A/N: I feel I should say something. Something silly, or try and make it look like some of the characters in the story are talking to me. I'm not going to do that, though. I guess I'll take this moment to ask anyone who cares to answer a certain question which has been bugging me. Why is it that in Powerpuff fanfiction whenever Bunny is brought back to life she is without her original mental deficiency? I understand wanting her to be normal, but her handicap is what made her a unique character. There's no point in having her any other way.

Anyway, here's the story!

"Did you hear the one about me trying to die?

Fist in the air, and a finger to the sky.

Do I care if you hate me? Do you wanna know the truth?

C'est la vie, adios, good riddance, fuck you!"

Under and Over it by Five Finger Death Punch.

The Powerpuff Girls in:

Fierce Cup O' Reality

Chapter the Fourth,

Three Shits That are too Big for a Standard Toilet.

The hours after ten PM were considered peak hours by Buttercup. She would wander the same route each night, never hoping for customers, but always finding them. If ever she happened to notice or be noticed by one of her sisters as she left for "work", Buttercup would feel something close to guilt. She would describe the sensation as, "Like if Shakespeare spit on my portfolio." Her sisters, or course, knew what foul intentions were intended to be took, but quickly they would remember the sad Buttercup from before, cowering away from a world that failed her, and they would pity poor Buttercup. When Buttercup saw them, she would brave a smile, and try not to remember the world she had failed.

Lately she had grown fond of the lonely darkness. Buttercup would often walk at a turtle's pace until the sun rose up and outshone the moon. There was a certain quietude that could only be reached when alone, facing off against the black night. Step by step she strode deeper into the darkness, never feeling as though some great symbolic metaphor was taking place. She lit up her blunt, and took in long breathes, holding the carcinogens in her lungs for a full minute before releasing them. She was starting to develop tolerance to the drug, and had to use more and more of it before she felt any effect. Luckily for her supply was no problem, and this was the fourth joint she had burned through that night. Significantly blazed was Buttercup now which made the cold breeze pass by unnoticed.

She didn't notice the wind, but Buttercup did noticed a strange pair of people waltz through the darkness as she did. Though, these two men were obviously unfamiliar with the tune being played because they walked as though possessed of a drunken stupor. They looked almost familiar, as though they were seen by Buttercup once before, perhaps in a dream? No, never did Buttercup dream of such a contradictory couple. The one was all scruff and jitters while the other held himself with a vigorous pretension that shown like a beacon through this darkest of nights. Also, he wore a neckerchief. Dreams they did not look like, customers they did. So she put the joint out of it's passion, as it had been burned beyond saving, and moved towards these two men. Before making contact, Buttercup listened in on their conversation.

"I don't think we should be here, Freddie! Maybe we should let the cops handle this one?" said the scruffy one.

"We both know that the law in this town is too soft!" said Fred.

"But, you saw what that guy did to Velma! Tore her apart like she had perforated edges!"

"That's why I brought along Old Hickory." Fred removed from his trousers a obsidian .44 magnum revolver with a barrel that measured six inches long. More of Freddie's character could be seen in this pistol than in any twenty-five minute adventure.

"Jeez, Freddie!" the companion jumped back at the sight of the enormous cannon, "I thought the cops confiscated that!"

"So did they."

The two men turned down a darkened alley in between a low-rent apartment complex and Saint Mary's Orphanage for the Downtrodden.

"This is where we saw that bastard last time. Do you think he's in cahoots with the Haunted Haberdasher?"

"I sure hope not," said the unarmed one, "one ghostly cannibal is already more than I can handle!"

"Well, as far as I know, the Haberdasher hasn't killed anybody . . . though he could just be biding his time, waiting for a more handsome target . . ." That said, Freddie pulled the hammer back on Old Hickory, and his face became alive with lines and wrinkles that spoke of the trials and punishments of this one called Freddie.

"Maybe you should put the gun down."

"Maybe you should shut up, and take point!" Freddie grabbed the smaller man, and forced him in front. They could still see blood staining the bricks of the apartment building. It patterned in a way that made it almost look like some thug's vile graffiti, or some other form of nonsensical contemporary art. But the two men knew that it hadn't come out of any spray can. It was the humble remains of their friend Velma.

"Rest well, Velma," the thin man said as he trailed his fingers lightly over the sanguine stone, "a person living ten lifetimes could nary do better job at living than you, and should there be mysteries beyond this mortal veil I'll know that you will be there to solve them."

