked his friend's arm. "It's not like that."
Mitch fired his gun and hit close to the centre of the target. He was allowed to choose a stuffy that was second-largest on the scale. He chose a stuffed cat with a tiara for Princess. "Okay, okay. I get it," he laughed as he held the stuffy up. "But I can tell you care about her."
"Well, yeah. She's still my friend, even if she can be a bitch." Butch shot his gun and hit the centre of the target.
"Ooh, nice one!" Mitch exclaimed.
Butch chose a giant green stuffed elephant for Buttercup almost without thinking, subconsciously knowing that she'd like it. "Thanks." He glanced back at the green Puff. I do care about her. But I care about all of my friends. I don't want them in danger of the potential war. And that's all there is to it...right?
Meanwhile, Buttercup jogged over to Princess, and the redhead turned to her. "They're such dorks."
"Yeah, total boneheads," Buttercup agreed, watching as the boys chatted, Butch smacking Mitch as he was picking out a prize.
"You know... Butch seems to really like you," Princess commented. "Maybe—"
Buttercup blushed. "No! Whatever you're thinking of, it's not true. It's cool between us, and that's about it. We still fight a lot. I doubt he likes me in that way."
Princess shrugged. "Well, he seems to really care about you. I mean, he always tries to protect you."
"He says he's protecting me. But he hides a lot of stuff from me. I don't think he fully trusts me."
"Buttercup, sometimes some things just need to stay hidden. I'm not saying that he's in the right to be so secretive, but what if he has his reasons? What if him telling you everything would put you in danger? Butch isn't the type to forgive himself for that," Princess replied.
"He's also the type to not think that far. Whatever the Ruffs are hiding, it can't be a big deal. It's not like they're in a war or something. I can't imagine anything that I can't handle. You know what I've been through, Princess! I've kicked your butt multiple times," stated Buttercup.
Princess sniffed. "Don't remind me." She paused. "Still, what if it's true? Maybe Butch knows your strength better than you think. Sometimes we overestimate our own power." The fluffy-haired redhead rubbed her arm. "I know I did."
"Oh, Princess..." Buttercup reached out to her, but then she dropped her arm. She wasn't used to comforting people. "I'm sorry."
"Nah, it's okay. I was a brat and it was my fault for being a brat. I guess I was just kinda lonely sometimes. Just because you have a lot of money doesn't mean you have a lot of happiness." Princess smiled. "Anyway, I'm just saying that maybe Butch has your best interests at heart. You should go easier on him. Consider his reasons."
"I would if he'd tell me them."
Princess placed a reassuring hand on Buttercup's shoulder. "Girl, let me tell you something. Boys can be stupid idiots who don't know what the heck they're doing. Sometimes they're awful and oblivious and they underestimate us." Buttercup looked down, but Princess patted her shoulder so the green Puff looked back up. "But other times, they're sweet and strong and always there to protect us. They can be smart and kind. Sometimes they know us better than we know ourselves. They know where our weaknesses and strengths are. They know when we need to stop pushing ourselves. There are times they take it too far, but they have good intentions."
Buttercup bit the inside of her cheek, her gaze lingering on her friend's face.
"Sometimes, all they want is to keep us safe. Sometimes, they just really care about us." Princess removed her hand and put it on top of Buttercup's, which was holding the stuffy. She patted the hand. "Maybe you should consider which of those two sound like Butch."
Then Mitch called for Princess. "Hey, babe, look what I won you!"
And she called back, "Okay, coming!" She turned to look at Buttercup and smiled. "I'm not telling you how to feel. But...maybe he's the latter." Then she hurried off.
Buttercup followed at a slower pace, her grip still tight around the stuffy for support. When Butch caught sight of her and grinned, holding up another stuffy he'd won for her, she forced herself to smile back.
Maybe he is the latter.
"Uncle Slicer, what do you want for dinner tonight?"
His uncle grunted from the table. "I don't care." The response rumbled from the man's throat like rocks tumbling through smooth, chocolate-lava.
