New Year's Day had been on a Friday, and Blossom spent that entire Friday simply watching TV or studying Danish from the book the Professor had given her. She followed this same schedule on Saturday. And on Sunday. She avoided Mojo as best as she could, but when she was in contact with him, she made it a point to speak to him—no matter how pointless speaking was by now.
Unfortunately—or fortunately—Mojo was always there anyway, even when Blossom hadn't explicitly asked for him. She had grown thirsty while reading her book and decided to get up for a glass of water when she had finished the chapter she was reading, but twenty seconds later Mojo was standing in front of her, holding a glass of ice water for her. She wondered to herself what Mojo was planning for supper, thought that tacos sounded good, and suddenly Mojo was heading out the door—"I must go to the store to purchase taco shells, for I do not have any, and without taco shells we would be unable to have tacos."
In short, Mojo was catering to Blossom's every whim.
Blossom put on an air of haughty indifference, but in actuality Mojo's actions were at the same time confusing her, angering her, and making her fall in love with him all over again—not that she'd ever really stopped loving him in the first place.
But she tried to keep that thought of her head—she didn't want to think that, and she certainly didn't want Mojo to know that she thought that—although she knew that it was far too late to hide that from him now anyway.
So, that Sunday evening, Blossom sat in front of the TV, trying to act as if she was totally engrossed in the trashy sitcom she was watching, as if she wasn't thinking of anything else.
Mojo was sitting on the other end of the couch, just watching her. Blossom tried to ignore that as well, although this wasn't the first time he had done this. His expression baffled Blossom whenever she'd steal a glance at him, trying to figure out what he was thinking. It was far too affectionate to be someone observing a scientific experiment, and yet it was far too calculating to be someone gazing upon a loved one.
Well, whatever it was, Blossom had had enough of it.
"What do you want?" she asked, snapping her head towards him and glaring.
"Oh, nothing in particular," said Mojo, folding his hands and inspecting them in a stately manner. "I was only wondering when you'd get around to beginning your training with me, for this is the reason you have come, and I am not getting any younger here."
Blossom wrinkled her brow in confusion. True, it was obvious that Mojo wasn't young anymore. His fur was graying, his face was wrinkled, and his eyes were even baggier than they had been before. But still…
"Mojo, how old are you?"
Mojo smiled. "I am not absolutely certain, but I believe I am approximately the same age as you—perhaps a year or two older."
"You shouldn't be getting old yet," said Blossom. "I mean, you're a chimp, and they can live up to sixty years old!"
"You are failing to remember that during my life, I have also been exposed to large amounts of Chemical X, I have been beaten up by three little girls with superpowers more times than I can count, and I spent as much time in prison as I did out of it back when I used to be an evil villain!"
"Why would it be the Chemical X?" Blossom asked, her curiosity for new knowledge overtaking her annoyance at Mojo. "I'm a product of Chemical X too, but I haven't prematurely aged."
Mojo snorted. "Sure. What kind of five-year-old studies conversational Chinese? Besides, you are Chemical X. I am only affected by Chemical X." He glared dangerously at her, and Blossom shrunk back in fear of her former enemy. "How dare you whine and moan about how terrible you have it—you claim to love me, but you've never thought of what I have to go through. Chemical X made you strong, brilliant, beautiful, and perfect, while it made me deformed, ugly, maniacal and flawed. You have your mind and your superpowers, while I only have my mind—and look where that's brought me. Nowhere!"
Blossom was unable to say anything to that. He was right; she hadn't ever considered how terribly Mojo's life was ruined due to the Chemical X. How could the same thing have such different affects on people? While some of the side effects that the Chemical X brought on Blossom were unwanted—the memory, for one—most of it was wonderful. The ability to fly, the exhilarating speeds at which she could move, the ice breath… and also, as a child, she and her sisters had been adorably cute thanks to the Chemical X, which…
Wait.
Beautiful?
"Did you just call me…?" Blossom whispered.
And then, suddenly, another question popped into Blossom's mind, one that she strangely hadn't even thought of until now—How does Mojo feel about me?
Mojo leaned over and smiled, but said nothing.
Oh, duh. He was waiting for her to ask the question. Just like she had made him promise he would.
