Part 2 - And On The Third Day...
Her hand slid through her red hair and found someone's hand, and they walked together. Their hands slipped away, and they drifted apart. She saw his sharp appearance grow so old, and he withered away... a skeleton and then dust before her eyes. She turned around and was in a steel cage. Swinging by her left hand from the bars throwing bananas outside with her right... with no one to eat them, they piled up endlessly. The banana pile was now a person, only the silhouette, walking with the sun at their back, steps clanking. He lifted her up, cradling her gently, but she could not see his face. The figure slid her carefully into the circus cannon. It went off with a soft bang. She felt the wind against her face and was happy. Now she was falling, and the only place to land was the middle of the ocean. She did not feel wet, and she sunk through the briny deep, the rippling image of the sky floating up and away. And then all was black, and quiet, and peaceful. She breathed deep, and felt her body rest against the ocean floor, and felt the soft, gritty texture of the sand cradling her.
"SNRK—Huh?"
Light. The pale of morning.
Cold... sweating. Sitting up from the floor; tasting the inside of her mouth; scratched the scars through her shirt; yawned.
"Where am I? Oh." Buttercup looked around. She blinked, staring blankly as her mind digested the room.
Home. Eyes, half shut. It didn't feel like home. It was, though.
"Guh..."
Something was bothering her in the back of her mind, but she lost as she began to nod off.
The grogginess sat with her for what felt hours. An itchy feeling was spreading up the back of her neck to her head. She lifted up her arm to scratch it, and winced, turning her head away from her arm.
"Oh... Oh. Pff... Aw... Man."
She needed a bath.
One real, and one fake. Opened and then clenched shut. Blossom's real eye was adjusted to darkness and the dim light of early morning nearly blinded her, but the fake eye was instantly ready, and she held onto that clarity, squinting it, and then opening it fully. She was lying on something soft. She flexed her hand, and felt the sofa.
It rang as distantly familiar.
It firecracked her.
Home.
And it was so good to be home. The air in the house seemed musty and stale, but she loved it nonetheless.
But how...?
She went over the memories she held of the past few hours or so. The robot, Buttercup, Bubbles, some kind of hurricane... it was all so inexplicably fuzzy. She breathed hard in contained frustration, but relaxed as the air of the house pushed into her strong.
Never mind. I'm here. That's all that matters.
Bubbles drifted up into the morning—her tenebrous dreams were broken by the sun—she could somehow feel her sisters stir—both of them! It was like cold water—her breath felt sharper, her mind felt clearer—and despite herself, she felt so happy under that light—eyes bathing in the glow—she felt she couldn't move—except the hinting peak of a long lost, hopeful smile.
Buttercup pressed her hands against the wall of the shower, shaking terribly... she had turned the heat all the way up and had the water running over her skin as she winced and tightened her back.
They burned. The new cuts on her body. They all burned. It was good. It was good that they hurt. When they stopped hurting—when they too were scars—she'd be satisfied.
She was still lying flat on her back. As she pushed up with her elbows, a hollow pain shot up her spine, and escaped out her mouth.
Ahh! Stiff! So... stiff.
Blossom tried to stifle her groans and ignore the pain and pushed herself into a sitting position against the arm rest. Looking around, she recognized the room. It was their room, and radiated a kind of nostalgia, but it didn't look the same. The walls were faded―and cracked―and from where she was sitting on the sofa, she could only see a few things. First of all, Bubbles was asleep on a bed angled from the sofa, sleeping peacefully. She wore a pair of light blue sweat pants and a matching t-shirt―the back was ripped open for her mechanical arms, which draped over the side, bunching up on the floor. The twinkling rise and fall of hesitant sunshine coming from the window told her how early in the morning it actually was.
How long had she been asleep, she wondered. Days? It just couldn't have been that long.
The time and date flashed in the right-hand corner of her vision. She tensed up, lifted her hand, and felt cool metal. Then she relaxed, rubbing directly over the solid pupil, feeling the thrill of pressing against her vision. How could she forget? Leave it to that guy to make something useful and annoying at the same time.
It hadn't turned on at all when she'd been extricated from her steel tomb. It was a ridiculous idea at this point that she would no longer need to worry about captivity—yet here she was, free. Along with her sisters, who no longer had to shoulder their burdens by themselves. She took a deep breath and then, slowly, let it out, and found out with almost surprise that the air of home had completely relaxed her.
Enough.
Her hand changed the hot to cold, to freezing, to stinging, to soothing, and then to biting. The cold ran down her skin and then up her spine. Still good.
Shampoo ran down her face from her hair as she pressed her hands against the wall, shivering hard enough to crack the tile. Now she was clean, and she cut off the flow, wiping the water off her face with both hands, and then brushed aside the curtain.
