Hello all!

So, first off, some of you might have noticed I changed the summary slightly. I decided to replace that William Shakespeare quote with the Leo Tolstoy one because I felt that it really fit the entirety of the story much better. I had chosen that William Shakespeare quote back when I had only written the prologue, and with the way this story as grown and stretched its' legs, I really felt that it didn't fit it very well anymore.

I also changed the genre for like the billionth time, hahaha. Come to think of it, Angst is a much better descriptor of this story than Sci-Fi at this point, isn't it? This one stays! I promise!

Phew. This chapter's a roller coaster, folks. It both gave me great pride and joy to write as well as great sadness. Sorry in advance, truly.

There are three POV's this chapter. But they are maybe not the 3 POV's you might expect...and one of the Unknown POV's are revealed. Two if you're really clever. (They might have been fairly obvious at this point, but still, I think the manner in which they're revealed may surprise you.)

Special thanks once again to beta reader extraordinaire, TeenQueen661, for her helpful input this chapter!

Here come the warnings:

Warning: This chapter contains many, many, MULTIPLE implications and depictions of illness and death. To those sensitive to these things, please read with caution. This chapter also contains mild sensual/sexual content...God knows I'm really, really pushing the T rating with this chapter. Have mercy.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, or properties from The Powerpuff Girls, neither do I own that Charlotte Bronte quote, or that E.E. Cummings quote.

Sorry for any errors!


Chapter Eighteen

"It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live." – Victor Hugo

-Unknown POV-

FROM THE DESK OF MOJO JOJO

To whom it may concern:

I had just wanted to destroy them.

I wanted to destroy the Powerpuff Girls and my mistakes, the Rowdyruff Boys. I had just wanted to get rid of them and restore my honor and status. I wanted my career back. I wanted my dignity back. I wanted to bestow on them the fate that they deserve. I wanted them out of my life forever. And though it is not by my hand, that is what is happening now, finally.

So why is this happening to me as well?

I never foresaw this. This wasn't part of the plan we'd devised. Our army of creatures weren't supposed to be flawed. They weren't supposed to die on their own. Professor Utonium wasn't supposed to analyze them.

But I suppose if he hadn't, I wouldn't have had any idea of what was happening to me right now.

I would likely just think that I was sick, had come down with some human virus, although I rarely had before. It's not like I ever thought that the Chemical X inside of me would someday fade away.

It started with those headaches. Those terrible, awful migraines. Then it escalated to fainting, and the nose bleeds where nothing came out but Chemical X. Then the projectile Chemical X vomiting.

I can feel it happening. Slowly, but it's happening. The size of my brain grows smaller each day, my once-snug-fitting helmet is beginning to hang loosely on my head. I'm starting to forget knowledge that was once bread and butter to me. Every once in a while, maybe once or twice a week, I forget how to walk on two legs. I go back to my quadrupedal gait without even realizing it, reaching forward on the knuckles of my hands with all of my weight and then swinging my back feet forward to meet them. Once I become aware that I'm doing it, I snap myself out of it. I've been trying to force myself to keep from doing it, and most days I'm successful. But I keep slipping.

Now I'm beginning to forget how to use forks and knives when I eat. I've been picking all of my food up with my hands, and I'll be halfway through my meal before I realize what I'm doing. Then I pick up the utensils, and I can't remember how to hold them properly. It's like I've never used them before.

My language is slipping, as well. I've been reading books every single day to remind myself of the language I've spoken for so long. But I can feel it slowly leaking out of my head like water. Turns of phrase, metaphors, similes, adjective phrases, prepositions, proper nouns, simple nouns, different verb forms—all slipping away from me bit by bit. I've even found writing this letter to be difficult.

The feeling is terrifying and unwelcome. And yet I can't seem to stop it.

I don't know how much time I have left.

If anybody reads this, if anyone else finds this—one day I will not be able to talk anymore. I won't be able to work my technology or gadgets or invent something to help myself. I won't be able to help myself at all. As much as I hate to confront this possibility, I know it's coming. I can feel it. And when it happens, I will need your help. Whoever you are.

Find Professor Utonium. Tell him to change me back. He is one of the people that I hate most in this entire world, but in a sense, he created me—he turned me into the being that I am today. And he would be the only one that could help me.

If I cannot get to him myself first, take me to him. I will likely forget all my intelligent thoughts and memories once the de-transformation is complete, so you must heed this possible last letter. Whoever you may be, you might be my only hope. And I can only hope this shout into the void wasn't for naught.

If, by any small chance, I cannot be changed back into what I am now after all, and I am lost forever, then I offer only this: Take my place. Take my weapons, my doomsday charts and journals, my files, and my lair. Take the memory of me and make me greater than I could have ever hoped to be.

Make sure the world never forgets my name for all the rest of history.

Signed,

Mojo Jojo

For at least the tenth time, I stared at that last sentence written in the letter, feeling the most overwhelming mixture of emotions I had ever felt in my ancient life.

Eventually, I folded the letter up between my claws again, slowly lining up the edges perfectly. Carefully, I put it in the inside pocket of my luxury silk pink robe. And with barely contained rage, I turned to face the chimp on the floor of the room.

It paced around, its knuckles grazing the floor, its back feet matching the movement.

I stared down at it, my lip curled. It stared back at me with blank black eyes, looking mildly interested, but its glance held no recognition and not one ounce of the intelligent—sometimes maniacal—musings that they used to. No irritation, no raving lunacy. No thirst for power. Just simple, dumb curiosity. Just an animal.

Mojo didn't exist anymore.

Only Jojo was left.


