CHAPTER 42: WHAT WOLVES THINK
BUBBLES: So what happens this chapter?
ME: Uhh...you and Boomer finally talk again?
BOOMER & BUBBLES: ...Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
ME: You'll see! Anyway, some fun stuff happens this chapter. Remember to review!
Chapter 42: What Wolves Think
Deth Jackson Jr checked his watch. He tapped his foot against the shiny, bare floor of the airport. He glared impatiently at the clock on the wall. "He should be here by now," DJ complained.
"Patience, Deth," his uncle Slicer said from nearby, his tone low and quiet.
DJ grunted and flopped down into the seat beside his uncle. "I don't have time for this. I'm being interviewed in a few hours. I don't want to be late when it's my house I'm being interviewed at!"
"Patience," Slicer murmured again, and then he said nothing.
DJ swallowed a groan and leaned his head back, staring up at the high ceiling. He tried to ignore the ticking of the clock on the wall near him. There was people all around him, staring at phones and laptops and reading and sleeping as they sat or walked around Townsville's airport. DJ himself was waiting for someone important.
He was waiting for his father.
It was already Friday, and school was over. DJ had been allowed to skip the last class in order to come get his father (Slicer called the office and told them his nephew was sick). The young boy considered going to look if the plane had come in yet, but he knew it'd be useless. After all, he would've heard the rumbling of plane engines.
Eight more minutes passed and DJ perked up, glancing out the window. A plane was landing outside! And it was the one from Italy to Townsville, USA. Relieved, he jumped up and grabbed his burly uncle's arm, yanking. "Come on!"
His uncle said nothing and let himself be pulled along. They clustered around the pathway that had been set up for the plane's passengers, which were blocked off. People waiting outside the path watched for someone they knew, and a few held up signs. DJ waited impatiently, his heartbeat ticking like the clock on the wall. He had to wait awhile, but soon a long line of people pooled out into the open from a door.
Standing on his tiptoes, Deth tried to search the sea of faces for his father's calm and serene yet stern expression, sharp suit and tie, and long black hair. It didn't take long. His father's fancy black suit made him stick out like a sore thumb. "DAD!" he yelled, his voice almost drowned out by the crowd.
His father noticed though, waving. DJ didn't wave back. He was still feeling impatient. Deth Jackson Sr dragged a wheeled suitcase along until he reached the exit of the pathway. DJ ran to meet his father. "Dad, you're finally here! You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!" his son exclaimed breathlessly.
"Sorry, il figlio. The plane was delayed a little." His father smiled charmingly, and a few women glanced his way.
Slicer joined him, nodding at the small wheeled suitcase. "You got any other luggage?" he asked his brother gruffly.
Deth Jackson Sr nodded. "Two more suitcases. A black one and a brown one. They weren't carry-ons though." He and Slicer shared a knowing look.
"We have to be quick," DJ said, already heading for baggage claim.
"Alright, il figlio. We'll hurry," his father agreed, walking after his son. "How has school been?"
"Fine," grunted DJ.
"And your classes?"
"Fine," he sighed back.
"And the war?"
This time Deth paused. But then he recovered and quickened his pace. "Fine."
"I heard that a couple people were killed recently," his father commented.
"Well they're certainly not alive anymore," DJ shot back, checking his expensive silver watch again. He scowled. They were wasting time.
The trio made it to baggage claim in record time thanks to Deth Jr, and they waited while the suitcases rolled out on a circular conveyer belt. When Deth Sr pointed out his two suitcases, Slicer grabbed both of them and carried them off. They didn't need a cart with Slicer around.
The family hurried to their black limo, and Slicer hurled the suitcases into the trunk before slamming it shut. DJ clambered into the back seat as his father sat in the front and Slicer slid behind the wheel. The engine revved to life and a few minutes of silent driving passed before Deth Sr turned to his son.
"Why are you so eager to get home?"
"Don't tell me you forgot," DJ scowled back in frustration. "Interview? Dinner? Girl coming over? I have to prepare."
"Ah, sì. Pardon my memory," his father said, not sounding all that apologetic.
DJ rolled his eyes and leaned back in his leather seat. "How was Italy, papà?"
"Fine," Deth Sr replied. "We had some trouble from a rival but we silenced them. I got a few deals through too. Oh, and the company's fine too. The only trouble I had was a drop in stocks value, but I quickly straightened that out."
"Hmm." Deth Jr glanced out the window and watched the highway roll by, with car after car speeding past. "Sounds fascinating."
"Oh, it is. And DJ, I brought some stuff back for you."
This made DJ smile a little. "You always do."
When they finally got home, Deth Jackson Jr slammed the door to the car shut and hurried toward their house.
"Aren't you going to help out?" his father called.
"Can't! Gotta plan dinner," DJ responded, fumbling with his keys.
"You shouldn't make your poor uncle do all the heavy labour," his father scolded.
Slicer grunted from the limo's trunk. "I can handle it."
DJ nodded thankfully and slid the key into the lock. It clicked and he pulled the door open, keeping it open for his father and uncle. Then he bounded inside eagerly, hurrying from the large hallways and living room to the kitchen.
The kitchen was just as black-and-white as usual, calm and serene. The scent of leftovers carried into the air, but it was faint. DJ heard his uncle and father enter the house. "Ah, it's good to be home," his father said.
Nearly flying toward the pantry, Deth Jr grabbed food and prepared to cook it. But first, he had some other stuff to do. So he set all the stuff down on the table and then he walked up the patterned black-and-white stairs, which looked like piano keys. He stopped in front of his father. "Welcome home, Dad." Then he was gone.
His father glanced up at the top of the stairs and smiled slightly. "It's good to be back."
Meanwhile, Deth was busy fumbling with his phone. It was getting close to 5:00, which was the time he and his guest had agreed on for the dinner and interview. He checked his messages. There were texts from Michael and Ross, both asking about his father's return. Michael again wondered about his sister Christie's strange behaviour.
DJ responded quickly and pulled a small red box from his desk drawer. Staring at it, he sighed a little. Then he put it back.
Twenty minutes later, dinner was cooked and cooling down on the table when the doorbell rang. Deth Jr sprang from his seat and pulled the black doors open, smiling charismatically at the girl who stood on his porch. She looked prettier than usual in faded blue jeans and an orange tank-top underneath a thin, white jacket. Her hair was tied back in a long, luscious ponytail and her orange eyes sparkled in the light. "Hi, DJ," she greeted shyly.
"Hello, Bliss!" He took a step back. "Do come in." He bowed. DJ himself was wearing a thin black sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up and ripped jeans. As usual, his skull hair clip adorned his hair. In bold white letters, his sweatshirt said "I'm Batty for You", was decorated with a few red roses, and an image of a skull.
When the orange-eyed Powerpuff Girl entered the house, she looked around in wonder. "Wow... It's very...black-and-white."
"Yeah." DJ glanced at the kitchen door, where his father appeared in the doorframe.
"Hello," Deth Sr greeted, crossing the room to shake hands with Bliss. "You must be the female guest DJ has been talking about. He's been very excited, you know." His father smiled charmingly, having changed from his suit into something less formal. Now he was wearing a black button-up and blacker pants.
"O-Oh, it's very nice to meet you, sir," Bliss managed to say.
"Call me Deth Sr," DJ's father replied kindly. "Any friend of my son's is a friend of mine."
Deth Jr grabbed Bliss' wrist and pulled her past his father. "Come on, dinner's ready!"
Her eyes widened and she blushed, but she let herself be pulled away. Deth Sr smiled and followed into the kitchen, where an ensemble of delectable aromas wrapped around them.