The towel, dry. Green, and dry. Dry, and soft. The towel was green, and it was soft, and it was dry; it made the cuts stop hurting. She buried her face. Genuine. Safe. Soft. Dry. Green.
...warm...
Reward enough for anyone, really.
There was a stool being used as a table in front of the sofa. A green, plastic bowl of chips; a white, ceramic bowl of salsa; and a pitcher of clear water with a spare glass rested on its surface.
She swallowed against the dry of her throat, and eyed the chips and salsa.
How long has it been since I've eaten? She didn't even remember.
Her thin, pale arms reached up to grab a chip, dip it in the blend in front of her, and then put it to her mouth, savoring the taste.
Her eyes went wide.
She dove for the glass of water, picked it up with both hands, and drank it down eagerly, spilling over the corners of her mouth, and down her shirt, but she didn't care. She pulled back, coughed. Sputtered a moment, and then, choking it back, drank the rest.
Sated, she set the empty glass down, and looked at her clothes for the first time. It was... a blue nightgown. And it was tight on her. Something Bubbles used to wear?
Blue wasn't her color, but she sighed in resignation and gazed into the shadows of the empty room.
Bubbles frowned a little, as she feigned slumber. Her sisters were back. That should be all that mattered.
But it wasn't. Not for her. Now she was concerned once more. She could feel her sisters' confusion—understanding—anger—fear—misery—satisfaction. She reeled, dizzy with duality as her sisters suffered.
Blossom's throat still burned wet, and she still felt weak. She ate a few more chips dry and drank more water, and then had just enough strength to shift around so she could see the rest of the room. And as she did so, the first thing she noticed was the bed.
Her jaw dropped just slightly and her eyes widened considerably.
Torn in half, the blanket ripped apart where Blossom's third of the bed used to be; the stuffing of the mattress clearly visible, sticking out from where the two sides of the comforter ended; someone had put a giant crack in the heart-shaped headboard when they broke the bed; the hot line had been torn from the wall; the lamp had crashed to the floor and broken, and no one had picked it up.
Horrible. They were that broken by her disappearance? By her alleged death? Had she really meant so much to them?
Of course, she had thought about it, but told herself that they would be strong, and simply carry on with their own lives... but she was clearly wrong.
And it tore her apart inside.
After her initial shock, she blinked the tears from her left eye and tried to concentrate on the rest of the room.
She sighed. It was just as bad as the bed.
Walls—faded, dented. Some cracked. Did Buttercup do this?
The other side of the room had a plain-looking blue bed with a metal headboard and footboard. Bubbles rested quietly.
The hinges on the door were rusted; the door itself looked like it hadn't actually been cared for in a long time.
There was a light layer of dust over everything, thicker in some areas than others. Powerpuff hand prints in some areas where the dust was less noticeable. Toys were piled carelessly in one corner of the room. The floor was grayed with dust.
The despair showed in her exhale.
I have to fix this.
It's my responsibility.
No one would say it were her fault for not being here—she wasn't dismissing the truth. And yet... it was because she wasn't here that this had happened.
Buttercup stopped outside the door to the bathroom. It was so lonely, here in this house. Only Bubbles. The past few days... a complete blur. She was groggy, even after the shower, and couldn't think straight. She opened the door, silently, and closed it, eyes glazed over, barely able to think. She clutched the towel tighter to her chest, as if to hold herself together. If only she were stronger. If only Bubbles was stronger.
Bubbles.
Spite filled her when she thought about Bubbles. She wasn't there when Buttercup needed her. And she had gotten all these scars. She could still feel every scratch, every cut, every drop of blood that left her body. And Bubbles was at school, or asleep... she was nowhere around. The only one left to fight was Buttercup.
She got to the door of their room and stopped.
Blossom.
The memories exploded in her mind, and she reeled, nearly tumbling back through the hall.
What's wrong with me? What's with my head? She's been back... back for a few days now. She's sleeping! How could I—
And then she started, eyes wide, her jaw almost slack, peering into the room. She's awake!
"B―Blossom!"
Her eyes trailed back to the doorway, and they met with Buttercup's.
They both flinched at the other's presence.
"B—Blossom!"
A moist hug found its way around her in the time it took her to blink. Buttercup had just finished taking a shower, and she could feel the damp towel wrapped around her body, and smelled the light fragrance of apples emanating from her sister's hair. She smiled, and hugged her back, weakly, but no less affectionately.
"I'm all right, Buttercup."
When Buttercup pulled away, her eyes were wet, and Blossom's eyes widened in surprise. She looked so fierce, especially with that lined scar so neatly notched above and below her left eye; it was shocking, the contrast between the set of her face and the tears. Buttercup quickly wiped them off with one hand.
