A/N: The publication of this chapter had to be delayed by a few days because the previous chapter did not meet my standards. I have made the required changes. Further notes on the chapter itself. I've also decided to take advantage of this opportunity to 'remaster' a part of Chapter 121: Severance. (the very first chapter of Act 4: Spring Cleaning). Further notes on the chapter itself.


Chapter 148: Grief

The City of Townsville. Downtown. USDO Headquarters.

24 MAR (Friday) 1989. 1723.

The USDO headquarters. Professor Utonium had been avoiding this place like a plague lately, and surprisingly, no one cared. Medical Director Simmons drove the both of them down to the underground car park, and when they were stationary, the doctor got out first, if only because he was unhurt while the professor had taken quite a knock to the head. Still, Professor Utonium was able to open the door on his own, but when he was getting out, the doctor tried to help him, supporting him by the arm.

"I can walk on my own," the professor insisted.

"You sure?" the doctor asked, deeply concerned. "Is that you or your concussion talking?"

"I'm fine. More than fine," the professor said.

Together, they made their way into the headquarters building and towards the medical wing. However, the professor got them to stop by the cafeteria.

"I'm really hungry," the professor claimed. "And no, it's not the concussion talking. I think an early dinner will go a long way in helping me recover."

"Makes sense, wouldn't want you fidgeting from hunger while you're in the MRI," Doctor Simmons said, chuckling. "Why don't you grab something first? I need to take a leak, old man like me ain't got the best plumbing, y'know. I'll join you later."

The doctor left for the toilet in a hurry. When he returned, the professor was nowhere to be seen.


The City of Townsville. Townsville Industrial Park. Church of the New Trinity.

24 MAR (Friday) 1989. 1725.

"This is Flight Control Six, come in. Bravo-four-seven, please send in, over," Blossom's radio demanded, for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"Flight Control Six to Bravo-four-eight, report in, over," the flight control officer then addressed Buttercup the umpteenth time, but Buttercup wasn't stupid.

"Flight Control Six to Bravo-four-nine, please respond, over," whoever was on the radio had been hounding them for a while. The Girls knew not to reply.

"Don't talk to them," Blossom reminded her sisters as they were about to land.

Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup landed in front of a familiar warehouse. It had changed little, but the sign advertising the warehouse's new purpose had gotten bigger. The 'Church of the New Trinity', was what the place was called. Mom - Selicia Goodwin - had taken them here several times before, when the mainstream Catholic church decided that they would not align themselves with the Powerpuff Girls. The Church of the New Trinity was essentially a Catholic cult that believed Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup to be angels sent down by God himself.

Needless to say, they were more than friendly and welcoming to them, even if they were misguided.

Coming to the church wasn't the Girls' first choice. Blossom was completely out of ideas and didn't have the head space or time to plan ahead. School was already over, and they wouldn't know where to look for Ms. Keane after she was out of the school. That was not to say that the school was a potential next destination. Pokey Oaks Kindergarten was swarming with USDO personnel.

The City Hall would have been the perfect choice had it not been for a snag. There was no telling how Mayor Wilford would react to them, and he was surrounded by elite mayoral bodyguards - therefore Sara Bellum, although a friend, was inaccessible. The Girls' friends in the USDO were completely out of their reach too, considering that the USDO were the first to attack them. They had considered Mister Morbucks' mansion too, but from how their families fell out, Blossom thought it was a no-go.

The journey to the church had been slow and painful. They were low on Chemical X, and they were hurting both inside and outside, physically and emotionally, from the battle with the vengeful Mojo Jojo. Mister Mullens was killed, adding him to a constantly extending list of friends they would miss deeply. It'd made everything they do harder. It made escaping more meaningless.

Blossom knew they had to keep going, however. Dad was depending on her to keep her sisters safe. Townsville needed them - if they were defeated, it meant that the Amoeba Boys had won, and they would solidify their hold on the city.

