Puff Most Epic Ch. 2 P. 6

Part Six - Sliding Walls

  Julian Stepps, CEO of Stepps Enterprises, more commonly known to some only as Boss, walked through a seedy warehouse, about a mile from the docks. Nearly three hundred undocumented workers were grinding and blending, diluting and distilling, and he observed their work with some interest and approval. He was flanked by two thuggish Hispanic bodyguards wearing suits and sunglasses. They followed him up to the double-doors, and he pushed them open. The stairs led up to the office, overlooking everything. Before they even got inside, a pale fellow wearing a knit cap, a windbreaker, ratty jeans and sneakers jumped to his feet from a chair, running up to him. "Boss! Boss! Things messed up dude!!"

  One of his men on the street. Good worker, never questioned orders, always got the job done; an asset to his goals. Otherwise an annoyance. He held up his hands, waving them gently. "Now calm down, Paul, get your thoughts in line. Now, what's the problem?"

  "Lenny been skunked by the Emms, Boss!"

  Boss was never really one for dialect or slang. "Try that one more time, in English?"
  He paused, and cried, "Lenny got the emerald cuffs fer peddlin'!"

  He frowned, jutting his chin. "Real English, Paul."

  Paul stopped, sighed, and took a breath. "Leonard has been apprehended by Buttercup and remitted to the local constabulary for his transgressions against the district commonwealth on charges of dealing in illicit substances."

  "Ah." He nodded in understanding. "You should have just said that, then." He walked past him to his office, and continued. "So Leonard was taken in. Big deal."

  "But Boss!" He followed Mr. Stepps, flanked by his two bodyguards, and stood on the other side of his desk as Boss sank into his expensive, Corinthian leather office chair. "It is a big—we gotta—I mean, y'know, Lenny's a trove o' smarts, he could trump all our biz to Hell!"

  He looked up, blinked twice, trying to decipher the dialect. "You mean he knows too much, and he might leak information."

  Paul faltered. "Yeah, that's it."

  "So? Grab a silencer and take him out."

  "What? But... why don't we just bust him outta jail?"

  Boss gave him a blank stare, and spoke slowly, so he would understand. "We're dealing in a new, powerful drug. The FBI is going to be interested, and will want to know where he got it and who he works for. We can't draw attention. So kill him."

  "I—" Paul stared back, ashen-faced. He looked positively ill, and paler than usual, if that was possible. He took a shallow breath, and finally spoke. "I understand... sir. I'll... I'll take care of it." He turned and slipped past the doors slowly.

  "Good man," Boss whispered to his back.

  He sat comfortably into his chair, and rubbed a sore spot on the side of his neck idly. He looked over some receipts from a recent overseas transaction with interest.

  After a little bit of time had passed, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and answered. "Good morning, Mister Wilson. How did it go?"



  You can do it, Bubbles.

  Bubbles glanced up at Blossom before returning her gaze to her cards. Even if Blossom had that much confidence in her, she couldn't help but feel defeated before she tried. How to begin? Buttercup sat on Bubbles' left, Blossom sat on Buttercup's left, and Bubbles sat on Blossom's left. In the space between the three of them lay a deck of cards. Bubbles arms were coiled loosely behind her.
  It was Bubbles' turn. She wasn't trying, but she could hear it, loudly. Strongly. She tried, but failed. It was no use.

  Don't pick six. Don't pick six. Don't pick six

  Bubbles glanced up at Buttercup. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared down at her cards. She had a six. Buttercup had two. Part of her wanted to beat her—she had been so mean. But she couldn't hate her sister, and didn't want to win for something as petty as a grudge. But it was what Blossom told her to do. If she knew one of them had a card in her hand, she should ask for it. But she didn't want to win... she wanted to play fair. She couldn't just cheat. And that's what she was doing. Cheating. It made her head hurt and her stomach sick.

  She clenched her back teeth and swallowed hard. Finally, she drooped her head and said, "Buttercup, do you have any sixes?"

  "Aw-ugh!" She pulled two sixes from her hand and handed them to Bubbles.

  Buttercup's turn. She took one look at her cards and said "Bloss', you got any twos?"

  "Go fish."

  Blossom's mind was calm—she didn't care if she lost—and Buttercup's was tense—really wanted to win—how could she shut them out? They were so loud. Buttercup's hand was an Ace, a 2, two 4, 9, 5 and 8. Blossom's was 3, 9, two Kings and one Queen. Bubbles had three 6's, two 7s, a 9, three Jacks, and one Ace.