"Did you come up with that during your poetry slam, Shaggy, or did you just rip it out of a Pink Floyd song?"

Not one to let his vernacular be insulted, Shaggy responded, "You know that I was a classical literature major before you forced me into this crazy lifestyle!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Shaggy was not afforded the chance to demonstrate his practiced words as the shadows in the furthest corner of the alley began to fold and take shape. Eventually a dark figure with a ghostly face, and a stylish top-hat emerged, letting out a shuddering moan that traveled along the ground and up the pants of the arguing men. A visible shiver traveled the length of Shaggy's spine, and as it reached the apex of his skull the man shrieked like a cowardly baboon facing down a charging rhinoceros. Freddie, on the other hand, reacted in a far more practical yet equally juvenile way. He turned, and blasted two holes into the shadowy apparition.

A .44 magnum round is well known for being one of the most devastating shells that can be fired by single man. That same bullet, in the hands of an expert shot, could even be used to slay an ornery elephant, though, that elephant, due to its large bulk, will remain whole after receiving the shot. A human target wouldn't be so lucky. Especially after factoring in the close proximity in which these two particular rounds were fired, and the tight grouping executed by the shooter. All in all, a rather gory mess was made. The first bullet hit the right side of the shadow's chest, then passed through completely, taking with it a few ribs, and some of the insides which were rendered unrecognizable. The second bullet followed much of the same course as the first, but landed slightly higher, just below where the shoulder and collarbone meet. This second round took with it the entire arm of the dark figure.

Any life that the shadowy figure may have had was surely stolen away with those two blasts. His body collapsed like a lead leaf in autumn, the arm was pushed back, bouncing off the wall before landing with a squishy thud. Along with the arm and body, the top-hat of the now deceased man fluttered down at a pace made slow by its very own lofty distribution. There might be some form of political allegory in the fact that the top-hat, undoubtedly a symbol of the aristocracy, remained in the air longer then the person who first raised it above his head. Probably it was a coincident, though.

After recovering from the initial shock, Shaggy went over, and unmasked the deceased ghost (all ghosts are deceased. Duh!).

"Oh jeez, man! This is old man Rivers!" He sang out, "The friendly caretaker at the orphanage! Oh, who shall watch over the little ones now? ! They've no one but themselves!"

Freddie slapped Shaggy in a rugged and manly way, "Shut up with your whining! If I learned one thing from science class it's 'survival of the fittest!' These kids will either come out of this situation stronger, or they'll die! Either way there'll be less orphans and so the media will say that the problem is getting better!"

Shaggy could not hear his "friend's" words. The shock of watching a noble life obliterated by sheer power left the man in an closed off and rambling state, "He was probably just trying to scare off whoever it was that was stealing from the orphanage's kitchen!"

"Did you not hear me? Evolution, man! It will make or break these kids!"

Buttercup, having floated gently above and over these two men, was able to hear their conversation, and thinking that evolution was the only thing being discussed, and being something of a leaned women, she decided to drop down and add her two cents. She had heard the gunshots, of course, it hardly took super-hearing to do so, but was unable to connect them to the men below her as the chronic had bludgeoned her senses in a way that made them valid, but unreliable.

"Funny thing about Darwin," said she, "he was a huge racist! . . . and sexist!"

"Shit!" Screamed the two men, almost as though it was a practiced duet. They turned, and Freddie leveled his pistol and fired three rounds that would have felled any lesser creature. The bullets bounced off of Buttercup's indomitable skin, though, embedding themselves into the brick walls around her. Again it must be stated that the drugs in her system made empiricism impossible for Buttercup. She felt the rounds touch her body, and even felt a slight pain, but could not attribute it as an assault coming from the men before her.

"Yup, he was a double whammy of prejudice." Buttercup concluded.

Freddie and Shaggy both had a look of stunned horror on their face. The former looked at his gun, then at the girl, then at his gun again. Shaggy silently wept as urine saturated his pantaloons.

Buttercup looked between the two men, unsure as to why they were so terrified. She concluded that it must be because she had thrown them both in jail a lifetime ago, but Buttercup was no longer in that sort of position, and simply stopped thinking about it. Seconds passed in this manner before Buttercup finally spoke, "Do you guys want any weed? . . ."