He frowned and rolled his sky-blue eyes, tying an apron on. It was blue like his gaze, with stripes. It said: "I cook on a DJ table with WUBS!" It wasn't true, of course, but that was the point of the apron. He'd gotten it at a convention awhile back, and it had a picture of DJ-Pon3 aka Vinyl Scratch on it.
The boy fixed the skull clip in his hair before turning on the stove. DJ, you're going to have a lot to work before Dad comes back, he thought to himself, gently pouring some oil into the pan. It sizzled. He took out the greens and dumped them in, starting to cook them.
Behind him, at the kitchen table, his Uncle Slicer was busy reading the paper.
DJ wished his uncle was more talkative. And that he was home more often. It was bad enough having a father who was constantly travelling thanks to work, and having an uncle who was hardly home as a caretaker didn't make it much better. DJ sighed as the pan and its contents cooked.
His phone started ringing, playing an obnoxious song that had been edited to be a little too high-pitched. Deth Jackson Jr picked up and shrugged his phone between his ear and his shoulder, asking an impatient "Hello?"
"Hey, DJ—I think something's up with Christie." It was Michael, and he sounded concerned.
"So what do you want me to do about it?" replied Deth, flipping the pan's contents.
Michael paused. "I know Christie turned down your confession once upon a time—"
"Hey, whoa! Dude, I told you I got over that." DJ stopped his flipping and narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular. "She's pretty close to Vix now anyway."
"I don't know about that—she and Vix aren't talking again. I know this was their normal awhile back, but they suddenly started talking a lot so this abrupt change back to their past relationship just feels...off."
DJ snorted. "I wonder what Vix did to scare her off. The guy's not the friendliest dude around. Still, I am definitely over Christie. That was just a first love, little boy crush thing. Right now I've got my eyes set on someone else." He grinned slightly. "And I think you know who."
"Bliss, right?" He could hear Michael's exasperated tone. "Still, don't you think Christie's behaviour is a little weird? Danes is acting off too. He seems all stiff and closed off."
"Isn't your uncle always like that?" DJ thought back to Danes' often disapproving stares whenever DJ messed around too much. He wrinkled his nose, turning the fire on the stove down to medium. "He's never been happy-go-lucky or some other shit like that."
"But he's acting even weirder than usual!" Michael protested. "He said I could skip training today."
Deth frowned. "Well, that sounds a little weird..."
"Look, I'm gonna call an emergency meeting. Ross and Sidney are already going. I'm going to call Darkai after you. Do you think you can make it?"
"Maybe. I have to eat dinner first. And technically I have a class in the next two hours—"
"Just come as soon as you can and stay as long as you can!" Michael said. "I'll see you later. This is freaking me out." Then he hung up."
Deth pressed the hang up button, frowning again as he turned the stove off and carried the cooked greens to the table. Slicer set down his paper and stared at the dish before him. "It looks good," he rumbled.
"Thanks." DJ wiped his hands on his apron, before untying it and hanging it up. "Let's eat!"
Slicer got a bowl and scooped cooked rice into it, before getting chopsticks and sitting back down. DJ did the same, reaching over and taking a piece of cooked fish. He'd gone for the Chinese-style meal for the day. His stomach rumbled. Despite all the food at Danes' party earlier, DJ was still hungry. It felt good eating with family...or what little family was with him at the moment.
The kitchen was the only room with the light on at the moment. It was modern and slick, with a shiny white table and round, simplistic black chairs with black and white pillows. The floor was made up of white tiles, and there was a counter that was black with a white top. The stove was basically the same as the counter. Cupboards were black. The family room was close by, shrouded in darkness with a large TV, black sofas, and soft carpeting. Black and white bookcases lined the white walls, which had black and white decorations pasted on them. Basically most of the stuff in Deth Jackson's house was either black or white.