-Blossom's POV-

The memory of our tense group discussion passed, and the days continued to tick by. They became longer, dragging, blending together in Professor's hospital ward until they became one long indeterminable stretch of time.

Professor had asked my sisters and I to spend our nights and most of our days permanently in the basement hospital ward. Our health had continued to decline, and we began having more insistent symptoms than Professor was comfortable with. He wanted to keep his attention on us as often as possible.

"It won't be so bad," Professor had tried to reassure us the day we had moved our pillows, blankets, and personal belongings that we could carry down into the basement. The focus on us in the media had calmed, he'd said to us, so our ban on the Internet and TV had thankfully been lifted. It was a slight relief—especially considering we would have nothing else to do in the basement all day.

As I grabbed my favorite books, my favorite movies, and my favorite furry pink pillow, I tried hard not to think of how the night before might've been the last time I would sleep in my own bedroom.

Our days and nights in the hospital began.

During these days, I began to lose consciousness easily. I lost it without even realizing it, until I found myself startling awake again.

My head ached constantly, and at every single moment of my waking hours, nausea curled at the back of my throat, even when I would lie as still as I could. And during my unconscious hours, I dreamed.

I dreamed of days when my sisters and I were at Polky Oaks Kindergarten, when we spent our days coloring, having snacks, taking naps, and having recess. Days when everything was fresh and young and wondrous to me, and every morning when I woke up I was filled with possibilities.

I dreamed of the days when we'd get a call on the Hotline, and we'd leave and fight crime. Those days were so simple. Beat up some robbers, come back to kindergarten. Take down Mojo, return for dinner with Professor.

I dreamed of our days back in middle school and high school. I thought of the challenges puberty had thrown at me, when things suddenly seemed so complicated, when some things seemed like the end of the world, but were actually still much easier than they seemed. I dreamt of the days in high school when I would fret about who I was, what I wanted, what I liked, who I liked. Times when I would turn to my own self-personified conscience in earnest, as if it were a real person living in my head, and actually talk to it, look to it for advice. Days where I still had the freedom to be naïve.

Our problems weren't so dire. Looking back on them, they were simple.

I would always treasure those days. I would treasure them for as long as I still could. Until my final days ran dry. However long that would be now.

Back then, we never had to worry about not being able to live freely. We didn't once think of what we really were, what that would ultimately mean for us one day, and how we were going to die.

We thought we were immortal. Everything felt possible. Now nothing was possible anymore.

#

Days continued to pass.

One day, the day that I knew for sure that things would never be the same, I stopped having any dreams at all. Sleep had become just a black, formless void that I disappeared to for hours at a time.

I couldn't even take refuge in my own mind anymore.

Even my mind had become a black hole, joining with the larger worm hole that my entire life had become. Soon it would finish consuming all the existence that I had left, ripping it apart molecule by molecule until I never saw the light again.

#

"How are you feeling?"

The question had begun to make me feel sick just hearing it. I hated how those words made me feel when they were strung together. Pathetic, powerless. But when they were said in his voice, paired with the open sincerity on his face and worry in his ruby eyes, it stung just a bit less than usual.

"Oh, you know," I tried to say lightly, "just the usual." I forced my lips into something that hopefully resembled a smile.

Brick lowered himself onto his hospital bed, which was right next to mine. "It's okay. No one else is in here. You don't have to do that." As he paused, I took a quick look around the ward. All the other beds were, indeed, empty. I guess I had been so out of it that I hadn't noticed the others leave to other parts of the house, which was a true rarity these days. Brick continued, "I had a feeling you didn't feel much better, but I just thought I'd ask."

I looked at him, half shrugging, letting the stiff smile fade off my face with some relief. "Actually, my headache is pretty mild today. So I'm not too bad, really."

He gazed at me for a few moments, probably trying to determine if I was lying to make him feel better or not. Then, maybe deciding that I was telling him the truth, a small, tight grin appeared on his face. "That's good to hear, then."

From there, we began to talk, the way we only could when we weren't around the others. Frank but gentle. Two leaders taking the heavy loads off our shoulders and relying on each other.

"Do you sometimes think about…what they would do without you?" I asked him suddenly at some point. "Your brothers, I mean. If you were to…leave first."

"Of course I do," Brick replied, frowning the slightest bit in thought. "I know I seem hard on them sometimes, but…I worry about them." He shook his head. "I know we're all the same age, but sometimes I feel older. You know? And like an older brother I just…want them to look to me during hard times. I want to protect them. And I don't want them to feel like they have no one to rely on. Especially now."

His words rang so relatable to me that it was almost frightening. "I know exactly how you feel." My gaze dropped down to my lap. "I would do anything to protect Buttercup and Bubbles. If there were some way, I would want to…go last. So I could still take care of the both of them." I paused, then I looked back up at him, meeting his eyes. "And you." I would do anything to protect him. Anything. And knowing that I was too feeble and powerless to protect him now filled me with guilt.

Brick gazed back at me for a beat or two, taking in what I said. Then he smirked. "Nope, sorry. That position's reserved for me. But nice try."

Unable to help it, I gave him a wry look. Half-jokingly, I said, "Can't we flip a coin for it? I call heads." If there was one thing this horrible, never ending nightmare had given me, if anything at all, it was a newfound dark sense of humor. I supposed the motivation behind it was 'laugh to hide the fear.'

He shook his head slowly, holding my eyes with his as his smirk faded the slightest bit. "Non-negotiable."

All right. Joke didn't work. I tried a new approach. "Then I demand it be me."

"Demand denied," Brick said straightforwardly, shaking his head again. I blinked at him, and he only raised his eyebrows at me.