The men were stunned, you would be too, and they looked at the girl who was, as far as their experiences could determine, invincible. Then, simultaneously, the men remarked how beautiful this figure before them was. Her hair, pitch as night, almost blended in with the darkness that surrounded them. Her foggy eyes should have made her seem unsure of her worldly surroundings, but her smile and abrasive confidence made for the most cocksure presence ever witnessed by either of the two men. Uncomfortably attracted were they to this hazy goddess, Shaggy because having a budding erection in pants wet with piss is embarrassing, and Freddie because he was with a friend who had just pissed himself. But still were they so cravenly affected so as to render any lustful thoughts impotent. They were made into contradictions. Like burning ice, or a martini that had been both shaken and stirred.

As though she had forgotten her earlier question, Buttercup went on to ask, "So, what are you two doing out here?" and, "Is that old man Rivers' arm over there?"

Shaggy, who was not known to be able to handle his "fight or flight" instincts flew from the alley as fast as his cartoonish legs permitted, saying as he left, "We never should have come to this town!" Freddie remained by Buttercup, unsure of whether he would flee like his friend, or make an attempt to woo the lovely girl.

Once out onto the main street, Shaggy bumped into a strangely attired man. This man was tall, probably around six feet and thee inches in height, and wore an outdated, but non the less dashing outfit which included a top-hat that might have been made by the Haunted Haberdasher himself! Shaggy bounced off the man, falling onto his rear-end. The other man remained upright like the noble primate he was.

"Ouch! I'm sorry, dude. I didn't see you dressed in all that black."

This man, dapper though he may have looked, responded to Shaggy's innocent sentence in the most dreadful of ways. In a dark rush, the man gripped Shaggy by the skull then, with a single hand, crushed it. Eyes and brain matter spilled between the man's fingers, which he didn't even bother wiping off afterward.

"It's you!" Yelled Freddie. The death of his friend had moved him to action. He raised his cannon once again, "Eat lead prejudice, Hell-spawn!"

The last bullet flew from the barrel of Old Hickory with a proud "Bang!" The path it took was straight, and on a course for the strange man's brain. Just like with Buttercup, however, the bullet bounced from the man's skin as though it were a mere pebble slung from the arm of a child. In so many ways did this person seem as though he were a dark reflection of Buttercup. And yet where Buttercup held a carefree guilt that made her seem the victim, the man carried an arrogance that seethed with villainy.

Freddie tried to fire more bullets, but, as anyone with a strict memory and basic algebraic skill will contend, Old Hickory was fresh out of munitions. The strange man, keeping in the fashion set forth by his clothes, moved in a blinding, yet appropriately bourgeois darkness towards Fred. Arms were sundered, legs were improperly bent, and Freddie's head was somehow made inverted. All of this was horrible and gory, yet the man still managed to hold about a cultured air or aristocracy.

After the pieces all fell to the ground the man turned towards Buttercup who was still in a chronic induced state of stony indifference.

"Ah, my midnight rose," said he in a voice of class, with the hint of an European accent, "To be drawn to you thus, I think fate must have pulled her unseen strings this night."

"Are you wearing a cape?"

"I am," the man held it up as though to show it off, "Do you like it? I had it hand tailored to my body. I didn't know you had to do that with a cape, but you do, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise," He swirled it about his body like a prom dress.

"So you're wearing a cape," Buttercup looked as though she were trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle within her mind, "and you just murdered those two guys."

"Murder is not the term I would use for it implies that those men were anything greater than the lowest of filth stumbling upon this Earth which rightfully belongs to those like myself . . . and you of course."

"Huh?"

That man stalked closer, almost like an animal hunting its prey, "Come with me, and I shall explain to you secrets of the void. Be as I am, and you will see things beyond the dreaming of your imagination! You will become something greater than what you already are! All you need do is take my hand," from the liquid folds of the cape came a pale hand that almost glittered with majesty. Buttercup almost took the man's hand, but as their skin came closer she felt a dark chill jump from the man to her skin. Like living, creeping frostbite did it slide up her arm, and through her body. This sensation triggered something that had been unknown within Buttercup for the longest time. A sense of danger.

She stepped back from the man. "Back off, shit-head! I might be banned from crime fighting, but I'll still turn you into another stain on the wall!"