But she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to ask it. Her mind didn't want to hear it asked out loud, her throat was too dry, she was still being stubborn—whatever the reason, Blossom was unable to do anything but sit and gape open-mouthed at Mojo. But I want to know the answer, she managed to think.
"Of course you want to know the answer," said Mojo, slowly moving closer and closer to a petrified Blossom. "For it is just the kind of question that you love, Blossom—a simple one with a complicated answer, an answer that you do not know. Would it be sufficient to say that I feel for you about the same way that you feel for me? I hate your morality, I hate the fact that everyone instantly loves you, I hate that you've invaded my head and have refused to leave, letting me know every complex thought that passes through your brilliant little mind! And I hate that… you are so beautiful… that even though I look at you and want to crush you, I also want to…"
He was now inches from her face, despite the fact that Blossom had recoiled as far back into the couch cushion as she could. With one soft, gentle motion that seemed so unlike Mojo, he reached out and stroked a strand of her hair.
"I'm not beautiful…" Blossom managed to choke out. None of the Powerpuff Girls were ever referred to as beautiful anymore. After all, they had been created as the perfect little girls, and while being fifteen years old and at their full adult height, the three of them were just barely five feet tall, with no curves to speak of and such small breasts that they might as well not be there at all. Their eyes were still large and childlike, but their faces were creased with worry lines—Blossom's especially—and battle scars. The Powerpuff Girls were called many things—heroic, wonderful, powerful—but attractive or any of its synonyms never reached that list.
"I do not pay attention to your petty human standards of beauty," said Mojo softly, still playing with her hair. "It is your confidence that makes you beautiful, Blossom. Despite all the feelings of doubt that run through your mind, you are such a stubborn actress, for you refuse to admit that you are not always in control, always conducting yourself with a poise of…" He stopped, unable to say anything else, and froze. Two sets of pink eyes locked in growing desire.
Blossom broke the silence by letting out a soft moan, her body quivering. Mojo continued stroking her hair, along with her face, while Blossom let her arms slide around his waist and up and down his back. This got a moan out of Mojo as well, who leaned in even closer so that he was now on top of Blossom. Blossom shuddered at his every touch—a touch of her cheek, a stroke of her neck, the fluid motion of both his hands now running along her sides, as his hands ran against her breasts—Blossom let out a small cry—down to her waist, finally touching her flesh—
"No, Mojo, stop," she suddenly said, dropping her arms.
Dear Lord in heaven. That was almost too close. Even as it was, her heart was still thumping madly and her whole body was trembling with desire—most notably those lower regions of her body, the private bits.
And strangely enough, she was feeling something else too. Something that she would have mistaken for her own feelings of desire, but they were somehow different…
Was she possibly feeling Mojo's thoughts as well?
"I know you want this," said Mojo, his voice hoarse and lusty.
"That's rapists' talk," said Blossom, her voice nearly the same as his.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do not believe that the average rapist knows his victim's every thought the way I do yours."
"It doesn't matter what I want," Blossom said, her voice trembling. "It doesn't matter what my body wants. My mind knows that this is wrong and so I'm not going to give in. I'm not a slave to my hormones."
"But your mind wants this, too. That's why you came here in the first place."
"I came here to learn from you."
"Then why haven't you? You stubborn little—"
"Don't say it!"
"Very well," said Mojo, smirking. "I am no rapist. I will go no further with you until you give me verbal permission."
"And that will be never," growled Blossom.
"Why not?" said Mojo, slow and calculating, leaning in so close to Blossom that his lips brushed hers as he talked. "It would only be one step further from where we are now. Besides, sexual intercourse is something that you have no first-hand knowledge of, and I know how important the gathering of knowledge is to you."
"I'm not going to give you that pleasure," hissed Blossom, her heart thumping faster and stronger than ever before. "I want to experience it with a nice boy, someone who's sweet and gentle and loves me—"
"No one can love you as I do!" snapped Mojo. "For no one knows your thoughts as I do!"
"You've taken enough from me already! It's your fault I'm always so depressed and emo all the time! You used me—and being the stupid kindergartner I was, I trusted you and loved you more that any sane person should be allowed to—but then you betrayed me! I grew up that day, way before I should have, because you killed the child in me—but somehow my love for you grew up too. No one should go through what you put me through! I hate you, Mojo! I hate you! And you are not taking my virginity!"