I allowed myself a cynical chuckle. "It's a little morbid of us to be arguing about this, isn't it?" I pointed out.

Brick coincided, a shrewd light in his eyes, "Yes, well, our lives are a little morbid now, aren't they?"

"Fair point," I admitted. Indeed, the six of us had become a real-life, ex-superpowered version of the Addams Family. I waited a moment, then I eyed him. "Still no room for reconsiderations?"

His arms folded. "Vetoed."

Something inside me flared under his even gaze and calm certainty, even with the gravity beneath what he was insisting on. I released a long sigh and mirrored him as I folded my arms, matching his smirk with my own. "Stubborn as always."

"And I intend to remain that way," he said with a proud inclination of his head.

For once, I yielded my defeat. Deciding to change the subject, knowing I wouldn't win this one, at least not right now, I said abruptly, "Remember last Thanksgiving?"

"Of course," Brick replied, with a real grin this time. "It was the best."

"It was, wasn't it?" I said. The memories flooded back to me. Then, inevitably, came the memory of that day that I had been trying most to avoid. My mood dropped in an instant. "Remember our game of Life Race?" I asked him, avoiding his gaze.

He sensed my change of mood immediately. "Yes," he answered, wary. "Why?"

I came out with it directly. "You know, at that point, I already knew about the…the sterile thing. Professor had told me just a couple of weeks before. And when I got the fake pregnancy during the game…" I trailed off, not knowing exactly how to finish that sentence. What was I going to say? That it messed with my head? Because it had. But I had the feeling that Brick had caught onto that already.

"Jesus," Brick muttered, confirming my thoughts. "I'm sorry, Bloss. That must have felt awful. And we were all laughing and joking, and…" he trailed off, too. He sighed. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I don't really know why I didn't," I told him. "I guess I didn't know if it would matter to you that much. We never even talked about that sort of thing yet. Not in detail, anyway."

"Of course it would've mattered to me, Bloss." Brick's voice softened. "Didn't you know that I think about our future together? What our life would've been like. A house. A dog. Some kids with eyes just like yours, and hopefully your charm. And both of our wit."

I thought I was prepared for it, but his words of our future in the past tense stung me so fiercely that it sucked the air out of me. It felt like someone had reached into my torso and wrung my heart between their hands. It hit me all at once, overwhelming and crushing, and my hands came up, covering my face. My voice came out muffled when I whispered, "oh God."

Seeing my anguish, Brick immediately stopped. Then I heard him stand up, come over to my bed, and carefully sit on the end of it. As I tried hard to calm myself, the both of us stayed quiet for a minute or so.

Brick eventually broke the silence, saying softly as his hand ran soothingly over my socked foot, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No," I said immediately, my voice breaking. "No, don't apologize. I just…hearing that just…" I couldn't finish my sentence without feeling like I was about to cry. Hearing the reality of our future together being taken away was too much for me. Shoving it away was the only way I'd been able to continue on like this, seeing him struggle daily, and him seeing me struggle.

I hadn't wanted to think about our non-future because I couldn't. Because it was impossible. Because thinking about it would make me disintegrate from the inside out. It was too much for me to bear.

Wordlessly, Brick scooted closer to me on my flat, uncomfortable bed that I had begun to hate. I made enough room for him to lie down next to me, and just as I was about to settle back onto the bed again, he gently wound his arms around me, bringing me against his chest. On my side, I lay there against him, curling my fingers against his t-shirt and settling with my ear against his chest. His slow, human-like heart beat coursed through my head. The sound of it calmed me almost immediately, and my eyes slid shut as his hand smoothed my hair back away from my face.

Every aspect of my life had changed in a second. My entire world was different. But there was still him.

"Hey, Bloss?" His voice came suddenly, reverberating through his chest pleasantly.

"Hmm?" I answered, halfway to sleep.

"I need to tell you something. Something really important." His voice sounded serious.

I shifted slightly, forcing my brain to switch back to alertness and snap out of its' drowsy trance. "Go ahead," I told him. "I'm listening."

Brick drew in a long breath. I heard the whoosh of it in his expanding chest. Then he sighed, and I moved with his ribs as they contracted. "Lately, I've been thinking…wondering, really."

"Wondering about what?" I prodded.

He paused, then started, "My life now, compared to a few years ago, is so different. And sometimes I wonder…what this whole thing would've been like without you. If me and my brothers were on our own through this whole Chemical-X-burning-out thing, and not with you guys. Especially Professor."

My pulse stuttered in shock at his words. Indeed, what would this have been for them without Professor's treatments and care? What would this have been like for us without them? What a world of difference it would have made. How much more horrible it would have been. I swallowed hard. "Whoa," I managed to say finally. I asked, "What made you think of that?"

Brick shrugged slightly, but only with one shoulder so he wouldn't jostle me. "I've just been thinking about a lot of stuff lately. But, to be honest…" he trailed off, hesitating.

I frowned up at him. "Go on, you can tell me. You can tell me anything."

He hesitated for another moment, then finally he came out with it. "Even before this started happening, when we'd just gotten together, I thought about things like this, too. There are times when I lose whole nights of sleep when I let myself think of my past. The things I've done." His arms around me tightened. "It feels like whole lifetimes away that those things happened, but, that's the thing—it wasn't that long ago. It was only a few years ago. And I can't sit here and pretend like I never did those terrible things just because they happened in the past. I can't pretend like I'm a whole new person. I'm not, Blossom. I'm still me."

Very quietly, I said, "I know."

Brick went on. "By accident, I still think of things that…frankly, they terrify me. Every single day, it takes effort for me to fight against every horrible instinct that was put into me by my creator. For me, it takes effort to choose to be good. It's a daily struggle for me. I don't think I can accurately explain to you in words what it feels like to battle against myself every single day."