"So fearsome!" the man laughed, "Like a child that is. I remember from years back the mighty Buttercup's strength and prowess in battle. I was positive you would be a perfect member of our fold. But if you are moved so easily to fear I can see that I was mistaken. Time has dulled you in more than one way it seems."

"That's some pretty fancy talk, and I'm sure all the girls in high-school fall for it, but unless you can back that up with some serious firepower shut your damn mouth!"

"It is not 'fire' that powers me, but the cold torture of eternity! I have inherited sights and sounds from a millennia of generations! The mountains seem young to my kind! The oceans fresh! Before my rebirth we would be of equal match, but now my power dims the sun, and makes the stars weep! I could destroy all that you love as easily as I breathe!"

In a harsh voice, one Buttercup had almost forgotten how to use, she yelled, "Bring it, mother fucker! I'm game to face you and Armageddon! I'll kick your ass!"

Again the man laughed, "No, I don't think you can."

Buttercup pushed from the ground with enough force to pull the concrete up with her. The speed at which she moved created a vacuum that immediately pulled into itself the dirt and garbage of the alley. She readied her arm to strike the dapper fellow, who remained steadfastly defiant in his posture. Not just Buttercup came crashing forward in that moment, but also a righteous desire so long repressed, aimed to smite not only the man, but all evil.

The man held up his palm, and pressed firm to the ground upon which he stood. When Buttercup's hand struck his a violent tremor shook forward from the two with enough force to crack the surrounding buildings, but the man remained unmoved. Buttercup was horrified to find her attack so easily stopped. She wondered if the man before her was as strong as his boasts, or was it that her own strength had dwindled so much?

While Buttercup's power had done little in the way of affecting the man's equilibrium it did knock his hat off, allowing the former hero to look upon her enemy. By all accounts the man was beautiful, but it was a beauty corrupted by an intense lust for power. In his red eyes Buttercup thought she could see the glimmering of a terrible deed. So pure in wretchedness was it that our former hero strained all of her muscles just to prevent an involuntary flinch. Matching the brilliance of his eyes, the man's hair was long, and ragged, almost shocking in the fact that it countered his otherwise urbane appearance.

Using his free hand, the man struck Buttercup across the jaw, knocking her straight through to the other side of the orphanage. She bounced across the concrete street, and stopped when she hit the wall of the next building over. Buttercup was in a state of near unconsciousness, but she managed to open her eyes, and watch as the world slowly knitted itself back together. When things regained their focus, Buttercup noticed the man standing over her.

"That was but a charity on my part," said he, "and my patience for generosity has all but disappeared," the man looked as though he would say more, but a natural light suddenly began to color the sky, carelessly breathing life into the world.

"But," the man continued, "it seems I have run out of time. I'll see you around, Buttercup."

Buttercup noted a strange change in the man's voice towards the end of the dialogue. It was almost as though his accent changed. Or maybe it just returned to normal? Her vision was quickly regaining its ocular faculties, and Buttercup was ready to go another ten rounds with the dastard who had knocked her about, but when she blinked he was gone.

Buttercup raised herself from the ground, wiping away the shame, and the dirt, too, "Weird," said she, "why do I feel like I was just left at the alter?" she thought further on what had just passed her lips, then shrugged, and left for home.

Bubbles awoke along with the sun that morning. It was unusual for her to rise so early, and the fact that she didn't have any work that day did little to emphasize that. But something about this morning; the bright spread of azure sky gaily circling amongst ivory clouds may have been a factor. Bubbles stretched and dressed for a day that looked to be all to casual. Long gone were the glorious days of crime fighting and heroics. Present were the nights of stripping and somnolent courtship. Though the attentions of a hundred men could never replace the love of her missing father.

Bubbles descended the steps with her usual aplomb, making note of how desolate her home looked (a strange phenomenon considering the eccentric decor of the home), despite the truly terrific weather. But with these sorts of things sometimes it only takes the cheery disposition of a single individual. Or so Bubbled thought. So she arranged a smile, unique only to her, and wore it with a pride that bordered arrogant. Like so many other optimists, Bubbles probably didn't realize that her expressions of jocularity would upset the pessimists (or "realists" as they like to call themselves) around her.

Like joy made corporeal, Bubbles danced about her small home doing the most mundane of tasks. Making breakfast, sweeping, and many things what might be considered typical for a normal morning. After that had been completed, Bubbles sat herself in front of the television, and turned on the news.