Mojo said nothing to that, and yet Blossom felt a swarm of emotions from him at that very moment. He gazed at her, wonderingly, passionately, lustfully, perhaps still a bit vengefully, but despite all that, it was painfully obvious that he loved her.
She felt his sexual longing as well, which awakened her own—which had only hardly been dormant during their conversation anyway. Her inhibitions lowered, she couldn't even begin to protest when Mojo's hands started caressing her face again. He leaned in, as if to kiss her, but he suddenly raised her up and kissed her neck instead.
"Stop," gasped Blossom, although she knew perfectly well that there was no backing to that word. She wanted him to continue, she wanted to be loved by him, she wanted that shocking and chilling ecstasy that he was giving her. She wanted to make love to him.
But I won't give in.
Why not? We are nearly there, and this is what you want.
No—this is bestiality, this is pedophilia, you're my enemy and I'm not going to give you this pleasure!
It would be extremely anti-climactic to have worked up our bodies to this state and then do nothing. Mojo worked his way down her neck and to her chest—Blossom shivered violently with agonized pleasure. Besides, who else would you ever do this with?
There are plenty of people—
You trust nobody! You would hardly even trust me, even though you have finally broken down that barrier in your brain, your gray matter, your cerebral cortex, and thus you know everything that I am thinking!
Despite everything that was happening to her—Mojo's silent urging, her body crying out in torturous anticipation, the attention Mojo was focusing on her still-covered breasts—Blossom somehow made herself consider Mojo's question, doing all in her power to consider ever making love to anyone else—it didn't matter who, Chris, Brick, that kid who always sat at the lunch table next to her and looked at her funny—anyone!
But she couldn't. Mojo was right—she could never trust anyone else to even get near to her, much less make love to her. And even if she ever could trust someone like that, would he awaken the same passion in her that Mojo was now?
No… I'm NOT going to give in…
You do not want to die a virgin, do you?
I'm NOT giving in…
It is only inevitable… you might as well give in now, Blossom… for with our added desires I am finding it nearly impossible to keep my promise…
I'm NOT…
My God, I admire your persistence…
"ALRIGHT!" Blossom finally shrieked.
That one word was all Mojo needed. With a sudden, passionate fury, he shoved Blossom against the arm of the couch. Blossom let out a short cry of pain.
As he tore off his clothes and tore off her clothes, Blossom could only lie helpless beneath him, tormented with the realization that Mojo was going to hurt her, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that he hurt her.
It was a realization that had to be made fast, for Mojo wasted no time. There was no down time, no slight pause from one stage to the next. As soon as he had stripped off both of their clothes, Mojo plunged in.
Blossom had heard that the first time usually hurt, but hearing or reading something was completely different from actually experiencing it—and Mojo had been nowhere near gentle. Everything inside of her felt like it was being torn apart—her virginity, her composure (what was left of it, that is), her moral standards. She started to scream, but Mojo cut her off by roughly slamming her against the armrest again. And again. And again. The slamming, all the while, was accompanied by him pushing into her, then pulling out, then pushing in again…
She was unable to scream anymore. She was unable to see anything anymore. Her vision was blurred with tears, her mouth garbled, her ability to breathe having apparently taken off and fled. Not even her mind was functioning… all it could think was oh my God… oh my God… why did I let him do this to me… what was I thinking… MAKE IT STOP…
Soon, her thoughts were not even words any longer, as each motion grew faster, rougher, and more intense. All she felt was fire and passion—from both her mind and Mojo's.
Finally, Mojo reached his climax, and Blossom, feeling his sexual arousals just as clearly as if they were her own, cried out with him. As their desire finally subsided, Blossom suddenly recalled that she had superpowers and, weakly but with complete resolve, pushed Mojo out and off of her.
The tears that had collected in her eyes finally tumbled out without inhibition. "I can't believe I let you do that," she managed to choke out.
Mojo just smirked at her. Foolish girl, it was only a matter of time before she gave into her obvious desires.