At his words, my heart panged, and I nestled my face into his t-shirt, unable to say anything. I'd had a general idea of how hard this change had been for him, but hearing him say it put everything into perspective for me—there was no way I could really know how hard it was. And I felt guilty that I couldn't understand.

He continued, running a hand over the top of my head idly. "Deep down, I'm not good. I try to be, but at my very core, I'm not. And in a different world where things make sense, someone like me could have never been with someone like you."

I jerked back, tilting my head up to scowl at him head on. "Brick." My tone was full of disapproval. He knew I hated it when he said things like that.

"I mean it," he said, dead serious, with no remorse at all.

"Brick, don't you dare," I told him, not letting up with my glare. "Stop it. You know that upsets me."

Patient as always, he only nodded. "I know it does. But just hear me out, okay?" He waited until I settled back down against his chest again, smoothing my hair back once more with his hand, and then he continued. "You're so much better than me, Blossom. And the thing is, you were born that way. I had to undo everything I had been raised with, undo everything I was, and learn how to become a good person. But you just are. You made me a better person just by being who you are. So…thank you."

Startled by the new direction this had taken, my upset turning immediately into fuzzy warmth, my head throbbed just a little bit more than usual as my cheeks inexplicably flushed. "It's not just because of me," I insisted, trying to hide my red cheeks as I ducked my head away from his view. "You're the one that ultimately chose this new way of life. I'm not responsible for that."

At my plain embarrassment, Brick chuckled. My head and shoulders bounced along with the movement of his chest. "Of course you are," he said. He reached with a gentle hand for my chin, lifting my face so he could look at me. His affectionate stare drowned me. "Do you think I would've given a shit about being good to begin with if it hadn't been for you?" His thumb ran against my hot cheek. "Besides my brothers, you're all I have in this life." He paused, sitting up slowly. I followed, also sitting up. His face came closer to mine, and his voice softened. "I was made for you. If you were never made, I never would have been made, either. I exist because you exist. You've always been my life, Bloss. And you always will be. Wherever we go after this."

Brick closed the distance between us, brushing the softest whisper of a kiss onto the bridge of my nose. My heart leapt into my throat. Then he pressed a kiss to my left cheek, then one on my right cheek, then lingered with his lips just a breath away from mine. Greedily, I closed the space between us, kissing him wholly and languorously in a way I had not done in what felt like centuries. No matter how many times we kissed, no matter how long, it would always give me the sweetest, purest ache I could never possibly get tired of. I tugged him closer to me, enclosing his wide shoulders in my arms and pulling him against me.

After a minute or so, Brick pulled away, the both of us breathing heavily. He leaned his forehead against mine, hands cupping my face between them. Chaos spun inside of me. I wanted him holding me always. Endlessly. Forever. Brick whispered to me, "No matter what happens to us after this…" He trailed off, then started again, "If another me was reborn into someone else, and you became someone else too, I would still belong to you. I would wait a thousand more lives for another you. I would always find you and come back to you."

My heart was swelling up and cracking apart at the same time. His words healed me and ruined me. And all I wanted at that moment was Brick.

Suddenly, I broke away from his grasp. Before I scrambled off of the bed, I glanced at him quickly enough to see the flash of hurt pass over his face. "Just a second," I murmured to him as I crossed the room to the door of the hospital ward, rushing as quickly as I could manage. I peeked through the window on the door, peering into the hallway. It was empty. As quietly as I could, I lifted my hand to the lock on the doorknob. I turned it, hearing the click of the lock sliding into place.

Slowly, I turned in place, looking over my shoulder. Brick had watched me lock the door. I watched as a number of expressions crossed his face. After one last glance back at the small window, and finding it still dark and empty, I began to walk back toward my bed. Brick watched me approach, unreadable.

As soon as I reached my bed quarters, I grasped my curtain with one hand, dragging it across the tiny space both my bed and his bed occupied, effectively sealing us inside the floor-to-ceiling curtained space. As I did, I continued to take glances back at Brick. It had finally seemed to dawn on him what was happening.

Now that I knew for sure that we had our privacy, in full view of him, holding his gaze calmly, I tugged down the zipper of my dusty rose hoodie, pushing it off my shoulders and letting it drop to the ground.

Brick watched it drop, and then he locked eyes with me again. His had grown wide. "Blossom…" he said.

I raised my eyebrows at him, taking hold of the bottom of my blush colored camisole. "Yes?" I responded innocently, then proceeded to tug my cami up and over my head, my hair spilling down over my shoulders, back and over the cups of my bra. Though it objectively didn't matter much in that moment, I was glad I had worn one of my prettier ones that day—hot pink with black lace.

"Hey…come on. Cut that out," he said, voice faltering. Brick's wide eyes shot down to my chest for a few seconds, as if unable to help himself, then back up to my face again.

I kept my eyebrows raised, as if I had no idea what he was talking about. "Cut what out?" I asked. I tugged on the waistband of my plaid pajama bottoms, pushed them down, and they fell to the ground.

Brick was turning red—from his ears, to his neck, and all the way down past his collarbones. "Blossom," he said again. Even his voice was feverish.

I finally allowed myself a small smile. "Brick?" I took a step closer to my bed.

"Blossom, stop it. We…we can't…" he stopped, gulping. My smile grew. I took another step towards my bed. He scooted away on it, flustered, starting again, "Don't get me wrong, I definitely want to. But we don't know how it could affect you. You're sick."

"So are you," I said to him, twirling a tendril of hair around my finger as I took yet another step closer to the bed. "Or did you forget?" I sat on the foot of the bed, then climbed up onto it.