"We're now going live to Bret Stronggrin live at Saint Mary's Orphanage for the Downtrodden where three bodies have been found brutally murdered. . . Bret," said the TV.

"Thanks, Guy," a new man appeared on the television, "Sam Goodmire, a young resident of the orphanage, was preforming his morning duties when he noticed a strange smell, and a large pack of wild dogs scrounging around in what appeared to be large bloody piles of human meat."

"Why is the news always so depressing?" said Bubbles. She thought about changing the station, perhaps upbeat children cartoons were on, but how often is it that one sees an unrecognizable pile of dead people. Especially by an orphanage. She remained watching the news.

The screen suddenly showed the image of a young boy, no older than twelve, who said, "Those dogs are always hanging around the orphanage. Sometimes in winter, when it's really cold, they'll snatch up one of the younger kids, but usually they keep away. I was the only one awake at the time, so it was pretty surprising to see the dogs here.

"They were fighting over some food the same way we do, but their food looked a lot more fresh than ours does. It smelled really bad, though. The orphanage smells bad, but this smelled worse."

Bret's face once again took over the screen, "One of the victims has been identified as Benjamin Rivers, the orphanage's caretaker, but the other two men remain unidentified."

Bubbles was so enraptured by the story on TV that she failed to notice her sister Buttercup enter into the house. Buttercup silently stood behind the couch Bubbles was sitting on.

"While the police have no leads on who could have committed this heinous crime they do have some theories on how it could have happened."

A police officer came into the center of the screen. He had a tired look about him with a muffled sense of distinguish that seemed oddly appropriate for his character. When he spoke it was in tired tones, "Unfortunately, the dogs made a mess of the bodies before anyone could secure the crime scene. But from what we've been able to gather it looks like these men were all quartered by horses. We're investigating anyone with access to a horse ranch in the area."

"It wasn't no horse," interjected Buttercup, "It was a man."

Bubbles started at the sound of her sister's voice. Not just because it surprised her, but because it was strained with fear, and anger, "Men quartered them?"

"No!" Buttercup yelled, "They weren't quartered at all! One man literally ripped them apart!"

"How do you know?" asked Bubbles.

"I was there, Bubbles. I saw it happen."

Bubbles got up from the couch to face her sister full on. She was scared for her, as any good sibling would be, "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

As Bubbles moved to comfort her sister Buttercup pushed her away, "I'm fine! Just a little shaken up. Bastard got a lucky shot on me."

"Wait," said Bubbles, "He actually hurt you? I just asked before because I know that if I saw three people getting ripped apart I would throw up!"

Buttercup looked embarrassed, but the anger that remained on her face held off any sort of condescending insult.

"He caught me off guard!"

"Who caught you off guard?" asked Blossom as she came down the steps, "Your parole officer?"

"No, you bitch! That dick with the top-hat!"

A strange sensation happened within Bubbles. Synapses started firing off, connecting invisible nodes of information, "Wait!" said she, "I met a strange man in a top hat just a few days ago!"

"Did you. Did he have a weird foreign accent?" asked Buttercup.

"Yeah! And he kept inviting me to some kinda midnight mask party!"

Blossom said to her sisters, "Who would have thought that drug dealers and strippers would meet so many strange people!" with no small trace of sarcasm. It was long since she last displayed any sort of humor, so even though it was an insult directed at her, Bubbles was happy to hear it come from Blossom.

"This guy, did he have red hair?" asked Buttercup of Bubble all the while ignoring Blossom.

"I don't know. I didn't get close enough to see."

"Do you often get weird guys in top-hats inviting you to old timey parties?" continued Buttercup.

"No, never with top-hats."

"Then I think we might have dealt with the same creep."

"Good sleuthing, detective Deedeedee," added Blossom from the sidelines.

Buttercup turned towards the red-head, "You know," said she, "why is it you're willing to go along with any stupid 'down with capitalism' movement, but when a legitimate problem is put if front of you you disregard it as nonsense?"

"Because it is nonsense!" Blossom shouted, "Top-hats and masquerades! Maybe Bubbles encountered a few freak jobs over at her whore factory,"

From the sidelines Bubbles spoke a dejected, "hey."

"But you were probably so hopped up on drugs last night that you would have thought a parked car was the Duke of Gloster!"

Buttercup moved closer to her sister, and raised her voice to match Blossom's, "Don't start with me, Blossom! I'm not in the mood! I know what I saw!"

