CHAPTER 46: BROKEN WOLVES
BRAKER: Am I awake yet?
ME: No.
BRAKER: What about in this chapter?
ME: *shrugs* You'll see.
BRAKER: Dammit, that's not fair!
BRICK: *rolls eyes* How do you think I feel?
ME: I thought you didn't like being in this story?
BRICK: ...Shut up.
BUTCH: Anyway, let's hurry up and continue the chapter already! There's a lot of stuff we need to find out.
ME: ...Are you guys actually excited?
BUTCH: ...No?
BUBBLES: Yes!
ME: Umm...okay then. I only own my OC's and the story. PPG is property of CN. Read on, then.
Chapter 46: Broken Wolves
The first signs of daylight were creeping into his office, casting long shadows on the walls as dawn approached. He sighed, resting his head in his hand and trying not to picture what he'd seen last night.
Shamus, eyes bloodshot and face tear-streaked. Buttercup Utonium, eyes wide and panicked. Butch Jojo, one of the enemies, standing in his territory.
Growling, he thought back to what Butch had told them:
Flashback
"I'm telling you, I never meant for any of this to happen!" Butch concluded when he finished recounting his tale. He'd hesitated when mentioning Harry. "I'm sorry about this, Danes."
Danes shook his head and inclined his head toward Shamus. "He's the one who deserves the apology."
The curly, black-haired man had taken his bleeding nephew from Buttercup, and was now shaking his head as tears slid down his cheeks. "I can't lose him. I can't lose him too," he rasped.
Danes had already gotten the maid to extract the bullet and dress Ross' wounds, but he needed proper medical attention. Ignoring the twisting feeling he felt in his gut, he called the maid to take Ross away. "Call the doctors and get the servants in the main foyer. I want to have a brief meeting before we fully take care of Ross."
"Yessir," the maid whispered, already disappearing into the house.
Shamus made a strangled noise, stroking his nephew's brown hair. "He's so young; he doesn't deserve this... He can't die; not now..."
"No one's going to die," Danes said firmly, even though he could feel the doubt protesting violently in his head. "Not on my watch."
"I'd hope so, because Ross is a cool guy and I really don't want anything to happen to him." Butch's gaze was calm but held a warning hint to it. "He's the only one on your side that doesn't seem so all-mighty about his status."
"You have no right to talk about that," snapped Danes, still fuming that he had to let one of Damon's former allies on his land.
The doctors soon arrived and Butch and Buttercup had stayed behind, despite Danes' request that they leave.
"I'm not leaving my friend," Butch had insisted.
In the end, Danes had given up. It took only two minutes for chaos to ensue, as everyone hurried to help the young boy. Ross was rushed to his room. Doctors and nurses hurried back and forth with medical supplies. Buttercup and Butch hovered nearby, being a bit of a distraction but never enough of a bother for Danes to get rid of them. At first Shamus hadn't wanted to let Ross go, convinced that his nephew would vanish as soon as he left his arms.
Common sense soon won out though, when Butch calmed Shamus down. The thought still sent irritation radiating within Danes.
At the moment, they were all huddled around Ross' bed. Doctors were working on his wound as the boy lay unconscious, looking quite peaceful.
Christie had appeared midway, eyes widening in horror at the sight. She'd rushed away to try and calm down after a few minutes of letting out her anger. Buttercup was surprised to learn that she was Michael's sister. She was quite beautiful, despite her rage.
Later on, Michael and his friends appeared, Sidney and DJ having rushed in as soon as they got texts about the new development.
"Holy shit," whispered Michael, "Ross..."
Sidney's sister, Sydney, lingered nearby and watched the scene with sad eyes. Still, she didn't approach the bed. Buttercup spotted her and wondered what her relationship with Ross was.
Butch had to retell his story many times, especially when people kept turning suspicious eyes on him. "I didn't shoot Ross," he'd say, "I was trying to protect him!"
Buttercup would vouch for him, still confused as to why these people seemed to dislike Butch so much. She was too distracted with worry for Ross to wonder more, though.
The door burst open just then and in stumbled Vix. "Let me see him!" he panted, eyes wide. Christie followed close behind, her gaze hard and lips tight.
His entrance caused Buttercup to jump. She recognized the older teenager as the one who had attacked her and Butch before. "You!" she cried, eyes wide.
He turned bewildered eyes on her, still dazed from the sight of Ross. It was obvious he didn't recognize her. It took him a few moments, but then he stiffened. "Oh, it's you two."
"Hey, Vix." Butch nodded, arms folded as he leaned against the wall.
Buttercup wondered why he was being so casual around the guy who had tried to kill him—or at least really hurt him.
Vix approached Butch, still breathing heavily from rushing to Ross' room. "Tell me what happened."
The green Ruff sighed as he had to repeat his tale once more, Christie and Michael and his friends tuning in. When he finished, he added, "I promise I had nothing to do with shooting him."
"You better not," snapped Christie, her turquoise eyes flaming briefly. "Otherwise I'll have to make sure you get the justice you deserve."
He shuddered slightly. "Okay, I get the picture."
Buttercup inched closer to Butch and whispered, "Are you really okay with this? He"—she nodded at Vix—"attacked you before."
He shrugged back. "What can I do about it? He lives here. He's friends with Ross. He deserves to know." His gaze darkened. "Besides, he and I share...past memories together. It's not easy always distrusting someone you used to call a friend. And plus, he won't hurt us here. Not when Ross is in that condition. He's too worried to care about us."
Buttercup glanced at Vix and realized her counterpart had a point. The redheaded teen was too busy focusing on Ross and his wound in the chest. Plus, he looked hardly harmless in his bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes then trailed to Ross' gun wound instead. She felt her chest tighten at the sight. Straight through the chest, she thought.
Butch noticed her squirming and frowned. He hesitated before reaching out to take her hand and give it a squeeze. "It'll be okay," he whispered.
Meanwhile, Danes was eyeing the two outsiders with distrust. He glanced back at Ross and then at the worried people—especially Shamus, who was still tearing up. I'll get revenge on his shooter and avenge Ross, he promised silently.
End Flashback
Danes glanced at the grandfather clock door, which led to his private room where Maggie and Chris were currently stored. The body count was mounting. They weren't dead yet, but they were close.
Michael and his friends had been quiet at breakfast, sensing the tension and knowing that it was a time to grieve and worry. Shamus had been completely silent, as if last night's events had drained him of all emotion and energy. He remained as still as a statue, eyes blank and bloodshot, and face dark. He'd been unresponsive to everything and wouldn't eat.
Ross was still unconscious, and doctors predicted that he'd remain that way for three to five days. The bullet had missed any vital organs despite going through the chest, but depending on the boy's strength, the amount of time it'd take for him to wake up varied.
Danes shook at the thought. He was failing. Tyrone had died. Maggie and Chris were in danger. And now, Ross was shot. Letting out a roar, he stood up and shoved things off his desk with a violent sweep of the arm. Pens and pencils clattered to the floor. A few office items fell. One coffee mug crashed and spilled.
Then he stood perfectly still, gazing at the mess with a calm, dark anger that churned within him. Danes turned away to stare out the window. I will give Harry the punishment he deserves for shooting Ross, he thought.
A tentative knock interrupted his thoughts. Danes spun around. "What?" he demanded.
A nervous voice replied, "Master Danes—th-there's someone at the door..."
"What? At this hour?" Danes let out a frustrated sigh and stormed toward his office doors. He almost ripped them off their hinges, causing the maid before him to cower. "Tell them I'll be down in a moment." He paused. "Who is it?"
She dipped her head. "I don't know, Sir. He wears a blue cloak and speaks as though he knows you. He asked for me to tell you he was here and would not take no for an answer. He insisted that his meeting with you was urgent and of the utmost importance."
Danes contemplated this before walking off. "Very well. If he wants my company so bad, then I shall give it. Tell him I am coming."
"Of course, Sir." She did a little curtsy before hurrying away.
Stopping in front of a mirror where pictures of Tyrone and Sylvie sat on a dresser on either side, Danes sighed. He couldn't fully make out his reflection, but he could see that his usually neat hair was now messy. He hadn't changed clothes since last night, so his suit was also now crinkled.
He smoothed the suit down and ran a finger through his hair, but didn't do much more than that. He could make out bags beneath his eyes and how unshaven he looked after only one night of not properly grooming himself. He couldn't do much more than what he'd already done, so he went downstairs to greet the mystery guest.