  She had tried everything she could think of. She had tried to just not listen, but it was there, in the back of her mind. It was like a room filled with light; blinding, but just closing her eyes didn't make it go away. She couldn't stop it.

  Jack.

  Bubbles stifled a groan, but looked at Blossom with a strained look on her face. Blossom offered her some consoling thoughts, but otherwise kept quiet and looked at her cards.

  "Bubbles, do you have any nines?"

  Bubbles nodded and passed her nine to Blossom.



  John sat in first class, reading the forms he downloaded from his bank's website. There had been some recent activity on Buttercup's card. One two days ago at the grocery store, and one today, at a place called "Bards." A hardware store, if he remembered correctly.

  He wondered if someone had stolen her card. Buttercup didn't go shopping at hardware stores... did she? And if she did, for what reason? Not to mention the sheer volume of things she would have had to buy. He lightly shook his head. No, she probably wouldn't shop there; someone had to have stolen it. He sank back into his seat. What to do...?

  "Would you like a drink, sir?"

  A very lovely flight attendant a pushed the drink cart up alongside his seat, and he regarded her lightly before asking for a gin and tonic. With the drink in his hand he sipped at it gingerly, taking in the harsh flavor of juniper as it met his tongue. It made him wince, but it was what he needed, and he took another sip. Setting the glass aside, he opened up his laptop and looked at the screen. A moment passed before he saw the icon, blinking in the corner. An Email? It was from Jack Wednesday, and it had just arrived. He puzzled only a moment before clicking it open.

Code:
FROM: Wednesjr@int.cia.gov <Jack R. Wednesday, Investigation>
TO: jhu94@fmail.com
SUB: Upcoming Townsville Leave

Professor Utonium:
  Regarding your leave of absence, there are several things that you need to know about. Ideas and specifics. Unfortunately, those things I can't reveal. And the point of this Email, you may be asking, is what? Well, while I can't use any specific language on the wire, there are some details that you might mark as interesting. How would I mark them as you marking them interesting? I would mark them that way because they almost left me speechless. Me, of all people, without a concise word to give about the nature of the leave you will be experiencing with your family. Your family being the Powerpuff Girls. I hope you have a nice time.

  Wednesday


  John hadn't been able to read it all the way through before he shook his head and began reading again. After he had, he paused and took another sip, winced, and read it again. And then he read it again. And even as he read it once more, he knew that there was no hidden message.

  He took another sip of his gin and winced.

  He did that some times—sent little messages to colleagues across government Email just to see what they could get away with; spelling out words or phrases like "carpet bomb" with every third letter. He grinned as he remembered it, but then shook his head clear and looked back at the letter. Jack wasn't giving him a code. Then what was he saying? Was he just trying to freak him out?

  He dismissed that idea. Jack wasn't a prankster. He was as straight-laced and hard-up as they come. Was it... simply a warning, then? Telling him that yes, something is unusual, and yes, it will shock you?

  He took another sip. He winced.



  She winced. There was a harsh, bitter taste in the back of her throat. The girls were looking at one another or else looking at their cards. The room was silent for all but one of them. She was concentrating so hard. It was just two voices, but they overlapped, and cascaded, unceasing, uncensored, unable to be stopped. She clutched the cards in her hand. It was all she could do to keep herself from breaking down and crying.

  "It's your turn, Bubbles."

  She glanced up at Buttercup. She knew every card in her hand. Every time her sister looked at her cards, each of them rang out in her mind instantly. Every time her eyes passed over her cards, every time she thought—the sound seemed to shake the room. It was a whirlwind—she wanted to scream. Instead, she clenched her teeth and pulled her frustration inward, trying to hide her distress.

  Buttercup kept poking. "You're not trying to read them, are you?"

  Blossom looked like she were about to say something, but then just looked at Bubbles, who stared up at her sister, fuming. "Do you have any aces?" she asked hotly.

  She tossed two aces at Bubbles. She caught them in midair and—and realized that they were floating in front of her hand.

  She snatched them out of the air and made a book, setting it aside with the others. Buttercup hadn't noticed the cards floating. She was too busy with her own hand.

  Blossom stared at her, wide-eyed. Amazing.

  Bubbles looked back, and then tried to act normal as she felt Buttercup look up at Blossom, asking for another card.

  Bubbles wasn't paying too much attention, but stared down at the book she just made, and then looked up, past Buttercup. There, on the other side of the room. On the table. The long, thin paint brush. She could see it, feel its shape, hold it as if it were right in front of her. She lifted it, and it rose.