Biting down hard on his lip, his eyes shot down to my body, as if, once again, he couldn't resist looking. His expression was almost tortured. "I don't want you to feel badly," he managed weakly.

The truth was, I felt decent at that moment. My head only had the dullest throb, my nausea wasn't present. And that was partly why this couldn't wait a second longer. I started a slow crawl on my hands and knees over to him. "Then come make me feel good." I stopped in front of him and grasped the bottom edge of his burgundy t-shirt with both hands, pulling it over his head as he lifted his arms, letting me undress him. I threw the piece of clothing over onto his bed.

Brick's resolve was visibly crumbling, but he had one more protest in him. "We shouldn't…" he trailed off, not finishing. One of his hands reached underneath my arm. Fingers splayed, in an almost savoring manner, his hand smoothed over my shoulder, down my shoulder blade, over the back of my bra, all the way down my bare lower back, stopping at the swell of my hip. He swallowed hard, his eyes hooded with lust.

I leaned into him until my face was an inch away from his. I whispered, "I know you've wanted this for a long time. I have too." I locked eyes with him. "I thought it was better to wait. And it was, at the time. But…I waited too long. And now we have no more time." My eyes began to sting, and I paused. Just like that, Brick's arms wrapped around me. I said, "I wish I hadn't waited. I wish I could've had endless moments like this with you. Don't you?" My voice broke on my question. I felt a tear escape from the corner of my eye.

"Of course I wish that," Brick assured me, tone raspy and hushed. "Of course I do."

I shifted so that I was straddling his lap, and Brick pulled me closer. I brought my hands to his hair, weaving my fingers through the silken red much like mine, though his was a deep pumpkin tone compared to my coppery strands. It had gotten longer, though. Its' length brushed his collarbones now. I leaned down until my lips could press into his collarbones, then they pressed up his Adam's apple and the side of his neck. Brick took an unsteady intake of breath, pulse racing, and all the muscles in his neck moved against my lips as he swallowed, his fingers' grip tightening on my waist. He groaned low in his throat, and the bass rumbled against my mouth.

Slowly I brought my face back up and my lips brushed his, tears rolling down my cheeks and dripping away. "So I want you now," I whispered, "before I can't have you anymore."

Brick pulled me flush against him, his grasp tight and voracious, and I pulled his lips to mine. And then my mind was ablaze and time was gone and there was only Brick.

Brick's hands desperately clutching at me. Brick's heavy breath against my ear as he uttered my name. The magnificent heat that diffused from his skin. Curing me and reviving me, obliterating me and devastating me. Sweat that mixed with tears.

Harmonious pain that I wanted for eternity.

#

Time went on, continuing to blend and crawl by. I continued to try to cherish this time, to cherish every moment I spent with those I loved.

Around the same time, my sisters and I noticed that our hair was thinning.

It wasn't so bad at first—our hair just started shedding a little more, strand by strand, than normal. We thought maybe it wasn't anything to get worried about.

Within days, it was coming out of our scalps in clumps. Professor told us that there wasn't anything that he could do to restore it for us, or to slow the loss—and so we just had to deal with it and try not to get stressed, as that seemed to make it worse.

Buttercup, however, had other plans.

One day she stood next to my bed, holding the electric razor out in front of her. "It has to be one of you," she explained to me. "I can't reach the back and top of my head. Someone else has to do it, and Butch refused."

I stared at the razor, which she was still holding out to me. My stomach turned in discomfort. "Buttercup, are you sure you want—"

"Yes," she interrupted curtly. Then after a moment or two, she said softer, "I don't want to watch more clumps of hair swirl down the shower drain anymore. I don't want to deal with taking all of it out of the brush and seeing myself in the mirror looking like a stray cat. I just want to get it all over with at once. Like ripping a band-aid off." She held the razor out further, a more vulnerable light in her eyes now. "Please, Pinky. I need you. Just do me a solid and…do this for me."

It was her way of winning at least one small battle, I thought. Buttercup always did fight against the un-fightable. If the entire world ever came up against her, 7.5 billion against one, she would come at them fists swinging until her feet couldn't carry her and her lungs breathed their last.

Her words, along with how she looked, had swayed me. I took the razor from her hand, holding it in both of mine. "Okay," I said. As I got up from my bed, I took a quick glance back at Brick, who only looked at me grimly.

Before we left the hospital ward, the sweet voice of our sister piped up. "Wait!" We paused and turned to see Bubbles scrambling off of her bed. "I'm coming, too," she said. Her short hair was in two tiny pigtails on either side of her ears, and as she walked towards us, I noticed they were thinner than her ponytails used to be. She came straight over to Buttercup, and without another word, grabbed her hand. She held it as all three of us left the ward and walked down the hallway to the basement's bathroom.

When we arrived and shut the door, Buttercup sat on the closed toilet seat, and immediately shut her eyes. "Just do it now, before I change my mind," she said to me. Bubbles took her hand again, and Buttercup clutched her hand in a vice grip in return. I switched the razor on, and the noise of it resounded in the small room, highlighting our stark silence.

Biting my lip, I gently started with the nape of Buttercup's neck. The raven strands floated to the ground as I worked. Buttercup was stiff, staying utterly still. I wondered if she was holding her breath. Bubbles whispered words of comfort to her.

Soon I had made it to the backs of her ears, and then to the crown of her head. By then, Buttercup had stoically begun to cry. She roughly swiped at her eyes and nose with the back of her free hand, as if irritated and humiliated at her own tears. Her other hand still squeezed Bubbles' hand. My heart constricted at the sound of her upset, but knowing that it was too late to stop now, I continued working without a word, trying to keep my hands steady.