DJ crossed the room and grabbed a chair, pulling it out for Bliss. He smiled at her. "Please, take a seat."
"Thank you," Bliss replied, smiling shyly. She looked a little nervous as she sat down, and Deth Jr slid down next to her.
Deth Sr sat across from her with Slicer beside him. The dishes were already set out on the table, and it was clear DJ had worked extra hard to have the food look, and probably taste, delicious. He had made pot roast, mashed potatoes, a potato salad, steak, breadsticks, chicken wings and legs, burgers and fries, with spice cake and ice cream sundaes for dessert.
"Wow, it all looks so yummy," remarked Bliss, eyeing the table hungrily. She held back though, clearly too shy to actually start gobbling food down.
"Thank you. Help yourself," DJ encouraged, taking a chicken wing to his plate, where a burger and fries lay already waiting. He poured ketchup onto his plate before passing it around.
Bliss squeezed some of the ketchup into her plate and handed it nervously to Slicer, who looked like a hulking mountain across from her. He took it silently, nodding in acknowledgement. She looked down, dipping a fry in the ketchup.
Deth Sr then took the bottle and after squeezing out some ketchup, he got up and got glasses. Setting them down around the table, he poured them all some fruit punch. "So, Bliss," he began calmly, "if I remember correctly, you are a Powerpuff Girl, aren't you?"
"Yeah," she responded, briefly forgetting her shyness as she added, "What gave me away? My eyes?" She blinked her unusual orange orbs.
"No." Deth Sr smiled almost slyly, ready for the joke with a reply of his own: "Your charm."
Bliss' eyes widened briefly and her cheeks flushed pink as she glanced down at her lap. "Thank you," she mumbled through her lips, for both the compliment and the drink he'd poured.
"Dad, stop embarrassing her," DJ protested, rolling his sky-blue eyes. "You're making her uncomfortable."
"I-I'm fine," Bliss stammered back, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear.
DJ frowned, taking a cookie from a plate on the table. He'd made it as an appetizer and a snack. Holding it out to her, Deth smiled. "Here."
"Ah! Thanks!" Bliss looked surprised as she took the small round cookie. "My favourite snack!"
"I know," he replied. "That's why I baked them. Remember Sidney? He taught all of us awhile back. I mean, my friends. I of course had already learned how to make cookies ages ago. But I did learn a new recipe that day."
Bliss bit into the cookie and smiled. "It tastes delicious! Thank you, DJ."
"No problem." He leaned back in his seat, taking a bite from his burger. "I hope you like the rest of the meal too."
She eyed the dishes laid out in front of her. "Yeah...I have a feeling I will." She gave him a smile.
He blinked in surprise, feeling a small amount of shyness bloom inside of him. The feeling was unnatural and unfamiliar to DJ, who hardly ever felt shy around a girl. "Heh, yeah." He smiled back.
They ate in comfortable silence after that, which was often broken by conversations and small talk. When dinner was over, DJ cleared the dishes before leading Bliss up the piano-keys-like stairs and to his room. "Welcome," he exclaimed dramatically, bowing with a flourish as he opened the black-and-white door.
Bliss stepped in and looked around, mesmerized by all that she saw. It was a clean, modern-looking room. A large rectangular bed with white and black pillows sat in the far side, smack in the middle of the wall. A painting hung above it in a black frame, depicting a woman and a man and a little boy. There was a black-and-white nightstand, a black-and-white desk, and black-and-white lamps. The wall was divided into two non-surprising colours: black on top and white on bottom. A black closet and a white bookshelf sat on the other side, with a black beanie and a white beanie. There were two desks; one mostly white and the other mostly black. Pictures and posters dotted the room, adding a splash of colour. A large window with black-and-white checkered silk curtains stared back at them by the desk, and the floor was creamy-white carpet. A black square rug was placed near the bed.
"It's so...dark," she finally remarked, still looking around. The Powerpuff Girl turned to him. "Don't you ever feel like you want more...colour in your life?"
He looked around too as if he was seeing his room for the first time. He was silent for a few moments, but then he said, "I guess I do sometimes."
"I'll help you redecorate sometime," Bliss suggested with a warm smile. Then she quickly added, "I mean, not that this place doesn't look great! It's super spacey and really cool. I just think it needs some colour. Like, just a little bit. I'll help you."
DJ couldn't help it; he laughed. He hadn't laughed genuinely in a long time. Sometimes he did it because something was funny or he did it sarcastically, but sometimes it wasn't very happy. It was often laced with a hollow emptiness. But right then and there, his laugh sounded pretty genuine, and he surprised even himself. The main thing was, DJ didn't even know why he was laughing. He smiled kindly at Bliss. She had gotten him to truly laugh. Thank you, he whispered to himself. Out loud he said, "Sure you can help me redecorate a little bit." Glancing around, he asked, "What colours would be good?"
"Red to keep with the dark colour scheme. But we can venture out too; into sky-blue—like your eyes—" Bliss turned to face him and felt the air leave her throat. His eyes were blue. They were pale but bright, blank like the vast sky but sparkling like sapphires. They were like the sea reflecting sunlight on a warm, sunny day. She felt sucked in.
"And?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow. He looked amused.
Bliss blushed and glanced down at her feet. "And...gold or silver to add some more of this glamorous elegance; but it'd be less modern and more colourful. Maybe some green. Like potted plants. And then"—she hesitated—"maybe even pink."
Deth blinked. Then he smiled. Then he started laughing again. "As you say, interior designer Bliss."
"I'm serious! A splash of pink would fit you. Like, a pink plastic flamingo tucked into the pot of a palm tree near the window. Wouldn't that look nice?" she said defensively.
DJ walked over to her, standing close. He was only a little taller than her, his soft black hair falling into those "stupidly entrancing eyes", as Bliss had chosen to describe them as. "I'm not saying it wouldn't look nice. And yeah, pink flamingos would be cool."
"Good." She stared up at him, trying to hide her uneasiness and her embarrassment. Bliss didn't understand why DJ unnerved her so. She hung out with boys all the time. So why is this one so hard to talk to?
He raised an eyebrow at her defiant tone. Then he smirked, another small laugh escaping his lips. He leaned in close, his minty breath near her ear. "And maybe even a splash of orange," he whispered.
Bliss felt shivers tingle down her spine. "Maybe," she agreed in a breathless murmur.
Leaning back, DJ gestured at the beanies nearby. "Let's sit down," he suggested, doing exactly that on the black one. Bliss followed his example and sat down too, sitting down on the white one. When she was comfortable, he asked, "So what questions have you prepared for me today?"
"Well, you know I'm interviewing because of all your contributions to the school, right? All your time at clubs and on sports teams. We really appreciate it. You're very talented, DJ."
"Thanks." He folded his arms; oozing an easygoing mood.
"So, first off..." Bliss pulled out a small orange notebook from her bag. She flipped to a page. "I heard that your dad is often away."
"Yeah, business."
"There's"—she hesitated—"rumours that he runs a—mafia—of some sort in Italy. Is this true?" She raised her eyes.
DJ didn't look bothered or disturbed by the question. Instead, he looked relaxed, leaned back in the beanie, eyes hooded. "Hmmm. Maybe." He shrugged.
"Does he or does he not?" Bliss asked again in a moment of defiance.
DJ seemed surprised by her sudden change, but he didn't seem to mind. He grinned. "Let's just say they might be on to something."
Bliss frowned but pushed no further, jotting down Deth's words. "So... I've also heard that you guys have a lot of money. I guess this is true...?"
"Yeah." He looked around, a wistful look on his face. "I guess so."
"And your uncle. Did he really defeat ten men with only a bat?"