As hard as it was, Blossom took one step forward, then the next. She crossed the street. Her sisters followed. Ushers from inside the church were quick to open the doors. They were the same attendants who looked after them every time they entered. The look on their faces was a contradictory mix of cheerfulness, surprise, fear and concern.

"Holy Ones!" one of the female attendants exclaimed. The Girls couldn't tell if she was happy to see them or terrified. Blossom could tell that she and a fellow attendant were looking at their wounds and the tears in their gear.

"We need help…" Blossom said, her voice dry, uneven. The ushers rushed to their side, at their beck and call. More rushed out, either sensing that their objects of worship were in need or that it was their chance to gain favor. The church ushers ended up carrying the Girls in, one attendant to one Girl, with the rest helping to carry their guns.

"George!" one of them shouted for the church founder, who was standing behind the lectern, preaching to a small group of people seated on a few rows of pews.

The church leader ended his sermon abruptly. Leaping off the stage, his jogged towards the Girls, his congregation looking on, some standing up, even more making the sign of the trinity - the new trinity - when they saw that the Girls were being brought in, all bloody and torn up.

"Bring them to the nurse's office, now!" George Luther, the ex-bishop, ordered his congregation. The warehouse-church had its own nurse's office just in case the kids in the cult's very own Sunday school needed it. It was staffed by a complete volunteer, of course. There, the nurse, George and a few others tended to them the best way they could. They were washed, medicated and bandaged with love, tenderness and care.

They were, after all, representatives of God in the Catholic cult's view.


The City of Townsville. Downtown. USDO Headquarters.

24 MAR (Friday) 1989. 1736.

While Doctor Simmons was off to the gents', Professor Utonium had sneaked away from the cafeteria. He knew he would be passing by the labs, so he disguised himself in lab scrubs and a mask to cover his face, bringing along a clipboard to hide behind for good measure.

The professor was still boiling inside; it felt uncomfortable and yet justified. He wanted to feel this way and there was no other way around it. Making his way past the science labs, he made his way to the military wing, walking along corridors that would take him towards General Blackwater's office.

Squads of soldiers were jogging in formation past him, more were streaming by. It looked as if they were mobilizing. No one paid him any attention; he had blended in with the civilians. There were administrators, janitors, and yes, other doctors and scientists walking in the same direction as he was. The professor didn't know whether to be amazed or worried, or surprised by how easy it was for one determined person to infiltrate the USDO HQ, albeit with the aid of an unwitting accomplice, not that he had much room left to wonder such things. The thought had only existed for a fleeting moment. After rounding another corner, he was there. Half a corridor away was General Blackwater's office.

He didn't even bother knocking. He went right through. The office had been swiftly renovated, and now included a secretary's office acting as a layer between the outside and the general. Corporal Nana Weston was sitting at the secretary's desk, staring at Professor Utonium when he came in and removed his disguise.

The corporal did not stop him immediately, nor say anything at first. There was a stack of used, soppy tissue paper on her desk. Judging by her smudged make-up, she had been crying and she didn't have time to touch it up.

"Professor," the corporal greeted the professor, finally standing up, but she made no moves to block or stop him.

"Nana," the professor greeted her back, hands shaking a little from anticipation, wondering if he should pull his gun out. He hid them by folding them behind his back.

"It's good to see you again," Corporal Nana said. At this point, the professor couldn't help but wonder if she was stalling for time. Had he been found out? Observing the young woman, he noticed how her eyes seemed to be darting here and there, never resting on him.

"Something on your mind, Nana?" he asked, almost twitchy - there was a purpose to him coming here and he wasn't going to sacrifice it for anything, or anyone.

"Bunny…" Nana's voice trailed off.

"She's your genetic offspring," the professor said. He'd heard it from General Blackwater himself, a fact he would never forget. How could he ever? "You treated her like she was your very own daughter, did you? I heard from Selicia-"

"She IS my daughter," Nana said. The professor thought she might blow up because of his choice of words but she didn't.