  Blossom asked for a card from Buttercup, who told her to go fish.

  She turned the brush in midair, and then glanced over to the couch. A stuffed toy. A bird—a rooster. She willed, and it too floated gently into the air.

  Bubbles knew it was her turn and asked Blossom for a card. Blossom told her to go fish, and she drew a card. It didn't matter what it was. She picked six more things across the room and lifted them, testing her concentration. Buttercup asked her for a card. What—a three? She looked at her hand, and handed over the three in her hand. Buttercup moved her hands around—no, she was making a book. Twelve objects floated. They turned and spun, and raised and lowered and moved and—

  Something thudded, the room tilted, and then she heard another thump.

  "BUBBLES!"

  She suddenly opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. She was laying back, against her metal arms. Her sisters crawled over to her, Blossom cradling her head as soon as she was within reach. "Bubbles, are you all right? You're bleeding!"

  Bubbles looked at her, and then licked her lip. She tasted metal. She reached up, pressing her hand against her nose, feeling the warm, fresh blood dripping down her cheeks. She stared at her hand.

  Before she could even think about it, she passed out.



  "...on't know what happened. For now, get me some cold water and a washcloth."

  Bubbles opened her eyes. She looked up, seeing Blossom pointing over to Buttercup, barking out orders that she could barely recognize. Buttercup made a hurried cry of assent and darted up to the bathroom, and then she heard running water. Blossom looked down and jumped. She looked up to the open doorway, and then back to her sister. "Bubbles," she whispered, "what did you do?"

  She blinked, and stared back at her. Then she turned away and whispered, "I was just trying to control it. I was... trying to... be distracted."

  She paused. "That's it?"

  She looked back up and hesitated. "I tried to... focus on... everything at once." She frowned. "I couldn't do it. I'm too weak."

  Blossom gave her a dull stare. It was the kind of look she got when she was in trouble. "Bubbles, when I tell you something, it's for your own good that you listen. I told you not to use it." She paused, and glanced up at the open doorway again. The water was still running. "Listen. I'm actually glad this happened. You know why?" Bubbles frowned and shook her head. "It teaches you a lesson."

  "What?"

  "Power. It's an addiction. It's like... like that drug or whatever that took out Buttercup. If you can't control it, it can wind up hurting you, or your friends... or us."

  Bubbles swallowed hard and clutched her hand over her chest. The very thought of hurting either of her sisters... it was so painful.

  "It's not something you use because you feel like it. And you're not weak. You just have to learn to control it. Don't let it control you."

  "Control what?"

  The two of them looked up at Buttercup, holding the basin and a few towels and wash cloths in her hand. She had gotten water down the front of her green one-piece dress, and it clung to her body, her toned muscles visibly tensing as she spoke again. "Control what?"

  "Nothing," Blossom said hurriedly. She reached out for the bucket. "The water, quickly."

  She handed her the basin, as Blossom soaked a rag, wrung out most of the water, and wiped up the blood around Bubbles' face. She winced at the cold, but Blossom didn't let up.

  Buttercup watched her work curiously. "Why do we need cold water? Shouldn't you clean her up with warm water?"

  "She's feverish," Blossom told her.

  "Oh." She went quiet as Blossom wiped up her face, then rinsed the rag, and put it on Bubbles' forehead.

  Bubbles realized how hot she was. Her head was burning up. The rag went from too cold to refreshing.

  Buttercup was silent for a little while. When she felt the tension had died down a little, she asked, "Control what?"

  Blossom held her breath for a moment, pausing for thought. Bubbles froze with her, and had a reactionary yelp muffled when Blossom started wiping again. After a moment, she said, "She's trying to control her new mind-reading powers, and it's frying her brain."

  Buttercup laughed despite the current somber mood. "No, seriously. Control what?"

  Blossom just stared back, in a way that told Buttercup that was the end of the conversation. She sat on her heels and scratched her head, looking away.



  Brian rode down the sidewalk, the bag bouncing against his side as he rocked from one side to the other. He pedaled furiously, and with deadly precision, whipped a newspaper out of his satchel, sending it careening at the first house, which hit the door with a soft thud and landed neatly on the door mat. The ride of his bicycle was smooth, and he turned down the street, barely missing a beat as he lobbed another paper onto the driveway of another house. Three more houses like that, and then he got to the house that until recently had been piling up newspapers forever. Now, all the newspapers were gone. He slowed to a stop and looked at it.

  The Powerpuff Girls' house.