DJ turned back to her. "I don't know," he admitted, "there's a lot of rumours surrounding my uncle. I don't ask 'cause he doesn't deny any of them, and nor does he confirm them. There's no point denying his strength though."
Bliss nodded and scribbled his words down.
"But enough about them." DJ suddenly leaned forward, locking his fingers together. "I thought you were here to interview me?" He raised an eyebrow.
Bliss' cheeks flushed pink. He was right. She was just stalling. The hand holding her orange pen shook a little as she took a deep breath. "Umm...right. So...about you..."
"Has the cat gotten your tongue?" He smirked at her.
"Very funny." Bliss glanced out the window. "How would you describe yourself?"
"Friendly. Outgoing. Violent. Talented—I'm sorry but when you're as busy as me with different hobbies, I think you'd be entitled to call yourself this. Nice for the most part." He paused. "Handsome," he added with a smirk.
"Handsome," she repeated. She didn't disagree. "What about your strengths?"
"I'm good at adapting. I'm also good at lots of different things, like piano or violin. I learn quickly. I'm outgoing and tough. My looks aren't half-bad either."
"And your weaknesses?"
"Hmm. My temper, of course. I have violent tendencies sometimes. I'm impatient. I can be brash and rude and even so teasing it might seem sort of cruel. But I don't mean to hurt anyone. Usually."
Bliss nodded and drew her gaze back to the window. "There's a few rumours about you too, y'know."
"Yeah. I know." Satisfied that the subject was now focused onto him, DJ leaned back again.
"Like, girls say that you have an Italian girlfriend in Italy. They say she must be a beauty. Skinny, dark, tall... They say you guys write each other all the time."
Bliss heard a "pfft" and turned to look at him. He was laughing again. The noise was rich and pure. "I'm sorry," he wheezed, "but really? They say that?" When she nodded, DJ paused. "Man, these rumours are outta control. I did know a girl, but we were hardly a couple." Then he smiled at her. "Skinny, dark, and tall, huh?"
Bliss nodded. Everything I'm not.
DJ smirked. "Yeah, I'll admit that's nice in a girl. But...I like someone medium height too. Or even short. Maybe a brunette or just brown hair."
"Oh..." Bliss touched her own brown hair subconsciously.
"Next question?" he prompted gently.
"A-Ah, right! Umm..." She glanced down at her notebook and held back a groan. "Okay, my friend Princess made me ask this. Uhh...do you have a girlfriend? What are you looking for in a girl? I mean, she's already got a boyfriend but she loves knowing this sort of stuff..." Bliss trailed off, her face red.
DJ stifled another laugh. "Okay, let's see. I like...someone with a sense of humour. Who isn't afraid to party or be herself. Someone who'll like me for who I am. Someone who'd like to cook and eat as much as I do. Someone who likes sports but also likes to sit at home and just watch TV shows or something. Someone I can tease and have it be okay. Someone I can trust. I'd like a girl who's open-minded and friendly and outgoing." DJ paused then. "And no, I'm not dating right now. Totally single. I swear." He put his hands up.
Bliss swallowed. That description sort of sounds like...me. She pushed the thought away, fiddling. "And, umm...I heard that you're really busy."
DJ nodded. "Dad's signed me up for a lot of classes. And I sign myself up for a few too. Martial arts, Violin, Piano, Cooking, Swimming, Badminton, Dancing, Art... Just to name a few." He had been counting off of his fingers.
"Wow. That's a lot," she said.
"Yeah, I guess so. But it's what I've known my whole life. I learn to just take it in stride. And y'know, I think my dad just wants to be well-educated. I can't argue with that."
Bliss nodded. "What are your hobbies?"
"Pretty much everything I take a class for," he chuckled. "I like to draw. Read. Watch TV shows. Play music. Dance. Fight. Train. Run. Acting."
"You're very talented."
"I'm very flexible in my interests."
"So...your father's a benefactor of the school, right?" Bliss continued.
DJ nodded. "Mm-hmmm. He thinks that if he can improve the school system, he'll improve me as well."
"And you're on almost every club and sports team. You often lead too," she added.
"What can I say? I like to be part of the community." He rubbed his hands together. "It makes me feel useful, I guess," he confessed. "Playing the lead in Drama Club, or having my poem be published in Writing Club, or having my artwork displayed after Art Club, or scoring the last shot on the Basketball Team... It makes me feel welcome. Less lonely. Important."
Bliss blinked in surprise. "Oh. I didn't realize..."
DJ smirked slightly. "Yeah. Most people don't." His eyes seemed glazed over and even distant. "I don't want to be alone."
Hesitating, she reached out and touched his hand. "You won't be. I'll always be here."
He looked up in surprise but then he smiled. "Thank you."
Bliss blushed and looked back down at her notebook. "A-Anyway, back to the interview. I only have a few more questions left."
"Great. Shoot," he said, making a gun with his fingers and mimicking shooting it for fun.
"I really like to eat. What's your favourite food?"
He smiled easily. "Probably cookies and some of the super cool meals you can cook up out there. There's so much beautiful things about food. Anything can be good. You can make it into anything delicious and share it with those you care about."
Bliss nodded. "I agree." She glanced down again. "And...do you go out often? With friends?"
"All the time." He stretched. "We go hanging out or we go training. Either works."
"Your friends are Michael, Ross, Sidney, Vincent, and Darkai, right?"
"Mm-hmm." DJ's eyes were closed as he continued stretching.
"So why are you guys 'enemies' with the Rowdyruff Boys anyway?"
DJ's eyes popped open. He turned to stare at her in surprise. "Uhh...well, that goes back to a few years. Some stuff happened, we didn't agree with it, they chose not to believe it... We're just on different sides, that's all."
Bliss frowned, finding his answer strangely vague. "DJ, please..."
"That's all," he said firmly.
Bliss looked down. "Oh. Okay."
DJ regretted being so harsh, but he couldn't talk about the war or Damon or Vix. "So...next question?"
"Last question," she replied. She took a deep breath. "Why are you so nice to me?"
Again he looked surprised. "...I like you," he finally said.
Bliss blushed. "But... I'm friends with Braker and the Ruffs. And you don't like them. I don't get it."
"You caught my eye." DJ smirked. "I like you."
"In what way?"
"In the usual way. I just like you."
"But what does that mean?"
"It means I like you."
Bliss swallowed back a groan of frustration, folding her arms. "Alright. Thank you for your time, DJ."
"No problem." He reached out but she pulled her hand back, so he left his own had hovering there briefly before putting it down. He raised an eyebrow. "I've got a question for you now."
"What is it?" Bliss blinked at the boy with the eyes that entranced her so.
"...Would you like to go on a date with me?"
This time it was Bliss' turn to be shocked. "I...what?"
"You heard me," DJ repeated, "will you go on a date with me?"
"I-I don't know... I hardly know you..."
"You've been to my house! Eaten my cooking! Interviewed me! I think you'd know me a bit by now. Besides, a first date would help us get to know each other better. Who knows, maybe we'll really like each other?" he teased. "And I told you, I like you."
Bliss blushed and looked down. After a long moment, she finally said, "Okay."
"Great!" He held his hand out. "Let's shake on it."
She nodded and they shook their hands. He gave hers a squeeze and offered her a warm smile. Bliss blinked, her cheeks feeling rosy and warm. Then she smiled back.
"These calculations are impossible," Blossom sighed, rubbing her eyes. School had just ended, and it was Friday. She could've been home already, enjoying the day before the weekend with her family or friends. But instead, she was still at school, working on calculations for the helmet that she so desperately needed to fix.