The man was exactly what he'd expected, and yet not at the same time. He was hunched over, dressed indeed in a dark-blue cloak, the hood pulled over his face. Danes could make out brown hair and an unshaven chin jutting out from under the hood. The man didn't give off any signs of being friend or foe. Instead, he smelled like trees and grass and the world outside.
"Who are you?" demanded Danes, his voice raspier and harsher than expected. Still, he knew he had reason to be a little mistrustful and suspicious.
"That is not of your concern," the man answered calmly. His voice was small and wobbled as if he hadn't really used it in a long time, but it radiated a still, firm calmness that was almost soothing. Danes relaxed almost unconsciously on the doorstop. The mystery stranger blended in with the nature outside and didn't give off a threatening aura of any kind. Rather, he seemed to disappear into the background. "Just know that I am not a threat, Danes."
"It seems you know my name but I don't know yours," the tall man answered, snapping out of his soothed state.
"As I said, it is nothing of concern. You are well-known, and I have done my research. I promise I am nothing to be worried about, what with an ongoing war."
"Very well." Danes narrowed his eyes, wondering what he knew about the war. "State your business then."
"I seek you out in order to make an offer," the man said quietly.
"That's quite daring of you. I don't make deals with people I do not know." He folded his arms. "You may leave."
The man was silent for a heartbeat. "I don't think that is a good idea, Danes."
Danes was already walking away when he froze. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes, surprised at the stranger's timid boldness. "Pardon me?"
"I said, I don't think that'd be a good idea. I shall give you 42 hours to consider my offer, but no more than that. After you hear me out, I will then take my leave. Good day, sir."
"You sound quite confident that I want this deal," he replied, keeping his voice from rising in irritation. "What makes you believe I do? I apologize, good sir—but even if you know my name and I do not know yours, you just said that that is quite common as I am well-known. I will not make deals with strangers, especially in my currently...careful times." He curled his lip back. "What makes you believe I will accept yours? You may take that leave right now. Good day." He turned around, ready to walk away and let the maid slam the door in the man's face. But before he got very far, the man spoke again.
"My offer is that I can heal Maggie and Chris, but for a price."
Danes froze.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel," Buttercup admitted, sitting with her knees to her chest, her back to the wall. She stared, blank-eyed at the wall on the other side from her. Her heart was pounding, and she could still see images of blood and a falling body.
Butch was silent for a heartbeat. Then he said, "Sorry."
She shook her head. "What is there to apologize for?" She bit her lip, unable to meet his gaze. "They're going to be okay, aren't they?"
"Of course." But he didn't sound certain. The hesitation made her throat tighten.
"Braker, shot... And just after Ross too," murmured Buttercup, her face devoid of all emotion. All her panicking from last night had completely drained her energy.
"I told you you wouldn't like the news." Butch shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, tearing his eyes away from her bedraggled form. "But I figured you guys deserved to know."
"Thanks." Her mouth felt dry. "For not keeping this a secret this time."
He didn't reply.
Buttercup struggled to her feet and ran her fingers fiercely through her hair, ignoring the protest of her scalp. "We need to do something about these gang wars."
"...We're trying," he murmured back, eyes glued to the window.
Buttercup sighed and glanced at the body sleeping next to her. He looked so calm and still, eyes closed and chest rising and falling. It was hard to believe that just hours ago, he'd been almost dead. "Ross looks like he might pull through."
"Yeah."
She glanced at her counterpart. He was rigid, clearly deep in thought. Buttercup could see the look on his face that said "this is all my fault", even from behind. "You can't blame yourself", she tried.
He whirled around. "This isn't that simple! The stakes are rising. This war—" He struggled to find words, before giving up and turning away, gulping in air. His eyes returned to the window.
Buttercup didn't pry, looking back down at Ross. She felt his hand.
Butch glanced at her from the corner of his eye but said nothing. He sighed instead, letting his vision remain on the world outside. He couldn't look at Ross without feeling an immense wave of guilt.
"We should visit Braker after this." She cleared her throat, feeling as if it were clogged.
"Yeah." He finally turned around, casting one look at Ross and quickly turning away. "I don't think Danes wants us to stay much longer."
"He does seem a little hostile," she tested.
He only grunted in response.
Sighing, Buttercup rose. Before she could release her hand from Ross' grip though, it tightened briefly. She couldn't stop the surprised gasp at the sudden squeeze, almost stumbling backwards. Then the hold loosened and the hand fell limp. When she dared to look at Ross, she noticed a brief fluttering of eyelashes before he lay still again.
"What was that all about?" Butch stared at the unconscious boy and his counterpart, brow furrowed.
"He squeezed my hand," she breathed. "Maybe he'll wake up sooner rather than later."
Butch set his lips in a thin line. "Maybe he will. We can't get our hopes up too high, but I hope he's alright."
"He has to be. Ross is stronger than that." Buttercup glanced at her counterpart. "Isn't he?"
He didn't really answer, avoiding her desperate gaze. "We should go," he stated, voice thick.
"Yeah... Yeah, okay." She stumbled after him, glancing back only once at Ross before the door clicked shut.
The two greens flew to the Ruffs' house in silence, and it was in silence that Butch unlocked and opened the door. Even silence greeted them, the house being strangely still. Buttercup tried to picture the usual—well, rowdiness—that the Rowdyruff Boys exhibited, but the house was eerily quiet and an air of depression seemed to lurk around every corner.
"Anyone home?" Butch called out.
The heavy door to Mojo's lab opened and a girl stepped out, with blazing red hair tied back in a bun with a careless scrunchie.
"Blossom!" called Buttercup in way of greeting. Even her usually "must-be-perfect" sister looked like she needed some sleep, a shower, a hairbrush, a change of clothing, and a coffee.
"Hi, you two." Blossom smiled weakly, removing the pencil tucked behind her ear and scribbling something down on her notepad. "Brick's downstairs if you want to see him. And Braker's in his room..."
"I'll check on Brick first. Has the dumbass still not woken up yet?" Butch said. Despite his choice of words, both girls could sense the desperation in his voice.
Blossom shook her head in response.
Butch gritted his teeth, eyes dark. "Tch," he muttered, "the idiot needs to wake up. We don't have time to keep worrying over him when all this other shit is going on."
"He should be awake soon," Blossom said, almost defensively. "I believe in him."
Buttercup didn't join the conversation, fiddling with a loose piece of string on her t-shirt. She didn't voice what she was thinking; how Brick was taking an awful long time to wake up. How he might never wake up. Or at least he might never wake up with his memories intact.
"Maybe you should check on Braker first," Blossom suggested. "We're running a test on Brick right now. We can't do anything for Braker except give him medical attention and leave him to rest. I think Bandit's in his room; he's gone missing since school ended." She hesitated. "He obviously blames himself for this."
"That shit-for-brains. None of this was his fault," Butch growled lowly, already stalking toward the stairs.
"And none of it was yours, either."
He froze, one foot above a step on the staircase. Finally, he replied in an even, low tone, "I know that. But that doesn't stop me from blaming myself." Then he stomped up the stairs.
So you know how Bandit feels, Buttercup noted dully. Who's the "shit-for-brains" now, Butch? But she knew she didn't actually think that. All she wanted was for the Ruffs to stop being so depressed and heal up. She sighed, giving Blossom a look that said "what do we do?"
Her sister shook her head, eyes troubled.
Buttercup forced down the panic as she followed Butch up the stairs. Her heart was beating fast, and she tried to picture Braker's room and what he'd look like. Pale, still, eyes closed. Like Ross and Brick. The image scared her.
Butch stopped in front of Braker's room, and Buttercup tried to remember exactly what it looked like. She couldn't think properly with the noise of her heart filling her ears though, and the memory was vague. As the door creaked open, the light filtered into the dark room. There was a heartbeat of silence before a gruff voice called out.
"Who's there?"
She felt like a rock was sinking in her stomach. The voice was dull and blank.
"Bandit? Is that you?" Butch stuck his head in and squinted at the darkness. "How's Braker?"
"Unconscious. How else would he be?" the purple Ruff said bitterly, eyes trained on the lump underneath the blankets in bed.
Butch set his jaw as he entered the room. He lifted the covers just a little, and stiffened. Braker's face looked fine; just pale in the dim light, but his side was bleeding steadily through the bandages wrapped around his torso and chest. "Fuck," he whispered. "I haven't gotten a chance to properly look at him."