When I only had her overgrown bangs left, I said to her softly, "Almost done." I held them as I shaved so that they wouldn't fall onto her teary cheeks. And then all of it was gone. I brushed my hand across her scalp, getting rid of extra clippings. "Do you want to look?" I asked her by way of telling her that I was done. I added gently, "You don't have to."

Buttercup sniffed deeply. "No," she said. "I want to." Letting go of Bubbles' hand, she shakily stood. She walked over to stand front of the mirror, face stony. She stared at her bald reflection.

I walked over to her silently and stood behind her in the mirror. As soon as my reflection showed behind hers, her eyes went to mine. Every feeling she had in that moment swum in them—fear, anger, unbearable sadness. My arms opened to her. Automatically, she spun to face me, throwing her arms around my neck and burying her face into my sweatshirt as she sobbed. I hugged tightly her around the waist.

Bubbles came up behind Buttercup, and she wrapped her arms around both of our shoulders, pressing a kiss onto the top of Buttercup's scalp.

Buttercup whimpered into my sweatshirt, loud enough for both of us to hear, "I love you guys."

Bubbles and I didn't respond—we didn't have to. We only held her tighter. We all held each other for a long time, and as we did, I looked at the reflection of us in the mirror. The very image of love and protection. The very thing that we were created to be. Supporting and lifting each other up as we always did, and having our biggest strength and balance in threes.

Three pairs of arms that hugged, three pairs of crying eyes, three hearts that were still, for the moment, beating.

Three little girls.

#

The weirdest regrets occurred to me at times in that hospital bed.

Sometimes I wondered what the weather would be like in the summer time this year. Would it rain a lot? Would it be hotter than normal?

I thought about Pop's Ice Cream & Gelato downtown. I wondered how many customers they would get this summer, wondered how the petulant, gum-popping counter girl would be able to handle the demands of all those sweaty, demanding customers.

I wondered what those other flavors tasted like. All those other flavors that I'd never gotten to try. I thought I would have time.

Was it so strange that I regretted not trying every single flavor of that delicious gelato when I'd had the chance?

There were so many other things that I would be missing out on other than gelato. Then why couldn't I stop thinking of that moment I had my gloves pressed up against that display glass, eagerly looking at every single one?

It was, weirdly, the same feeling I had gotten the moment Professor had told me that my sisters and I were sterile.

It was the feeling of missing out, that lack of possibility. Zero possibility of ever having a child, zero possibility of ever getting married, zero possibility of ever graduating college. Zero possibility of ever having any more of that delicious gelato. The possibilities were being taken from me, from all of us, stolen forcibly. And perhaps that was the most deplorable outcome of all of this.

And the thought of it filled me with such unspeakable misery that the darkness of my own mind consumed me.

So when these thoughts came to me, I would turn to Brick. And we would quiz each other about everything. Science. Math. Historical facts. Conspiracy theories. Anything.

Like, "Which army infamously attacked itself and lost 10,000 of its' own men?"

"The Austrian army, in 1788."

Or, "About 20% of the atmosphere's oxygen is produced by…?"

"The Amazon rainforest."

And even, "If Elvis is alive, where do you think he's hiding?"

"Oh, Hawaii for sure. The man loved that place. If he's alive, he's probably on some private beach down there, chilling, playing an uke, and eating a peanut-butter, banana and bacon sandwich."

This was the only thing that would distract me, these conversations. They would last for hours, until something else came along to distract us.

Anything to help me forget.

#

There was some relative peace for a little while. Maybe the eye of the storm.

Then at some point, and I couldn't pinpoint exactly when—but water began to burn.

It started small, like irritated skin here and there. Then one night, as I began to get into the warm shower, I screamed and jumped out just as the water had touched me.

Brick had burst into the bathroom, repeatedly asking me what was wrong with panic in his voice as I screamed on the floor. Finally, when I calmed down long enough, I looked down at my hands and froze. Scorch marks stared back up at me from my skin, red and angry. "Burns," was all I said, emptily. Immediately, Brick moved my damp hair away from my bare back which, he said, was practically glowing red.

The same day, Buttercup choked and gagged as she had tried to drink from a glass of water. She dropped it, and when the glass shattered against the ground, water splashing water all over her feet, she yelped in pain.

After some analyzation, and treatment of our 2nd degree burns, the only word that had stuck to my shell shocked mind from Professor's explanation was 'rejection'.

We had begun rejecting water. Water, the most essential need for living things, had become poisonous to us.

Even after telling us that we could still try hydrating via a gentle, slow IV with physiologic saline solution—i.e. the way we had started doing everything else—as well as gentle, soap-only rinse offs with wash cloths for bathing, Professor couldn't explain why this was happening. We couldn't understand it, either. It was as if nothing in our lives was making sense anymore.

But at this point, I think all of us realized that this was the beginning of the end.

#

From that day, everything was a rapid, downward spiral—it all happened so quickly. But I supposed that it was just as that saying goes: death waits for no one.

#

The following Tuesday morning, very shortly after waking up, Bubbles didn't respond when Boomer was talking to her.

He had been speaking to her from his hospital bed, asked her a question, and she hadn't looked up from the Rubik's Cube between her hands. Just kept squinting at it in concentration, working on it with her fingers.

She didn't look up until he'd gotten up from his bed, walked over to her, and put his hand on her arm. He had startled her, and she jumped, looking up at him with wide shocked eyes. He asked her the question again. She only stared at him as he spoke, her brow furrowing in puzzlement and fear.