It was something that could help Brick. Something that would distract her from the worry and the pain.
Blossom sighed again, staring down at the helmet that had caused all the this trouble. She'd been so close. He had gotten some memories back, but it wasn't enough. The pull into his head had muddled things so much that he slipped in and out of amnesia. And at that very moment, Brick was still stuck in his head, despite it being a few days later.
Blossom had started staying at the Ruffs house just to be able to work on her project to help Brick, even going as far to sleep over sometimes. She had gotten Brick's room since he was unconscious in Mojo's lab, and no one moved him because Mojo pointed out that it was more convenient that way. Blossom felt so weird waking up in the morning in a nearly unfamiliar bed, in dark, red covers instead of her own pink ones. Brick's room was so different from her own, and yet it did have similarities. It just felt strange and wrong when she got out of his bed and walked across his room to his window and then to his closet to get her bag of clothing and then going to his washroom to brush her teeth.
The room had a lingering scent of Brick's cologne. It was stronger in the bathroom.
Blossom sucked in a deep breath and tried to shake the memory of Brick's bedroom from her mind. She was just about to start working on her sheet of paper again, when suddenly a shadow fell over her, causing her to jump.
"What are you working on?"
She spun around, wide-eyed, meeting the furrowed brow and emerald-green eyes of the person before her.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He held his hands up and pulled a chair out, sitting down. He glanced at the sheet of paper and Blossom's hand instinctively curled over the sheet. "What are you working on?" he asked again.
"Calculations." Blossom swallowed.
"May I see?" He held his hand out patiently. "Please?"
Blossom hesitated. The person sitting beside her was someone smart, and she trusted him. So why do I have this bad feeling in my stomach? She couldn't help but wonder, but she held the paper out nonetheless.
He took it and scanned the scribbled notes, which was different from Blossom's usual neat handwriting. Numbers and equations were jumbled on the page, squashed together. Harsh scribbles crossed out any equations that had failed to work out. "You've been working hard," he finally commented.
"Yes." Blossom nodded, tapping her fingers against the table as she waited impatiently to get her paper back.
Finally, he held it back out her. Before she could grab it though, he pointed at an equation. "You actually made a miscalculation here. You forgot to carry the one."
"No!" cried Blossom, not disagreeing with him, but rather crying it out in panic. "Then this doesn't work either!"
"What is this project for, anyway?" He looked concerned.
"It's just... It's something very important to me." Blossom licked her lips and stared at the sheet. A lot of scribbled out equations stared back at her—too many.
He was silent for awhile before he spoke again. "I'll help," he finally decided.
Blossom glanced up in surprise. "Oh no, you don't have to—"
He offered a smile. "It won't be any trouble. And besides, when my favourite girl's in trouble, I'm going to help her, y'know?"
Her face flushed pink and Blossom felt her words vanish as she felt warm, her worries melting away for the moment. She smiled at him thankfully. "Thank you, Vincent."
Boomer curled and uncurled his fingers, staring down blankly at the Science textbook in front of him. Words stared back at him, and he reread the first sentence on one page again. And then again. The words didn't register in his brain. He was too distracted to study.
He couldn't stop thinking of Bubbles, eyes wide and dejected when he'd turned her away. Boomer could feel the regret that wormed its way into his stomach, but he pushed the thought away. He had been angry and all he had wanted was to be alone. Still, he knew he'd been harsh and cold, but he didn't feel as sorry when he thought of Bubbles' constant attention to Sidney.
Boomer groaned and thumped his head against the textbook, wondering why he was so bothered by the whole thing in the first place. He was about to close his eyes when the ringing of the doorbell caused him to jump, and he flew downstairs to the door, glad for the distraction. He pulled it open without checking, eager for something to pull him away from thoughts about—
—Bubbles.
She stood right in front of him, brow furrowed. Her blond hair was tied up in her usual pigtails, and she wore a blue skirt with a white top. "Hi," she greeted unsurely.
It took Boomer's brain a few moments to register what her being on his doorstep meant. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, wanting to shut the door.
Bubbles flinched when she heard him and he immediately regretted saying anything out loud. But before he could apologize, Bubbles said, "I wanted to talk to you."
Boomer stiffened.
"I know you're mad at me, and I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
The blue Ruff's features softened, if only for a moment. But then he tensed again, saying sharply, "Just forget about it."
"I can't do that! Boomer, please. I'm trying to fix things between us. Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be!" Bubbles paused, eyes radiating disappointment. "Don't tell me you don't want to ever work things out?"
"I just know that I want to be left alone," Boomer answered stiffly. "Why do you care so much, anyway?"
Bubbles swallowed hard. "Because you're my friend, Boomer. And friends shouldn't fight. Or at least they shouldn't fall apart after a fight." A hint of desperation was in her voice.
Boomer's jaw clenched. His fingers curled into a fist and he stiffened against the doorframe. The word "friend" lingered in the air of the small space between him and the blue Powerpuff Girl. For some reason, the word stung. Wanting to get rid of the feeling, Boomer muttered, "Maybe I don't want to be friends."
Bubbles' eyes widened. "You... You really don't?" she whispered.
"No, that's not what I—" Guilt clawed at his stomach as he realized what he'd just said, and it worsened when he trailed off, unable to explain why he'd said it. Why did I say it? The regret increased when he saw Bubbles' disappointed and horrified gaze.
A long moment of silence passed between them as neither said anything. It was like Bubbles was waiting for an apology or an explanation or a claim that it was all just a joke, but Boomer didn't—couldn't—give one. The words shrivelled on his tongue.
Finally, the blue Powerpuff Girl took a step back. "I'm sorry," she whispered again. "But if that's how you really feel... Then I guess I should stop bothering you by trying to make amends." Her eyes began to brim with tears. "Because you don't want to be friends anymore."
"Shit, Bubbles, that's not what I—" He groaned in frustration as he cut himself off again.
"Goodbye, Boomer." Bubbles held out a blue box with a white ribbon tied around it, eyes blurred by tears. She used her free hand to wipe them away as she dropped the box on the porch. "I have something for you. But if you don't want it, then just throw it out." Her voice broke. "Because you don't like me anymore."
"No, that's not it!" he cried in frustration. "It's just...you make things so hard for me!"
"It's not easy for me either," she responded brokenly. "How hard do you think it is to say goodbye to someone you still care about who doesn't care about you anymore?" Her tone kept getting choked by her tears and her dry throat.
"I told you, that's not it—"
"You don't have to lie anymore. It's fine. I'll stop bothering you." Bubbles took another step back, her eyes troubled and wet. A cold breeze blew past them, ruffling their hair.
Boomer set his jaw. "Bubbles, don't do this."
"You're the one turning me away," she whispered.
"I didn't mean it!"
"Maybe you didn't mean to say it. Maybe you regret it now. But that doesn't matter anymore. It's okay. If that's what you want, then I'll stop bothering you. You don't have to feel bad about it for my sake."
Boomer couldn't meet her eyes anymore. He bent down and picked up the box. "That's not"—when he looked up, he realized that she was already gone, only a baby-blue streak left behind—"what I actually want..." He trailed off and sighed, ruffling his hair as he rolled his eyes up to the clear blue sky, which seemed far too serene and peaceful after the hurricane that had just passed through Boomer's heart. "I messed up big time, didn't I?"
He staggered inside and shut the door, floating up to his room. Then he walked to his desk and sat down, untying the ribbon and opening the box with trembling fingers.
What he pulled out was a flower crown, made from pressed flowers. It was navy-blue flowers entwined with baby-blue ones, and a few light pink flowers were strung in too. It came with a note.