Slicer tore open a take-out box of cooked duck meat they'd gotten at a Chinese supermarket, setting it down on the table. He'd been a little rough—some of the box was damaged, but it was still standing. Slicer was known to be super strong. It was said he could slice a tree in half with little effort—and that he had taken a dozen guys down with nothing but a bat while they had all carried guns. DJ wasn't sure how many of the stories surrounding his uncle were true (it didn't help that Slicer neither confirmed or denied them), but he didn't doubt his uncle's strength.
After dinner, Deth and Slicer cleared the table. Then they washed the dishes before DJ was driven to Michael's house in the limo. He really wasn't as rich as Michael (for one, his family didn't hire a giant staff of maids and butlers), but his family had their money. Getting of the car, DJ said goodbye to his uncle, gripping the strap to his bag a little tighter. Then he walked through the iron gates, down the small road, and rang the doorbell to Michael's house.
The door swung open immediately and DJ was met with a bowing butler, who said thickly, "Master Michael's been expecting you."
"Yeah, thanks for the memo, dude." DJ dumped his cotton jacket into the man's arms. "Hang that up for me, will you? 'Kay, thanks, bye." Then he slipped off.
Finding his way into Michael's playroom was easy. It was their designated meeting area. It just took him a few minutes to get there. Ross was obviously there already, considering how he lived with Michael at the moment. Sidney had also arrived. DJ looked around. "No Darkai yet?" he asked. When Michael shook his head, Deth did a fist pump. "Whoo, I'm not the last one here!"
"DJ, this is serious," Michael said, folding his arms and frowning. "I want to know why my sister's acting all weird."
"Yeah, yeah. I know." DJ waved his hand dismissively. "Save the speech for when Darkai gets here, 'kay?"
Michael's frown grew and he shook his head. "You can be so annoying sometimes."
"I try," DJ admitted, flashing a grin. He jumped onto the sofa, lying down so that his head was on the floor and his legs were in the air. He kicked his feet. "I'm just trying to lighten the atmosphere around here. It's so gloomy."
"Not just here," Michael responded. "Everyone in this house seems to be on edge. The fact that Danes and Christie are both acting weird doesn't help."
"Maybe Danes wants to start the war," DJ suggested.
"Haha very funny, DJ. My uncle would have let us known by now if he wanted to wage war," Michael protested.
Just as Darkai opened the door to the playroom, the PA clicked on: "Everyone to the foyer, please."
DJ smirked, pointing up at the PA. "That enough of an announcement for possible war for ya?"
Michael let out a frustrated growl and stomped his foot, not because he was mad at his friend (at least, not completely). Mostly, he was mad that DJ might be right. Michael hated being wrong. "C'mon, let's move our butts to the foyer," he grumbled.
"Way ahead of you," Deth called, already swinging out the door.
Darkai paused. "Did I miss something?" he murmured, following his friends. Ross shrugged back.
"I hope nothing's wrong," Sidney fretted.
"Maybe Danes really is gonna wage the war now," Ross said. He spotted Vix flying out of his room and dashing for the foyer. "It seems like everyone has the same idea."
Christie was the only one who was nowhere to be seen as everyone in the mansion hurried to the foyer, as instructed by the head of the household, Danes. Shamus caught up to his nephew. Vix joined them. Smithers fell into step with them too.
When they got there, Danes stood at the front of the room, in front of the TV. A wall made up of windows stood beside him, curtains half-drawn. Dark clouds swirled and thunder rumbled outside. Danes looked shadowed against the black shy, his face serious. He was holding a phone. "I've called Michael's friends' families... I wasn't exactly expecting them to be already here." He raised an eyebrow.
Michael hesitated. "I...wanted to talk to them, Uncle."
"Yeah, he wanted to know why Ch—" DJ didn't get to finish, as Michael kicked him in the shin. "Ow!" he muttered.
Danes' eyebrow rose again but he said nothing. He turned to a staircase nearby, which Christie was slowly descending. Her hands shook but her body was strangely still, her eyes hidden behind bangs. She was still wearing her party dress but with her hair down. The thunder that illuminated her pale dress made her look like a ghost. Her feet were bare, causing her to glide into the foyer in complete silence. One eye appeared behind the bangs as she scanned the room. Then Christie made her way to Danes and whispered something into his ear, which he nodded in agreement with.
