Disclaimer: I do not own The Powerpuff Girls.
A/N: Dare you to read this whole fic in the voice of the Narrator.
Chapter 1
The city of Townsville... WAS UNDER ATTACK!
It had started out like an earthquake. The ground shook with claps of thunder; the approach of heavy footsteps. Everyone knew relatively what to expect. They ran screaming through the streets, trampling each other. A man who'd been helping an old lady across the street, left her in the middle of an intersection, allowing her to be run over by a coward who'd only end up in the inevitable traffic jam. People abandoned their vehicles. From a bird's-eye view, Blossom thought the citizens looked like a colony of panicked ants; many of which, she understood, were about to be stepped on. When the cyclops finally reared its ugly head, Bubbles' first instinct was to try and reason with it; an approach that rarely worked, but she refused to kill a potentially innocent creature, without at least attempting to rectify the situation with peace. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those exceptional cases. They were going to need to use brute force. Ignoring Blossom's commands, Buttercup jettisoned toward the one-eyed monster, and sent it flying with one punch. It crashed into a nearby skyscraper, knocking it over, and creating a domino effect with the surrounding buildings. The sisters gasped, watching in horror as they toppled, and screaming citizens ran frantically below. "Look what you've done!" Blossom gestured toward Buttercup's fuck-up. "Don't you ever think before you act?!" Buttercup's face reddened with shame, and maybe irrational, misplaced anger. She wanted to defend herself, but knew she had only herself to blame. "I'm sick of you constantly undermining my authority! You're a much bigger threat to society as a Powerpuff Girl, than you are as a member of the Gangreen Gang." Tears welled up in Buttercup's eyes, but she refused to shed a single one. Bubbles was the crybaby, not her. As though running from herself, Buttercup flew away at warp speed, leaving her sisters to deal with the consequences of her actions.
Meanwhile, from the comfort of his personal chambers in the fiery depths of Hell, Lucifer happened to be watching the scene unfold telepathically on his television screen.
He'd always made sure to keep a close eye on the Powerpuff Girls.
In their early twenties, now, they'd gone separate ways in their personal lives. Blossom was the only one to had not yet flown the coop, since she worked in the lab with Professor Drake Utonium on a daily basis. Bubbles had secluded herself to a cabin in the woods—like Fuzzy fucking Lumpkins—where she spent her days in front of a canvas, or making friends with squirrels. Buttercup had quite literally shacked up with Ace.
After replaying the scene a few times, Lucifer clicked the channel-up button on his 'remote view control,' switching to Buttercup's particular 'channel.' Deep within the bowels of the city dump, she was curled up on the ratty couch in Gangreen Gang's dilapidated shack, pounding beer from the cooler that they referred to as 'the fridge.' As always, when a Powerpuff figuratively had innocent blood on her hands—and as though blood were literally on them—Buttercup stared at her shaky fingers in a nearly catatonic state. Listening closely to the voice in her head, Lucifer could hear as she silently contemplated the idea of dropping out of the Powerpuff Girls, to dedicated herself fully to the Gangreen Gang, which she'd already been initiated into. She didn't want to give up the thrill of kicking ass, but for every few citizens the Girls saved, they'd unintentionally cause the death of another; and that was especially true for Buttercup. She knew she'd also never be able to respect Blossom's authority, and was sick of receiving an earful about her relationship with Ace. In Blossom's eyes, Buttercup was sleeping with the enemy. In Buttercup's opinion, Blossom was too cold and calculated to understand the irrationality of love. Buttercup's relationship with Ace in itself felt like a crime of passion.
With another click of a button, Lucifer switched to Blossom's 'channel,' exposing the private world of the professor's laboratory, wherein the two of them—on the verge of a scientific breakthrough—had begun to conduct experiments of sexual chemistry; testing one's reaction to the other's touch, and gauging the various results.
In a hurry for more, Utonium carelessly knocked vials and beakers off the lab table and onto the linoleum, whereupon glass shards had spread and chemicals now pooled. He grabbed Blossom by the waist, lifted her onto the tabletop, as though she were weightless, slipped between her spread legs—which she wrapped around his waist—and pressed himself against her. They kissed feverishly, until they were panting for breath; connected temporarily by a thin string of saliva. They pressed their foreheads together, and matched their breaths to each other's pace. Blossom had a feeling of being in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time; and time was standing still. This felt right to her. People could tell her it was wrong, but they'd be wrong to tell her so. There was nothing perverse about this. It wasn't like she had a 'daddy kink.' She'd viewed the professor as less and less of a father figure, since the onset of puberty, while his love transpired beyond that of parental affection. In the purest, most unadulterated of ways, he'd always felt differently toward Blossom, than he had toward Bubbles and Buttercup. The redhead, who'd initially stuck out to him the most, and happened to relate most to him, had always been his favorite.
Lucifer clicked the channel-up button, once more, scooting toward the edge of his seat. With her sisters out of the way, he could finally concentrate on Bubbles. The sugary Puff had always stood out most to Lucifer. Initially, he'd been intrigued by her purity—an innocence waiting to be corrupted—but was further enthralled by the surfacing of a repressed dark side. She was like a blanket of pure snow over a thick layer of dirt, or an angel whose halo was held up by horns. Which made sense, when he thought about it. Bubbles was a sensitive person; a whirlwind of positive and negative emotions. She was highly empathetic; a sponge for the feelings of others. Her imagination sometimes took her places she didn't want to go, and she harbored many irrational fears. Her innocence itself rendered her easily disturbed. The epitome of yin and yang, a glimpse into her nightmares could totally eclipse the sunny disposition of her daydreams. It was only as Bubbles had begun to develop, that Lucifer's obsession with the corruption of her innocence transpired into a sexual nature, bringing him to a sickeningly sweet revelation: The dark prince of fallen angels had fallen for an angel.
In the sanctity of her secluded cabin, the flower child was currently painting a beautiful landscape. It was a talented piece, though Lucifer preferred her more cathartic artwork—angry scribbles, really—which he'd inspired her to paint. She'd pour all of her negative emotions onto the canvas, and walk away cleansed of them. Lucifer's favorite piece, however, was a portrait of himself that she'd painted from memory. It was stashed away with the angry scribbles, beneath the creaky floorboards.