"Boomer and Blaster's done all that they could. I tried to help too, and Blossom, Mojo, and I provided medical supplies without healing powers. Now it's all up to him to heal himself." Bandit's voice was stiff, cracking and raspy as if he hadn't used it in a long time. Or at the very least, his voice was breaking with concern for his brother. The purple Ruff even sounded disappointed with the assessment that there was nothing more they could do.
"Our numbers are falling." Butch gritted his teeth. "Our ranks are growing smaller."
"Yes." Bandit didn't take his eyes off of the wound.
Buttercup blinked, wondering what the two meant. They sounded more like soldiers at war than concerned brothers.
"Remember how Harry shot Ross?" Butch continued, voice lowering until Buttercup had to strain to hear him. "He didn't seem like he planned this on his own. He kept saying it was his job. I think someone else hired him to gun Ross down."
"Ross isn't on our side. I'd rather worry about Braker and Coal right now." Bandit's tone was steely and cold. When Butch opened his mouth to protest, the purple Ruff then sighed. "I see where you're coming from though. We should try and find Harry's employer."
"Thank you." Butch clamped his mouth shut. "I know Ross is on a different side, but it doesn't seem right. He's the one person in Danes' household that doesn't seem to be completely prejudiced against our kind."
"That's true. I didn't talk to him a lot, but he seemed like a nice kid."
"Don't," Buttercup blurted out. Both boys turned to stare at her blankly, seeming as though they had forgotten she was there. Their looks caused her to flush red. "I-I meant, don't talk about him in the past tense. Please—it makes him sound like he's already dead. He's not—not yet. He can't die."
Bandit and Butch shared a look. Finally, the purple Ruff said, "You're right. Sorry."
The green Ruff glanced back one last time at Braker and sighed. "Get better soon, bro." He turned to Buttercup. "We should go." As she followed him to the door, he glanced back at Bandit. "You coming?"
"No; I want to stay with Braker for awhile longer," replied the purple Ruff. A pang of sympathy for the tired, worn down boy before her hit Buttercup.
Butch held the door open for her. "Let's go," he said quietly.
She nodded, sniffling involuntarily. She quickly swiped at her eyes, wondering why tough Buttercup was on the verge of tears. She just felt so overwhelmed...
Her counterpart seemed to sense her emotions as he shut the door behind him. "You feeling okay?" His voice sounded gruff and awkward.
"I-I'm fine." She mentally hit herself for the stammer that happened because she was trying to swallow a lump in her throat. She blinked hard. "It's just...I guess it's just that all of this is pretty overwhelming."
"Yeah." He shuffled his feet awkwardly, not sure what he should do. Do I give her my shoulder or something?
"Sorry." Her fingers swept away some speckles of tears, causing her eye to twitch.
He relaxed when he realized that she wouldn't get mad at him, no matter what he did. She was probably too tired to. "That's fine. You don't have to apologize."
"I just really hate crying." Buttercup stared at her feet, too embarrassed to look Butch in the eye.
"Me too." His tone wavered a little and she glanced up. He shrugged and wiped at his own eye.
Buttercup realized that Butch was close to tears himself. This entire time, she'd been wondering why he was able to go around acting so strong, when here he was, on the brink of tears right in front of her. "I didn't realize your pain," she murmured, not meaning to say it out loud.
He didn't seem to mind though, looking at her with blurry eyes and a weak smirk. "I'm pretty good at hiding it."
"You are, aren't you?" she agreed quietly, thinking back to all the times he'd kept a secret from her so easily.
"I'm feeling pretty damn overwhelmed too. I need a nap." Butch chuckled weakly, slowly turning his dark-green eyes back onto Braker's door. "If only shit like this didn't keep happening to me."
She was silent for awhile, before she said, "Are you scared?"
Butch froze, staring at her. "What?"
"Are you scared?" she repeated. "At all?"
He hesitated. "Well...yeah. Sure, I'm scared of a lot of things." He sighed and crumpled against the door. "Life hasn't been very easy on me lately."
"I think I noticed. What with Braker and Brick and R—" She suddenly froze herself, once again remembering the blood. She shuddered.
"Buttercup...? Something wrong?" he asked, listing his head and furrowing his brow.
"I-I just can't get the image out of my head. The moon, the blood, Ross, the bullet, that man..." She trailed off, biting down on her lip to keep everything from tumbling out. I'm not this weak, she told herself.
Butch lifted his head to the ceiling, staring blankly as he tried to think of something to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and somber. "I can't either. But it's even harder for me."
"How can you say that?" she cried, eyes rapidly tearing up again. "That's not fair of you!"
He turned wide green eyes on her, seemingly startled by her tears. "Shit," he cursed.
"Do you know how guilty I feel? How I feel about anything?" she cried, her voice rising.
"Buttercup—"
"Don't touch me!" She slapped his reaching hand away. "Don't pretend like you know how I feel! Don't act like you feel even worse than I do! It's hard for me too, you know!" She was blabbering now, glad for the distraction from heartbreak, but not entirely sure what she was saying anymore. "I'm not so weak I can't even feel what you're feeling! Don't make yourself out to be—"
"Buttercup."
All of a sudden, arms were around her, pulling her close. She felt her breath escape her throat as all the words evaporated. There was only silence for a dozen seconds—seconds where Bandit was probably sitting in confused worry.
Buttercup finally stopped shaking and calmed down after those dozen seconds. While tears still dotted her cheeks, she felt better. Pushing Butch away slightly, she was surprised to feel his grip tighten. But then they met eyes and he hastily tore his arms away.
"Sorry; I don't know what came over me. I just—I guess I wanted you to—" He trailed off awkwardly.
Buttercup pulled up her usual tough demeanour, eyeing him levelly. However, this time there was a thankful warmth to her gaze. "—Shut up?" she finished.
He flushed red and nodded weakly.
"Usually I'd get mad at you, but not today. Today you comforted me and made me feel better." She offered the best smile she could muster at the moment. "Thanks."
"For what it's worth, no problem." He kept his gaze pinned on her, before glancing away, as if staring into her eyes was a pain within itself.
"Now tell me... How exactly is it harder for you?"
"Didn't you hear my conversation with him last night?" Suddenly he looked hesitant; worried even.
"I only caught snippets," she admitted, her voice tight. He was silent for awhile, so she prodded, "Butch...?"
"Let's just say...I know the shooter."
"Wow, you look beautiful," he said, raising an eyebrow.
She blushed, twisting long strands of blond hair around her finger. "Thanks, Michael." She was wearing a pale yellow dress with a thick, sparkling gold belt. The dress was form-fitting and she wore it with gold heels and a gold bag.
"You do look beautiful," he said again, eyes lingering on every aspect of her.
She glanced away shyly.
From nearby, someone rolled their eyes and growled. Michael noticed, tossing them an annoyed glare. "You feeling okay, Blaster?"
"Just peachy." Blaster's smile was tight-lipped as he slammed his hand down, sending a needle clattering to the ground.
"Yes, I think I noticed." Michael set his jaw.
The blond male didn't remove his gaze, arms crossed. "You shouldn't be flirting when Ross has been shot."
"It takes my mind off of things, okay?" snapped Michael, glowering. "You wouldn't understand."
"Oh, I think I do," the yellow Ruff shot back promptly, leaning against the table.
The girl, who'd fallen silent, stared at the honey-eyed male with a furrowed brow. "What are you saying, Blaster?"
"I'm saying that I know what it's like to have someone close to me get shot," he growled back.
"Who?" challenged Michael, eyes narrowed.
Blaster fell quiet for a second. Then he replied, "Braker."
A sudden silence filtered into the room, and Blaster watched their reactions. Michael seemed surprised and the girl looked pale.
"I-Is he okay?" asked the girl.
"We think he'll be okay." Blaster held back on the remark that they weren't entirely sure how long Braker might take to wake up.
"Oh... Guess I'm sorry for your...loss, then." Michael looked awkward, probably feeling bad and shocked without knowing what to say, but not enough to escape all of his dislike for the Ruffs—which made him uncomfortable.
"Please don't talk about him like he's already dead." Blaster smiled warningly at Michael, ignoring the jerking twitch of his own agitated fingers.