When she pulled away, Michael stared at his sister. "Christie...?" he whispered dully.
She heard him, glancing at her brother. But she didn't answer.
Vix stepped forward. "What's your problem, Christie?" he hissed. "I know you're not...happy with me but—" He grabbed her wrist and pulled her aside, making urgent gestures while saying things that Michael couldn't hear.
He didn't have to wait long though, because Christie slapped Vix's hand away. "Shut up! Stay away from me. You wouldn't understand." Then she turned her back on him.
Michael felt shivers tingle down his spine. His sister never acted like this. She was either the sweetest angel you'd know, or the most hellish demon you'd ever face. Never had he known her to be angry in a non-screaming, non-fighting manner though. But here she was, angry and sulking. His sister didn't sulk. Or at least, she didn't used to sulk.
When the families had gathered, all worried and concerned, there was a lot of talking going on. Danes held up his hands for silence and they immediately fell quiet, all curious about the "big news".
Ross glanced at Sydney, who flushed red and pointedly turned away when she noticed his staring.
"You're probably all wondering why I gathered you here tonight in such short notice," Danes announced.
"Understatement of the year, much?" DJ coughed. He got elbowed in the ribs by Michael.
"As you all know, we've been on the brink of war for a long time now. And I think that tonight we will finally wage it."
"Why? What happened tonight?" Sidney's peace-loving father called out.
Danes paused. "Please, everyone. This will be a shock, but I need everyone to be calm."
Everyone tried to be calm. Everyone held their breaths. Everyone waited with impatience.
Danes cleared his throat. "Maybe...Christie would like to share this part."
She got out of the crowd and joined her uncle, holding her hand up. "Hello everyone, I have news for you."
Everyone leaned forward in anticipation.
"...Danes has found Michael's and my parents, Maggie and Chris."
Then everyone erupted into loud, startled chatter.
Michael, meanwhile, stood in the centre of it all with his eyes wide in shock.
Ross groaned and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples beneath curly brown hair. "How did this happen?"
"I don't know. Those monsters have made their move. They're terrible creatures. I can't believe they did this. Did you see the hurt on Michael's face? Christie isn't very happy either." Disgusted, Shamus was busy pacing back and forth in the library. His nephew sat in a comfy chair, eyes following his uncle's movements.
But I'm friends with some of them. Ross thought of the Ruffs and he shuddered. Surely they wouldn't have hurt Michael's parents? It must've been someone else.
Shamus looked angry and hurt at the same time. "This is a disaster," he claimed.
There was a knock on the door, and Vix stuck his head in. "Hello? Could I talk to Shamus?"
"Ah, Vix!" Shamus looked up. "You're just in time. Do you know why they would've done this?"
"Why would I know?" Vix closed the door behind him, and it creaked slowly shut. "I'm a traitor to them, remember? Just 'cause I used to be Damon's 'son' doesn't mean I still talk to them." His voice dripped with a hint of hidden pain.
"You're right; I'm sorry. I'm just a little muddled right now. Ugh, I can't believe the war is starting. This is far too stressful..." Shamus started pacing again.
Vix shrugged. "Well, if it's of any comfort—"
Ross tuned out, too tired to listen anymore. His head was spinning and hurting. Rubbing his temples one last time, Ross felt his eyes begin to droop shut...
Flashback
"Uncle...? Why are you creeping around the house?" asked a young Ross, stopping behind the man before him.
His uncle turned, startled. "Ross! You should be in bed!"
"I can't sleep," Ross said. "What's wrong, Uncle Shamus?"
Shamus glanced up the grand staircase, looking nervous. "I have a bad feeling, Ross."
"Are you sure? Maybe you just had a nightmare." Yawning, the young boy rubbed his eyes sleepily.
"Heh, maybe." Shamus smiled weakly. "Go back to bed, Rossie. I'll take care of it."