This situation was not unusual for Bubbles, and while she desired nothing more than her sisters' happiness, she knew there was little she could do in the way of preventing this argument. So instead of partitioning her strength, Bubbles decided to changer her focus, and continue watching TV while Blossom and Buttercup continued their spiteful banter. They usually burned out after a few minutes anyway.

For a while longer the TV spoke of the previous night's murders, interviewing other townsfolk from the nearby area, all of whom offered very little in the way of helping discover the murderer. Eventually a familiar face appeared on the screen. He was much older than he was the last time Bubbles had seen him, but Brick is not one who is easily forgotten. Most people with red eyes are like that.

"It's a dyin' shame, what went down here," Brick spoke with a solemnity uncommon in former criminals. Brick's eyes matched his words in their sincerity, and he didn't look the least bit abashed or uncomfortable with what he said, "If me or my brothers was there we would have made sure no one got hurt."

The words came out of Brick's mouth like wine for the cup of Bacchus, both enticing and calming the rage of Blossom and Buttercup. The two Puffs looked at the TV, becoming both shocked and amazed when recognition revealed who the man on the screen was.

"No way!" shouted Buttercup, "that cantankerous gang of fraptious hooligans disappeared years ago!"

Blossom moved closer to the TV, inspecting it, or rather the image of Brick, with a strict industry. Bubbles responded to her sister, "I guess they came back."

"Obviously," was the stout answer given by Buttercup.

Scrupulous Blossom, however, saw something else in that brief video of her old enemy. Or perhaps it was something she felt upon seeing him. "That man who attacked you," asked Blossom of Buttercup, "did he look like Brick?"

Buttercup thought for a moment, "I don't think so," said she, "the guy who attacked me was more," she moved her hands about whilst searching for the correct word, "debonair."

"You said he had red hair, and he was able to take you down."

"It was a lucky shot! . . . and I see where you're going with this, but it couldn't have been Brick," responded Buttercup.

"Well then who do you think it was?"

"I don't know . . . definitely not Brick!"

"I can't believe that his sudden appearance is just a coincidence. Even if it turns out to be nothing we need to be sure he's not connected to all this," Blossom reasoned. The two sisters then turned to Bubbles, as though her voice was the deciding vote in an imperial caucus.

"Um," said Bubbles, "I know the guy I saw wasn't Brick. There was no way he could have been. Not enough charisma, but Blossom does make a good point."

"Figures," Buttercup said with the dejected voice of one who was used to disappointment, "Let's just go talk to him, and get this over with."

Thus the Powerpuff Girls were reborn. In a strange amalgam of coincidental events, the girls once more were thrown into the center of a fiendish crime. The three flew out to stop the perpetrator of said crime, resembling something close to a team as they did so. It had been long since the Powerpuff Girls had assembled as one, but when they moved it was as though they were five years old once again. They ascended the sky, and peered down upon reaching its apex. Blossom looked the part of the leader once more. Buttercup's eyes seemed alive with an incredible clarity, as though every torpor element of the last few years was washed away with a grim hand. Bubbles looked betwixt her sisters, and could find no memory from resent times that could match this moment in its joy. Not the sort of joy derived from love, but rather the joy of purpose.

The menace they stalked dwelt in their city, their home, preying on those foolish enough to believe his honeyed lies. But, like an aggressive surgeon, the Powerpuff Girls were ready to cut out this malignancy. They were ready to dust off their heroic pedestal, climb back to its summit, and take back their former title of heroes, screaming as they did so, "Here we now stand just as before! Even after you cast us aside we watched! Even after you grew fat, and content, and oblivious of our guardianship we protected! And now, as you slovenly let slip a wolf into your pen; we are here to save you!"

At least that is how the girls felt about the whole thing.

Their effort, however, proved greater than their cause. For Brick was watching, and probably had been since they first rooted themselves to that spot in they sky. He was looking straight at them, waiting to be seen. Smiling. When he was finally noticed, the girls made a rush, stopping a few yards in front of him.

"Hello," he said in all too casual tones, "What brings you to my neighborhood?"

"Saucy bastard!" shouted Blossom, " we're here to pose that very same question."

"Me? Why, I'm living, of course!" Brick's voice was mellifluous and mock-sincere, like a cardinal hiding amongst blue jays, or a psychologist, "This is my home you're standing on."