"Selicia told me everything. You treated her well. You were her friend when you couldn't be her mother," the professor said. "Never got the chance to say this, but thanks for everything, for making her life… comfortable when General Blackwater dragged her here to be trained."

Well, as comfortable as it could be…

Nana broke into tears, but held it all back.

"Was she… was she happy?" she asked, in tears.

"All the way to the end, even through all that pain and suffering," the professor said. "She loved Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup so dearly, she did everything she could to save them. She died in Blossom's arms, smiling."

"Thank you," Nana said.

"Miss Nana, is… General Blackwater in right now?" the professor asked.

"Yes," the corporal said, wiping tears away. "But he's leaving in five or ten minutes. He's taking direct command of an operation in the field."

"Thanks for letting me know," the professor said, a faint smile spreading before disappearing quickly; he didn't want to give the game away, even if Nana was clearly distraught, distracted and appeared to be on his side. "You should probably take a few minutes, maybe go to the ladies' and clean up a little. You deserve far more than that." With that, the professor made for a second door, the one that would lead him directly to General Blackwater.

"Professor Utonium," Nana called out to him before he left for his confrontation with the general.

"Yes, Nana?" the professor responded with as much courtesy as he could muster. Even in his hidden fury, he made it a point not to lash out at Nana.

"Selicia and Bunny… they were both good people," Nana said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"So am I," the professor said, and he couldn't contain himself any longer: "but so will someone else be."


The City of Townsville. Downtown South. Hague Apartment. Mullens Residence.

24 MAR (Friday) 1989. 1740.

Detective Wednesday walked through the door of Mullens' residence, or what's left of it, with Stanley Talker the talking dog padding next to him into the apartment. The moment he saw the fist-sized hole next to the door, he knew to expect little in the way of optimistic news.

The apartment was a mess. It had been trashed - twice, from what he heard. The first time was when it was raided by cops looking for Mister Mullens, and from what he heard on the radio, the second time was when the Powerpuff Girls came in for a visit.

Ducking under some police tapes and stepping over old, discarded ones, it didn't take long for him to come upon the corpses.

There was a police photographer, taking some choice shots of the evidences. A pair of detectives stood in the middle of the room, hands on hip, chatting away, unbothered by the stiffs.

There were two corpses. A patrol officer of the TPD, shot through the neck, though the wound was big enough that it likely wasn't caused by a bullet. The second corpse… was that of Mister Mullens himself, lying on his side with a Duranium anti-materials sniper rifle close by, which meant he was likely armed with it. His eyes were still open, staring at the windows, at something, or someone that was no longer there.

"Garrett Mullens, you foolish old man," Detective Wednesday muttered under his breath. Stanley Talker, who had been largely quiet and indistinguishable from a normal K-9 dog, whimpered miserably at the sight of Mullens' corpse.

They were supposed to scatter to the four corners of the Earth, live to fight another day - the Powerpuff Girls back to their home in the suburbs with Mullens under their watch, He and Stanley Talker to the TPD HQ. They were supposed to regroup eventually.

Detective Mullens had chosen to return to his apartment instead, for purposes he could only guess. Detective Wednesday thought that, overwhelmed with grief, the old man had returned home to reminisce first then pick up a few things next. It was a huge mistake. It came with the territory as one aged, so the younger detective heard. Live long enough, and you build up a warehouse of memories so large that you get lost in a maze composed of it.

Detective Wednesday greeted his fellow detectives before continuing with his auguring for the truth. Examining the corpse of the patrol officer more closely, he noted the wound on his neck, which was huge, that much was certain even when he saw it from a distance, but it was also uneven and serrated around the edge. It wasn't caused by a bullet. The wound would have been clean and circular and 'humane'. It was caused by something medieval and cruel.

The patrol officer's name was Jonathan Hartford, a low-ranking, starry-eyed young Townsville local who had joined for adventure and out of a desire to do good. The city had swallowed him, chewed him up and spat him on the dirty apartment floor way before his time, like thousands of others. The detective squinted his eyes, making sure he was getting this right. There were handprints on the poor young cop's neck, much smaller than even the most light-footed. Comparing his own hand to the prints, he saw that they were not even half the size of his own.