  Normally, he would have just thrown the newspaper and collected due. But as he looked at the house and at the driveway, there was a new front yard ornament that he couldn't ignore. It was sitting right in the middle of the driveway.

  A hand truck.

  He glanced at the house, wondering if she was home. He hadn't seen her in a while. The other one was always there, and she was really scary, but the little blond girl was nice, and cute, and easy to talk to.

  Oh well. He pulled a newspaper out, held it behind his head, and flicked his arm forward, hitting the door, and landing the newspaper on the Welcome mat. He mounted his bicycle and rode on.

  Moments later, the door opened and Buttercup poked her head out, wearing her pale-green underwear and pajama bottoms. She picked up the newspaper, and look out at the yard. The sun was shining down and making both the grass and the hand truck sparkle.

  She yawned and took the paper inside.

  In a distant yard, a dog belted out three sharp yips. A car drove past, the engine growling smoothly. An old couple walked peacefully down the street, hand in hand, relaxing in fond memories, waving to the man gardening at the end of the row, breathing in the fresh scent of the mulch, enjoying themselves so intently that they hadn't even the time to feel threatened before the hand truck missed them by inches with a mighty roar of "OH CRAP!!"



  Buttercup whipped open the front door, darted inside, and closed the door behind her. She pressed her back up against it, blushing furiously. After a moment, she realized that her arms were still concealing her chest, and she forced them away. Her face felt hot and she slapped her cheeks to ease her embarrassment.

  It was then that she noticed Bubbles and Blossom staring at her from the kitchen. They looked at one another and then back at her.

  She cleared her throat and went to join them, the newspapers that lined the floor crackling beneath her feet on every step.

  Blossom cocked a smile at her as she sat down. "You in some kind of hurry?"

  "No," she said a little too quickly, "no. Just, uh... forgot... something."

  Bubbles giggled.

  Soon they got her to laugh about it, and they finished eating breakfast. Bubbles started washing the dishes. Blossom clapped her hands together, rubbing them anxiously. "All right, let's get to work!"

  Buttercup looked confused. "Work?"

  Blossom looked astonished. She waved a hand in the direction of the living room. "You didn't think we'd buy all that stuff just to stare at it, did you?"

  "Oh, no." She lifted up a hand defensively. "No. It just... never mind. Yeah."

  Blossom smiled and pushed herself away from the table. Buttercup followed after her.

  "So, where do we start?"

  Blossom ran her eyes over the things Buttercup had bought, lifting up bags and cans to look under them, and finally pulled out two small blocks of wood, some duct tape and some sandpaper. "Let's get the cracks smoothed out and then we can fill them in with the plaster. After that, we need to let it dry so we can paint." While she spoke, she ripped off several pieces of tape and strapped a piece of sandpaper to the wood, leaving one side to hold and the other side to sand. "Here." She handed the sandpaper block to Buttercup and started on one of her own. "And take one of these." She pulled out a wire brush and handed her that as well. "Work slowly. We don't want to go too deep."

  Buttercup nodded intelligently, thought the gesture was wasted because Blossom was facing away. "Got it. I'll start high, you work low."

  Blossom gave her a sardonic smile and finished her sanding block. Buttercup just chuckled and picked a spot in the overhead.



  The Professor stretched and yawned, and pulled himself out of his seat, collected his bag and stepped out of the airplane, into the airport, which brought a wave of chewing gum, hot pretzels, and fresh pizza to his nose. He savored the scent and pressed on. He was heading home.



  They worked for a solid hour. The work was slow-going, but they got a lot done. The cracks were sanded smooth and brushed clean, and Bubbles had already started mixing the plaster. She looked down at the plaster, cocked her head to the side, and then looked up. "Blossom?"

  Blossom wasn't looking at her, instead focusing most of her attention on a thin crack that she was using a rolled-up piece of sandpaper to get at. "Bubbles?" she called back.

  "I don't think the plaster is mixing right."

  She stopped and finally looked at her. "What's wrong?"

  "I can't break apart the clumps."

  Blossom screwed up her brow. "Why not?"

  She held up her right hand. "I don't have any fingers."

  Blossom almost face-palmed. "Just break them apart in the bag."

  "Oh! Okay!"

  Blossom grinned. Bubbles was still such a kid.

  Bubbles looked up and glared at her.

  Augh. Sorry.

  Bubbles' face softened and she kept on her task.

  Soon, all the cracks were sanded down and the plaster was nice and thick and ready to use. They all stood by the pile of tools and drums and Blossom sifted through them, pulling out three trowels.