The girls looked for the first time at what it was they were standing on. It was a building, taller than many of the others. Blossom knew it to be one of the more praetorian apartment complexes in the city.

"You live here?" asked Bubbles with a voice moved by a slight avarice.

"Well, just the top floor," Brick then chuckled.

"I suppose your little brothers are here as well," said Blossom.

As if summoned by words of power, Butch and the simple Boomer emerged from a door adjacent to their brother. The both looked vile (Butch slightly more so than Boomer), and walked with a purpose in their step that made them all the more conspicuous.

Together again for the first time in what could be considered an age, the six beings of immense power stood atop the skyscraper, high enough almost to be considered the peak of the world. It was here on this steel monument to achievement, the mountain's contemporary, that enemies addressed each other wearing skins of friendship, but with shark teeth at the ready. The air grew restless around them, and as though it was imbued with four unique consciences, each of which moving of its own volition, the wind swept forth and created a barrier around the roof on which they all stood. Had a wind of this magnitude attacked the tower from just one side it would very likely have knocked the building over with its force, but as it was being pulled upon from every which angle, the large construct remained rooted to the ground.

"It seems even the sky remembers our old battles, and wishes to reenact them. Maybe as a way of appealing to us. But all the forces of nature could never match our combined destructive powers!" the powerful gusts forced Brick to shout these words, "I'll ask the wind to stop all this ruckus. It's no way to hold a civilized conversation!" Brick turned away from the girls and his brothers, taking in a deep breath as he did so. That breath remained within him for a moment, as though it were a concentration of his very life, and to let go of it would mean death. Then he released it, and his life did come rushing out. It did not herald his demise, however. He seemed more alive as he did it! The roar he produced could not be matched by the most savage of beasts! It made the bursting of an artillery round sound mouse-like. Yet, also did it sound vaguely like laughter. A mad sort of hyena laugh united with a bear's wrath. As the sound died away so too did the wind.

"It's like the wind is afraid," remarked Bubbles.

"Merely a coincidence," said Blossom.

"If that makes you feel better then I won't argue," began Brick as he moved closer to the three heroes, "I don't think you're here to talk about simple things like the weather, anyways. Could it be that you and your sisters are here to raise the jovial sails of friendship? . . . No, I can see from your expression that you are not."

"Where were you last night? !" Blossom suddenly yelled, having lost most of her tact in the preceding years. Even her sisters were caught off guard, though the Rowdyruff Boys were not.

"I seem to be picking up a slight hostility from you, Blossom,"Brick again moved closer to the girls so that his body was almost touching Blossom's, "I suppose you're talking about the murders that took place by the orphanage."

Blossom nodded her head, but she did so not with an earnest eagerness as is normally the case with that particular gesture. Instead she nodded as though she were imploring Brick to unload his guilt like it were a derailed freight-train, and Blossom was the quiet mountainside township that sat directly in the path of the falling cargo. Maybe such a metaphor is too dark in its landscape to fit this event. Then again, Blossom was never one for allegory or story-craft in general.

Brick began spinning an elaborate defense for himself all the while his brothers stood behind him, faces with ivory smile that seemed to halve their individual intellects, if such a word could ever be used appropriately in describing them.

"You see, Blossom, there was no way me, or either of my two brothers could have been there, for we were all at the local opera house. And, being ever the bright and genial gentleman, I will present proof!" Brick then revealed three tickets from his pocket, "I have here three tickets, one for each Rowdyruff. And I did not acquire these stubs through any unjust means, as I would have done in the past.

"But I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking, 'But Brick, could not someone easily have purchased tickets, and then simply not have seen the show?' And you would be correct in that line of logic, but who would want to miss out on Darkening Bliss! The operatic translation of the latest hit novel by author Hera Diabolique!"

"Oh my god! I so need to see that!" Blurted Bubbles.

"And if that unshakable evidence doesn't sway your heart, then perhaps this will!" Brick then pulled, from the same pocket that held the tickets, a picture in which he and his brothers were standing up on a opera stage with the cast of the smash hit, Darkening Bliss, "Peer into this well of truth and tell me we're guilty! 'How did we come to share the stage with the cast?' you ask. I'll tell you then! After the finale had been completed, and the crowd finished its jovial applause, my brothers and I leaped to the stage and gave an encore for the audience with our own voices! The cast heard us, and was so moved and delighted that they joined with us in song."