"Right...sorry." Michael took a step back and glanced at his expensive white watch. "Look, sorry"—which he seemed to be saying a lot all of a sudden—"but I gotta go—sorry, Banana; I know I said I'd help but Danes wants me home early tonight..."
"That's fine." She seemed disappointed. "I'll send you pictures when I'm done."
He waved weakly before disappearing out the door. Blaster glanced at the only other person left in the room. "Banana, how do you feel about Braker's shooting?"
"I don't know how to feel," she admitted, daring to sneak a glance up at her counterpart. "How about you?"
Blaster didn't reply immediately, thinking his answer over carefully. "I guess I'm in shock. Denial. Pain. I'm mad. I'm upset." He clenched his fingers into fists, curling his lip back in hatred. "I want to break something."
"You should calm down," she said, trying not to grow frustrated at his unleashed temper.
He sat down at the desk, shaking his head as he buried his face in his hands, long blond strands of hair falling into his face. "I'm trying. But it's really hard to when you keep thinking about that one person you care about that you just couldn't protect."
She didn't answer until he looked up and she saw the tears gathering in his eyes as he stared back at her. Banana swallowed. "Blaster... I-I'm really sorry. About all of this."
"It's not your fault," he murmured.
"It's not just that." She gulped, feeling embarrassed and regretful. "I'm sorry I slapped you earlier."
Then everything was quiet. She glanced up and could see him standing there, suddenly very still. He blinked his yellow eyes sadly at her, before a small, weak smile curled up on his lips. "It's okay," he finally whispered. "I forgive you."
Banana could feel the walls closing in on her as an immense wave of guilt shook her to the core. "I-I didn't mean to do it."
"I know, Bansy." He was using the affectionate version of her name, which he hadn't used in ages.
"You've been having a hard time and I still treated you so awfully—"
"It's fine," he said firmly. He gave her another small smile. "I already told you that I forgive you. Besides...you don't fully understand what I'm going through, and I'm sorry I keep hiding things from you. I-I guess I needed that slap to wake me up. Sorry I lost control."
"It's fine." She felt weird and awkward, standing before his calm gaze. She felt numb. Even though they were forgiving each other, something didn't feel right.
Blaster pushed his chair back and tied a scarf around his neck. "I gotta go." He pushed aside the designs he'd drawn, smiling tightly. "Bye."
"Bye," she murmured. The atmosphere was still crackling with tension, but it was a different kind of tension. It wasn't that they were still mad at each other—it was more so that neither knew how to act around the other anymore. And Banana didn't like it.
He gave her an awkward nod before slipping out the door. She stood there for a few moments, trying to regain the sense that things were okay. After all, we just forgave each other, right? So why does something still feel wrong? Sighing, she turned back to her own designs. Suddenly sewing didn't feel so appealing anymore. Not when I'm alone.
Banana got up and wandered the room, crossing it and circling it as she tried to decide what she wanted to do. She could be productive, but that would take focus she just didn't seem to have at the moment. As she listened to the clock ticking by on the wall, she decided that she'd try and be somewhat productive before going home. She still had ten minutes.
She paused and slapped her cheeks to keep herself awake. They were gentle hits though, nothing like the hit she'd given Blaster. The thought sent her stomach roiling. Swallowing hard as the uneasy feeling returned to her gut, Banana glanced down. She was surprised to realize that she was at the desk Blaster had been working at.
The corners of the pushed aside designs were peeking out from underneath a shelf, and she immediately felt tempted to tug them out. For a long, terrifyingly quiet moment, Banana mulled the idea over. She could almost imagine an angel and a devil hanging over her shoulder, protesting or insisting over each other whether or not she should take a peek.
Curiosity killed the cat, she thought to herself.
But then her temptations won and she could practically hear the devil's cheer and the angel's cry as she stared at the designs. The images didn't register immediately in her head. They were soft and sketchy, a little smudged and fuzzy from too many redesigns. Still, they held a radiant beauty that Blaster knew how to create. They were pretty, but the designs didn't seem very happy.
There were designs labelled "Hurt" and "Pain" and "Heartbreak". All of them were dark and edgy. All of them sat in the discarded, shoved aside pile.
The one design that took extra long to register was the one that seemed to glow. It was coloured in gold and white and yellow, sparkling. He'd even chosen the cloth, having tacked on fabric patches that shimmered in the light. Sequins and glitter adorned the page. The title was "Alpha Female".
The dress was form-fitting and covered in glitter. It had sequins at the top all the way to just above the knees. Then long, flowing material covered the legs with a somewhat transparent fabric. Fake fur lined the outfit, reminding Banana of how sometimes the Ruffs would wear fake fur. While Buttercup pointed out that the fur didn't work with the school uniform, it did work with the dress. It almost formed a coat with a tail. The design also had a parasol, built like the dress: golden top with sort of see-through edges, and lots of sequins.
It was then that Banana realized that the model looked a lot like herself.
"Bye, Sidney!" Bubbles waved cheerfully, her heart feeling lighter than it had been in a long time.
He smiled back shyly, waving as he disappeared into the bushes toward his gingerbread-looking house. After she'd kissed him that first time, he'd agreed to trying out the whole dating thing. But he said that he wasn't ready for kissing yet—maybe in the future. Bubbles would sometimes sneak in a kiss on the cheek, but it always seemed to terrify Sidney.
She watched him go, unable to keep from smiling. Despite his reluctance to kiss, Sidney was a sweet boyfriend. He was willing to give hugs and hold hands, buy gifts and talk for hours on end. Sidney was patient and kind, somewhat different from another person Bubbles knew...
She sighed. Boomer wasn't a bad person; she knew that. But it didn't change the fact that he'd hurt her. He had turned her away when she needed a friend, and even with his obvious regret, he was still avoiding her. And thus, Bubbles was now avoiding him.
Boomer... She wondered how he was at the moment, suddenly feeling sick as she remembered the news about Ross and Braker getting shot—and Brick was still unconscious. How many more kids will get caught up in gang wars before this violence is stopped? She wondered for awhile but couldn't seem to come up with an answer. "I hope the gang wars won't get any worse..."
"Oh, they will. They'll probably get much worse."
Jumping, she spun around with wide eyes to meet the strangely calm but stormy gaze of none other than Boomer Jojo. "B-Boomer!" she stammered, a gasp leaving her lips. "Wh-What are you doing here?"
He tilted his head back and stared up at the blue sky. "I guess I came around to see if Sidney was here. I wasn't expecting to see you." His voice sounded hollow, and he looked like he hadn't slept a wink in days.
Bubbles swallowed back her rising panic. "I-I was just wondering how many more people will have to be hurt in these gang wars—"
"Many," he whispered. "There will be many who fall and many who win, but for what? All over some dumb issue that happened years ago between the adults. And now we're caught up in the middle of it all, and this war's just going to get worse and worse as more and more people fall."
"Huh?" She blinked rapidly, her brain not fully comprehending what he was saying.
He blinked back, as if just remembering that she was there. "Ahh...forget it."
Bubbles fidgeted absentmindedly, eyes pinned to her shoes. "So...what brings you to talk to me today?"
"I don't know."
The words hurt, but they were soft enough that she looked up in curiosity.
He suddenly looked vulnerable, like someone cornered with no solution to their many problems. "I could've avoided you, and I guess I was tempted to. But...I can't just keep doing that."
"No, you can't." Bubbles' voice was firm, trembling only a little. "And I can't either."
"Which I guess is why I stopped by to talk to you." He turned back to her. "That's what I want to do. Talk."
"Then go ahead." She hugged herself, suddenly nervous—about what he'd have to say, or what she'd have to say—about everything.
He seemed a little hurt by her tone, but she reminded herself that he was the one who started treating her like less than a friend. Seemingly remembering this too, Boomer plunged into his speech: "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about my behaviour. I know I've been acting like a giant dog turd, but I've been having a rough time. I took it out on you and I know that's not fair. I just...don't like Michael's friends, y'know? And you were hanging out with one of them so much it just—didn't feel right. It's hard trying to do the right thing. I'm not supposed to tell you this, or I'm not supposed to mention that—but do you know what I want to do? I want to talk to you. Pretty badly, too. And yet I let my stupid jealousy"—here he coughed—"jealousy as in anger and not anything more"—he blushed—"get in the way. I let my anger control my actions and ended up avoiding you, treating you like crap, and being a giant dog turd in general. So for all that...I'm sorry."