Blossom pressed her hands against her head, fruitlessly trying to block out Mojo's thoughts that popped up into her own mind as clearly and as suddenly as if they were her own. "That wasn't the way it was supposed to be," she said roughly, her body still aching. "My first time having sex should have been gentle, from someone who wanted to treat me tenderly, from someone who only loved me and didn't hate me as well!"
"It should have been, it should have been," sighed Mojo. "When has either of us ever gotten what we thought we deserved? Besides, you admitted that you could never have done this with anyone but me."
"I know," snapped Blossom, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Mojo watched her, astounded by the strength she was showing despite what he had just put her through. It had pained part of him to do that to her—and not just because he felt her every pain as clearly as if it was his own. For she was right—she did deserve to have a perfect boyfriend and have perfect lovemaking, because she was perfect…
…and yet, after all she had done to him, after all the punches, all the kicks, all the "you're-going-to-jail-now-Mojo!"s, and how SHE had gotten the good end of the Chemical X blast, while HE got stuck with the afterbits, including the imperfections of her own mind—Mojo wanted to hurt her, and he wanted to be the one who did it. He HAD to. He both loved her and hated her—and what better way to mix the two than sex?
Blossom marveled at the complexity of Mojo's thoughts, at how he actually felt sorry for what he had done to her—although in a strange way, for he still would have had sex with her anyway. Perhaps… perhaps he was feeling sorry for the circumstances they were in, rather than feeling sorry for themselves as individuals?
Mojo smiled in approval. Gorgeous, stubborn, brilliant Blossom. Her intelligence was wasted on the world. She deserved so much more than what the world could give her.
Blossom closed her eyes, feeling like a traitor to herself for actually appreciating Mojo's compliments.
"But you still hurt me," she murmured.
"As well as myself," reminded Mojo. "Your pain is my pain. Now more than ever."
"Do you think that makes us even?"
"As even as we ever could be."
"You've hurt me more than I've hurt you."
"No, you have put me through far worse than what I have put you through."
"Maybe we are even…"
The expenditure of their energy was taking its toll on both Blossom and Mojo, and they both slowly sank into their two corners of the couch, sleep overtaking them.
But before they had completely drifted off, Blossom murmured one last sentence, one that she could hardly answer, one that Mojo could hardly answer, one to which the answer didn't really seem to matter anyway.
"Why do I still love you?"
O.o.O
Monday morning, Buttercup was unusually anxious to go to school.
Wherever Blossom was, she wasn't going to miss school. No matter how much she hated school, she would still go. It was her duty.
"She'll be there," said Buttercup confidently to Bubbles as the two girls flew off to school. "She'll be there, and then I can ask her where the hell she's been these past few days!"
"Not that I don't hope you're right," said Bubbles, "but what if she ran away to somewhere other than Townsville? No one's found her here yet! And if she really wanted to leave, I don't think she'd come back to school—"
"Blossom wouldn't skip school!"
"Blossom hates school!"
"That never stopped her before!"
"Like I said," said Bubbles sadly, "I'm really hoping that you're right and that Blossom will be there… but I wouldn't get my hopes up."
"She'll be there," Buttercup insisted. "I'm right, you'll see."
"I'm sure you're right," sighed Bubbles. "You're just as right as you were about Chris. And the Rowdyruff Boys." When the policemen had conducted their searches of the girls' villains, it was pretty apparent that the Rowdyruff Boys didn't have Blossom—"Why would we want that ugly hag?" Brick was quoted as saying.
"Well—third time's the charm," Buttercup said awkwardly.
O.o.O
If only.
Blossom wasn't there. She wasn't at jazz band. She wasn't at lunch. She was never at her locker.
"She's really gone then," said Buttercup softly as she and Bubbles flew home from school.
"Do you think… do you think we'll ever see her again?"
"Maybe," said Buttercup, her voice low with resignation, as she seemed to finally accept that Blossom wasn't coming back. "Maybe someday she'll be happy enough to come back…?"
"I hope so."
"How—" Buttercup began, but then shook her head. "Never mind."
"How what?"
"I was just wondering how… how we'll be able to fight crime without her," Buttercup finally mumbled. "I know I always wanted to be the leader… and I'm not saying I'd be a bad one!... but I don't think I'd be as good a leader as Blossom was."
"You'll do just fine," smiled Bubbles. "You're smart and tough, and you'll be a good leader. Besides, you just have to lead me."