Children. That was what the handprints reminded him of. Like finger-painting art, a kid had made some marks on the patrol officer's neck. Looking around the corpse, he saw bandages that were completely soaked through with blood, and a trail of congealed blood starting from somewhere near the dining table to where the officer was: behind the couch.

This confirmed the reports. The Powerpuff Girls were here, perhaps at least one of the three. But he'd heard the radio chatter and the news. All three of them were trying to escape the law together, so there was a fair chance all three of them were here together in this apartment.

So the Girls were in the apartment. Knowing Mullens, he was probably trying to protect them, but from what? The radio chatter and news were silent on this. Looking around again, Detective Wednesday picked through the room for clues. It didn't take very long for him to find something.

The broken shaft of an arrow-like object was discarded on the ground, where there was a hole matching the arrow. The arrowhead was missing. There was micro-machinery scattered around the arrow. Someone had plucked it out and taken the arrowhead.

He was there during the attack on the Powerpuff Girls' victory parade. He'd helped with the investigations. There, he'd seen the same things, and the news reports covering the shocking event was clearer.

Mojo Jojo. A news camera crew had caught a grainy video of the monkey-like thing wielding a crossbow and shooting bolts from a building.

Mojo Jojo was here. Putting it all together, Detective Mullens figured it out: The rogue Girls came to Detective Mullens for help. They were ambushed by Mojo Jojo, and the old man was killed so that the Girls could escape.

Detective Wednesday returned to the old detective's corpse. Stanley Talker had been lying down beside it all the while, whimpering uncontrollably, sounding almost as if he was crying. The younger detective could understand why. Despite their differences, he knew that Lieutenant Garrett Mullens wasn't a bad man. Far from it. He'd made mistakes, but he'd been trying to do good by the city all this time.

Kneeling down beside Mullens' corpse, he placed his hand over Mullens' eyes and closed them. It was the least he could do.

"Rest well, old man. You deserve it," he whispered. He'd be lying if he claim he wasn't dismayed. A friend was lost, an old man who had to lose everything first before succumbing - and he would never see a clean Townsville for his daughter, who was killed before him.

"Hey, don't mess with the stiff!" one of the detectives in charge rebuked Wednesday.

"Yeah, you're ruining the only contribution that old fat fuck has given!" the second detective in charge added.

"He's not just any stiff, he's one of the finest officers in Townsville!" Detective Wednesday snapped at him. "The least we can do is show him some respect!" Shaking his head, the detective made for the exit, pulling the talking dog, who was reluctantly to leave Mullens, along.

Outside the apartment, Detective Wednesday had to carry Stanley Talker and deposit him into the front seat of his car. The dog just wouldn't move on his own. Going around the vehicle, he got into the driver's seat. He would've started it had it not been for the talking dog. He was still whimpering uncontrollably like a little puppy, except worse. Looking at the talking dog, the detective could see tears, though not as much as a human could shed.

Detective Wednesday returned his attention to his car. He was no good when it came to people - or a sentient dog in this case. He turned the key. The engine roared, but he could still hear Stanley Talker's whimper over it. The detective rested his hands on the steering wheel, thinking. He switched off the engine again before turning back to the talking dog.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked. Stanley Talker turned to him, pathetic puppy dog eyes meeting his stern eyes. The talking dog was trembling and heaving too uncontrollably to even begin to talk, it seemed, reverting back to his primal, grieving self. There were finally enough tears to drip down its snout. "Jesus, do dogs actually cry?"

"R-nnn-n-no…" the talking dog struggled to even say a syllable, before going back to whimpering.

"Look, just listen," Detective Wednesday said. Time to try something new. "I know you've lost friends. I've lost friends too. Almost all of them, in fact."

"R-r-r r-ryou did?" Stanley Talker struggled but managed.