"You trying awfully hard to prove your innocence," said the preternaturally irreproachable Bubbles.

"Oh, so you don't believe me? !" exclaimed Brick.

"That's not what I said."

"Perhaps you think me, or one of my brothers, photo-shopped this picture. Well then, naysayer, take a look at this!" Brick pulled from the same pocket (which, upon closer inspection, might have been his only pocket) the negatives for the photograph, "Here! Irrefutable proof that we were there!"

In this interim of silence Bubbles almost wished her sisters would begin fighting as that would at least be a familiar event for the girl. There was no fighting, though. Just abstruse, boring talk about a guilt free night at the opera.

"Well, I see you've inherited your father's wastefully energetic passion for rhetoric," said Blossom.

"Gay!" added Buttercup, "after all that wind shouting I was hoping to hit at least one of you!"

After this, Boomer, who heretofore hadn't moved, came towards Bubbles with shy steps that ravaged his previous self-image as an imposing figure, "Hey," said he in a squirrel-like voice, "do you wanna go get some jell-o with me?"

"Not really."

"Okay," Boomer then left, presumably to attain some jell-o.

Boomer must have been a reverse harbinger of sorts, because as he left so too did his brothers. Though it was unclear whether or not they wanted jell-o as well.

"Man, now I want some jell-o," said Buttercup.

The girls returned home, and waited, for there was naught but little they could do for the time being. The days carried on, taking little notice of the lives our heroes lived. Bubbles had to return to her job at Dirtier Dancing. Her only reason for working at that strip club was that necessity demanded it. Buttercup's source of income wasn't the sort of thing that could be put down on any tax record (not that the IRS or FBI could do anything about it), and Blossom hardly worked at all. It was like a great switch had taken place when nobody was looking. Blossom, the leader, who used to do the most for her family, was now the one doing the least. While cute little Bubbles had to pick up the slack. But Bubbles is nothing if not humble; always helping, never complaining. So she took this position of Mother, not only bringing in money for food and rent, but also doing most of the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. The motherly stripper is not that uncommon a sight in these troubled times.

While the girls faced this amorphous crisis the rest of the city welcomed a new breed of heroes with affections that bordered on amorous. Of course we're speaking of the Rowdyruff Boys, who, shortly after flying into Townsville, bequeathed themselves champions of the people, and did exactly what the Powerpuff Girls were no longer allowed to do. The day after the girls' encounter atop the tower, Brick announced to the public, in very broad yet detailed strokes of the tongue, of his and his brothers' plans to protect the city as though its seasoned law officers were a slovenly group of tubby children sequestered away at bible-camp.

Each night, as the local six o'clock news stabled its impotent steed of truth, the Anchors lavished the community with tales of Brick's seemingly insatiable heroism (one time a gang of crooks hijacked a truck full of food, and Brick stopped them by throwing the truck at a food drive, spilling the delicious contents), Butch's saucy charisma (Butch didn't speak much, but when he did the ladies, and a couple of fellows, fell eagerly into line for a ride on the 'Butcher', which is a really bad name for a sex move), and Boomer's charming intellectual hiccups (quoth he, "What do you mean an IOU isn't the same as real money? !"). The entire city was become of a veritable 'Rowdyruff fever'! Everyone except the Powerpuff Girls, who looked upon these showboating newcomers as though their heads were as big as their egos (or vise versa).

Unfortunately for all, the Rowdyruff Boys had yet to be able to track down whomever it was that committed those murders by the orphanage. Though the news seemed more comfortable reporting on the boys' latest exploit instead of the slowly rising death tole. This brought forth a new rage within Blossom and Buttercup (even Bubbles felt a fraction of the angry ardor run through her petite body), who then began working together in ways completely unknown to them. Whereas in their child years the two fought as one, now they plotted as one. A single mind working towards a single purpose. Buttercup hadn't sampled her own wares in days; all her focus was needed in her current project. Blossom too had become mentally free of the rallies and protests that had formerly occupied her mind and time. Bubbles would help when she could, but most of the time she seemed only to get in the way of her sisters' progress.

Throughout all of this, the story of Jorden Søln, the humble meteor, was wholly forgotten. But it had not forgotten the Earth, dear reader, and it grew larger as it closed in on the planet.

A/N: To anyone who cares there will be another new chapter next week! For everyone else; go fuck yourselves!