By now, the girls had reached their house. Buttercup floated down to the front door.
"Wherever she is, I hope she's okay, and I hope she made the right choice," she said softly, opening the door.
Bubbles followed her sister inside. "We're home, Professor!"
Silence.
"Professor?" Buttercup hollered.
"He's probably still down in the lab," said Bubbles.
"He was there all day yesterday!" cried Buttercup. "What's he doing?"
"I dunno," shrugged Bubbles. "He said it was something to do with finding out where Blossom went to."
"He can't figure it out by science!" Buttercup said, rolling her eyes, although in truth she felt her heart ache for her father. He thought everything could be solved by science… "She was upset and she left—what's there to figure out?"
Bubbles shrugged again. "I don't know," she said sadly. "Maybe he's just spending all his time working just to get his mind off Blossom—"
"BUBBLES! BUTTERCUP! COME HERE, QUICKLY!"
The girls gasped and sped down to the basement. "What's the matter, Professor?" Buttercup asked, frantically scanning the lab. Everything looked okay…
"I've just discovered something, and I need you girls here to prove my theory!" said the Professor. He was sitting at his desk, a desk littered with page after page of mathematical equations and scientific mumbo-jumbo. He had a stained coffee mug at his hand and a day-old stubble of a beard growing on his face.
"THAT'S what you called us down here for?" Buttercup cried. "I thought you were hurt, or in trouble, or something from the way you screamed! Why would—"
"Buttercup!" interrupted Bubbles harshly. She turned to the Professor. "I'm here, Professor. What do you need us for?"
Buttercup sighed. "Yeah, Professor, what do you need us for?"
"I've been calculating the scientific equations pertaining to your creation—the mixture of sugar, spice, and everything nice with an accidental addition of Chemical X," said the Professor, rapid-fire. "It occurred to me that when I take the circumference of the cosine of the sugar, multiplied by the chemical reaction of the spices I used to the formula squared, plus the properties of Chemical X times pi and subtracted from—"
"PROFESSOR!" cried Bubbles and Buttercup.
"Oh, sorry," said the Professor, abashed. "Basically, girls, for these past few days I've been working on what I should have been working on for years now—that is, the exact figures behind your creation, what exactly caused it. If I had only figured this out sooner, maybe Blossom wouldn't have left."
"What does this have to do with her running away?" Buttercup demanded.
"I don't know—I hope nothing," admitted the Professor. "I could be wrong. I hope I am. Because if I'm right, then that would mean that Blossom is… I'll get to that when I have to. You girls are going to prove my validity of this fact."
"I still don't get what you're talking about," said Bubbles, blinking in confusion.
"I'll start from the beginning," said the Professor. "When I mixed sugar, spice, and everything nice, I was attempting to create one little girl, not three. The mixture was apparently unstable, for it broke into three separate parts."
"We know all this," said Buttercup impatiently.
"The point is, if the experiment had gone as I was hoping, there would only be one of you, not three. And the perfection that I had hoped for was split among you."
"So you're saying that, as a whole, we're perfect?" Bubbles asked.
"Not entirely. You and…" The Professor hesitated. "But I'll get into that later. What makes a perfect little girl is both physical and mental abilities… and the two of you got the physical."
"Are you implying that we're stupid?" Buttercup spat out before she could stop herself.
"No, not at all, no more than I'm implying that Blossom is weak! But she does have greater mental capacities but less strength than both of you."
"We've noticed that before," admitted Bubbles. "You're saying that it's scientific?"
"That's not the only thing that's scientific," sighed the Professor. "Or, at least, perhaps. This is where I need you girls to help. As I said, you two embody the physical attributes of perfection, but those were split between you as well. Theoretically, you see, both of you should have the same mind and body—be one girl instead of two, in other words."
"But… but we're so different!" Buttercup stuttered.
"Exactly," said the Professor. "With physical powers like yours, there has to be a balance of how to use it—a balance between using it to help people or to hurt people. Bubbles, you predominately help people, but Buttercup…"
"Why are you always bashing me?" cried Buttercup.
"And I hurt people too! I'm a crimefighter!" cried Bubbles. "And Buttercup isn't mean all the time either!"