Boomer could already feel guilt seeping into his system as he snatched the note up and read it. He could hear Bubbles' melodious voice reading it out loud from every corner of his room as if she was really there. When he finished reading the note, he groaned loudly and looked up at the ceiling. "Shit I messed up."
The note said:
"'Boomer,
I don't know why you hate Sidney and his friends so much, or why you're so mad about my friendship with Sidney, but I really want to stop fighting. I hate having my friends mad at me, and it scares me that maybe we won't be friends anymore. And then I'm scared that you won't even care.
I don't know if this will change your mind, but I made this flower crown for you in hopes of making up. The dark-blue is you and the light-blue is me. Sidney helped me (so I added the pink flowers). We've been working on this project for awhile now in hopes that it'll help fix things. He feels really bad that you're mad at me because of him. I try to tell him not to worry, but the thing is...
...I'm worried too.
When will you stop being angry with me and talk to me again like I'm your friend? I don't want to stop talking to Sidney, but I do want to stay friends. Please, Boomer. Please stop being mad at me.
Your friend,
Bubbles.'"
Meanwhile, Bubbles flew to her house and burst inside, ignoring the greetings from her family as she rushed upstairs. Her eyes stung. When she shut the door to her room behind her, she collapsed against it and stared up at the ceiling, trying to breathe. Her eyes were still wet, and she tried to keep them inside.
But even with her head tilted back, tears rolled down her cheeks.
Why would Boomer say that? Why would he say that he doesn't want to be friends anymore? Bubbles felt hurt inside, the feeling blossoming and expanding with the rest of the pain she was already feeling. She ruffled her hair in frustration, wanting to cry out.
She didn't know how long she sat there, wasting probably valuable amounts of time she could've spent on homework, instead spending it on tears over an ended friendship. Bubbles probably would've stayed even longer like that, broken and crying, if it wasn't for the ringing doorbell. And then Buttercup was calling for her.
"Bubbles! It's Sidney, here to see you!"
The blue Powerpuff Girl jumped up, quickly wiping away her tears. Sidney—he was sweet. He would comfort her. Rushing to the door, Bubbles hurried downstairs and stopped in front of him.
Suddenly, he looked so much more attractive than she remembered, and even then he'd been cute. The warm smile he gave her sent butterflies fluttering inside of her stomach.
Sidney, on the other hand, felt concern. Bubbles didn't look so well. Her hair was a little stringy and her eyes looked red. They seemed too shiny, as if they were still wet from tears. Buttercup seemed to notice too, brow furrowed.
"Come inside," Bubbles rasped, her voice thick inside her throat. She swallowed hard.
Sidney stepped inside and immediately walked over to her, checking her forehead temperature. "Do you feel okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she said weakly, wanting to step back. But his touch was so warm and caring that she couldn't seem to pull away. Besides, I don't have the energy right now. Her shoulders slumped. "Let's go to my room."
Sidney and Buttercup exchanged worried looks but neither said anything as the boy followed Bubbles upstairs. They walked in silence to her room, and when they got inside, Sidney turned the lights on. Bubbles winced at the bright flash, sinking down onto her bed.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Sidney asked again, worry etched into his expression. His eyes were wide.
"I'm fine," she repeated, staring up at the ceiling. Something wet slid down her face. "I'm fine..."
"Bubbles, you're crying!" gasped Sidney.
She rubbed her eyes. "No, it's just...I'm tired. My eyes are watering." Quickly, she grabbed some dried flowers and got to work tying them into a ring.
Sidney frowned but didn't say anything as he took some flowers too and sat down beside her. They worked in silence, with Sidney making gentle small talk that Bubbles had trouble responding to.
Finally, Sidney had to leave. He looked disappointed that he hadn't been able to cheer Bubbles up, and she was disappointed that she hadn't let him cheer her up.
He stood on the porch, just inches away from her, brown-pink eyes pools of concern. "Are you absolutely sure you'll be okay?" he asked quietly. His tone was too gentle.
"I'll be fine," she promised. She rubbed her eyes. "I just need some sleep."
Sidney didn't look convinced. "Bubbles, please... Tell me the truth."
Bubbles stiffened and stared down at her feet, eyes stinging. She tried not to reach up and rub them again.
Her silence made Sidney uncomfortable. He knew for sure that something was wrong. "Bubbles," he tried again.
This time she spoke, her tone so quiet that he had to bend down to hear it. "I went to see Boomer."
"So why are you crying? I thought you liked Boomer," he said, his voice trembling at the sight of her sadness.
"I do. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to be friends with me anymore." Bubbles gulped air into her dry throat as more tears threatened to fall. "It was awful, Sidney. He looked so angry, but then it was like...he'd just given up on me. Then I dropped our project at his feet and ran off..." She finally hiccuped, breaking into tears. "He's still mad about me and you being friends..."
"Oh my God, that's awful," Sidney whispered. He grabbed her and hugged her close, gently stroking her now stringy hair flat. "I'm so sorry, Bubbles. I never meant for you to be hurt like this."
His touch was so soothing, Bubbles let herself melt in his embrace. "It's not your fault," she murmured into his sweater.
"I feel like it is," he answered softly, still stroking her hair in comfort. "I'm so, so sorry. Maybe we should stop seeing each other so often and wait until Boomer calms d—!"
"No!" Bubbles was surprised by how fierce the word came out, but now she had renewed vigour in the form of anger and hurt. She squeezed Sidney's sweater tighter, feeling the soft material underneath her fingers. "Boomer turned me away. He had his chance. I won't apologize anymore, and neither should you. We didn't do anything wrong!" Her voice rose with each word, her body shaking.
Sidney pulled his hand away and suddenly Bubbles collapsed against him, her ranting stopped with the rhythmic stroking of his hand. "Bubbles," he tried gently, "I don't want that. I don't want you and Boomer to stop being friends over someone like me..."
"I do." Bubbles felt desperation clawing at her belly as she said those words, her voice shaking but firm. "If he can't see your good points and won't accept my friendship with you, then he doesn't deserve to be my friend in the first place."
His eyes widened and then they filled with sadness. "You don't deserve this. I don't deserve you," he mumbled.
Something inside Bubbles snapped. Something she hadn't realized she'd been carrying with her this entire time. "Of course you do," she said weakly—almost desperately—with her eyes wide. "If anyone doesn't deserve me, it's Boomer!" Her grip tightened again.
He pulled away from her, looking into her watery blue eyes. "Bubbles... It breaks my heart to see you like this."
"Then help me," she whispered. "I know you'd comfort me."
"I want to, but maybe I should just leave you alone—"
"No! Don't do that." She shook her head wildly. "Please don't do that."
"It'll be okay. I'll still be your friend, here to talk to you. We just won't be able to talk as often," he said soothingly, but even his voice cracked a little.
The thing that had snapped inside of her continued to build, expanding as her heart hurt. The idea of losing Sidney and Boomer in one day was heartbreaking. And now that she had this new feeling, she didn't want him to leave. "Sidney, please don't do this to me..."
Sidney leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "I know you're hurt inside, Bubbles, but I know you're strong too. I don't want to leave you. I just don't think it's a good time right now."
His kiss sent shivers of warmth down Bubbles' arms, and she suddenly deflated as her desperate mind started to clear. "I know. Thank you, Sidney. I knew you'd comfort me," she whispered. She recognized the new feeling now; this new feeling of...desire.
"I should go," he finally said, lips still lingering right over her forehead. He pulled back and looked away, adding, "Before I hurt you even more."
"Sidney, it's not you who hurt me. It was Boomer," Bubbles said gently. "You didn't do anything wrong. In fact"—her cheeks burned as her heart palpitated—"and...and I really like you, Sidney."