Bubbles was quiet for a long, long time, thinking his words over. When she finally responded, her tone wavered only a little. "It's not like I don't forgive you, but..."
"You don't forgive me."
"No! It's just that—things have been so difficult between us. You can't just jump back into my life and expect me to welcome you with open arms." She blushed. "I mean, not in the romantic way."
Boomer set his jaw. "No, I see what you're saying."
Bubbles' expression softened. "Boomer... Please don't be angry. That's not what I meant. I-I forgive you, but it'll take time for me to fully feel alright around you again."
He shook his head. "You don't get it, Bubsy. I hoped something like this would happen, and I'm fine with it."
"What?" She stared blankly at him.
He was smiling now, but almost sadly. "I'm supposed to not get you involved in my business to protect you. And while my avoiding you was just me being a fucking bad friend, it at least prevented you from getting hurt. In fact, I've been doing the best job out of all my brothers at keeping a Puff safe. Braker was doing pretty well, but then he got shot—"
"I don't get it," she blurted out.
He fell quiet for a heartbeat. Then he continued, "Basically, I'm still your friend and I've said my sorry, but I want you to keep staying away from me. If you want to talk a little, then that's fine."
Bubbles felt a sick, twisting feeling writhe into her stomach as she coiled back. "I-I...what?"
"Not that you'd mind. I'm sure you're upset with me enough to avoid me; no matter how sweet you are." He took a step back.
"Wait! You can't just apologize a-and leave!"
"Well, that's kind of what I'm doing right now." He was taking another step back.
Her voice hitched in desperation. "Boomer, wait! This is all so confusing! You want me to keep avoiding you?"
"Just a little, yeah."
"Why!?"
"Look, it helps us both out, okay? And you probably don't mind. You said so yourself—I can't just waltz back in and expect open arms."
"Well, this isn't making it any better!"
"That's fine. I'll make amends when this whole ordeal blows over. I'm sorry, Bubbles."
"Boomer, wait! Don't leave yet!"
He was already pretty far, but then he paused. She briefly wondered if she'd actually gotten through to him, but then he dropped a box off, said "I almost forgot—I have a present for you. Sorry again, Bubbles—and bye", and then flew away.
She was left standing there, confused and shocked as she stared at the spot he'd been standing. Then she approached the pale, baby-blue box, picked it up, and untied the white ribbon wrapped around it. Inside was a flower crown of daisies, and it came with a note.
Blaster changed the channel on the TV, his feet aching as he sat, slumped, on the sofa. The TV blinked back at him, playing a boring game show that he didn't feel like watching. The house was quiet—too quiet. Brick and Braker were both unconscious, Butch was busy with Blossom, Bandit was watching over Braker, and Boomer was out. Him was out grocery shopping and Mojo was in his lab.
Blaster was contemplating screaming just to create some noise, because the TV sure wasn't cutting it. He almost did scream, but then the door opened and he fell silent.
Boomer walked in, dark circles under his eyes. He wore a beanie and a blue jacket with a white tee underneath, paired with ripped jeans.
"Where've you been?" asked the yellow Ruff, turning back only slightly.
His brother didn't reply immediately, pulling off his jacket before shuffling into the kitchen for a drink. He reappeared with a soda and flew over to plop down on the couch. "Went to the forest to talk to Sidney."
"What...? Why?" Blaster scrunched up his nose.
The blue Rowdyruff Boy shrugged. "Wanted to talk to him about personal issues."
"Oh." Understanding dawned on him as he realized something. He wanted to talk about Bubbles. "So...how'd it go?"
"...Fine." Boomer paused, fingers tight around the soda can. "I mean, I didn't actually get to talk to Sidney. I ran into Bubbles instead. We... We had a talk."
"Did it end well?"
"Sort of. I told her she should keep staying away from me." Boomer finally peeled the tab off of the can and took a sip of the cold drink.
"Bet she took that well."
"Eh. Not really." Boomer managed a weak smile as he held the can up. "Cheers?"
"Cheers. That took guts." Blaster held up his own drink, a can of iced tea, and let it clink with his brother's can.
Just as Boomer was about to reply, another door was opened and a red being floated in. It was Him, arms loaded with groceries. The noise in the background was a whirring noise, meaning that the garage doors were closing. Him huffed. "Not one Ruff to help me."
"I'll help," called Blaster, jumping up and flying over. He took some of the load and dumped them onto the table.
Boomer did the same as Him complained, "It was so heavy! Didn't you two hear the garage doors? You should've been out there to help me!"
"You're a super-being, Him. I'd think you'd have been fine without help," said Blaster, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.
"I'd still like some help though," huffed the annoyed demon-monster. "I mean, what with Bandit and Brick—" he trailed off.
Blaster paused too, feeling sick. "Th-They'll wake up. Don't worry about it."
"It's not right though," muttered Him.
The yellow-eyed teen didn't reply as he rummaged through the bags, mentally checking things off of a memorized list of needed items. He paused when he got to the last bag. "Him, you forgot the tomato sauce. Boomer wanted to prepare spaghetti today." He peeked into the last bag and double-checked. "Yeah, you forgot. You know Bandit likes tomato sauce."
Him opened his sharp-toothed mouth to protest or complain, but then he clamped it shut. "Well now, it's not like I'm not stressed at all."
"It's fine," Boomer said quietly, "I don't need to make spaghetti tonight."
"Nah, I'll go buy some." Blaster slammed the bag back down, arms feeling heavy as he grabbed his jacket. "I need the fresh air."
Him and his brother exchanged glances. "Well, we're not stopping you," the demon-creature cooed.
"Thanks." Blaster yanked open the door and stuffed his feet into yellow converse with green insides, before ducking outside. It was a little past 6:00, and the air had started to grow cool. Blaster shivered inside his yellow hoodie, glancing up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in.
He sucked in his cheeks, contemplating the possibility of rain. The weather forecast had said there'd be a light drizzle soon that may or may not turn heavier later into the night. Blaster grabbed an umbrella and decided to risk it, taking off into the sky. His sunny-yellow streak was a stark contrast against the gloomy sky.
When he got to the supermarket closest to their house, he made a beeline for the aisle where he knew tomato sauce was kept. To be perfectly honest, he thought as he dug through multiple cans, I just wanted to get out of the house's stifling silence. Bandit may like tomatoes, but he's not gonna mind not having tomato sauce. But I mind—because if we went along with not having it, then that would mean I would've skipped my chance to have an excuse to get out of the house.
It was with this thought that he settled on a can. He decided to buy a few other things that weren't needed immediately and while Him hadn't grabbed them, they could be used later. Soon he had a basket of stuff and was waiting in line. He'd only taken one step forward when he realized who the person in front of him was. He nearly fell over from surprise. Catching himself before that happened, he stumbled only a little and managed to smash his hands onto the counter.
The girl in front of him turned to stare at him, and he flushed red. He kept his head ducked low, hoping she didn't recognize him. She had long, wavy blond hair and was wearing a flowy black dress-top that reached her waist. It had a pristine white collar and was paired with black jeans and turquoise flats. She had a turquoise bow wrapped around her head, and an aqua messenger bag—the kind that was slung over your shoulder.
He tried not to meet her eyes. It wasn't easy.
There was a long pause as he stood there awkwardly, dangling onto the counter. Then he slowly drew back, head still lowered, behind her. He could feel her gaze pinned on him the whole time, probably curious.
For a minute everything seemed fine. Blaster was just starting to relax, when all of a sudden, a little five-year-old let out a delighted shriek, running up to him. She had her blond hair in little pigtails and her blue eyes were wide. She wore a pink dress.
"Mommy, mommy!" she squealed. "Is da supahewo Bwaster!"
He flinched at her obvious lisp, wishing that she hadn't spotted him.
The mother smiled apologetically as she hurried to catch up with her daughter. "Ah, I'm so sorry. My daughter's a big fan." She glanced down at her. "Aren't you, Annabelle?"
Annabelle just beamed up at him.
Blaster could feel the shocked and scorching stare of the girl in front of him on his back. He was awkwardly smiling at the little girl. "H-Hi, nice to meet you."
"Thanks so much for keeping our city safe," the woman gushed, "to be honest, I'm a fan too. My name is Phoebe. Could we get your autograph?" Before he could even reply, she was already fumbling for a paper and a pen.