"I know, I know," said the Professor hastily. "Buttercup, sweetie, there's nothing at all wrong with what you are. Where would the Powerpuff Girls—and the city—be without you? And you're absolutely right, Bubbles. You do cross into each other's territory. Both mentally… and physically."
"What do you mean, physically?" asked Buttercup, sounding both scoffing and worried at the same time.
The Professor sighed. "I haven't kept a tally of this, so this is by no means accurate or scientific, but I have noticed that the two of you consistently feel pains in the same place, at the same time."
"Bubbles is sensitive," scoffed Buttercup. "She feels everyone's pain."
"But… but yours more than anyone else's, Buttercup," said Bubbles. "And you feel mine too—like when your left hand hurts after I'm the one who's just taken an essay test!"
"Who's to say it didn't hurt because of what I was doing?"
"Yeah right! You're right-handed!"
"No I'm not—I'm ambidextrous!" snapped Buttercup, turning away from Bubbles.
That was true, of course—that was one of the girls' "powers", if you will. They were all pretty much ambidextrous, finding left-handed punches just as easy to swing as right-handed ones, which was quite useful for crimefighting. Despite this, however, the girls did have their individual preferences, especially when it came to writing. Blossom and Buttercup were both predominately right-handed… while Bubbles was predominately left-handed.
"Whenever I write for forty-five minutes straight, it hurts my hand," said Bubbles, her eyes wide with realization. "And it hurts Buttercup's hand too, even though she's right-handed and it shouldn't! You're right, Professor! We do feel each other's pain!"
"No, we don't!" snapped Buttercup.
"Yes we do—and I'll prove it!" said Bubbles defensively. "I'll hurt myself so bad, you won't be able to deny it!"
"Now Bubbles," said the Professor quickly, "is that really necessary? I don't want you hurting yourself just to—"
"It's okay, Professor… I'm tough." Bubbles smiled her sweetest smile.
"You'll be hurting yourself for nothing—because I won't feel a thing!" said Buttercup.
"Oh, yes you will!" cried Bubbles, zipping out of the lab.
She heard Buttercup's protesting and the Professor's "don't hurt yourself, Bubbles!" but she paid no heed to either one of them. She was going to hurt herself—but not cause any real bodily damage to herself—to her outer body, at least. But it would be a pain that Buttercup couldn't possibly ignore.
She reached the kitchen and, feeling her stomach tie up in knots, pulled out the Professor's supply of jalapeño peppers.
The Professor loved to spice up his food, and he'd always encourage the girls to give it a try as well. Bubbles had never agreed to this, but Buttercup and Blossom once relented and tried a small nibble of a pepper. Their faces flushed and they both held their mouths open and fanned them—as if that would help—for a good minute or so. Although Bubbles hadn't tasted one, she too felt her mouth burning up, and now she knew why. Still, though, it hadn't lasted very long… and the pain had been fairly bearable.
But not this time. Bubbles was very reluctant to put her mouth through this much torture, but she wanted to make damn sure that Buttercup felt this pain, a pain that would be impossible to hide.
She grabbed a pepper… aw, heck. Two more for good measure. Then, with a gulp and a shaky "Here goes nothing!" she popped all three into her mouth at once and chewed.
For a brief moment, nothing happened. But soon a rapidly growing fire in Bubbles's mouth arrived, making her—
OH GOD!
Bubbles quickly spit out the half-chewed peppers in the sink, although that did nothing for her flaming mouth. Her eyes running with tears, her face a burning, flushing red, she scrambled to the cabinet and pulled out the biggest glass she could find, rushing it over to the sink—the water was coming out of the faucet too slowly! SHE COULDN'T WAIT! The glass was hardly half full, but Bubbles sloshed it down anyway. It did nothing.
As she frantically refilled the glass, her whole face still on fire, she took a small bit of comfort in knowing that even Buttercup couldn't possibly ignore this pain.
O.o.O
"I don't know what she's going to do, but it won't work," said Buttercup, crossing her arms and glaring at the Professor. "There's no way I can feel her pain—no way at all!"
"I just hope she doesn't hurt herself too badly," said the Professor, wringing his hands in worry.
"Why don't you go up there and find her and tell her to forget this whole stupid idea?"