"I like you too, which is exactly why I'm doing this—"
"No, you don't seem to understand." Bubbles grabbed his hand. "I really like you like you. I-I want you, Sidney. I want to be more than just friends. I like you that way."
He was silent for a long moment, stunned. When he finally found the words to speak again, they weren't words she wanted to hear: "Bubbles, no... I don't think I deserve you."
Those last few words made her heart crack just a little, and desperation clawed at her. Bubbles didn't want to lose him too. And then before Sidney knew what she was doing, and before even she knew what she was doing, Bubbles had stood up on her tiptoes, grabbed his collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.
Across the street from them, Boomer gaped in shock. His eyes widened. The flower he was holding fell from his trembling fingers. His heart startede pounding, hurting as his head spun. And then he was gone, flying into the sky, blindly trying to get home.
Boomer had decided that he should apologize for his harsh behaviour, but he hadn't expected to see Bubbles move on so soon. For some reason, a small part of him hurt at the idea, even though it was what he had wanted.
He couldn't shake the image from his head, Bubbles willingly standing up on tiptoes to kiss Sidney.
Boomer's head and heart both ached, and he had a feeling that the roles were reversed now. Now he was feeling the pain that Bubbles had been feeling, and now she was experiencing the anger that Boomer had felt.
I guess I deserve to know what it feels like, he thought painfully.
Pushing the image of Bubbles' sad eyes away, Buttercup hauled herself to her feet. She didn't know if her sister had really been crying.
Buttercup opened her window and looked down, hearing Bubbles' voice, which sank from quiet to loud. But the noise had suddenly stopped, and Buttercup wanted to know why. She peered out of the window and immediately her mouth fell open as she gaped at the sight below her.
Bubbles was kissing Sidney!
And when she looked up a little across the street, she could see Boomer's blue streak spinning to the sky. Buttercup felt lightheaded. Bubbles is kissing Sidney and Boomer saw? Her brain was spinning. How is he going to react?
The green Powerpuff Girl flopped down on her bed, staring at nothing in particular. She imagined kissing a boy like Bubbles had, but she couldn't bring the picture into HD. Buttercup thought of two boys who might actually kiss her, and immediately she jumped up to shake the thoughts off.
The first boy was Ross, green eyes sparkling as he smiled at her.
The second one was Butch, who was laughing and grinning at her like an excited child.
Her phone let out a DING!, causing Buttercup to jump a little. Grabbing the device, she scanned the lock screen where a text was in place. It said: "'Ross the Boss: 6:20: Hey, can you meet me outside the gates of Michael's house in an hour?'"
Buttercup stared at the text for a long time (which was from Ross the Boss, which was what Ross had labelled himself as in her contacts), trying to make sense of it. When the words finally started to make sense, her eyes widened and she runs to grab her jacket. Then Buttercup was out the window, into the clear blue sky. The sun was warm, but since it was already 6:20, it wasn't as high or warm as it had been after school.
Thinking of school, Buttercup felt her chest tighten when she remembered the day after going to the fair and greeting Butch. He had looked stressed out, tired and brooding the entire time. A few days had passed since then, and still Butch remained distant. Buttercup felt strange, like she was disappointed by his new distance. She had finally accepted that Butch wasn't all that bad at the fair, where she and him had certainly shared a couple of close moments.
But now...Butch was back to distracted and guarded. Buttercup had a feeling that it didn't just have to do with Brick.
Landing at the gates of Michael's manor and waited. The gates opened with a flourish, and someone appeared. It was Ross, dressed in a green jacket with a yellow stripe and star through the middle of it. He wore black sweatpants and green sneakers, and he looked like he was panting.
"What's got you all tired out?" Buttercup asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ross leaned against the walls that surrounded Michael's home, still panting. "Training," he finally managed to say, punching something into the keypad. Instantly the gates closed and locked behind him. He started walking.
Buttercup hurried after him. She noticed with a start that he was limping. "Doesn't look like they went easy on you," she commented.
Ross glanced down at his foot and winced. "Yeah."
"You're hurt, aren't you?" The green Puff grabbed his arm and pulled up his sleeve. A fresh, clumsily-tied bandage wrapped around a dark-red stain on his forearm. "How did this happen?"
Ross hesitated. "I cut myself."
"How did you slash your arm with a wound this big?" Buttercup cried. She lowered her voice. "Don't tell me you have secrets too."
"Of course I do, BC." Ross' eyes softened. "Everyone has secrets."
She blushed and had to look away. "I didn't mean like that. I meant in the way Butch has secrets."
"I'm sorry." Ross gently touched her forehead with his own, his minty breath puffing out onto her nose. "I don't want to do this, but some secrets have to be kept. But trust me, I'm doing this for your own good."
"I don't need protection," she replied, trying to push him away. She couldn't bring herself to do it though, angry at herself that she enjoyed being this close to Ross and feeling warm.
He gently brushed her bangs aside a little bit and smiled. "Of course you don't need protection. It's just safer this way."
"I wish I could know," Buttercup scowled. One look at Ross' eyes though, and she melted.
"I didn't call you out here to discuss my private matters," Ross teased, already turning away and walking off again.
Buttercup blinked, breathing in when his warmth suddenly vanished along with him, a new colder breeze blowing past. She hurried to catch up with Ross, struggling to keep her brain from fogging. "I still wish to know Butch and your secrets though."
"I wish I could know your secrets too," chuckled Ross, gliding across the sidewalk. He paused and glanced back at her. "Still, I came out here to talk to you about some of my personal matters."
"Like what?" Buttercup wrinkled her nose at him, which made him grin.
"Aww, that's so cute." His tone was teasing as he gently poked her nose. "Boop."
"Ross," she said sternly. Her smile was undeniable though.
"Okay, okay." Ross stepped away. "I wanted to talk about Michael's sister."
Buttercup blinked. "His sister...?"
"Yeah, have you ever met her?"
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Michael's sister. All she could imagine though, was Michelle, another friend of hers who also happened to have a boy named Michael for a brother.* "I'm not sure I've really ever seen or met her. I didn't know Michael all that well, and his sister's at a boarding school, right? There were rumours, but that was it."
"Well, the boarding school thing is true. I'm not sure about the other rumours though." Ross kicked at a stick on the sidewalk, now shuffling along as he hunched against the cool breezes that swirled by. "Recently she's been acting pretty cold and Michael's worried about her."
"Well, first off—why do you think she's acting weird?" Buttercup mused. "If we know that, it'd be easier to fix things."
Ross nodded, looking hesitant. Finally, he said, "I'm about 98% sure it has to do with her parents."
"Her parents being demanding?" Buttercup asked.
"No." He turned and looked her directly in the eye, knocking her breath away. "Her parents nearly dying."
A long moment of silence passed between them, when Buttercup finally spoke again, still gaping at Ross. "Wow, r-really...?"
Ross nodded again, absentminded as he fiddled with his jacket zipper. "I'm worried about her."
Buttercup's stomach clenched at his words and she couldn't help but wonder why. Pushing the feeling away, she gently placed her fingers on his arm. "Of course you are. Everyone worries for their friends."
"Yeah. And I definitely worry about you too." Ross blinked warmly, looking glad that she was beside him. "Christie may be cold and distant now, but at least you're here...warm and close and...safe."
She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean by 'safe'?"
As if realizing that he'd said too much, Ross shook his head and started to walk again. "Don't worry about it, BC."
"That just makes me worry more," she answered, following.
"Hmm." He raised his head and blew his hair out of his eyes, staring up at the vast and empty sky. "I don't want to think about it right now," he finally murmured quietly.