  Bubbles pursed her lips nervously.

  Blossom noticed, and looked in the direction she was staring. "Bubbles? Are you all right?"

  Miraculously, it only took this much prompting to get her to speak. "If... if it's all right with... you..."

  Buttercup growled, "What? Come on."

  Bubbles tensed a little. "If it's all right with you... I can do it all... myself."

  Blossom stared into Bubbles' eyes. There was that look. Anxiety and willingness at the same time. Blossom glanced at the arms, hovering like second-nature behind her, deliberately keeping a two-foot gap from all the objects in the room, floating over and around them to avoid hitting them. They seemed to twitch with anticipation.

  Buttercup puffed out her jaw. "Sure, if you think you can do it without messing up."

  "Buttercup, be nice. She's trying to help."

  "Yeah, okay. Sorry."

  Bubbles just nodded dourly and pulled one of the metal arms forward to wake the trowel in her right hand, and then the one in her left. She took Blossom's trowel and turned to the bucket of plaster, lifting it with a third metal arm, and then hovered off the ground, the last arm coiling like a spring beneath her.

  Blossom and Buttercup hadn't moved, and watched her curiously, craning their heads to the left to get a better view. And then simultaneously, they realized they were staring and shook their heads.

  "Let's watch TV," Blossom suggested.

  "Yeah, sure. I think there's some UFC on."

  "Let's watch that."

  "Yeah, cool. Wait, really? I mean, awesome."

  "Sure."

  Bubbles just giggled, and worked on three separate cracks at once. It was getting easier.

  Finally, a half an hour later Bubbles dropped the trowels into the near-empty bucket of plaster, and set it down on one of the many newspapers they had spread out over the carpet. "I'm done," she breathed out.

  They turned to look at her. She was sweating.

  Blossom raised her eyebrows in surprise. Was dividing her attention three ways really that taxing?

  "Yeah."

  Buttercup didn't notice anything strange. "Great. So what's next on the list?"

  "Buttercup, I need you to get the hair dryer from the bathroom, run the extension cord from one of the sockets in the hall and start drying all the plaster. We need it to be hard before we can paint."

  Buttercup jumped up, gave a mock salute, and cried, "Yes, Sir! On my way, Sir!" She jumped up and dived into the upstairs bathroom.

  They couldn't help but burst out laughing, and Bubbles took a seat next to Blossom, watching the cartoons. Soon the whir of the dryer filled the room, and they had to turn up the TV to hear it.

  A little while later, she was done, and turned off the dryer. The TV was too loud. Blossom turned it down and got up, lifting a paint can out of the pile. "Buttercup, could you shake this?"

  She shrugged. "Sure." She started shaking it up and down. Her arms became a blur as the sloshing of the can became a silent swirl.

  Blossom turned, grabbed two paint trays and some paint rollers and walked over to the mats of layered newspapers taped to the molding. She set the rollers down, put a tray on either side of her and beckoned to Buttercup. "That's enough. Take off the lid and pour it in these two trays."

  While she did that, Blossom stepped into one of the disposable coveralls and rolled up the sleeves. She tucked a roller under her arm and lifted a tray carefully into the air. "I'll start upstairs. Bubbles, could you open a window... actually, open up the back door and the kitchen window. That way we have some ventilation."

  "Okay," Bubbles said, getting up off the couch, her arms floating behind her as she walked.

  Blossom made her way carefully upstairs, into the bedroom.

  Buttercup fit herself into one of the disposable coveralls, tearing the sleeves off halfway, and rolled her roller in the paint tray. She looked around for a good starting point.



  "Ahh! Finally."

  Professor Utonium rolled his rental car into the driveway. He stepped out and closed the door to his car, a pristine white sedan with a glossy enamel finish. Leaning against the car with one hand, he stared at the house, wrapped up in the fleeting feeling of nostalgia. How long had it really been since he'd just come back here to relax? It felt like forever. And he'd get to spend it with his two, precious girls. He took a deep breath and let it out quickly.

  Setting his best foot forward, which in this case happened to be his left, he walked up the driveway to the sidewalk and took three easy steps to the front door and raised his right fist.

  He stopped, blinking.

  He nearly laughed aloud. How silly. It was his house. He had every right to just turn the knob and open up the door and nearly get hit in the head with a paint roller—"WHOA?!"

  He barely dodged in time, stumbling back and falling to the ground, propping himself up with his arms.

  Buttercup stared back at him, wide-eyed and astonished. "Professor!"