Then, very slowly, she raised a hand to her left ear. She gave it a light smack with her fingertips. Then, she pointed at it, looking at Boomer with tears in her eyes.

Professor speculated that her hearing had gone away sometime when she had slept the night before. As he analyzed her, Boomer stayed glued to her side, outright weeping in her lap. He was utterly beside himself. She only stroked his hair gently as he cried, looking down at him with the hollow look of someone who had nothing left to lose.

The rest of us didn't even know what to do or say. So for days we said nothing. With the sound of Bubbles' sweet voice gone—her sunny humming, her infectious, musical laugh, her soft words of encouragement for everyone—the already quiet household had become despondent.

With this single development, every miniscule ounce of life that was left had disappeared. And all that remained made the basement laboratory feel like the morgue of a hospital instead.

#

Not long after that, just days later, Buttercup woke one day and could no longer see.

She'd sat up in her bed, blinking, blinking repeatedly. Even after she had begun to cry, and then when her crying turned to weeping, she kept waving her hands in front of her face and blinking, blinking. As if the action would force her vision to come back.

Butch tried to console her, to hold her and smooth his hand over the top of her hairless head and calm her, even as her weeps rose and turned to hysterical shrieks. He tried not to cry, he did. He tried hard. But eventually the tears he tried to hold just spilled over. Even as he tried to hide them from all of us.

The scene was so overpowering, so devastating that I had to stumble out of the ward to the bathroom and retch. The action had become so mundane for me over the week that the muscles in my torso had become sore from the recurring action. Brick had come in after me, came to hold my thinned, stringy hair back from falling into the toilet as black poured from my throat.

When I was done, powerless, I began to cry into my hands as I whispered between racking sobs, "What do I do? I don't know what to do. I can't sit here and watch this happen to them. Tell me what to do."

Brick held me tightly from behind, saying nothing. I didn't expect him to answer, because even if he could answer me, I didn't think anything he could say would comfort me.

As I cried, the tears were hotter than what I thought was normal. When I wiped them away with the back of my hand, I looked down at them.

My tears were no longer clear and watery. They were solid black.

#

More days passed.

The boys began to reject water, just as we had. Professor prepared their hydration IVs. Never leaving their hospital beds became a necessity for them, too.

Pain became all-encompassing. I spent my days lying still, nausea and aching and thirst constricting every breath I took. The short-term treatments that Professor made for us no longer seemed to have any effect on my sisters and I.

I continued to gradually lose my sanity at the hand of my own psyche, swirling down, down, down.

#

Just as I thought that maybe I couldn't handle this, that maybe I really couldn't go on one more second, it came.

It came for me quiet and tranquil one day, on a cold day as average as any of the other days I had lived lately.

As I lay awake in my hospital bed, wracked with potent agony, listening to the sounds of the morning around me, trying to suppress another wave of nausea from making the black bitterness rise from my stomach, there it was—the exhaustion.

This exhaustion was unlike any other exhaustion I had ever known. Instead of being heavy and oppressive, like a crashing and destructive wave of a tsunami, it came slowly to me like the gentle rise of a tide. Coming over my feet, rising softly up my ankles, calves, and knees. Over my hips it came, then my waist, then my chest filled with an intoxicating, saccharine, warm flood, as comforting as a lullaby. So comforting that I didn't want to fight it—that I wanted to enfold myself in it until the pain stopped and all my sorrows were forgotten.

The tips of my fingers warmed, then numbed, then my arms, then my shoulders. Individually, from the neck down, my muscles slackened as they all fell asleep.

There was only enough muscle strength in my neck for me to turn my head slightly to my left, where Brick's hospital bed was five feet away from mine. There he slept, his face peaceful and free of the emptiness and anguish I had gotten used to seeing on his features. His chin was dropped against his shoulder, and his face was turned towards me in a way that made me sure that he had been watching me until he had drifted asleep.

Seeing him this way, so blissful and beautiful in his slumber, so serene, made it easy to keep from fighting anymore. Part of me wanted to call out to him, to wake him, to tell him what I knew was happening and to ask for one last kiss, to look into his eyes one last time.

But to rob him of his peace, to force him to watch me leave would be, I knew, the cruelest and most selfish thing I could ever do. Because I knew the image of me leaving him would never be gone from his mind for as long as he had to live without me.

And if I could never again kiss him or hold him, if I could never again tell him how much I loved him, if I could never again make him happy in all the ways I wished that I could, then this—leaving quietly—would be my last act of protection. Of true love.

As I drunk in his features one last time, my heart swelled and warmed, swallowing every last bit of him that it could. Warmth crawled up my neck.

"I love you," I whispered. The words were so quiet that he didn't even stir.

My eyelids began to droop. My awareness began to blur around the edges. I watched the way his chest lifted, then fell, with each breath he took and then released. My heavy gaze lifted to the way his eyelashes rested at the top of his cheeks. Traced every last line of his face.

Then, having saved it for the very end, my eyes lifted to the white, shiny scar that slashed across his eyebrow.

The scar that, despite all that we had been and what we were no longer, had never quite healed perfectly. The mark that symbolized our bringing together, the mark that sealed the fate that he would always be mine and I would forever be his.

With this thought in my mind, finally, I let my drooping eyelids slide shut. The radiating pain in my head slowly, mercifully, left. All the sounds of the laboratory hospital went away gradually—the last noise I heard fade away was the constant beeping of my heart monitor.

My awareness shut off with that sweet warmth, and my limbs began to float.

Affected by gravity no longer, I felt my thin, limp hair lift around me, spinning and brushing against my face. The weakness, nausea and pain left my body as I felt it gently lift.