"No way! I wanna see." Despite being sleepy, Ross was in no mood to turn down an adventure.
"I don't know if that's such a good idea..."
"Adventure! Adventure!" chanted Ross.
Shamus sighed, finally giving in. "Okay, but stick close."
Doing as he was told, Ross followed Shamus up the grand old staircase to the black door of his father's room.
Shamus stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. Then he knocked lightly. There was no reply. Hesitating, Shamus reached for the doorknob and turned it.
Uncle, it's rude to open the door without the person's consent, thought Ross, who wanted to say the words out loud. But the door had already been opened and Shamus looked inside. It was dark.
Then...it happened.
Shamus froze in the doorway, eyes stretched wide in horror. The room was dark and it smelled badly. Ross was suddenly confused and scared, as well as curious. He tried to look around his uncle, and while Shamus tried to block his view...
Ross saw it.
The unnaturally splayed out body of his father on the floor, with wide, lifeless eyes. There was a puddle of blood, and the figure of Damon was standing above the body. Damon was like a second uncle to Ross, always super sweet and caring. Which is why it was so hard to believe he had murderous intents. But there he was—Damon had a dark expression on his face, which seemed to contain...regret.
Ross screamed in terror and Damon, as if just noticing them and snapping out of a trance, looked up. His eyes widened in shock. "Guys, no—"
Ross fell to his knees, wailing as tears poured down his cheeks. He didn't really understand what was going on, but he felt scared. His father didn't look right, lying like that on the ground.
"Traitor! You're a traitor, Damon! How could you do this!? I thought we were friends!" yelled Shamus.
"Shamus, please! I'm sorry—" Damon stepped back.
Shamus stepped back. "Sorry!? Would sorry fix this!? You killed Tyrone!"
Ross took a deep breath and looked up, his sight still blurry from the tears. Killed. He recognized the word. It felt unnatural on his tongue. Damon killed my father.
"Shamus, Ross—I'm so sorry." Damon's eyes were wide.
"Sorry doesn't fix anything!" screamed Shamus, tears in his eyes.
The sight was unnatural. It was all so surreal. Ross shuddered, staring at his father's still, lifeless body. "Daddy?" he whispered, half-expecting the man to get up and laugh; to tell him that it was all just some stupid prank. But he didn't. His dad remained on the floor, staring blankly at nothing. "Dad!" shouted Ross.
"You've destroyed a boy's innocence! His family! Everyone's trust! You've broken the truce!" screamed Shamus.
Damon stared at Ross, who was still crying. "Oh Ross..." He walked over to the boy. "I didn't mean for it to be like this... I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Tyrone wasn't supposed to..." He trailed off.
Ross cowered back, trembling with wide eyes at the man he'd once played with and called his best friend.
Damon reached out and stroked Ross' hair. "I would never hurt your father. Please believe me."
"But you already have," Ross whispered, his voice shaking.
Damon froze in shock, his hand above Ross' head.
"Get away from the boy, you psychopathic monster!" screeched Shamus, ramming his body into Damon.
Staggering backwards, Damon grabbed onto a bookshelf and looked up, holding his hands out. "Shamus, no—please don't do this to me—"
"What? Do what you did to Tyrone?" Shamus snapped.
"I don't want to fight you," Damon plead, desperation in his voice.
"You didn't seem to have a problem killing Tyrone!" yelled Shamus, grabbing his former friend's wrist and smashing his knee into the man's stomach.
Damon gasped in pain and grabbed the wall. "No, it's not like that!" he wheezed.
"Not like what? Tyrone's dead, for God's sake! What else is there for you to lie about!?" Shamus demanded, punching Damon in the face. He proceeded to kick him.
"Please, give me a second to remember! Tyrone was saying things, things about Sylvie—"
Shamus froze. "So that's it? You killed him because you're still jealous over Sylvie?" He shoved Damon aside. "That's a terrible excuse! I was jealous. I got over it!"
"Shamus, I would never hurt anyone over jealousy," Damon cried.