She couldn't help but chuckle, and shake her head. "Buttercup, didn't you hear me say that it's all right to cry?"
"That's Bubbles. I don't cry."
Blossom smiled wanly at her sister. "Buttercup... you still don't get it."
She blinked. "Get what?"
"You don't have to try to impress us. I know who you are, and I've seen your strength. You took down that robot, and saved me. There's no need to act tough around me. Or Bubbles. Okay?"
Buttercup turned away. She looked back with a hard smile.
"It's no act, Blossom."
Blossom sighed in resign, smiled though disappointed, and tenderly capped her sister's shoulder with her hand, felt the thickness, but didn't break her gaze. "Good."
Buttercup smiled back more earnestly, though her eyes kept drifting to the right (or her left, Blossom mused blandly). She regarded her towel, and her cheeks brightened noticeably under the drifting ocher of her skin. "One sec," she blurted, and went over to the dresser, keeping the towel in place with her arms while fumbling with the clothes in her drawer. Blossom wondered if her sister was just self-conscious, or if there was some other reason for this behavior. She was changing rapidly, and got stuck pulling up a blouse a shade of her personal green over dark skin covered in...
And that was when Blossom really noticed them.
The dozens of off-color, jagged, and most painful scars she had ever seen—she couldn't tear her gaze.
How did she get those?
Scars covered the brunette's tanned skin, from a tangle of overlaid ripping curves on her back, to deep, massive scratches to thick, jagged lines on her arms and legs, to dozens of tiny puncture wounds that never really healed...
She began to look away, and saw Buttercup's reflection in the mirror on the other wall, one of the only things in the room that wasn't destroyed. There was the most horrible scar of them all... it ran from her right shoulder, down and across her stomach, tapering on her left leg, ending on the back of the knee. It was only when Buttercup's eyes came up in the reflection that Blossom blinked and turned her eyes.
How... horrible.
Finally, she sat back against the cushions, and stared straight ahead, the screaming questions in her head blaring out all other thought.
What happened ? How do I ask?
It seemed unreal—the idea that a Powerpuff Girl could take that kind of damage could happen: she knew from personal experience—But Buttercup?
Blossom reached for the chips, and concentrated on the crunching noise in her mouth, hoping to drown her inner monologue out.
She swallowed. The silence in the room was tense. She heard a thump and looked to her left.
"BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!"
Buttercup was laying upside down across the back of the sofa, her hands tugging against her cheeks, making a face. Blossom flinched sideways. This reaction was apparently hilarious, because her sister laughed so hard she rolled sideways, turning over to sit next to her. "Sorry. I figured you'd want to feel at home."
"Thanks. I needed that." Blossom's grin was mostly wry because, in fact, she had needed it.
Buttercup was smirking, clearly proud to have broken the tension just by being herself. "Not a problem."
Blossom rolled her eyes. Buttercup had wanted to do that for a while.
Buttercup's mirth died down, and she pensively relaxed into the sofa and took a deep breath. "It sure was lonely while you were gone. This house has seen better days. Think I caused most of the damage, though." She looked at the window, and the rising and falling sunlight. "I really couldn't control myself without you around. I guess... it broke me. It broke us."
It certainly looked that way. For a moment, Blossom felt so incredulous as to ask what Buttercup could have possibly been thinking.
But how could she say that? How could she say anything? She'd been dead.
The moment passed with a million thoughts, but no words.
Then, realizing she did have one question she dared ask, "Hey, Buttercup?"
"Yeah?"
"Where's the Professor?"
Buttercup opened her mouth, but only a sort of squeak came out, and she looked away, her brow furrowed, digging deep for answers.
Bubbles stirred and opened her misty, cerulean eyes as the sun grew particularly strong. With no sleep in her voice, she quavered a "Good morning, Buttercup," in a voice that at once sounded complementary, fearful, decisive, and unless Blossom was mistaken, the barest hint of whispered accusation.
But Buttercup didn't hear any of that—she was just relieved to avoid an awkward question. She glanced outside at the skies, where there were enough clouds to make the sun wink. "It ain't that great, is it?"
"It'll get better," Blossom told her with a shrug. She could find her answer later.
Bubbles breathed in, and the other girls froze. Blossom's words hung. Bubbles sat up, glowing as the light bloomed again, and she leaned to look at Blossom, smiling deeply. "Oh, Blossom. Welcome back!"
There was silence until Buttercup snickered, and drove it home. "Yeah, now? It's official."
They laughed, together, for the first time in years.
After a moment, Blossom's stomach let out a strange gurgling sound. They stopped, turning their heads in the direction of the sound, and Blossom put her hand over her stomach. She only had a few chips, and her body ached for something of more substance.