Annabelle squealed again, a high-pitched noise that made Blaster's ears tingled. He was quite sure that if he had to live with the noise, his ears would start bleeding sooner or later. He didn't refuse as the woman handed him a notepad. He smiled politely, albeit tightly, as he signed the paper. He added little stars with his own yellow pen.
"'To Phoebe and Annabelle, best wishes.
-Blaster'"
He handed the notepad back and watched as the girl snatched it, letting out another ear-splitting squeal, this time followed by an excited giggle. The woman was beaming too, ushering the daughter away and thanking Blaster profusely.
He kept his eyes on them as they disappeared, trying not to look at the person beside him, who was still staring. He could feel himself growing warm and sweating.
"...Blaster...?"
Not fully prepared for the short but nonetheless scary question, he breathed in sharply. He forced himself to turn around and meet the narrowed aqua eyes of the girl. "Hey, Christie."
She placed a hand on her hip, her basket already on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
"Uh, shopping." He gestured at his own basket, holding back an impatient sigh.
She sucked in her cheeks, brow furrowed, but said nothing more to him as the store clerk checked out her items. She paid and waited patiently as he went to pay his own things.
Blaster finished up and couldn't hold back the sigh when he saw her still standing there. Women, he thought to himself.
Christie frowned at him. "I can guess what you're thinking. And that's sexist."
"Yeah, right." Not that he didn't believe her.
"It is sexist!" she snapped, a little more effort put into the words than usual. Blaster guessed that she wouldn't care so much if he was anyone else.
He gave her a blank stare. "Not what I meant."
Christie paused as realization dawned on her. "Humph."
"It may have been sexist, but it's also often true." Blaster shuffled the bags in his hands and headed for the door. "Look, I gotta go—"
"No. You're not going anywhere." She speedily caught up and appeared before him, blocking the door—much to the chagrin and confusion of others.
"Christie, you're blocking the door."
"I don't care. I need to question you."
"That's an appealing offer—not."
"Fine then. I want to talk to you."
He bit the inside of his cheek. "Not much better."
"Just get outside!" Her voice rose as she snapped, "I want to talk to you and that's final! This is important!"
People were already whispering, and he could hear people saying, "Isn't that Blaster Jojo? What did he do to that girl? Isn't she Danes' niece? Oh my, are they in a relationship and having a problem?"
The multiple questions jumbled into a string of creative curses in Blaster's head as he grabbed Christie's wrist and dragged her out the automatic doors.
She let out a protest but was quickly silenced as he shot her a look. "You want to talk? Fine. Let's talk. Just stop giving these people the wrong idea and letting them gossip and spread rumours like goddamn wildfire."
Her reply was a blank stare.
Rolling his eyes, Blaster turned back to the staring crowd of people. "I didn't do anything to her!" he yelled.
"Yes you—mmph!" He'd clamped a hand on her mouth.
"Not anything that has to do with romance and heartbreak," he added.
The crowds didn't look like they fully believed him. He glanced helplessly at Christie, silently begging for her help.
But her only reply was confusion. She furrowed her brow, staring blankly at him again. He shot her a look and realization dawned on her. Finally, he added silently as he let his hand fall away.
"It's true; he hasn't done anything," she confirmed.
People turned away, still casting suspicious looks over their shoulder as he dragged Christie out of view. "Alright, we're out of view now. So talk," he said by way of welcome.
She glared at him, her posture stiff and rigid, for a few seconds. Blaster could only imagine what must have been going through her head—anger about Ross' shooting, Maggie and Chris' conditions, the war...—but also at the amount of awkwardness and silliness their serious conversation had to start with.
"You gonna talk anytime soon?" he prompted, trying to shove away his impatience.
"I'll talk when I want to," she said stubbornly.
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, please—if you want to have a serious conversation, then stop being so stubborn for no reason. Let's not be immature, now."
She sighed loudly. "I don't get it. Aren't you supposed to be all sweet and polite and stuff?"
"And aren't you supposed to be all mature and polite and stuff?" he retorted pointedly. "Look, neither of us really like each other. I guess I see you in a better light now, but still—we're on different sides of the war."
"You have a point," she muttered back begrudgingly, probably annoyed that she had to admit to anything Blaster was saying.
"So what's so important anyway? Does it have to do with Ross?"
"You bet it has to do with Ross," she sneered, which didn't match her pretty complexion. "I don't care that it wasn't Butch's fault Shamus' nephew got shot. You Ruffs are the closest connection I have with the other side and I want you guys to know that any more messing with my family and I will personally hunt you all down and eradicate you."
"Now, that's not very fair," he shot back mildly, his tone laced with warning.
"I know that's not fair. But it's also not fair that my parents are nearly dead and one of my friends is shot."
"You think I don't know what that feels like!?" snapped Blaster, thrusting his hands out for emphasis. "Have you already forgotten what Vix did to Brick? And what about what Coal did to Braker? I could blame you for that, can't I? I could threaten to hunt you down for those two things, even if they weren't your fault!"
Christie paused, clearly hesitating. Suddenly Blaster could see how broken she looked as she crumpled. She knew he had a point. "Then who can I blame?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Harry may have been Damon's friend, but he gave up on Damon a long time ago. Hatred and prejudice drives him on, along with pride. He's not fighting for Damon."
"It's not fair though." She wrapped her arms around herself, staring blankly at the floor.
"I know it's not fair. But blaming me and my brothers wasn't very fair either, as I said. And it's not like I'm not experiencing any of your pain right now."
Christie was quiet for a moment, before gazing up at the strip of gray sky above them. "I don't know what to feel anymore. I'm trying to be strong, but to what avail? And I'm afraid. Really afraid. I try to be angry, but worry hides beneath it all and it scares me."
Blaster didn't reply.
"It's just not fair."
Rain had started to fall, lightly drizzling onto the pavement. The raindrops felt soft as they pattered against his skin. The yellow Ruff looked up and was startled to see Christie's face—not because he had forgotten she was there, but because she was crying. Or at least, he thought she was crying. Tears streaked her face, and the sight was unnerving. Although, they could've just been from the rain for all he knew. "Christie?" he prompted.
She opened her mouth but only a strangled noise came out as she wiped at her eyes.
Ah, so she is crying. Blaster touched his own face and was surprised to feel tears too. Or are they raindrops? He felt dazed.
"Sorry," she whispered, "about accusing you."
"It's fine," he mumbled, his own throat closing up.
She was silent for a heartbeat or two, just shivering. "I-It's cold," she mumbled, her teeth chattering. Maybe she was making excuses about her trembling, or maybe she really was cold.
He hesitated, before his eyes met hers and he realized just how much pain was hidden behind her turquoise gaze. We're the same, he reminded himself. And before he knew it, he was reaching out. Pulling her closer to him. Taking off his yellow hoodie and draping it over her. He opened his umbrella and held it over them as the rain got a little heavier, but still lightly drizzled to the ground. And she was crying, leaning against him, and so was he, trying not to match her sobs. Not out of pride—for the most part—but out of fear that his tears would set her off. He didn't trust himself to be able to speak properly.
They stayed like that for a long, long time, leaning against each other under a yellow umbrella, with her wearing his hoodie. Their groceries sat nearby, slightly wet from the rain. As the rain began to taper off, so did Christie's tears, as if the rainfall had been some crying spell. Soon her sobs dwindled into little more than sniffles, but Blaster could still feel her shivering against him. He said nothing, just waiting patiently for her to calm down. He himself was having a hard time finding words to speak, a lump in his throat and his own disappearing tears dotting his eyes.
Finally Christie pulled away from him. It was still cloudy and a little chilly as she said, "Thank you" and tried to give him his hoodie back.
He shook his head, making her pause as he passed her her groceries. "Go on home," he murmured, "and take the hoodie with you. It's still cold outside and you need it more than I do." He smirked weakly. "You're a 'frail lady', after all."
She blinked at him, before smiling. "Thank you," she mumbled. "I was wrong about you. You are a gentleman after all, Blaster." Then she was gone, walking away.
Blaster watched her go, before sighing and grabbing his own groceries. He stared up at the sky. Hopefully things change for the better soon... he thought before taking off, bags and umbrella in hand.