"Think about what, Ross?" she pushed gently, breathless.
He was silent for awhile, but then he spoke: "A lot of the people I'm close to end up being hurt. My mom, my dad, Michael"—he trailed off before he could list off anyone else—"I don't want that to happen to you."
Buttercup felt her heart soften at the sigh of weakness Ross was showing, looking haloed in the sunlight. She took his hand. "I won't be hurt. I promise. I can handle dangerous situations. I'm a Powerpuff Girl."
"But some things are beyond our control. Some things are beyond us." He stared at her, unconvinced, his green eyes mirrors of concern.
"Well, in that case, I have you and Butch to protect me, don't I?" Buttercup gave him a half-smirk. "That should be plenty protection."
Ross blinked in surprise, before smiling back. He gave her fingers a squeeze. "Yeah. We'll protect you."
He was burning, stranded inside a fire with nowhere to go. He watched as his skin peeled away to reveal red meat beneath, bloodied and spotty as burns stretched across his skin. High-pitched giggling circled him, and he thought he could see the faces of his parents every now and then.
He was lying on coals, which were hot on his back as they burned. He stared upwards, seeing nothing but flashes of red and orange, flickers of smoke and blue. He felt numb, unable to move, despite the fear coursing through his veins. He tried to scream but it hurt just to open his mouth, where the flesh had been burned away to little more than stringy muscle and bony teeth attached to his skull.
The fire parted a little and he forced himself to turn his neck just a bit, staring into the newfound blackness. His mother and father emerged, both of them looking normal and safe from the fire.
He tried to call out to them for help, but still his throat hurt and it pained him just to part his lips—or what was left of them, anyway. His eyeballs burned. They were too dry, shrivelled by the flames, and his lungs lacked air. And yet somehow he was still alive, stuck in an awful curse.
His mother noticed him first, stopping to smile at him. "Vixy, baby... You're crying."
He couldn't feel the tears but he had a feeling that if he still had flesh, then he would be bawling. He tried to say something, but nothing came out.
"Shhh, my little Vixy. It's okay," she cooed. "It's just a nightmare. Don't be afraid." Then she started humming, the noise growing louder over the crackling of flames as she began to sing a haunting lullaby.
He shivered, scared even though his parents were safe in front of him. Why was he afraid? He tried to lift his fingers, but was horrified to find only brittle bones left with some bloodied skin attached. His mother was still singing, her smile growing unnaturally wide until it stretched from ear-to-ear like someone had slit her lips open all the way to her ears. His father smiled like that too, hovering overhead.
He watched, horrified, as they continued to smile and coo and sing and comfort him—all while their flesh started becoming burnt. First the red and black burn marks. Then the ripping skin and the meat beneath. And then that started fading away too, charred black. They were becoming little more than skeletons—just like him—enveloped in fire with bits of meat clinging to their bones.
He was finally able to speak, rasping, "Mom, Dad..."
Suddenly their tones changed. Half of her face still clung to his mother's skull, and while she was smiling, it was a much darker look now. "You did this," she started chanting, as if she was still singing a lullaby.
His father chimed in: "You did this." A small part of his mouth was still attached to his face, and one eyeball remained in his socket. "You did this."
He tried to recoil in his horror, but his fear didn't give him strength. Rather, it left him rooted to the spot more than the pain already did.
Still humming and chanting, his mother reached out and caressed his cheek. She traced a bony finger down his face, leaving a small scratch on the bit of meat that lingered on his skull. "You did this," she whispered, finally digging into his socket.
He screamed when the blood came, which was strange because the flesh around his eye was already gone. The blood seeped down everywhere—a fountain of it—falling like a waterfall on his parents and him and the coals. It was too unnatural.
His mother caressed the eyeball in her hand, rolling it between her fingers. "You did this." The eyeball squelched in her grip.
He felt sick to his stomach, still bleeding. There was a moment's pause as they kept chanting, while he struggled to recall what his mother had said to him before she'd become this monster:
"It's just a nightmare. Don't be afraid."
That's all it was. None of this was real. It was all too unnatural.
Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!
He screamed at himself, every muscle hurting and pulling tight as he forced himself to sit up (even though he had no muscles left). He closed his one remaining eye and was suddenly surrounded by darkness. Blocking out his parents chanting, he started his own chant.
This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. I need to wake up now. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP! THIS ISN'T REAL!
Screeching inside his head, he kept going until he believed it, clawing his way out of the hazy fog of fear. He opened his eyes and for a second all he could see were shadows and darkness. But then his eyes adjusted, and he realized that he was in his room in his own bed. Outside, he could hear gunshots from not too far away, where he knew Ross and his friends had been dispatched to capture some other teenagers—teenagers who were on the other side of the war, that was. Vix had been spared, as he was older and better-suited for other work. Plus, as Shamus had said, Vix was weak from too many missions and too many haunting memories.
Swallowing hard, Vix turned to stare at his clock. It was 6:11. Sitting up, he blinked sleep from his eyes, briefly wishing that Christie was sitting nearby to comfort him again. But he squashed the thought almost as quickly as it had entered his brain, refusing to think of her. She was now even more ruthless and cold than he was; now that her parents were nearly dead.
Vix felt his face and was startled to feel wet tears. A memory flashed inside his mind's eye of a concerned Damon bending down to wipe away a young boy's tears. Vix shoved the memory away, all because it brought more pain and heartache.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Vix curled up into a ball and gave up on trying to control the tears. They leaked into his bedspread, staining the sheets a darker red than the rest of the bed.
I'm so sorry, Mom; Dad. And Damon...God, Damon—why did you do this to me?
Fingers tapping against the arm of his office chair, he grinned at the monitors that surrounded him. Images of people dying and people killing one another—all because of one thing that had happened so many years ago:
Him killing Tyrone.
The sight of his enemies fighting one another gave him pleasure. Despite what Danes thought, his own kind had long since turned their backs on him for what he'd done to Tyrone. Only the Ruffs had remained truly loyal—and even then, they hadn't known that their precious caretaker had killed a man—until now.
Now they seemed to question his motives, but they chose to try and prove his innocence anyway. He glanced around the cabin he was sitting in, the monitors out-of-place in the quaint wooden house. He could still smell their scents lingering on every dusty bookshelf and burned wall.
He briefly wondered if they would still trust him after everything—everything that had happened, and everything that they had found out.
Staring blankly at the screen, he was momentarily distracted as he thought back to simpler, easier times. But that quickly passed and he shook his head, focusing again on the screens that danced with bullets and running bodies in front of him.
There was a long period of silence as he watched and the two teams stopped fighting briefly. He took the chance and punched some numbers into his phone, calling someone. "Hello."
"Who is this?" the person on the other line demanded, clearly suspicious.
"That is not any of your concern. I was wondering if any of you would be willing to do a simple job for me."
Silence. Then: "I'm not interested."
He smiled. "Are you sure, Sampson?"
"...How do you know my name?" Sampson whispered.
"I know you and you know me," he replied, calmness and saccharine sweetness oozing from his lips. "It's just been awhile."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to do me a favour. You hate Danes, don't you?"
"Yes." The answer was stiff. "If you know me, then you must know what he's done to my daughter."
"Yes, I remember. It was quite awful, wasn't it?" He leaned back in his chair and stared at a monitor, revealing a man with shaggy black hair and dark circles beneath his eyes, talking nervously on a phone. It was Sampson.
"Well, what do you want? What does this have to do with Danes?"
"You're at war against him. He's your enemy. I'm sure you want to win."
Sampson hesitated before saying, "I do."
He grinned. "Then I have a task for you that will guarantee a win in this bloodshed."
