Vio: The name says it all.

Warning: Major character death!

Please enjoy, and I apologize for my lack of conversing.

. . .

Shattered

. . .

He couldn't believe it.

Hell, he didn't believe it! How could he? How could anyone believe this bullshit, it wasn't true.

Buttercup Utonium is dead. Gone. She was never coming back – six feet under the ground with a tombstone and flowers and all that shit. The flowers were lillies and – get this – buttercups. This was a damn prank.

Because if she was dead, which she's not, then who would pull some fucked-up shit like that?

Even now, as he traced over the words carved into the tombstone with his bruised and bleeding hands, he refused to acknowledge that he had watched everything.

Her lime green eyes dulled, her hand slipping from his cheek leaving scarlet streaks behind. He stared down at the small smile that adorned her pale face. The words she forced out between gags and coughs echoed throughout his empty mind.

Butch Jojo refused to acknowledge Buttercup Utonium's death. How very ironic the situation was.

She had been ripped from his arms by Pinky and Blondie, both sobbing and begging their sister to open her eyes. Blurs of red and blue flash before his eyes, and everything turns off.

She was gonna burst out from the ground, laughing and telling him that it was all a prank and afterwards, he would beat her ass for pulling some shit like that.

While the others were busy putting her in the dirt, he was busy causing mayhem in the nearby forest. His knuckles were drenched in blood, but it wasn't enough. The suit he wore was now covered in muck and blood, both dried and fresh, and his body twitched rapidly. Adrenaline courses through his veins, and his very soul screams for a massacre. A demented smile tugged at his lips as the roars of a monster echo from the city.

Dark emerald eyes scan the stone slab over and over until the words were forever etched into his empty mind.

Buttercup Utonium

Strongest Fighter who ever lived.

She will be missed dearly.

Apr 5 1998 – Jan 23 2015

Was she truly dead? Is that why he felt so empty? He was her counterpart – her darker half who was supposed to have destroyed her all those years ago. They were equals, but Buttercup, she was an empath. The ravenette was always a hair-trigger away from busting someone up if said someone crossed the line, and it was because she cared too much and always hid behind her unrestrained anger. He, on the other hand, just didn't give a shit. Butch loved to open a can of whoop-ass on anyone brave enough to challenge him which, sadly, was only two people.

First being Mitch Mitchelson. He beat that freckled bitch's ass into the ground, almost killing him once over something he said. The second was, of course, Buttercup who was the person to stop him from killing the other teen.

"Strongest fighter my ass!" He snarled, forcing himself up, "If you were the strongest fighter," he mocked with a laugh, "you wouldn't be dead, now would ya?!"

No response.

"Answer me, bitch!"

No response.

"You better answer me, or I'm gonna drag your decomposed ass right outta that grave." He warned, his patience quickly deteriorating.

No response.

"YOU SELFISH, BITCH! ANSWER ME! WHY WON'T YOU QUIT THIS FUCKING ACT?!"

No response.

He couldn't take it anymore and fell to his knees, tears cascading down his cheeks, "You selfish, inconsiderate," he choked on his sobs, "...woman."

"I can't," he whispered, leaning over to shield her stone slab from the droplets of water which was becoming a shower of rain, "I can't live without ya, Butterfly." Closing his eyes, he waited for a hard jab to the gut for calling her such a 'girly' nickname.

It never came.

The green ruff pressed his body deeper onto the stone, his barrel-like arms wrapping themselves around it in a hug. Careful not to break the memorial, he nuzzled the top harshly, not caring if the rain drenched his clothes, or that his hair, usually spiked up in a Mohawk, was plastered against his face and neck. The skin on his cheek finally gave way to the rough texture, and drops of blood fell onto the puff's grave, only to be washed away by the pouring rain.

Butch fell asleep despite the odds. He dreamed of obsidian tresses, lime green eyes, and cherry red lips that would caress his own with an unusual gentleness.

Buttercup's last words were repeated again and again, "I love you...I love you...I love you..."

He smiled.

Sorry to all of you, but, again, I was half asleep typing this up. The urge was too strong to overcome, but I'll re-read it again and maybe add or delete a few things.

Please R&R!