Damon shoved himself off the wall, hefting the gun up from its post on the ground. His excitement fizzled and crackled around him. It had been a long time since he'd shot someone, and last time he'd had to employ Harry to shoot Ross. While Harry hadn't done a bad job, per say—he'd completed his mission, after all—he also hadn't killed Ross. Or rather, Damon didn't quite want Ross to die, but he'd wanted Ross to be in a more critical condition.
Still, he'd seen Harry's face after the shooting. The slightly traumatized look in his eyes, and the wonder at what he'd done. Damon sneered. Inefficiency, that's what it is, he thought in irritation. They were at war. They didn't have time to feel bad about the things they'd done to others.
After all, Danes had never regretted shooting him in both legs, setting fire to his home, and dragging his adopted son away from him.
Damon didn't just resent his former friend for that. He also resented Danes for the amount of things the man had done in the past. Danes was arrogant, controlling, and far too serious for his own good.
Damon almost forgot that he was standing there at the gates of Danes' own home, wearing a dark cloak and carrying a gun. But then he heard the footsteps and he knew that someone was coming. Snapping out of his reminiscing, Damon glanced out from behind the wall. Right on time, he thought.
He grinned, reaching back out for the excitement that had vanished when he'd thought back to the past. That's all behind me now, he reminded himself, already aiming. There was a still moment as the approaching person paused, having sensed the click of the safety being released. And then there was the fact that something wasn't quite right.
Damon brushed the dark-brown hair out of his eyes before jumping out, face hidden under the hood. The newcomer's eyes widened and a startled cry was wrenched out of them and they jumped back. Then they were studying him, managing to say, "Who are you? Are you—?" before Damon pulled the trigger. The bullet shot through the air and embedded itself into the person's chest. There'd been a loud noise as the bullet left the gun, and Damon turned tail to run as the body crumpled to the floor.
He could already hear the alarms from inside.
And yet, he couldn't help but smile.
Meanwhile, a loud noise sounded and caught the attention of Danes, who'd been sitting behind his desk trying to work—but being too distracted with thoughts of the war. He jumped up, fearing the worst as he rushed for the window, nearly knocking his office chair over.
Danes shoved the curtains away and stared out the window at the main courtyard, where a stranger in a black cloak had just fired a gun. In front of them stood a boy, not yet an adult—
Danes' heart sank and he felt sick.
It was his nephew.
Michael had just been shot.
The two seconds he spent staring blankly at the window seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Then he was jumping, smashing the alarm on his desk and leaping for the door. He wrenched it open and thrust his head outside. "Get outside! To the front courtyard!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, panicking for the first time in forever.
Startled servants paused and he barked at them, face flushed red, "MOVE! GET TO THE FRONT COURTYARD!"
They ran down the halls and Danes hurtled after them, aware of his feet stomping down on the smooth floor. He could already imagine the blood seeping into the grass beneath his nephew's body. Maggie, Chris...have I failed you again?
As he reached the door, he heard an earsplitting scream. It was filled with fear, but also anger.
It was Christie.
Danes threw open the front doors and whipped his head about, spotting his niece and nephew by the golden, silver-black front gates. Christie was screaming at someone, groceries scattered around her feet. Michael was lying on the grass, seemingly awake—which only made the situation so much worse, because Danes could see the pain that made his face pinched and the fear that clouded his eyes. His niece's own eyes were red, tears streaking her face. It was almost as if she'd already been crying before all of this.
But that was impossible. Christie didn't cry for just no reason.
So why did it seem like she'd sobbed her heart out before Michael had even gotten shot?
The figure in the black cloak was running, already disappearing into the bushes. Christie looked torn, not sure if she wanted to run after the shooter or help her brother. Danes rushed toward the gates, already yelling orders that he hadn't even had time to think of.
"Trackers, chase that man! He may be long gone, but we can still catch him! Anyone with medical abilities, treat my nephew! His safety is top priority!" Panting, Danes finally slowed down before his nephew, who was lying on the grass staring up at the sky with glassy eyes.
"What pretty birds," whispered Michael, blinking a couple of times to try and clear his gaze.
Danes gently cradled his nephew's head, his own eyes softer than they usually were. "Don't speak," he murmured.
As the trackers rushed past her, Christie dropped down and gazed at her brother with sad eyes.
"Don't cry, Christie." Michael coughed. "It's okay."
"No, it's not okay!" she cried, eyes wide with fear.
Danes sighed in an attempt to keep back his own rising panic. "Michael, hold on."
"Uncle Danes... Am I going to die?" he panted.
His breath snagged in his throat. "No, Michael. You're not going to die," he whispered back.
But even as he had to let go of his nephew's head and let the servants with medical abilities treat him—and even as he had to comfort Christie—Danes had a sickly, sinking feeling that Michael might not be okay.
The air was humming with his nerves. He felt frazzled as he leaned against the wall and gazed out at the girl of his dreams.
She was wearing a white dress today, its skirt flowy. A thin bow decorated her collar and her long, soft blond-white hair fell around her shoulders. The skirt had yellow and pink and blue flowers stitched on, and she wore a sunhat with a blue bow.
She was chatting with a taller than her male, his green eyes glittering with amusement behind glasses. His long brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail.
"Tyrone, I want to go to the zoo on the weekend! We can bring Shamus, Damon, and Danes," she suggested excitedly.
Tyrone laughed. "Alright, let's go ask them then."
Sylvie smiled, the look brightening up her whole face. "Will you tell Danes then? And Shamus? Danes seems more likely to listen to you. You can tell him we'll be on a mission." She blinked. "And for some reason Shamus always avoids me when he sees me."
Another chuckle escaped her companion's lips. "My brother's just a little shy," he said, the amused look never leaving his eyes. It was a knowing look, suggesting that he had a secret that Sylvie was oblivious to.
She didn't seem to mind though, nodding. "And I'll go talk to Damon. He always listens to me."
"If you told him to fly to the moon and back for you, he'd jump at the chance," Tyrone agreed.
It was then that he chose to emerge from behind the wall, his heart thumping in embarrassment. He shot Tyrone an annoyed glance, but his good friend just winked back. She's still clueless, the look said. "Hi, Sylvie," he greeted, his voice wobbling only a little.
Her face brightened when she saw him, and his heart warmed at the sight. She gave him a kind smile. "Hi, Damon! Did you hear? We're going to the zoo!" Sylvie didn't usually get really excited—she was often calm and sweet and gentle, which was what Damon liked about her. She had a warmth that was serene, peaceful, and calming. But he also liked it when her eyes did light up with excitement, and this was one of those moments.
"I heard," he confirmed. He paused shyly. "I've never been to the zoo before."
Sylvie clapped her hands. "Which is why we have to go! I can't believe you're all so old yet you haven't even been to a zoo yet!"
"Excuse me, I'm only what, 27?" Tyrone nudged the girl beside him in the side, having to bend slightly. His tone was light though, a grin on his face. He cared a lot about Sylvie, but Damon didn't worry. His feelings toward her were that of a big brother and a little sister.
"Ah, Sylvie—I have a present for you." Damon smiled kindly and reached into his messenger bag, pulling out a small heart-shaped red box.
Tyrone raised an eyebrow. His look asked, Are you confessing?
He shook his head to clarify before turning back to Sylvie. It was a hint, not a confession. "You know how I just got back from Paris? I was training there, but I bought some chocolates there too. You know, as a souvenir."
"Thank you!" she gasped, smiling. His heart skipped a beat.
"I wish you'd get me gourmet chocolates," Tyrone joked.
"We can share," Sylvie said, unaware that it was a joke.
"No!" When his friends turned to stare at him, Damon flushed red. "I mean...I got you guys a present too." He reached back into the bag and produced a small, silver dagger. The top of the hilt had a bat carved on, and a wolf and full moon and more bats decorated the sheath. Vines were carved onto the hilt, and the blade was a smooth, polished metal that gleamed in the light. It curved just slightly to resemble a crescent moon.
"Whoa, Damon! Thanks," Tyrone said, eyes wide as he took the blade.
Damon smiled. He liked making his friends happy. For Shamus he'd gotten a new recipe book, and for Danes he'd purchased a new saddle for his horse.
"I'll leave you two alone now." Tyrone winked and started walking away, backwards. "I'll go talk to Shamus and Danes."
Damon felt his heart speed up, but at the same time he felt grateful toward his friend. Tyrone was always helping, but he was never pushy. And he wasn't biased either. Even though Shamus was his blood brother, Damon was close enough to him that Tyrone would help both try to get closer to Sylvie.