"Yeah. My class was the extraordinary class of '81, Townsville Police Academy. Almost all of us were genuine. Almost all of us are now dead. Wiped out one by one because we all wanted to do… something," Detective Wednesday related his own story. "I've been dedicating cases to each of them ever since, and I'm not done yet. You get what I'm trying to tell you?"

"Nnn… Nnn…" Talker completely failed to vocalize. Instead, the dog shook his head.

"Point is, when you're in this business, or any business really, you lose friends, that's a given," the detective said, almost losing patience with the dog. "You lose friends, whether it's by gunshot or them turning in their gun. But you plow on, get it? You push on for them so they get to deliver justice through you. Chin up, Stan."

"R-rut dogs rave no chin…" Talker said. He seemed to be panting less heavily. Detective Wednesday smiled, thinking to himself that he was at risk of actually liking the dog. He pulled a tissue paper from the glove compartment of his box and began wiping the talking dog's tears away. There were surprisingly little.

"R-rits hard, ryou know. Rainful. Dogs don't cry, rand ri have no way to show re kind of sadness rintelligence rhad given re," Stanley said. "Rit hurts."

Chemical X had given the talking dog sapience, intelligence higher than even an average human being, but the upgrades to his mind-body complex had been uneven. His body remained canine. Though enhanced to be tougher, faster and stronger, it could only express pre-sapience canine emotions.

"Jesus, Talker," Detective Wednesday gasped, shocked at the implications. "Look, just don't think about it. Focus."

"Ri can't," Talker panted, still heaving, looking like he was hyperventilating. "Nnn… Nnn… Ri can't."

The detective reached out and grabbed the dog's head with both hands, the both of them looking eye-to-eye. "Look. Just breathe slowly. When I let go, I'm going to start my car, and you're going to tell me how you got that name, can you do that?"

The talking dog took in a deep breath, held it in, before letting go, staring widely at Detective Wednesday, it nodded. The detective let go of the dog, then returned to operating his car, turning the key. The car roared, then died. He turned the key again, and that got it roaring and purring. He looked at the talking dog again. At least it didn't look like it was about to faint.

"Well?" the detective said.

"Rhhmm?" Stanley Talker replied.

"Tell me about your name," the detective repeated his request again. Looking behind him, he began reversing and turning his car.

"Ri was running away from the rUSDO rhen ri got rit," the talking dog, at least for now, found solace in memory. "Ri found ra TV rat a shop rindow. Rhe news ras on. TNN news. Stanley Whitfield ras resenting."

"So you got your first name from him?" the detective asked. They were driving down a street now, towards parts unknown.

"Yes. Ri like how rhe talks," the dog said. "Rand since reveryone rikes how ri can talk, Ri started calling myself Talker."

"It's a nice name. I've been listening to Stanley Whitfield since I was in high school," Wednesday said. "You've chosen well."

"Thanks," the dog said.

"Do you have it on your passport and identity card?"

"Ri don't have rassrorts rand ridentity cards," the talking dog said. "Ri'm a dog, reven rif Ri can talk."

"Well, I think that's bullshit," Jack Wednesday said. "You're a dog, but you're also a person, a thinking, feeling, talking person. I'll stand next to you if you appeal it next time."

Stanley Talker did not reply. Instead, it looked out the window by the shotgun seat.

"Feeling better?" the detective asked while sneaking a glance at the dog. It no longer looked as if it might be hyperventilating. Instead, its breathing was slow and rhythmic.

"Ri… Ri…" Stanley Talker stumbled; he didn't expect that question after being distracted. His canine face lit up upon the realization of what Wednesday had done. "Y-yes."

"Good."

The detective drove his car aimlessly, at one point circling a block.

"What do re do now?" the talking dog asked.

"We're going to help the only friends we have left," the detective said, half his mind on the road, but the other half was elsewhere, and it wasn't quite on the talking dog. "Just need to figure out where to go."

"Ri've ralked roo rhem ra lot, raybe Ri can help?" Stanley Talker offered.

"They're your friends too," the detective said.