Buttercup chuckled. "I guess it's time for breakfast." She stood up from the couch. "I'll go make some. You two take your time and get ready." And she was a streak of light, and then nothing.
"Is that a good idea?" Blossom whispered loudly when Buttercup was out of the room.
Bubbles smiled too sweetly, and said in a responding stage whisper, "It's better than nothing, I suppose..."
"I heard that!" came the thunder from down the stairs.
Bubbles clamped a hand over her mouth in pretend surprise.
Blossom couldn't help giggling along with her.
Bubbles had to have Blossom help her with her arms as she got up from the sofa and as they went into the bathroom.
They took turns washing their hands and faces, first Bubbles, then Blossom.
As she stood there, Blossom could feel her sister waiting for her to finish washing up, glancing at her, then back at the floor. Finally, she spoke. "Do you... feel okay... Blossom?"
Blossom answered idly while drying off her hands."Yeah. Of course, why wouldn't I?"
Bubbles pursed her lips for a moment. "You've been... we thought you were... dead."
Blossom froze, the towel still in her hands.
She hadn't thought about it. It wasn't her own emotions that were hurting. She had made an inscrutable error.
Blossom looked up at her crestfallen sister, and hugged her gently. Bubbles hugged back, and closed her eyes, leaking tears.
"Bubbles... I'm sorry I had to leave, but I'm back now. You don't need to worry about me anymore. I'm not going to let anything like that happen again. Okay?"
Bubbles breathed and nodded, her lower lip vying with her upper lip over control of a drooping smile.
Blossom smiled back. "Thank you."
Bubbles lifted her eyes. "...for what?"
For being so strong, she wanted to say, instead she just hugged her again. She's probably the strongest one of us all, she mused. After they broke the hug, Blossom spoke again. "Let's get downstairs."
Bubbles' eyes were watery as she stood staring at Blossom and sniffling against her runny nose.
A long moment passed, and Blossom leaned in to pat her.
"You hear me?"
Bubbles closed her eyes. She nodded so readily and gratefully that Blossom realized that, somehow, helping Bubbles to the doorway had begun long before they'd gotten near it.
They walked down the stairs separately. First Blossom, then Bubbles. Blossom still wasn't sure as to what extent her body had recovered its strength. She found little difficulty retaining her balance, and made it down the stairs without issue. When she got to the bottom, she looked up, and waited patiently for Bubbles.
Bubbles was having a little more difficulty. Her bulky, lifeless, mechanical arms weighed heavy on her upper back. Unable to move them herself, she could do nothing but tow them behind her. When she got to the stairs, she took a few steps down and her arms started to slide at an angle down the slope of the stairs. Panicked, she reached for them, and they moved, quickly, in the same direction that she moved her natural arms, which ended up making her vault over them, and almost threw her down the stairs, but the arms were still moving, running her down the stairs of their own volition, and she descended the stairs, panicked, and upside down. At the bottom, still tense, still upside-down, she realized she was okay, and relaxed. The legs then crumpled beneath her like a skyscraper on a shoddy foundation. Blossom helped her to her feet, and they both walked to the breakfast table, the bulky, lifeless, mechanical arms in tow.
Buttercup never had been one for cooking. The pancakes were a sick yellow, the eggs were spotty, and the bacon had been burned so badly as to be unfit for human consumption—not that a little thing like that had stopped Buttercup. She crunched it stubbornly at the table, waving them over.
The fact that the kitchen had not been cleaned in some time, and that pots and pans were stacked up dirty on either side of the stove top, and that cups, flatware, and bowls were piled in the sink, and that the counter had a number of mysterious and unrecognizable stains, did not make it any better. Bubbles seemed resigned to eating what had been prepared, but just walking into the room made Blossom blanch. This was enough to raise a sulking sigh from Buttercup, and her efforts arced with startlingly speed and accuracy into the garbage.
The three of them opted to break out the fresh cereal and milk in silence. The somber air only broke when a few minutes later Blossom coughed pointedly and took another spoonful of her cereal, glancing up at Buttercup as she did so.
Buttercup took the hint and ventured at conversation. "So, Blossom... uh..." And then, her eyes searched for something else to say, but failed. She needed it now. "Four years ago... when you—I mean... you died."
"Right." They both knew this was wrong, but Buttercup seemed at a loss for another way.
Blossom sighed and took a sip of her milk. "You remember the incident with the volcano?"
"Yeah." Her expression darkened, as did Bubbles'. "We really thought—the lava—I mean, we really didn't really... get the chance to look at the skeleton... "
"No, I understand. I do." Blossom rolled the half-empty glass of milk between her palms.
"But you... weren't. You weren't. You weren't dead. So what happened?"
Blossom paused.