Sylvie. She was right in front of him, and now they were alone.
She turned to smile at him. "What do you wish to talk about?"
"Ummm...I-I—" He was getting lost in her eyes. Cursing silently, he quickly covered up his shyness with: "Tell me about the zoo, please. Since—I've never been there..."
"Oh!" Her eyes were suddenly bright again instead of serene. "It's so much fun. There are all kinds of exotic animals there. Monkeys, peacocks, lions, zebras, polar bears, panda bears..."
Damon listened, almost not hearing the words. He was too mesmerized by her sunny smile and her melodic voice and her beautiful, beautiful body. The zoo didn't sound very impressive, considering how he'd already seen all those animals in his many travels, but he didn't mind. It still sounded like fun and if it pleased Sylvie, then it must be a pretty neat place.
When she finished explaining the zoo, she was brimming with excitement. "Aren't you excited to go? Oh, I look so forward to it!"
He nodded automatically.
"I hope Mother will let me go." Her mother was a prim and proper lady, married to an important man. She was often quite strict, and while she hadn't liked Sylvie's growing number of male friends, she'd already started warming up to them. They had saved her daughter from attackers, after all.
"I'm sure she will," Damon replied. "We'll—I'll—be there to protect you."
She smiled. "I know you will. All of you." Then she surprised him. She tiptoed up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. His eyes were wide as she pulled away, and she was still smiling. "Thank you, Damon." She glanced at the clock. "Oh my, is it so late already? I must go home for lunch before Mother gets worried and has a fit. Bye, Daisy!" It was a nickname she'd given him, and while he hadn't liked it at first, it had started to grow on him. Mostly because it was Sylvie calling him it, and she made it sound like an important, affectionate title rather than a silly pet name.
He could only nod dumbly, feeling his cheek as she walked away. She had kissed his cheek. He knew it didn't mean a lot, as cheek kisses were common between close friends of the opposite gender—especially with Sylvie. But that didn't prevent his heart from beating faster and his palms from feeling warm. It didn't prevent his entire body from filling with an elated happiness that seemed to take him to the sky.
She kissed me on the cheek.
Danes paced back and forth in his room, having been doing so for nearly eight minutes. He could imagine Shamus telling him to stop and sit down before he wore grooves into the floor, but this time Shamus wasn't saying anything. He was watching with wide, scared eyes that were bloodshot from crying too much. He sat, crouched, on the sofa in Danes' office.
Shamus had hardly eaten or spoken since Ross' shooting. He had almost become like a corpse himself.
Danes himself had managed to spare a few tears for his nephew in private before telling himself to suck it up. Now he was pacing, glaring at two different walls as he walked in two different directions, contemplating the shooting, wondering who was behind it all.
"This is a disaster," muttered Danes, his eyes burning holes into the floor. "First Maggie and Chris, then Ross, and now Michael..."
Shamus let out a small choking noise. It was obvious how broken the once keen man had become.
Danes eyed his friend in concern for a moment, but Shamus remained huddled on the sofa, eyes glued to his feet. Sighing, the large man took up pacing again, his large muscles tense beneath his crisp uniform. "We need to increase security; can't let them walk around without bodyguards anymore; Christie has to be kept safe..."
He paused, sighing as he wondered if there would ever be a time they would be able to set foot outside again—or if they'd even dare to.
The door slammed open and Christie stormed in, eyes red and still wet. She looked like a mess; her face was flushed and streaked with tears, her hair was messy, and her nose was sniffling.
"Ah, Christie." Danes swallowed back the concern, trying to keep his tone cool. "I wanted to talk to you. You're no longer allowed to go around on your own. You must have a bodyguard beside you at all t—"
"I don't need a bodyguard!" she yelled, her voice trembling. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes.
"Christie, I don't want to lose you too."
"You won't. I'm stronger than that. And what does it matter, anyway?" She was shaking, Danes noticed. She swallowed hard. "I don't care if I get shot."
"Don't say that," snapped her uncle, feeling exasperated. "You'll do as I say and have a bodyguard."
"I'll lose him before the day ends," she shot back, stomping her foot.
He sucked in a sharp breath, frustration clawing at his stomach. But beneath it all lay fear for her safety. "You will do as I say. I can employ—"
"I'll do it."
The door opened again, this time calmer. A tall, slender teen with long red hair and green eyes appeared. He was dressed in his fighting clothes—a mask and an outfit that resembled a kimono, but allowed more movement.
"Vix," Danes said by way of greeting.
The boy glanced between the people in the room. He himself looked tired from worry. He took in the silent Shamus, the sniffling Christie, and the pacing Danes. His voice lowered. "I'll be Christie's bodyguard."
"I was actually hoping you'd be available for such a position," admitted Danes, allowing a brief flicker of emotion to pass his face.
Vix shrugged. "Well, I am. I'm easy to dispose of, and it shouldn't matter if I get shot or killed or stabbed or whatever. I'm also skilled in fighting and protection." His tone held a hint of sarcasm. He gave Christie a pointed look. "I'm also not easy to get rid of."
She sniffed. "I don't need you. I don't need any bodyguard," she protested, but her voice wavered.
"Then it's settled. Vix will be Christie's new bodyguard," muttered Danes.
A brief moment of silence followed and then Christie was stomping out of his office, shoving past a calm Vix. Vix followed her. The door slammed shut behind them.
Danes started pacing again. "What am I to do..." he muttered.
There was a nervous rap on the door just then, causing both Shamus and Danes to freeze as they looked up.
"What?" snapped Danes.
"Th-The man is here to see you a-again," a maid stammered.
Danes shoved open the door, nearly smashing it into the poor woman. "I'll be right there," he snarled, before rushing down the stairs. At the bottom stood the man dressed in the blue cloak. He looked up at the sound of Danes approaching, but his face was still hidden by his blue hood.
"Greetings, Danes." The stranger bowed. "I heard the news. I am terribly sorry about your nephew." He sounded sincere, but it did nothing to stop the wave of rage and grief that crashed inside of Danes.
"You," he hissed, slamming the person into a wall, his arm barring the man's throat. "Was it you? Did you shoot my nephew?"
The man remained calm, even in a choking hold. "No."
"I don't believe you." He tried to rip away the man's hood, but he was easily stopped when the stranger grabbed his wrist and twisted. Danes grunted in pain.
"I don't wish to hurt anybody," the man said calmly. "I just want to help."
"Right," sneered Danes.
"It's true." He tilted his head to one side. "You denied my offer once. I was hoping you would reconsider. But then you said that you would think about it. I have now come to hear your answer."
Danes paused. He was aware of how much he'd lost. Maggie and Chris, Ross and Michael... He knew how hopeless the situation looked. But he was also aware that this man was a stranger and a possible threat. Still, Danes thought, what do I have to lose? "What do you want in return?" he grunted.
"I just want shelter," the man replied.
Danes considered this. But not for long. With each passing moment, his nephew got closer to possible death. Maggie and Chris were no closer to waking up. And with each ticking second, Danes' desperation grew. He was afraid of breaking like Shamus and losing all control of the situation. And this man's request wasn't hard to fulfill.
Even if the person before him was an unknown stranger who could actually be a threat, he was the closest Danes had to a solution.
His desperation swirled inside of him, threatening to engulf him. He swallowed hard.
"Well?" the man prompted. "Do we have a deal?"
Danes managed to quickly regain control of his emotions, but it was strained. His eyes hardened as he nodded. "Deal."
Then they shook hands on it.
ME: Done! Plenty of stuff happened this chapter hehe. Danes made a deal, Maggie and Chris can be saved, some romantic moments, we got a look at the past, lots of crying and hurting, and Michael was shot!
BUTCH: ...Really. Three people shot in three chapters.
ME: *defensively* I know, I know—but I warned you guys more people would get hurt last chapter, didn't I? I could wait until the next chapter to shoot Michael but that would mess up my plan.
BLOSSOM: You have a plan?
ME: ...I've had one since chapter 42. Jeez, guys. None of you believe in my capabilities.
BLOSSOM: Well, you're just a little...umm, unorganized at times.
ME: No—I'm messy, not unorganized.
BLOSSOM: . . .
BRICK: *grunts* Just leave a review, people.
ME: Yeah! I'm thinking this'd be a good time for conspiracy theories. Give me your best ideas, guys! *winks* They may just come true.