My eyelids no longer heavy, I opened my eyes. I levitated aimlessly in an empty limbo. It felt like I was in a large body of water, but all there was around me was darkness and silence. And stars. Endless, infinite amounts of glowing stars. But instead of the stars being eons, lightyears away, they were small and close—they surrounded me.

Fighting against the thick, viscous feeling of water pressure around me, I unhurriedly lifted my arm, reaching, and I touched a pinprick of light. Stardust floated down from it, and when I took my hand away, the sparkling, iridescent dust coated my fingertips.

When I brought my arm back to my side, more stars swirled around me like dust motes in the sunlight, stirred by my movement. I blinked as one bumped into my cheek, then began to float away through the red curtains of my hair, leaving a trail of silver dust in its' wake. For a long time, I watched it. At peace.

I turned my gaze away from the star's journey. Bringing my knees up, slowly curling into a ball, I accepted where I was and remained there.

Just me and the exquisite ocean of stars.


-Brick's POV-

A coma, Professor had said.

I stared down at her on her hospital bed. Down to the drip in her arm, the IVs, and the respirator attached to her face, this moment was nearly identical to when I had brought her here after fainting two months ago, sitting next to her bed and waiting for her to wake up.

If it weren't for one big difference. The large, likely chance that she wouldn't wake up this time.

The health she'd once possessed on her features had all gone away. Her face, drawn, had become emaciated. Deep purple circles had become a permanent part of her face, along with the way her cheekbones jutted out and her jaw became sharp, the slight roundness to her face that I had loved gone. Her once shiny and glossy red hair was dull and thin. Just like her sisters' hair, it had been coming out in clumps.

Just like my brothers and I, strand by strand, had begun to notice more hair loss as well. I hadn't told her that, though. I hadn't wanted her to worry. Maybe I'd pull a Buttercup and shave my head, too. Butch had already.

Just as our bodies had begun to reject the world around us, they had gone down the final route of rejecting themselves. Falling apart at the seams. So, perhaps, it was better that all three of the girls had fallen into comas. I hated to think what could have happened to them instead, what they would have had to suffer instead. Maybe I would have had nightmares about it, if I still had dreams anymore.

It had been two days now.

I had been sitting up on my bed, talking to her. Not expecting a response, of course. But I would tell her things, tell her jokes, wait for her to smile. Play her videos on my phone even though I knew her eyes wouldn't flutter open to watch them. I would stand over her and watch her face closely, carefully. Looking for the slightest twitch. I'd hold her hand, squeeze it. Wait for her to squeeze mine back the way she always had.

Those things never came.

I knew it was foolish, even pointless. But I couldn't bring myself to stop holding onto the thin, weak thread of hope that I had left inside of me. The hope that she would wake up and she would be okay again. That time would somehow reverse and I would get one last chance to tell her how much I loved her.

That hope—that flimsy thread—was all that was holding me in place, keeping me grounded, keeping me from comprehending that she was likely gone. I would hold onto my delusion. Even if it meant I lost my sanity for good.

After all, it wasn't like I was the only one. I observed from a distance as my brothers did the same with Bubbles and Buttercup. Maybe it was why the three of us stopped talking to each other for the most part, why we hid from one another, knowing that the truth would hit us sooner if we had to admit aloud what each of us was doing. How irrational it was.

Before I went to sleep the second night, I stooped next to her bedside. I smoothed her limp hair back gently from her face. Pressed my lips to her forehead.

Leaning back from her, watching her still face, the quote appeared in my mind and came to my lips before I could stop it. "'There's little joy in life for me, and little terror in the grave,'" I recited, then continued, voice lowering to a whisper. "'I've lived the parting hour to see of one I would have died to save.'" Pausing, then frowning as I continued to stare down at her, thumb caressing her cheek, I said, "You once said Charlotte Brontë was one of your favorite poets. Remember that?"

As I had done all day that day after speaking to her, I waited. Searched her face for the slightest flinch. My thumb kept stroking her cheek. My frown deepened. My eyes began to sting. "Come on, Bloss. Wake up. Tell me you remember."

I waited again. Her face remained smooth. Her only movement remained the shallow lifting and settling of her ribs, reminding me that she was, for the moment, still there. In some way. Just lost. I hoped that she wasn't scared. My face began to contort with emotion I couldn't seem to control. I leaned forward, kissing her forehead again, firmer this time. As if I could kiss movement back into her body.

My lips still pressed against her forehead, I recited another line from a poem that I knew she loved. "'You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.'" Finally, I pulled back, tears streaming hot and black from my eyes. I whispered, anguish flooding my voice, "I know you can hear me. Don't be afraid. I'm right here."

I was keeping my promise to myself, and to her—that I would be the last to go. And as long as she was still here, I would stay. I would protect her. Keep her safe in whatever way I could.

Even if that only meant sitting here and watching her, reciting her favorite poems and reading from her favorite books. Hoping that she could hear.

Somehow. Wherever she was.


Well, folks. There it was. The darkest chapter of this story.

As always, here are the playlist songs for this chapter, which is a whopping 6 songs this time: Icarus by Phildel, Make You Feel My Love by Adele, Bel Air by Lana Del Rey, Three Little Girls by Everlife, St. Jude by Florence + The Machine, and Immortal by Marina and the Diamonds. And also as always, you can find explanations for each song as well as songs for past chapters at my livejournal, link is in my profile!

Next chapter, coming in October. Many questions will be answered, and we'll get a new surprise narrator, as well as an unexpected (anti?)hero. Stay tuned!

Your responses and comments always make me happy. I appreciate you guys so much. Thank you for supporting this story, it means the world!

-MsButterFingers