"Spit it out already."
"Tut, tut; no need to be so rude." He settled back into a comfortable silence, watching Sampson on the screen as he ran his tongue over his sharp canines. When he finally spoke, his voice darkened as he announced his plan.
Sampson was immediately revolted, refusing the offer and hanging up.
He tried dialling others—he asked Fillip, Harry, and many more—but they all declined the task that would involve getting young blood on their hands.
Scowling, he folded his arms and watched the monitors again. His patience was thinning out. He had a plan, and he needed someone to carry it out before it was too late. It had to be enacted before the war ended. He couldn't let the chaos end—not yet. He growled and smashed his fist into one of the monitors in a flurry of anger, breaking it. He didn't care though; even as the glass cut into his fingers and seeped blood. He eyed the red liquid oozing out of his hand. He could always replace the monitor. His eyes slid to the monitor where Christie, Michael, and Ross all lingered, fighting for Danes. Then his eyes moved to Sampson, Fillip, and Harry's screen.
It took him only a moment until he had come up with a plan, and then he grinned. Perfect, he thought, his grin stretched wide. He gazed at the screen with Vix on it, who was in his bed staring into darkness. You'll see, Vix. It's just perfect.
"If that useless leech Vix was here, I'd use him as a human shield," Maxim panted, rolling away as bullets were fired overhead.
"I don't get why he's allowed to stay home when we're here fighting. He's not even properly one of us! He was Damon's ward. He doesn't deserve a break," Coal agreed indignantly.
"Oh shut the hell up," Jamel responded, rolling his eyes, "or I'll put bullets through you two myself."
On the other side, Sampson was reloading his gun. "Shit, how many are there?" he wheezed painfully. His side was bleeding and he'd tied his jacket around it to soak up the blood.
"About a dozen," a tan man spoke up, his voice holding just the slightest trace of an accent.
"The odds are definitely against us," agreed another man, who was usually silent.
"Fillip, Harry—don't think like that. We can win this," Sampson protested, glancing out from behind his cover. Bullets were shot at him, narrowly missing. He aimed his own gun and fired. He managed to claim two people.
Ten more minutes passed and even Sampson was starting to tire. His muscles ached and he felt about ready to keel over from exhaustion. He reloaded his gun again and aimed, firing.
"We can't do this for much longer," Fillip pointed out in his slight accent, glancing up at the sky.
Sampson said nothing as he shot another person, his arms feeling heavy from carrying the weapon around all day. Harry remained silent, like usual as he took men after men out with his own gun.
"We need to formulate a plan," Fillip muttered, glancing from out of the cover. "If—AUGH!"
"Fillip!" gasped Sampson, grabbing his friend by the arm. "Fillip, are you alright?"
Fillip let out a painful gasp. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he wheezed, glancing down at his bleeding arm. "Shit, I can't move it... Sampson, you'll need to remove the bullet."
Sampson tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat as he reached into the wound with two delicate, long-nailed fingers that were filed sharply and tried to extract the bullet. Blood oozed out of Fillip's wound as the bullet was pulled upwards, attached awkwardly to the man's arm with blood. Fillip nearly howled in pain but he held his tongue as Sampson threw the item away.
Harry reached forward silently and tore off a bit of his bloodied and battered white button-up, wrapping it around Fillip's arm. He tied the knot and glanced back at where the other side were now silent, prowling with eyes glowing like hungry predators—wolves after rabbits; bats after bugs; owls after mice. He fired, shooting a guy in the head.
"Harry!" yelled Sampson, who hated seeing blood in such a violent fashion.
Harry didn't respond. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he shot another person between the eyes. Sampson winced and looked away.
Fillip dragged himself up off the ground just a little bit, propping himself up against their cover with his elbows. He grimaced in pain as his bleeding arm began to throb. "Hell," he whispered.
There was a screech as someone came flying in from behind the trio's cover, probably sent as back-up for Danes' team. The man latched onto Fillip in a hungry frenzy, eyeing the bleeding man as if he were a tasty morsel.
Predators hunting prey: wolves hunting rabbits; bats hunting bugs; owls hunting mice, Sampson reminded himself as he tried to pry Fillip away from the attacker.
The attacker aimed immediately for Fillip's neck, but before he could really kill him, the frenzied soldier's eyes widened and he turned to growl at Harry. Finally he fell limp against Fillip, who was starting to lose consciousness too.
"Harry, shit! You didn't have to shoot him when he's on top of Fillip!" Sampson's voice rose, staring wide-eyed in shock at his friend.
But Harry remained stiff, eyes dark as his gun never lowered. A bullet wound was visible on the side of the attacker's chest, seeping blood. Fillip struggled beneath the weight on top of him. "Help...me...!" he gasped, his voice strangled.
Sampson grabbed the attacker and lugged him off of his friend with a roar, his muscles taut underneath his skin. He immediately went to check on Fillip. "Are you okay? Where are you hurt?"
"I'm...fine," panted Fillip, but it was clear that wasn't true. His sides were all scratched up, bleeding steadily. He was losing a lot of blood and was fainting fast.
Sampson's eyes went wide. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No, you don't..." Fillip was struggling to talk. "That would be useless... Just leave me here..."
"And let you die? It would be suicide! They'll attack you as soon as they get the chance! No, I won't allow it." Sampson grabbed his friend by the arm. "Back-up is coming," he said desperately, "you'll be okay."
Harry had finally killed enough people to have what was left of Danes' men retreat, and then he turned to Fillip. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"I know," said Fillip. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head.
It took five more minutes until back-up finally arrived, taking Fillip away on a stretcher. Harry and Sampson watched with tired, fearful eyes, both of them feeling powerless. Sampson because he had already seen those close to him get hurt and experience how much that hurt firsthand, and Harry because he felt as if he didn't save Fillip in time—and that he was too weak.
It was a long time before either of them moved. "I'm going to go after them," Sampson said wearily, his tone suddenly heavy. He felt as if all of his energy had been ripped away from him, and now every wound was finally starting to ache.
Harry nodded but didn't say anything. When Sampson was gone, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number that had recently called him. "Hello?" he said, his voice gruff.
"Hello," the voice on the other line greeted him, smooth as silk. "Did you change your mind?"
"Yes. I'll take the role."
"I'm so glad to hear that. Can you make it to Damon's cabin tonight? Midnight; 12:00 am sharp. And make sure you're not followed."
"Yes, I can make it."
"Good. You can start tomorrow after we've discussed the details. Shoot the li'l bastard and you'll be one step closer to winning this war."
*(A/N: Reference to my fic "Hung Up on You"!)
BOOMER: ...That wasn't a happy chapter at all! Who gets shot? Does Fillip die? Are Bliss and DJ a thing now? Speaking of things, Bubbles confessed to Sidney and now they're a thing!? You said Bubbles and I would interact—
ME: —And you did. But as you know, I didn't say they'd be good interactions! *moves on before Boomer can speak* Ahhh, finally done! Jeez, I forgot how having a plan makes things both easier and more boring.
BRICK: Wait, you actually have a plan?
ME: Yeah. *narrows eyes* What's that supposed to mean?
BRICK: *shakes head* I just can't believe you of all people have a plan.
ME: *vein pops* I can still kill you off, y'know.
BRICK: *sarcastically* Maybe that'd be for the better.
BLOSSOM: Oh stop being immature, you two.
ME: *loudly* Yeah, Brick! You're just lucky Blossom wants you to be alive and misses you or I might have killed you off already.
BRICK & BLOSSOM: *face reddens*
ME: Anyway, go ahead and type up a review! I always really appreciate reading reviews even if I don't respond to them.