"But you did." Shamus' voice was steely as he violently knocked Damon into the wall and hit him—hard. "Never in a million years would I have thought you'd be a traitor," Shamus whispered.
The door was slammed open again as Danes appeared. "What's going on!?" he demanded. He stopped when he saw Tyrone's body, more of his men entering the room. "Oh no."
"Dad!" screamed Ross, crawling toward the body and shaking it. His hands and pants became stained with blood. "This isn't funny! Get up, Dad!" He broke down, slumping over Tyrone's body, sobbing. "Please, Dad..."
Danes turned to Damon. "You," he hissed.
Damon's eyes widened and he leaped out the window, escaping.
"Don't let him get away!" yelled Danes, pointing at the window. He and the other men ran after Damon.
Shamus was about to go too, when Ross grabbed his sleeve. "Uncle?" he mumbled.
"What is it, my boy?" Shamus bent down to look at Ross, whose face was wet with tears.
"Don't go," he whispered. "Please don't go. I don't want to be alone."
"Oh Ross. You poor, poor boy." Shamus closed his eyes, which trickled with his own tears. He wrapped his arms around Ross and whispered, "It's okay, child. It's okay. Your dad's in a better place now. He's with your mother now."
"I don't want him to be with Mommy. I want him to be with me," whimpered Ross, bawling.
Shamus sucked in a deep breath. "I know. I know it hurts, but it's okay. He'll always be in your heart, just like your mother. He'll always be watching after you."
Ross cried deep into the night, ashamed of his tears and scared for the future. Ross had refused to let anyone take his father's body away, and he refused to leave the dead man's side.
Shamus stayed and comforted Ross the entire night, rocking the young boy to sleep. Ross cried tears screamed far into the night, screams of lost innocence. Shamus hadn't said anything; just held Ross in his arms.
Before he'd fallen asleep, his uncle had murmured, "Be strong, Rossie. We'll get Damon back for what he's done. I promise."
End Flashback*
Ross awoke with a jolt, his eyes snapping open. Panting, he looked around. Shamus and Vix were staring at him.
"Are you alright?" Shamus asked.
Ross felt the tears come. Years of suppressing the memories. Years of trying to forget. Years of pretending. Years of pushing a lid down on that night jumped back at him, and the memories crashed down upon him. Ross started crying.
"Oh shit," Vix said.
"Ross! Are you okay?" Shamus hurried over to his nephew, hugging Ross.
"I just remembered the night Dad died," Ross mumbled, wiping uselessly at his wet eyes.
Shamus and Vix shared looks. Shamus turned back to Ross. "We'll get them back for this, I promise. Everything will be fine."
"Yeah, we don't want Michael and Christie to face the same thing you, me, and Darkai all had to face," Vix added. He cast his gaze away, rubbing his arm. "And I had to face it twice."
Ross took a deep, shuddering breath. Vix was right. He'd lost his parental figures twice, but he hardly ever showed weakness. Ross wanted to be just as strong. He squeezed his uncle before pulling away. "I have to go out for a bit," he announced quietly.
"Ah, so he did get the present."
He smiled, staring out of the cabin window. Trees stared back at him. Charred remains surrounded him, the area still smelling of smoke. A bookshelf was slightly unattached to the wall like a door, leading to another room—a study.
"I was getting worried it would've gotten lost in the mail." Drumming his fingers against the journal pages on the table near him, he sipped at his coffee. "Well, I guess that means he'll start the war now. Danes never was a patient, tolerating man."
He glanced down at the journal pages and smiled again. "I wonder if Michael and Christie liked my little gift. It was certainly a present from a wolf."
The journal pages that stared back at him, scrawled with many words, were signed "Damon".
*(A/N: Reference to chapter 24!)
ME: Well, another chapter done! See ya all later!
BLOSSOM: Wait...what does that last part mean?
ME: *halfway out the door* Bye! Don't forget to review!
BLOSSOM: Kuku, wait!
ME: Later! *door slams shut*
BLOSSOM: KUKU! Urghhh!
BUBBLES: Umm...leave a review?