"We need to test this theory, Buttercup, otherwise how will we know if it's true or not? Right now, both of our opinions are just that, neither of them backed by any true statistics."
"No, mine's backed by logic," said Buttercup firmly. "Because how could… how… oh… OH SHIT!"
Buttercup's mouth exploded in a fiery torture. "Water, Professor!" she choked out, her face now a burning red. "She freaking ate a—"
"She got into my peppers!" cried the Professor, recognizing exactly what was happening to Buttercup. "It's not water you need! You need milk!" Grabbing her arm, he raced her up the stairs and into the kitchen, where Bubbles was still chugging as much water as she could manage.
"Let me—have some—of that!" gasped Buttercup, trying to snatch away the glass from Bubbles.
"Wait—your turn!" gasped Bubbles.
"No, Bubbles, here!" cried the Professor, handing her a glass of milk. If Bubbles was confused, she didn't ask any questions. She snatched the glass and downed the milk in about half a second.
Buttercup could feel the pain in her mouth subsiding as soon as the milk reached Bubbles's lips, even though she hadn't been the one drinking it. But hell, she hadn't been the one who ate the peppers in the first place, and yet she couldn't possibly deny that she felt that.
The Professor handed another glass of milk to Buttercup, just in time for a still-pained Bubbles to hand her glass back to him with an injured request for "More!". For the next minute, the Professor was kept busy by refilling both of their glasses.
Finally, Bubbles had recovered enough to speak. "Looks like the Professor was right, huh, Buttercup?" she asked, winking at her sister.
Buttercup snarled at her. "That was a rotten, underhanded, dirty—"
"—and very effective testing method, I must say," said the Professor, giving Bubbles a smile of approval.
"Okay, so you were right," mumbled Buttercup. "But I still don't get what this has to do with Blossom running away."
The Professor sighed. "Girls… I wish this had nothing to do with why Blossom ran away, but my worst fears have become realized, I'm afraid."
"Why is that?" asked Bubbles. "What's the matter with Blossom?"
"When the three of you were created, Blossom was in the middle, thus 'getting in the way', if you will, of the oneness that the two of you were supposed to have. Because Blossom wasn't the physical representation of perfection, she was the mental representation of perfection. Or at least, she was supposed to be."
"Supposed to be," repeated Buttercup. "Then why isn't she? She seems pretty mentally perfect to me."
"No, perfection would be an equal balance of good and bad—knowing when to follow the rules and when to bend them. No, Blossom's attribute was split as well."
"Split? Between the three of us?" asked Bubbles.
The Professor shook his head sadly. "No."
"But there's only three of us," said Buttercup. "If Blossom's mind was split, then where did—"
She was interrupted by Bubbles's gasp, and the subsequent shatter of the glass she had been holding as it crashed to the floor.
"No," she whispered fearfully, shaking her head. "That can't be true, Professor!"
"What?" cried Buttercup, her voice breaking. "What can't be true?"
"There was someone else who was affected by your creation," said the Professor sadly, "and he got the other part of Blossom's mind. He possesses her same intelligence, but instead of distinguishing when to be good and when to be… well, evil, he is evil all the time. He and Blossom have, in essence, the same mind, just with different morals."
"No," whispered Buttercup. "Not…"
"…Mojo Jojo," finished Bubbles, in a hushed tone.
There was a stunned silence that filled the kitchen to bursting.
"Are you actually saying that Blossom is with Mojo Jojo?" Buttercup finally exploded.
The Professor reached into his pocket and pulled out Blossom's runaway note. "She said that she's with the only person on Earth who can understand her, and that she doesn't want us to know who that is."
"Blossom would never take up residence with our worst enemy! Or at least the guy who used to be our worst enemy!" Buttercup firmly insisted.
"Used to," said Bubbles, her mouth still agape with shock. "Besides, it would explain why she didn't want to tell us what was wrong with her or where she was going…"
There was another silence.
"We haven't heard from Mojo Jojo in years," Buttercup said. "He must have fallen off the face of the Earth by now!"
"It wouldn't hurt to go check his observatory, just in case," offered Bubbles.
"Good idea," said Buttercup. "Come on."
The two girls floated out the door, nervous apprehension filling both their bodies.